The Patriot's Conquest (10 page)

Thinking of Amanda kept the dreams at bay. By dreaming of her soft, moist mouth, he kept the hellhounds away, as if she were an angel with power to vanquish evil dreams. Thankfully, the sermon was nearly at an end, so he need not consider the promise of her body inside the church.

Warm currents of air swirled dust about their feet as Jeffrey and the children exited the church. He donned his hat and herded them past people gathered in the usual social exchanges after services. Amanda Reeves stood with her imposing warship of a mother and the dumpier Mr. Arthur Reeves.

“Jeffrey, good day to you sir.”

Jeffrey turned to greet Jacob Richards, accompanied by his wife and daughter. Somehow he’d known they’d find him. Polly giggled girlishly. He returned the greeting, tipping his hat politely. The women smiled at the children, who murmured a greeting.

“Mr. Clayton, my father speaks so admiringly of your patriotic service in Boston. Have you any news of that city and how they fare in these heated days?”

Jeffrey favored Polly with serious look. “I recently received a letter from Sam Adams detailing a small threat during the fifth annual commemoration of the Boston Massacre. British soldiers joined the audience.”

“Pray tell, what did they do?” she asked, looking nearly ready to swoon.

“Sam assured me they sat stone still, merely listening to Dr. Joseph Warren’s oration. ’Twas a fine speech, Dr. Warren draped in a toga to mimic Cicero. But at its end, Sam took the pulpit to thank the good patriot, and when he did, the British guard yelled ‘fie,’ but some thought ’twas ‘fire’ they shouted, and all manner of tumult occurred. Their cries caused much panic in the crowd, but Sam soon restored it.”

“Heavens, things are much stirred in Boston,” she cried, putting her hand to her breast. Her father shook his head grimly.

“The day draws closer when the stand will be made. Boston suffers much since the port closing and we must stand with her.”

Jacob was a fervent patriot like Jeffrey, and had an eligible, pretty and very rich daughter. A match with Polly assured marrying into a family with shared sentiments. All he needed to do was crook his little finger and Polly would spill into his lap, and later, into his bed, with the proper wedding ring, of course.

Yet he couldn’t cease thinking of Amanda, the contrast of her cool, haughty manner and her passionate kisses. He glanced about at the people chattering in the churchyard like magpies. Birds of a feather. Amanda was a brilliant peacock, he a fierce hawk. A lesson from nature—stick to your own kind.

Jeffrey tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Jacob, Mrs. Richards. Miss Richards. Please excuse me; I’ve business to attend to.”

“Of course,” breathed Polly. Probably thought he was raising an army of radicals to march against Dunmore. Unfortunately, her adulation did not make him feel anything but weary.

Patrick awaited him in the tavern. Jeffrey had planned to bring the children home, then return to town to deliver the vitally important information. He wished he could find a diversion for them to save him a trip to the farm. At the stairs, a soft female voice startled him.

“Good day to you, sir.”

Jeffrey turned, concealing shock. Amanda Reeves, loosened from the tight grip of her parents. She acted as if they were strangers. Could she have forgotten their previous intimacies so easily?

“Good day,” he said in a guarded tone. He put a protective hand on the children’s shoulders.

Miles and Sara stared curiously at the well-dressed, pretty figure Amanda cut. Her gown was embroidered with tiny blue flowers. She looked bright and pretty as a spring garden. Jeffrey swallowed a distant dream. What would it be like to walk with her, share a meal, court her as he would Polly?

Last time he’d had such experiences, the woman had ripped his heart asunder. Best to stick to his own kind, like Polly.

Jeffrey became aware of her studied silence. He felt a flush of embarrassment at his obvious rudeness.

“Miss Reeves, this is my niece, Sara, and my nephew, Miles.”

She smiled sweetly at their ensuing greetings. “I have had the great pleasure of meeting your mother, but not you. You much resemble her. Children, would you like some licorice rounds? My father has a jar in his store.”

Faces alight, they looked to him. Jeffrey frowned.

“Imported from England? We do not consume English goods in our household.” He hated their disappointed looks, but principle was principle.

Her eyes narrowed. “You would deny children a small treat on the Sabbath just to parade your own political views?” She sniffed. “If not licorice then, candied apple slices. Those are made locally and I am certain you cannot find a reason for their denial.”

