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  “Humph. Let those rebels look to their own feet.” He hammered her shoe with considerable force. “After they tarred and feathered Judge Morgan for speaking against their wicked rebellion, any sensible man would take his family elsewhere.” He held up the repaired shoe and rubbed it with an oil-stained cloth. “Just let those rebels dare come to East Florida. We’re raising a militia here, and there’ll be no mercy for any who rise up against the Crown.”

  Rachel gulped back a tart reply. Clearly this man was not the unknown patriot seeking to stir up sympathy for the cause. She would have taken her shoe and left, but Papa would only send her back. Ordering the slippers helped her collect her emotions. Mr. Shoemaker agreed to send his oldest daughter to Papa’s store for the needed fabric, and the two men would negotiate the payments.

  Glad to leave the stuffy shop, she breathed in the warm, fresh breeze drifting down the street. To her right, loud voices drew her attention to the common. She glanced at Papa’s store and back toward the crowd. Once again her feet seemed determined to carry her there. This time she did not deny the impulse.

  To her relief, several women from the settlement and nearby plantations stood among the men on the newly planted grass poking through the dark, sandy soil. She stayed at the edge of the crowd, surprised to see Mr. Moberly seated at a rough table beneath a spreading oak tree. He was writing in a leather-bound ledger. So this was how he dispensed his duties as magistrate. Rachel’s feet once again seemed to move of their own will, drawing her closer to him.

  In front of Mr. Moberly’s table stood a barefoot young man in rags with his hands tied behind his back and fear in his eyes. Nearby stood a man whom Rachel recognized as the owner of a small plantation close to the village. He held in his arms a plump pink piglet that wiggled and squealed until he covered it with a burlap bag.

  Laughter and rude comments from the crowd nearly sent Rachel on her way, but she could not bring herself to leave. Surely the Lord had directed her steps to this place so she might learn more about Mr. Moberly through his judgments.

  She noticed two red-coated soldiers beside a hangman’s noose that dangled from a branch of the vast tree, and an icy shiver ran through her from head to toe. Several yards away, out in the sun, newly made wooden stocks suggested a less severe sentence. But in this East Florida heat, who could endure even that?

  A storm of emotions swirled through Rachel. The young man must have stolen the piglet. Such a crime must not go unpunished. Praying for justice and mercy, she found herself barely able to breathe.

  Frederick felt the urge to squirm like the hapless young man who stood bound and trembling before him. He hated holding court, hated making judgments, hated having the eyes of everyone in the settlement look to him for wisdom. Why Father had arranged for him to be the magistrate, he could not guess. And with Oliver leaning against the trunk of the oak tree, arms crossed and chin lifted, Frederick felt certain whatever he did would be reported to the earl…and would be wrong.

  Heretofore, the disputes had been easy to solve: uncertain boundary lines, drunken brawling, that sort of nonsense. But the theft of a pig must be dealt with severely. In England this thief most likely would be hanged. Surely in this remote part of East Florida, where men sometimes were forced to do desperate things in order to survive, English law need not be enforced to its fullest extent. And after reading of former Governor Grant’s harsh decision in a similar case where he sentenced the hapless servant to death by hanging, Frederick shrank from inflicting such an unforgiving sentence. Should a Christian not offer mercy and redemption to the miscreant?

  Frederick surveyed the crowd, glad that the broad brim of his hat shielded his eyes from their view. He kept his mouth in a grim line and assumed a stiff, formal posture. In the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Folger approach, and his heart sank. He must not look at her, must not care what she thought of his coming decision. He must forget her, forget Father, forget Oliver, forget everything but the men in conflict before him.

  Lord, grant me wisdom as You have promised in the Holy Scriptures.

  “Mr. Baker, come forward.” Frederick beckoned the pig’s owner.

  Shifting the sack holding the pig, the man snatched off his hat and then stepped up to the table beside the accused. “Yes, sir.”

  “This is your indentured servant, John Gilbert? And that is your pig?” Frederick pointed to the sack.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Frederick noticed that Baker’s expression held more worry than anger. Interesting. Did he hope for leniency or vengeance?

