Love Thine Enemy. Louise Gouge M.
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liked the library and would have been happy to spend the rest of the evening perusing the many books there. Lingering by the gentleman’s desk, she thought she spied a familiar pamphlet partially covered by a book. She longed to know what Mr. Moberly had been reading, but the party moved on, and propriety required her to follow them into the hallway.
“Shall we see the grounds?” Mr. Moberly addressed Lady Augusta, for everyone understood her approval alone would permit the expedition.
“Of course. I should not wish to miss anything.”
Mr. Moberly offered his arm to Lady Augusta, and Rachel noticed with surprise that Papa also offered his arm to Mrs. Winthrop.
The party moved outside, where a cool breeze from the east gave some relief as they walked along the narrow pathways among the plantation’s many trees. Mr. Moberly gave commentary as he showed them the sugar mill, the fields of sugar cane, cotton and indigo, and the fragrant, flourishing orange grove. He took them to the springhouse, a covered coquina cistern that caught water flowing from the earth’s depths, where a house servant dipped in a pitcher and filled goblets for the guests. From there, they moved to Bennington Creek, across which lay vast rice paddies.
As the party wended its way back to the house, Rachel noticed countless slaves, both men and women, at work in the fields, and her heart sank. How she despised slavery, an evil that had been abolished in Nantucket in 1773. Did Mr. Moberly approve of it or merely tolerate it by necessity?
Ahead Mr. Moberly was assisting Lady Augusta up the front steps. How courteously he behaved toward her, and even toward Rachel and his other guests of lower rank. But how did he treat his slaves? The men and women in the fields did not wear chains, but iron bands on some slaves’ ankles suggested they were chained at night. On the other hand, the black servants in the house seemed truly devoted to Mr. Moberly. In particular, Rachel had noticed the little slave girl who sat in the corner of the drawing room to wave the palm fans. The child had gazed at Mr. Moberly with clear adoration.
But despite Mr. Moberly’s frequent friendly glances in Rachel’s direction during the tour of his plantation, she came to know one thing. As proven by the ease with which he socialized with Lady Augusta, any kind attentions he gave Rachel were merely the actions of a gentleman displaying good manners. If she received them with any sort of expectation, she was nothing short of a fool.
In the dining room, they sat down to supper at a long, damask-covered oak table laden with exquisite bone china, delicate etched crystal and heavy silverware with an ornate floral pattern. A vast array of delicacies graced the board.
Rachel found herself seated between Señor Garcia and Reverend Johnson, neither of whom she could imagine to be the patriot. The Spaniard seemed to prefer eating to conversation, but the vicar made pleasant conversation.
“What do you think of the alligator, Miss Folger?”
“I find it surprisingly tasty, especially seasoned with these exotic herbs. And I should far rather eat alligator than for one to eat me. As we came by skiff from the coast, a large one bumped our vessel so hard I thought we would be swamped and devoured.” The memory made her shudder.
“How dreadful. Thank the Lord you were spared.”
Major Brigham and Lady Augusta, on either side of Mr. Moberly, spoke to no one but their host, although the officer seemed to take an inordinate number of opportunities to peruse the company through his quizzing glass. From his perpetual frown, Rachel guessed the haughty man might be having difficulty controlling his temper, but she heard and saw nothing to suggest why. When his stare fell on her, she stared back, and his frown deepened. But what did she care about the opinions of a rude British officer and his equally rude wife?
At the end of the meal, Mr. Moberly directed his guests to the drawing room, where rows of chairs faced the magnificent pianoforte in the corner. “Mrs. Winthrop, will you entertain us with your delightful playing?”
“Now, Mr. Moberly.” The lady shook her head. “Surely someone else can play better than I.” She gazed around the room. “Mrs. Johnson? Señora Garcia?”
All the ladies declined, denying any musical skill.
Standing beside Rachel, Papa looked down at her with a clear question in his eyes, but she warned him off with a frown. As much as she longed to play the beautiful instrument, she refused to put herself forward in this company, where Lady Augusta might ridicule her and who knew what Major Brigham might say.
“Very well, then.” Mrs. Winthrop sat down to play, and the other guests took their places.
Rachel chose an armless brocade chair in the back row where her panniers would not poof out in front. When Mr. Moberly took the chair next to her, her pulse quickened. This was the first personal attention he had given her since helping her down from the wagon. Foolish hope assaulted her, and she had no weapon with which to defend herself.
“I do hope you’re enjoying yourself, Miss Folger.” His eyes beamed with kind intensity. “Did you find the meal satisfactory?”
Against her best efforts, Rachel’s cheeks warmed. “Oh, yes, it was—”
“Moberly.” Lady Augusta appeared beside him. “I must speak with you, and I fear the noise of your aunt’s playing will drown me out. May we find a quiet corner?” She waved her silk fan languidly, and her eyes sent an invitation Rachel could not discern.
“Of course, my lady.” Mr. Moberly glanced at Rachel and offered an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, Miss Folger. I shall return in a moment.”
“Of course.” Rachel echoed his words, working hard to keep the sarcasm from her tone.
Once again, certainty shouted within her. She was nothing more than a trifle in Mr. Moberly’s eyes. He would always defer to those considered well-born. Why had she ever permitted herself to think otherwise?
But just as Papa claimed the empty seat beside her, another thought quickly replaced her disappointment. She stood and moved past him, determined to discover Mr. Moberly’s true character. When Papa raised his bushy eyebrows to question her, she whispered “the necessary.” Instead of searching for that room, she tiptoed down the hallway just as Mr. Moberly disappeared into his study. Rachel stopped outside the door, still ajar, leaned against the wall and, heart pounding, prayed no servant would discover her eavesdropping.
Chapter Seven
“Dear Moberly, I congratulate you on a delightful supper.” Lady Augusta gazed into Frederick’s eyes with a doelike expression, her own dark orbs encircled by dreadful black lines and her face covered with white lead ceruse. A despicable fashion, if ever he saw one, especially when the lady seemed not to have suffered the ravages of smallpox that required such a covering.
He shifted from one foot to the other and glanced beyond her toward the open door. Brigham could come down the hallway, see them poised close to one another, and misunderstand. Worse still, Miss Folger might do the same. Where was his watchdog Corwin when he needed him? Frederick stepped back from Lady Augusta to sit on the edge of his desk, glad to distance himself from her heavy rose perfume.
“Thank you, my lady.” He crossed his arms. “I hope you did not find the wild boar too gamy.”
“Not at all, silly boy.” She tapped his arm with her closed fan and gave him a coquettish smile. “It was delicious.”
“Excellent.” He tugged at his cravat. “Well, then, was there something in particular you wished to say…to ask…to offer complaint about?” He grinned.
The brightness in Lady Augusta’s eyes dimmed, and the coquette vanished. “I want…no, I require a favor from you.” Her voice wavered, and she swayed lightly.
“My lady, you have but to name it.” He uncrossed his arms, ready to catch her if she fainted.
She clutched her fan. “You must know my husband is the bravest man in His Majesty’s service, so you must not think ill of him or tell him of my request.”
Frederick