Paxton's War (12 page)

“I'm … I'm not able to think clearly right now,” she said, knowing that a flat refusal would only cause him to extend his arguments.

“Ah, but it's so obviously the wise decision,” he urged. “Why delay the inevitable answer any longer?”

“Tomorrow …” she said.

“What of tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she suddenly remembered, “my father is escorting me to Charleston, where I'll be staying with Aunt Rianne for some time. Perhaps there'll be a chance for us to talk there. Right now I'm frightfully tired.”

The thought of courting Colleen in Charleston, a city where Buckley was known and accepted in the highest circles of society, was not unappealing, for there he would be seen in the best light. Willing to bide his time, he bade her a reluctant good-night, then gave his driver the order to take him home.

The house was dark. Colleen lit a lantern and, above the fireplace in its accustomed spot, saw a note from her father informing her that he'd rushed to Brandborough to attend a gravely ill patient and wasn't sure when he'd return. Portia was asleep in her quarters in the back. Colleen let the note fall from her hand. She was alone, for which she felt gratitude and sadness at the same time. She was tired. She wanted to believe Jason would keep his promise and come to explain what had happened. But would he arrive before her father? Or would they arrive simultaneously in the middle of the night? Why couldn't she simply luxuriate in the memory of their lovemaking? Why did the melody have to cease? Slowly, she walked to her bedroom, where for a long while she stared at her mother's music box. In spite of the fatigue flowing to every part of her body, her overly stimulated mind wouldn't let her sleep. She would wait for him, she decided, just as she had waited for four long years. He'd promised he'd come, and so he would. At last, with a sigh, she bestirred herself and, after changing into simpler clothes, began to pack for the next day's journey.

Not entirely comfortable with the idea of giving Jason a ride and thereby incurring Ethan's wrath, Chester Wills nonetheless agreed to allow him to share his and his wife's tiny one-horse buggy. For Jason, the ride was filled with trepidation. There had been no mistaking the look on his father's face as Allan had been led away. Whether he would listen to reason—perhaps, Jason dared hope, he'd calmed down during the past hour—was a question that could be answered in one way only: by facing him.

The Paxton house sat a half mile inland on a promontory that overlooked Brandborough and, beyond, the Atlantic. “I appreciate it,” Jason said as the buggy stopped to let him out. “Chester. Merriwether.”

“Good luck,” Chester said.

Jason chuckled. “I'll need it is what you mean, right?”

“I seen them children. You done right, no matter what anyone says,” Merriwether said. “And don't you let Ethan tell you otherwise. If he does—”

“Hold your tongue, wife,” Chester snapped.

Merriwether's look would have frozen water in August. “If he does, you tell him to come see me, and I'll set him straight.”

“Yes, ma'am. I surely will,” Jason assured her. “And thank you.”

Freshly painted, the house gleamed starkly white in the moonlight. Jason stood alone, looked at the trees he'd climbed so often as a boy, and breathed in the fragrances of his childhood: the chilled, ocean-fresh night air, the essence of rich, black earth, the light perfume of wisteria. The house itself was unchanged, plain and simple, just the way Ethan, a man with little patience for grandiosity, wanted it. The leather-hinged gate opened easily, and the oyster shells filling the curved drive crunched underfoot. The porch was empty save for a pair of rocking chairs and a chain-hung swing that swayed slightly in the breeze. The door was closed, but not yet barred. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open and entered.

The foyer was dark. Wondering where Ethan was, Jason took the four well-remembered steps—
How many times during the past four years have I, in my dreams, stood here?
—and entered the lantern-lit living room, where over the massive fireplace hung the rapier and scabbard of Marie Ravenne, the lady pirate and grandmother he'd known as a small boy and whose spirit had loomed so large over his formative years. How strange it seemed to be home! Strange but comforting. He'd missed—

“What do you want here?”

Jason turned, saw his father, his eyes cold as winter wind, enter from the kitchen. “I said it before, Father. I've come home.”

