"Don't shoot!" Will squeaked, and his voice cracked, revealing his age — or rather lack of it.
The captain realized Will's youth at the same moment the weapon discharged and jerked the musket skyward, trying to deflect his fire. Flames roared from that long and terrible muzzle, shooting straight over Will's head. The gun's fierce kick, combined with the unnatural angle at which it had been fired, threw the officer off balance. As he stepped backward to regain it, his heel sank into a hollow in the soft April earth and he fell straight into the wall of granite, the musket flying from his hand and the back of his skull striking one sharp, lichen-caked boulder with an awful, thudding
crack
. For a moment, he seemed to gaze up at Will in astonishment as he lay there spread-eagled against the rocks; then the pale blue eyes lost focus and clouded over, their thick lashes coming down like a curtain on the last act as his head slid sideways, leaving a smear of blood on the boulder behind him.
For a moment, Will stared at the dead man in horror.
Then he turned and fled.
Letter from General Thomas Gage, Commander-In-Chief of His Majesty's forces, to Lucien de Montforte, His Grace the Duke of Blackheath . . .
My dear Duke,
I regret to inform you that whilst on a mission to Concord to seize arms that the rebels had secreted there, your brother, Captain Lord Charles de Montforte, was engaged in fighting and fatally injured. From all accounts, His Lordship fought bravely and selflessly, bringing glory to his family's name and tears throughout his regiment upon confirmation of his death.
Enclosed herein is the regimental gorget taken from Lord Charles's body immediately prior to burial in Concord, along with a letter that his servant, Billingshurst, found propped on his desk the day of his death. His dress regimentals will follow. I hope that these will bring you some comfort in this darkest of hours. Your brother was greatly respected and admired by both superiors and subordinates; he was ambitious and supremely confident in his own abilities, but like the best-loved commanders, never crossed that fine line into arrogance. He was an asset to this army, to his country, and a beloved friend to all who knew and served under and with him.
Respectfully yours,
Genl. Thomas Gage
Chapter 1
"Make sure you whip the butter well when you churn it this morning, Amy. And for goodness sake, do add more salt this time," sniffed Mildred Leighton as she strode huffily past her sister. "There's nothing worse than bland butter, and you never do seem to get it right."
"Oh, and Amy, since you're doing the washing today, don't forget my blue petticoats. There are mud stains on the hem and they look positively dreadful," added Ophelia, coming downstairs and going straight to the looking glass on the wall.
"Yes, Ophelia. Yes, Mildred," sighed the thin figure, stooping nearly double beneath the lintel of the keeping room's massive fireplace. Pushing the iron crane off to one side, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and, kneeling on the sooty bricks, began shoveling ash from out of the pit beneath the bake oven.
Ophelia, vainly fluffing her blond curls until they haloed her face, turned from the looking glass and regarded her half-sister with disdain. "And make sure my petticoats are ready by tomorrow afternoon. Matthew Ashton has promised to take me for a drive, and I want to look my best."
"Matthew Ashton?" hissed Mildred, outraged. Already a bold and enterprising young sea captain, Matthew would someday inherit his father's Ashton Shipyards — and was probably one of the best catches in Newburyport. "How dare he ask you and not me!"
Amy thought it fine time to interrupt before things degenerated into a cat fight. "Perhaps Matthew will ask you next week, Mildred," she soothed.
Mildred turned on her. "Just because your one and only friend on this earth happens to be Matthew's sister — that bad-mannered little hoyden, Mira — don't think that makes you an authority on Matthew."
"Or an authority on men," added Ophelia.
"Amy? An authority on men?" Mildred shrieked with laughter. "The only men Amy might ever become an authority on are the sort that work along the docks and ogle her!"
Both Mildred and Ophelia guffawed, pitiless as Amy's cheeks reddened beneath their sooty glaze of ash smoke.
"I don't know how you can stand there and laugh, when Will's still not back from Uncle Eb's and for all we know, something awful might've happened to him," she said, thinking of the rider who had galloped through Newburyport late last night with the news that fighting had finally broken out down at Lexington and Concord between the redcoats and local militia groups. "Cousin Tom was in the Woburn militia. They were in the fighting, and you know as well as I do that where Tom leads, Will is sure to follow."