Two innocent, pleading faces looked up at him. Sara’s lower lip jutted out. “Please, Uncle Jeffrey?”

He sighed. He had no power to defend himself against his adorable niece’s soft pleas. They had enjoyed such few treats since Roger died. “Very well. But one only!”

“Meet me at the store, children, and I shall open it for you.”

As they scampered away, Amanda’s face softened into a smile. “Lovely children. They remind me of your sister.”

She fell into step as he walked to the street below. Frank mistrust filled him. They’d shared passion in the kitchen and she’d fled from him in apparent disgust. Yet here she was again, as guileless as Polly.

“And after such a tedious sermon by our good reverend, I do believe patient children should be rewarded.”

“And what of patient adults, Miss Reeves? Should they be rewarded as well?”

“If you desire, I may spare a candied apple slice for you as well.”

“I desire a greater temptation than candied apple slices. Something I tasted the other day, sweet as warm honey.” Jeffrey stopped, turned and deliberately focused on her lips.

Scarlet flamed her cheeks and she swallowed convulsively. She did remember their kiss. Pleased, Jeffrey hid a smile as she watched the children running down the street.

“Are Miles and Sara lettered? Can they read?”

“Miles is quite lettered and attends school. Sara...” Guilt flooded him. Meg hadn’t the time to school Sara since Roger’s death. Neither did he. He should hire a tutor, he realized.

“Are not girls as deserving of education as young boys?”

“If the girls have a parent who has time to indulge them thus.” They turned down Duke of Gloucester Street. Carriages rattled past.

“Oh. ’Tis not a prejudice against women learning, but a mere matter of finding a proper tutor? I may remedy that.”

“You?” Jeffrey stopped. His suspicions rose.

“Why not? I have been trained in classical Greek and Latin. I am quite lettered and I adore children. I could start today. A story, since ’tis such a fine spring morn. I shall read to them on market square.”

Why would she desire to read to Meg’s children? Jeffrey made a mental note to do more checking on Amanda Reeves. But no harm could come giving her charge of his niece and nephew for a short while. If she occupied them for a good hour, he’d deliver his news, discuss options, and could collect them on his way home.

“I do have business about town. But what of you? Have you no plans with your parents?”

She colored charmingly, the roses in her cheeks making him think of spring strolls in green grass with a pretty lady. An intense, wistful longing filled him.

“I find myself alone this Sunday morn. I would read your niece and nephew a tale of adventure.
The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner
.”

“By all means, please do indulge Miles and Sara. I’m certain they will enjoy the pleasure of the tale, as well as hearing your voice relay it,” he responded, clasping her gloved hand.

Raising her hand to his lips, Jeffrey glanced around. Tongues would wag over cups of tea regarding Miss Amanda Reeves the Tory and Mr. Jeffrey Clayton the patriot. A peculiar match to be sure.

They reached her father’s store, where Miles and Sara stood waiting. “Very well then, I shall be with them on the market square when you are finished.”

Jeffrey nodded his thanks. “Mind Miss Reeves now. She’s to read you a story after you consume one candied apple slice.”

“A story? I love stories.” Sara’s face shone with expectation. Jeffrey sighed, seeing how the small treat filled her with joy.

He watched them walk away, Amanda’s hand on Sara’s small shoulder. The warm spring day filled him with distant regret as he tipped his hat to mothers and fathers accompanying their children. He was getting older. Time to marry, settle down and father a family. He hadn’t entertained such thoughts since Caroline left. Damn him for letting Amanda force them to return.

At the Raleigh, he spotted Patrick at a corner table in the Apollo Room, brooding over a tankard. The brilliant orator and member of the House of Burgess warranted nary a second glance. Except when he opened his mouth, and then the gangly, stooped lawyer spewed fire, glowing with an inner zeal.

He wasn’t glowing now. Not even a hint of a smoldering briquette. Jeffrey pulled off his hat, put it on the table and pulled out a chair across from his friend.

Patrick’s blue eyes blazed. His mournful expression shifted into delight. “Jeffrey, my dear boy!” His voice dropped. “I see you escaped that infernal nest of vipers at the governor’s ball.”

“With my neck intact. But not my beard.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully.

