Love Thine Enemy Page 16

  “Are you well, Miss Folger?” Frederick leaned toward her, gentle concern in his eyes.

  “I am well, Mr. Moberly.” Warmth that had nothing to do with the sweltering heat rushed to her face. She would never tire of his loving gazes.

  When the sun reached its meridian, Mrs. Winthrop ordered a basket brought forth, from which she dispensed bread and cheese to the hungry travelers. Lemonade, made from springwater and kept cool in an earthen crock, slaked everyone’s thirst.

  Shortly after their meal, the party reached Mayport, where the two-masted sailing ship Mingo lay anchored and crewmen bustled about, ready to welcome them aboard.

  There the travelers joined an Amelia Island plantation owner, Mr. Avery Middlebrook, along with his wife and two daughters, and an agent of Dr. Fothergill of London, Mr. Bertram, a naturalist who was writing a book about the flora and fauna of both East and West Florida.

  Once aboard the brigantine, the Middlebrook women flocked to Lady Augusta like clucking hens, and she basked in their adoration, deigning to speak a generous word to each. Then, as the time drew near for departure, the ladies sought shelter from the sun in the stateroom. When their conversation offered no useful information, Rachel grew restless and joined the gentlemen on the foredeck.

  Hiding under her parasol, Rachel stood between Papa and Frederick, eager to experience the delight of wind and salt spray on her face once again. The brigantine soon dropped its mooring lines, hoisted sails and then charged across the pounding waves into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “See now,” Papa said, “how strange this St. Johns River is. Not only does the water run north, but see how its lethargic outflow is nearly overpowered by the ocean’s waves. What should carry us out to sea with ease puts up no fight against the breakers.”

  “Ah, yes.” Frederick wore an amused expression. “But that lethargy works to our advantage on the return trip. If the tides are right, the boatman will have little trouble rowing us back home.”

  “Ha. I’ll grant ye that, sir,” Papa said. “I’ve heard tell sharks and other sea life can be found inland far beyond the cow ford.”

  “’Tis a wonder of nature, one must agree.” Rachel copied his Nantucket dialect as she stood on tiptoe and peeked over the rail. From the safety of the merchant ship, she could regard the creatures below without trepidation.

  “Do you like to sail, Miss Folger?” Mr. Bertram brushed gray hairs from his sweat-covered forehead.

  “Indeed I do, sir.” In fact, she had found her footing as well as Papa, while the other men clutched the rail. The smell of wood and tar and the slapping of lines against the mast reminded her of pleasant days aboard Papa’s whaler.

  “Remarkable young lady.” Looking a little green, Mr. Bertram pulled a folded piece of paper and a pencil from his coat pocket and made notes. “Remarkable.” He hurried away, but whether from seasickness or inspiration, Rachel could not tell.

  Once beyond the reef, the vessel caught the wind in its sails and headed southward. While Frederick, Mr. Middlebrook and Papa discussed the weather and fishing, Rachel strolled about the deck. Seeing Captain Newman at the wheel, she climbed to the quarterdeck.

  “A fine day for sailing, sir.”

  Coming closer, she noticed that the whiskered, fair-haired officer was younger than her first estimation. Of medium height and well formed, he had a handsome, ready smile.

  “Yes, miss.” He tipped his tricorn hat and gave her a little bow. “The current is mild. Would you like to take the helm?” Still gripping the wheel, he stepped aside and beckoned with his free hand.

  “Oh, yes.” Rachel tucked her parasol into the lines, then took hold of the wheel with one hand and a spoke with the other. How good it felt to direct the vessel, even if only to keep it on course with the captain’s help. Waves surged beneath them, rolling the ship from side to side as it moved through the water parallel to land.

  “Steady as she goes.” He reached around her and gripped the wheel with both hands, pressing close to her back. “You’re doing well.”

  A blend of sweat, wool and sea salt met her nostrils, and breathing became difficult, and she could feel the captain’s hot breath on her neck. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, after all.

  “There you are, Miss Folger.” Frederick bounded up the steps to the quarterdeck, albeit a little unsteadily, and a glower rode on his brow. “I hoped we might take a turn around the deck.”

