Love Thine Enemy Read online

  Oliver snickered. “I really should consider an occupation in the theater.” He rose and walked to the bookcase, where he pulled out the incriminating pamphlet Frederick had hidden in the pages of Paradise Lost. “I see your Miss Folger has left something for you to read. Perhaps Lord Bennington would be interested in it, as well.”

  Frederick felt the blood drain from his face. Rachel had never tried to conceal from him her sympathies for the insurrection. Was she the one who left the pamphlet the night of his dinner party in hopes of swaying his opinions? He glanced at Wellsey, who eyed the paper with curiosity. Summerlin maintained his disinterest.

  “We have had numerous guests here, Oliver. Any one of them could have left it.” He swallowed hard. “It’s nothing but seditious nonsense.”

  Oliver’s face took on a serpent-like slyness. “And yet here it remains, untorn, unburned.”

  “One does not burn evidence.”

  “Hmm.” Oliver held the paper up as if reading it. “And yet you do not seek to find the guilty party?”

  Anger flashed through Frederick—anger at himself, at Oliver and at Rachel. He crossed his arms. “You don’t need to do this. You may go wherever you wish without trying to blackmail me.” Boyhood memories of better times with this friend filled Frederick’s mind. “In fact, you may have your mare, your clothes and thirty pounds to start your new life.”

  “What?” Oliver stared at him, clearly stunned. “After all I’ve done and said?”

  Frederick walked around the desk and put his hands on Oliver’s shoulders, forcing his adversary to look deep into his eyes. “Whatever you felt for me, I have always cared for you like a brother. In fact, closer than my true brothers.”

  Oliver’s face grew pale, and his glance darted between Wellsey and Summerlin. “But—”

  Soft rapping on the library door cut into his answer.

  “Come,” Frederick called.

  The door cracked open, and the butler stuck in his bewigged head. “Sir, Major Brigham’s in the drawin’ room. May I say you’ll see him?”

  “Yes. Tell him I shall be there straightaway.” Frederick eyed Oliver, but spoke to the other men. “Doctor, see Mr. Corwin out to the stable. Tell Ben to saddle the mare for him. Summerlin, pack his belongings and some food. He is not to set foot in this house again.” A quick glance told him they would follow his orders forthwith.

  “Oliver, I shall get the money for you shortly. I advise you to take the King’s Highway to St. Augustine. ’Tis a three-day ride, and there you will have your choice of ships.”

  “I—”

  “Stubble it.” Frederick left the room, swallowing the ache in his throat. He doubted he would ever know whether or not the pain in Oliver’s eyes was genuine.

  “A moment, sir.” Summerlin stopped Frederick and fussed with his clothing and hair. “Now, sir, go meet the major.”

  Again Frederick tamped down his emotions. Summerlin’s faithfulness stood in stark contrast to Oliver’s betrayal.

  At the drawing room door, he extended his hand toward his guest. “Major Brigham, I hope you and Lady Augusta have recovered from our excursion.”

  “Amazingly so.” Brigham shook his hand. “In fact, I think she will take great delight in regaling her friends in London with her tale of being rescued from the jaws of a dragon.” His eyes glinted with uncharacteristic cheerfulness.

  “Very good, sir. Will you sit?” Frederick waved his hand toward an upholstered chair. “I’ll send for lemonade.” He made motions to the butler by the door.

  “I will stay only a moment. I must return to the garrison and supervise the packing.”

  “Packing?” Frederick digested the thought for a moment. “Aha. Your transfer came through.”

  Brigham whisked a hand across his red jacket sleeve. “Yes. At last I’ll have a purpose for wearing this uniform.”

  Frederick found his high humor a welcome relief. “Very good, sir. I’m pleased on your behalf. Did you come to take your leave, then?”

  “Yes. I will leave in four days and wanted you to know of my good fortune.”

  “What of Lady Augusta?” Frederick asked. “Will she be regaling those friends in London sooner rather than later?”

  A shadow passed over Brigham’s brow. “I’d intended to send her home after the incident with the alligator, but the brave girl will have none of it. And there are other officers’ wives in Boston. It shouldn’t be a problem, as we will hold the city against the rebels. We have several thousand more troops arriving soon.”

