Faithfully Yours (6 page)

“I suspect,” he said in a near whisper, “that you have much to say, but you do not trust yourself to say it.”

“You speak with great authority about me when you have known me barely a day.”

“There are many ways of getting to know someone. You may not say much about yourself, but others do.” His fingers edged over the back of the settle to toy with the wisps of her hair that refused to stay in her bun. “Molly—or was it Nancy?—told me that you are very fond of hot biscuits out of the oven. Emery mentioned that you have ignored your father's request more than once and jumped your mount over fences. Even your other brother, who seems as close-mouthed as you, said something about how you love to dance.”

“If you collect as much information about the rebels as quickly, Major Kendrick, I suspect your job will be completed soon.”

“It might help if you called me Sebastian instead of Major Kendrick.”

“Rather than my lord?”

He grinned. “That is for those fancy drawing rooms in England. Here, Sebastian will do just fine.” He leaned closer. “Unless, of course, you have a reason why you should continue to address me otherwise.”

“Sebastian will do.” She bent over her knitting. Every word he spoke suggested it was a threat. He might suspect that she was smuggling supplies to the rebels. She guessed he had his doubts about everyone here—even Father, who was the most vocal loyalist in Goshen.

“It will do very nicely.” He sat next to her on the settle.

“Please move.”

“Am I disturbing your work by sitting here?”

She wanted to shout yes, but said only, “You are sitting on my yarn. I cannot continue my work if I cannot pull more yarn from the ball.”

Bending, he picked up the ball. He shifted and drew the yarn from beneath him. Setting it on his lap, he smiled at her. Was that a dare she saw in his smile? If he thought she was going to snatch it and run away, she must show him that she had no reason to be fearful of him. Betraying herself would be ridiculous.

He ran his finger along the strand of wool, tracing where it twisted through her fingers. He did not touch her, but the heat of his skin threatened to sear her.

“This wool is quite rough,” he said.

“I am accustomed to it.”

Taking the unfinished glove that was dangling from her knitting needles, he lifted first one finger, then the next. Again he drew the yarn through his fingers—to where it wrapped around hers. “This is a garish red, Faith.”

“I told you before that I like bright colors.”

“It is nearly as red as your face was today when Osborne came to alert me to the message your father received.”

“Message?” Her fingers faltered, slowing.

He coiled the yarn around his hand. “I would rather speak of how charming that crimson color was upon your cheeks.”

“If you think to keep me from finding out what message was delivered, you are wasting your time. I need only ask my father.” She looked across the room and choked back a gasp when she realized they were alone.

“I have no reason to keep the contents of the message from you. It was simply a report to your father that those sympathetic to the rebels might know the possible smugglers around here.” He arched a dark brow and sighed. “It was longer than I had hoped.”

She gathered up her knitting. “Do not tell me what names were on the list. I do not want to imagine my friends being interrogated.”

“You have friends who are rebels?”

“Yes.” She would not lie about this. “I do not judge my friends by their opinions, but by the past we share. I may not agree with everything they say or do, but they are my friends, and I cannot forget that.”

“I thought you hated the rebels, as your father does.”

“No.”

“But you hate British soldiers.”

She came to her feet. “Yes. I hate all of you!”

“Because of the way you have been treated?” He stood and put his hands on her shoulders. When she tried to shrug them off, he drew them back. “Faith, I promise you that you will not be treated so again by my men.”

“It is not because of that.”

“Then what?”

“It is because,” she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes, “British soldiers killed my best friend.”

Four

Faith watched Sebastian's men walk past the well house. She knew she should not be lurking in here like this, as frightened as the rabbit that Molly and Nancy loved. This was
her
home. They were the outsiders. She should ignore them and their glances, which unsettled her so.

As she peered around the door, which was opened no more than a slit, she could not. With the windows shuttered, the narrow opening allowed in the only light. None of the men took note of her, and she prayed they would not.

Once this part of Pennsylvania had been peaceful. The colonists and the Lenape Indians traded and worked side by side. The only hunting had been for food among the ancient trees that grew in the valleys that followed the streams. The melody of water tumbling over the rocks had been a glorious undertone to the birds singing in the sky.

Then the war had come.

It had burst out of New England and Virginia, but had taken root in Philadelphia, a two-day hard march to the east. First it had been words, then threats. Then the cannon and the guns had begun firing, and all her hopes that the anger could be appeased peacefully were smashed like china on a stone floor. Even then, it had not seemed real until the day she was told that Wade Mertz was dead, along with too many other lads from Goshen.

Listening to Sebastian's men boast about the ignoble defeat of the rebels, she stepped out of the well house and smiled weakly at the trio of dogs that rushed up to her. Two were brown, and one was black-and-white. All of them wagged their tails and offered no protection against the British soldiers, who were staring brazenly at her. Her fingers tightened around the hemp handle of the bucket.

The soldiers watched her and the dogs in silence. She noted one man perched on a stone. He was sharpening a knife, the steady scrape of it against a stone gnawing at her like a rat's teeth on wood. When she realized her steps were in tempo with the sound, she shifted the bucket from one hand to the other.

“Bring us something to drink, mistress!” called one of the men.

Faith wanted to pretend she had not heard him, but said, “You are welcome to draw water.”

“But you have already done so.”

“This is for my mother in the kitchen.” She hurried into the house.

Her mother was stirring more flour into the bread pan, and Faith noticed her face had little more color than the wheat flour. When she started to ask if something was wrong, her mother waved aside her questions as she gave the two servants instructions that sent them to other parts of the house.

“Set that water on the hearth, Faith,” Mistress Cromwell continued. “I want to make more soup, because the day looks as if it is turning colder. That usually brings travelers to our door, and they appreciate having some hot soup.”

