Emily's Vow (21 page)

Davis coughed, breaking the silence stretching tightly between the two men.

As if coming out of a trance, the turncoat shrugged lightly. "I'm sure you gentlemen are busy, so I won't detain you longer than necessary. Captain Davis, if you'd be so good as to produce your ship's manifest for my inspection." He held out a hand, open palm ready to accept the requested papers. When Davis did not move, he snapped his fingers twice and again held his hand out.

Frank balled his hands at his sides, twitching with eagerness to find purchase on Bradley's face.

Davis pulled his pipe from his mouth, a frown replacing the indifferent expression he'd worn. "Me manifest has already been inspected and stamped, as you well know, sir."

Why did Bradley need to see the manifest? Although apparently aware of ships coming and going, the major's rank held him above the task of import ships' inventories or challenging the captains regarding their cargo. What did Bradley want and why? His stomach tightened at the thought of Bradley discovering the special item, the smallest box in the entire shipment, yet the most valuable. Much rested on Frank along with his friend and fellow patriot spy, Benjamin Hanson, delivering one small silver box into the right hands.

"Come now, Captain, that is not possible." The grimace transformed into gloating. "Surely, you do not think I was aware even of your arrival until now?"

Davis scowled at the major, the ship captain's shoulders hunched against the mist settling onto his hair and beard. "You ordered the men to board me ship at the mouth of the harbor. The poor crew nearly drowned at the mixing point of the Cooper and Ashley with the open sea and trying to navigate them waters."

Bradley barked a mirthless laugh. "Nonsense. Now, produce the papers or face the consequences."

Knowing those consequences meant Davis would go to jail, and likely hang if the blasted turncoat inspected the cargo too closely, Frank squared his shoulders, preparing to settle the dispute.

If it came to blows, so be it.

He could use a little fun.

"Major Bradley, if I may," Frank said. "You have my word as an officer. I have seen the approved manifest and, at any rate, the goods are now well on their way."

"On their way where?" Bradley bit out, hands on both hips now.

With an effort, Frank maintained a relaxed position, flexing his fingers slowly. He shrugged. "Into storage, if you must know. I'll not display them until this dispute ends."

"Yes, once the British quell this uprising."

Frank shook his head before he could stop himself. Bradley apparently operated under the false impression that the British had any hope of winning the war. Despite having lost many battles, the Americans held all but two cities now. In a matter of months America would secure its independence once and for all. In the meantime he must maintain the farce he played or risk revealing his mission. He assumed a bored expression. "I simply do not want to chance damaging the items."

Droplets of condensed fog clung to Frank's hair and beaded on his wool cloak as he waited for the bastard to speak.

"Your newfound allegiance will only protect you so far," the bloody turncoat said.

"Far enough to ensure the safety of my personal property." Frank's hand curled into a fist, though obscured by the drape of his cloak.

"Perhaps, but it does not allow you to interfere in the king's business."

Frank dipped his head once, hiding the anger building inside him as he schooled his expression. "Granted. You're acting on his behalf?"

Hard green eyes drilled into Frank's steely gaze. "If you talk with Miss Emily's father, tell him I'm watching him. You may be off the hook, because you signed that oath of allegiance and fealty to the king, and I don't possess evidence to the contrary.
Yet.
But if Captain Sullivan makes one false move, I will arrest him for treason."

This discussion headed into treacherous waters Frank preferred to avoid. Suspicion of his or Joshua Sullivan's actions by this bastard could only lead to more trouble. The air sizzled with tension. Bradley glared at him, and Davis shifted beside him. The bastard really thought he could be a true adversary. Bradley was simply a bully. Frank forced his fist open.

"May we go?" Frank would rather walk away than risk charges of attacking this peon. Yet the prospect of landing a fist on his face continued to tempt him.

"Be careful what company you keep, Captain Thomson, because I'll be watching." With that, Bradley swung around, his cape billowing around him, and stalked away.

"Pleasant fellow," Davis said sarcastically around his pipe stem. He remained silent until Bradley could no longer be seen through the fog. "What now?"

"Now we tend our business." Frank shook his hand. "And Captain?"

"Aye?"

"You heard the man. Watch your back."

The grizzled man winked at him before striding off into the dissipating wisps of fog.

Frank watched his longtime business partner disappear into the mist before shrugging off the encounter with Bradley. Benjamin should be back in town ere long to take over control of the special shipment. And none too soon for Frank's peace of mind. The mysterious little box had already brought unwanted trouble into his life.

* * *

"I can't believe the old women think Frank will have inside information about privateers, or who the British suspect to be one." Emily grumbled to Samantha as they walked home from the sewing circle behind the two black men, sworn to ensure they arrived unharmed, later that afternoon. Frank had urgent business to attend to and could not accommodate her request to go to the sewing circle. Richard and Solomon strode easily in front of them, despite trundling a wheelbarrow filled with the pieces of the loom back toward Emily's home. The sun dipped behind the houses, and Emily quickened her steps. If she hurried, she'd be home early enough to snatch some writing time before dinner.

"Watch what you say." Samantha chuckled, easily matching her pace. "Whether true or not, one of them may hear you."

"I don't care." She did, actually, but at the moment, with no one around, Emily felt safe to say what she thought. On that topic at least.

"You will if it comes to pass. How would your opinions reflect on your father's upbringing of you?"

"Hurry and we won't have to worry about being overheard."

"We're practically running down the street now." Samantha lengthened her stride to match Emily's quick march. "We don't want to overtake the blacks after all. What's the rush?"

"I have tasks to take care of before dinner." Emily strode past several two-story houses with shuttered windows, thoughts whirling through her head. Homes in Charles Town boasted a variety of wide front steps or side entrances through a porch, with a hitching rail or post at the street's edge to receive visitors' horses. Most homes included a garden beside or behind the house, used for growing vegetables and fruits as well as flowers.

