Surrender the Wind (4 page)

“I won’t know until I read it.” Seth glanced at the handwriting on the front. “Come inside. I’ll give you what meat I have.”

Sanson smiled and strode up the stairs to the door. “Thank you, sir. I haven’t had a meal since yesterday, just hard biscuits.”

Seth moved to the table inside the dimly lit dwelling. After he lit a candle, he blew out the match and tossed it into the fireplace. The young messenger looked hungry, so he poured him a tin of water and gave him a plate of cold venison.

Without a word, Seth broke the scarlet seal on the letter and unfolded the page. A moment later, he folded it back up and set it on the table near the candlestick.

“I have no reply,” he said.

Sanson nodded, finished his meal, and went out to mount his horse. “A girl waits for me on the other side of the river. It's easier to travel by night than in the heat of day.”

Seth followed him outside. “Below the hill, you’ll find a shallow place. You’ll know it by the dead willow lying in the water. It's easy to cross there.”

The lad climbed into the saddle, tipped his hat, and galloped off. Seth sat on the step and stared up at the crescent moon above the treetops. It bathed the land in a cool blue haze. The night sky and the trees that moved in a soft breeze caused his heart to grow heavy. He would be unable to sleep again. His mind was troubled, his thoughts cluttered. The letter declared that he had inherited his grandfather's estate. If the land were in America, he would not hesitate to take it. But England? How could he? He had rightly lifted up arms against the British. How on earth could he consider leaving his home in Virginia?

But then there was Caroline.

The last time he saw his sister, she was a child of twelve. He remembered her smile, the mass of wheat-colored curls that toppled over her head, the bright green eyes. At eighteen, he
entered the Continental Army. He recalled how she cried, how her arms stretched out to her papa when her grandfather took her away.

Who cared for her in England now that his grandfather was dead? What had become of her? Did she care she had a brother, a rebel at that? He must think through everything with a rational mind and assume nothing.

Weary, he brushed the sweat off his brow and marked the moon above the inky treetops. A meteor shot across the sky and awe filled him.

At midnight, he stood and went inside. The letter sat on the table, and with hands upon hips, he stared with a lengthening face at the open pages.

Frustrated, he blew out his candle and went soberly to bed.

It took Seth two days to make a decision. At nine in the morning, he headed across the Potomac to the village of Point of Rocks on the Maryland shore. From there, he traveled through the rolling fields of Frederick County and turned southeast onto the Annapolis Road. Four pennies and seven silver dollars lined his pocket.

Out in a field of golden summer wheat, a farmer waved to him. Seth jumped the fence that separated the farmer's land from the road. “Do you have a horse to sell or loan?”

“I’ve got a gray better for riding than work. You can have her, saddle and bridle, if you’re willing to pay,” the farmer said. “Come on up to the barn and I’ll show her to you.”

Seth looked the horse over, then emptied his pocket of two silver dollars. “Will this be enough?”

The farmer's brows shot up. “For that old nag, aye. She's slow, but she’ll get you where you need to go.”

Seth climbed into the saddle and ran the reins through his hands. The sway of the mare's back had a wide girth—not at all like Saber, who had once been all muscle and brawn. He allowed the sad memory to be fleeting and settled back, for the journey would be long.

The road was hard and dusty, and alongside it purple thistles grew among knee-deep rows of snowy Queen Anne's lace. The day would be hot from the way the stems bent hook-like, with the heads turned downward, eager for the earth's dew.

Riding along, he dragged off his hat and mopped the sweat off his forehead. The hours slipped by, until night fell and he settled down in a field under the stars to sleep.

He reached the bustling town of Annapolis late in the afternoon the following day. Rain clouds hovered over black slate roofs and church steeples, but had not yet blessed the thirsty earth. Along the busy, cobbled streets, Seth moved his horse. He rode past St. John's College and neared the waterfront where tall ships were moored in the Severn River, their creamy sails furled. Seagulls darted and whirled between the black lines of rigging.

He reached inside his waistcoat pocket, drew out the letter, and glanced at the address. John Stowefield's house stood out from the rest by reason of its bright red door with stark black fixtures and the numerous pots of scarlet geraniums out front.

After he tethered his mount, he bounded up the stairs and approached the door, tired and sweaty from the long journey and perpetual heat. Removing his tricorn hat, he frowned at its tattered appearance, brushed it off, and tucked it beneath his arm.

When the door opened, he was shown inside Stowefield's office, a room with large mullioned windows, where the sunlight seeped through the draperies. Stowefield sat at his desk dozing, his steel spectacles low on the bridge of his nose. His hair, a mass of gray locks, matched a pair of bushy eyebrows. His housekeeper nudged him on the shoulder and he shook and sputtered awake.

“What is it, Partridge?”

Seth waited inside the doorway. He smiled at the pronouncement of the woman's name. She resembled the bird, with her tiny eyes and spherical face, stout neck and body, the way her arms hung away from her sides when she walked.

“Mr. Braxton here to see you.” Partridge folded her hands over her apron. “You must rise from your nap.”

“Braxton, you say? Well good.” Stowefield shifted in his Windsor chair. It creaked beneath his weight. “Bring us coffee, Partridge. Make it strong.”

With a quick jerk of her head, Partridge turned. “I’ll make the best coffee for you, sir.”

Stowefield let out a heavy sigh. “You see, Mr. Braxton? Whenever a handsome face new to Partridge comes to my house, she's flustered. I promise, the tray she brings will be more substantial than my usual coffee and buttered bread.”

Hat in hand, Seth stepped forward and extended his hand. He had no riding gloves, and frowned a moment at the red chafing over his knuckles made so by the leather reins. “I hope I haven’t come at a bad time, sir. It's late in the day.”