  “Why, of course, Mr. Moberly. Captain, will you excuse me?” Cheeks aflame, Rachel ducked under his arm, almost ripping her bonnet off. “Thank you for letting me steer.”

  “Of course.” He gave her a crooked grin. “You may take the wheel again at your pleasure.”

  Tugging her bonnet back into place, Rachel whipped around and quickly descended to the main deck. What must Frederick think of her? How could she explain? She heard his booted steps behind her and hurried to a deserted place at the rail. She must confess her foolishness and ask his forgiveness.

  “I saw the whole thing.” Frederick stood beside her, staring out to sea, his arm grazing hers. “What a blackguard.”

  “What? But I—”

  Frederick faced her now and grasped the rail as the ship dipped into an unexpected trough, sending a light, foamy spray across them. “Rachel, you did nothing wrong. One of your most admirable traits is your adventurous spirit. Of course you would like to steer a ship when the captain invites you.” He gave her a gentle smile. “I wish I could have a portrait of your expression as you held the wheel. I have no greater wish than to secure such happiness for you.” His frown returned, and he reached out to complete the job of straightening her bonnet, brushing her face in the process with a featherlike touch. “Captain Newman, however, stared at you as if he might devour you on the spot.”

  Rachel gasped. “Oh, my.” Had she known, she would have slapped the man.

  Now the salt spray had begun to sting, and she swiped a hand across one damp cheek.

  “There, now, don’t cry.” Frederick pulled her hand up and gave it a lingering kiss. “I’ll watch over you.”

  “But, I—”

  “And to ensure that nothing of this sort happens again, I will make it clear to everyone that you and I are courting. That is, with your permission.”

  His bright eyes and tender smile dissolved her protest, and she nodded. One day, when they had been married many years, she would explain she had not been weeping at all. For now, she would bask in Frederick’s adoring gaze and forget the ungentlemanly captain and the unfriendly ladies below.

  The fragrance of Rachel’s hair wafted up to enchant Frederick at the same moment he decided to call the captain out, thus thwarting that plan. What was the matter with the man? Could he not see her innocence? She even tried to take responsibility for the man’s evil intent. That very moment, Frederick knew he could no longer act as if she were merely an acquaintance, a denizen of his father’s settlement. He must let everyone from pompous Lady Augusta to scoundrels like Newman know that Rachel Folger, merchant’s daughter, formerly of Boston and Nantucket, was his own true love, the woman he would marry and love for the rest of his life.

  He glanced beyond her to see Mr. Folger eyeing them, a frown shadowing his leathery face. In another time, Frederick might have wilted under such a glare. But Rachel’s sweet and trusting gaze emboldened him.

  “I must speak to your father.”

  She peeked over her shoulder. “Now?”

  “Yes, now.” Frederick shot a quick look at the ship’s captain. Another crew member stood by, perhaps to take the helm, leaving him free to approach Rachel while Frederick was engaged elsewhere. “I want you to join the other ladies below. This might take some time.”

  Rachel’s eyes twinkled. “I have no doubt it will. Do not let him intimidate you.”

  “No, of course not. Your father and I are friends.” Frederick swallowed hard and sent up a quick prayer that they would still be friends at their conversation’s end.

  After escorting R
achel to the safety of the ladies’ stateroom, he returned to the foredeck, where Mr. Folger stood at the rail, an inscrutable expression on his age-lined face.

  Frederick’s knees felt as if they might buckle, much like the times when he had been called before his father for a lecture. Until just minutes ago, he had not considered that Mr. Folger might deny his request for Rachel’s hand. How foolish, how arrogant to presuppose his superior rank would guarantee this man’s acceptance. That assumption disappeared when he caught something in the old gentleman’s glare that cast doubt on his success, a truly humbling thought. In London, Frederick never had to consider how to approach anyone’s father, for the young ladies had been thoroughly schooled in rejecting younger sons all on their own. But then, none of them ever found their way into his heart, as Rachel had, and he could not think of losing her. Thus, he must face Mr. Folger whether the man planned to accept or reject him.