  “Now, John, you have been accused of stealing this pig. Did you do it?”

  Misery clouded the lad’s blue eyes. “Aye, sir. ’Twas not just fer meself. Mr. Baker don’t feed us aught but gruel. A man’s gotta have meat now and then or he can’t work the land.”

  Frederick saw color rush to Baker’s cheeks. He did not deny the charge.

  Lord, grant me the wisdom of Solomon. Frederick recalled that Governor Grant had required one man under judgment to hang his more blameworthy friends.

  “Well, Mr. Baker, this man belongs to you to do with as you will. If you want him hanged, you will do it yourself.” Frederick pointed his quill pen toward the noose hanging from the oak tree.

  A great gasp and much murmuring rose from the crowd, some approving, some grumbling. Frederick would not permit himself to look at Miss Folger to see what her reaction might be.

  “Now, Mr. Moberly, sir,” Mr. Baker said, “if I hang him, I’m out a servant to work my land. I paid his fare to these shores, and he owes me six more years.”

  Frederick shrugged. “Then what do you consider a just punishment?”

  Baker scratched his head. He glanced toward the stocks. “Forty lashes and a week in the stocks should teach ’im a lesson.”

  And kill him in the process. Frederick set down his quill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Three days in the stocks and ten lashes afterward. And you will scourge him yourself.”

  Baker’s posture slumped, and he hung his head. After several moments, he gave John Gilbert a sidelong glance, then raised his eyes to Frederick. “That’ll do justice. Thank you, sir.”

  The crowd burst into cheers and applause. John Gilbert slumped to the ground on his knees. “God bless ya, Mr. Moberly, sir. God bless ya.”

  Emotion flooded Frederick’s chest, but he managed a gruff dismissal. “Are there other quarrels?”

  With none coming forward, Frederick made notes in his ledger, blotted the ink, and closed the book. As the crowd dispersed, he cast a hasty glance at Miss Folger and barely contained a smile. Her head was tilted prettily, and a look of wonder filled her lovely face. Once again he swallowed a rush of emotion. Whether or not his judgment had been correct, her obvious approval was all he required.

  Rachel knew she must turn and walk away like the others, but her feet refused to move. To her relief, Mr. Moberly approached her. She struggled to think of a Scripture verse to relate to him in praise of his decision. But she could think only of some words from Shakespeare that nonetheless imparted an eternal truth: The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

  “Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly gave her that boyish smile of his that belied his august position. “What brings you to the common on this lovely day?”

  Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at his well-polished black boots, now covered with sand. “Just a trip to the cobbler.”

  “Ah. And did Mr. Shoemaker serve you well?”

  She looked up to see a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Indeed he did.” At least with her shoe.

  “Very good.” He nodded his approval. “If I am not being too bold, may I escort you to your father’s mercantile?”

  Happiness swept through her. On the way, she could recite her Shakespeare to compliment his judgment. “That would be—”

  “Moberly.” Mr. Corwin approached the
m with a determined stride. He barely glanced at Rachel. “The tavern keeper had a visit from that rabble-rouser last evening. He can give us a description.”

  Mr. Moberly drew in his lips and shot a cross look at his friend. “I am certain he can wait for an hour.”

  Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. The patriot was still at work.

  “No, he cannot wait.” Mr. Corwin’s frown matched Mr. Moberly’s. “He must meet his suppliers on the coast before nightfall.”

  Mr. Moberly blew out a cross sigh. “Miss Folger, will you forgive me?”

  “Of course.” A riot of confusion filled her mind. How could she long to become better acquainted with this gentleman when he represented everything she opposed?

  For the briefest moment, she thought to delay him so he would miss learning more about the patriot. Or she could follow him and try to discern the man’s identity herself. But both actions would be shocking improprieties. She would wait until next Saturday’s party at Mr. Moberly’s plantation. Surely there she would learn something useful to the revolution.

  Chapter Six

  “Are you certain I should wear this one?” Frederick studied his reflection in the bedroom mirror while his manservant fussed with the turned back tails of the gray linen coat. “Why not the red brocade?”

