Emily's Vow (14 page)

"My apologies, sir. I hoped you'd remember me. Major John Bradley of the light horse regiment." He tipped his hat to Emily's father.

Emily's muscles tightened like a wet leather strap drying in the sun. Of course. John. She gazed in shock at her former admirer.

"You've grown up," her father said. "My apologies for not recognizing you in that uniform. How fares your father?"

"I know not." John cleared his throat as he returned her father's steady appraisal. "I have not spoken to him in some years now. Not since he lost his senses and became a patriot." He sneered as he spat out the last word.

Emily stared at the man she once knew. John had certainly changed during the intervening years, transforming from a kind, happy lad to a hardened, suspicious young man. His loyalist views now conflicted with everything Emily believed.

Growing up on neighboring plantations, she once fantasized he embodied her ideal man, coming to rescue her and spending the rest of their lives together like in the stories. His strong features and lighthearted attitude had spoken to her and mirrored her outlook on life. He had kissed her—the first boy to do so—when she turned fourteen. Heat rose in her cheeks as the chance encounter that led to the clandestine intimacy played in her memory.

She had been exploring the expanse of fields at her uncle's plantation, checking on the apple and plum trees and the pasture fences for her uncle and riding her favorite mare, Jewel. She paused at a stream to let her sweaty horse drink. John rode up on his way home, crossing the path winding between the two properties. He dismounted, and they had talked and laughed while their horses rested. The hesitant kiss he gave her, not more than a light placing of lips together, had tantalized her senses. Although many years ago, the memory of that day shone like a polished silver cup.

Emily shivered now, ice creeping into her soul as she looked on the man John had become. She did not fear him. She knew him. Yet she felt compelled to survey his features, noting the evident changes. Although attractive, his eyes glittered with hate. His expression fixed on her father with malice in the tight lips and drawn brows. His once-silky black hair poked out unattractively from under his disheveled wig. She shivered again. A whirl of sadness and disgust spun through her. No girlhood crush should make her sad for him. By becoming a loyalist, he became her worst enemy, worse even than the British. He became a turncoat.

"What can I do for you, Major?" Emily's father waited patiently, his voice guarded. His arm tensed beneath Emily's clammy palm. Her fingers trembled, and he laid a massive hand on top of her slender fingers. His small act afforded her a welcome sense of protection.

"I've heard of your efforts to support the townspeople," John said. "You're a valuable mentor to many in town; thus I seek your advice."

A veiled threat lurked behind his words, encased in his tone. Emily waited for what followed. Her father did not know of the several clandestine rendezvous she and John had shared while growing up. The lazy summer afternoons when her aunt chased her outside to find shade and rest from the perpetual household chores, times when they spent talking and laughing—and kissing—beneath a spreading live oak tree, Spanish moss draping to the grass. Revealing that past would only open new hurts, but meanwhile keeping her composure enabled focus on the immediate threat. She relaxed her grip before she left marks in her father's cloak.

"Your words are too kind," her father replied easily. "May I be of some assistance?"

"Actually, you can. I have heard of some illicit activity occurring under the veil of darkness." John stepped closer to her father, piercing him with his cold gaze. "I am hoping you know who is involved in this cowardly privateering. I mean to determine who defies the king's laws. The traitors, when I catch up with them, will find themselves hung for their acts."

How absurd.
The king's influence in America waned with each passing day. But John's attitude and claims suggested the enemy had not relinquished the hope of being victorious. Perhaps the concern for her safety held more credibility than she cared to admit. Still, she believed herself capable of finding a way to satisfy her father's demands as well as her own desires. The muscular arm beneath her fingers flexed and tensed, but her father's voice remained even when he replied to the barely concealed threat.

"I cannot help you, I fear," her father said.

"Perhaps you have cause to fear me," John countered. "I wouldn't want to deprive your lovely daughter of yet another family member, and so soon."

