Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  Perhaps they were arguing about the time of the hanging, or where to hold the event?

  His mouth was parched, for he had nothing to drink. He told himself it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes and thought of Margaret’s sweet lips, which he would never taste again. The pain of his bruises mattered little in comparison to the pain in his heart.

  Not long after, the jailer shuffled toward him with the jangling keys.

  “All right, they says, let ’im go.” The jailer put the key in the lock and turned it.

  “Why are you releasing me?” Derrick barely whispered the words as he got to his feet.

  “Because they claims you’re not the murderer.”

  Derrick figured this must be a very strange dream. “Last night you agreed with everyone else that I murdered Lord Whittington.”

  “You are a foreigner from the traitorous colonies,” the jailer spat on the floor. “I didn’t know anything about the old earl’s granddaughter, but the constable says it’s true. Now get out of here. I ain’t ’ad me breakfast yet.”

  Derrick limped out of the jail and found Mr. Tinton, Mr. Willis, Theo, and the town constable waiting for him.

  “What did they do to you?” the boy cried in distress.

  “They wanted to kill me, but a few thought it would be more fun to hold a hanging. Cooler heads prevailed,” he whispered.

  Mr. Tinton helped him to a bench, where he sat at a small table. The usually stern solicitor handed him a glass. “Gin. It will help.”

  Derrick drank it down in one long swallow. “Thank you.”

  “You need to sign a few documents before we proceed,” Mr. Willis said. He opened his writing desk and took out ink, quills, and several parchments. “This one first.” He placed the parchment on the table in front of Derrick and pointed to the spot where he was supposed to sign.

  “I can’t see well. My eyes are swollen. What does it say?” he asked.

  “It’s rather long and detailed,” Mr. Willis began. “In short, it concerns the earl’s holdings and your responsibility in distributing them.”

  “Why should that concern me?” Derrick asked.

  Mr. Tinton cleared his throat. “It’s all about practicality and expediency.”

  “See where I have placed my finger,” Mr. Willis persisted. “Put the quill there and sign.”

  “I must know what it says.” Derrick shook his head.

  “Miss McGowan is waiting for you at the church,” Mr. Willis explained. “The bans have been waved due to the circumstances.”

  “Bans?” Derrick croaked.

  “Wedding bans,” Mr. Tinton affirmed.

  Though Derrick sat on a bench, lightheadedness overtook him. He clutched at the table. This had to be a dream, not a bad one, but quite strange and most unusual.

  “We figured it was better than hanging,” Theo explained.

  “Margaret is going to marry me?” he asked.

  “She didn’t want you to hang either,” the boy stated. “Also, she gets to go home. Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis figured out it isn’t necessary for her to marry an Englishman.”

  “Correct,” avowed Mr. Tinton. “She needs only to wed in England.”

  “How will marriage prevent me from being hanged?” Derrick still could not fathom their reasoning.

  “You are in grave danger,” Mr. Tinton’s voice grew gruff. “The closer you are—or seem to be—to those in the aristocracy, the safer you will be. Miss McGowan is the granddaughter of the old earl. Furthermore, her brother-in-law is the brother of the Duke of Dalfour, who has graciously offered you a place of refuge.”

  “I came to this country to study under John Hunter. I am a surgeon,” Derrick muttered.

  “The mob was convinced you were a murderer,” Mr. Willis reminded. “If they believe you are also a traitor…”

  Derrick closed his eyes as pain knifed through him. “What about the real murderer?”

  “Miss Margaret said she loves you, but if you don’t love her, she will not mind,” Theo offered.

  Derrick loved her. The sweetest thoughts he had always involved her.

  “This is all extraordinarily strange,” he said.

  “Please, sign the papers quickly. We must get to the church before the mob stirs again,” Mr. Willis urged.

  “When were they going to hang me?” he asked.

  “About noon,” Mr. Tinton answered.

  Derrick picked up the quill. “Fortunately, my broken finger is on my left hand.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Margaret stood at the altar of St. Gregory’s church with Mrs. Ulery beside her. The vicar waited in the vestry.

  “Are you sure Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis are right about this?” She clutched a small bouquet of oxslips—yellow wildflowers—Mr. Willis had handed to her.

