Love Thine Enemy Page 9

  Rachel could barely withhold a gasp. She could not think it proper for such an elegant lady to engage in such work. Yet turning her down would be an insult. “How kind, ma’am. I do not know how to thank you.” She glanced at Papa, whose face radiated his delight. Rachel wondered how long they had chatted before he called her downstairs.

  “No thanks are necessary, my dear. I would imagine the task will take some time, perhaps all day. Shall we get started?” Mrs. Winthrop laughed, a pleasing sound. “Forgive me. I do not intend to manage things, merely to help you.”

  “I am very grateful,” Rachel said. “And I will appreciate every suggestion. Shall we go?” She turned toward the burlap-covered door to the back room, aware of the store’s humble look compared to Mr. Moberly’s grand house. A sudden longing filled her. How pleasant it would be to have a proper front door where she could greet her guests.

  Mrs. Winthrop followed her up the rough wooden staircase and looked about the apartment with an appraising eye. “What excellent accommodations and what spacious rooms.” Her maternal kindness radiated from her gray eyes. “Nothing invigorates me more than a scheme of this nature.”

  Her own energies renewed, Rachel found Mother’s cut-glass vase for the gardenias and set them on the maple dining table. Their scent filled the room with a fragrance as sweet and welcome as Mrs. Winthrop’s offered friendship. Perhaps this new home would be happier than expected.

  They spent the morning unpacking china and other small items. After a quick midday meal, they proceeded to the trunk in Rachel’s room. In it, Mrs. Winthrop found a small framed drawing of Rachel’s mother. “She was quite lovely.”

  Rachel gazed at the picture. “Yes, ma’am. But she did scold my sister for sketching her likeness, for she considered it a vanity.” A soft chuckle escaped her.

  “Ah, yes. But then, perhaps the Quakers are correct in their humility. There is far too much vanity and selfishness in this world.”

  “I agree. That is why your kind help means so much.” Rachel bent over her trunk, and musty but pleasant ocean smells met her senses, stirring memories of her carefree childhood on Nantucket’s windswept shores.

  Mrs. Winthrop reached across to pat Rachel’s hand. “It is my privilege.”

  The gentle expression in her gray eyes brought a lump to Rachel’s throat. Were the lady not Mr. Moberly’s kinswoman, Rachel would confide in her regarding him.

  “What have we here?” Mrs. Winthrop unwrapped a carved whalebone fan and spread it open to reveal intricate lacelike filigree. “What delicate workmanship.”

  “Isn’t it exquisite? Papa carved it for Mother on one of his whaling voyages.”

  Mrs. Winthrop tilted her head. “Indeed? Your father is a gifted artist.” Her cheeks grew pink, and she waved the fan in front of her face. “How useful here in the tropics.”

  Rachel wanted to laugh. Instead of thinking about her own hopeless romantic interests, she should foster the romance right in front of her. “Papa has many talents.”

  “And a prodigious wit, as well.”

  “I’m pleased you think so.” Rachel was smitten with playfulness. “A man who has been long at sea can forget his manners. But I have noticed that in your presence, he remembers them very well.”

  “Oh, my. Well, a true gentleman does not require much reminding.” Mrs. Winthrop waved the fan with vigor. “Do you mind if I use this?” She glanced at her wrist. “Oh, I have my own.” She set down the borrowed one and used her own. “My, this East Florida heat.”

  Rachel ignored the lady’s chagrin. “Indeed, it can be quite oppressive.”

  Mrs. Winthrop lifted a drawing of Papa from the trunk. “It must be difficult for a man to lose his wife and be left with two young daughters, especially when his work takes him to sea.” She held Mother’s portrait side by side with Papa’s. “Perhaps just as difficult as being left with three unruly sons but having to spend all of one’s time in the king’s service instead of seeing to their behavior.”

  A little twinge struck Rachel’s heart. “Of whom do you speak, madam?” Mr. Moberly had mentioned being a younger son. Had he grown up without a mother’s care?

  “Lord Bennington, the proprietor of this settlement.”

  “Mr. Moberly’s father?” Rachel risked another question. “What did Lord Bennington do about his sons?”

