A More Perfect Union: Emily's Vow Part 10

Amy bobbed her head in eager agreement. They deposited the boy with Mary and soon sat together at the dining table. Autumn sun filtered through the lace curtains, dappling the worn floor boards.

The ch.o.r.es a.s.sociated with caring for an infant seemed never ending. Emily thanked the good Lord for her slaves' a.s.sistance. This experience made her even more aware of how the forced limitations on a girl's education prevented learning necessary skills, such as direct knowledge of how to treat wounds and book learning about government, history, and nature studies needed to share with her children.

Emily felt unprepared for either aspect of her life.

Hmm, that thought could be spun into an essay. She'd need to ponder the subject more when she had time to think on it, while puttering in the garden or dipping candles.

"I met General Greene while I was away." Amy spread apple b.u.t.ter on her corn m.u.f.fin.

"What was he like?" Emily bit into a slice of apple, juice dribbling down her chin. She dabbed her face with a linen napkin to remove the sticky rivulet.

"He personally thanked us for the cloth and boots."

"Is he as kind as they say?"

"Yes, quite the gentleman," Amy said. "His grat.i.tude made me feel like we really helped. And..." She paused for effect, eyes gleaming.

"Must I beg?" Emily leaned forward.

Shaking her head, Amy grinned. "And he said they will retake the town whether or not the peace treaty is signed. Either peaceably when the British evacuate, or by force if necessary."

"How much more of this waiting must we endure?" Reclining against the hard-back chair, Emily sighed. "It's interminable. I cannot even recall life prior to the start of this war."

"Seems like it's been all my life instead of half of it," Amy agreed.

"How long will you stay in town this time?" Please say you'll be around to help me through this nonsensical courtship farce.

"Not long, I'm afraid. Mother asked me to help her again. Alone this time."

Emily stared in horror at her cousin, her personal interests pushed aside. "Must you? What if you're caught?"

"I won't be." Amy prepared another corn m.u.f.fin and took a delicate bite. "I'll wear my widest skirts so they won't see anything I tuck underneath. I've already sewed a few things into the waist. I'll be fine."

"What will you take?" The sentries searched the wagons and carriages with swords, spearing into piles of clothing, looking for people trying to escape the confines of the town without proper pa.s.ses. More than one smuggler had suffered death on the spot.

"General Greene said they need whatever lead we have to make ammunition," Amy whispered, casting around to ensure no one overheard. "But keep that to yourself."

"Oh, Amy," Emily breathed. "Please be careful."

Amy patted Emily's hand in rea.s.surance. "I've watched how Mother does this. I'm sure I'll have no problems at all."

Emily's instincts quivered despite her cousin's calm a.s.surance.

"Equal education indeed. Why does a young girl need formal education?"

The question, more of a declaration actually, made Emily look up from her weaving. The ladies gathered in the upstairs parlor of Aunt Lucille's house, but this time indulged in more talking than sewing. She'd been silently composing her next essay, one forming around the radical idea of how women should be able to represent their own interests and even sign contracts, when the woman's voice broke through her thoughts. Frank had grumbled about the essay in question but held to their deal. She listened to the ensuing conversation with interest.

Darlene Walters stumped her way across the parlor, her long skirts rustling with each step. Her opinions always seemed to enjoy the force of fact among the townswomen. Whatever she said guided the others. Change in such an atmosphere became hopeless, because the other women acted like sheep instead of individuals. The situation rankled Emily's nerves. How could they fall into step so easily with one person's point of view? Surely their brains functioned independently.

"Wh-y, Dar-lene, just like that lil ol' paper said, so's they can teach their younguns how to be proper citizens." f.a.n.n.y Norris, a pet.i.te woman sitting to Emily's right, set her chair rocking, her painted fan waving before her face. A newcomer to the town after her husband's death at the battle at Cowpens early last year, she spent all her effort supporting the aims of the patriots and spoiling those of the British. Across her lap lay an unfinished shirt, its left sleeve dangling. Her southern drawl infused the atmosphere, painting smiles on the other ladies' faces.

"It's such a grand idea for our new country," another woman added. "Don't you agree?"

