She felt her mouth slip into a reciprocal smile. “Poor Lucy. You’re heartless, Bryne Garrett.”
His amusement was replaced by a look of great seriousness as he stood before her and linked his hands at the small of her back, pulling her in close to him. “There are a couple of pistols in a drawer in the dressing room, but I hope that if ever the need arises when they have to be used that I’ll be here with you.”
She let her head sink, her cheek coming to rest against his coat, and felt his hand cup the back of her head. He had been good to her in many ways. Why did war between their respective nations with all the divided loyalties involved have to add to the gulf that kept them apart?
“I must go, honey,” he said softly. So softly that she was not sure if she had heard the endearment or not. She lifted her face and saw by the deep, velvet look absorbing her that she had not been mistaken after all.
“Come back safely,” she begged.
His hard warm mouth enveloped hers. Almost without her volition her arms went about his neck and she kissed him back for all the good times they had had together. But not in love. Perhaps he sensed it, for there was a sober and withdrawn tightness to his face as they drew apart.
“Goodbye, Sarah,” he said. And was gone.
Eight
Sarah’s feet were slow as she went upstairs to unlock Lucy’s door. It was as though with Bryne’s departure a great heaviness had settled on her. She turned the key and leaned back against the wall, her arms limp at her sides, as Lucy whirled out, tear-stained and frantic, to rush to a window at the front of the house. When she saw no sign of him the girl collapsed in a fresh storm of weeping, huddled on the floor. Sarah put aside her own weariness and went to comfort her, dropping down onto a knee at her side.
“Bryne promised to get back to us as soon as he can,” she said, putting an arm about Lucy’s shoulders.
The girl lifted an angry, tortured face. “I don’t care if he never comes back!”
An icy chill swept over Sarah at her words. Bryne must come back. Nothing must happen to that flamboyant giant of a man. “Why do you say such a terrible thing?” she whispered.
“He shut me in that room—like a child!” The tears of hurt pride and temper flowed again.
“That’s not so,” Sarah hastened to reassure her. “A child would have stayed out of the way if told. Be glad that he said goodbye on his own to you as he did to me.”
Through the tumbled hair the girl’s eyes flashed. “A peck on the cheek! That’s all I received! But you—you, who care nothing for him—”
What Lucy would have said then was not to be known, for at that moment the glass of the window above them was smashed, and a jagged piece of rock crashed against the wall opposite, denting the wood. Lucy screamed and would have leaped to her feet, but Sarah grabbed her, keeping her down.
“Don’t stand up until you get out of the range of the window,” Sarah hissed. “If you’re seen, another stone might be thrown.”
“Why? Why?” Lucy asked in a frightened voice, crawling quickly away.
Sarah had darted to the side of another window, and cautiously she peered out, but the garden and the street beyond appeared deserted. Turning her attention to the rock, she picked it up and saw that there was a piece of paper tied round it. She pulled it free and her face went pale as she looked at it. There was nothing written, but a crude drawing had been made of a man hanging on a gallows.
“What does it mean?” Lucy cried, snatching at the paper.
“It’s a threat to Bryne,” Sarah explained with a shudder. “Thank God he’s not here.”
“I don’t understand!” Lucy was distraught in her frustration. “Why should he be threatened?”
“Because he’s from the United States, a proud man who’s kowtowed to nobody here, and been gossiped about on all sides.” Sarah took the paper to the nearest candle flame and watched it burn. “In time of war feelings run to fever pitch, and when people can’t grapple personally with the enemy they’ll often turn on some vulnerable person that they can associate with all that they fear, and make him—or her—their victim.”
Lucy gave a hysterical laugh. “He’ll be caught before he gets to the boundary!”
Sarah seized the girl and shook her violently. “Don’t ever say anything like that again!” Then she released her, thrusting her away, as Beth’s nervous voice called up the stairs.
“Come quickly! There’s men with torches on their way to the house, ma’am! They’re in a real ugly mood! They think Mr. Garrett is here, and they’re coming to get him!”
