Visiting this humble church for the third Sunday in a row, Rachel felt at home. She nodded or spoke soft greetings to other parishioners as she and Papa found their pew. Even though the pews were not bought or assigned, everyone seemed to sit in the same place they had before, like well-mannered children taking their seats around a large family dinner table. The Father’s table.
Seated beside Papa, Rachel offered up her customary prayer that he would understand the message of salvation. Soon peace swept into her soul, but she could not be certain whether it was an assurance from the Lord or because Mr. Moberly and his party moved into the pew in front of her.
Reaching his accustomed spot, Mr. Moberly turned. “Good morning, Miss Folger, Mr. Folger.” His dark gray eyes communicated good humor, and his soft voice rumbled in a rich baritone against Reverend Johnson’s opening intonations.
Although she managed to return his smile and nod to Mrs. Winthrop, Rachel’s knees went weak. Lord, forgive me. This is our time to worship You. But once again, for the next two hours, she required much self-control to remember Whom this service was about.
Chapter Eighteen
“I ate entirely too much of your excellent stew, Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly patted his stomach.
“Indeed,” said Mrs. Winthrop. “I do not imagine anything we will be served in St. Augustine could be any finer. The taste of your tender lamb took me back to Warwickshire.”
“Thank you.” Rachel’s cheeks warmed. “But I would guess Governor Tonyn will serve the best of everything to his guests.” She still could not grasp that she and Papa would have such a grand adventure with Mr. Moberly and Mrs. Winthrop.
“Ye’ve got yer mother’s touch, daughter.” Papa beamed. “Now, about that pie.”
“Yes, of course.” Rachel started to ring for Inez.
“Ah, dessert.” Mr. Moberly’s voice sounded reserved. “Where to put it? Perhaps we should take a stroll before our pie. I’ve not been in town for over a week, and I would like to see if the workmen have satisfactorily cleared away the ruins of the inn.” He turned to Papa. “That is, with your permission, sir.”
Papa nodded. “A brisk walk is good for the health, I always say. Mrs. Winthrop, will you join us?”
From the opposite end of the table, Rachel glared at him, willing him to understand that she and Mr. Moberly would not need a chaperone, in fact, must not have one if they were to freely discuss important matters.
“Why, yes, I should like a stroll.” Mrs. Winthrop regarded Papa. “However, I wonder if you and I might walk back toward the church. Mrs. Johnson has promised to give me some of her daffodil bulbs, and I would like to collect them. We did not have time after the service.”
“Ah, a fine idea.” Papa’s jovial tone soothed Rachel’s concerns.
Out in the blazing, late-June heat, as Papa and Mrs. Winthrop walked in the opposite direction, Rachel cast an envious glance toward the lady’s parasol, plain and black though it was. She could not think of bringing out her old patched one and hoped she would not suffer too much for her pride. Instead, she pulled her wide straw hat low and prayed the East Florida sun would not reflect off the white sand-and-seashell road to redden her face. At least her white gloves would protect her hands from burning.
“Is everything well with you, Miss Folger?” Walking beside her, Mr. Moberly wore a round, broad-brimmed brown hat to top off his skirted brown linen coat and blue breeches. With his tanned complexion, he bore the look of a handsome country gentleman.
“Everything is very well, sir.” Rachel’s pulse quickened. Here they were at last, and all she could do was fret about the sun. “Well, there is one small matter of complaint.”
“Ah, that will not do. Tell me what it is, and I shall do all within my power to amend it.”
A dog cart driven by a young slave boy rattled past, stirring up sand and dust. Mr. Moberly took Rachel’s arm and moved her away from the onslaught. At his touch, she felt a pleasant shiver run up her arm.
“Will you call me Rachel?” Her heart pounding at her audacity, she tilted her head and glanced at him from beneath her hat brim.
His charming smile dispelled her anxiety. “Only if you will call me Frederick.”
“Agreed.”