How could she discreetly ask Frank what he knew so he did not suspect the motives behind her interrogation? She wondered how much to reveal about Aunt Lucille's and Amy's smuggling efforts. Did he know they were smuggling? If not, she didn't want to be the one to tell him. He printed the broadside, so maybe he did know something useful. But drawing secrets out of him had been a challenge as long as she'd known him.

They had first met while in their late teens, after she and Elizabeth moved into town for a proper lady's education, which meant needlework and music and how to run a household. Their father had introduced them to Jedediah and Frank at church one stormy summer morning. Emily's eyes had met Frank's, and she couldn't refrain from seeking out those steely depths, again and again. His infectious smile had summoned a response from deep inside her. Even though he seemed to share his deepest thoughts as his eyes connected with hers, his feelings hid safely from scrutiny.

Perhaps he made such a trustworthy spy and officer because of the many layers of his personality. Now, how to prompt him to reveal details about possible crimes by her father without telling him why she needed to know confounded her.

Climbing the few steps to the piazza, she heard Tommy crying. They had resolved his stomach ailments, thanks to the basil tea. What now? Pushing open the door, she stepped inside, Samantha close behind.

"Thank goodness you're here!" Jasmine rushed down the short hallway. Tommy squalled in her arms, his mouth open, tears streaming down his face. "He's been snake bit!"

"What?" A charge swept through Emily hearing Tommy's pain-soaked wails. It tore at her heart as his eyes met hers and he cried harder.

"A snake—in his cradle." Jasmine paused for breath, tears trailing down her cheeks, too, as she handed over the red-faced child into Emily's waiting arms.

"His cradle? How?" Fear replaced the pain. She frantically searched the boy for signs of the telltale puncture.

"I dunno!" Jasmine cried. "He started wailing and when I went to check on him, the snake slithered under the drapes in his room. I shouldn't of left him!"

"It's not your fault. What do we do for him?" Emily glanced at Samantha.

The child continued to bawl but interspersed his vocal hurt with hiccups of tortured breaths. Memory of the ten-year-old daughter of a neighbor last year who died from the bite of a snake flashed through her mind. The girl perished in her despairing mother's arms within hours. Emily tightened her grip on the boy. She wouldn't let that happen to him.

"I'll make a fleabane salve." Samantha pulled her red leather pouch of dried herbs around in front of her and rummaged within its depths, trotting down the hall toward the kitchen.

Emily barely noticed her departure as she tried to calm the baby, all the while searching frantically for the puncture wound. "Where is the bite?"

Jasmine yanked up the sleeve of the gown and showed where the fangs had left two round punctures. A red knot surrounded the bite. She placed a hand lightly on the wound area, and it warmed her palm.
Poor baby.

"Get me a rag and some water," Emily ordered. "Hurry!"

Jasmine raced away, her tiny shoes pounding on the floor boards. Emily cuddled the baby as she trailed the girl down the hall. She headed for the dining room, where a fire always burned with a chair placed nearby. Her legs felt like water. "You'll be fine, Tommy. I promise."

Where had that vermin come from? Snakes didn't normally frequent the garden or venture into the house. She rocked Tommy in her arms, crooning softly to him, reassuring him. And herself. He would be all right. He had to be. She wouldn't fail in meeting the expectations of the boy's dead parents nor his current father, Frank.

Jasmine hurried into the room with a cloth and a basin. Emily took the cloth from her, soaked it with water, squeezed it out, and laid it on the wound, trying to ease the pain until Samantha returned.

"I hope this helps," Emily said. "I'm not sure it will."

"Miss Samantha will come back soon, miss." Jasmine took the cloth and soaked it again, wringing it out before handing it back.

The back door banged open. Samantha strode into view, a small bowl in one hand, her mother following her.

"It is good for him to cry so," Mrs. McAlester said.

"Mrs. McAlester, what a surprise to see you!" Emily forced a polite smile, wondering how she heard of Tommy's troubles so quickly. "What brings you here?"

"I was walking to the printing office to place an ad for my services, when I saw Samantha out back in your herb garden and stopped to see if she'd care to join me." The woman peered at Tommy, leaning in close to inspect the wound. Her head blocked Samantha's view of the child until Emily waved for Samantha to move closer. Cynthia frowned and pulled back, glaring at her daughter. "She told me what happened. I thought I might be able to help."

"He's alive, that's what is important." Emily exposed the arm to show Samantha the puncture. "I'm glad you're here. You always know what to do."

"Not always." Mrs. McAlester slid a look at her daughter. "She's not using the proper herbal combination for this, but I can't convince her of that."

"Mother, you're mistaken." Samantha held Emily's gaze for a long moment. "Trust me, friend, this will work to counter the poison in his system."

Confused by the bickering between mother and daughter, Emily relied on her instincts and her friend. "I do trust you. Please, go ahead."

"Obstinate, that's what you are." Mrs. McAlester shook her head. "I wouldn't have used fleabane in that mix, that's for certain. Snakeroot. That's what you need. Don't say I didn't tell you, though."

Emily caught the hesitation in her friend and smiled at her.

Samantha tipped her head and silently smeared the paste onto the boy's arm. "That should help."

A weary sigh came from Mrs. McAlester, and she shook her gray head again, her bun wobbling within its bonnet. "I can see I'm not wanted here, so I'll be on my way." She glared at her daughter, gathering her purse in her hands. "I'll see you at home."

"Farewell, Mrs. McAlester." Emily tried to smooth over the tension in the room but failed. "Thank you for your concern."

"Let me know if you need my help," Mrs. McAlester said tersely. "I've served this family for many years without complaint."