Love Thine Enemy

by Louise M. Gouge

  “Sí, the fiz-iz-cion.” Inez laughed, and the age lines around her eyes deepened. “The one who fix your hand. He will be at the party, no? This one, he is not married, is nice to look at, is not so old for—” She gave Rachel a sly look. “Hmm. Maybe Inez say too much?”

  “Not at all. You may speak freely when you and I are alone.” Rachel studied her stitches to make certain they gathered the delicate fabric without puckering it. “But perhaps you don’t understand the English. Dr. Wellsey is a member of the gentry and no doubt regards himself as being above a shopkeeper’s daughter. For my part, I would not consider receiving the attentions of an Englishman.”

  “No?” Inez stared at her. “You do not like the English?” She busied herself with the lace again, muttering to herself in Spanish.

  “What is it, Inez?”

  “Have we not agreed, señorita, Dios has love for every man? Jesu Christo, He die for every man?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then if we do not like the English, is the love of Dios in us?” Maternal warmth glowed in Inez’s eyes. “Does He not say to love others as He love us?”

  Rachel concentrated on her work without answering. Inez had not abused her freedom to speak her thoughts, and her words conveyed great wisdom.

  In truth, Rachel had hated the English for as long as she could remember. They stole from the colonists, both in taxes and in seizing men and property for their own use. Yet she had not considered that God might love them, as He did every soul. Her Quaker mother would be disappointed in her, for she had taught Rachel the Bible verse Inez quoted.

  The jangle of the bell over the front door startled her from her thoughts.

  “Hello, is anyone here?” Mr. Moberly stood inside the door, hat in hand, blinking his eyes as everyone did to adjust to the dimmer store light after being out in the sun.

  “Yes, sir.” Rachel set aside her sewing and hurried to greet him. “How may I help you?”

  “Miss Folger.” His smile seemed almost boyish. “Good afternoon.”

  “Yes, sir. How may I help you?” You just asked him that. She gazed up into his dark gray eyes, transfixed by the intense look he returned. At the memory of his rescuing her from the soldier, she felt her cheeks grow warm. Now, as then, she thought perhaps some Englishmen might not be purely evil. His black hair was swept back in a queue, but one stray lock curled over his forehead like an unruly, and utterly charming, black sheep.

  “I, well, um,” he said, “I wondered how your father’s business is faring. I have been telling everyone they should patronize your store. Even written the news of your establishment to other plantations along the St. Johns River. Settlers have done without many necessities and nearly all luxuries here in the wilderness and waited a long while for a proper mercantile close by…” He pursed his lips. “Now who’s being too loquacious?”

  Rachel laughed. Her face grew hotter. To think he had recalled her silly comment. “Papa will be pleased to hear that you are, um, pleased.”

  “Yes.” He glanced around the store and then back at her. “Ah, I should have asked straightaway. How is your hand?” His right hand moved toward her slightly, then retracted, as if he would take her injured one but thought better of it. “Did Dr. Wellsey serve you…well?” He grinned.

  “Oh, indeed, he did.” Forbidding herself to laugh again, Rachel flexed her fingers to show the hand was on its way to complete recovery. “Although I must say he seemed to regard my little injury as a scientific experiment.” The pleasant young doctor had never once looked at her face and seemed disappointed at the ease with which the splinters came out. “But, gracious, the smell of that salve.” She waved her hand beneath her nose at the memory.

  “Dreadful stuff, I agree.” Mr. Moberly gave her a comical frown. “Yes, the good doctor is a serious scientist. But a competent physician must be, do you not think?”

  “Why, I’ve never considered—”

  “What’s this?” Papa’s voice boomed from behind Rachel as he entered from the back room. “Ah, Mr. Moberly. What can I do for ye today?”

  Jamie followed close behind Papa and raised an eyebrow to question Rachel. She shrugged one shoulder and hoped Mr. Moberly did not see their silent communication. For some strange reason, she felt an urge to remind the Englishman that Jamie was her cousin, not a suitor. But why should he care about such things?