  “You love him,” Mrs. Ulery stated. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

  “I don’t want him to hang.” The oxslips in her hand trembled. “But…but I don’t want to stay in this country. I don’t want to live in Dalfour Castle. I want to go home. I want to see Agnes. She’s probably had her little baby by now.”

  “Things will take time to settle down,” Mrs. Ulery declared.

  Margaret’s voice tightened with emotion. “I miss everyone. I want to see Edwin, Ryan, Lewis, Harriet, Aunt Sally, Uncle Fitz, Hobart, and everyone else in Leedsville.”

  “Derrick needs you,” Mrs. Ulery continued softly. “He’s been badly beaten.”

  “Wh—what did they do to him?” Margaret bit her lip. She must not cry. Not now. “I don’t have much of my salve with me. What was he doing riding around last night? If he had stayed in his room, nothing would have happened.”

  “I believe Mr. Tinton said he’d left something behind at Broadcraft Hall and went back to get it,” Mrs. Ulery answered.

  “What is Dalfour Castle like?” Her dry tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  “It’s quite grand,” Mrs. Ulery noted. “Far more ornate than Broadcraft Hall.”

  Margaret fought against her overwhelming sense of despair, “This is a horrible country. They kidnap our sailors. Highwaymen rob people, and mobs put innocent men in jail.”

  “There are good folks, too. Men like old Bert and his granddaughter, Finney, his brother, Ham, and Theo, the farmer who gave us the eggs, even Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis,” Mrs. Ulery reminded her.

  Margaret let out a sob. “My father died in a British prison ship. The Tories burned our house and took all our livestock—”

  “Didn’t I hear you mention something about forgiveness?” Mrs. Ulery interrupted.

  “I do forgive them, but I don’t want to be one of them. I don’t want to stay at Dalfour Castle.”

  “The mob intends to hang him at noon.”

  The bald statement had the breath catching in Margaret’s throat. She loved Derrick. Lord, forgive me, she begged. “What time is it now?”

  “About eight o’clock, but we should leave town as soon as possible in order to get a head start.”

  Margaret nodded numbly and tried to recall all the details. The ceremony would be brief. The coach waited outside the church. Word had been sent to Dalfour Castle.

  She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Does Dalfour Castle really have a moat?”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ulery asserted. “It’s quite deep, too. When I was young, every now and then somebody would drown in it.”

  “How awful.” Margaret blinked.

  “Yes. However, it was put there for a reason, and the castle defied every siege ever launched against it. Derrick will be safe within those walls.” Mrs. Ulery turned toward the entrance. “I hear them coming. Now be brave, and remember you can work things out because you love him and he loves you.”

  All the tender yellow oxslip flowers quivered in Margaret’s hands.

  The doors of the church opened. Mr. Tinton, Mr. Willis, and Theo walked up the aisle. Derrick came along behind them.

  Margaret squinted to see him as he appr
oached, for the aisle of the church was long. “He’s limping—and his face is bruised and swollen.” Her throat tightened. “He’s in terrible pain.”

  “He’s alive. Praise the Lord,” Mrs. Ulery said.

  The vicar appeared at the altar. “Miss McGowan, you are to stand here.” He pointed to the spot.

  Margaret moved to her assigned place, clutching the oxslip flowers with such fervor they wilted.

  Mr. Willis and Theo slid into a pew. Mr. Tinton came up to the altar with Derrick.

  Derrick’s eyes were swollen shut, and his face was purple. Except for his height and his somber suit, she would not have recognized him. A nauseating sense of despair swept through her.

  “We can make more of your salve when we get to Dalfour Castle,” Mrs. Ulery whispered.

  Tears misted in Margaret’s eyes.

  The vicar intoned the familiar words of the wedding ceremony. Margaret prayed for strength.

  Derrick mumbled in a hoarse voice, “I do.”

  She whispered her vows, but the vicar asked her to speak up. The second time around, despite her best efforts, her voice wavered. She could not help it. Her throat was tight and ached.

  Mr. Tinton handed Derrick a ring. The vicar blessed it.