Sarah swept up her skirt and rushed down to the hall. Beth stood with a shawl thrown over her nightgown, her day clothes snatched up into a bundle under her arm. Agnes, similarly clad and burdened, was peering fearfully out of the window.
“How do you know?” Sarah demanded of the housemaid. “Have you seen them? Where are they?”
“They’re not in the street yet,” Beth answered, white-lipped. “Joe was on his way downtown with a special message for the warehouse manager which Mr. Garrett had given him, and at the corner of Bay and Market streets he came across this mob gathering. He ran back to rouse Agnes and me, and told us to get into the house quick and warn you.”
“Where is Joe?”
“He’s posted himself at the gate to meet them with a pitchfork.”
Sarah breathed a silent prayer of thankfulness for Joe’s fierce loyalty before the practical turn of her mind took over. “Bolt all the doors, except the front one—we must keep that ready in case Joe has to beat a hasty retreat. Get dressed as fast as you can. You, Agnes—go and wake Mary Anne, but try not to disturb the children. I want them to sleep through it all if possible.” Both women ran to do her bidding.
“I’m scared, Sarah!”
Sarah spun about and saw Lucy wide-eyed with terror at the top of the stairs. “Change out of your ball gown,” Sarah ordered briskly. “You can fasten the shutters in your room at the same time. Then come down and make us a cup of tea. We shall need it when this business is over.”
“Suppose they don’t believe Joe when he tells them that Bryne isn’t in the house?” Lucy persisted, making no move.
“That’s quite possible,” Sarah answered with a calmness she did not feel. “Mobs can be difficult to persuade sometimes.”
“What if they try to force an entrance in order to see for themselves?” Lucy’s terror was unabated.
“They’ll not do that if I can help it,” Sarah stated determinedly. “Now I shall fasten the rest of the shutters in case the crowd feels like breaking a few more windows before dispersing. Don’t forget to make the tea strong.”
When every shutter was secure Sarah went out to Joe at the gate. She had intended to stand there with him, but he would have none of it. “I reckon the master would skin me alive if he thought I’d let you stay out here with that mob on the march. You get back indoors and stay there, ma’am. I’ll talk to them. I’ll tell them that he’s miles away by now.” He gave her a hasty push in his agitation. “Quick! Get out of it! Here they come!”
The first yellow glow of the torches was to be seen. It was an alarming sight, but Sarah moved back up the drive reluctantly. By the time she reached the porch she saw that it was a whole river of blazing light which was streaming along the street toward the house.
She found Beth and Agnes waiting nervously in the hall, and they murmured a protest when she extinguished most of the candles. “I want to be able to watch through the fanlight without being seen,” she explained, dragging a heavy chair over to the wall, which she angled not to impede the opening of the door. “I’ll have to lean over slightly to look out. You, Beth, will stand ready to whip the door wide for Joe if I shout the order. He may not be able to keep the mob at bay.”
“What will happen then?” Beth asked in frightened bewilderment.
Sarah looked at her in surprise that she should ask a question with so obvious an answer. “I shall go out to them myself.”
>
“Oh, ma’am,” Beth whispered, her lips trembling.
Outside the rumble of men’s voices was getting louder. “Go and see if Lucy has finished in the kitchen,” Sarah instructed Agnes. “She’d better join us now.”
But Agnes came running back alone. “Miss Lucy has gone!”
Sarah dashed out to the kitchen. The teapot and caddy were ready on the table, but the door stood open to the courtyard.
“Lucy! Lucy!” she called, darting out onto the step, but there was no sound of footsteps running away. The girl must have left as soon as she had come downstairs.
Torn between annoyance and concern at such foolish, panic-stricken behavior, Sarah was about to turn back into the kitchen when she saw several black shadowy shapes lining up by the courtyard gates. Her gaze swept round toward the garden and orchard. There were men there too. Bryne, had he delayed his departure, would have had small chance of escape. Quickly she withdrew into the house and locked the door securely.
