Emily's Vow (16 page)

"The evening of the first day, Elizabeth seemed restless, and when I asked if she was all right, she said her stomach ached, likely from the contractions. She looked so happy I didn't press the issue. But I should have. Tarnation! I did mention it to your mother at the time, but she agreed it probably meant nothing."

"My mother?" Surprise registered on Samantha's face. "Mother attended Elizabeth as the midwife?"

"I assumed you knew," Emily said, taken aback. "My apologies, I forgot you were in Savannah when Father asked her to tend Elizabeth, when she first discovered she was with child."

"And when she passed, I had gone to the Neck to tend to several slave families who needed aid." She sighed, a long-drawn-out exhalation. "I'm sorry I failed to help."

"You had other obligations. Amy stayed here, along with my father and your mother," Emily reassured her. "We did all we could."

The front door banged shut, and the sound of heavy boots on the wood floors echoed into the room. "Emily! Where are you?"

"In the parlor," Emily called back.

She considered following up on her earlier conversation with her father about her dreams of a shop, but with Samantha present, it simply wasn't appropriate to have such a delicate conversation with her father in front of a visitor. Hopefully after Samantha left, her father would listen to her plans. If he was in a good mood, of course. Emily's father hurried into the parlor, charging the atmosphere with his presence as he had done all her life.

"Yes, sir?" Emily detected the fresh tang of sea air carried on her father's long cloak.

"Miss Samantha." He nodded at her before turning to Emily, his bushy brows arched. "What have you been doing today, my dear?"

"Samantha and I have spent the morning talking about how Mother and Elizabeth died." Emily's wavered on the last word. She swallowed to clear her thoughts and voice.

"Such a sad conversation for a beautiful fall day." The hefty man folded his arms and shook his head like a rusty pendulum. "Why are you dwelling on such a subject?"

Samantha waggled the feather of her pen. "I thought I'd make notes on the circumstances surrounding healthy childbirths and compare those to stillborn births and infant mortality." Replacing the quill, she gazed at him. "Can you recall which midwife assisted your wife?"

"Naturally. Your mother."

Samantha blanched. Emily feared her friend would faint from the sudden loss of blood to her head.

"My mother?" Samantha blinked in puzzlement. "I had no idea she lived in Charles Town so long ago."

"She's an old family friend," Emily's father said. "I became acquainted with her shortly before she moved into town. So when she did, and my wife announced she expected another child, I naturally requested that she tend her. Unfortunately the little boy did not live. But she also helped in delivering Emily and Elizabeth, and look how well they turned out."

Emily sensed he withheld more to the story, given the guarded expression he wore. "So you asked her to attend Elizabeth."

"Naturally. Cynthia has been a good friend for many years. I trust her to do her best in all things." Emily's father put his hands on his hips. "However, I sought you out because I've been requested to go on a short sea voyage."

"For whom?" Emily folded her hands and laid them in her lap. "Isn't that risky with the many enemy ships at anchor?"

He shrugged at the question. "I received the request at the town meeting this afternoon. The British have stepped up measures to locate those in town who aid the patriotic cause in a last-ditch effort to punish this town. Frank will return to the house soon, of course, to look after your safety. Prudence requires caution."

Ignoring the burst of anger coursing through her, setting her teeth on edge, Emily approached him. "Yes, Father. But a voyage? For how long?"

"A few days, perhaps a week. I don't want to miss telling my famous ghost stories, after all."

"Or infamous." Emily tried to recover her good humor with an effort of will.

Samantha shook off the concern in her eyes and grinned. "Perhaps we should ask Amy to dream up some new stories."

He feigned horror at her suggestion, then laughed. "Only if they prove spookier than mine. I'll not have any happy ghosts in my house."

* * *

Glad to finally reach the outer bounds of Charles Town, Frank sighed. Returning home to Emily and Tommy made his trip away tolerable. He'd slipped out of town with the excuse of researching the validity of a news item, but in truth to rendezvous with an aide to General Greene. He reined in his horse as he approached the sentry, watching the young British lieutenant in the pendulum-like plodding that served as guard duty. After exchanging the requisite formal credentials, Frank paused at a sound behind him. A dusty pair of grays with black manes and tails pulled a light carriage bearing two women up to the guard and halted. He recognized the carriage as well as its occupants.

"Why, Mrs. Abernathy and Miss Amy, you've returned at last." Frank urged his horse over so he could greet them properly.

Amy scrutinized his face but only smiled. Odd, she usually returned a greeting more rapidly. What had they been up to on their little excursion to the Abernathy plantation? His suspicion hummed at the intriguing question.

The lieutenant sauntered over to Amy's side of the carriage and grinned up at her, tipping his hat in greeting. "Ladies. Your papers?"

Mrs. Abernathy handed over the scrunched document with a rueful pout. "We arrive tardy for when we expected our homecoming."

"Late?" The young man looked at her with raised brows, then peered at the page.

"We should have returned yesterday, but it couldn't be helped." She shrugged, a slight lift of shoulders.

"I'm not authorized to permit anyone with an expired pass." The sentry's shoulders drew back as he straightened his spine and fingered the paper in his hand.

Frank smothered a sigh. The officious lieutenant obviously planned to adhere to the regulations today. Why the heightened awareness of procedure? Mayhap something had changed for the British and not for the better. Amy didn't seem to notice, or hid it well.

