The Beloved One (11 page)

"Oh, I doubt that.  Juliet's as American as you are."

"She
is
?"

He looked up as Amy set the bowl before him, a faint smile on his face.  "Of course.  Did you think otherwise?"

"Well, yes . . . I mean, you're a king's officer . . . I thought she must've come over from England with you."

"Heavens, no.  She's the daughter of a Boston storekeeper."

"Not an aristocrat like you, then?"

"No, thank God."

Amy giggled.

"What's so funny?"

"For being an aristocrat yourself, you don't seem to like them much."

"Oh, it's not that.  I was just thinking of the woman I would have had to marry had I not uh, got Juliet into trouble."

"
Had
to marry?  Do you mean you got someone else in trouble as well?" Amy asked, her mouth agape.

"Good God, no!"  And then, incredulously: "What sort of man do you think I am, anyhow?"

She went crimson.  "I — I didn't mean it the way it sounded . . . but if you
did
get someone else in trouble, I wouldn't hold it against you, or like you any less —"

"I did not get anyone else in trouble, I can assure you."  His lips were twitching, as though he found this whole discussion both ludicrous and amusing.  "But as a second son, raised to take over as duke should anything happen to Lucien, I have certain responsibilities toward my family.  One of these was that I marry Lady Katharine Farnsley, whose father's lands border our own.  We were promised since birth, and a union between the de Montfortes and the Farnsleys would have been quite advantageous.  But Boston is a lonely place for a man who's far from home.  And Juliet — " he smiled, affectionately — "Juliet's a very pretty young woman.  Shunning the destiny that was planned for me, and betrothing myself to a Yankee instead, was about the most rebellious thing I have ever done in my life — and I imagine it will not sit well at home when Lucien learns of it."

"What difference does it make what Lucien thinks?" Amy asked, confused.  "Shouldn't you marry whoever you please?"

"I am not one to disappoint my family, or their expectations of me."

"Won't Lucien get to marry whom
he
pleases?"

"I doubt that Lucien is inclined to marry at all.  He has yet to find a woman who is his equal."  He bent his head and absently stirred the broth, his spoon clinking softly against the bowl.  "I was never happy about the idea of marrying Katharine, anyhow.  She is heavily dowered, yes — but that asset is outweighed by the fact that she is also a shrew, and I must confess that I'd as soon wed her as I would one of your equally awful sisters."

"Lord Charles!"

He merely raised a brow, amused.  "Yes?"

Amy couldn't help her little giggle.  Charles grinned in return.  And then he seemed to sober a bit as he tore off a bit of bread and went back to his meal.  "Tell me, Amy, what do your neighbors think about the idea that your father is harboring a redcoat?"

"They don't know, and I don't think he plans to tell them."

He looked up in sudden alarm.  "Oh, no.  This will not do.  He
must
tell them."

"I think he means to let everyone go on believing you're Adam Smith from Woburn, and as soon as it's convenient, have Will bring you back to Boston with no one the wiser.  Sylvanus means well, truly he does, but I doubt he's aware of the consequences of keeping silent where you're concerned."

"Then I must convince him otherwise.  By allowing them to think I'm someone I'm not, he is not only putting himself, but his family in danger.  What will his trusting flock think if they were to learn from anyone but your father that he, their minister, has been deceiving them all along?"  He shook his head.  "Far better, I think, that he tells them who I am immediately."

He went back to eating his broth.

"But — but Lord Charles —"

"Yes?"

"Aren't you worried about what the townspeople might do to
you
?"

"No."  He gave a bitter, humorless smile.  "Besides, my dear friend — what can they do to me that I have not already done to myself?"

Chapter 7

The week that followed was not easy for anyone.

Lord Charles was not in a good mood.  Between his persistent headache, worry over Juliet, and impatience with his condition, he soon fell into a black depression.  Will slunk past him like a puppy afraid of a beating.  Ophelia and Mildred fled the room in tears when their persistent efforts to gain his attention yielded them a verbal mauling that no one but a British aristocrat could've given so well.  Sylvanus's attempts to give Biblical solace were rebuffed, and even Crystal the dog avoided the silent figure who refused to eat with them, refused to communicate, refused to do anything but sit on his pallet and growl at anyone who dared try to speak to him.

