Freedom's Ring (Sisters of the Revolution Book 3)

by Diana Davis

  Beaufort’s faithful valet appeared next to Owen in the doorway. “Sir?”

  “Go and get the latest Watchman, please. If Fischer Marks prints it, it’s true.”

  “Absolutely.”

  As soon as Westing departed, Beaufort shifted his focus to Owen. “Have you seen this?”

  “No.”

  Beaufort held out his paper, and Owen took it. “King Denounces Colonial Congress,” read the headline.

  Oh no. The one last hope, that the king would take pity on their plight and rein in his Parliament, gone?

  “He really doesn’t care,” Beaufort marveled.

  Owen read the article as quickly as he could. The king had opened Parliament with his customary address, but he had to speak of the situation with the colonies. Not in the way they’d hoped. “A most daring spirit of resistance, and disobedience to the law still unhappily prevails in the Province of Massachusetts Bay,” he said. Further down, “you may depend on my firm and steadfast resolution to withstand every attempt to weaken or impair the supreme authority of this Legislature over all the dominions of my Crown.”

  And then he finished by invoking “a just sense of the blessings of our excellent constitution”?

  Beaufort was right. The king didn’t care. George III hadn’t really had much to do with Owen’s day-to-day, but he’d always believed that the king wouldn’t let Parliament close Boston’s ports, nor impose martial law, nor quarter troops in the city.

  They had no allies in the government, then.

  “Really, dearest,” Beaufort urged his wife. “You must lie down.”

  “And you must talk about this.”

  “I will — if you lie down.”

  Mrs. Beaufort stared up at her husband, a determined set to her lips. She said something to him in French, and he shot something back, mirroring her stubborn posture.

  A knock at the door broke their deadlock, and Mrs. Beaufort stepped out to answer.

  “Dare I ask what she said?” Owen muttered.

  “She said, ‘George the king is not George the marquess.’”

  Was that Beaufort’s father? Owen couldn’t forget Beaufort’s face when he’d told Owen about his title, his parents who’d hated him. And here was another powerful person — of the same name, even — making it very clear that he didn’t care about them at all.

  Owen grasped Beaufort’s shoulder as the other man had done so many times to him. “You were right.”

  Beaufort’s tight smile conveyed what Owen already knew: the words were cold comfort.

  Mrs. Beaufort escorted Hayes into the drawing room, then she left for the back of the flat.

  “Josiah,” Beaufort greeted him. His tone wavered between cordial and very, very hurt.

  “Oh, David.” Hayes held out his arms. “What do we do now?”

  Beaufort could not have looked more helpless. “I truly do not know.”

  Hayes crossed the distance between them and offered a hand. “I was sure . . .”

  Beaufort shook it. “I know.”

  “We can’t afford another war.”

  Beaufort nodded. Owen watched him for a long moment. Would he tell Hayes about the Light Horse?

  Did the Light Horse even matter? What were a couple dozen cavalrymen against the greatest army on earth?

  What would they do now?

  Hayes’s gaze slowly fell. He hadn’t changed his mind, that much was clear, but the hope of reconciliation that even yesterday seemed possible — all that had been dashed by the king’s speech, given months ago.

  “I fear the die is cast,” Beaufort murmured.

  “So do I.” Hayes’s answer was barely a whisper, and he shook Beaufort’s hand one more time. He began to turn away, but stopped short. “You know, I don’t have any more brothers to lose. I don’t have any sons. But that doesn’t mean I don’t stand to lose men I care about. That I love as I would a son.” Hayes looked up at Beaufort — and then Owen.

  Hayes felt that way about him?

  Beaufort threw an arm around Hayes’s shoulders as he walked him out. Owen stayed behind, trying to give the family members space to say anything they might need to.

  Hayes left without another word, but Owen still hesitated. Mrs. Beaufort returned, holding a few letters. When Beaufort came back to the drawing room, she held them out to him. He took them and flipped the topmost letter over, contemplating it a long time. It still appeared to be sealed. Mrs. Beaufort murmured something in French again, and Beaufort replied with reproach. “Please,” he added in English.