With all her heart. Emily paid close attention to the discussion, though she made a show of pa.s.sing the flying shuttle back and forth, and tapping the weft thread snuggly into place after each pa.s.s. The rhythmic motion of weaving provided a steady beat as background to the ladies' conversation.

"The men sure do not like the concept of girls knowing as much as boys, I can tell you." Aunt Lucille continued spinning as she spoke, barely glancing up to gauge reaction.

"It's about time somebody had the gumption to state things as they are." Samantha pulled a needle through the finely woven linen shirt in her lap, her st.i.tches evenly s.p.a.ced, before looking up at the other women. "Girls have been denied a proper education for far too long."

"What's she afraid of, then, that she doesn't put a real name on the article?" Mrs. Walters gripped the arms of her chair and leaned toward Samantha. "n.o.body's ever heard of Penny Marsh."

A nervous chill crawled up Emily's arms as she listened to them discuss her essay, hearing their views of the thoughts she had committed to paper. My goodness, they even debated the points in her essay. A glow spread through her, chasing away the chill. Glancing around the small circle of five women, a response to the stepped-up surveillance the British soldiers employed searching out spies and patriots even as they prepared to evacuate the city, Emily tried to determine if anyone suspected her as the mysterious writer.

"We-ell, I think the la.s.s is smarter than you's give her credit for," Mrs. Norris said. "She knows to keep her true self hidden so she's not persecuted by this town."

Afraid to remain silent in case they suspected she did indeed hide something, Emily said, "Who is to say it's not a man using a woman's name?"

Laughter met her suggestion. Emily's neck and cheeks warmed but she kept her hands busy with the shuttle and her feet moving on the treadles. Still, she must leave it an open question.

"A man?" Mrs. Walters harrumphed and shook her dark curls. "Why would a man pretend to be a woman? Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"If the author wanted to remain a secret," Samantha said, glancing at Emily, "what better way than to pretend to be of the opposite s.e.x? No one would suspect him, if so." She knotted the thread and bit off the end, her gaze taking in the ladies watching her.

Mrs. Walters sat back in her chair and looked at Samantha. "I still say whoever it is has no business stirring up trouble when we have hope this war is finally drawing to an end. Must we now battle between the men and women of our town?"

"'Tis an old battle, Mrs. Walters, although not a visible one," Samantha said.

Emily nodded, pleased Samantha defended her opinion without revealing who wrote the essay. Emily dared not share with any of these ladies the true ident.i.ty of Penny Marsh, for fear she'd be ostracized from the group and by extension the town. For a lady of her status, propriety forbade her to sink to the level of printing her thoughts in a common broadside. These women had provided her support and comfort during the trials of the war, the loneliness of her brothers being away, the fears for their safety. Even during Elizabeth's pregnancy and subsequent illness, they had stayed stalwart in attention and caring. Emily meant to change the town's opinion regarding the proper roles for women, even if it meant facing the possibility of being shunned for her views. First, she wanted to have her say, then she'd step from the shadows into the sunlight.

"I've not had any issues with the men in my family," Mrs. Walters snapped.

"That's because they's afraid of you," Mrs. Norris replied. Her subsequent chuckle elicited laughter from the entire group. Except for Mrs. Walters, who glared at the slender woman.

"Now, ladies, resume your tasks," Aunt Lucille said. "We must finish this today so we can deliver our items tomorrow."

Samantha folded the shirt in her lap and laid it on the pile beside her. Emily marveled at the speed and precision of Samantha's needle. That woman could sure whip out shirts. Emily preferred the artistry of embroidery, what she considered painting with floss. Over the years, she'd created pictures of flowers to hang on the parlor wall at the plantation home as well as pillows to place on the couch. Adorning her gowns with seed pearls and sequins had given way during the war to making pants and shirts for the militia. Soon she'd be able to start replacing her gowns, once the merchant ships were allowed to freely pursue their trading.

"You are leaving today, Mrs. Abernathy?" Samantha asked.

"Tomorrow at first light," Aunt Lucille replied.

"Pray be careful, as I heard through a member of my father's church that the British suspect some ladies of smuggling supplies into and out of town. They may be more diligent in their inspection of your carriage."

Amy frowned, concern in her eyes. "Surely propriety will stay their hands from searching our persons, though."

