The Rebel's Return (7 page)

Irrelevantly his mind went back to that last carefree day in Philadelphia with Phoebe. It was true that he had first planned to ask Alice, for reasons he could scarcely explain to her sister. But he had been surprised at how much he enjoyed her company that afternoon. She was pretty and fun-loving, curious and warm-hearted, with an innocence he found both amusing and endearing. And she did not bother to hide the fact that she found him attractive. But when he had tried to push his advantage, later in the day in the woods, she had quickly shown her mettle and put him in his place.

Well, that was that. He had almost begun to think of the Fuller house as his second home—his
first
home now—but he hardly dared show his face there again. Phoebe had no doubt told her strict mother and her starchy sister that Nicholas had taken her off into the woods to try to have his way with her. Well, it was his own fault; he should have known better. What a fool!

He tried to shrug the whole incident off as he had many times in the last two months. His father would not approve of the Fuller daughters as marriage material, for they were only apothecary’s daughters and would have no fortune apart from a modest marriage settlement. Now that he was the oldest son, he would be expected to improve the family fortunes with an advantageous match. But his mother would approve of Phoebe. Phoebe reminded him of his mother in many ways: her zest for life, her affectionate heart, her piety.

Suddenly he was swept with a wave of homesickness so intense that it was all he could do to keep from turning around and galloping Syllabub straight through the British lines to his home. He wanted to throw himself in his mother’s arms and feel her rub his head the way she had when he was a little boy. He wanted to hear Lavinia and Charlotte chatter about their parties and beaux. He wanted to taste Sadie’s good cooking, to tease the housemaids, to sleep in his own bed next to the little window where he could feel the breeze blow over him during the summer nights and watch the stars turn in the sky. He even wanted to visit Philip’s grave and hear the neighbors remark what a fine, honorable young man his brother had been. But if he went home, his father would think that he was sorry, and he wasn’t. If he went home, his father would expect him to apologize, and he couldn’t. He was trapped in his self-imposed exile.

With a pain in his chest that hurt when he breathed, he rode Syllabub straight back toward Lord Stirling’s camp and his next battle.

Chapter Five

“Another battle!” Sarah dropped the newspaper onto the chair beside her and covered her face with her hands. “White Plains, it says this time. Over six weeks now with no word. How are we ever going to find out if George is alive or dead?”

Alice moved to her mother’s side and put her arm around her. Phoebe picked up the discarded newspaper and scanned it. Another defeat for the colonists. Her heart sank. It had been one disaster after another during the last few months.

“How can we trust total strangers to look after our boy?” Sarah went on, wringing her hands. “Would anyone even bother to write to us if he were killed? We might never know!”

“We can’t assume that George is dead.” Alice covered her mother’s agitated hands with her own. “I think we’d hear something if anything were wrong, sooner or later.”

“Then why hasn’t George written? Why haven’t we heard anything? I told him to write once a month, without fail, so we would know. And he always has until now.”

Phoebe folded the paper and came to sit on the other side of her mother. “You have to think how difficult it must be for George to write now. The army is constantly moving and in danger. Even if he could get a paper and pen, the letter might be impossible to send, or might get lost and stolen.”

Alice nodded. “Aye, I think it would be almost impossible to get a letter to us right now. He’ll surely write sooner or later, when he has the opportunity. We just have to be patient.”

Sarah wiped her eyes and rose to her feet. “I knew nothing good would come of this. I’ll lose my firstborn, and all for what? He could have stayed safely at home and be helping his father in the shop.”

“We haven’t lost him yet,” Alice said gently.

Sarah took a deep breath and marched to the kitchen table. “Come, Phoebe, let’s get these pies finished. Edmund might come calling tonight and we need to have something to offer him.”

Edmund did come courting that evening, and to their surprise he was accompanied by a friend of his, whom he introduced to the family as Miles Quincy. His friend was a tall, rather heavy young man in his early twenties, with a florid complexion, dark, thinning hair with a receding hairline, and a ponderous manner. He had an unusually deep voice and a tendency to speak in a low, gravelly monotone.

Edmund took his usual seat next to Alice in the parlor and Mr. Quincy seated himself next to Phoebe. He smiled at her and cleared his throat, and after a moment of silence, spoke.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“Good evening.” Phoebe tried to think of something else to say to him. Clearly Edmund and Alice expected her to entertain him while they visited together. “Do you live near here, Mr. Quincy?”

He nodded. “I live here in Philadelphia, but I met Edmund up at the College of New Jersey. We were students there together.”

