Love Thine Enemy. Louise Gouge M.
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the stocks. “Forty lashes and a week in the stocks should teach ’im a lesson.”
And kill him in the process. Frederick set down his quill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Three days in the stocks and ten lashes afterward. And you will scourge him yourself.”
Baker’s posture slumped, and he hung his head. After several moments, he gave John Gilbert a sidelong glance, then raised his eyes to Frederick. “That’ll do justice. Thank you, sir.”
The crowd burst into cheers and applause. John Gilbert slumped to the ground on his knees. “God bless ya, Mr. Moberly, sir. God bless ya.”
Emotion flooded Frederick’s chest, but he managed a gruff dismissal. “Are there other quarrels?”
With none coming forward, Frederick made notes in his ledger, blotted the ink, and closed the book. As the crowd dispersed, he cast a hasty glance at Miss Folger and barely contained a smile. Her head was tilted prettily, and a look of wonder filled her lovely face. Once again he swallowed a rush of emotion. Whether or not his judgment had been correct, her obvious approval was all he required.
Rachel knew she must turn and walk away like the others, but her feet refused to move. To her relief, Mr. Moberly approached her. She struggled to think of a Scripture verse to relate to him in praise of his decision. But she could think only of some words from Shakespeare that nonetheless imparted an eternal truth: The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
“Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly gave her that boyish smile of his that belied his august position. “What brings you to the common on this lovely day?”
Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at his well-polished black boots, now covered with sand. “Just a trip to the cobbler.”
“Ah. And did Mr. Shoemaker serve you well?”
She looked up to see a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Indeed he did.” At least with her shoe.
“Very good.” He nodded his approval. “If I am not being too bold, may I escort you to your father’s mercantile?”
Happiness swept through her. On the way, she could recite her Shakespeare to compliment his judgment. “That would be—”
“Moberly.” Mr. Corwin approached them with a determined stride. He barely glanced at Rachel. “The tavern keeper had a visit from that rabble-rouser last evening. He can give us a description.”
Mr. Moberly drew in his lips and shot a cross look at his friend. “I am certain he can wait for an hour.”
Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. The patriot was still at work.
“No, he cannot wait.” Mr. Corwin’s frown matched Mr. Moberly’s. “He must meet his suppliers on the coast before nightfall.”
Mr. Moberly blew out a cross sigh. “Miss Folger, will you forgive me?”
“Of course.” A riot of confusion filled her mind. How could she long to become better acquainted with this gentleman when he represented everything she opposed?
For the briefest moment, she thought to delay him so he would miss learning more about the patriot. Or she could follow him and try to discern the man’s identity herself. But both actions would be shocking improprieties. She would wait until next Saturday’s party at Mr. Moberly’s plantation. Surely there she would learn something useful to the revolution.
Chapter Six
“Are you certain I should wear this one?” Frederick studied his reflection in the bedroom mirror while his manservant fussed with the turned back tails of the gray linen coat. “Why not the red brocade?”
“Sir, if you will permit me, the red most assuredly is your finest coat.” Summerlin brushed lint from the gray garment’s padded shoulders. “However, I despair that you would waste it on these rustics.” His lip curled. “Should you not save it for the day when you are called once again to the capital of this wilderness?”
Frederick shot him a disapproving glance in the mirror, but Summerlin had shifted his attention to the lace at Frederick’s cuffs. Never mind. He hated to scold the old fellow, who had been ordered by Frederick’s father to leave the comforts of London and come to East Florida, a crushing change for a man in his fifties. Perhaps he was another spy like Oliver, sent to make certain Frederick brought no scandal upon the family, as his brothers had. But, white hair and stooped shoulders notwithstanding, Summerlin’s talents as a valet could not be matched.
“Very well. I shall accept your choice of attire but not your attitude toward my guests.” Frederick kept his tone soft. “Some of these ‘rustics’ can be quite charming, not to mention intelligent and clever at business.”
Summerlin straightened in his odd way and stared at Frederick. “Charming, sir? Oh, dear. Has some young lady caught my master’s eye?” The clarity in his pale blue eyes and the half smile at the corner of his thin lips removed any doubts about where his loyalty lay. “Well, then, perhaps the red—”
“No, this will do.” Frederick breathed in the orange and bergamot cologne Summerlin had concocted for him. “Now that I think of it, if I were to dress as for an audience with the governor, my clothing might intimidate my guests. Since my purpose is to ensure their loyalty to the Crown and foster a feeling of community, I should avoid strutting before them like a peacock.”
“Ah, well said, young sir.” Approval emanated from Summerlin’s eyes such as Frederick had longed for in vain from his father. “Lady Bennington would be proud.”
Summerlin’s words further encouraged him. Indeed, Mother would understand his choice of clothes, despite her own exquisite wardrobe, for she always sought to make even the lowliest of her guests comfortable.
“Forgive me, sir, for disparaging your new friends.” Summerlin glanced over his shoulder toward the closed bedroom door and bent toward Frederick with a confidential air. “I am your servant in all things.”
Frederick mirrored his move. “Thank you. But there will be no trysts. The young lady will be courted properly.” He caught Summerlin’s gaze. “Only time will tell, of course, but I believe Miss Folger is all I could wish for in a wife.”
Serene comprehension washed over Summerlin’s face, softening his pale wrinkles. “As I said, sir, I am your servant in all things.”
A sharp rap sounded on the door. “Moberly, your guests are arriving.” Oliver’s tone sounded almost jovial.
Summerlin’s expression flickered with distaste for the briefest instant before giving way to his customary formal air. In that half second, Frederick knew without doubt that his devoted servant had purposely left Oliver’s letter on his desk, and warmth filled his chest, as it had over Templeton’s friendship.
Father would sneer at his idea of calling these lower-class men “friends,” but Frederick could consider them nothing less. And how relieved he had been to discover that Templeton was not the agitator, as Corwin had suggested.
“Coming, Corwin.” Frederick strode toward the door.
Summerlin hobbled close behind, brushing lint from Frederick’s coat all the way. “Have a good evening, sir.”
Visions of the lovely Miss Folger danced before Frederick’s eyes as he grasped the door latch. “That I shall, my good man. That I shall.”
The wagon rattled along the well-packed sand and seashell road beneath a canopy of oak, pine and cypress trees. Seated beside Papa on the driver’s bench, Rachel held her poorly mended parasol overhead while the late afternoon sun blasted its heat through the tree branches. Perspiration had begun to wilt her freshly pressed gown, and her curls threatened to unwind. Nevertheless, excitement filled her as she anticipated the party. She would try to