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

by Diana Davis

  What would he do? Go tell Godfrey Temperance didn’t love him? After seeing them together, he had a hard time believing Godfrey would care. Confront Temperance? He already had his answer there.

  Owen did the only thing he knew to do when he didn’t know what to do: he went home. He went into the back room and put his satchel away, right on top of the newspaper David had given him two days before. The one with the king’s address.

  David knew well what it meant to be dismissed and rejected by the very person who should have been most loyal. They came through and took what they wanted and didn’t care at all whose lives they destroyed in the process, whether that was their son or the people of Boston or Antony Cooper.

  Owen had spent years working to try to lift his family out of this hovel, and the only thing that had ever gotten him was more hard work. Even the law hadn’t proven a path out of poverty, and it was clearly no recourse for poor people like Cooper or the Bostonians.

  He could admit it: he’d been as shallow and self-serving as a woman he’d once known. He wanted a stable life for his family, and he expected work to bring that. And how had that served his father? How had it served Antony Cooper, who would probably have to go right back to work tomorrow?

  No amount of work could change the situation looming over Owen. Unfortunately for Temperance, even money couldn’t guarantee safety and stability. Not if even the king refused to do it. They were not yet as Boston, but how long had he watched the courts bend to protect the rich and powerful and abuse the poor? What rights? What English constitution?

  If he wanted his family to be safe, he wouldn’t do it by sitting in a law office all day.

  He glanced back at the newspaper. David might say he didn’t know what to do now, but Owen was fairly certain he’d already had the right idea. He didn’t want to be taken by surprise again, at least. He counted the money left in his purse: eighteen pounds.

  That wouldn’t be enough. He pulled the suit David had given him from its paper under his bed. He hadn’t had much use for it lately anyway.

  A fair tailor traded the coat for the fabric he needed plus two pounds. He made straight for the stables and Old Woodson and demanded the best horse he could buy with twenty pounds.

  Old Woodson rubbed his hoary chin. “You know I’d help you, son, but the horse you’d want? The owner instructed me not to take less than twenty-one pounds.”

  Where would he get an extra pound? He couldn’t ask Old Woodson for a loan of that size. Owen tucked his hand in his waistcoat pocket to run his fingers over the coins, and his fingertips brushed the other thing he’d had in his pocket for the last three months, the awkward stitches he’d sewn in the corner himself.

  That was worth one pound.

  He hadn’t much use for it either.

  He really had been mad that day. And now it was time to see reason. Two tugs and it was free. Owen counted out every last coin — twenty pounds — and added the final item on top: the gold ring.

  Old Woodson examined the ring briefly and nodded.

  Owen could hardly wait until evening fell. He inquired at David’s flat, where he was not at home, but Mrs. Beaufort directed Owen to Abraham Markoe’s house two blocks down the street. There, a servant conducted Owen to Markoe’s library. The man himself greeted Owen at the library door, suspicion and curiosity mingled in his expression. Over his shoulder, Owen spied David watching the proceedings with interest.

  “I’d like to join the Light Horse,” Owen said.

  David approached, reaching over Markoe’s shoulder to shake Owen’s hand. “Welcome.”

  The following afternoon, the tailor had delivered Owen’s coat. Mother and his sisters were in the middle of fitting it to him that evening when a knock came at the door, and Meg ran to answer it. She poked her head in a few seconds later. “Owen, it’s for you.”

  He didn’t exactly entertain callers. The only explanation that sprang to mind was a neighbor who needed legal help. Owen extricated himself from his family’s needles and pins and grabbed his satchel before he stepped into the other room.

  Temperance stood just inside the door.

  Owen remained where he was, uncertain what to say.

  Meg said a single sharp word to the younger three and shut the door behind him, leaving Owen alone with Temperance.

  “Good evening,” Temperance tried.

  He didn’t have to cast his eyes about to know exactly how Temperance must see his home compared with the comfort and warmth and ease of hers. The barely functional chairs. The scarred table. The worn rugs. Was there any point in being embarrassed?

  Owen held his satchel in front of him. Although neither of them had actually addressed any of the matters between them, he had been clear on where he stood with her. And just yesterday David had told Hayes Godfrey had offered for her. “Did you want me to congratulate you?”

  Her eyebrows knit together. “For what?”

  “Your engagement.”

  “Oh.” She looked down. “I wanted to speak with you about that.”

  “That isn’t necessary.” He took a steeling breath and forced the next words out. “I wish you happiness.”

  Temperance laughed, mirthless. “Godfrey has proposed.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “He has proposed a marriage in name only. As long as I provide him an heir, I’m free to do what I wish.”

  Owen nearly dropped his satchel. If he’d had any room behind him, he would have drawn back. “If you’re here to ask me to be party to that —”

  “Oh, no!” Temperance took a step forward, her features and her voice showing a mix of shock and remorse. “That isn’t what I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  She focused on her hands, unmittened. Had she given Meg her only pair of mitts? “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and you were right. I was wrong.”

  “Temperance Hayes is never wrong.”

  One corner of her mouth quirked upward. “I’m glad you think so.”