  Derrick reached for Margaret’s hand and warmth flowed into her.

  The vicar pronounced them man and wife. They signed the church registry.

  Loud shouts came from the street.

  “They want their hanging,” Mr. Willis warned.

  “Theo brought the coach around to the back of the church,” Mr. Tinton explained.

  “Come on,” called Theo. “Follow me, and hurry.”

  Margaret pulled at Derrick’s hand.

  “I’ve got a broken rib,” he groaned.

  Margaret wanted to cry, but there was no time for it.

  They slipped out through a small door in the vestry as the huge entrance doors in the front of the church burst open.

  The boy sat on the box. Mr. Tinton and Mr. Willis handed the rest of them into the coach and shut the door.

  “Godspeed,” called the vicar as Theo shook the reins.

  The coach rumbled off. Derrick slid onto the floor of the coach in a faint. Mrs. Ulery waved smelling salts under his nose, but he did not rouse. Margaret loosened his collar and laid her hand on his forehead. He had a raging fever.

  The coach jolted over the ruts in the road. She cushioned his head in her lap. Would he live?

  Her heart beat like a sledge hammer until she thought it would burst from her chest.

  * * *

  Derrick shook from head to toe by the time the coach rumbled over the drawbridge into Dalfour Castle. Every inch of him hurt. He stumbled into the great hall, but all he wanted to do was sleep. Guided to a bed, he collapsed—and everything became a blur. He shivered with cold, though it was summer. Broth was spooned into his throat. Cool cloths soothed him for a little while, but the fire in his body returned to plague him again and again.

  Nightmares tortured him in which the mob took him to the scaffold and the noose tightened around his neck. He saw Margaret in the crowd, weeping for him while Mrs. Ulery toasted him with a glass of whiskey and then drained it. The resurrectionists stood close by, waiting and smiling. When his body dropped, they would collect a goodly sum from John Hunter.

  He glanced upward and saw Julian floating above him.

  “Take me with you,” he called to his brother. “Save me!”

  “You are saved,” Julian answered as he sailed away on a cloud.

  Time passed. He did not know or care whether it was day or night, but Margaret hovered over him, radiant with her golden hair and silver eyes.

  “Lady Sunshine,” he mumbled.

  Her tender hands soothed him with cool cloths and healing salve. He tried to smile for her, but even such a small movement proved a struggle with the weakness debilitating him.

  When he closed his eyes, he saw the yellow flowers in her hand as he slid the ring on her finger. Were they really married, or was that just another dream? Nothing seemed clear, though it was a much better dream than the recurring nightmare of his own hanging.

  Sometimes, Mrs. Ulery came to sit beside him.

  “What you need is a little whiskey in your broth.” She’d wink at him and splash some into the bowl before she dribbled the warm liquid into his mouth.

  “You’ve got to get well, dear doctor, for this illness of yours is wearing out your poor little wife,” she admonished him. “She’s getting as thin as a rail, and there are dark circles under her eyes. She prays for you morning, noon, and night.”

  “Pray…” he whispered. He had prayed in the terrible jail, but he found it impossible to pray now, for he could barely think.

  He ached and moaned. Rest eluded him. Had he died? Was this his sentence of an eternity in torment? One day, as he lay suffering on the bed, John Hunter came into the room and sat on the chair beside him. Panic gripped him.

  “No!” he cried. Would they dissect him? Was he to be added as another specimen for Hunter’s collection in Leicester Square?

  “Derrick, can you understand me?” Hunter asked.

  He squinted at the renowned surgeon who seemed to smile at him.

  “Yes,” Derrick whispered.

  “Good,” Hunter said. “You’ve suffered from some form of sepsis.”

  Derrick shut his eyes and moaned. “Julian…”

  “Yes, I remember you telling me about your brother, but you are more fortunate. You are strong and your wife has been a good nurse to you.”

  Derrick opened his eyes. “Margaret.” He glanced around but did not see his sunshine. Had the highwayman killed her? “The book,” he called in a feeble voice. “I must find her.”

  He tried to move. His weak limbs refused to obey him.

