Throughout the rest of the day and into the night, Papa rolled about, sweating and vomiting. From time to time, violent seizures struck, and Mr. Patch came to help the doctor hold him to the bed. Everyone took a turn at sleeping and eating to maintain their strength. They also knelt in turn to pray for Papa’s life and health.
After midnight, Rachel sat in the darkness of the drawing room, too weary to decipher all that Frederick’s dishonesty meant to their future. Of course she could no longer think of marrying him. But how could she face him to break off their engagement?
The swish of Mrs. Winthrop’s skirts interrupted her thoughts.
“Your father is not quite so restive now.” She sat beside Rachel on the settee. “I thought I should come and give you another bit of news.” The warmth in her tone generated Rachel’s curiosity.
“Yes, ma’am?”
Mrs. Winthrop leaned toward her. “Major Brigham has been reassigned to Boston. He and Lady Augusta will be sailing there this Friday.”
An unexpected giggle bubbled up in Rachel’s throat, and she found it difficult to subdue it. The Lord had answered her selfish prayer for her adversary to leave.
But a sobering thought cut short her mirth. Now she had a new adversary, and he was none other than the man she loved with all her heart.
In the dim light of a whale oil lamp aboard the Mingo, Frederick studied the pamphlet, and his heart grew heavier with each reading, even as his mind became enlightened. Too long he had shrugged off the seriousness of the strife in the thirteen rebelling colonies. He should have comprehended what was to come when he learned the colonists had organized their auspicious-sounding “continental congress” in Philadelphia last September. That a large group of educated, landed gentry would gather to write such an articulate and well-reasoned appeal to His Majesty could not be dismissed out of hand. Especially when the war might now extend to East Florida, including his own settlement. Including his own upcoming marriage.
He could no longer lightly regard Rachel’s passion for the colonists ’cause, though he had dismissed his earlier concern that she might already be spying for the enemy. Her sentiments, whether serious or sanguine, always radiated from her dark brown eyes, a quality he valued, and she would have given herself away long ago.
The ship rose and fell in the undulating surf. The lamp swayed, casting grotesque shadows about the small cabin. The fetid odors of waste and dead fish reached his nostrils, and he longed to ascend to the deck so the fresh sea air might cleanse him inside and out. Simply reading this pamphlet befouled his soul and made him feel like a traitor.
Yet he could not argue with the colonists’ claims to the historic rights of all Englishmen, rights he himself took for granted. Should not the present generation of English descendants on American soil have those same rights? It all made sense to him and was, in fact, the way he dispensed his own authority.
As manager of his father’s plantation, he held a king-like power and endeavored to wield a temperate scepter over the servants and slaves. They responded by working harder, thus producing more and finer crops than they had under Father’s imprudent former agent or would have under Oliver’s iron hand. Why could His Majesty not treat his colonies in like manner? Did not the Scriptures teach that a laborer was worthy of his hire? Moreover, a king should serve his people rather than bleed them dry through taxation. He should permit them to gather lawfully in order to deliberate on how to present “their dutiful, humble, loyal, and reasonable petitions to the crown for redress.” The men who wrote this document were articulate, God-fearing gentlemen.
Exhaling a weary sigh, Frederick folded the pamphlet, tucked it in his coat, and then retrieved the governor’s letter. This missive convinced him that, instead of a civil conflict propagated by a few unruly dissidents, a full-blown war raged between his homeland and thirteen of her American colonies. The rebels’ successful raid on Fort Ticonderoga and the many British losses at Breed’s Hill demonstrated that the colonists were endeavoring to sever their ties with England. The news that they might bring their rebellion to East Florida portended many unpleasant days ahead. Before he could decide what part to play in this tragedy, Frederick had much to consider and much to pray about, not the least of which was how it affected his marriage to Rachel.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Perseus.”
Rachel jolted awake in her chair beside Papa’s bed and rushed to his side. Darkness shrouded the room, but she could make out his form.
“What is it, Papa?” She caressed his brow, grateful his fever had broken earlier.
