The Quaker and the Rebel (3 page)

But the horrid man moved in her way again. “I do beg your pardon.”

When she lifted her gaze, they were mere inches apart. Her skirt blew against the leg of his trousers. She staggered and lost her balance on the flagstones.

He reached out to steady her, his fingers spanning her waist. With an exaggerated inhalation, he breathed in her soap’s lingering scent. “My,
you smell good. Not like any cook we’ve ever had. They always stink like onions and garlic.” He sniffed her hair in a noisy fashion. “You smell like honey and lemon balm,” he declared with obvious satisfaction.

This was too much. Emily jumped back from him. “Sir, I must insist you stop sniffing me like a dog. It is most inappropriate!” She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt with both hands. “I’m not a cook. I
am
the governess your…aunt…sent for. I’m Miss Emily Harrison from Marietta.” She wiped her palm on her skirt before extending her hand.

He stared for a moment. Then he grasped her hand tightly, drew it to his mouth, and placed a kiss on the freckled skin of her knuckles. “What a pleasant surprise. I am charmed to meet you, Miss Harrison.”

Aghast, Emily yanked her hand back. “That is most inappropriate, sir, without my gloves on!”

“I was just wondering where your afternoon gloves were.”

“I doubt that’s what you were wondering. If you would please excuse me.” Emily stepped to his left even as he mirrored her action.

“I beg your pardon. We seem to be at cross purposes.” He retreated an inch.

Folding her arms over her chest, Emily stared him squarely in the eye. At Miss Turner’s School for Ladies, she had practiced this look in the mirror to use on unruly pupils. “I must insist that you stand still so I may pass.” She enunciated each word, leaving no question as to her displeasure.

He remained ramrod straight with his arms tightly at his sides. “Certainly, but I wish to properly introduce myself so that our first, memorable encounter won’t leave you with the sole impression of impropriety.” He bowed deeply, his long hair falling across his brow. “I am Alexander Wesley Hunt, of Hunt Farms.”

“Nice to meet you.” Bobbing her head, Emily sprinted by him while she had the chance.

“Of Warren County. It’s outside of Front Royal.” His voice rose with intensity. “We live east of the Shenandoah Mountains. Perhaps you’ve heard of our farm?”

Emily hurried up the path, not pausing until she reached the safety of the portico. Then she glanced over her shoulder.

He stood where she’d left him, rocking on his heels in a fit of uncontrolled laughter. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Please don’t rush into an impetuous marriage until I’ve had an opportunity to redeem myself.”

Seething with fury, Emily marched into the house and climbed the servants’ staircase. This cocky man was the bookworm nephew Mrs. Bennington had spoken about? He certainly didn’t look serious and studious. He was the most obnoxious person in the world! Now she could add him to the growing list of people she had offended since arriving on the island. Why the impertinent, half-dressed man had managed to rile her, she couldn’t say. But she paced her room long into the evening, recalling his taunts and thinking of the retorts she wished she’d uttered. Why would a nephew bathe in the river, yet act as though he owned the place? And why was she unable to get him out of her head?

That night she stood on her balcony and watched the calm flat water of the Ohio River. Occasionally a laden flatboat riding low in the current broke the smooth surface on its way south. Nightjars and whippoorwills called to her from swamp willows on the riverbank. Their sorrowful cries deepened her near-consuming melancholia. Exhausted, she crawled into bed and snuggled under the covers without any supper, either with the Benningtons or their daughters. After the day’s events, she found she had little appetite. “I’ll make you proud, Mama,” she whispered in the darkness. She fell asleep as soon as her head hit the goose down pillow.

I’ll make you proud.

Emily awoke to sunlight streaming into the bedroom, a fragrant breeze stirring the lace curtains, and a thump at the door. Throwing her wrapper over her nightgown, Emily padded across the thick carpet. A
growl in her stomach reminded her that she’d skipped dinner. Smelling food through the closed door, she answered the knock with gratitude.

Alexander Hunt held a steaming breakfast tray in outstretched hands. “Good morning, Miss Harrison. I trust you slept well.” He moved the tray closer for her inspection. “Here is your breakfast. You must be famished this morning. Matilde said she cooked this food herself, and that you should eat every bite of it.”

“Good morning.” Emily didn’t move. She looked from the tray to him and then back to the tray.

“May I come in?” He nudged the door open with his foot. “Perhaps I can set this on your balcony and share a cup of coffee with you? We have another gorgeous morning.”

“You may certainly not, sir,” Emily belatedly recovered her wits. “I am not dressed.” She folded her wrapper about herself more securely and knotted the belt. Foolishly, she had answered the door as though she still lived on the farm with her parents. His furtive glances from her neck to her toes reminded her otherwise.

“Please express my appreciation to Miss Matilde. And thank you, Mr. Hunt, for delivering my breakfast.” She took the tray and tried shutting the door with her knee, but his boot was too quick.

“I remembered your Quaker convictions. Because I knew you wouldn’t eat food unless carried by free hands, I volunteered for the task.” Folding his arms across his waistcoat, he rested against the doorjamb. “And I can assure you, I am no man’s slave…or any woman’s, either. At least not yet.”

Emily stared at him in disbelief. “Were you sent by the devil specifically to needle me, Mr. Hunt?” She glanced down the hallway, not wishing the Benningtons to overhear the question.

Straightening, he leaned toward her without a shred of decorum. A lock of hair fell across his temple. “No. The devil sent me initially…to buy horses.” He winked and ambled down the passage with his thumbs hooked in his pockets.