"I wouldn't count on that." Samantha lifted a shirt by the shoulders and shook it out. "Remember that soldiers do not behave the same as gentlemen."

"I'll keep it in mind." Amy smoothed her skirts with both hands, then folded her hands at her waist. "But we have to try."

Emily caught her breath, sudden unease gripping her. "Please be careful. I fear you'll be caught and... and punished." What an understatement. Smugglers risked imprisonment or being shot on the spot. Amy's friendship meant the world to Emily. Contemplating life without her in it so soon after the loss of Elizabeth caused Emily's throat to constrict.

Aunt Lucille nodded once, her eyes distant. "Anything else?"

Samantha hesitated, making eye contact with Emily. Her friend's steady gaze made concern swell in Emily's chest. Why did she look at her with such worry?

"My father told me the British know privateers operate from this town. Some prominent ships' captains may even be involved." Samantha's emerald eyes held Emily's for two ticks of the long case clock standing against one wall before sliding on to other surprised faces.

Emily stiffened as she stared at her friend. Her tone suggested Emily's father fit the description. A privateer? Never. His moral fort.i.tude precluded such deceptive behavior. Yes, he continued to export items but he did so openly to survive. Aunt Lucille had reared her to never deceive, as her father wished. Of course, a few times she couldn't prevent a slight deception, but always for a good reason. And never in order to circ.u.mvent the law. Still, Samantha's look suggested she knew more than she said.

Aunt Lucille caught Emily's eye, offering a slight nod and smile of encouragement. "Perhaps Emily could check with Frank, to see what he's heard." At Emily's start, she added, "Given that he's a relative and all."

Frank? What would he know? A military man turned into a newsman, but who really wanted to be somewhere else. Always on edge, a touch irritable, and pushy. And very protective.

The weight of eyes drew her attention. The circle of women waited for her response. "I don't know if Frank would be very helpful."

While she knew Frank's true leanings, she could not reveal the truth to these ladies for fear of undermining his efforts. Should word reach Balfour, Frank's very life hung in the balance.

Aunt Lucille nodded. "I understand your reluctance, dear, but if you could ask him, discreetly of course, I'd appreciate any information you glean."

Fiddlesticks. Even when not in the room, everything centered on that man. She wished for one blasted day without something or someone throwing her into his path. Perhaps Amy had been right to worry about him.

The expectant eyes of the women rested on her.

Emily sighed. "I'll see what I can discover."

Chapter 10.

The fog enveloped the harbor and clung to Frank's black boots as he strode toward the docks. His forest-green cape danced about his legs with each stride. If only he had received word sooner, this crisis could have been averted. Despite the late-morning hour, the fog refused to relinquish its elusive grasp on the town, clinging like a fretful child.

He tugged his tricorne lower. He should have dragged himself from his warm bed earlier this morning, of all mornings, but he had stayed out later than intended. Emily's kiss haunted his memory. Distracted by the image, Frank started when a young boy dodged into the street in front of him, nearly tripping him as he darted between the wagons and people going about their business.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" Delays today spelled disaster. "Watch where you're going, boy!"

Resuming his former pace, Frank hastened toward the cutter tying off at the end of the wharf. His boots resounded on the planks, scattering the handful of seagulls searching the sandy banks around the pier. The white-and-gray birds disappeared amid a flapping of wings into the cottony air.

"Captain Davis!" Frank hailed the grizzled hulk of a man descending to the dock. The British standard hung limply from the ship's mast. Manheim Davis's dark clothing provided a striking contrast to the swirling white mist as he approached. The m.u.f.fled shouts of sailors sounded through the clinging dampness.

"Cap'n Thomson, how fine to see you. None too soon, neither." Davis's lips parted around the stem of his pipe. Fragrant cherry smoke mingled with the scent of rain.

"You're early." Frank fell into step beside him, their boots thudding on the planks as they paced back toward the busy street. "We did not expect you for another week."

The pale disc of sun hovered behind the flowing mist. The cry of gulls circling the two men seemed distant compared to the hearty voices of the crew on the Gallant Enterprise.

"Had a favorable wind." Davis tapped the pipe bowl against the heel of his hand, knocking the glowing embers onto the damp ground, landing with a faint hiss. "Helped that the British don't care about jars of pickled snakes and painted masks."