  Hunter patted his shoulder. “Margaret is fine. She sent for me, thinking I might be able to help you, but there’s nothing more I can do. She’s thoroughly cared for you.”

  Sorrow tore at Derrick. He would die. John Hunter had come to ask him for permission to take his body as soon as he breathed his last. Young surgeons would trace his blood vessels and practice amputations, scrutinizing every part of him. There would be no burial. No holy words spoken over his grave. No blessing. No place for Margaret to lay the bright yellow flowers clutched in her sweet hands.

  “No,” he said.

  Hunter chuckled. “You’re going to get better, Derrick. You’ll be able to kiss your pretty wife. Give her a kiss for me, too.”

  He left. Derrick closed his eyes thinking of Margaret’s tender lips and he slept.

  One bright morning he awoke without a fever. He touched his cool forehead. His mind seemed clear, too. He still ached here and there—but the soreness was localized in the areas of his broken rib and broken finger. He lifted up his hand. The damaged finger had been taped to the one beside it. He frowned.

  Fingers were not easy to set. If it wasn’t done properly, dexterity could be lost. He was a surgeon. He needed all his fingers functioning well—even the ones on his left hand. He held up both hands, flexed the free digits, and studied them.

  The hazy memory of John Hunter sitting beside him returned. Had the acclaimed surgeon visited him—or was that another dream? Struggling to sit up, he found himself still weak and lightheaded, his muscles flaccid and lax from inactivity.

  Sunlight flowed through a wide-open window. He took a deep breath and discovered his rib didn’t hurt as much. He touched the sore area. It had been wrapped.

  A slight breeze carried the scent of summer into the room. A floral sweetness lingered in the air. He breathed in again, and a flood of gratitude washed through him. He was alive.

  He glanced about and realized he sat in a massive bed with rich, detailed carvings and an ornate canopy. In his wildest dreams, he would never imagine such a grand bedroom. On his right, a flamboyant chimneypiece and overmantel were carved of marble. Above the overmantel, a huge mirror magnified the light s
treaming through the window.

  In the mirror, he caught his reflection. His appearance shocked him. His eyes were not quite as swollen as they had been after the beating, but his face sported a sickly, green hue beneath his heavy growth of beard. He studied his arms and legs. The bruises were no longer red and puffed. All of them had faded to the same greenish shade as his face, which meant he had lain in bed for more than a week. A small frisson of panic slid up his spine until he reminded himself he had survived.

  Resurrectionists had not snatched him. They had not dissected him or added his body to John Hunter’s collection. He blinked his eyes to rid himself of the images of the horrible nightmares.

  He slid his feet to the floor and his head spun. He did not want to fall in a dead faint on the floor—though a fine cushioned wool carpet boasting an intricate design would greet him. He took several deep breaths to counteract the dizziness. A pitcher of water sat on a table beside the bed. He reached for it and, with a shaky hand, poured a glass. He sipped the water slowly. His stomach growled for more sustenance.

  He turned his head to study the other side of the room. Curled into a huge, cushioned wingchair was Margaret, looking like a porcelain doll in the oversized seat. His Lady Sunshine appeared sound asleep with a light blanket draped about her slight figure.

  He remembered Mrs. Ulery’s words as she spooned whiskey-laced broth into his mouth.

  …this illness of yours is wearing out your poor little wife…

  Indeed, Margaret’s cheeks had a gaunt look to them. A sallow tint marred her skin, which had always glowed with health until now. Her radiance had vanished—and it was his fault.

  His muddled mind tumbled with images as he sought to remember all the events. Where did the dreams leave off and reality begin? Were they truly married? Margaret’s hands lay beneath the blanket. If he could see the ring on her finger, he would know the truth.

  For several long minutes, he watched her breathe and counted her breaths. If he walked across the room, he would lift up the blanket and look at her ring finger.

  He finished drinking the water. Shaky and weak, he held onto the bedpost and stood. It took a few minutes for him to regain his equilibrium. His knees had all the strength of a pudding. He decided the best course was to cross the floor to the door of the room—a distance of about eight feet. Once he reached the doorknob, he could hold onto it and steady himself. From there, he had another five feet to cover until he reached Margaret as she slept in the gigantic chair.