Emily gasped. He had called her by name, obviously recognizing her when the soldiers accosted her and Samantha in the street, and still he had done nothing to stop them. He'd not only become suspicious but had grown abusive and mean.

John raised a forefinger in front of her father's face, though her father did not back away. "Tread carefully, Captain."

"Surely you have the wrong idea," Emily blurted. She would not allow him to abuse her father's reputation. "My father is an honest merchant."

John studied her as if she stood on the newly arrived slave auction block. He surveyed her, first up, then down, his gaze lighting briefly on hips and breasts before fixing to her face. A flare of recognition lit in his eyes as he repeated his deliberate appraisal of her body. Forcing herself to maintain her poise, she endured his roving eyes as they returned to her chest, then down her waist to her hips, returning once more to her eyes. The heat in her face intensified as his lips curved.

"That remains to be seen, Miss Emily." His smooth tones belied the sudden spark of desire in his eyes.

Stiffening, Emily swallowed. "That is a fact, John." She moistened dry lips. "My father's reputation is well-known throughout the state of South Carolina. He's fair, honest and hardworking. That is how he made his fortune here." She stepped closer to emphasize her point. "He need not be a pirate or smuggler to accomplish that, unlike some other desperate souls."

"Emily, that's enough," her father said. "Major Bradley, rest assured you will find nothing to suggest I am involved in anything so—what did you call it?—oh yes,
cowardly
as you propose." He tipped his hat to the younger man and nodded. "I must see my daughter home, out of this chilly air. It is not good for her health, and she has a child at home waiting for her return."

"A child?" John asked, obviously startled. "You have a child?"

Tommy.
Although Mary saw to his day-to-day comforts, his needs presented the perfect excuse to end this uncomfortable conversation. Her head filled with ideas she wished to capture on paper before they caused a headache as well. Emily grabbed at the excuse of a child to tend with both hands. Curiosity lit John's eyes and she wondered at the reason. "My nephew, Tommy. Father, we should hurry."

"Yes. If you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way." Her father angled his head in invitation to continue their walk home.

She hoped God would forgive her for the lie. Returning home became more urgent with each step and the more she thought of what needed conveying in her next essay. Yes, she had much work to do.

* * *

Darkness still blanketed the sky as the little boy's crying awoke Emily from a fitful sleep. Hadn't she just placed her head on her pillow moments before? She snuggled her face against the cool linen, reluctant to leave the warmth of her bed. Once she and her father arrived home the night before, she'd spent several hours committing her thoughts to paper. Then, at the risk of infuriating both her father and Frank, she slipped out of the house. Her late-night trip to the printing office to drop off her controversial essay, written using the fictional name Penny Marsh, left her with few hours of sleep. Fiddlesticks. Fortunately Mary would rise and tend the boy. She relaxed, prepared to drift back to sleep.

Tommy cried louder.

Forcing open her encrusted eyes, she moaned. Darkness surrounded her. The rest of the house slept undisturbed. Samantha's visit later today could not come soon enough. She needed those basil leaves. The previous day's many adventures made the day a long one, caused first by the anxiety of merely asking Frank to publish her work. She'd spent several previous nights scratching through inept, convoluted phrases she dare not show to anyone, let alone publish. Atop that they'd enjoyed dining at the McAlester's, the revelation of her secret brother, coupled with the strain of Frank's attentions and then her encounter with John. She meant to ask her father about her fourth brother, but John's accusations and threats had pushed the thought from her mind. Now Tommy chose
this
night to have colic.

The one night, she recalled with dismay, she'd given Mary a reprieve from caring for him.

Fiddlesticks.

"I'm coming, Tommy." Slowly she eased from her comfy bed. She paused to stretch the stiffness from her back. Tommy wailed louder. "Coming."

She hurried into the nursery across the hall. Moving to the cradle, she anxiously tried to hush him before he woke the entire household. Lifting him from the cradle momentarily silenced his distress, only to resume offending her ears once he squirmed at her shoulder. Her annoyance rose, even as the expected twinge of guilt at her own frustration pricked her conscience.
Lord, I'm tired.
What bothered him that he wailed all night? Emily checked his diaper and found it wet. Again.