  Mrs. Winthrop’s eyebrows arched. “Why, he remarried, of course, as soon as he could do so within propriety.” She set the pictures on Rachel’s desk. “To my cousin Maria, who presented him with two more children, young Frederick and his sister, Lady Marianne.” She heaved a great sigh. “Alas, dear Maria could do nothing with those three older boys, rapscallions all. They grew up entirely untamed.”

  Rachel’s mind spun with more questions. Mr. Moberly had a sister, a titled sister. Why did he not have a title?

  “May I ask…” Mrs. Winthrop set a pewter vase on the desk. “How did your father see to your care?”

  Rachel hesitated. Would Mrs. Winthrop think it scandalous? “He took me on his next whaling voyage.”

  Her eyebrows arched again. She appeared not quite shocked, but perhaps amazed and even a little amused. “Gracious, young lady! What an adventure you had. No wonder you are doing well here in East Florida. You are a hardy soul.”

  Relief filled Rachel’s heart. “Thank you. I was eleven when Mother died, and Papa had difficulty deciding what to do with me. After the voyage, I went to live with my married sister in Boston.” Curiosity prompted another question. “Did Mr. Moberly take after his older brothers?”

  “Mercy, no. He and Lady Marianne have brought nothing but joy to their mother. Lady Bennington is a woman of great faith, and she personally saw to their catechisms.” Seated beside the trunk once more, Mrs. Winthrop folded her hands in her lap. “She is also the soul of generosity. My Mr. Winthrop died not long before her marriage, and my sweet cousin insisted I come to live under Lord Bennington’s protection.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “She would have nothing else for her wedding gift from him.”

  Rachel struggled to stop her own sudden tears. “A true Christian.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. Winthrop bowed her head. “My, I did not intend to speak of such things.” A frown crossed her brow, but it softened. “What I did intend to say was this. Mr. Moberly is a kindhearted soul like his mother. A true gentleman. And he is so utterly mortified by his behavior on Saturday evening that he has enlisted my assistance in ascertaining whether he has lost all hope in regard to…becoming your friend.”

  At first, the words seemed so implausible Rachel could not grasp them. Her throat constricted, preventing any response other than a tiny, silly squeak. To think he had confessed his misdeed to his kinswoman.

  Mrs. Winthrop’s eyes twinkled. “Miss Folger, your face is a study. May I assume you are amenable to friendship with Mr. Moberly?”

  Rachel thought her head might explode. Friendship? He desired friendship with her? His coolness and strange responses had not been a snub or suspicion but, rather, continued mortification over his actions. She recalled Mr. Corwin’s claim that Mr. Moberly was smitten with her, but she had not believed him. Nor had she accepted Mr. Corwin’s offer to advise her as to how she might “snare” Mr. Moberly. Instead, she had politely thanked him, then walked away before he could further insult her. Now this kind lady had made a milder, yet just as startling claim. But could she, should she accept such a connection with him, knowing where it might lead? Knowing where it must not lead?

  “Oh, dear lady.” She stood and paced across the room. “How shall I respond?” Returning to kneel in front of Mrs. Winthrop, she grasped the lady’s hands, breathing in the delicate gardenia fragrance clinging to her. “In your eyes, I see no deception, only goodness and truth. You must answer me truly. How can Mr. Moberly, an earl’s son, seek a pure and proper friendship with a shopkeeper’s daughter?” Until this moment, the attraction she felt for him had seemed a foolish fancy. Yet even if he felt an equal attraction to her, were t
hey not mad to think a romance could follow? Every force of man and nature seemed against it.

  Sadness flickered over Mrs. Winthrop’s face. “I cannot promise you an easy path, my dear. But having loved deeply and without regret myself, I would not deny it to anyone else.”

  Rachel stared up into her kind gray eyes. “Then we each must count the cost before taking even the first step down that path.”

  Mrs. Winthrop caressed Rachel’s cheek with her soft, smooth fingers. “You are wise for one so young.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Only time will reveal whether that is true or not.”

  “Then you will receive him?”

  A giddy laugh bubbled up from within her.

  “Yes, I will receive him.”