  In their previous conversations, Folger had demonstrated a refreshing affability, a temperament Frederick himself always strove to project. For him, it was often a matter of survival, but this former whaling captain feared no one. Nor did he seek to strike fear into anyone else, at least never in Frederick’s presence. Until now. Until he looked at Frederick with an expression that reflected Frederick’s own anger at Newman for his improper behavior toward Rachel. But surely after all this time, Mr. Folger believed in Frederick’s integrity.

  Heart pounding, Frederick turned to face him.

  “Captain Folger, it will come as no surprise to you to hear that I am devoted to Rachel. I have come to ask your permission to propose marriage to her.”

  There. The words were out. But the inner trembling did not cease. Lord, what a coward I am, using his former title to gain approval.

  Mr. Folger’s jaw muscles worked, and he breathed like an angry bull. Still staring out to sea, he gripped the rail until his knuckles turned white beneath a permanent tan.

  Above them, seagulls called to one another. A pelican swept down to scoop up its dinner. The canvas sails captured the wind with a majestic whoomp. The ship’s bow cut through the waves, and salt-scented foam dampened everything on deck, including his hopes.

  Frederick tried to shake off bitter childhood memories and his drowning sense of inadequacy. Why did Mr. Folger not answer? Why should he not answer, if for nothing more than courtesy’s sake? Frederick had done nothing to offend him, had done all to advance his business in both St. Johns Settlement and London.

  As for Father, Frederick longed to face him this day and show him how the failing plantation had been rescued by his efforts. How his kind treatment of the slaves encouraged energetic productivity. How the crops flourished so prodigiously that his indigo shipments would soon rival those of Lord Egmount. With bold determination, he had succeeded despite his father’s doubts, despite his brothers’ taunts, despite Oliver’s lies, even beyond his mother’s generous expectations. For Rachel, he would take that same determination into his marriage. For himself, he would never again wilt under the fear of every threat, real or imagined.

  I will care for Rachel as if my life depended upon it. Her happiness is my only purpose for living.

  “Aye. I can see that.” Mr. Folger cast a sidelong glance his way. “No need to shout it.”

  “Ah.” A little breathless, Frederick could not believe he had spoken aloud his heartfelt declaration. But it sounded good in his ears, felt good on his tongue. Felt good clear down to the depths of his soul. And yet—

  “You are not pleased, sir. I entreat you to tell me why.”

  Mr. Folger turned halfway and stared hard into Frederick’s eyes. “I’ll grant ye love her, lad. Ye wear it all over yer face. But do ye know her? Do ye know what stirs her soul? Do ye care about those matters?”

  Frederick started to assure him that he did know of her concerns over the useless skirmishes up north and for the slaves. But somehow the words would not come forth, for he knew nothing of Folger’s thoughts on either subject and thus could plot no strategy to avoid potential conflict. Coward. Again his conscience accused him. He would not so quickly fall back into his old ways.

  “We have discussed our deepest interests, sir, and have resolved our differences.” Not quite true. “I should say, we have found ways to compromise.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Folger’s stare softened. “I’ve no doubt ye’ll be the one who finds ways to compromise. For a while. Until the wedding’s rosy bloom is off yer cheeks.”

  Frederick laughed, and the weight in his chest lightened. Those words sounded like approval.

  “Well, then, take her to wife.” Mr. Folger’s shoulders slumped, as if in surrender. “And may the Almighty bless ye both.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Relief flooded Frederick’s chest.

  Contrarily, sorrow and surrender—neither of which Frederick could comprehend—emanated from Mr. Folger’s eyes. He set a callused hand on Frederick’s shoulder and gave him a little shake. He chuckled, but no smile lit his eyes. “No reason it should not go well for ye, as it did for my wife and me.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Frederick repeated. Although Mr. Folger clearly felt some reservations, kindness filled his voice, another sign that he had granted his blessing to the union. To honor that, Frederick vowed he would stay by Rachel’s side and love her, no matter what forces sought to divide them. As attested to by both her parents and his own, a happy marriage was the greatest success, the greatest happiness of all.