  He couldn’t help a return smile. Would his ridiculous heart ever learn to let this woman go?

  “I thought I wanted to marry someone rich to have a stable life. To protect the people I love.”

  Oh. She’d decided they did need to put their understanding into words. Owen focused on the leather of his satchel. Even that was worn.

  “But . . . I’ve realized that isn’t what I want most.”

  Could she not at least make sense while she shredded his soul?

  “I can’t settle for less than that.” She took a tentative step forward. “Do you understand?”

  Owen lifted his eyes to fasten his gaze on hers. “No.”

  Her mouth opened, but she struggled to find the words. The fire crackled in the silence.

  “Temperance, if you’re here to tell me again why we can’t be together, there’s really no need. I’ve always known that.”

  “I beg your pardon!” Her expression transformed from open pleading to frustration. “I’m here to tell you I love you.”

  Those were the words he’d wished to hear time and again from her. But after all they’d been through these last few weeks, how could he let himself believe them? “Today,” he said. “And tomorrow?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she repeated, more affronted this time.

  “Three months ago, you loved Winthrop Morley. Then you were trying to marry Godfrey Sibbald.” With every word, Temperance’s lips pursed tighter and tighter, but Owen couldn’t stop himself. “Am I just another passing fancy, and you’ll move on when you realize I don’t suit your needs either?”

  “How dare you?” she demanded.

  “Why did you come here?” He gestured at the room. “Let’s not pretend you’d choose this. Look around.”

  She did, and not a cursory glance, either. These were the same two rooms he’d lived in when they were children. They worked hard to keep their home neat, but there was no hiding the fact that they were not
that far out of the almshouse.

  Her eyes settled on the one earthenware bowl left on the table, empty. “I know,” she finally said. “But I don’t love Godfrey.”

  “Is that enough?” He already knew the answer to that question. Hadn’t she shown him?

  “You said . . .” Temperance paused. “You said I always know how to get what I want. But I don’t — I don’t have a plan. I only know I have always loved you, Owen Randolph. I have fooled myself into thinking I could ever settle for anything else for too long, but I cannot.”

  Was — was that a yes? That was enough? Owen stood there, staring at her, trying to make sure this was real, for what felt like a decade.

  She didn’t take it back. She didn’t add a “but.” She took another step forward.

  And then they both ran into each other’s arms. Owen cradled her neck with one hand and leaned in. He hesitated with a hair’s breadth between them, and Temperance closed the distance, her lips warm and sure against his.

  Temperance Hayes was kissing him. Because she loved him.

  Temperance had not kissed many men. Winthrop’s kisses had been demanding, and his hands even more so. His affections had required strong defenses. With Godfrey, she’d been the one to demand the smallest token, and he’d never voluntarily done more than take her hand.

  Theirs were nothing like this kiss.

  Owen — Owen held her like something precious. His kiss — dizzying and breathless and perfect — his kiss was a gift they shared. She slid her arms around his neck, pulling him in for another.

  She loved him. She loved Owen Randolph, and he loved her, and this was all she could ever need. As long as she had his love, she could be perfectly happy no matter where they lived or how much money they had.

  Owen rested his forehead against hers. “I have always loved you, too.”

  “I know. I’m sorry it took me so long to understand myself.”

  They would have to be married at once. She couldn’t possibly settle for less. She should have everything required for her household, and they would find a place to live, but they could settle that all very soon. For once in her life, she didn’t have a plan. She didn’t need one as long as she had Owen. They could figure out the rest together.

  The door behind Owen opened and his sister Meg stepped out, holding the door close behind her. “Got very quiet in here quite suddenly,” she said with teasing in her tone.

  Owen smirked. “So you thought you’d chaperone?”

  Meg turned back to rebuke their younger sisters, then shut the door. “Hoped you’d need one.”

  Temperance laughed with them, Owen releasing her waist to take both her hands instead. How had it taken her so long to understand why his hands always felt so right in hers?

  As long as she had Owen, she needed nothing else.

  She returned to him again and finally took in what he was wearing — not his new blue coat but a brown one, still being fitted from the looks of the pins. “Oh, another new coat?” Had he impressed another client? Her Owen was so clever! They’d have their future sorted in a trice.

  “A whole suit!” Meg chirped.

  “Uniform,” Owen corrected her.

  Temperance took another step back to take in the white facings, the matching breeches. She touched his cuff, but a pin caught her fingertip. “What do you mean, uniform?”

  “A uniform. As in the Philadelphia Light Horse.”

  “What?” She pulled away.

  “I’ve enlisted in a new city cavalry.”

  She glanced at Meg and back at Owen. “Please tell me this is a militia.”

  Owen pressed his lips together. That was answer enough.

  He was enlisting in a rebel band. A dozen questions sprang to mind — but more than that: the facts. Owen was joining an army, a city army formed to oppose the king and the greatest military on the face of the Earth.

  He was signing up to be slaughtered.

  “No — you can’t —” She drew back again, but only made it another step before she bumped into the table. “You mustn’t.”

  He reached for her. “Temperance, I’ve given my word.”

  She moved to the side another two steps, nearly tripping over a chair. “But . . . you’d die,” she barely breathed.

