LITMIR.BIZ

      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 discover if the patriot was among the guests. And she hoped to find the opportunity to tell Mr. Moberly how much she admired his wisdom in the case of the stolen pig.

      Savoring the fragrances of the tropical forests, she studied the undergrowth for evidence of panthers, bears or poisonous snakes. Papa had assured her that this road lay too far from water for them to chance upon an alligator, yet she watched for them, as well. Several times she thought to have seen one of those fearsome dragons only to realize the object was a fallen tree.

      As they rounded a stand of palm trees and a large white building came into view, Papa pointed with his wagon whip and whistled. “Thar she blows. Now that’s a house, if ever I saw one.”

      Rachel laughed at his understatement even as her own feelings swelled. The two-storied mansion sat elevated several feet off the ground on a coquina foundation. A broad wooden porch extended across the wide front, and four white Doric columns supported the porch roof. Eight tall front windows, four on each floor, suggested airy rooms inside.

      The blue and red bunting Mr. Moberly had purchased from the store now hung around the columns in a festive display. Their crisscross pattern against the white background vaguely suggested the British flag, a nettling reminder to Rachel of who ruled this land. With some effort, she dismissed the unpleasant thought. Even if their host had deliberately hung them that way, he was after all an Englishman who no doubt loved his homeland.

      On the left side of the main house, smoke curled from the kitchen house’s chimney, and a warm breeze carried the aroma of roasting pork.

      “That’ll set a man’s mouth to watering.” Papa steered his two mules into the semicircular drive before the front entrance, where several liveried black grooms awaited.

      As Papa pulled the reins, one groom grasped the harness, and another stood ready to take control of the equipage. Rachel saw Mr. Moberly hastening from the house, followed by a slave carrying a small white boxstep. At the sight of him, finely dressed but by no means haughty, her heart missed a beat.

      Papa jumped to the ground and hobbled to her side of the wagon. But Mr. Moberly reached her first.

      “Good evening. Welcome.” Mr. Moberly shook Papa’s hand. “Will you permit me to assist your daughter, Mr. Folger?”

      “As ye will.” Papa bowed.

      “Put it here.” Mr. Moberly motioned to the slave and indicated a spot on the ground. “Miss Folger, may I?” He held out both white-gloved hands.

      “Yes, thank you.” She grasped them with pleasure, and her face warmed as she climbed from the wagon. Never in her life had she received such attention.

      “Welcome to Bennington Plantation.” Mr. Moberly offered Rachel his arm. “Won’t you please come inside?”

      The entrance to the house was a welcoming red door with an oval etched-glass window. Inside they were introduced to Mr. Moberly’s cousin, a tall, older woman.

      “Do come in. We’re pleased to have you.” Mrs. Winthrop wore a black linen gown, and her hair was pinned back in a roll. A kind look lit her finely lined face, and her voice resonated with sincerity.

      Dr. Wellsey greeted the newcomers, and even Mr. Corwin spoke pleasantly to them. They met a Reverend Johnson and his wife, and the minister invited them to his church services. To Rachel’s surprise and delight, Papa accepted. Mrs. Johnson, however, showed no interest in further conversation.

      Several other couples were in attendance, and Rachel studied each face upon introduction trying to discern if any of them might be the patriot. Although everyone seemed friendly, not one person lifted an eyebrow upon meeting the Folgers from Boston. Had they not heard of the British invasion and the battles of Lexington and Concord?

      While servants passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and cups of citrus punch, the men stood in a group and chatted about crops and weather. Rachel passed by as one man mentioned the “agitator” who frequented the taverns, and she glanced about the group to see if anyone appeared nervous. Not one expression informed her.

      “The problem is,” Mr. Moberly said, “his description does not match anyone we know along the St. Johns River or in the settlement. So, if you see a stout fellow with a long red beard, do mention it to the nearest soldier.”

      While the other men accepted the charge without much concern, Rachel felt a tremor of delight. Now she had one description, but perhaps there were other patriots.

      She joined the other ladies, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room making polite conversation about the challenges of living in the wilderness. The youngest woman in the group, Rachel listened more than she spoke, as propriety demanded. But she prayed for an opportunity to mention the matter close to her heart. In Boston, all the talk had been of the revolution. Here, none of the women seemed aware that their counterparts up north were sewing uniforms for their soldier husbands and weeping for those who had died for freedom’s sake a short two months ago.

      “Miss Folger,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “I understand your father’s store has many wares we are generally deprived of here in East Florida.”

      “Yes, ma’am.” An unexpected wave of pleasure swept through Rachel at being addressed so particularly by this kind, elegant lady. “We have been fortunate to import many useful items for sale, and my cousin will bring more from London.”

      The other women cooed their approval.

      “Then I must come and see for myself,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “for I am certain Mr. Moberly has not told me everything that would be of interest to ladies.” A proper hostess, Mrs. Winthrop now turned her attention to another guest. Yet her comments put an approving stamp on both Rachel and Papa’s business and their presence at this party.

      Rachel cast a casual glance across the room and found Mr. Moberly staring at her. Her breath caught, and she hastily turned away. Her glance had also taken in the pleasant look Mr. Corwin sent her. Heat filled her cheeks. Why would these high-born gentlemen thus regard her? She recalled her mother’s cautions regarding men.

      Outside the drawing room, a large commotion captured everyone’s attention. Servants hurried past the doorway, and soon the stout black butler entered to announce “Lady Augusta and Major Brigham.”

      “Moberly.” Lady Augusta marched into the room with both hands extended toward him. “How good of you to invite us.”

      While the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Johnson, released a sigh suggesting envy, Rachel almost gasped at the newcomer’s appearance. Perhaps ten years older than Rachel, Lady Augusta wore a tall, white-powdered wig and a green silk gown with broad panniers and a low-cut bodice. Her face, which seemed well-formed, bore a masklike covering of white. A single black dot, clearly not a blemish, had been placed to the right of her rouged lips, perhaps to suggest a dimple.

      Rachel had seen a few ladies wear such a facade in Boston, but surely here in East Florida, the heat would melt that mask off of her face—if indeed the substance melted—before they sat down to dinner. And there stood her husband, dressed in his full regimental uniform, a glaring red banner of British pride emphasized by the haughty lift of his equine nose. Rachel shook away her distaste. She must do nothing to damage Papa’s favor among these people.

      Mr. Moberly did all the proper honors

Скачать книгу