Rebellious Heart (6 page)

The conversation grew suddenly silent. The crackling of the logs burning in the wide fireplace and the distant clank of pans in the kitchen sifted through the awkward silence.

Mr. Ross’s words bordered on seditious, and they all knew it.

“Erelong,” he continued, apparently undaunted by the controversial topic, “the British will be adding taxes to everything.”

She squirmed, waiting for one of the other men to speak.

But Father only sipped his wine, and Mr. Cranch was whispering something to Mary.

If no one else would challenge Mr. Ross’s rebellious thoughts, then they left her little choice but to speak up.
“Why shouldn’t the British add taxes? Our mother country has incurred a staggering debt as a result of the war—a war they fought on
our
behalf.”

“Oh, you can be sure the war was not entirely for our benefit,” he countered.

She toyed with the edge of her napkin. “Why should the people of England be held responsible and suffer for the cost of
our
war? Surely we can abide a few extra taxes to alleviate the burden that should rightly be ours?”

In the glow of the candelabras on either side of the long table, Mr. Ross’s eyes turned into smoldering embers.

“That’s easy for you to say, Miss Smith.” His voice was taut. “You and your family can easily bear the burden of higher prices and taxes. But what of those who cannot?”

“The British army in the colonies benefits us all, poor and wealthy alike.”

“I’m not entirely sure having ten thousand Redcoats upon our shores is beneficial to
anybody
.”

Mother peered at her over the edge of her glass. She leveled a frown at Susanna, one that said she’d overstepped the bounds of propriety again.

But Susanna couldn’t seem to stop herself from expressing her thoughts as Mr. Ross sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin, and watched her, inviting—even anticipating—her rebuttal.

“Should we not be grateful for the protection of so fine an army?” she asked.

“The requirement to quarter them only adds to the burden of the colonists, especially during a time of peace. I’m beginning to think the soldiers are here not so much for keeping peace as they are for enforcing the king’s unpopular policies.”

His responses were as quick and intelligent as they’d been
at the trial—and entirely stimulating. She pretended not to see Mother’s deepening frown. “God has meant for men to obey their kings. Do you really think you know better than the king and the learned men of parliament?”

“How can men three thousand miles away know our needs better than we do?”

“And just how can God up in heaven know what’s best for us? Surely we must trust He has our best interests in mind even when we don’t understand His ways.”

Mr. Cranch gave a soft whistle. “Ben, my stuffy old friend, I do believe you’ve finally met your equal in Miss Smith’s convincing tongue.”

“I’ve always thought Susanna overly forthright,” Mother said, rising from the table, signaling the end of their meal and conversation.

But Mr. Ross didn’t move. Instead he held Susanna’s gaze, and a slow, satisfied smile crept across his lips, one that spread into his eyes, one that seemed meant for her alone.

For the first time since their encounter yesterday, a small blossom of hope unfurled inside her. Was it possible they didn’t have to be enemies anymore? Could he find the charity within himself to forgive her for her past mistakes?

Tentatively she offered him a smile in return. She might not agree with his seditious leanings, but she could appreciate a fine mind when she encountered one.

As they exited the dining room and congregated in the front parlor, she caught herself watching him on more than one occasion. Mary played the spinet and sang. Then Father concluded their evening by reading a passage of Scripture. When he was done, he managed to convince Mother and William to accompany him to his study.

Susanna concealed a smile behind her hand at Father’s
clever maneuvering to allow Mary some time alone with Mr. Cranch. Of course, Mother hadn’t protested too loudly, another sign that perhaps Mary had finally captured the attention of a man that lived up to Mother’s high standards.

After they were gone, Mr. Cranch wasted no time in pulling his chair next to Mary’s.

Mr. Ross rose from his seat by the fireplace and glanced first to the window, then to the door. From his caged expression, she guessed he’d rather be anywhere but there.

Susanna shifted against the hard seat of her chair, wishing she could sneak off to the warm kitchen hearth and read. But she was a prisoner in the room too. Although her parents hadn’t said the words, she knew they expected her to remain with Mary and act as her chaperone.