  “Sir, if you will permit me, the red most assuredly is your finest coat.” Summerlin brushed lint from the gray garment’s padded shoulders. “However, I despair that you would waste it on these rustics.” His lip curled. “Should you not save it for the day when you are called once again to the capital of this wilderness?”

  Frederick shot him a disapproving glance in the mirror, but Summerlin had shifted his attention to the lace at Frederick’s cuffs. Never mind. He hated to scold the old fellow, who had been ordered by Frederick’s father to leave the comforts of London and come to East Florida, a crushing change for a man in his fifties. Perhaps he was another spy like Oliver, sent to make certain Frederick brought no scandal upon the family, as his brothers had. But, white hair and stooped shoulders notwithstanding, Summerlin’s talents as a valet could not be matched.

  “Very well. I shall accept your choice of attire but not your attitude toward my guests.” Frederick kept his tone soft. “Some of these ‘rustics’ can be quite charming, not to mention intelligent and clever at business.”

  Summerlin straightened in his odd way and stared at Frederick. “Charming, sir? Oh, dear. Has some young lady caught my master’s eye?” The clarity in his pale blue eyes and the half smile at the corner of his thin lips removed any doubts about where his loyalty lay. “Well, then, perhaps the red—”

  “No, this will do.” Frederick breathed in the orange and bergamot cologne Summerlin had concocted for him. “Now that I think of it, if I were to dress as for an audience with the governor, my clothing might intimidate my guests. Since my purpose is to ensure their loyalty to the Crown and foster a feeling of community, I should avoid strutting before them like a peacock.”

  “Ah, well said, young sir.” Approval emanated from Summerlin’s eyes such as Frederick had longed for in vain from his father. “Lady Bennington would be proud.”

  Summerlin’s words further encouraged him. Indeed, Mother would understand his choice of clothes, despite her own exquisite wardrobe, for she always sought to make even the lowliest of her guests comfortable.

  “Forgive me, sir, for disparaging your new friends.” Summerlin glanced over his shoulder toward the closed bedroom door and bent toward Frederick with a confidential air. “I am your servant in all things.”

  Frederick mirrored his move. “Thank you. But there will be no trysts. The young lady will be courted properly.” He caught Summerlin’s gaze. “Only time will tell, of course, but I believe Miss Folger is all I could wish for in a wife.”

  Serene comprehension washed over Summerlin’s face, softening his pale wrinkles. “As I said, sir, I am your servant in all things.”

  A sharp rap sounded on the door. “Moberly, your guests are arriving.” Oliver’s tone sounded almost jovial.

  Summerlin’s expression flickered with distaste for the briefest instant before giving way to his customary formal air. In that half second, Frederick knew without doubt that his devoted servant had purposely left Oliver’s letter on his desk, and warmth filled his chest, as it had over Templeton’s friendship.

  Father would sneer at his idea of calling these lower-class men “friends,” but Frederick could consider them nothing less. And how relieved he had been to discover that Templeton was not the agitator, as Corwin had suggested.

  “Coming, Corwin.” Frederick strode toward the door.

  Summerlin hobbled close behind, brushing lint from Frederick’s coat all the way. “Have a good evening, sir.”

  Visions of the lovely Miss Folger danced before Frederick’s eyes as he grasped the door latch. “That I shall, my good man. That I shall.”

  The wagon rattled along the well-packed sand and seashell road beneath a canopy of oak, pine and cypress trees. Seated beside Papa on the driver’s bench, Rachel held her poorly mended parasol overhead while the late afternoon sun blasted its heat through the tree branches. Perspiration had begun to wilt her freshly pressed gown, and her curls threatened to unwind. Nevertheless, excitement filled her as she anticipated the party. She would try to discover if the patriot was among the guests. And she hoped to find the opportunity to tell Mr. Moberly how much she admired his wisdom in the case of the stolen pig.

