The Captain's Lady (20 page)

“You may recall when I was here last year that I’d met a young lady in England.” Jamie swallowed as an unexpected ache filled his chest.

“Don’t you dare say another word.” Susanna appeared in the doorway with a tray of apple pie and a silver coffee
server. She set it on the low table in front of the settee and shoved a blond curl beneath her crisp white cap. “Not until I serve your pie and can sit down to hear your story.” Her dark eyes sparkled. “Now that Rachel has married, I’ve wondered how long it would be until some female made a landlubber out of you.” She handed Jamie a slice of pie on a pewter plate. “Now, tell me all about this lady.”

Jamie eyed his cousin, as dear to him as a sister, for her father had raised him from childhood. “I wish I could give you a happy report.” Instead, he told them of his decision to break off with Lady Marianne because of the Revolution, their subsequent sad yet idyllic summer of companionship, her foolishness in stowing away aboard his ship, and finally, her horror upon discovering his true loyalties.

“James Templeton.” Susanna placed her fists at her waist. “Do you mean to tell me you left that poor lady someplace instead of bringing her to our home?” She glared at him, his “elder sister” once again, as in their childhood. “What have you done with her?”

Even Charles eyed him with concern.

“Done with her?” Indignation rose within him. “The woman ravages my very soul, and you want to know what I’ve done with her?” He crossed his arms against this outrage. “She refuses to come ashore. Says we’re traitors and wants nothing to do with us.” He returned Susanna’s glare. “I gave her my cabin and the best food Demetrius could prepare.” Susanna continued to stare, further raising his ire. He bent toward her and narrowed his eyes. “I slept in a moldy hammock in the crew’s smelly quarters.”

“Well, then.” Susanna glanced at Charles. “There’s nothing to be done but for me to visit Lady Marianne right away. Husband, will you come with me?”

Charles waved away the idea. “No, my dear, I will leave that
to you. Jamie and I have more important things to attend to.” At his lift of an eyebrow, Jamie knew he referred to the muskets.

Susanna marched from the room, but her crossness did not truly offend Jamie. Knowing his dear cousin, he felt certain she would extend some kindness to Lady Marianne, who no doubt needed more than a little benevolence right now. Yet even the assurance of Susanna’s generosity stabbed at his heart. He should be the one to minister to the woman he loved more than life, but she refused his every attempt.

He poured thick cream on his apple pie and dug in. Despite Demetrius’s best efforts, Jamie had not eaten anything this tasty in over two months. Perhaps as the war continued, he would have few such delicacies to enjoy.

“Susanna,” he called, “be sure to take her some of this pie.”

The loud clatter of pots and dishes gave a more informative response than words. Jamie and Charles chuckled. Then Jamie sobered as the pie turned to dust in his mouth.

“The unfortunate result of this complication is that I must now send a report to General Washington to explain why I can never return to Lord Bennington.”

M
arianne fanned herself in the stifling heat of the cabin. She knew a breeze swept over Boston Harbor, one that would cool her on this early September evening. But she would not go up to the main deck, would not put herself in the position of being leered at by sailors or workmen on the wharves. How strange it seemed, after her life in a great manor house, to prefer the misery of this tiny cabin, which sometimes served as a refuge and other times a prison. One small comfort came from the bottom of the single satchel she had brought from home, her forgotten leather-bound journal in whose pages she poured out her heart, using Captain Templeton’s quill pens and ink. He had denied her nothing and surely would not mind her using them. But the many words she recorded became muddled on the page as her tears caused the ink to run, just as her thoughts were muddled over this whole affair.

To her great sorrow, just this morning Emma had come to say goodbye. Marianne’s little lady’s maid, rescued by Mama from the orphanage to a better life than she would have had in any other occupation in England, would now
be the mistress of her own home. When Emma announced that Aaron Quince owned a farm in the hills of west Massachusetts, Marianne found herself filled with a curious joy on her former servant’s behalf, even as she despaired over her loss. Yet she feared Emma’s happiness would be destroyed if Mr. Quince joined the rebellion.

What was she thinking? Of course he had joined the rebellion. He had come as Jamie Templeton’s valet to spy for their cause. Marianne could not imagine what useful information her father’s servants could have told him. Or whether or not they would say anything if given the chance. But she had no doubt that Quince had searched the house in the family’s absence—probably with Emma’s help. Marianne felt wicked for thinking such a thing, but after Jamie’s—Captain Templeton’s—betrayal, whom in this world could she trust?