“And I've said you no longer have a home here, especially after your conduct today. I mean it, boy. You're to get out of here, and get out now. Or have you brought a regiment of bloodthirsty soldiers to lay claim to this house and drive out the rest of your family?”

Hearing voices, Hope and Joy entered and saw the two men face to face—the muscular, strong-willed father, and the curly-haired, soft-spoken son. “Have you no shame?” Hope asked. “Coming here after this afternoon? Allan is in chains this very moment all because—”

“There were children who would have been caught in the crossfire if not for Jason,” Joy interrupted. “Didn't you see? Why won't you believe me?”

Ethan swiveled to his right and, shoulders hunched, glared at his daughter. “I saw him aid the English dogs—and nothing more,” he answered.

“You've always protected him,” Hope protested, her clear brown eyes flecked with firelight, her voice as strong and authoritative as Ethan's. “Father's right. We don't need him, and we don't want him.”

Still controlled, Jason spoke slowly and deliberately. “I had nothing to do with Allan's capture. I sent no message, for heaven's sake. I suspect it was—”

“Your English soldier friend?” Ethan interrupted. “Or is he not really your friend? Was that also a case of our mistaken perception?”

“You're in no mood to listen to reason,” Jason said.

“I'm in no mood to entertain a son of mine who, for years now, has wantonly neglected his birthright and duty. Allan Coleridge has done more in a few months to help us in our enterprise than you've done in the past decade. Did it ever occur to you while you were playing kingly music for your Rebels in Love English aristocrats that we've been fighting a war? That the Paxton businesses were going through a crisis, the likes of which this family has never before known? Did it bother you in the least that the taxes imposed by the very perfumed lords and ladies whom you so graciously entertained were choking us to death?” He paused to catch his composure, then continued, his voice still cracking with emotion.

“You're my flesh and blood, Jason, my only son. May God be my witness that I loved you as a little boy. I loved you as a young man. I taught you whatever I knew about this land, and taught you, too, as our fortunes grew and I learned. You were bright, there could be no doubt. You learned twice—thrice—as quickly as I had learned. In the swamps and woods, you displayed all the qualities of a fine hunter. You were a crack shot, a fearless rider. You had strength and courage. In the fields, you proved to be a fine farmer. You had good judgment. You showed a keen sense for commerce. Nothing went unnoticed by your curious and nimble mind. Oh, the pride I took in you! And in the darkest hours of your mother's sickness, it was you and your loving sisters who comforted me and saved me from despair. Many were the times I told my men that this life of endless toil seemed worthwhile only because I knew that someday you'd benefit from my labor. This was all to be yours. And yet you've chosen not simply to throw it away for a fiddle and a flute, but to conspire with the same blood-sucking scoundrels who'd destroy the very things I hold precious—our ships, our land, and our home.”

Rarely had Jason heard his father speak with such passion. “You misjudge me, Father,” he said finally. “I love you, and I love this land with all my heart. There are ways I'll help the high cause of freedom, but you must trust my judgment. Trust me to act—”

“Do you expect me to believe that? When I see you throwing off your Tory friends and joining up with us—that's when I'll believe you. Tell me, are you prepared to do that?”

“No, because it's impractical. I must work in my own way, according to my own skills and—”

“Hah! Just as I thought! An excuse for cowardice!” Ethan yelled. “You may deceive yourself, but you don't me. Hiding behind your pianoforte—is that your way?”

“Please,” Jason implored. “Listen to me.”

“Listen to what? The words of a traitor?”

“Traitor?” Jason flushed. “You dare to call your own son a traitor?”

“When treason is what I see—”

“And faith?” Jason asked. “Have you so little faith in me that—”

“Don't speak to me of faith,” Ethan roared, striking the sideboard so hard that it almost broke. “Not when for four long years you've not lifted a finger for your family or friends or freedom. Why should I believe you now? You disgrace yourself with hypocrisy. I'll not be moved by sentiment. You're not welcome here, Jason. Return to England. Go elsewhere to compose your ditties, or whatever it is you write, and leave us alone. I pray only that the day doesn't come when I find myself facing you, along with your Tory compatriots, on a battlefield.”