Mr. Ross glanced in her direction.

Quickly she pretended to be busy tucking a stray hair back into the smooth coiffure Phoebe had managed to help her arrange in spite of the earlier tangles. The slave had even added a white rosette to the coif, a larger version of the striped ribbon rosettes sewn among the pleated robings of her sleeve.

When he stared at her again, this time longer, her heart sputtered. She ought to stare right back at him to show him he wasn’t having any effect on her. But she had the impression he’d see through her façade.

Instead she focused on the embroidered edge of her gown, which opened in the front to reveal her silky petticoat beneath.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see him crossing the room. When he stopped in front of her, she couldn’t resist lifting her gaze to meet his keen one.

“Alas, Miss Smith,” he said, “it appears we’ve been relegated
to act as chaperones to our enamored companions. Hence we may as well make the most of it.”

“They are enamored, aren’t they?” Although she was happy for her sister, a twinge of jealousy tugged at her nonetheless. Young men paying court to Mary had always been as plentiful as herrings. And since Mary must wed first, Susanna had conceded her beautiful fair-haired sister to the suitors. None had appealed to her anyway. None had what really mattered—justice, honesty, prudence—among other virtues. Instead they were governed by self-interest.

“Have you read any Milton today?” He lowered himself into the chair next to her.

She shook her head, testing the sincerity of his words. Was he planning to belittle her again for reading? Or perhaps he would snub her as so many men did when they learned of her love of books. Most men didn’t want a wife who was an independent thinker or more knowledgeable than them.

“Are you planning to condemn me, Mr. Ross, like so many of your sex?”

“That depends.”

“And what exactly is so wrong about a woman learning to read something other than the Bible? Isn’t a woman’s mind equal to that of a man?”

“I can see that yours is.”

“The intellectual capabilities of
all
women are no less than those of men,” she insisted. “If we weren’t denied the same opportunities of education, then we would at last have the chance to prove it.”

“So what are you saying, Miss Smith? That girls should be able to attend school alongside the boys? Perhaps even Harvard?” His voice held the hint of laughter. “What next? Women opening law practices or becoming ministers?”

“You’re mocking me.”

“Then what reason could women possibly have for higher learning?”

“Education has the capability of making women better wives and mothers. Since families are the cornerstone of our society, we should strengthen women’s abilities to teach their children because then we strengthen our society as a whole.”

He sat forward and studied her, the humor fading from his countenance.

She held her breath, waiting for his response, wondering how he could possibly argue with her further.

“Go on. Perhaps you’ll convince me yet.”

“Very well.” Her heart quavered. Never had a man cared what she had to say on anything, let alone when it came to providing girls with educational opportunities. “In youth the mind is like a tender twig, which you may bend as you please, but in age it’s like a sturdy oak and hard to move.”

He nodded, the earnestness of his expression spurring her on.

“Therewith young girls ought to sit alongside their brothers and gain the same knowledge while they are in their youth. Why are they any less deserving?”

“Am I to surmise you’ve been denied this very thing?”

She pushed down the bitter disappointment that surfaced whenever she thought about the education her parents had given to William but refused her. “My father has always been lenient about my use of his library. And Grandmother Eve has done her best to take me under her limited tutelage.”

“But that hasn’t been enough, has it?” he finished for her softly, his expression almost tender.

The question echoed the pain in her heart and sent a lump into her throat.

Amidst the glow of the fireplace and dim light of several candles, the intense lines of Mr. Ross’s face had disappeared. And when he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, she had the urge to scoot her chair closer to him.

Mary’s happy laughter drifted toward them, followed by Mr. Cranch’s.

His eyes went to the couple, and Susanna’s followed. “I certainly hope Mother will approve of Mr. Cranch,” she whispered. “Otherwise I’m afraid Mary shall have a broken heart.”

Mr. Ross’s eyebrow quirked. “Ah, yes. Your mother has great aspirations for whom you marry, doesn’t she?”