Her half-sisters stared at her coldly. "My, my, aren't
we
the righteous one," sneered Mildred, hands on her hips. "Instead of fretting over Will, why don't you worry about poor Ophelia and me
and let out my jacket
?!"
"If she wasn't down at the harborfront dreaming of places she'll never go and men she'll never meet, she'd have gotten it done yesterday like she was supposed to," said Ophelia, with a haughty glance at the gaunt figure still on her knees on the ashy firebox. "You'd better get your head out of the clouds, Amy, because you have a better chance of snaring the moon than you do a respectable man, and don't you forget it."
Amy went silently back to her chores. They were right, of course. She was wasting her time, dreaming about things that would never be. But how could she
not
dream, when reality was nothing but boredom and drudgery? She was resigned to the fact that she would live and die a spinster, just as she was resigned to the fact that, for the remainder of Papa's life, she — less than a daughter, yet more than a servant — would keep house for him, cook his meals, and help him write his sermons now that his eyesight was beginning to fail. In return, she would always have a place to live. Hers wasn't such a bad lot, really; after all, she had a roof over her head and decent food in her belly. But lately, she found herself wanting more, and long after the household went to bed, she would lie beneath the covers and dream of what her life would be like if only she were pretty and respectable like her sisters.
If only she was like the other young women of Newburyport, entitled to the same dreams that they had. . . .
Finally, breakfast was ready. The Reverend Sylvanus Leighton, pale and haggard from an obviously sleepless night, joined them in the keeping room and gave thanks for the meal, adding a special prayer for Will's safe return. Then, painfully aware of the empty place that Amy had set for his one and only son, he stared dejectedly out the window. The cornmeal mush, fried to a rich, golden brown and cut into slices, lay undisturbed on his plate, floating in the maple syrup like boats at low tide.
Amy could not stand seeing him suffer so. She reached out and impulsively put a hand over his, knowing, even as she did, that he would probably pull away.
He did.
She drew her hand back and pasted a smile on her face to hide her hurt. Why should she have expected any different when it had always been this way? "Eat, Papa," she said gently, tucking the offending hand between her knees and trying to pretend the incident hadn't happened. "Starving yourself won't bring him back to us any sooner."
Ophelia snapped, "Maybe he
would
eat, if only he had some fresh butter for his breakfast —"
At that very moment, Will's dog Crystal — who'd been sulking ever since Will had left for Woburn to help Sylvanus's brother Ebenezer with the spring planting — shot out from beneath the table, and, paws skittering for purchase on the wide-boarded floor, tore through the parlor. Barking joyously, the dog flung herself against the door.
"Will!" Amy cried, leaping up and nearly upsetting the table as her half-brother ran inside, Crystal barking and tripping up his feet. All out of breath, he charged into the keeping room.
"Where have you been?" Sylvanus demanded, worry and relief making his voice harsh.
"Look at you, you're covered with dirt!" shrieked Ophelia.
"And
blood
!" wailed Mildred, clapping her hands to her cheeks.
"I just came in off Ashton's schooner, up from Boston . . . I was in the fighting yesterday," he panted, grabbing his father's hand and pulling him back toward the still-open door. "You've got to help me, Pa, got to send Amy to fetch the doctor! I brought a friend home with me and if we don't do something to save him, he's going to die!"
~~~~
"Should've called the undertaker, not me," said Dr. Plummer, as he watched Sylvanus and Will carry the man through the door. "That young fellow's deader than dead."
"He ain't either!" cried Will, head twisted round to look behind him as, his arms locked beneath the stranger's armpits, he backed into the keeping room where Ophelia and Mildred, busily crunching bacon, gave shrieks of horror and leaped to their feet.
"William Leighton! How dare you bring that . . . that
man
into this house!" they screeched. Neither rose to help, and neither moved their chairs out of the way to ease the trio's progress to the table.