There was only one person whose company Charles welcomed, and that, much to her sisters' confusion and wrath, was Amy, with whom he stayed up long after the others went to bed, quietly talking.

A week after he'd woken up, things finally came to a head.

Amy had roasted a joint of beef for supper.  Sylvanus was at the sideboard carving it, and Amy had gone out to the larder for some milk when the captain got up from his pallet and approached the table.

Crystal thumped her tail against the floor and watched his progress.  Mildred and Ophelia, already seated, exchanged hopeful, excited glances.  Will grinned widely.  Sylvanus turned around with the platter of meat and halted in surprise.

And no one said a word.

Amy came in, carrying a pitcher of milk.  "Lord Charles?"

"I will dine with the family tonight," he said tersely.

Amy didn't miss the excited elbow jab that Mildred gave her sister.  She set the pitcher down, and, slipping her hand into Charles's, guided him to his place.  Her sisters' eyes narrowed with malice at the familiarity that she and the captain shared.

He stood stiffly by his chair as Amy hurried to the sideboard for a bowl of potatoes.

Ophelia was beside herself.  "Oh, Captain, we're just
delighted
that you're finally joining us for supper!  Why, it must have been horrible, eating all by yourself all these nights!"

"I have not dined alone, and the company was quite enjoyable, thank you."

"We're having roast beef tonight, Lord Charles," Mildred announced, as though the smell that wafted throughout the house was not enough reason for Charles to guess that fact for himself.

"I wouldn't have known."

"I just
adore
roast beef," she continued breezily.  "It is one of my absolute favorite dishes."

"Mine too," Ophelia added.  "Do you like roast beef, Captain?"

"I do.  And did you cook it yourself, Miss Leighton?"

"Oh no, Amy makes all the meals around here."

"So I've noticed.  She is a very accomplished cook."

"Oh, she's passably fair," Ophelia said, with an airy little laugh.  "I'm a better one, when I put my mind to it."

"Are you?  Perhaps, then, you should put your mind, and your hands, to it tomorrow.  I daresay I would enjoy sampling your efforts and deciding for myself whether or not your claim is a valid one."

Ophelia's smug smile promptly vanished.  She was trapped, and she knew it.

Will saw instantly what the captain was up to.  "What a good idea!" he said loudly, earning a vicious glare from his sister.  "You haven't cooked anythin' in ages, Ophelia!  Why, I'll bet you're so out of practice that even the water won't remember how to boil for you!"

"I'm not cooking unless Millie helps me!"

"Do you mean that Mildred can also cook?" Charles murmured, raising his brows.  "Dear me.  I didn't know that either of you possessed such . . . talents."

"Of course I can cook!  And I can make anything that Ophelia makes taste like slops in comparison!"

"I should like to see you try!" snapped Ophelia.

"Yes, so would I," mused Charles.  "But since you are both so eager to prove your culinary expertise to me, perhaps Ophelia can cook tomorrow, and Mildred can have her turn the following day."

""I can't cook tomorrow, I have other things to do.  Besides,
Amy
does the all the cooking around here."

Charles smiled thinly.  "Yes, so I've noticed," he murmured.  And then, his voice hardening, "As well as all the baking, sewing, mending, cleaning, washing, weaving, marketing, and soap-making.  Rather a lot for one woman, isn't it?"

Ophelia stiffened.  Mildred sucked in her breath.  Will coughed, Amy quietly went back to the sideboard for the gravy, and in the awkward, tension-filled silence, Sylvanus decided it was high time to give blessing for the food.

"Dear Lord, we are gathered around this humble table tonight to give thanks for this meal and —"

"
I beg your pardon?
" said Lord Charles, still standing behind his chair and looking properly outraged.

Sylvanus's head jerked up.  "Captain?"

"Your daughter has not yet taken her seat!  Where, sir, are your manners?"

"I — uh . . ."  Sylvanus reddened.  Mildred and Ophelia stared at the captain as though he'd lost his mind.  Will's lips twitched, and, as everyone watched, the boy got silently to his feet, went around to Amy's chair, and stood behind it as she took her seat, her cheeks pink with gratitude and embarrassment.

"Thank you, Will," she murmured, her gaze lowered.

Will returned to his seat.

The captain, finally, took his.