A soft scratch at the door startled her, and her quill slid across the page, leaving a jagged black line. She rolled her blotter over the ink, closed the journal and slid it into a drawer.

“Wh-who is it?” She cleared her throat, which was raspy from little use and many tears.

“Lady Marianne.” A woman’s voice, but not familiar. “May I come in?”

Caution accompanied her across the wooden floor. She hesitated, then slid the bolt and pulled open the door. The unmistakable aroma of roast beef and apple pie nearly knocked her over. Her mouth began to water, and her knees grew weak. She gulped. “Yes?”

“Good day, my lady.” The dark-eyed woman of about thirty years wore a broad-brimmed straw hat over a white cap, and a plain blue muslin gown. “I brought you something to eat.” She lifted a large brown basket covered with a white cloth embroidered with tiny blue flowers.

“Please, come in.” Jamie had sent food. Oh, how his tender care shattered her heart. Marianne had not even realized her own hunger. Stepping aside, she waved the diminutive woman in.

Her plain countenance, made pretty by her merry smile, was like Molly’s, the sort to inspire goodwill. “Thank you, my lady.” As if Marianne were doing
her
a favor.

“And I thank you, Mrs….?”

“Mrs. Charles Weldon. But you must call me Susanna.”

“Ah.” Frederick’s sister-in-law. “And you may call me—”

“Why, Lady Marianne, of course.” Susanna bustled about, laying a large linen cloth over the flat desk, then placing on it an exquisite white, bone china plate with a delicate blue pattern to match the basket cloth. She brought out several small, covered tureens and proceeded to ladle out roast beef, gravy, carrots, peas, yams, preserves, apple pie, cream and fresh buttered bread—and not a weevil to be seen.

Marianne almost fell into her chair. “Susanna, I am grateful.” She could barely compose herself enough to maintain her manners as she cut into the tender beef. Without the linen napkin Susanna had draped across her lap, she feared she might have drooled like a baby. “This is the very best roast beef I have ever eaten.”

Susanna smiled. “Thank you, my lady.” She remained standing, just as the maids, butlers and footmen did at home. But this was no servant. She was Marianne’s relative by marriage.

“Please call me Marianne.” She took a sip of the delicious coffee Susanna had poured. “And please sit down.” She indicated the chair across the cabin.

“Thank you.” Susanna dragged the heavy chair across the
wooden floor and sat with folded hands. “My, you’ve had quite an adventure, haven’t you?”

At her gentle, maternal tone, Marianne gulped down her bite, took another sip of coffee…and burst into tears.

“Don’t you want to take her to Nova Scotia, Cap’n?” Saunders stood beside Jamie at the helm while the crew shoved off from the Boston wharf and hoisted the sails. “Them British’ll make sure she gets back home safe and sound.”

Jamie turned the wheel to catch the wind. “That was my first thought. But our mission to Charleston is urgent, and she’ll be better off with her brother in East Florida.”

“I s’pose you’re right.” Saunders stepped to the railing and shouted to the men on the main deck. “Make ready for the change of flags as soon as we reach the mouth of the harbor.” When he came back, he wore a worried frown. “D’you think she’ll give us any trouble if we’re stopped again?”

That was a question Jamie had yet to resolve. Susanna had refused to discuss her visit with Lady Marianne, saying it was women’s talk, nothing to do with loyalties or the Revolution. “We can trust your Molly to make sure Lady Marianne stays below deck. Once we deliver her to Frederick Moberly, she will be his responsibility.” The idea sat heavy on Jamie’s heart.

In one way, he treasured her presence on the ship, for it would be the last time he spent in her company—if one could call it company, the way they avoided each other. Still, just watching her amble around the main deck gave him an odd sort of joy. She took to sailing well, and he knew she’d helped the other women on the passage from Southampton. Her beauty had not diminished in spite of the
rugged voyage, nor had her spirits flagged. True, he’d seen traces of tears on her porcelain face from time to time, but she always spoke words of cheer to the crew, and he often saw her laugh with Molly for some unknown reason. More women’s talk, he supposed.

As they sailed south, his only attempt to communicate with her beyond polite greetings was to leave on his desk one of the newspapers Charles had given him. With little hope of a response, he prayed the Lord would move her to read it and to understand the Cause he was willing to die for.