  Frederick paced the inn’s taproom, his boot heels thumping noisily against the wooden floors. He ignored the nervous glances and murmuring of the off-duty soldiers lolling about the nearby tables. These men steered a wide berth around their magistrate and showed almost reverential respect when they did encounter him. Frederick supposed it worked to his advantage, for people had treated his father with a similar cautious respect, but even after more than two years, he had yet to become accustomed to it.

  Would that Oliver held the same respect for him. Just this morning Frederick had discovered another betrayal. Clear discrepancies had appeared among Oliver’s financial reports to Father, the books he kept for the plantation and the funds in Frederick’s safe. Did Oliver think he would not be found out? Now Frederick must confront him, a task he dreaded almost as much as receiving another letter of censure from Father.

  At every thought of Father, Frederick prayed that Captain Templeton would find favor with the old earl. Surely the man would make a good impression on Father, proving to him that Frederick possessed good judgment and an astute business sense. And Mr. Folger had made it clear he welcomed Frederick’s patronage and partnership. Now if only he could receive the same welcome from Miss Folger, he would be more than satisfied.

  The hot breeze blowing through the windows carried the smell of pigs and other barnyard creatures and made normal breathing a chore. The proprietor really should keep his animals farther from the inn. Frederick would speak to him in that regard.

  What on earth was keeping Mrs. Winthrop? Surely it could not take long to unpack a few trinkets and trifles, have a bit of conversation—about him, of course—and have done with it.

  Frederick sat down at a rough-hewn table. How foolish and selfish of him to think Cousin Lydie would be content with a pretense of helping Miss Folger. The old dear would have her elbows deep into the packing barrels. She might not want to leave until the entire project had been completed. Frederick would not have her any other way.

  “Mr. Moberly, sir?” The innkeeper approached him. “Yer man Ben’s out back. He asked me to tell ya the lady’s ready to leave. Will ya have a drink afore you go, sir?”

  “No.” His pulse racing, Frederick dug a coin from his waistcoat and handed it to the man. “But I thank you for the message, my good man.”

  He hurried out the front door to meet Ben.

  “Missus Winthrop’s called for the rig, sir. I’ll fetch it from the livery barn.”

  “Very good, Ben. I’ll ride down and meet her.”

  His horse Essex quickly covered the half mile from the inn to the mercantile, where Frederick peered in the window and observed Mrs. Winthrop perusing the shop’s wares with Miss Folger. At the doorbell’s jingle, the ladies turned to greet him. Mrs. Winthrop gave him a triumphant smile. Miss Folger blushed.

  His pulse hammering, Frederick swept off his hat and bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies. I hope the day has been productive.”

  “Prodigiously so.” Mrs. Winthrop donned her straw bonnet. “Shall I assume Ben is awaiting me outside?”

  “Indeed he is.” Frederick hoped his grin did not appear foolish. “May I take you to your chariot, my lady?”

  “No, no.” She gave her head a little shake. “You need not bother. Ben can assist me. I am certain you have other business to attend to.”

  “Ah, very good.”

  “Good day, Miss Folger.” Mrs. Winthrop passed by Frederick with a swish of her skirts and a hint of gardenia.

  Frederick gazed at Miss Folger, and she returned the same.

  “This is madness, you know.” Her sober expression belied the lilt in her voice. “You are mad, and so am I.”

  He chuckled, a strained and foolish sound in his own ears. “But it is a merry madness, do you not agree?”

  She looked down, as if trying to hide the smile spread across her lovely face. A blond curl fell over her cheek, a mere wisp, delicate like her.

  He longed to brush it back, to lift her chin, to reclaim her gaze. But he dared not risk another temptation to kiss her. So he cleared his throat and glanced about the room, trying to discover some safe topic of conversation. He settled at last upon a bolt of blue gauze.

  “Miss Folger, I admired your exquisite gown the other evening.” Perhaps not the best beginning, for he would not wish her to recall his blunder. “Most ladies would hide the bolt—” he pointed to it “—so no other lady could purchase the same material.”