  The butler carried in a refreshment tray and poured lemonade from a cut-glass pitcher into matching goblets. Both men partook.

  “Well, then.” Frederick eyed Brigham expectantly. “What other news?”

  “Ah, yes.” He drew out a sealed document from his jacket and handed it to Frederick. “From Governor Tonyn. He requires your presence back in the capital without delay. I’ve ordered a flatboat to take you to the coast this afternoon before the tides turn.”

  Frederick’s heart sank. This would delay his getting back to Rachel to assure her he was not angry about the soldier and for them to have their long-overdue discussion about their differences. Yet he had no choice but to obey Governor Tonyn’s orders, no matter what the personal cost to him or Rachel.

  “The pony cart is almost packed.” Rachel sat beside Sadie in the kitchen house while Papa and Mr. Patch helped Rob prepare for their departure.

  “Thank you, miss.” Sadie reclined on her cot beside her napping son. “With your help and Mr. Moberly buyin’ the livestock, we’ll be able to make it to Cuba.”

  Rachel ignored the disquieting emotion stirred by the mention of Frederick’s name. Instead, she studied Sadie’s expression. “You seem worried.”

  “Yes, miss. I ain’t never known any Indians, and all I’ve heard is they like to kill us English for sport.” She caressed her son’s unruly hair.

  “Do not be afraid. Papa has made friends with the Timucua people. They respect him, and for his sake, they will take good care of you until you are able to travel.”

  “I do hope so.”

  “And Inez will be there to take care of you, as well.”

  Sadie grasped Rachel’s hands. “Oh, miss, will you ever forgive me? I never meant to take your servant. I never thought to have a servant, bein’ one myself.”

  Rachel tried to smile, but her lower lip quivered. “But you can see God’s goodness in this, can you not? Inez has been separated from her sons for twelve years, since England took possession of East Florida. Now she can go to Cuba with you and find them.”

  “You’re good to look at it that way, miss.” Sadie dried her face on her sleeve.

  Soon Papa, Mr. Patch and Rob came to collect the other travelers. With last goodbyes said, Rachel watched the little band walk up the road toward the wilderness path.

  How she wished she could go to the plantation. But seeking Frederick out, even though they were engaged, would be improper and might offend dear Mrs. Winthrop. He had said he would return, and while she awaited his visit with a measure of trepidation, she anticipated their long-overdue conversation about the revolution. For somehow she must persuade him to the patriot cause.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Frederick did not come to see her. Even Papa did not return from the Timucua village. At dusk, Rachel bolted the front door, secured the kitchen house and back door, and then carried her dinner upstairs. By candlelight, she managed to force down some stew, although her appetite had long ago been chased away by anxious thoughts.

  The evening breeze blew in through the tall windows, carrying a refreshing pine scent and cooling the apartment. Raucous laughter and fiddle music came from the town’s remaining tavern a half mile away. The haunting yelp of a dog wafted in from the salt grass marshes, and Rachel shuddered. No doubt some poor pup had fallen prey to an alligator.

  She loaded one of Papa’s muskets and laid it on the dining table. Other than the man who attempted to burn the store
, no one had tried to harm them. But she would not be caught unprepared. New people came to the settlement every week, some like Papa fleeing the war up north, others perhaps to find wealth in the wilderness. But some might wish to cause trouble.

  A slender crescent moon rose outside her window. Papa still did not return. Rachel retired, but sleep would not come.

  She prayed for Papa’s safety, then reassured herself that he no doubt decided to stay the night in the village. He had proved his wilderness mettle, and her worries served no purpose.

  She prayed for Frederick, but could find no such reassurance. The Lord remained silent. After a restless night, she rose to open her Bible at dawn. Her ribbon bookmark lay beside Psalm 51, where one verse seemed prominent. Behold, Thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part Thou shalt make me to know wisdom.

  Certain she had been truthful with both the Lord and Frederick, she wondered why the verse lingered in her mind as she ate the remaining stew and went downstairs to open the store. Customers came and went. Clouds kept the sun’s usual heat at bay.

  Midmorning, Mr. Patch burst through the front door. “Miss Rachel, come quick.” His terror-filled eyes sent fear coursing through her. She hurried outside after him.