Smitten with curiosity, Marianne nudged the folded, yellowed newspaper with one finger. Had it been a sealed document, she would have opened it straightaway, assuming Captain Templeton had left it by mistake. But here it sat, so he must want her to read it. She would not, of course. Papa had frowned upon her reading newspapers, saying they contained only gossip not fit for a young lady to know. She must assume American newspapers would be even worse.

Wearied by being back at sea, she cheered herself with thoughts of seeing Frederick, even though she dreaded learning the truth about his loyalties. If Rachel was as pleasant, well-spoken and kind as her sister, Marianne would love her. In addition to feeding her, Susanna had insisted upon washing and mending Marianne’s small wardrobe, and even had aired her bedding.

Of course Marianne would love her new niece or nephew, who had been expected this past July. An ironic laugh escaped her. She would have to write to Mama and Papa about their new grandchild, Mama’s first. But perhaps the missive would not be delivered if the colonists’ war continued and covered the seas.

An unnerving suspicion occurred to her. Now that Jamie could no longer spy on Papa, would he use his ship for the rebellion? The thought terrified her. Why, any British warship could easily sink this lightly armed vessel. But then, from what Thomas had said last June, no place was safe for anyone during a war.

Irritation swept through her. Why must there be a war? Why must these colonists speak against the king? Why could they not pay their taxes, as Papa did on the sale of produce from his plantation? She would demand an answer from Frederick.

As white-capped waves swept past the porthole, she paced the small, hot cabin. Her much-used fan had broken at last, so she snatched up the folded newspaper to cool herself. Its limp pages fell open and drifted down to the floor to reveal in large letters at the top Declaration of Independence.

Intrigued, she picked it up and began to read. After the first few lines, she felt the need to sit. As her eyes swept down the page, her mind began to comprehend. Her heart began to believe. This was not the work of common ruffians, but of well-spoken and thoughtful souls who had been brought to the end of their reasoning powers and now must take decisive action, just as she had done over two months ago. Like these colonists, she had sought a peaceful means of obtaining what she believed to be God’s will—a tragic error on her part. But the authors of this paper listed honest complaints, many of which she knew to be valid.

Had she not seen her countrymen try to steal sailors from this very ship? Had she not heard from Susanna a tale of misuse by British soldiers, who had quartered in her home, ate her children’s food and harassed Susanna and Rachel? How could such things be endured? Even at home, news of
the Stamp Act and other taxes had generated sympathy for the colonists. And some members of Parliament, such as her father’s former friend Lord Highbury, advocated exactly what this paper now demanded: that the united colonies should be permitted to become their own nation. Indeed, not permitted, for they had gone beyond seeking approval for their actions. They declared before all the governments of the world that they were henceforth free and independent states, and absolved themselves of all allegiance to the Crown—a staggering pronouncement.

At the last line of the document, Marianne felt a tremor sweep through her, for in it she read the character of Captain James Templeton. Like the men who wrote this, he had pledged his all to support their revolution, even at the risk of his life and fortune. And his honor? Could a spy claim that his honor was sacred? Before she could complete the thought, the biblical story of the Hebrew men sent to spy on Jericho came to mind. If God could bless their efforts and not call it sin, how could she condemn Jamie for doing whatever was required to help his country? In fact, was she any better than a spy, to have sneaked around her father all her life to manipulate him?

Marianne brushed away the tears and perspiration covering her cheeks and forehead. She must go to him now and tell him that at last she understood, at last she believed his cause was just. She entertained no delusions his revolution would succeed, for His Majesty’s armies would easily defeat the colonists. But win or lose, rise or fall, she would stay by his side—if he would have her.

She folded the newspaper with care and held it close, like a precious treasure. Sliding the bolt and opening the door, she pulled a blast of heat into the cabin, along with the dreadful but familiar smells of bilge water and rancid air. A
handkerchief held to her nose and mouth, she hurried along the companionway to the ladder, eager to breathe the fresh sea air. Eager to see Jamie and declare her understanding of his motives.

As she climbed the steps, angry shouts met her ears. Once on deck, she saw a frigate bobbing alongside not twenty yards away. In the center of the
Fair Winds’
main deck stood a uniformed officer and a group of armed British sailors. Two of the men aimed their muskets directly at Jamie’s chest.