  Mrs. Beaufort eyed the letters but resigned herself to leave the room for the back of the flat again.

  “Important letters?” Owen ventured.

  Beaufort fixated on the seal. “These are the letters my mother has sent in the last two years.” He fanned them out and held them up. Four letters. All unopened.

  In three steps, Beaufort crossed the drawing room and cast them into the fire. He turned his back as they flared up and burned out.

  Owen watched him a moment longer. He had known Beaufort for years, since he’d begun working for Hayes. Over the last three months, Beaufort had taken him under his wing, introduced him to rich and powerful friends, given him clothing, given his sister a job.

  If Hayes saw them both as sons . . . If Beaufort had no other family to speak of . . .

  “Would it be improper of me to ask to call you David?” Owen tried.

  Surprise registered in Beaufort’s features, but he quickly brightened. “I would like that. Owen?”

  Owen shook his offered hand, and Beaufort clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll know what to do,” Owen assured him. “When the time comes.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Beaufort might not be sure, but Owen realized he had never doubted that Beaufort would know what to do. He had only hoped the time wouldn’t come.

  Beaufort gestured for Owen to keep the newspaper. He had been right. They had already gone too far, and even Owen couldn’t see a way back now.

  That made two bridges well and truly burned, then.

  Temperance spent most of January working harder than ever to court Godfrey Sibbald. She was well aware that everyone else would tell her it was supposed to work the other way — and in her experience, it certainly had — but she had no alternative now.

  She had never had any alternative. How had she thought for even a day that she could be with Owen? No matter how much she had loved him — still loved him, judging by the dull ache lodged behind her heart — she had always known there was no possible future for them together.

  Temperance had seen Godfrey the last three days, and she’d only convinced him to kiss her once. If this didn’t work, she would have to find someone else.

  Not Owen. And really, if it couldn’t be him, Temperance didn’t particularly care who it was. She hadn’t intended to marry for love anyway.

  At least ending things with Owen — as if there were things with Owen to be ended — had mollified Patience. Today, though, Patience’s latest overhasty suitor had utterly failed, and after much cajoling, Patience had joined Mama and the rest of their sisters in the drawing room. Constance, Verity and Mercy were puzzling over a new dissected map, and Patience sat on the floor in front of the couch. Sitting behind her, Mama and Temperance were brushing out Patience’s hair, styling it in the fanciest imaginable way.

  Temperance pinned up another curl and switched to the ribbons, tying a few in bows. They hadn’t played like this in years, but it had the desired effect of pulling Patience out of her sour mood.

  Cozy afternoons like this one were all she could ever wish for. She had a hard time imagining Godfrey in this company, though, and not just because only ladies were present.

  Owen had taken his place perfectly. But that didn’t matter.

  A knock sounded at the door, and everyone paused to see what would come of it. Ginny brought a letter in and offered it to Temperanc
e. Temperance thanked her and opened it.

  Godfrey’s fine handwriting filled the page, but she saw right away it was not a love letter. She waited for the disappointment to land like the weight she’d carried in her chest from the moment she’d seen Owen in that alley. It didn’t.

  Temperance skimmed the letter. It was kind and complimentary, a summary of their relationship thus far that was a bit more glowing than it warranted, although Temperance had striven to steer Godfrey into seeing things the way he did. She knew what this had to mean: he was ending their courtship.

  And she didn’t really care.

  She reached the last paragraph of the letter, where the break was sure to be. In light of all this, Godfrey wrote, I believe I must be honest with you. Yes, this was it.

  I have no intention to marry. She was hardly surprised. But my father wishes me to do so. I feel certain that your affections might be engaged elsewhere as well, so, if you have an ear to hear, I have an idea that might settle us both happily. We could be married, and as long as we provide an heir, we could live separate lives. I would provide everything you could ever want and ask you no questions about the vagaries of your heart, if you could do me that same courtesy.