  Savoring the fragrances of the tropical forests, she studied the undergrowth for evidence of panthers, bears or poisonous snakes. Papa had assured her that this road lay too far from water for them to chance upon an alligator, yet she watched for them, as well. Several times she thought to have seen one of those fearsome dragons only to realize the object was a fallen tree.

  As they rounded a stand of palm trees and a large white building came into view, Papa pointed with his wagon whip and whistled. “Thar she blows. Now that’s a house, if ever I saw one.”

  Rachel laughed at his understatement even as her own feelings swelled. The two-storied mansion sat elevated several feet off the ground on a coquina foundation. A broad wooden porch extended across the wide front, and four white Doric columns supported the porch roof. Eight tall front windows, four on each floor, suggested airy rooms inside.

  The blue and red bunting Mr. Moberly had purchased from the store now hung around the columns in a festive display. Their crisscross pattern against the white background vaguely suggested the British flag, a nettling reminder to Rachel of who ruled this land. With some effort, she dismissed the unpleasant thought. Even if their host had deliberately hung them that way, he was after all an Englishman who no doubt loved his homeland.

  On the left side of the main house, smoke curled from the kitchen house’s chimney, and a warm breeze carried the aroma of roasting pork.

  “That’ll set a man’s mouth to watering.” Papa steered his two mules into the semicircular drive before the front entrance, where several liveried black grooms awaited.

  As Papa pulled the reins, one groom grasped the harness, and another stood ready to take control of the equipage. Rachel saw Mr. Moberly hastening from the house, followed by a slave carrying a small white boxstep. At the sight of him, finely dressed but by no means haughty, her heart missed a beat.

  Papa jumped to the ground and hobbled to her side of the wagon. But Mr. Moberly reached her first.

  “Good evening. Welcome.” Mr. Moberly shook Papa’s hand. “Will you permit me to assist your daughter, Mr. Folger?”

  “As ye will.” Papa bowed.

  “Put it here.” Mr. Moberly motioned to the slave and indicated a spot on the ground. “Miss Folger, may I?” He held out both white-gloved hands.

  “Yes, thank you.” She grasped them with pleasure, and her face warmed as she climbed from the wagon. Never in her life had she received such attention.

  “Welcome to Bennington Plantation.” Mr. Moberly offered Rach
el his arm. “Won’t you please come inside?”

  The entrance to the house was a welcoming red door with an oval etched-glass window. Inside they were introduced to Mr. Moberly’s cousin, a tall, older woman.

  “Do come in. We’re pleased to have you.” Mrs. Winthrop wore a black linen gown, and her hair was pinned back in a roll. A kind look lit her finely lined face, and her voice resonated with sincerity.

  Dr. Wellsey greeted the newcomers, and even Mr. Corwin spoke pleasantly to them. They met a Reverend Johnson and his wife, and the minister invited them to his church services. To Rachel’s surprise and delight, Papa accepted. Mrs. Johnson, however, showed no interest in further conversation.

  Several other couples were in attendance, and Rachel studied each face upon introduction trying to discern if any of them might be the patriot. Although everyone seemed friendly, not one person lifted an eyebrow upon meeting the Folgers from Boston. Had they not heard of the British invasion and the battles of Lexington and Concord?

  While servants passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and cups of citrus punch, the men stood in a group and chatted about crops and weather. Rachel passed by as one man mentioned the “agitator” who frequented the taverns, and she glanced about the group to see if anyone appeared nervous. Not one expression informed her.

  “The problem is,” Mr. Moberly said, “his description does not match anyone we know along the St. Johns River or in the settlement. So, if you see a stout fellow with a long red beard, do mention it to the nearest soldier.”

  While the other men accepted the charge without much concern, Rachel felt a tremor of delight. Now she had one description, but perhaps there were other patriots.

  She joined the other ladies, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room making polite conversation about the challenges of living in the wilderness. The youngest woman in the group, Rachel listened more than she spoke, as propriety demanded. But she prayed for an opportunity to mention the matter close to her heart. In Boston, all the talk had been of the revolution. Here, none of the women seemed aware that their counterparts up north were sewing uniforms for their soldier husbands and weeping for those who had died for freedom’s sake a short two months ago.