Rebellious Heart (5 page)

Susanna was familiar with all the poor women who lived around Weymouth, and she was certain she’d never seen her before.

“Please just let me be on my way,” the timid soul begged Susanna. “I promise I won’t steal any more apples.”

“But you’re hurt.” Susanna studied the woman’s face and guessed her to be less than her own nineteen years or at least close to it.

The stranger’s gaze darted around the orchard as if she expected someone to jump out and grab her.

“We’re alone.” Susanna prayed they truly were alone, that whatever haunted the woman wasn’t lurking nearby.

“I must go.”

“I beg you to let me help you.”

“You’re very kind, miss. But I’m not wanting that anyone should know my whereabouts, you see.”

Susanna nodded, but she didn’t see. Was this woman wanted for a crime? Was she a thief? She had, after all, been stealing apples from their orchard.

But even as Susanna mulled over the thought, she cast it aside. There was something too soft and kind in the woman’s face to label her a thief. She was likely taking the apples to satisfy her hunger.

“Please, please, don’t tell anyone you saw me. Please promise you won’t breathe a word about my being here.”

Susanna hesitated. Was she running away from something or someone? “Won’t you come down to the parsonage and let me help you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, miss.”

When the woman started to rise again, Susanna touched her arm. “If you won’t let me help you, then you can at least take these.”

Susanna began to untie her leather buskins.

“Not your boots, miss. Oh, I couldn’t. Just couldn’t.”

But Susanna had already slipped her foot out of one and
was unlacing the other. “I’m venturing we’re about the same size.”

A sob broke from the woman’s lips, and tears began to slide down her cheeks, making trails through the grime.

Susanna unrolled her silk stockings and slipped them off. “You’ll need these also.”

Susanna refused to take the boots and stockings back even when the young woman pushed them at her. Instead she helped rip strips from her petticoat, bandaged her cuts as best she could, then assisted her into the buskins. She then refilled the stranger’s apron with apples and watched her stumble away.

“If you need anything—anything at all—you must come find me at the parsonage,” Susanna called.

Even with boots on, the poor woman could hardly walk, and Susanna had to fight the urge to run after her and aid her further—but aid her how?

Susanna started to follow, but the pricks in the tender skin of her feet stopped her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d walked outside in bare feet.

She had a vague recollection of having taken off her shoes once at Grandmother Eve’s urging, likely because her grandmother had bared her own feet. Of course, Mother would never have allowed such scandalous behavior.

Susanna peered down at her toes poking out from the hem of her petticoats. The long grass tickled her skin, and the coldness of the damp earth pressed against her soles.

“Whatever will I tell Mother now?”

Ben pressed his thumbs into his temples to ward off the ache that was creeping into the inner reaches of his head. He wished he could discard his waistcoat down to his shirtsleeves, toss off his wretched wig, and simply be himself.

Instead he was stuck in the parlor of the Smith home, attempting to make polite conversation about matters that held no interest to him.

He hadn’t wanted to come, but as usual Cranch had convinced him to accompany him. He’d long ago decided Cranch should have been the lawyer. Somehow his friend could always talk his way into getting what he wanted.

Ben knew he shouldn’t complain about the visit. Making the trip to Weymouth had given him the perfect excuse he’d needed to schedule a meeting with the Caucus Club at Arnold Tavern out on the coastal road. It had been several weeks since he’d last met with the men.

He sat back in the uncomfortable parlor chair, and to his dismay it creaked rather loudly, drawing Mrs. Smith’s attention.

“So, Mr. Ross.” Mrs. Smith sat in a chair next to the marble fireplace, near her husband, the Reverend Smith, who was pacing the length of the Oriental carpet centered on the wood floor. “We’re not overly pleased with the results of the trial yesterday.”

Ben had already received plenty of negativity for invoking the benefit of the clergy for old Joe, and he was tired of it. But he stuffed down a caustic remark and forced himself to answer politely. “You can rest assured, I’m not pleased with the results either.”

Mrs. Smith’s elegant eyebrows lifted. “Is that so?”

“Mother, please,” Mary said, “may we please talk of something besides the trial?”

“No, dear,” Mrs. Smith cut off the girl. “I’m sure we’d all like to hear Mr. Ross explain himself.” Her tone was condescending, and it was obvious she didn’t like him. He’d seen it in her face when Cranch had introduced him. She was probably wondering—like he was—why he was there.

He hesitated, but the pressure to defend himself was too great. “I’m not pleased with the results of our court system. We ought to all be ashamed when justice is usurped and decisions are based on the feelings and whims of the fickle populace instead of careful consideration of the facts.”

Mrs. Smith’s lips formed around a word, but she clearly couldn’t find an appropriate response and instead turned to her husband. “What do you think, Reverend Smith?”