The blood of pirates, of men and women of great pride and no little temper, flowed in Jason's veins. To be misunderstood was one thing, but to hear his honor impugned even by—especially by—his father was beyond endurance. As if a plug had been pulled, the blood drained from Jason's face and, ready to fight, he balled his hands into fists.

“You want to try?” Ethan asked, a death's-head grin splitting his face. “Look at you. You're soft as a pillow. Get out of my sight before I thrash you within an inch of your life.”

There was nothing more to say. Even if Ethan, beyond all reason, asked for Jason's thoughts, it would have been too late. Spinning on his heels, Jason stalked silently past his sisters, out of the room, through the front door, and onto the porch.

Only Joy followed him. “What will you do now, Jason?”

He put his arm around her and sighed. “I don't know. But one way or another, I'll manage.” He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

“Where will you go?”

“Charleston, I imagine. Robin and Piero are there, and I shall be most glad to see them.”

“Then we'll contact each other through them. But what of Peter?”

“He's in Brandborough, setting up his headquarters and getting things in order.”

“Did he mention me after I left?”

“Oh, yes, Joy, indeed he did,” Jason said with a smile.

“And how will I be able to see him? I
must
see him.”

“Nothing will be easy, and yet nothing's impossible.”

“Where will you sleep tonight?”

“I'll find accommodations, mother hen,” Jason chuckled.

“Please, Jason, take my horse. You remember Cinder. He's stronger than ever. He'll serve you well.”

A horse would be handy. “Just for tonight,” he grudgingly accepted.

“No. You gave him to me when you left. Now I'm returning him. I'll feel better knowing he's with you.”

“But Father …”

“Daughters have powers over fathers that sons lack. Leave Father to me.”

Together they walked to the stable, where Joy helped saddle the great dun-colored stallion with the black mane. The brother and sister embraced before Jason rode off into the night, each uncertain of the fate that awaited them, each filled with the thrill and promise of the days to come. For Jason, his troubled spirit torn by his family's alienation, his heart thrown into turmoil by an unexpected love, what did the future hold? There was only one answer … ride, ride boldly into the night.

Chapter 7

He rode heedlessly, knowing only that Cinder carried him north along the hard-packed sand, away from Brandborough and his father. At last, his mind crowded and confused by the long day's events, he reined to a halt, dismounted, dropped Cinder's reins so he wouldn't wander, and threw himself down on the soft, still-warm sand. When he awoke, moonlight danced on the dark Atlantic and picked out the breakers as they crashed ashore. The air was cool, fresh, and fragrant with the tangy smell of salt. With the easterly trades to keep the mosquitoes at bay, there was only the hiss of wind in the sea oats and the dull roar of the surf.

Sleep is the mind's balm. Lazy, relaxed for the first time in hours, Jason stared into the sky, picked out the skewed W of Cassiopeia, and, below it, the parallelogram of Ursus Major, the Great Bear, pointing the way to the pole star. In the west, Orion the Hunter hung over the horizon. The stars, the constellations, ever constant in their annual rounds, brought a sense of order to a troubled mind. What had been muddled became clear.

Ethan was an impetuous man given to making snap judgments and harsh decisions. He was strong-willed, tenacious, and single-minded. He not only misunderstood Jason—couldn't appreciate the fact that his acceptance by the British was the strongest tool at his hand—but was incapable of accepting him for who he was. That truth, so painful earlier in the night, Jason suddenly saw, was an even stronger tool. The war had changed Ethan. From a taciturn man, he'd become dangerously outspoken. If he had accepted Jason's word, if Jason had convinced him, his very silence would alert the British. And if he was privy to Jason's plans, he'd undoubtedly tell friends who'd tell friends until, eventually, the wrong person heard and informed on him. It was cruelly ironic, but Ethan's hatred and ignorance were Jason's best protection.

Cruelly ironic … hatred his best protection. But what other course was there? None, if he wanted to be effective. Alone, he would call on the courage and skill learned at his father's feet, and accept the scorn of those he loved the most. Including, if necessary, Colleen.