  She glanced at the fabric, and the pensiveness in her eyes gave him pause. Had he spoken amiss? The air here in the shop, with its strange mix of cinnamon, lavender and new leather, was decidedly more pleasant than in the inn, but he still found it difficult to breathe.

  “I must admit I was tempted to hide it.” She gave a charming little shrug. “But gauze is hard to come by, and Papa will make a tidy sum on the remainder. I could not deny him that.” Her melodious voice shook slightly.

  “Ah. The dutiful daughter. I understand.”

  Her face took on a beguiling radiance. “I believe you do. And that brings up a matter that deeply concerns me. I would not have you disappoint your parents.”

  Frederick felt as if he had been struck in the chest. She had uncovered the core of his dilemma, for he did not yet know if he could surrender all his former dreams for the sake of marrying her. Could she help him reason it out? “But may a man not decide his own destiny? Must he always seek his parents’ approval?”

  Voices sounded on the street. Frederick hoped desperately the speakers would not enter the store. He felt tempted to lock the door, but that would reek of impropriety.

  Her lips formed a pretty little bow, and her brow wrinkled, as if she were considering his question. “You must count the cost, Mr. Moberly. You have more to lose than I. No doubt your father will disown you or, at the very least, devise some form of discipline for you.”

  “Perhaps so. Perhaps not. But what of you? I would not have you suffer on my account.”

  “I risk only my heart, as women have done since time began.”

  He turned his hat in his hands. “If your heart suffered, I would grieve being the cause of it.” A memory surfaced. “Someone once told me that in America every man has the opportunity to earn his fortune and his place in society. As a younger son, I will inherit no part of my father’s fortune, for it is entailed by law to my eldest brother. Perhaps it is time for me to earn my own.”

  If a man could snap his fingers and bring forth light, it might resemble the brilliance in Miss Folger’s eyes, in her entire beautiful face.

  “Why, then, sir, I believe our friendship might prosper, after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rachel continued to study Mr. Moberly’s handsome face, which reflected her own happiness.

  “Shall I call for tea?” Her decision made to receive him, she relaxed at last. Until this moment, she had felt as if her feet were rooted into the floor, and all her senses seemed suspended. Now the fragrance of lavender wafted about her, and the day’s heat felt like a cozy caress. “We can sit over there.” She pointed toward the table and chairs in the corner.

  “Alas, I must see to matters at home.” A wry grimace claimed his handsome features. “Duty is a cruel master to tear me away just now
, but unfortunately I must obey.”

  “Of course.” Her mind churned with dozens of questions, for she longed to learn more about him without delay. “I understand.”

  “I fear that same duty will keep me at the plantation throughout the week. But perhaps on Sunday you and Mr. Folger will come for dinner?” His hopeful, eager expression soothed her disappointment.

  “I shall ask Papa. He loves fine cooking, so I do not imagine he’ll say no.”

  Mr. Moberly chuckled. “I do not exclude myself when I say that describes most men.”

  “Indeed? Then I shall return the invitation. Will you dine with us the following Sunday?” Rachel decided to offer a modest boast. “I would be pleased to discover if you like my mutton stew, a specialty my mother taught me to make when I was a child.”

  He stared at her for a moment, his mouth open slightly. “You cook?”

  “Why, of course I cook.” She laughed but quickly sobered, for earnest concern emanated from his eyes.

  For the longest moment, they merely looked at each other. Rachel could think of nothing to say, and she could see from his slackened jaw that he was struggling to grasp her revelation. Her own memories added to her turmoil, for she recalled that the wealthy ladies in Boston disdained such common chores. Rachel would not ask if Lady Bennington or Lady Marianne prepared the family meals. For as surely as cooking had been a part of her training for womanhood, it just as surely would have been consigned to servants in the home in which Mr. Moberly had been reared. By confessing her skill, she no doubt reminded him of the stark differences between their classes.

  This attempt at friendship was a mistake. Never mind that everyone required food to survive or that people of wealth demanded meals tasting nothing short of splendid. Ladies of his social rank simply did not cook.

  “I say, Miss Folger.” His face brightened. “No wonder your good father depends upon you. Is there anything you cannot do?”

  Rachel turned away to hide a grin, while her sinking heart returned to its proper moorings.