“I see.” A pause. “What did you study there? Are you a lawyer like Edmund?”

“No, ma’am, I am planning to join the ministry. I’m preparing for my ordination in the Church of England.”

Phoebe had great respect for ministers, and her opinion of Miles Quincy climbed several notches. “How very interesting. Do you think you will be given a church here in Philadelphia?”

“I certainly hope so, for my family all live nearby and I would be sorry to leave. My mother is a widow, you see, and I need to take care of my mother. She has poor health, you see, so I need to take care of her.”

“That’s very good of you.” Phoebe nodded in approval.

“I have a sister, but she has a large family and ’tis hard for her to give my mother the attention she needs. She has six children, with another—er, well, another, another to arrive soon.” He blushed scarlet and looked so distressed that Phoebe almost felt sorry for him. “Her oldest boy is only eight, no, let me see, he turned nine last week. That’s right, he was born the last week of October, nine years ago, so that would mean he turned nine last week. And Abigail is seven, Joshua is six, Aaron four, Simon three, and the baby—I always forget her name—the baby is just over a year old. So you see, my sister is very busy, and can’t help my mother as much as she would like.”

“I can understand that. She must be terribly busy with so many little ones.”

“I have another sister, but she married a man from New York and lives too far away to be much help to my mother. I’m sure my sister would
like
to help, you understand. She feels badly that she lives so far away. The last time she came to visit—it was last spring, before all this war business got underway—she tried to persuade my mother to move up there to New York with her. ‘Miles,’ she said to me, ‘Miles, I would be happy to take Mamma to New York with me, but she is so stubborn, she refuses to budge. She refuses to leave the home she has always lived in. I’m sorry all this care is falling upon you alone.’ That is what my sister said to me.”

“That was very kind of her, I’m sure.”

“Aye, it was kind of her, but my mother can be stubborn like that sometimes. I think, to be honest, my brother-in-law was rather relieved that my mother refused. And I have a younger brother as well. I don’t mean to criticize my brother, but he isn’t very useful in helping with my mother. He likes to go off with young fellows his own age and only comes home to eat and sleep. That’s what I say, only to eat and sleep. So, you see, that’s why I’m the one who takes care of my mother.”

“’Tis most fortunate for her that she has a good son like you to care for her.”

To her amazement he actually blushed again. “Thank you, ma’am, for saying so.”

On her left elbow she heard Alice laughing over a story Edmund was telling her. Phoebe bit her lip, trying to suppress her frustration with the situation. Miles Quincy did seem like a nice young man and very devoted to his mother. But after spending a half hour conversing with him she was left with the hope that his sermons were more scintillating than his conversation, or he would leave his congregation sleeping each week.  He spoke in great length about other members of his family, whom Phoebe had never met, and his studies in college, and Phoebe nodded politely and smiled and tried to ask intelligent questions. Privately she guessed he had little experience with women and less understanding of how to recommend himself to the opposite sex, and she couldn’t help comparing him with Nicholas in that regard. But Nicholas’s experience with women was all of the wrong sort, and Mr. Quincy at least seemed like a decent man, so Phoebe tried to be pleasant to him for Edmund’s sake.

When the two men rose to leave, Edmund suggested the four of them take a ride the next Sunday afternoon in his new carriage. They would drive to Germantown for tea and cakes, if the weather were agreeable. Phoebe found little pleasure in the prospect, but the other three were enthusiastic about the idea, and she hated to wet-blanket their scheme. So the next Sunday Edmund and Miles arrived at the Fuller house and lifted the two sisters into the carriage.

The actual outing was not much different than she had anticipated. Alice and Edmund spoke mostly to each other, or the men discussed their studies or college companions who were strangers to Phoebe. For a while they talked about the death of one friend from smallpox and the funeral they had both attended. Miles gave his opinion on the proper etiquette for funerals and how he intended to handle them when he was ordained. The conversation moved to Edmund’s cousin who was planning to be married. Alice remembered the cousin from a dinner at Edmund’s house, but Phoebe had never met him. Then Edmund told Alice about his aunt’s reaction to her future daughter-in-law and Alice asked questions while Phoebe and Miles rode side by side in silence.

Phoebe tried to think of something to say to her companion.

“Have you read any interesting books lately?” she asked him.

Alice, overhearing her, laughed.

“Don’t imagine that Miles ever reads novels, Phoebe, and you rarely read anything else,” she said. “But perhaps he will infect you with his better taste.”

Phoebe flushed and fell silent.