Mumbling unintelligible words, he tried to roll toward the side of his injured leg, but returned to his back with a deep groan.
“Shh. It’s all right, Papa.”
Unshaven but wearing a clean nightgown, he smelled of lye soap from the bath Dr. Wellsey and Mr. Patch had given him.
“Take it to Perseus.”
There. He said it again. She hadn’t dreamed it. Her scalp tingled, and a shiver ran down her neck.
“Who is Perseus, Papa?”
“Uh?” He rose slightly. “Water.”
She struggled to lift him while raising a glass to his lips. He drank greedily, then fell back on the pillow and began to snore. His noisy but even breathing mitigated her disappointment that he hadn’t answered her question. The crisis had passed, as Dr. Wellsey informed her before he and Mrs. Winthrop returned home.
Once Papa awoke, however, she would hound him until he confessed. She had not the slightest doubt he was the third man she heard talking in the night in St. Augustine. In spite of her constant grief over Frederick, this truth about Papa tickled her insides. To think, Papa was a patriot. Why, that must mean Cousin Jamie was, too. Though exhausted, she remained by Papa’s bed, shaking her head over the absurdity. All this time she had never suspected either of them.
Then another thought took hold. Why had he never told her? Why had he not let her stay in Boston to spy on General Gage? He and Jamie had shut her out, calling their secret discussions “men’s business.” Pain ripped through her, rivaling her agony over Frederick’s lies. She didn’t have to ask Papa why. Their exclusion of her in their plans said it all. They did not trust her.
Tears scalded her cheeks, and her body ached. Minding Dr. Wellsey’s instructions to get her own rest, she lit a candle and examined Papa’s color. As best she could see, it appeared normal. Now she could safely leave him and go to bed.
Once there, she still could not surrender to sleep for the turmoil in her mind. She had heard at least three men in St. Augustine, but one only grunted rather than speak. Zeus. Why, that was the ruling god of Greek mythology. If Papa had chosen that name for himself, he must be the leader. And that meant he had the cylinder. He was to deliver it to…Hermes. Hermes, the messenger god. That must be Jamie! Who would take it by ship to…Perseus. But who was Perseus? And why had they chosen these names from Greek mythology? Could it be to show that some Greeks in East Florida supported the revolution? That must be the reason Papa had spoken with the Greek prisoner. She wondered what he had told the guards to gain such a privilege.
With Papa likely to be sick for some time, with Jamie in England for who knew how long, someone needed to deliver the cylinder to Perseus. If only she knew where it was and where to take it, she could prove herself worthy of helping the revolution.
She would search Papa’s belongings at first light. As a child, she’d discovered a false bottom in his sea trunk. She also knew of a hollow chamber beneath the finial on one of his bedposts. A brick on the hearthside had been loosened and might hide a cavity. She had no doubt Papa would keep something that valuable close by. She would find it somehow.
Lord, please show me where it is. Please reveal to me who Perseus is and how I can find him. And help me to forgive Papa and Jamie for treating me like an inconsequential child.
A map. Of course. Rachel marveled at the clever ploy. The topography of northern East Florida drawn on doeskin as thin and p
liable as a lady’s gloves, then rolled tightly into a brass cylinder resembling a sea captain’s collapsible telescope, lay in the top drawer of Papa’s chest. If Rachel had not grown frustrated in her search and retrieved the supposed telescope to stare out the window for amusement, she never would have found the map.
What amazed her even more was the discovery of a fake red beard and a heavily lined coat under the false bottom in Papa’s trunk. But Papa could not be the patriot who had tried to stir up the settlement, for he could never hide his limp. And dear Mr. Patch was far too short.
But now she must discover the identity and location of Perseus. If Jamie was to take the map to the man on his next voyage, the place could be anywhere, but most likely in the colonies. Most likely Boston. But Rachel could not be certain.