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Folger.” Mr. Moberly extended his hand. “Mrs. Winthrop has sent me for thread and, oh, several other items. I can’t recall them all.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Rachel. “Do say you have everything she wrote down, Miss Folger, so I may continue to recommend this establishment for its many and varied wares.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rachel walked to the counter and pressed the paper flat with her hand so she could read it. Mr. Moberly reminded her of a little boy who had not yet learned to be entirely neat, but she found it charming. Darning needles, twenty ells each of red and blue bunting, cinnamon, black pepper, several shades of thread, plus other needs. She gathered the items on the front counter but kept her ears open to the men’s lively conversation.

  “I did not know if I would see you again, Captain Templeton.” Mr. Moberly’s tone was jovial, as if chatting with an old friend. “Were you not to sail to England this week?”

  “I’ll sail day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” Jamie’s expression brightened to match Mr. Moberly’s. “But since you’ve been here for some time, I hoped to ask your advice about the merchandise I should bring from London.”

  “Of course.” Mr. Moberly clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “This is truly fortuitous. We have had many newcomers whose needs we failed to anticipate. I shall make a list for you.”

  “Very good.” Jamie grinned. “List as you will, and I’ll obtain it. And if you give me a letter of introduction, I shall be pleased to call upon any of your associates for you.”

  “I shall prepare that letter this very day. Do you have time to ride to my plantation this afternoon?”

  “Sir, that is most agreeable.” The last reservation fled from Jamie’s expression, replaced by a broad smile.

  “Excellent.” Mr. Moberly perused several items on display: knives, flintlock pistols, a barrel of cast-iron nails. “While I am here, I should like to enlist your assistance.”

  Rachel’s ears tingled, and she leaned closer to the men.

  “Ask as ye will, sir,” Papa said.

  “A dissident agitator has entered our settlement and tried to stir up sympathy for the rebellion in Massachusetts and the other colonies.” Mr. Moberly toyed with a length of rope coiled for sale. “The chap slips into the Wild Boar Inn or Brown’s Tavern and makes a few remarks while men are in their cups, then slips away before anyone can apprehend him.”

  Rachel’s heart raced. Another patriot, right here in St. Johns! She must learn his identity and try to contact him.

  “Of course, no man here is of that mind.” Mr. Moberly settled a placid smile on Papa and Jamie.

  “Not that I’ve discerned,” Papa said.

  “Certainly not.” Jamie sent Rachel a warning scowl. She wrinkled her nose in return.

  “In any event, a reward awaits the man who can supply any information leading to his apprehension.”

  The men continued their business discussion, and by the time Rachel had assembled and packaged all of Mr. Moberly’s purchases, they seemed to be lifelong friends. The gentleman paid Papa, bowed to her and afterward left the store.

  “Don’t that beat all?” Papa crossed his arms and watched Mr. Moberly leave. “Looks like the path is smooth before us.”

  “To be sure.” Jamie sent a glance Rachel’s way. “With Moberly’s letters, we’ll have access to the best products London can offer.”

  “Indeed we will.” Papa moved behind the counter and pulled out a logbook. “Now let’s take a look at those figures.”

  The two men hovered over the book and continued their discussion of Jamie’s
imminent voyage. To Rachel’s annoyance, they never once mentioned the dissident agitator.

  She wished they would include her in their consultations, but most often, they shooed her away. Her heart torn between wanting Mr. Moberly to come back and longing to go find the patriot right away, she returned to her corner. Inez was stitching the last inches of lace to the gown’s neckline, and Rachel resumed her own work. With their shoulders almost touching, Rachel felt Inez shake and looked over to see the older woman working to hide her mirth.

  “Shh. What is it?” Rachel glanced toward Papa. As kindhearted as he was, he had no patience with chatty or giggling servants.

  Inez leaned toward her and whispered, “Señorita, I think we both make mistake.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sí. My mistake is thinking the physician is for you. No, no. It is el patrón who admires my mistress, and more than a little.”

  “What nonsense. Mr. Moberly is an English aristocrat. He would never consider…admiring me.” Rachel sniffed at the thought of it. “Furthermore, as I said before, I would never receive the attentions of an Englishman.”