Just as she uttered the question, her attention snapped to the hallway outside the parlor and she gasped. “Susanna!”

There in the hallway, in the process of tiptoeing past the doorway over squeaking floorboards, was Susanna.

At her mother’s sharp call, the young woman froze.

“Ah, there you are, my dear Susanna,” called the reverend,
coming to a halt in his pacing. “I was telling the gentlemen you were likely hidden away somewhere reading. And it looks like I was correct.”

“Yes, Father. You know me well.” Quickly Susanna tucked a small book into the folds of her skirt. She kept her head down and turned away from her mother, who was rising from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me while I change into dinner apparel, I’ll join you shortly.”

Without waiting for her parents’ dismissal, she started to rush to the stairway.

“Susanna Smith!” Mrs. Smith’s voice was laced with horror, and Susanna jerked to a halt again.

The carpet muted Mrs. Smith’s firm footsteps. But tension radiated in each thump the woman took toward her daughter. She stopped in front of Susanna and peered down at the girl’s shoes . . .

Or lack thereof.

Ben sat straighter and couldn’t keep from staring at the dirty foot peeking out from beneath the hem of Susanna’s gown.

“I can explain,” Susanna said.

But Mrs. Smith was already pushing aside the layers of muslin, revealing Susanna’s other bare foot. “My gracious, what has happened to you?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Mother. Nothing unseemly has happened.”

The slender curve of her ankle and the pure creamy skin had likely never seen the light of day.

Or the sights of any man.

At Mary’s soft intake of breath, Cranch chuckled.

Only then did Susanna glance into the parlor, first to Mary, then to Cranch sitting next to her sister on the settee. Beneath
a tumble of wind-tossed waves of hair, Susanna glared at the man, rebuking him for his impropriety.

Cranch wiped away his grin, but his twinkling eyes laughed at her.

Ben gave a muted cough, unable to resist the temptation to goad her.

Her gaze shifted to him, and her eyes widened with surprise that was rapidly chased away by embarrassment when he made a point of looking directly upon her bare feet and her slim ankles that her mother’s fussing had revealed.

She jerked away from her mother and yanked her petticoats down, tucking her feet and ankles out of sight.

Had she remembered her childhood declaration, that she’d much rather stay stuck in a tree than show him her ankles?

He couldn’t contain his grin.

She glanced away, but not before he caught sight of the mortification rounding her features.

“Susanna, I’m speechless,” Mrs. Smith said. “Absolutely speechless.”

“I can explain—”

“There is no excuse for appearing in this condition.”

Susanna swept aside the waves of hair that fell about her head in abandon, revealing her flushed cheeks and windswept beauty.

Ben’s heart gave an unexpected thump. There was no denying Susanna Smith was indeed an attractive woman, from her wildly flowing hair all the way to her lovely, dainty toes.

“However, to show up in this . . . this deplorable condition? When we have company?” Mrs. Smith continued, her tone rising a notch. “This is completely unacceptable behavior.”

“I agree.” Susanna straightened her shoulders. “If I had known Mr. Cranch was arriving so early—and bringing a
guest with him—I would have made a point of returning much sooner.”

“You knew I didn’t want you lingering out of doors.”

Susanna pressed her lips together, having the grace not to disagree further with her mother in front of everyone, even though her eyes flashed with a rebuttal Ben would have enjoyed hearing.

“And exactly where are your boots?” Mrs. Smith asked.

For a long moment, Susanna didn’t say anything. The clink of dishes in the dining room where the slave was preparing their table seemed to grow louder. The thick aroma of roasted veal and cabbage had already penetrated the parlor, stirring Ben’s stomach with hunger.

Finally Susanna lifted her chin. “I’ve given my boots to a poor beggar woman who had much more need of them than I did.”

“You did what?” Mrs. Smith sputtered the words.

“I gave them away.”

“That was very generous of you, Susanna,” Reverend Smith said. “I’m sure your dear mother would have done the same thing had she been in your situation.”

Ben couldn’t imagine Mrs. Smith ever doing something such as that. She seemed too proper and sophisticated to bare her feet. But then again, he never would have expected spoiled Susie to take off her boots either.

Maybe she had changed more than he’d believed possible.

“We shall have a new pair of boots cobbled for Susanna to reward her benevolence.” Reverend Smith smiled at his daughter. “I’m sure she’s due for a new pair anyway.”

Susanna returned her father’s smile. “Thank you, Father. But I have plenty of shoes—”

“No, Susanna. That was your only pair of buskins.” Mrs. Smith stood with the regality of a dowager queen. “We shall
have to have new ones made. Perhaps Mr. Ross can take Susanna’s measurements tonight.”

Her words slapped him in the face.

“You’re still living with your parents, aren’t you, Mr. Ross?”