  “What—” At the front porch, she grasped the railing as light-headedness struck.

  Papa straddled his mule and lay against its neck not moving, perhaps not breathing.

  “Papa!” Rachel thrust away her weakness and rushed to him. “What happened?”

  Small but sturdy Mr. Patch grasped Papa’s waist and struggled to pull him down. “Snakebite. Rattler,” Mr. Patch managed through clenched teeth.

  “Is he alive?” Rachel choked out the question as she tried to help, to no avail. Papa weighed too much for the two of them and might be further injured if he fell to the ground.

  “Aye, Miss Rachel, and flaming with fever. It happened early this morning as we made our way home.” Mr. Patch blinked away tears. “After he was bit, he climbed up on old Kip here and passed out. I brought him as quick as I could without him falling off.”

  “You did well, Mr. Patch.” Forcing aside the fear that paralyzed her, Rachel looked around for help. Several soldiers on their rounds appeared down the street, and she screamed out to them. Led by her acquaintance, Bertie Martin, the men hastened to pull Papa gently from the mule and carry him upstairs to his bed.

  “I thank you all.” Rachel wiped away her tears and stared at Papa’s swollen calf and torn stockings. “Does anyone know what to do for a snakebite?”

  “He’d do best to have a doctor, Miss Rachel.” Private Martin’s anxious expression spoke of his concern for Papa.

  “Is it within your duties to fetch Dr. Wellsey from Bennington Plantation?” And Frederick. Surely he would come, even if he were still angry with her.

  “Yes, miss. We can do that.” Private Martin tilted his head toward the door, and the other soldiers followed him out.

  “Mr. Patch, get fresh springwater and towels from the kitchen house.” Rachel pulled off Papa’s shoes.

  “Aye, miss.” Mr. Patch dashed out.

  Her hands trembled as she removed Papa’s knife from its sheath and cut away the stocking on his wounded leg. Two punctures scarred the outside of his calf, and the skin stretched tight over the red, swollen limb. Rachel examined the wounds, wishing she could squeeze out the poison that even now caused his labored breathing. Perhaps Dr. Wellsey would bring leeches.

  “Lord, have mercy on Papa. Please do not let him die without knowing You.” Rachel bit back a sob. Papa would be all right. He was strong. He would fight off the poison.

  Mr. Patch brought the water, and Rachel washed Papa’s face and the wound. They replaced his shirt with a nightgown, and Rachel stepped into the hallway while Mr. Patch removed Papa’s breeches. Mr. Patch paced the room and wrung his hands, stopping every few minutes to stare at him, as if willing him to be well. His nervousness made Rachel’s struggle to stay calm all the harder.

  “Mr. Patch, please go downstairs and manage the store.”

  Mr. Patch’s face crinkled with worry. “Aye, miss.” He cast a last glance at Papa before leaving.

  Rachel paced for a few minutes herself, but then fetched her Bible and sat beside Papa’s bed. She read aloud the third chapter of John’s gospel, emphasizing verse sixteen, especially the last part, “whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life,” willing Papa to hear and believe. Then she read Mother’s most beloved verses, followed by her own favorites. Her voice grew weary from reading and praying.

  If Papa heard any of her words, he didn’t indicate it but continued his occasional groans and convulsions and his constantly labored breathing.

  In the late afternoon, Dr. Wellsey marched into the room carrying a leather bag. “Good day, Miss Folger.” He focused immediately on Papa, first checking the wound and then touching Papa’s neck and lifting his eyelids.

  “Rachel.” Mrs. Winthrop entered behind the doctor. “I am grieved for your father.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Winthrop.” Rachel hurried to the older woman’s open arms and released her pent-up tears.

  “There, my dear.” Mrs. Winthrop patted Rachel’s back. “We will do all we can.” Her voice wavered with emotion.

  Rachel lifted her head and peered around Mrs. Winthrop. “Frederick?”

  She shook her head. “He could not come, my dear.”

  Could not or would not? Rachel had thought she could not endure any more heartache, but this cut even deeper.