Still, the idea of Boston grew with such strength that she began to think it was God’s leading. She must find a way to get there, even if forced to humble herself and ask to travel with Lady Augusta. Providing, of course, Papa felt well enough by Friday for her to leave him in Mr. Patch’s care. If Frederick would stay away until then, she would not have to face him to break their engagement. By implying he supported her belief in the revolution when he actually stood against it, he had hurt her too much to deserve an explanation. Indeed, how could she explain to him that, now and forever, they were enemies?
In the afternoon, Rachel read to Papa, interspersing prayers with Bible verses. His even breathing encouraged her regarding his health, but his lack of faith still concerned her. She had just begun a passage in James, when he mumbled, coughed and opened his eyes.
“Rachel.” His gravelly voice sounded like music to her.
“Papa.” She set aside her reading and kissed his unshaven cheek. “Dear Papa.” She laid her head on his chest and wept.
For once, he didn’t dismiss her display of emotion, but patted her hair and coughed. “There now, daughter. All’s well ’cept for my voracious thirst.”
She dried her tears and poured water, which he managed to drink by himself.
“Are you hungry?” Rachel straightened his sheets, trying to anticipate what he might need.
“No.” His reddened eyes turned toward his chest of drawers, and a worried frown crossed his brow. “Doubtless I will be soon.” He grimaced. “’Tis a frightful thing, a snakebite. Never have I felt such pain.”
“Not even when you broke your leg?”
“My what?” His eyes widened briefly. “Ah, yes. Even more painful than the broken leg.”
“Oh, dear Papa, I’m so sorry.” Rachel glanced toward his once sturdy limbs. “My heart grieves for your suffering, but we may thank God for your life.”
She braced herself for his usual dismissal of her faith, but he merely grunted, even gave her a little smile. “Well, I suppose this’ll go down in the family lore about yer old father. Do be sure to write yer sister all the details.” Now his eyes lit with a bit of their old sparkle, though dark shadows hung beneath them.
Rachel’s mind turned. This could be the answer to everything. “Papa, what would you think if I went to Boston and told her myself?”
“What?” He tried to sit up, but fell back against the pillow. “Hmm. Aye, aye. East Florida’s turned out to be a dangerous place. Not that Boston’s any safer these days.” He closed his eyes for a moment, then stared at her with tender concern. “But what of Mr. Moberly?”
She looked away, forbidding herself to cry. “Haven’t I been foolish, Papa? You saw it, I am certain. That is why you were reluctant to approve our engagement. Mr. Moberly is a Tory, a loyalist. We would not make a good match.” Another thought intruded. “Nor will you and Mrs. Winthrop.”
“Me and Mrs. Winthrop?”
“Of course. I know you are fond of her, but you must not deceive her about who you really are.” Rachel fussed with his sheet corner. “You see, Papa, I know you are a patriot…Zeus.”
Papa inhaled sharply. “Did I speak that name in a delirium?”
She patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You and I were alone when you mentioned Perseus.” Briefly, she told him all that had transpired during their trip to St. Augustine, including when she had overheard him with his cronies. “If you had spoken that night, I would have recognized your voice right away. But I did not realize until you said ‘Perseus’ in your sleep that you were the third man.”
With each incident, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open. “Rachel, my girl, I’d have never thought…” Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his face grew pale.
“Please rest now, Papa. We can talk more later.”
He rolled his head from side to side on the pillow. “No. This must be decided.” His gaze became steady, even harsh. “Ye must go to Boston to deliver a gift to Charles, but ye must tell no one of it. Keep it deep in yer travel bag, and never let it out of yer sight. Can ye do this, girl?”
“Yes, of course.” Excitement spun through her like a storm. Now he would trust her. Now she had a chance to prove herself. “May I assume Charles is Perseus?” She never dreamed her sister’s mild-mannered husband possessed such courage.
Papa’s eyes narrowed into a wily expression. “I know not what ye mean, girl. Have ye been reading Greek myths again?”
At last, she permitted herself to laugh. “No, sir.” But she must make one more attempt to win his soul. “These past few days, I have found great comfort in the Scriptures.”