  What — no. He couldn’t possibly be so bold with her. Could he?

  Temperance folded the letter shut before Mama could crane her neck to read it. Was this why she’d had to work so hard to get him to court her? She hadn’t prevailed upon him at all, then. If he loved someone else, why wouldn’t he pursue her?

  Perhaps this mystery woman was married. Temperance pressed both hands to her burning cheeks. He wanted to marry her, but only to cover his own scandals.

  “Are you well, my dear?” Mama asked.

  “Yes,” she lied quickly.

  Mama said nothing, clearly understanding far more than Temperance had said.

  “What does your sweetheart write to you?” Verity called.

  “Oh, is it from Owen?” Constance asked.

  Temperance snapped to look at her sister, and at her knee she saw Patience do the same, sending one curl tumbling. “Godfrey.” Temperance’s voice was tight. She hadn’t told her younger three sisters anything about Owen.

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Constance struggled to regain her smile. “Does he write of his love?”

  “He wrote of my good qualities.” That, at least, was true.

  “I see he knows how to win you over.” Patience tapped Temperance’s shin with her elbow, indicating she was merely jesting.

  “Does he intend to marry you?” Mercy’s murmur cut through the merriment. She was almost young enough that Temperance could pretend she was asking out of ignorance. But the tone of her voice and the look on her face made it clear that Mercy was truly questioning Godfrey’s heart.

  Could she possibly know the half of it?

  “I suppose he does.” In some form.

  All of her sisters seemed to lean in eagerly. “Does he say so in his letter?” Constance asked.

  “May we read it?” Verity asked.

  Temperance’s stomach made a sickening dip. “Certainly not.”

  Verity pouted only a moment before perking up again. “Ooh, whatever shall I wear to your wedding? Oh, and I must make your cake!”

  “What do you intend to say?” Mercy again seemed to cut right to the heart of the matter.

  Temperance looked at the paper, not daring to even peek at the words. “I don’t know.”

  She couldn’t possibly accept such an offer. Yes, Godfrey said he would take care of her, providing the stability she’d wanted since she was a child, but at what cost?

  This offer was no better than her life with Winthrop would have been, except that she would be consenting to the lie in advance. There was some small honor in that, but not enough that she could bear her head up knowing that her marriage, her life, was false from the start.

  “Will you make an answer?” Patience asked softly. “I have a great deal of experience refusing if you need some guidance.”

  Temperance couldn’t help but giggle, especially at her sister’s sideways grin.

  Perhaps she had no reason to leave her parents’ home. She and Patience seemed fairly determined to stay, though the other girls would marry one day. But what inducement could she have to leave this warm, comfortable place with all — nearly all — the people she loved?

  Constance, Verity and Mercy went back to their dissected map, and Mama fixed the tumbled down curl from Patience’s hair. They were all trying so hard not to look at Temperance that they might as well be staring straight into her soul.

  What if she’d been wrong all these years? What if what she’d thought she wanted was wrong? Perhaps . . .

  Even with Godfrey’s offer, would it be fair to either of them for her to marry when her heart belonged to someone else? And Godfrey’s was clearly elsewhere, though Temperance had never heard him mention anyone.

  She would have to refuse him. There was no other choice. If there was any chance she could win Owen’s heart, she had to try.

  Temperance excused herself to hide the letter under the false bottom of her drawer. She’d have to burn it later when no one was around to see.

  And she would have to attempt to speak with Owen. Soon.

  Owen knocked on Joshua Mordecai’s office door and waited. He’d not only rewritten the contract countless times for Mordecai’s benefits and preferences, but he’d managed to negotiate a better deal for Mordecai than the man had even asked. He couldn’t expect a thirty-pound purse every time he completed a case, but he could certainly hope for the last two pounds he needed to save Cooper from branding.

  But he had only two hours to pay the fine.