That task fell to Amy, who did it hurriedly and without needing to be told. Standing back, she glanced anxiously at Will's friend as they brought him near. His hair, which had been combed back and tied at the nape with a black taffeta ribbon, had come loose and now hung in bloody swatches over his face, concealing all but the tip of his nose from Amy's curious gaze. He wore muddy breeches of white leather, and a sleeveless waistcoat of ragged olive-green homespun was loosely buttoned over a bloodstained shirt. His frame was lean, his build powerful, wide across the upper body, narrow at the waist and hips, and so long in the leg that she knew his feet would hang over the edge of the table when they set him down. Probably a farmer, she thought, accustomed to hard work.
But as they carried him past, his dangling hand brushed her skirts, and Amy's eyes went wide. No farmer
she'd
ever met had hands that looked like that. Long, elegant fingers. Clean skin devoid of dirt and scars. Short, well-scrubbed nails that were filed smooth and obviously well cared for.
Her gaze lifted to Will's — but he and Papa were already hoisting the fellow up onto the table. As they set him down, the lolling head fell back over Will's arm and revealed a face that took Amy's breath away. Her hands flew over her mouth.
He was breathtakingly handsome.
Absolutely, positively, indisputably, beautiful.
Dr. Plummer, however, took no notice of the fact. "What happened to him?" he asked, bending over the man's face, lifting one eyelid and peering into the sightless, rolled-back eyes.
Blue
, Amy thought, noting their extraordinarily clear color before Plummer let the eyelid slide shut once more.
Oh, God, don't let him die — with those looks, he'll make all the beautiful angels in heaven envious and there'll be war up there all over again.
"He — he f-fell during the fighting and hit his head," Will stammered.
"How?"
The boy shrugged, his gaze darting away. "Don't know."
"How long has he been out?"
"Since yesterday, when it happened."
"
Yesterday!?
"
Will reddened. "Y-yes, sir."
"This man should've been seen to immediately! Why the devil didn't you get him to a local doctor instead of lugging him all the way up here?"
For answer, the boy only swallowed and hung his head. He looked absolutely miserable.
Ophelia, however, had no pity for either her brother or his injured friend. "Really, Will, I don't know what's got into you, bringing him here when you should've just let him there to die. After all, America needs good, competent men defending her, not clumsy oafs who injure themselves at first opportunity."
"Maybe he injured himself so he wouldn't
have
to fight," scoffed Mildred. "The coward."
"He wasn't a coward!" Will exploded. "He was a fine man, with more courage than a dozen lions!"
Dr. Plummer impatiently motioned for them to be quiet, then laid his finger on the injured man's wrist, feeling his pulse. He straightened up, frowning. "Well, he's alive all right, but if I can save him I doubt he'll be a-thankin' me for it. Come, come, let's turn him over so I can have a better look at the back of his head. What's your friend's name, anyhow?"
"Er, Adam. Adam Smith."
"Well, let's get Mr. Smith settled comfortably on his stomach with his head turned slightly to the left. Yes, that's good. Perfect. Now, someone get me a candle so I can better see what I'm a-doin' here."
Adam, his right cheek pressed against the oak tabletop, did not look quite so handsome from the back. In fact, he looked downright terrible, and Amy gasped as they all got a good look at the wound that had felled him. Low down on the back of his head and slightly off center to the left, a gash, nearly three inches long, was still oozing blood out into the tangled blond hair and down his neck. Plummer drew his bushy brows together and began probing the wound. A moment later he straightened up, wiping bloody fingers on his leather apron.
"I'll have to trepan him," he declared. "His skull is fractured and chances are there's blood pooling just beneath the break. If we don't drain it off the brain, he'll die."
There was a temporary silence as everyone digested Plummer's words.
"Maybe we ought to just . . . let him die in peace," Will mumbled, his cheeks coloring as he heard the callousness of his own words. As Amy and Sylvanus turned horrified stares upon him, he added, lamely: "Especially since he isn't going to make it, anyhow . . ."
Plummer blew out his breath. "Well, Reverend?"