  All she needed was Owen. And all Owen wanted was to die for a doomed, deluded cause.

  She was losing him before she’d even married him.

  “Do you not understand? I — I’m giving up everything I ever wanted because I love you.”

  “And I love you,” he replied quickly, his wide eyes searching hers. As if that were enough.

  A moment ago, she’d thought it was. She’d thought she didn’t need a plan if she could just keep him in her life. All she wanted was Owen. How could he throw that away before they’d even begun?

  “You’d die,” she said again, her voice stronger. “For this?”

  “We will never have any kind of security if we refuse to defend our rights. The rights of the weakest among us.”

  Temperance shook her head. She backed into another chair, knocking it to the floor. The clatter seemed to echo in the tiny room. She’d given up everything else she’d ever wanted for Owen’s love. She couldn’t give up Owen himself.

  “Please?” Her plea was barely a whisper. “I need you. Alive.”

  His gaze held imploring, but not yielding. His hands still reached for her, but he didn’t move. She searched the room for some help, but she only saw a helpless Meg, a sheaf of papers fanning out from the satchel Owen had dropped, an empty bowl.

  “Owen — all I want — this is suicide! You cannot mean to do this. Please.”

  He lowered his hands, a surrender. “I gave my word.”

  All she needed was Owen, but she couldn’t even have that.

  Trying to scrape together some semblance of dignity, she let herself out of his flat and waited until she reached the street to run.

  As with her proposal from Godfrey, Temperance explained nothing to her family, but she could feel her sisters’ and mother’s eyes on her at every meal, even this dinner a week later.

  She hadn’t had the will to protest being seated next to Lord David and Cassandra. She had greater concerns than her still-strained relationship with them.

  She still barely managed to eat. Not with the letter in her pocket, waiting for her to post. Waiting for her to find the courage to post it.

  How could she say this when her heart was still trapped in that moment in Owen’s arms?

  She was a fool. That moment was delusion. Delirium. Even if it had been the truest moment of her life, the first time she’d really followed what her heart wanted.

  Hearts were foolish. How had she entertained hers?

  “Dearest,” Cassandra addressed her husband, “did I see a letter for you? From Patrick Henry?”

  The mention of a letter jolted Temperance out of the memory of Owen’s kiss and back into the present. She pressed a hand over her pocket, but they didn’t mean her letter.

  Lord David didn’t answer beyond a noise of frustration.

  “Do you not like Patrick Henry?” Nathaniel asked from across the table. “I thought he was a patriot.”

  “Oh, he merely dresses terribly. He’s a fine patriot. Quite the speaker. His neighbor, however, is a lout.”

  Nathaniel gave a crooked grin and addressed Helen at his side. She was so great with child, she looked as though she might deliver at any moment.

  Temperance chided herself for uncharitable thoughts toward her cousin. She was due to be delivered this month. Of course she looked ready.

  “What did Henry write to you of?” Cassandra asked Lord David.

  “He said Nehemiah Bellamy has business in Philadelphia. He’ll be here in a fortnight.”

  Cassandra took her husband’s elbow. “Then you can prevail upon him to manumit Caleb!”

  She was still on that? Temperance poked at her boiled po
tatoes without actually spearing anything. She wasn’t sure even she would have fought this long to free a slave she’d never even met.

  “I can make an attempt,” Lord David murmured. “He was quite set against it.”

  “We must entertain him. We have to at least try.” Cassandra pushed away her plate, barely touched as well. Helen, too, had hardly been able to eat.

  Cassandra seemed to note Temperance’s potatoes. “Are you not well, cousin?” she asked gently.

  Temperance silently assured her she was but offered no further explanation. It was as though every word she should have said, she’d already written down in a letter, and now she would never speak again.

  How was she going to marry Godfrey Sibbald?

  Lord David turned to his wife, concern creasing his brow at the sight of her food uneaten. He didn’t ask anything aloud, simply stroked her back. Across the table, Nathaniel had leaned in to talk to his wife, his eyes locked with hers, the picture of devotion. Even at opposite ends of the table, Mama and Papa seemed to share an unspoken bond.

  That type of marriage was clearly not to be Temperance’s lot.

  Her reply did not hold the compliments and glowing language of Godfrey’s letter. In fact, her return missive was a mere six words long: Dear Godfrey, I accept. Yours, Temperance.

  Every word of it felt like a lie, even her own name. What would it be like to live parallel lives with the man you married, virtually never to intersect? It sounded terribly lonely. Nothing like the warm afternoons by the fire with her sisters, chatting, playing games. Godfrey might have enjoyed a Journey Through Europe, but she couldn’t picture him posing riddles or reading or simply enjoying one another’s company by the fire. But as she’d told Patience too many times, marriage was the only option society had afforded her. Marrying a rich man, being safe and secure, this was everything she’d wanted.

  She’d well and truly gotten her wish. Owen had been right that night outside his flat: it was everything she’d deserved after all she’d put him through, no matter what she’d hoped.

  It didn’t matter what she’d hoped. Temperance placed a hand over her pocket again. Even through the petticoats and padding, she could feel the sharp corners of her reply.