Love Thine Enemy. Louise M. Gouge
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I’m sorry to hear it.” Frederick found himself meaning those words. After those first sparks had been extinguished, the fellow had inspired a certain confidence.
As for doing business with him, Frederick had much to consider. After Oliver’s betrayal, how could he ever trust another man? Especially an American.
Chapter Three
“Can ye beat that?” Papa stared after Mr. Moberly as he rode away. “Inviting us to a dinner party. Calling us ‘leading citizens.’”
Jamie raised one eyebrow and traded a glance with Papa. “A good opportunity.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel looked from one to the other. Was this another of those secrets they kept from her, things they called “men’s matters”?
“Why, business, daughter.” Papa took up his shipping log and quill and made notes. “’Tis a great honor for Mr. Moberly to stamp his approval on us. It’ll bring more customers.”
“Indeed it shall.” Jamie leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Now what do you suppose I could bring from London to further foster his good opinion?”
Papa tapped his quill against his chin. “Hmm. He hires ships to deliver the plantation’s products to England and bring back what’s needed here.” He stared out of the window for a moment. “I’ve got the notion they’d like to increase the population with decent folk, more tradesmen and such, not the lowlife camp followers that plague the regiment, nor the Spanish who stayed on after England seized these lands.”
“Humph,” Rachel said. “Please do not tell me you want Jamie to import more Englishmen, tradesmen or no. It is beyond enough that English sympathizers from the Carolinas are arriving here every week.”
“And welcome to them.” Papa bent toward her in his paternal fashion. “The more that come from South Carolina and Georgia, the better it will be for everyone, for they’ll understand the land more than an Englishman. And consider this. King George gave the good citizens of New England plenty of opportunities to populate both East and West Florida. Ye can see how few have accepted his invitation.”
“And, if not American colonials,” Jamie said, “why not more English?” He sent Rachel a brotherly smile. “The ordinary Englishman’s no threat to your patriot cause, especially way down here in East Florida. They’re like Uncle Lamech here, people who want a chance to build a life in a new place.”
“Yes, so you both have said. Never mind that they will all be willing to join a militia in support of the Crown.” Rachel would not add that she had never wanted a life in a new place. Papa had announced she would accompany him to East Florida, and that was that. With a sigh, she ambled across the room toward the material display and ran a finger over a bolt of fabric. “Papa, will you let me take a length of this mosquito netting to protect Sadie’s baby? He’s a mass of bites this morning, poor boy.”
“And how’s Sadie to pay for it, might I ask?” Papa had returned to his accounting and now peered at her over his reading spectacles, eyes narrowed.
Rachel lifted her chin and stared back, mirroring his look. She had backed down in the discussion about the English, but she would not back down in this matter. For countless seconds, she faced his “captain” glare that had always made his whalers tremble.
Jamie coughed and hummed a flat tune, then drummed his fingers on the counter. The hammers of the men working on the living quarters echoed above them. A bird of some sort sent out a plaintive cry in the marshes behind the store.
Papa did not flinch, nor did Rachel.
“If you do it for the least of these—” she began.
Papa slammed his logbook shut. “What shall I do with ye, my girl? Given yer head, ye’d give away the entire store.”
Pulling the bolt from the display, Rachel hurried to his side and placed a kiss on his gray-stubbled cheek. “Perhaps Mr. Moberly will make more purchases with his gold guineas. That should balance everything out.”
She glanced at Jamie, whose face had reddened in an obvious attempt to stifle his amusement. She never would have put up such a fight in front of any other of Papa’s crew. Measuring out an appropriate length of the sheer material, she cut, folded and wrapped it. “May I take it over right away?”
“There’s a limit to my surrender, daughter. Look.” Scowling, he pointed out the window. “Customers are headed this way. Ye can take it when ye go for yer noon meal.” His expression softened. “Have ye noticed the mosquitoes come out in the evening? The tyke will be fine until then.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
Jamie left, and customers entered to shop. Several soldiers came to purchase tobacco, and one bought a new pipe. An Indian family, speaking in their Timucuan language, studied the various wares and selected a large cast-iron pot. The tanner’s wife bought a box of tea. One of the slatterns who followed the soldiers eyed the finer fabrics with a longing eye. Repulsed by her sweaty smell but also filled with pity, Rachel watched the woman move lazily among the displays. Papa greeted one and all as if they were old friends, even taking time to learn a few native words from the Indians.
The morning passed quickly, and soon Papa gave Rachel a nod. She placed her bonnet over her mobcap, fetched the wrapped mosquito netting, and then hastened out the door.
The sun stood at its zenith like an angry potentate pouring fiery wrath upon all who dared to venture beneath him. Perspiration slid down Rachel’s face and body, stinging her eyes and dampening everything she wore. Perhaps she should ask Jamie to bring her a new parasol from London, for her old one was bent and tattered.
As she passed the large yard beside the inn, she heard a commotion—Sadie’s shrill voice screeched for help above the chaotic squawking of chickens and geese. Rachel hurried around the corner of the clapboard building, where she saw the young woman tussling with a soldier amidst the innkeeper’s fowls, a plump goose the object of their struggle.
“Let ’er go, ya blunderhead.” Sadie tried to kick the red-uniformed man, without success. “Ya’ve no right to take ’er.”
The man cursed and continued to grasp the goose’s neck. “Gi’ way, girl. I’ve a right as the king’s soldier to take what I need.”
“Ya’ve got yer own provisions in the regiment,” cried Sadie.
Her sob cut into Rachel’s heart, stirring memories of the time a brutish soldier invaded her sister’s house and took food from the children’s plates. Then he had threatened Rachel and Susanna with something far worse. Enraged by the recollection, she dashed toward the altercation.
“Brazen wench, let go.” The soldier cuffed Sadie on the face, but though she cried out, she held on to the goose.
“Stop it, you horrid monster.” Rachel dropped her package and, with hardly a thought of what she was doing, grabbed a length of wood from the nearby woodpile and slammed it into the man’s ear. Her hands stung from the blow, and she dropped the weapon as his tall, black leather cap flew to the ground.
“Ow!” He grabbed his ear and released the now-dead beast. Turning to Rachel, he glared at her with blazing eyes and took a menacing step toward her.
Lord, what have I done? Terror gripped her, and she searched for an escape.
But he glanced beyond her and stopped.
“What’s all this?” A familiar English voice resounded with authority behind her.
Rachel turned to see Mr. Moberly astride his horse, staring down his aristocratic nose at the scene. His gray eyes flashed like a shining rapier in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Despite the day’s heat, a strange shiver swept through her body.
“Good thing ya come along, gov’ner.” The soldier tugged at a lock of his hair in an obeisant gesture. “This wench refuses me a soldier’s