  “Mmm—mmm.” Inez hummed softly. “From the happiness I see in your eyes, mistress, you have receive them whether you wish it or not.”

  Rachel forced herself to frown. “What nonsense.”

  But if the notion were truly nonsense, why had her face felt hot the entire time the gentleman spoke to her? Why had she felt keen disappointment when Papa and Jamie entered the store? And why did her heart now pound as if trying to leap from her chest?

  Nonsense. Utter nonsense.

  While Mrs. Winthrop prepared a list of household needs, Frederick carefully penned the letter to Father recommending Captain James Templeton as a worthy business associate. While he had nothing to lose after Father’s last correspondence, he did not wish to further anger him. Despite a bit of rusticity, Templeton had an air about him that Father should admire, as one might esteem a capable horse handler or even a household steward. The captain possessed clear eyes that seemed to hold no hidden motives, unlike Oliver, who had always been a bit sly.

  How ironic that Frederick had never noticed Oliver’s wiliness. Yet since he had read Father’s revealing letter, Frederick began to recall many instances where his innocent antics had brought unwarranted censure. But only when Oliver was involved.

  Perhaps he was mad to entrust to Templeton the rebuilding of his own reputation with Father. But at this point, the captain’s good reference was all he had.

  Templeton arrived midafternoon. Frederick met him in the drawing room and welcomed him like a brother.

  “You’ve a fine house, sir.” The captain surveyed the room with interest, but no envy clouded his tone or expression. “I’ve often thought to build a house, but the sea’s been my home since boyhood. I don’t know if I could abide solid ground beneath me for too long.”

  “You may have the sea, sir. I gladly welcomed the feel of that solid ground after my stormy voyage across the Atlantic to East Florida.”

  They both chuckled, but before Templeton could offer a rejoinder, Oliver sauntered into the room. Frederick reluctantly made introductions.

  “Well, captain,” Oliver said, “what brings you to our humble home?”

  Templeton’s eyes narrowed for an instant, but he seemed to purposefully brighten his expression. “Just a bit of private business with Mr. Moberly.”

  Frederick withheld a laugh. His new friend was no fool. How quickly he had seen through Oliver’s facade.

  “Then let us adjourn to my study.” Frederick enjoyed the dark look on Oliver’s face. “You will excuse us, Oliver.”

  “Of course.” Oliver’s terse tone came through clenched teeth.

  Once in the study with the door closed, Templeton stared at Frederick, an earnest look in his eyes. “Moberly, you don’t know me well, but let me advise you not to trust Corwin.” He gave his head a quick shake. “Something about him—”

  “Yes, I agree.” To think this man had seen it in less than five minutes. Perhaps as first mate to Captain Folger and now a captain himself, he had honed his skills in human understanding, whereas Frederick had taken a place of leadership only a few short years ago. He still had much to learn.

  He sat at his desk, retrieved his letters and lists, and checked them once more to be sure all was in order before applying his seal. “Thank you for taking these to my family. I hope the introduction will serve us both well.”

  “I’m honored that you trust me.” Seated opposite him, Templeton took them in hand, all the while appearing to search for words. “I sense you are a trustworthy man, too, Moberly, and therefore I must address a subject of some concern.”

  Frederick swallowed hard. He wanted to be open with this man, but he was so used to posing to achieve advantage that he hardly knew how to be genuine. Perhaps in that manner he had been playing the same game as Oliver. But at least he had never betrayed anyone.

  “Say on, friend.” He felt as if he had just unlocked his soul.

  Templeton’s brown eyes bored into his. “My cousin Rachel, Miss Folger, is like a sister to me. Captain Folger raised us together, and I couldn’t love a sister by birth any more than I love her.” He studied the letters in his hand, yet seemed not to see them. Again, he stared at Frederick. “If harm of any sort should come to her, whether to her person or to her heart, I’d have to require it of the man responsible for her grief.”