This should not be her problem. This should be her sister's problem. Though the thought felt unkind, she couldn't deny its underlying truth. Tears threatened, but she swallowed them, patting the little boy harder on the back. He cried louder. Huffing out her exasperation, she crossed to the pile of clean diapers and stared at the stack, counting slowly to ten. Jasmine had showed her several times how to do this seemingly simple task, yet it remained a magician's trick. At her age she should know how to change diapers, but she did not have the experience of younger siblings to tend. Thus she started as a novice at caring for children. Muttering to herself and the child, she snatched a clean cloth and clumsily changed the wet one for a dry one. All the while, Tommy cried until he was hiccupping, tiny gasps of air between tonsil-revealing wails of discomfort.

He couldn't be hungry, as Mary had fed him prior to retiring to her room out back next to the stable. Perhaps it was the colic, then. Samantha planned to visit late morning and bring the promised basil. Feeling decidedly inept, she paced the room, crooning to Tommy as she contemplated possible ways to quiet her nephew.

Right now she needed help, and she knew where to find it.

Joggling him against her shoulder, she hurried down the stairs to Jasmine's room. A light shone from beneath the door. Probably couldn't sleep for the crying babe. As Emily approached, the door swung open. A sleepy-eyed Jasmine stared owlishly. She wore the new shift and robe Emily had found for her, its belt loosely tied as though accomplished in a hurry. Jasmine eyed the infant warily before blinking at Emily. "I heerd you coming."

Emily grunted. "He's colicky. What can we do? Something must quiet him."
And soon.
Frustration surged through her, but she held her tongue and her temper. Her father would not take kindly to her being anything less than a lady, especially in front of the servants.

"Don't know that it's colic at his age," Jasmine said. "But I've been told if you jump over someone's grave while holding him, it will cure it. Sure 'nough."

Emily chuckled. "Not in the middle of the night, if ever. Perhaps some warm milk?"

"I'll fetch some right away." Relief flickered through Jasmine's eyes as she bobbed a curtsy. Then she slipped past Emily and scurried down the hall and out the back door.

"Tommy, please." Emily paced the hallway while she waited for Jasmine to return. He burped and cried louder. "What is wrong, little one?"

Children should be born with the ability to talk. God had it wrong if he thought this wailing was communication. Frustrating, yes. Worrisome, absolutely right. But wailing only told someone that one was unhappy.
Bah.
Anger and vexation warred inside her until tears at her ineptitude threatened. There must be a better way to raise children. One that did not require a person to walk their hallways carrying a heavy bundle of boy all night.

She paced into the library and paused at the front windows. Interrupting the continual patting on Tommy's back, she swung open the heavy shutters. At this hour, few if any people would walk by. Her hand automatically returned to patting the child's back in a vain effort to comfort him. Or at least to beat the crying to a pulp.

Her lips pressed together at the thought. No, she would not physically harm the child, even if angry with him. After all, he probably felt as frustrated as her at the lack of communication.

The sun edged into view on the horizon, sending flaming fingers shimmering across the water. The sky softened from its star-studded blackness to deep gray and red tinges. Tommy's crying obscured the normal sounds of morning. The beating of the waves. The call of the sea birds welcoming the new day. She gazed on the heads of the dayflowers outside reaching for the dawn's early light to coax them to face the morning.

Her mind wandered as she waited for Jasmine's return. She imagined the day she opened her shop, hanging her signs in the windows, mannequins dressed in shawls, hats, gloves, and other garments she'd made and decorated with embroidered designs. Her days filled with customers and collecting monies to pay her own way in life. Tommy squirmed on her shoulder, nearly falling over her arm, and she caught him and sighed. One day she would have her shop and not have to worry about either birthing or caring for any babies. At the moment one seemed as bad as the other.