And after a rather stilted blessing, the meal was consumed in silence.

~~~~

The following morning, Amy rose early and, creeping past the lightly snoring figure on his pallet, slipped out the door.

She quickly performed her morning chores, finishing all before the sun was even a red glow in the sky.  Then, eager to make the most of her freedom before everyone was up and demanding breakfast, she hurried through a still-sleeping Newburyport and toward the Ashton's big Georgian house on High Street.

Mira Ashton was not exactly the sort of friend that the Reverend Leighton would have chosen for her, but as the daughter of one of Newburyport's most prominent citizens, there was little he dared say about it.  The truth was, Mira — a scrawny, hot-tempered hoyden who dressed in her brother's clothes and swore like a sailor — didn't give a hoot
who
Amy's real father was, accepting her as a friend when most people in Newburyport wanted little, if anything, to do with her.

This morning, Amy's heart could no longer contain the tumult that had been building within it since Lord Charles's arrival.  She had to talk to somebody, and her outspoken friend was the obvious, the only, choice.

She arrived at the Ashton's house just as dawn was painting its white clapboards in shades of rose.  Inside, an argument was ensuing between Ephraim and his son Matt, and Amy could hear it clear through the heavy door.

No doubt, the neighbors could hear it too.

"I don't give a rat's ASS what you think, you ain't goin' down to Boston to join the rebels, you hear me?!  I need you around here, and besides, if ye're gonna go fightin' the lobsterbacks, I want you doin' it in a ship, not as part of a damned army!"

Old Ephraim was at it again.

"Don't you dare tell me what to do, you cantankerous old goat!" Matthew yelled back.  "If I want to join the army, I will!"

"You go joinin' that army and the first thing ye're gonna do is git yerself kilt!  I raised you as a seafarin' man and that's where ye'll serve America best!"

More yelling, this time Mira's voice joining in the clamor.  Taking a deep breath, Amy reached up and banged the knocker.

Inside, the racket stopped and a moment later Mira herself opened the door, her board-straight hair hanging over one stormy green eye, her chin stuck out and her very stance belligerent.  Behind her stood her brother Matt, his red hair wild, his face so angry that his spectacles were steaming up.

"Amy Leighton!" boomed Ephraim, coming around the corner.  "Come on in and have some breakfast with us.  Mira's made cornbread and there's plenty left over."

Amy had no doubt that there was plenty left over; it was a known secret that Mira couldn't cook to save her life.

"Actually, I came to have a word with Mira —"

"It ain't about one of those bleedin' cats the two of you keep rescuin', is it?"

"No, Captain Ashton.  Another matter entirely."  God help her, what would he think if he knew it concerned one of the "lobsterbacks" he and his son wanted to kill?

"Just gimme a moment," Mira said, grabbing her brother's waistcoat and throwing it on over her shirt.  No gown and petticoats for her; no jewelry, ladylike caps, or powder on
that
impossibly thick straight hair.  Leaving her father and brother to their argument, she slammed the door behind them, and moments later, they were at the riverfront.  There, gulls wheeled above their heads, their feathers gold in the rising sun, and the incoming tide sucked and burbled around the pier.

"All right," Mira announced, picking up a stone and skimming it out over the water.  "What's buggin' ye, Amy?"

"Can I swear you to secrecy?"

"I swear on my mother's grave, my father's ass, and every freckle on my brother's butt that I won't say a word."

"Good."  Amy sighed and sat down on the grass, spreading her checked linen apron over her petticoats and fiddling with the hem.  "Mira, you know that fellow Will brought home?  The one who got hurt at Concord?"

"The one who nearly died fightin' those blasted Brits?"

"Um, yes."

"Aye, of course.  Whole town's been talkin' about him and waitin' for him to wake up so they can give him a hero's welcome."

Amy cringed.  "Well, he's woken up — but I don't think they're going to give him a hero's welcome."  She tried to choose her words carefully.  "And, he didn't nearly die fighting the king's men."

"No?"

"He
is
a King's man.  A captain in the Fourth Foot."

"
What?!
"

"The brother of an English duke, in fact.  He got hurt because he was trying to save Will's life, and Will felt so guilty and beholden to him that he switched his clothes with a dead rebel and brought him home thinking Sylvanus would know what to do."