She glared at his back until the smell of the food roused her senses. Inhaling the aroma of coffee and fried ham, she almost inhaled
everything on the plate: hotcakes, thinly sliced ham, a poached egg, strawberries in cream, and a pot of strong coffee. She devoured every morsel at her balcony table. Thank goodness the cook turned out to be a paid employee because Emily didn’t know when she had eaten a meal so delicious. The way her garments hung from her shoulders, she was slowly starving to death from her own cuisine.

Once revitalized and dressed for the day, Emily slipped down the staircase and out the front door, thankfully unobserved by anyone. Tulip poplars and giant black walnut trees shaded the expansive lawn. Standing on the flagstone terrace, she surveyed the mansion that would be her home for at least the next several months. The main building was a three-storied Georgian with painted wood shingles and brick chimneys at both ends. A large Palladian window crowned the front door, and an open belvedere topped the third floor like a huge cupola. A covered portico connected two separate wings to the house—the right housed the kitchen and pantries, but the left was locked and shuttered. Everything was balanced, symmetrical, and tidy, from the matching pillars to the identical chimneys in each wing. She stepped back to crane her neck skyward.

“Miss Harrison?” A voice startled Emily almost out of her shoes.

She turned to see a copper-skinned woman of about sixteen, fashionably and expensively dressed, approaching from the flower garden. “Yes?”

“I am Lila, Miss Margaret and Miss Anne’s maid. You met my parents yesterday, Matilde and Joshua.” Her expression betrayed nothing. “If you’ll follow me, the girls are eager to make your acquaintance.” Her speech was clear, articulate, and cultured. Her accent contained a Southern inflection, perhaps New Orleans, and not at all what Emily expected in Virginia.

“Pleased to meet you.” Hurrying to keep up, Emily followed the young maid to the location of her initial interview. Two tow-headed young ladies stood as she entered the sunny room. The taller of the two extended her hand.

“Miss Harrison? I am Margaret. This is Anne. And I see you’ve met
Lila,” she said politely. She dipped the tiniest of curtseys. “We’re so glad you’ve come to be our teacher.” Her smile seemed genuine, and Emily warmed to her immediately.

“Yes, we hated that sour old Mr. Tate,” said the younger sister.

“I believe what my sister is trying to say is that we had outgrown his curriculum—”

“Yes, that and he smelled badly,” Anne interjected as she clasped her hands behind her back.

“Smelled bad,” Emily corrected.

“Oh, did you know him too?”

“No, I’ve never met him, but smelled badly indicates something was amiss with his nose,” said Emily as Margaret attempted to stifle a smile.

“Something
was
amiss with his nose, Miss Harrison,” Anne agreed. “It was red and bulbous. Once I heard Mama say to Papa it’s because he’s too fond of bourbon.” At this, Margaret erupted into laughter. Emily heard Lila snicker too.

“Yes. Well, let’s forget about Mr. Tate for the moment. Please show me the books he used with you two in your lessons.”

“With us three,” Margaret corrected. “Lila studies with us.”

“Will you mind if I sit in?” the young woman asked, meeting the governess’s eye.

“Mind? Goodness, no. I’m pleased, as a matter of fact.” Emily stopped rambling before she said something regrettable, as she had with the girls’ mother. “All right, let’s be seated and take a look at your books.”

The morning passed pleasantly as Emily gauged their proficiencies. The girls had solid foundations in English grammar, diction, and penmanship. Margaret and Lila could get by with spoken French but couldn’t read or write it very well. Anne had progressed little beyond
merci
and
s’il vous plaît.
She would also require a remedial level of mathematics, whereas the other two were ready for algebra and geometry. All three needed a broader base in literature, and science seemed to have been completely neglected by the imbibing Mr. Tate.

After two hours, Emily stood and announced, “Tomorrow afternoon we’ll start a science unit on the edible versus poisonous plants indigenous to this area.”

They had been reading from a stack of
Godey’s Lady’s Books
and looked up with quizzical expressions. “I beg your pardon?” said Margaret.

“You should know which plants are safe to pick when you are in the forest and which things you should never put in your mouth,” explained Emily, attempting to stimulate interest in her topic.

“But Matilde usually packs a hamper of refreshments whenever we spend an afternoon on the levee or by the lake.” Margaret’s tone indicated bafflement in studying such matters.

“Yes, but what if you became lost or stranded in the mountains?” Emily’s question hung in the air as three sets of eyes grew round as saucers. Then Lila giggled behind an upraised palm. “Never mind,” Emily said, holding up her hands in dismissal. “We’ll stop for the day. I’ll take the rest of the afternoon to plan my curriculum and course of study.”

“Good afternoon.” Anne bobbed her head and flew out the door.

Margaret approached the oak writing table where Emily sat. “Good afternoon, Miss Harrison.” With a demure tentativeness, she placed her hand atop Emily’s. “I’m so glad you’ve come to our island. I do hope you’ll be happy here.” After a flash of brilliant white teeth, she too was gone, taking several periodicals with her.

Only Lila remained, silently appraising her. “I’ll bring you a lunch tray, miss, and if you like, I can show you around the island later.”

“Thank you, Lila. I’d like a sandwich and would very much enjoy a tour.” Emily wondered more about her impression on the maid than on the Bennington sisters. Lila had watched her all morning as though waiting for something dangerous to happen. Her mother had probably repeated the story of Emily’s cooking attempt that almost burned down the kitchen. “I do hope we can be friends,” she added.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lila said before vanishing through the door without a backward glance.