A few people wandered about town, some strolling and others going about necessary business such as tending animals, as befitted the Sabbath day. In the shallow inlet, great white cranes poked their long golden beaks into the water and pulled out frogs, insects or small fish, then lifted their heads to swallow. On the other side, gauzy Spanish moss hung on the nearby oak trees, swaying in the summer breeze like the gray hair of an old crone. The last magnolia blossoms spread over their giant leaves as if loath to end their season.
“Rachel.” Mr. Moberly swung his riding crop at a fly. “What a lovely, biblical name.”
“Yes. On Nantucket Island, most children received scriptural names.”
“Ah. What a strong testimony to their faith.”
“Truly, it is a fine heritage to have.” Rachel felt her heart flood with joy. Their conversation was proceeding naturally. Surely that signified good things to come.
The tanner shouted his greeting from his front door, and Frederick responded with a majestic nod. Several mounted soldiers gave friendly, informal salutes as they rode past, and indentured servants stopped to bow or curtsy to Frederick. Rachel felt a measure of modest pride and pleasure for being seen in his company.
They reached the scene of the tragedy and found only a large charred patch to mark the ground where the two-story building had stood. Despite the rains that had washed over the site, the stench of the tragic fire remained. Some distance beyond, the stable had survived, as had the various animals Mr. Crump had kept for feeding his guests. The creatures now resided at Bennington Plantation.
“You were kind to purchase Sadie’s livestock,” Rachel said as they walked toward the stable. “The money will be more than enough to meet her needs.”
Frederick shrugged. “No other course would have been acceptable.” He studied the stable. “Do you mind if I look inside?”
“Not at all.” Rachel stood by the empty stockyard. “I shall wait here.”
His quizzical look was charming. “Would you not like some relief from the sun?”
“Indeed I would.” She located a nearby giant oak across the road. “And that fine tree will provide it.”
He grimaced and shook his head. “Forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. I need not inspect this place. I shall send Oliver tomorrow.”
Rachel sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Frederick understood why they must remain in plain sight of the townspeople enjoying this Sunday afternoon.
They found a seat on one of the ancient tree’s arching branches that lay across the ground, extending some thirty feet perpendicular to the main trunk.
Toying with a tender stem beside her, Rachel decided not to waste time, for Papa had granted them only one hour. “Have you considered the matters we discussed last Sunday?”
Frederick did not meet her gaze, and a frown replaced his smile. “Yes.”
Fear crept into her mind. “And?”
He reached over to take her gloved hand. “Dear Rachel, what can I say? How can I argue against your concerns? For they come from a pure Christian heart.”
Her hand felt so right in his. So safe. So protected. His eyes exuded nothing but kindness and concern. And, perhaps, even love.
“Then you agree with me?” Surprised to feel the sting of tears, Rachel blinked and sent them splashing down her cheeks.
His gaze seemed almost paternal. “Dear one, many of these matters are beyond our human comprehension.”
Pain stabbed into her deepest sensibilities. “No, they are not beyond our comprehension. If men are evil and do evil, it is easy to comprehend that they must be stopped.” She pulled her hand away and immediately felt adrift.
He released a long sigh, and she turned to study his face. How she ached to reach out and touch his
cheek, to reclaim those strong hands. But to do so would be a betrayal of her most cherished beliefs.
“Frederick…” How she loved the feel of his name on her tongue, in spite of their differences. “This is the essence of who I am. If you cannot accept the things I hold dearest to my heart, then you cannot love me.”
His gaze grew intense, burning into her. “Do not tell me I cannot love you, Rachel.” His voice resounded with feeling. “I have loved you almost from the moment I met you. And it has cost me…will cost me everything, yet I count it nothing for the love I have for you.” He grasped both of her hands this time. “Do you understand? I love you.”
She could not breathe. Could not think. Could only feel.
“And I love you.”
Frederick gazed into her eyes, barely able to breathe. She loved him in return! With all his being, he longed to kiss her. Longed to rush back to the church to marry her this day. After much inner struggle, he settled for brushing his hand across her tear-stained cheek and giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Are you well, Rachel?”