“The sky is low. It looks like snow, although it does not smell like it yet.”

Her mother smiled. “You have your grandfather's gift for taking note of all the signs of the seasons.”

“Simply observing what is right there in front of me, as Grandfather was fond of saying.” Putting the bucket far enough away from the flames so that no spark would burn it, she sighed.

“That is a very dreary sound.”

“I am in a dreary mood.”

“Your father has spoken with Major Kendrick about his men.”

Faith whirled to face her mother again. “How did you know what was bothering me?”

Wiping flour from her hands, her mother smiled. “I have eyes and ears, too, Faith. I may not be able to judge an oncoming storm like you and my father, but I do know when my children are distressed, and why.” She put her hand on Faith's arm. “The only question I do not have an answer to is whether you are bothered more by Major Kendrick or his men.”

“I try to pay them no mind.”

“His men? Yes, I suspect you can ignore them easily.” Mistress Cromwell sat on the low bench by the hearth and dipped a ladle into the water bucket. “I think you are having a more difficult time ignoring the major.”

“I am doing my best.”

Her mother laughed. “Just remember that some men find a challenge even more appealing.”

“What a horrible thought!”

“Really?”

Faith bent and kissed her mother's cheek. “I would like to say really, but that would be not quite true.”

“He is a handsome lad, Faith.”

“I did notice that.”

“I thought you might have.” Ladling water into the pot on the hearth, releasing the luscious scent of chicken broth, Mistress Cromwell said, “And he has noticed you, as well.” She laughed again. “Which is why you are bothered by him. A circle that goes 'round and 'round.”

“It will be broken when he and his men leave.”

Her mother continued to stir the pot. “Maybe.”

A thrill of something splendid rushed through Faith. She fought to ignore it, but was no more successful than she had been at ignoring Sebastian. As the day faded into early darkness, she worked beside her mother in the kitchen. There was such comfort in doing the tasks she always did.

Even so, her breath caught as the door opened and Sebastian walked in. He drew off his cloak, folding it over his arm. “Good afternoon, Mistress Cromwell. Whatever you are cooking smells luscious.”

“Your hunger has been honed by a day's ride, Major.”

“You miss little, Mistress Cromwell.”

“My mother usually knows everything that is going on here,” Faith said with a smile. She had not guessed that Sebastian was gone, but that would explain why his men had looked so bored and restless.

“And what I know now,” her mother said, chuckling, “is that you will be late for dinner, Major, if you do not get washed up. Faith, take his cloak, so he can ready himself for dinner.” Without a pause, she added to the serving woman, “Irma, will you call the other children in? The boys were working in the yard, and the twins should be back now from their visit to Mistress Mertz's house.”

Faith held out her hands for Sebastian's cloak. He placed it on them, capturing her fingers through the thick wool. She did not try to pull away, remembering what her mother had said about some men liking a challenge. Sebastian Kendrick must be such a man. His easy smile dared her to denounce him for being so bold when her mother was only a few feet away.

When his fingers stroked hers through the wool, she could not keep from smiling back. His touch teased her, even through the cloak, its heat searing the fabric as he slowly curled her fingers within his hands. He did not draw her closer, but she knew he wished to because his eyes took on a roguish glint.

“If you wish to dine, Sebastian,” she said, “you must relinquish your cloak.”

“I am suffering from a most disturbing hunger.” His thumb grazed the wool.

She stared up at him. He was not speaking of her mother's good soup or the roasting joint that would soon be done. The skin around his dark eyes crinkled as his smile reflected in their depths. Would he leave his enticing eyes open or close them if he bent forward to touch his lips to hers? If they remained open, would she dare to look into them and discover the strong emotions in them?

The clang of her mother's spoon against a pot startled Faith, and she pulled herself out of her daydream and her fingers out of his clasp. She rushed to hang Sebastian's cloak on one of the hooks by the front door, hoping that no one else had taken notice of her fascination with him.

But Sebastian noticed
. She wanted to silence that thought, which filled her head with both her own voice and her mother's. Adrat!

Caught up in the preparations for dinner, Faith was able to keep one step ahead of her own thoughts. Sebastian had gone into the front room to sit with her father, and their voices drifted to her each time she carried something into the blue-walled dining room. Her brief escape ended when her mother called everyone in to eat. Sebastian took the chair next to Faith's. Rising and selecting another chair would have been too rude, so she did not move.

“Where are the rest of the children?” Father asked.

“I sent Irma to get the twins.” Mother went to the dining room door. “Children?”

Emery burst into the dining room, nearly running into her. “They are not outside!”

Ezekial careened around the corner from the front hall. “They are not in their bedroom—or anywhere else upstairs.”

“Oh, my!”

Faith echoed her mother's gasp as she leaped to her feet and went to ease her into a nearby chair. “Just sit, Mother.”

Father put his hand over his wife's. “Do not fret. They are probably busy chasing that confounded rabbit.”

“The rabbit is in his pen,” Emery said, frowning.

“They should have returned from Mistress Mertz's house by now,” Mistress Cromwell said with a moan.

Sebastian was on his feet. “Are they often late for dinner?”

“Never,” Faith said when her mother did not reply.

“If you will excuse me, Cromwell, Mistress Cromwell, I shall go and tell my men to begin searching for the children.” Sebastian turned toward the front door.

“Searching where?” Faith stepped between him and the door, blocking his way as he had hers so often. If his men wandered into the byre where she had left some supplies early that afternoon, if Tom Rooke had not taken them, the truth might be revealed. “Let me help you look.”

“You need not go out on this chilly evening,” he replied. “Stay and wait with your family.”

“Don't be silly. We will not sit here and wait for you to play the hero by finding Nancy and Molly.”

“Daughter!” scolded both of her parents at the same time.