The lady in question grimaced and shook her head. "It's hard to imagine that so many ill-timed events could happen in such a short span." She let her breath out in a rush, her eyes searching the soldier's face.

Frank gentled his high-spirited mount and hid a smile. Amy could spin fascinating stories, as their circle of friends well knew. Discerning fact from fiction provided much entertainment for her avid audiences at parties.

"Indeed?" The soldier didn't look as though he believed her, but still listened.

Another dramatic sigh and then she continued. "My poor granny felt better after a dose or two of our good doctor's medicine. Too good, perhaps, because she decided she wanted to sit on the front porch and breathe some crisp fall air."

"Amy, please." Mrs. Abernathy frowned. "The lieutenant has no care for our misfortunes."

Despite the frown, Emily's aunt seemed to hide a grin. Frank stifled his own reaction. This should be interesting. Frank's horse shifted beneath him, the leather tack creaking with the movement.

"She had just sat down in her favorite rocking chair when a hornet—you know, one of those that sound like a whole swarm of bees chases you? Well, it buzzed past her, startling her so she rocked backward violently. The chair overturned, throwing her to the floor. Unfortunately in all the fluster and tumble she sprained her ankle and broke her wrist." Amy twisted in her seat and leaned closer to the young soldier, inviting his attention to where a lace kerchief nestled in the plunging neckline of her golden gown, tantalizingly hinting at creamy mounds beneath the fabric. Her eyes crinkled as she followed his gaze. Fanning herself with one hand, she succeeded in redirecting his attention back to her face. "We sent for the small town doctor because he lived closer and he patched her up as soon as he could, but not soon enough that we could return yesterday as scheduled."

"How horrible for her." The lieutenant's gaze drooped again to where the pulsing slip of lace obscured the valley between Amy's breasts.

Amy bobbed her head in agreement, her mouth twisting into a wry grin. "We thought so too at first. Then the doctor turned out to be a school chum she hadn't seen in ages." Amy shrugged. "Who knew they'd end up rekindling an old crush from way back then."

"That's one way to renew a friendship." Frank chuckled. "Will you be seeing Emily upon your return?"

"That depends on this young gentleman giving us entrance." Amy adjusted her skirts and fluffed the lace at her bodice. She peered into the young man's eyes, batted her lashes once, twice.

The lieutenant followed her movements with a slight frown. When he licked his lips, Frank cleared his throat, startling the infatuated soldier.

"Well, sir, will you grant them leave?" Frank's horse dipped his head to scratch his nose on one leg, nearly unseating Frank with his sudden downward movement. Gathering the reins more firmly, he pulled the stallion's head up.

"I don't suppose fine ladies such as you could be any trouble." The lieutenant handed back the pass. Tipping his hat once more, he waved them through. "Travel safe."

With a slap of the reins, Mrs. Abernathy set the carriage rattling into motion. Nobody spoke until out of earshot of the smitten lieutenant.

"Now that's to bed, what has you out of town, Frank?" Amy asked.

"News printing business." The less they knew about his clandestine activities, the better for everyone. However, he wanted to confirm his thoughts about their activities. "I do hope your grandmother is feeling much better."

"Grandmother?" Amy blinked twice slowly and grinned. "Why, whatever do you mean?"

"As I thought." Frank laughed with the ladies as they rode back into town. Amy's stories always proved entertaining. The open question was how long before Miss Amy landed in hot water for her fictions.

Chapter 8

Frank braced his tired hands on the heavy leather apron hugging his hips and stretched his screaming back muscles. He had spent hours hunched over the metal trays of letters, ones reset three times already and still not aligned properly. Having to place the letters in backward so they printed right side up and reading left to right when his mind kept drifting to Emily's face, her scent, her laugh, frustrated him on many levels. He slammed a hand onto the thick wood table.

A folded paper glared accusingly at him from one corner of another table set at right angles to the first. He had found the pages when he unlocked the door. The pages were signed by Penny Marsh. He did not recognize the name, which was downright mysterious. British guards ensured the town remained closed to comings and goings at night. So who might it be? Someone wanted him to be at odds with the entire community, not just part of it. He slammed his hand down again to hear the satisfying
thump
followed by the high, tinny sound of the metal tiles wavering in their slots. Suggesting men sold women via marriage into bondage as often as they sold slaves would see him shot. Or worse, hung. Marriage did not equal slavery. His parents had demonstrated that to him through their love and caring for each other.

He considered his marriage to Elizabeth, forced on him by his own sense of honor. He had not wanted to marry anyone at that juncture in his life, with the war all around, but could not abandon his brother's child or the woman having it. His conscience had balked at walking away from his responsibility. Nor could he let an innocent child endure the shame of being labeled a bastard. The war may take the boy's father away, but his uncle would see to it he grew up proper and with pride.

Scrutinizing the small square metal tile with a raised E on it before shoving it into its space on the iron composing stick, he allowed that what the essayist claimed held a measure of truth in it. A woman enjoyed the protection of her father until she married, then trusted her husband to protect and provide. She relinquished her claim to any property in the agreement, exchanging any former sense of freedom. But marriage still did not equate to being bought and sold like slaves. Not at all.

Dare he print this inflammatory essay? He wiped a rag across his beaded forehead before the sweat dripped onto the waiting galleys of set type. The wooden trays marched up the table, the painstakingly set tiles secured in place. He selected an A and placed it next to the E, cursing when the edges refused to meet squarely. Yanking it out, he threw down the stick.