She returned to the hall. The noise in the street was mounting to a roar, and Joe was shouting to make himself heard. Lightly Sarah sprang up onto the chair, and Beth stood waiting at her post.
It was an ominous sight that met Sarah’s eyes. Not only were the men carrying the flares, but they had sticks and bludgeons, which they were brandishing. Several were arguing with Joe, who stood stolidly with his pitchfork, barring the entrance to the drive.
She ducked instinctively as a missile, probably another piece of rock, came hurtling through the air to crash against the shutters of an upstairs window. Another followed, smashing against the drawing-room shutters. Robbie’s startled cry rang out as he started from sleep, followed by Jenny’s screams as another thud boomed out, cracking some wood in the process. Pattering feet sounded, and Mary Anne’s voice was trying to soothe.
“Oh, dear.” Sarah glanced down at Beth and Agnes. “Now we must do everything in our power not to let the children see that we are upset in any way by what’s going on. We don’t want them unduly frightened.”
But it was too late. Flora, holding up her rose-sprigged nightgown, was racing down the stairs, terrified.
“Flora! Wait! Where are you going?” Sarah cried from the chair.
Flora threw her a glance. “I’se off to de cupboard! I ain’t hanging around here!” With a flash of pale-soled feet the little black girl vanished through the cellar door.
Another thunderous bang resounded, causing the shutters across the hall window to shake, the vibration splitting the glass from top to bottom. At the same time Mary Anne, scared herself, appeared with the sobbing Robbie clasped protectively to her, and at her side, Jenny, waif-like, held out her thin arms to Sarah, gulping speechlessly.
Sarah jumped down from the chair and flew to her. “It’s all right, angel!” she insisted, smoothing the child’s hair back from her forehead. “Some silly people are throwing stones and not aiming very well. They keep hitting the house. Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“I don’t like it,” Jenny whispered on a shudder.
“Shall I tell them to stop it?” Sarah asked cheerfully, bringing her face level to smile at the child, who nodded her head vigorously, her soft hair rippling like silk. “Then you go back with Mary Anne to the nursery and tell Robbie what I’m going to do. That should stop his crying. Will you do that?”
Jenny nodded again, turning obediently to clutch at Mary Anne’s hand and be hurried away. Sarah swung about as Agnes, who had taken the lookout post on the chair to peer through the fanlight, screamed out in fright: “Mercy on us! They’re coming through the gates!”
Sarah’s temper flared. She had had enough. More than enough. Her vow to Jenny that she would stop the stone-throwing had not been an idle one. “Open that door, Beth,” she said firmly, instinctively putting up her hands to touch her hair into place. “I’m going out there.”
She drew a deep breath as Beth obeyed her order, straightening her shoulders. The yellow light of the flares fell full on her, casting her shadow across the polished floor. She stepped out onto the porch without hesitation, and the door was closed behind her for safety.
She saw at once that Agnes had been right. Joe had been forced back through the gates, his pitchfork wrenched from him, and even as she watched he was seized and thrown aside, disappearing from her sight.
Immediately, in a rush of movement the men came swarming, thick as bees, through the gateway to spread from the drive onto the lawns, gouging up the turf with their boots, heedlessly trampling the flower borders underfoot. All the time they held their flaring torches high, shouting as they came. It was a sight to daunt the strongest nerves, and Sarah felt herself blanch.
But she rallied, reminding herself severely that these were not madmen, neither were they the louts who had had rape in their minds on the night she had been chased through the streets. These were ordinary men of the city, the butchers, the bakers, and the candlestick makers, outnumbering the rogues and the layabouts who had probably instigated the rising. They were incensed by the belief that an enemy was in their midst. Inflamed now by drink, ill temper, and misplaced patriotism, spurred on by the troublemakers, the majority of the men would regret any violent action as soon as it was over, and she must trust to their innate good sense to see that she spoke the truth to them.