The sudden tense undercurrent in his tone brought Susanna back to reality and to the fact that she was conversing with Benjamin Ross, whom she’d so foolishly degraded those many years ago.

“I wish I could say Mother doesn’t have such high standards,” Susanna said, “but I’m afraid that wouldn’t be truthful.”

A chill from the September evening slithered across the floor and wound its way between them, chasing away the warmth.

“Surely your standards aren’t much different than hers.”

She hugged her arms to her chest. “I admit, I’m caught in the trap of having to make a beneficial match.” As much as she longed to be free from the constraints of the way things had always been done, some chains were not meant to be broken.

“So you’re still waiting for your rich prince after all.”

The truth of his words pierced her and pushed her to her feet. “And just how are you different from me, Mr. Ross? I saw you with my cousin Hannah Quincy last evening. You weren’t hanging over every word she spoke because of their brilliance.”

He sat back as if surprise over her words had pushed him there.

“Don’t pretend you aren’t interested in status. An important Quincy like Hannah would be a fine catch for an aspiring lawyer like you.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I call for a truce, Susanna.”

At the sound of her given name, all traces of her indignation blew away.

“In fact, I concede to your superior skill at arguing a case.”

Somehow in an instant all the earlier warmth returned with the heat of a late summer day.

“Please.” He motioned at her chair. “Sit back down.”

“Very well, I accept the truce.” He was infuriating and intriguing and altogether likable at the same time. And she felt helpless to do anything but lower herself.

He slid off his chair and onto one knee before her. With a devilish grin, his eyes glimmered with unspoken challenge. “Since we’ve called a truce, then I guess you won’t object if I view your foot.”

Her breath caught in her throat.

“If we want to keep the peace”—he dangled the measuring tape Mother had given him after dinner—“then we dare not disobey your mother’s wishes that I take your measurements.”

“If you think I’m still overly prude to bare my foot, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Then let’s see you do it.” His voice was low, and the blue of his eyes darkened to the shade of the sky at eventide.

She knew she couldn’t refuse his challenge, that she needed to prove she was no longer the same silly girl who’d denied him a look at her foot. Nevertheless, her legs trembled, and
she was grateful for the layers of her petticoats that hid her embarrassment.

“I don’t think you can do it,” he whispered.

“Of course I can.” Before her rational side could convince her otherwise, she crossed her legs at the knees, plucked off her worsted damask shoe, and lifted her skirt and the layer of petticoats underneath. She bunched the satin to her knee—much higher than necessary, a spurt of defiance giving her fresh boldness. When she reached the top of her fine silk stocking, she plucked the ribbon of the garter and loosened it. Then she began to roll down the delicate material, deliberately slow, inch by inch revealing her smooth untouched skin.

He followed the path her stocking made, his expression remaining calm as though he made an everyday occurrence viewing the bare legs of women.

As she passed her ankle, her heart quivered. She was relieved when he stopped her with a touch of his hand.

“I need to take your measurement with your stocking on, Susanna.”

“Of course.” She lowered her lashes to hide the mortification that was sure to be in her eyes. Had she really almost willingly bared her foot to Benjamin Ross?

She suspended her foot before him, resisting the overwhelming urge to pull her stockings back up to her knees and tuck her feet back into the safety of her petticoats.

If he could view her leg and foot with unabashed boldness, then surely she could sit for a moment without squirming.

He lifted his hand toward her foot, but hesitated. Only then did she notice him swallow hard. The tips of his fingers made contact with the sensitive skin of her sole before moving to trace the edge of her arch. Through the thin layer of silk his touch still sent ripples of warmth up her leg into her stomach.

“I guess I finally must admit you’re quite grown up.” Only then did he look up.

His gaze caressed her just as surely as his hand on her foot.

She shivered at the intensity of the intimacy, the heat in her stomach tightening. She knew she ought to pull away, that she ought not to encourage him, that she needed to keep their interaction businesslike.