  At length, the door opened, and Owen was ushered into Mordecai’s study. The room wasn’t furnished with the opulence of Sibbald’s home, and nothing like the Goodwins’, but the rich leather-bound volumes and wood paneling still vaunted Mordecai’s own success.

  “Mr. Randolph.” Mordecai greeted him and gestured for him to take a seat. Mordecai sat behind his desk. “You’ve finished?”

  “Yes, finally.” He placed the contract on the desk between them. “It took considerably longer than we anticipated because there were a number of changes. However, I believe you’ll find the contract to be more than expected.”

  Mordecai flipped through the pages. He asked a few pertinent questions but betrayed no outward reaction. At last, he signed the contract. “Excellent, thank you.”

  Owen sat there a moment, waiting for anything further from Mordecai. He didn’t need more praise. He needed to be paid.

  “I’ll have your fee sent to your office.”

  That wouldn’t do. “I’d like it now, if you please.”

  Mordecai startled a little. “In a hurry, are we? Absconding before I think better of hiring you again?”

  “I have another client in forma pauperis who desperately needs the help. Today.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to admit his failure with Cooper.

  “Are you not paid by poor clients?”

  “Sometimes the Crown pays for them.” It was hardly equivalent to the rate a lawyer would normally charge.

  “Hm.” Mordecai stroked his chin, then opened a desk drawer. He counted out the coins and offered them to Owen.

  Owen counted what he had: thirteen pounds. He could save Cooper — but then what? That was less than half what Sibbald had paid, and he’d done well more than double the work.

  What would Temperance do, were she in this situation? She would never settle nor slink away. He looked to Mordecai. “I’m afraid that’s not enough.”

  Mordecai stared at him, unblinking for a long moment.

  “For the amount of time and effort I put into this contract, and the terms that are more than even you requested, I can’t take less than twenty pounds.”

  “For one contract?”

  “For three months’ work. And my legal expertise.”

 
Mordecai frowned.

  Owen turned the question on him. “Would you accept thirteen pounds for three months’ work?”

  Mordecai’s shoulders fell, and he reopened the desk drawer.

  Two months ago, Owen had floated through the streets of Philadelphia with thirty pounds in his purse and Temperance Hayes’s kisses on his cheeks. Today, he had twenty pounds and a mission. He marched directly to the jail and paid the fine. The jailer brought Cooper out, and the old man looked up with sorrow in his countenance.

  “You’re free to go.” The jailer unlocked his manacles.

  Cooper nearly fell down at Owen’s feet — hopefully in gratitude and not out of weakness from mistreatment. Owen picked him up and wrapped his great coat around the poor old man. At the door, he paused and stared up at the king’s arms above them.

  Owen walked Cooper to the tiny tenement he’d found. He took the time to start a fire and dashed out to spend his pocket change on bread, cheese and cider. Owen watched him eat, shaking the whole while, though he couldn’t be certain whether that was from fear or cold, age or infirmity.

  How could they have ever thought to brand an innocent old man? The prosecutor had so mercilessly manipulated the case, perhaps Cooper had never had any chance of winning. What were the rights of the English constitution if they weren’t respected? Even the king himself wouldn’t honor them.

  Beaufort — David — had been right all along.

  Owen headed back to the office to finish the Schmidt case, but as he walked in the door, he saw David duck into Hayes’s study, leaving the door open. Just the man he needed to talk to. Owen followed, pausing in the doorway.

  “Sibbald tells me congratulations are in order,” David was saying.

  “Are they?” Hayes asked.

  “He said Godfrey offered for Temperance. Does she mean to accept?”

  Owen froze.

  “Oh, yes.” Hayes straightened his waistcoat. “Anne told me of that.”

  Owen backed out of the doorway, hoping Hayes had never spotted him.

  He’d known Temperance would never marry him, but how was he supposed to stand by and watch her marry the terrifying visage of Godfrey Sibbald for no better reason than money?