“A gallant sacrifice for the holy cause of liberty. I am heartened to see you unscathed.”

“I had some help.” He signaled for a tavern maid. When she approached, Jeffrey ordered cider.

Leaning across the table, Patrick’s face hardened with anxious intensity. “Dare I ask if you obtained anything worthy from your night venture?”

He lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “A copy of Dunmore’s December report to Lord Dartmouth.”

“The British Secretary of State?” Patrick practically danced with excitement.

“Dunmore states our resistance is illegal and opposition to British rule does not represent Virginia as a whole. ’Tis the work of a few firebrands only.”

An angry flush filled his gaunt cheeks. “Almighty God! He gives England’s government reason to ignore any petitions made for peace and compromise. What arrogance!”

Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. “He names those firebrands. You are among them. And myself.”

His friend drew back, mouth opening wide. Then he underwent the transformation Jeffrey so admired. Patrick drew himself up, his face hardened into steely resolve.

“So be it. ’Tis an honor to be mentioned thus, my friend, albeit a dangerous one. We must continue with our vigilance.”

“I fear not being named, but...”

Jeffrey quieted as the serving maid approached and set down the cider. When she was out of earshot, he continued. “I do fear the good citizens of Williamsburg are misguided. They think the petitions of Congress to King George and Parliament will be heard. They know not of Dunmore’s letter.”

“Dunmore sees us as not worthy of our petitions or compromise. ’Tis not unity he advocates, but disharmony. Jeffrey, have you the letter?”

Jeffrey glanced around. They were alone this time of day. The two men who’d occupied a table near the door had left.

Beneath the table, he reached into his pocket. He slid the letter across the table. Patrick slipped it into his waistcoat.

“Have John Pinkney print it in the
Williamsburg Virginia Gazette.
Let the public know of Dunmore’s intents. And for those unlettered ones, tell them yourself.”

Patrick drew his brows together. “’Tis not only the newspaper, or myself, that claims the power of speech. Jeffrey, your voice is much needed to stir the citizens of Williamsburg.”

“I did as you asked. Besides, most planters are not willing to listen.”

“’Tis true. Most planters are still comfortable suckling at the teat of that royal tyrant. However, your news from Boston of British soldiers tarring and feathering that newspaper publisher has stirred them. They have become more disconsolate. You must speak out against the tyranny, Jeffrey.”

Anger simmered inside him. Though they could discuss such matters inside the Raleigh, not worrying about government sympathizers reporting them to authorities, his friends in Boston had no such luxury. Jeffrey drew in a sharp breath. “Boston starves while King George grows fat on the colony’s labor. Since he closed the port last year, there is no trade. People are fainting from hunger. There will be no redress for those grievances, since the government has stripped away citizen rights and gives British soldiers the freedom and power to do as they please.”

“The Intolerable Acts give them that freedom. We seek to withdraw that ill-used liberty,” Patrick stated. “’Tis why our own militia is sorely needed, and men like you.”

“Men were more stirred by your speech last month, Pat. I possess no eloquent tongue as you do. I’m a stranger. My only link with them is I till the same soil.”

“Good American soil! You give yourself less credit than deserved, Jeffrey. Your public speech urging citizens to boycott English goods at the Reeves store was well-heeded. Your courier dispatches to Sam Adams keep us abreast of news in our sister colonies. Men are stirred to action because of you.”

Patrick tipped his tankard and drank. He set it down with a resounding thump. “And you possess the most powerful influence of all. Your service in the French and Indian war. Who could forget the fearless Jeffrey Clayton? Especially his bravery at St. Francis with Robert Rogers for one so young!”

Cider curdled in his stomach. Jeffrey leaned back. “If that is an argument for entreating me into joining the volunteers, ’tis is your poorest one.”

He recalled the nightmare just experienced in church. Jeffrey knew the time drew near when he must take a stand and fight for what he preached. True freedom would be won with action, not words. He knew it would come to arms and battle.

No fear for his own life haunted him, but taking the lives of others. Jeffrey splayed his fingers and stared at his hands. By all rights, he should have died back in the Canadian woods with the other Rangers. Why the Almighty chose to spare him and not others remained a mystery. He didn’t care to dwell on that particular mystery.