“Gentlemen!” she shouted at the top of her voice. “Joe has told you that my husband is not here, and that is correct. He left York hours ago!”
“You’re lying!” bawled one of the ringleaders. Then he cupped great horny hands about his mouth, looking up at the house: “Come on out, Bryne Garrett! Stop hiding behind a woman’s skirts!”
Furiously Sarah stepped to the edge of the porch. “Don’t be so stupid! Do you think a man like Bryne would tolerate the damage you’re doing to his property, or the way you’re frightening the little children inside the house? I’m his wife! I represent him in his absence! What is it that you demand of him that I can’t answer to?”
Her attitude of complete authority halted those in the forefront of the mob, but others far behind, who could neither see nor hear what was going on, kept thrusting forward, yelling and jeering, pulling up and hurling anything that came to hand.
“We’ve no quarrel with you,” another man replied, leaning away in an attempt to keep back those pushing against him, “nor with your kids. But we won’t have no Yankee setting up a welcoming committee right here in York for General Harrison or any other of them United States brigadiers!”
She answered with scorn. “Have you so little trust in our troops and defenses that you think this colony will fall like a ripe plum into foreign hands? This is our land! Nobody shall take it from us!”
“To make sure of that,” taunted a third voice, “we’re intending to see Garrett swing at the end of a rope!”
A tremendous roar went up, and the mob surged forward relentlessly in another wave. Sarah did not flinch, but her heart was pounding, and she could feel the heat of the flares on her face. More stones and rocks came in a barrage. The gates had been taken from their hinges and she saw one go dancing over the heads of the crowd before it was hurled into the bushes.
“You can’t all search the house for him!” she shouted. “Let two or three represent the rest and be free to hunt from attic to cellar! Come! Who is to make up the search party, since there appears to be no other way to convince you that he is not in the house?”
Her proposal might have been met if all could have heard it, but in the din only a few in the front were able to catch what she said. The rest still thought she was barring the way to wrenching out the Yankee, whom they intended to beat up or clap in jail, according to their natures or the amount of alcohol that they had consumed. Only a minority were intent on a hanging. But roughing up his fine house was the intention of everyone, and it was with this aim that a burly roadworker started jerking out a fence strut to use as a javelin.
By the porch steps one man handed his torch to a companion. “I
’ll be one of the search party.” He prodded a couple of men near him. “You come too—and you.”
Sarah felt triumph soar within her, certain that victory was within her grasp. She stepped back to reach out and knock sharply on the door to let Beth know it was safe to open it. In the crowd the fence strut was lifted and poised for the throw.
It caught her a fiery blow against the ribs as it thundered home within the porch, and she collapsed across the threshold of the house in excruciating pain as Beth opened the door. In horror, gasping for breath, she saw the blazing torches lifted high, her falling having acted like a signal to stampede forward. In vain she tried to cry out, seeing men already leaping up the porch steps. But suddenly a pair of high-booted feet stepped from the hall, and the newcomer took up a stance between her and the mob.
“Bryne,” she whispered, half-fainting. But it was not Bryne. It was Philip Manning. The pistol that he fired into the air brought the yelling horde to a staggering, buffeting halt.
Nine
“How did you know about the mob at the house, Philip?” Sarah asked weakly. Her ribs were strapped and bandaged, and she was lying against the pillows in the great bedchamber where he had carried her. He was not to know that she had never lain in Bryne’s bed before. In the confusion nobody had thought to direct him elsewhere, not even Lucy, who had reappeared to undress her and assist him in the bandaging, fetching a glass for a painkilling draft, and performing a dozen other small tasks.
Philip gave his cool, grave smile as he closed his bag and set it aside. “Lucy came for me. I was the only person she could think of who could be relied upon to intervene. Naturally it’s automatic for me to snatch up my bag in an emergency, but I must say that I simply expected a few broken heads and black eyes among the crowd—not to find the mistress of the house with three cracked ribs.”
Fair Wind of Love Page 10