The smile she returned was radiant. “I am well, Frederick.”
As if in silent agreement, they released each other’s hands, a concurrence that could only portend future harmony between them.
“Will you free your slaves and pay wages to those who want to stay and work for you?” The innocence in Rachel’s eyes and the tenderness in her tone stirred his soul.
“Would that I could. But they are not my property. They belong to my father. To set them free would be nothing less than thievery.” Even as he said the words, they sounded hollow.
“I see.” Rachel waved at a little brown boy walking past on the road. “You must know that I will never own a slave.”
Frederick gazed off beyond the stable and across the marshy inlet where a myriad of birds, great and small, foraged for sustenance. “I would not ask it of you. But will you grant me what I must do for my father?” He grunted, considering the question’s irony. “That is, for as long as he permits me to continue as his agent.”
Rachel’s eyes widened, and she stood and walked several feet from the tree. Hoping she did not intend to leave him, Frederick stood, ready to pursue her. But she turned back, and her lips were drawn in a decisive line.
“Perhaps the Lord will provide you with another occupation, one that does not require slaves.”
Frederick stared at the ground and nudged an old seashell with the toe of his riding boot. Just when he felt he had succeeded beyond Father’s expectations—with God’s blessing—she wanted him to leave the work he loved. Again, his soul wrenched over this absurdity. Must he lose one dream to gain another?
But a sudden insight took him by surprise. He had not the slightest doubt Father would disown him for choosing to love and marry Rachel. He would be forced to find another occupation. That being true, he could seek one for which slave labor was not required.
He looked up to see Rachel staring at him, doubt and hope at war in her expression. He walked to her and reclaimed her hand. To his relief, she did not pull away.
“We must depend upon the Lord to show us what He would have us do.”
Her little gasp of delight sent a strange mix of optimism and trepidation down his spine.
“Oh, Frederick, God will bless you for this. And should your earthly father reject you, your heavenly Father will take you up in His arms.”
Nothing could have encouraged him more. She believed in him, and that was enough.
Glancing up at the sun’s position, Frederick felt certain an hour had passed since they had left the store. “I must take you home. If I am to remain in your father’s good graces, I must keep my word to him.”
“Yes.” She looped her arm in his as they once again took to the road. “But you know there is another matter we must discuss.”
“Ah, yes. The rebellion.” Frederick hardly had to concern himself with it. Like the certainty of Father’s disowning him, he had no doubt the uprising would fail.
“Revolution.”
“Very well. Revolution.” What difference did a word make? The color of the sky seemed richer, deeper to him today, as if a vat of indigo had splashed across the fields where woolly cloud sheep frolicked. Below, pine trees waved their good wishes to any who walked by.
“Well?” There was a slight tug on his arm.
Frederick glanced down into the dark brown eyes of an Inquisitor. But he could not be cross with her. “I recently read an interesting pamphlet called A Declaration of Rights and Grievances.” He enjoyed her wide-eyed shock. “I am convinced that the cause of the thirteen rebelling colonies is not without merit.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. But you must give me more time to consider it.”
“Oh, I shall. But we should discuss it, too.”
“Certainly.” Frederick sent up a prayer that all conflict would be over before he was forced to tell her of his sworn loyalty to the king, a pledge he felt no urging to abandon.
For the present, her contentment revealed itself in her light steps beside him. He felt a little like a playful colt himself. Yet they managed to keep a respectable pace as they strolled along the sandy road. The townspeople now greeted them with open stares and knowing winks, as if privy to a delightful secret. Let them look, then. Let them talk. For he had crossed the Rubicon, and he would not go back.
Chapter Nineteen
Early Friday morning, Rachel and Papa made their way to the plantation. At Bennington Creek, twenty-foot flatboats waited in boat slips to carry them on the first leg of their journey. The boats’ red and yellow canvas awnings flapped in the soft breeze like birds taking flight, reflecting Rachel’s soaring excitement.