Stowefield stood to shake Seth's hand. “Aye, ’tis late, but too early to doze off at one's desk. Makes one look the sluggard at his trade. I stayed up late last night playing Whist with a client. Sinful, I know, and I should repent of it.”

“Whist, sir?”

Stowefield smiled and his eyes enlarged. “Yes, Whist. Do you play?”

Seth shook his head. “I’m not inclined to sitting room games.”

“I imagine it's not a game younger men enjoy these days. Others are more challenging. The ladies for example?” He wrinkled his nose and let out a snort meant to be a laugh.

Seth smiled and changed the subject. “You sent me a letter concerning my grandfather's estate.”

“I’m glad you’ve taken my advice and come.”

“Only that, sir.”

Stowefield dragged off his spectacles and put them on his desk. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll not take his property.”

Stowefield raised his brows. “But it's been willed to you. You’re the legal heir. It’d be foolish not to take it. Think of the fortune you’d have.”

“I have my father's land.”

“And what will that bring you but a pocket of scratch? You’ll be in the poorhouse by winter. This drought will wipe out many a landed gentleman.”

“A landed gentleman I’m not, Mr. Stowefield.”

Stowefield cocked one brow. “Well, not in English terms perhaps. But that is beside the point.”

“I’ve other plans besides planting.”

“Such as?”

“I want to breed horses and restore the house.”

“Noble goals they may be, but …”

“It will take some time to raise the money, but it's my ambition to raise the finest racers and hunters in Virginia.”

Stowefield sighed. “Well, your grandfather has left you enough to raise a hundred or more.”

Seth lowered his eyes with a frown. “I don’t want his money. I’ll raise the funds on my own. A few good seasons and …”

Stowefield raised his hand. “You’re too young to know what is wise to do. I mean no insult by it, but you need sound advice. You cannot let your feelings or prejudice rule you in this matter. I know you fought for independence, and I hear you paid dearly for it. But a man has a duty to his family no matter what country he may live in or what political allegiances he may have.”

“And it is for that reason I’ll not go to England. How can I live in a country I rebelled against?”

“Have you forgotten your sister?”

“No, sir, I have not.”

“What will she do now that she's alone?”

“I would hope she’d come home and live with me until she weds.”

A look of consternation rose on Stowefield's face. “Forgive me for saying so, but I think you may be uninformed on such delicate themes.”

“In what way, sir?”

“You expect her, a woman, to journey across the ocean alone? America would be unfamiliar to her now. She has lived in England for a long time.”

“It would be her decision, of course.”

“She’ll have wolves prowling at her door. Have you thought of that?”

Seth shifted on his feet. He had an obligation to his sister, and he was fighting it.

Partridge brought in the tray. Coffee, sliced apples coated with cinnamon and sugar, and baking powder biscuits with pats of bright yellow butter were upon it. She had used the best china and silver.

When she left, Stowefield sipped his coffee. He looked at the black brew and licked his lips.

“I say. This is the best coffee Partridge has ever concocted.” He glanced over at Seth and grinned. “No doubt it's for you and not for an old man like me.”

Seth smiled at the compliment, but said nothing in reply. He, too, enjoyed the little repast she provided.

“As I understand it, you’ve had no contact with your grandfather since the beginning of the war.” Stowefield picked up an apple slice between his fingers and tasted it. “He left our country with Caroline in seventy-six. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that's right, she without our mother and too young to suffer a war.”

Stowefield popped the rest of the apple slice into his mouth, chewed it, and washed it down with his coffee. “Benjamin remarried years ago. Did you know?”

This new twist added sober surprise in Seth. “No, sir.”

“Well he did, and at his advanced age. The woman was comely for her years, but poor, so this letter states. He married her out of loneliness, no doubt. New love is rare when one is old.” Stowefield set his cup on the table. “Beggars cannot be choosers.”

Seth let out a short laugh.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Stowefield winked. “How can I, an old man, say as much? Experience, I can tell you. Whether a wife be a titled lady or a milkmaid, it is she who makes a home out of four lonely walls.”

Seth shrugged. “Some men prefer four walls that are his alone, no matter how dark or lonely. Marriage for some is bondage, for others freedom. I suppose my grandfather couldn’t do without it.”

“She brought a son into the marriage by her first husband.” Stowefield, refilled his pipe, lit a match, and put it to the bowl. “I learned he's a man about your age.”

This brought a rise of pain. To him, he and his father had been replaced. Seth clutched his fists hard, stood from the chair, and stepped over to the window.

“That's not unusual. Why should it matter to me or to my inheritance?”

“It's of no importance,” Stowefield replied. “Indeed, it's common. Your grandfather left his widow an annuity of one hundred pounds per year. More than generous for them to live comfortably on.”

“Then why does there seem to be a problem?”

“I’m afraid if you do not lay hold on your inheritance this gentleman might try to claim it for his own. He may leave your sister in a situation where she's forced to marry where she does not wish. I have no doubt Benjamin's stepson is hell bent on having his way if he craves more money, and things could be complicated, if not compromised.”

“How would you know this, sir?”

“My profession is the law, Mr. Braxton. My hobby is detection.” Stowefield squinted his eyes and tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. “It is the wording of the letters that paint the picture. The story holds the keys to determining which course of action your grandfather's stepson would most likely take. Do you see?”

“I think so.” Seth shifted on his feet. “Who are these letters from?”

Stowefield settled back in his chair. “One is from Mr. Banes, your grandfather's lawyer. The other is from your sister, Caroline. It is but simple facts she discloses, and her urging for me to convince you is profound.”

“Is it?” Seth moved back to the chair but remained standing.

“Indeed so. A letter is enclosed to you as well.” Stowefield handed it to Seth. He stood up and moved toward the doorway. “I’ll provide a few moments for you to read it. Perhaps later you’ll have an answer for me.”