“That’s correct.” At twenty-eight he wasn’t exactly proud he’d taken up residence with his father and mother. But he wasn’t a freeholder and didn’t have the means to buy any property of his own. Ben had been grateful his father had offered him the back room of the house for his law office.

“Your father still is a cordwainer, is he not?”

From the gleam in her eyes, he could tell they both knew what she was doing. She was attempting to put him in his place. He forced a cold calmness to his tone. “If you’d like to send your daughter’s foot measurements with me, I’ll be sure to pass them along to my father.”

“Very well. I give you permission to take Susanna’s measurements before you leave,” Mrs. Smith said. “And I do hope your father will appreciate our solicitation as we will be neglecting the cordwainer here in Weymouth.”

Ben wanted to tell her his father wouldn’t want to make Susanna’s buskins, that they could take their business to the Weymouth shoemaker. But even as the words pushed for release, he held them back. The truth was, he could use another excuse to return to Weymouth for a future Caucus meeting. Delivering the buskins for his father would give him the cover he needed without arousing suspicion.

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith,” he said stiffly. “As long as your daughter is willing to allow me access to her foot . . .”

Susanna’s gaze snagged his. “Since you’ve already taken the liberty of viewing my feet, I don’t see any reason to guard my modesty further.”

Framed in the doorway, with her long hair swirling about
her elegant face in wild waves and her eyes flashing, she was a sight to behold. He had an urge to stand, stride across the room, yank her body against his, and show her . . .

Show her what?

He swallowed the swift desire that rose at the thought of holding her.

She lifted her nose just slightly with a pride that challenged him and stirred his blood.

Yes, he’d show her . . .

Show her that she wasn’t better than him anymore.

If only the evening would come to an end.

Susanna twisted her spoon next to the uneaten plum pudding left at her spot from the first course. The molasses and butter had melted and formed a river around the mound.

But neither of the two courses at dinner had tempted her, not when she couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman she’d met in the orchard.

Of course, her lack of appetite had nothing to do with Mr. Ross and his presence across the wide dining room table.

She’d avoided looking at him during the meal. And she’d had the distinct impression he’d done the same. Except for glancing at her as she’d made a grand entrance into the dining room earlier, after she’d returned properly attired, he avoided her as if she’d contracted smallpox.

Susanna had prayed that in her elegant silver evening gown the guests would forget how uncivilized she appeared when she’d arrived home without boots. From the gentle easing of the strained lines on Mother’s face, Susanna could only hope the diversion had worked.

She twisted her spoon again, this time clinking it against
the fine porcelain plate. With her father on one side and her brother William on the other, she’d had altogether too little conversation and too much time to brood.

Mr. Cranch’s lively voice rose, followed by Mary’s delighted laughter.

He’d arrived much too early. And why had he brought the impossible Mr. Ross with him?

She tried to conjure grievousness toward Mr. Ross for his earlier impudence toward her. She wanted to be offended at him for the impropriety of brazenly staring at her bare feet. After all, any gentleman would have averted his attention or at the very least pretended not to notice.

But inexplicably she couldn’t maintain her feelings of insult, not with the memory of the past evening and the way his blue eyes hadn’t been able to let go of hers, or the way his fingers had skimmed her cheek.

She peeked at him from beneath her lashes, at the strong square line of his jaw and the seriousness with which he held himself. She couldn’t deny that he’d turned into a fine-looking man.

Mr. Cranch swung his new watch by a silver chain, having amused them with the story of how a street urchin had stolen his previous watch right out of his pocket and how he’d been forced to buy this new one. “And to think I could have purchased this beauty for half the price in London.”

“I’m sure you could have purchased it for half here too,” Mr. Ross said, tossing out another of his cantankerous comments. “If only you were less gullible and had more business sense about you.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Cranch flashed a winsome smile. “Mr. Ross is correct. The shopkeepers love to see me because they know they’ll make a hefty profit whenever I visit.”

Mary laughed and she leaned closer to Mr. Cranch. Her pale face was flushed, and her eyes had a lovesick droop to them. From the smile that graced Mother’s lips, Susanna decided Mary need not worry about Mother disapproving of the match.

Susanna stifled a smile of her own, knowing later in bed Mary would keep her up again whispering about the wonderful Mr. Cranch.

“The British have continued to raise the prices of their imported goods,” Mr. Ross said, “and there’s no use pretending otherwise.”

“’Twould seem only natural to me that they do so.” Father sat back in his chair and took a sip of his Madeira. “Considering the enormous cost of the war with France.”

“But raising prices and subsequently demanding the colonists purchase all their goods only from England will create trouble.” Mr. Ross’s retort was decisive. “The king is a fool to make more demands without first consulting us for input and cooperation.”