  While Dr. Wellsey studied Papa’s wound, Mrs. Winthrop moved to the bed and leaned close, concern deepening the wrinkles around her eyes. “Mr. Folger.” She reached a gloved hand toward his cheek, but drew back and seemed to swallow a sob. With a little sniff, she tore off her gloves and reached for the cloth and bowl of water on the bedside table, wiping sweat from his face with a tenderness that caused Rachel more tears.

  Dr. Wellsey applied a green poultice to the snakebite. It smelled of bear grease and some sort of weed. Rachel almost gagged, and Mrs. Winthrop coughed discreetly.

  All this time, a question nagged Rachel. Now it burned too much to keep it to herself.

  “Mrs. Winthrop,” she whispered, “you said Mr. Moberly could not come.” She hoped her tone didn’t convey an accusation of neglect. “Did plantation business keep him?”

  Mrs. Winthrop arched her eyebrows. “Why, no, my dear. He is fond of your father and certainly would have come if he were home. But he was summoned back to St. Augustine.”

  “St. Augustine?” Hope lifted Rachel’s heart. He had not disregarded Papa’s life-and-death struggle, after all.

  Mrs. Winthrop glanced at Papa. “Your father is in Dr. Wellsey’s capable hands. Let us go to the drawing room.” She led Rachel to a chair by the hearth and sat opposite her. “After our party left the city, Governor Tonyn received further information about the fighting up north. This is no longer a minor civil war easily dispensed with. The rebels are growing stronger. In May, they overran Fort Ticonderoga in New York colony and stole British cannons and ammunition to use against our own soldiers. In June, Boston suffered a siege, and many of our soldiers were killed or wounded.”

  Rachel’s heart made several leaps. Praise God the patriots had conquered a British fort and secured weapons. And no doubt the siege of Boston included the Breed’s Hill event Mrs. Middlebrook had whispered about in those early morning hours in St. Augustine.

  “But why did that news require Frederick to go back to the capital?” A nauseating premonition swept through Rachel.

  “According to the letter from the governor, more loyalists are coming to East Florida to escape the insurrection. Hidden among them are spies for the rebels. The governor has evidence that some are already here. Can you believe it? Spies, right here in our peaceful colony.” She exhaled a weary sigh. “Why do people do such things?”

  “But…Frederick?”

  “Why, my dear, as His Majesty’s repres
entative in this area, he must learn all he can so as to apprehend those spies.” Her tired eyes shone with pride. “When Mr. Moberly read the governor’s letter to me, you could see his outrage. You can be certain no rebel sympathizer will go undetected. No spy will escape.”

  “He was angry?” Rachel’s voice was thick.

  Mrs. Winthrop nodded soberly. “You know our dear Mr. Moberly is a moderate, even-tempered young man, but he stormed about the house, slamming doors and muttering under his breath. Were he not such a gentleman and a Christian, I fear he might have, well, uttered an oath. He was quite upset.”

  Rachel swallowed hard, and the ache in her chest restricted her breathing. Frederick knew where her sentiments lay, and all this time he had hinted he had no quarrel with the patriot cause. What a fool she’d been. Now her morning verse made sense. God desired that truth should dwell in His children, and she had endeavored to be truthful. But Frederick had done nothing short of lying to her. He would never support the revolution, would do all he could to stop it. If she learned anything helpful and tried to relay it to her fellow patriots, Frederick would be required to have her arrested.

  Sick with dismay, she forced her thoughts back to Papa, whose danger was more imminent than her own. “We must see how Papa is faring.”

  “Yes, of course, my dear.” Mrs. Winthrop rose. “And let your heart be encouraged. Dr. Wellsey has used that snakebite ointment on several slaves to good effect. He learned of it from the Indians.”

  When they returned to Papa’s bedchamber, Dr. Wellsey was checking the poultice.

  “It would have been more effective if I had applied this right after the bite.” He seemed to speak to himself. “Nevertheless, we hope it will draw out the poison.” He looked at Rachel. “I will be happy to stay with you until his crisis passes. Mrs. Winthrop insisted on accompanying me for propriety’s sake.”

  “I’m grateful to both of you.” Rachel’s head and heart had been buffeted from all sides, but she must see to her duties. “I’ll order food from the tavern.”