Relief loosened the knot in Frank's stomach. "Excellent."

Though the Charles Town Museum, one of the first natural museums in the colonies, had officially closed its doors during the war, Frank secretly helped Captain Sullivan and several prominent members of town continue gathering specimens from around the world. Somehow importing these wonders helped a.s.suage his wanderl.u.s.t. One day, though, he would board that boat with Davis to explore the world and identify and obtain incredible wonders and historic finds to display at the museum. The pieces of history and culture hid in an isolated warehouse for safekeeping from potential pillagers and the British until they could reopen the museum. They planned to open as quickly as possible by continuing to build the collections until the fighting ended.

Captain Sullivan had ensured the safe arrival of this particular shipment, adding thirteen crates to the cargo hold. His connections spanned the world, and through them he identified and acquired, in one way or another, the items most important to the museum. Davis excelled at circ.u.mventing the watch of the British inspectors and managing to deliver the requested goods.

A resounding thud on the ship's deck drew the men's attention to the Gallant Enterprise. A large crate was surrounded by four brawny sailors. A gust of wind lifted and tossed the fog. Colorful markings announcing a number of ports became discernible, dotting the crate's surface. The men hoisted the heavy crate and began moving it toward the dock to where a nondescript wagon waited. Within the box were the articles desired to replace the ones destroyed in the horrific fire that had raced through the museum four years earlier. And one special item only a few select men knew about.

"Do ya have me money?" Cautious jade eyes studied Frank from a face resembling dried tobacco leaves.

Frank looked around, ensuring no one observed them. Blasted fog. He couldn't see much of anything for it. But then, the fog aided their clandestine exchange as well. He pulled a folded envelope from his cloak pocket. "When do you leave?"

Davis slid the envelope out of sight. "In a month. Can't come and go too often or they'll grow suspicious. More than they already are, that is."

"What happened?" Frank peered at the serious expression on the captain's face, dreading his next words.

"Aye, they boarded her as we entered the harbor." The grin that erupted onto his face sported two matching gaps on either side of his upper jaw. "They did not know what treasures they beheld when they looked upon me cargo, so they let us in."

The tense coil of fear released inside Frank's chest. He exhaled, suddenly aware he'd been holding his breath. "Thank G.o.d."

Davis shook his head. "Next time we probably won't be so lucky. They'll ask questions in the meantime, be on the lookout for why I'd be hauling such junk in from foreign ports."

"In the event, that is a risk we'll have to take, I'm afraid." Frank rubbed a hand over his jaw as he thought. "Waiting a few weeks may reduce their curiosity."

"Or give them more time to tighten the noose." Davis shrugged. "Either way, I have to make the runs. Who'd take care of me Jenny otherwise? But I won't hang for it, neither."

Frank nodded. Jenny was frail and needed special help from the ladies in the rural town where the Davises inhabited an imposing house along the river. Davis risked much but refrained from risking capture so he could tend his wife.

"The wagon driver has directions for where to take the cargo." Captain Sullivan's boxes came with specific separate instructions, provided in a wax-sealed letter only for the driver's eyes. Frank looked back to where the men struggled to lift the heavy containers onto the wagon bed. The team of horses tossed their manes and stamped their hooves impatiently.

"Did you tell him to drive carefully? Those gla.s.s jars have water in them, you know."

"The alcohol in those jars preserves the organisms," Frank explained. "The driver knows what to do. Thanks again for your skillful and experienced endeavors on the museum's behalf."

Extending his hand, Frank clasped the other man's powerful grip. "Perhaps you'd enjoy a pint and a bit of supper?"

Davis shook his head with a grin. "I have other things to take care of, but I'll catch up with you in a few days." He winked. "By then I'll be ready for some friendly man talk."

"I'll look forward to it." Frank would not ask with whom the good captain would spend the next few days. His time in the militia and printing broadsides had taught him when to use discretion. Often, the fewer details he knew, the better.

"Now who is that, pray tell?" Davis indicated with his head someone approaching from behind Frank.

"Captain Davis, just the man I'm looking for."

Dread swept through Frank as he turned slowly to face the man with the razor-sharp voice. John Bradley.