your letter of December 20. You have my gratitude for your faithful reporting of the matters we discussed. I shall make my decision accordingly. Please continue your endeavors to keep my son from further overspending. As to the chit from Oswald’s plantation, do all in your power to keep them apart.
Gratefully, Bennington
Frederick slumped back into his chair. What matters? What overspending? What chit? Frederick had visited the manager of Oswald’s plantation last year, but met no young woman.
And Oliver knew it. Oliver, the illegitimate son of a well-born lady, who had depended on Father’s generosity since childhood. Oliver, Frederick’s lifelong friend.
His hands curled into fists, crushing the heavy paper into a ball. He thrust it into the fireplace, then snatched a piece of char cloth from the box on the narrow mantelpiece. But before he could strike flint against steel to light it, other thoughts stayed his hand.
Working to subdue his anger, he pressed the page out on his desk, refolded it and then consigned it to the hidden compartment beneath his desktop. He must not let Oliver know that he had discovered his treachery.
Frederick paced back and forth across the room. All his hard work might come to nothing because Father believed Oliver’s lies. He reread the earl’s letter. At least Father had not called him home at once. But he must discover a way to prove himself.
The party. That was it. He would throw a grand affair and earn the friendship of the newly arrived residents of St. Johns Settlement. If they required help, he would give it. In his judgments as magistrate, he would continue to be firm but fair. He would solicit a letter of praise from his plantation physician, Dr. Wellsey, regarding the health and productivity of the slaves. He would foster friendships with the leading citizens of the growing settlement and petition for recommendations, as well.
And he would watch Oliver as a falcon watches its prey.
Chapter Two
“Captain James Templeton. How impressive your new title sounds.” Rachel sat across the table from her cousin in the parlor of the Wild Boar Inn. “Papa could have chosen no better man to succeed him as captain of the Fair Winds.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Jamie grinned. “Of course, I’ve learned my trade from the best. When Uncle Lamech chose me as his cabin boy those fifteen years ago, he may have wondered how this orphaned boy would turn out.”
“We will miss you, but I shall pray for a good voyage.” Rachel took a sip of tea from her pewter cup. “But why must you go to London? Are there no other ports to supply Papa’s store?”
“In these turbulent times, English settlers might not favor French products. And after all, London has the best merchandise.” His brown eyes shone with brotherly affection. “I do wish you’d charge me with some special purchase to bring you.”
“You know what I want. News of the revolution.” She exhaled a sigh of annoyance. “I cannot even discuss it with Papa, for he will not listen to my opinions. With you gone, I will need to find another friend in whom I can confide…and complain to.” She glanced beyond him at the British soldiers in red uniforms seated across the entry hall in the taproom.
He followed her glance, then turned back with a frown. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. These soldiers are here for your good. They’ll protect you and your father and every other British subject in East Florida.”
“I am not a British subject.” She leaned toward him and whispered. “When will you join us, Jamie? When will you accept that we will be free from British rule…or die trying?”
Now he stared into her eyes with an almost scolding look. “My dear little rebel, why do you think your father brought you so far away from the troubles? Why, you’d have been fighting alongside the militia at Concord or Lexington if you’d had your way.”
She straightened as high as her short stature permitted. “When I sought to become a servant in General Gage’s home, I planned to gather information to help the patriot cause.”
He sat back, shaking his head. “Humph. Your feelings are always written across your face, and you never fail to speak your mind. You’d fail as a spy. You’d be discovered and hanged, but not before they wrested the name of your every accomplice from you.”
She clenched her jaw and stared down at her teacup. He was wrong. She could have learned how to withhold the truth, perhaps even to lie, as Rahab in the Bible had done to save the Hebrew spies. Sometimes the desperation to do her part in the revolution ate at her soul. At other times, she felt nothing but despair that Papa had made her participation impossible.
“Dear cousin.” Jamie reached over to nudge her chin. “What shall I do with you? After watching you grow into a beautiful woman, I see you slip back into the childish imp who bedeviled the crew in ’68.”
Rachel granted him the change of topic without protest. “Wasn’t that a grand voyage?” She smiled at the memory of dressing as a cabin boy and climbing riggings to watch for whales. Then she sobered. “But for Mama’s death, Papa never would have taken me.”
“Your father’s never ceased his grieving.” He patted her hand as if she were a child. “Please, Rachel, do not grieve him further. Forget the revolution.” A frown flickered across his youthful but weathered face. “Rebellion, I should say.”
She pulled back her hand. “‘Rebellion’ makes it sound as if the patriots are naughty children instead of sound-minded adults who have suffered enough of King George’s injustices.”
“Whatever you call it, just stay out of trouble.”
“What trouble could I find here in this remote wilderness?”
He gave her a playful wink. “Who knows? Maybe one of these handsomely uniformed soldiers will catch your eye and you’ll be married before I return.”
“You may wager all the Fair Winds’s profits that no Englishman will ever win my hand.” Again she cast a cross glance at the soldiers across the hall, who now harried Sadie, the innkeeper’s daughter, demanding rum despite the early hour.
Jamie shoved away his teacup. “It’d be a winning wager, no mistake. Now, may I escort you to the store? The captain will keelhaul me if I make you late.”
“He’d do no such thing to his nephew and new partner.” She scooted her wooden chair backward across the plank floor. “Wait while I fetch my bonnet.”
He sent her a playful smirk. “By all means, protect your face. The English value a fair complexion.”
She wrinkled her nose and laughed, but not too loudly for fear of drawing the soldiers’ attentions. In spite of Jamie’s assurances of their protection, she had no doubt that, given the chance, they would harass her as much as they did the innkeeper’s women.
As she hastened up the rickety steps to the inn’s second floor, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks that soon she and Papa would move into their own more stable home above their store. Under the supervision of Mr. Patch, the carpenter from Papa’s ship, the crew had labored for weeks to raise the roof and build the apartment. It was almost completed.
From her room at the end of the inn’s second-story corridor, she snatched her straw bonnet from a peg on the wall. Passing the room next to hers, she heard a soft whimper through the slightly open door. She glanced toward the stairway, then peered into the room.
There, in a rough-hewn pen no more than three foot by four, sat the innkeeper’s grandson, his dark, soulful eyes staring up with sudden hope when he spied her. Flies buzzed about the two-year-old’s face and crawled over a dry crust of bread beside him.
“Up. Up.” His winsome, tearful expression nearly undid her.
“Dear little Robby.” Unable to resist his entreaty, she lifted him. “My, my, you need a change. And look at all these mosquito bites.” She felt a twinge of anger that the innkeeper had not provided