  Seated on a stool beside Mrs. Winthrop’s cot, Rachel fanned the sleeping woman and brushed damp strands of gray hair from her face. This morning, the poor dear had confided to Rachel her aversion to sea travel, but with her cheery disposition, she made no complaints, not even about the smells of mold and putrid bilge water filling this cabin. Rachel hoped she would remain asleep for the rest of the voyage and be revived by the time they reached St. Augustine.

  The Middlebrook women sat or reclined nearby as Lady Augusta held court, expounding on what had been fashionable in London when she left six months ago. Earlier, when Rachel entered the stuffy stateroom, no one acknowledged her. But she refused to be wounded.

  Poor Frederick. Rachel prayed he would be able to face Papa without too much apprehension. She recalled how Papa had struck fear into Charles when he courted her sister Susanna. Perhaps every father felt the need to frighten his daughter’s suitors. No doubt it served some purpose, though she could not imagine what that might be. At the completion of the dreaded discussion, Papa would grant his permission and then Frederick would be free to propose marriage. At the thought of it, Rachel’s heart nearly sprang from her chest.

  As for these silly women, she would simply ignore them as they ignored her. Frederick’s love was all she required for happiness.

  “Rachel.”

  Lady Augusta’s sharp tone shattered her thoughts, and Rachel jumped.

  “What?” She would not call this woman “my lady.”

  The Middlebrooks seemed to gasp in one collective breath, and their eyes widened until they resembled three owls preparing to descend on a mouse. Lady Augusta arched her eyebrows and glared down her nose at Rachel.

  “Do come fan me, Rachel. I’ll wager Mrs. Winthrop has no notion of your ministrations.”

  Rachel noticed the elegant lace fan at Lady Augusta’s wrist. She saw in the corner of her eye the gaping stares of the servants seated along the bulkhead. Comprehension filled her. This woman meant to cast her as a servant, a lower being, rather than someone whom the governor had invited to his ball on equal footing with his other guests, including aristocrats. Indignation filled Rachel. Or was it something else?

  Lord, help me. Must I bow to her? Is this Your way of subduing my pride?

  Warm certainty swept through her. Like the patriots of Boston, she must not submit to English oppression.

  “Well, what are you waiting for?” Lady Augusta’s voice cut through the tension-thick air like a newly sharpened razor.

  Rachel stood and walked toward the ha
tch. “If you are overly warm, perhaps you should join me on the deck. The sea breeze is delightfully stimulating.”

  More gasps and much murmuring trailed behind her as she climbed the narrow steps and emerged into the fresh air. Try though she might, she could not dismiss the sick feeling in her stomach. No doubt Lady Augusta would seek reprisal for such defiance. Once the woman learned of her engagement to Frederick, she might seek to harm him, too. But just as the northern colonists had cried “Enough!” regarding British rule, she would never bow to such despotism. Like the brave patriots at Lexington and Concord, she had fired her cannon in self-defense and would not back down, no matter what revenge that woman devised.

  “Rachel.” Frederick hurried forward with his hand extended. “Come, my dear. We’re sailing into St. Augustine. Let us go forward and watch.”

  The love in his eyes and excitement in his voice told her everything she needed to know. Frederick loved her. Papa had said yes. Why should she bother with any other matter?

  As they stood at the bow watching the pilot boat tow the Mingo safely past the barrier islands and into Matanzas Bay, Frederick placed one hand at her waist, almost but not quite embracing her, as propriety demanded. She rested against him and let his lean strength soothe her soul. Soon the other guests joined them, exclaiming over the beauties of the century-old Spanish fort guarding the harbor.

  Major Brigham and Lady Augusta stood several yards away. The officer bent to speak in his wife’s ear, and she swung her gaze toward Rachel and Frederick. Major Brigham nodded to them, approval evident in his good-natured expression. Lady Augusta blanched, and her mouth gaped for an instant before a red rage marred her pretty countenance.

  Rachel glanced up at Frederick, whose attention was focused on the fort. Clearly, he had no idea of Lady Augusta’s outrage. Feeling slightly wicked, Rachel gave the woman a sidelong look and the sweetest smile she could muster. An uncontrollable giggle erupted from deep within her. This ball promised to be more enjoyable than anything she’d ever experienced.