“Ah, that answers it.” He scratched his scruffy chin. “Many a dream I had these nights of yer mother reading those same Scriptures to me. But ye left out my favorite passage, John 6:68–69. In my travels to many ports of this world, ’twas the one that kept me from the seductive spells of strange religions.”
Her pulse racing, Rachel snatched up her Bible and quickly found the passage. “‘Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life. And we believe and are sure that thou art that Christ, the Son of the living God.’” She could barely finish for weeping. “Oh, Papa, you believe. Why have you never told me?”
Weariness seemed to overtake him, for he closed his eyes and sunk deeper into the pillow. “Not every man wears his opinions…or his faith on his face. Sometimes ’tis better not to bare yer soul.”
As she considered his words, she longed to discuss them further. But he had drifted back to sleep, and she would not disturb him. Nor would she urge him to reveal the identity of the other local patriot.
How often he had chided her for her emotional displays, which she rarely tried to contain. Could such a person be trusted to spy or even keep a secret? Not likely. Even falling in love with Frederick had been fraught with too much emotion and too little temperance. Had she been wise, she would have required a definitive answer regarding his sentiments on the revolution. But she had disregarded the proverb to keep her heart with all diligence and blinded herself to the truth, seeing only what she wished to see.
Now she had the opportunity to do something truly important for the cause she held dear, but only if she could hide her deepest feelings. That might not be possible if Frederick returned from St. Augustine before she left.
“You have made a wise decision, Rachel.” Lady Augusta fanned herself as they sat in the cabin of the British frigate three days later. “Marital happiness cannot last when the wife’s rank is inferior to her husband’s.”
Bracing herself against the woman’s hurtful remark, Rachel ran a finger over the ornately carved arm of her mahogany chair beside the captain’s desk. “But isn’t Major Brigham the son of a baronet, while you are the daughter of an earl? I do not pretend to understand much about English rankings, but doesn’t that mean you married beneath your station?” She smiled sweetly and blinked several times.
Lady Augusta’s eyebrows lowered, and her pretty mouth twisted into a snarl. “My connections have made it possible for my husband to advance in His Majesty’s service, whereas an inferior wife will always be a detriment to her husband’s aspirations.”
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nbsp; Rachel stared down and bit her lower lip to keep from responding. She was no match for this woman’s cruel tongue. Further, any discussion of her former engagement to Frederick would be pointless. She inhaled deeply to soothe her ravaged emotions, drawing in the mouth-watering aroma of beef stew. They would soon be dining with the captain here in his quarters, and Rachel consoled herself that during the meal she might gather some helpful information to pass on to Charles. Posing as a loyalist rankled, but it also gave her a heady sense of dangerous excitement.
Her emotions now under control, she again looked at Lady Augusta. “I hope you will find Boston more pleasant than St. Johns Settlement.”
Lady Augusta sniffed. “At the very least, the society will be an improvement.”
At a knock on the cabin door, Lady Augusta said “You may enter.”
The captain’s uniformed steward stepped in and bowed. “Ladies, if you will excuse us, we must prepare the cabin for supper.” He turned to Rachel. “Will you be joining us, miss?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lady Augusta marched toward the door, her wide panniers brushing against the desk and almost knocking over the chairs. “She will eat with the servants.”
Trailing after Lady Augusta as she left the cabin, the scent of orange blossoms struck a double blow to Rachel’s already aching heart. The sweet, delicate fragrance would always remind her of this unfeeling woman, but worse, of pleasant walks with Frederick in his orange grove. Papa had promised that the pain would lessen one day, but Rachel doubted she would ever stop hurting.
“To Boston?” Frederick stared at Mr. Folger, not believing his words. “Sir, why would you send her back there when the city is under siege?”
Mr. Folger sat propped against his pillows, pale and sweating. But he had assured Frederick he was on the mend.
“Would she be any safer in this wilderness?” Mr. Folger pointed to his leg. “Snakes, alligators, mosquito hordes…I was wrong to bring her here.”
Love Thine Enemy Page 22