Already awaiting the company’s departure, Lady Augusta whispered to her husband in urgent tones. Major Brigham shook his head and assisted his wife across the wooden planks into the boat. Lady Augusta sent an angry glare toward Rachel before plopping into her seat and staring off into the distance.
Rachel’s merry mood plummeted. But what had she expected from the pompous aristocrat? At least Lady Augusta had the good sense not to wear her hideous wig and makeup for this outing. In the dim morning light, she appeared at least ten years younger, and her dark brown hair framed a truly pretty face, marred only by her arrogant scowl.
In contrast, Frederick shook Papa’s hand as if greeting an old friend, then placed a kiss on Rachel’s fingers as the pleasant scent of bergamot wafted into her sphere. She must ask him about that enchanting fragrance one day.
“Let me assist you, Miss Folger.” Frederick’s formal address bespoke their agreement to keep their declarations of love a secret, but his gentlemanly manners restored her bruised feelings. “I ordered these cushions for comfort and the awning for shade.”
“How lovely. Thank you.” Rachel took his arm and stepped into the boat. With the boatman’s help, she settled into a down-filled canvas cushion at the opposite end from Major Brigham and Lady Augusta. Soon Papa and Mrs. Winthrop joined them.
“A lovely day for an excursion, my lady,” Mrs. Winthrop said to Lady Augusta. “Do you not think so?”
Chin lifted, Lady Augusta snapped her head toward her. As her gaze settled on the older woman, she offered a slight smile, one that enhanced her natural beauty. “Yes. Quite.” Again she peered out across the marsh.
In short time, the boatmen shoved the flatboat from the slip and steered it northward into shallow Bennington Creek, rowing toward the St. Johns River. A second boat conveyed the servants and baggage, with a small squad of soldiers divided between the two vessels. Each red-coated soldier clutched a loaded musket. Rachel felt a mixture of relief for their protection from present dangers and distaste for the offenses of their fellow soldiers up north.
She saw that Lady Augusta had brought two trunks, her lady’s maid and a slave girl. Mrs. Winthrop had packed a small trunk and also brought her housemaid. Rachel had one valise, which held her new pink gauze
gown, her blue dress, a dressing gown and a night rail. She was used to dressing herself, but her hair was another matter. Inez had given careful instructions on how to create a stylish coiffure, but Rachel had little practice doing it.
The sun rose higher, and the ladies lifted their parasols for additional shade. Even though Rachel feared her old black one would embarrass Frederick, she’d decided she must use it. Last Sunday’s walk had reddened her face, and she could not bear to further spoil her complexion.
Lady Augusta took one brief look at the tattered apparatus and rolled her eyes, even emitted a ladylike “humph” before lifting her own delicate lace parasol. Rachel cast a quick glance at Frederick, but he had engaged Papa in a discussion about fishing. Mrs. Winthrop reached over to squeeze Rachel’s hand. With that bit of reassurance, Rachel reclined against the cushions to enjoy the passing scenery. She would not let the haughty aristocrat ruin this rare expedition for her.
She had forgotten the beauties of the river—the many varieties of trees, bright red and purple flowers she couldn’t name, and myriads of birds calling to their own kind in a cacophonous symphony. Peeking over the boat’s side, she could see fish large and small—bass with their gaping mouths, sword-nosed gar, giant spiny sturgeon. Occasionally one would leap into the air to devour an unfortunate insect before splashing back into the water. It seemed to her that a thousand streams fed the vast, shallow waterway, and numerous islands divided it along the way. How easy it would be to get lost without experienced boatmen navigating their course.
Yet always in the back of Rachel’s mind was the memory of the alligator nearly as long as this boat that had noiselessly approached through the tall river grasses and slammed into their vessel upon their arrival those long weeks ago. Even now groups of the great hideous dragons sunned themselves on the river banks or slithered into the water in their ominous way.
She noticed Lady Augusta’s hand draped over the boat’s side and trailing in the water, and thought to offer a warning. Her husband doubtless saw the danger, too, for he spoke to her, and she snatched back the endangered appendage. Rachel shuddered.
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