  Frederick’s lower jaw fell slack, and he closed it as casually as possible while overcoming his shock. “I find Miss Folger to be a remarkable young lady, one whom I admire far too much to grieve in any way.” He offered a half smile. “You may count on me in your absence to require it of anyone who might think to harm her.”

  Templeton’s gaze softened. “I believe you.”

  An unfamiliar sense of comradeship filled Frederick’s chest. Before he could speak his gratitude, Templeton added, “I hope Lord Bennington knows what an extraordinary job you’ve done in developing St. Johns Settlement. If he doesn’t know it now, he will after I’ve finished talking with him.”

  Again warmth filled Frederick almost to bursting. “I am grateful, captain, more than you can know.”

  They stood, shook hands, and then proceeded to the front of the house. After another handshake, Templeton set his hand on Frederick’s shoulder.

  “Please know that the Almighty will be receiving my frequent petitions on your behalf.”

  Frederick coughed away the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. “And I shall pray for you, as well.” An onlooker might think them lifelong friends. “God speed you on your way.”

  He stood on the porch and watched Templeton ride away on a lop-eared mule. The chap did not ride any better than Frederick kept his footing on a ship. But their new friendship soothed away some of the ache left by Oliver’s betrayal.

  As if conjured by his thoughts, Oliver appeared beside him on the porch.

  “Hmm. I wonder if his departure will put a stop to the seditious gossip in the taverns.”

  Frederick would have struck him if the suggestion had not sent a sting of suspicion through his chest.

  Chapter Five

  “Papa, the heel of my shoe has loosened.” Rachel would not mention that she had helped it to that condition. “May I go to the cobbler?”

  Seated behind the store counter, he took off his spectacles and peered over his logbook. “Aye, ’tis best not to delay such repairs, else it’ll cost more. We’ve no customers, so hurry along.” He glanced down the length of her skirt, which covered her shoes, and wrinkled his forehead.

  For a moment, Rachel thought he might have comprehended her ruse. She shifted from one hidden foot to the other and gave him a bright smile. “Thank you. I shall return as quickly as possible.” She turned to go before he could change his mind.

  “Avast.” He stood and crossed his arms.

  “Yes, sir?” Her pulse quickened.

  “Whilst ye’re there, see if the cob
bler can make ye some slippers to match yer new gown.” From his tone, he could have been ordering her to swab the deck. He sat down, put on his spectacles and studied the logbook again.

  Yet his words brought a blush of confusion and shame to Rachel’s cheeks. “Slippers?”

  “Aye.” He did not look up. “I’ll not have ye tramp through a fancy plantation house in yer old shoes.”

  Surprised again by his generosity, she nonetheless hurried from the store and up the street, glancing at the various structures as she passed. While much needed to be done to transform the settlement into a true town, the streets had been laid out and cleared, and tabby foundations now supported numerous wooden buildings in various stages of completion.

  In the distance, Rachel noticed a group of people loitering in the village’s common. One tall figure in a wide-brimmed hat stood above the crowd. Mr. Moberly! Her feet—and her heart—tried to carry her toward the gathering, but she forced herself to turn aside at the cobbler’s building two blocks from Papa’s store.

  As she stepped inside, the heavy smell of oiled leather almost pushed her back into the street. She inhaled shallow breaths and glanced around the small front room, where lasts, buckles, buttons, needles and countless other shoemaking supplies covered three tables.

  The middle-aged cobbler looked up from his work and acknowledged her with a nod. “Miss Folger, what can we do for you today?” He rose to greet her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Shoemaker. Would you be so kind as to fix my heel?” She slipped it off and held it out.

  He turned it in his hands. “Tsk. Looks like someone tried to pry the heel off with a nail.” Carrying it back to his workbench, he began his repairs.

  Rachel moved across the bench from him. “Is Mrs. Shoemaker well?”

  “Yes, thank you. She and the children are working in the kitchen house. Shall I call her?”

  “No. No doubt she is too busy to chat.” Rachel glanced around and saw no fabric for slippers, but another matter held priority. “Tell me, sir, what prompted your removal from Savannah to this wilderness? Surely the city had sufficient work for a cobbler.”