“Last month I read a book of sermons by Jonathan Edwards,” Miles began. “Have you heard of him?” 

Phoebe nodded.

“He was a great preacher here in America. One of the leaders of the Great Awakening. He wasn’t ordained in the Church of England, of course, so in that sense I can’t claim to agree with him theologically on every point. But he was a great preacher nonetheless. The most famous of his sermons is called ‘Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.’ That’s the one most people associate with Jonathan Edwards, but I’ve read another sermon I think I prefer, that is more in my style, if you understand. It is the type of sermon I intend to preach when I am ordained.”

He enthused on the subject for several moments, and Phoebe tried to think of a sermon she had read that might compare.

“Have you ever read anything by George Whitefield? My father heard him preach once when he was in America. He said Mr. Whitefield was the most captivating preacher he ever heard. He said that even Benjamin Franklin, who isn’t a religious man, was impressed by Mr. Whitefield.”

“Aye, that is true. Mr. Whitefield is likely one of the greatest preachers of modern times. I’ve never heard him myself, but I’ve read some of his sermons, and talked to people who have heard him. Now Whitefield is very different from Jonathan Edwards, you understand. Mr. Edwards read his speeches, and didn’t try to impress people with his oratory. Mr. Whitefield is more like an actor. I’m not sure what I think about preachers trying to be actors. I think the Word of God should speak for itself and shouldn’t be dressed up in a fancy style.”

For several minutes he treated Phoebe to a lecture on the other differences between Edwards and Whitefield. If nothing else, he had certainly given the matter a good deal of thought. But then the conversation turned to politics and the war effort, and any sympathy Phoebe might have found for Miles Quincy vanished when he gave as his decided opinion that Congress had been precipitate in its break with England, and they would all live to regret the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Neither Edmund nor Alice disputed this opinion, and feeling herself outnumbered, she lapsed into silence, and made no more effort to be agreeable than politeness demanded. When they at long last arrived at home, she thanked the two men for the excursion and then vanished indoors, hoping she would not be obliged to repeat it.

On Thursday evening Phoebe returned home after delivering a bottle of medicine to one of her father’s customers. As she stepped through the front door she heard voices in the parlor and her mother speaking in eager, happy tones. It was, she reflected, many weeks since she had heard her mother sound so excited.

She opened the parlor door and found the whole family gathered there, her father with his Bible on his lap, but not reading, Sally with her sampler and Alice clicking her knitting needles. She picked up the book she had left lying on a table and started for a chair, and then stopped in her tracks, for seated on the settee was Nicholas.

For a very brief moment their eyes met, then they both looked away. Phoebe felt the warmth rise in her face and glanced at her mother uncertainly.

“Phoebe, we have wonderful news!” her mother exclaimed. “Nicholas has brought us news of George!”

Phoebe turned to Nicholas, her embarrassment swallowed up in joy. “You have seen George?”

“I saw him briefly just a few days ago,” Nicholas told her. “We didn’t have the opportunity to speak, but he was certainly alive and healthy, and I thought your family might be cheered to hear of it.”

“Oh, I am so relieved!” Sarah clasped her hands together with an expression close to rapture. “I am so thankful! Such a burden off of my mind! And I am more obliged to you than I can express, Nicholas dear, for making an effort to let us know.”

“I am very happy to oblige you, ma’am,” Nicholas responded, and Phoebe scarcely dared look to see the expression on his face. “I’m pleased it was in my power to deliver such welcome news.”

Her mother turned to her and lowered her voice. “Phoebe dear, if you are not busy just now, could you run upstairs and put clean linen on George’s bed?”

“Is George coming home soon?” Phoebe glanced from her mother to Nicholas for confirmation.

“Nay, not George, but Nicholas will be sleeping here while he is in town. There’s no reason for him to stay in a filthy inn when we have an extra bed here.”

Phoebe, watching Nicholas, saw his face redden as he met her gaze and looked away quickly.

“Certainly, Mother,” she murmured, and turned toward the door, a confusion of emotions swirling through her middle.
Really, Lord,
she declared in silence as she fetched clean linen from the chest and began tightening the ropes on George’s bed,
you’ve put me in an impossible situation. I wanted to know if Nicholas was still alive, but I certainly didn’t want him living under the same roof with me. How terribly awkward.
And she knew her mother certainly would not welcome him so warmly if she guessed he had designs on one, or both, of her daughters. Had she been wrong to not tell her mother about that day in the woods? And what were his intentions now? How he must be enjoying the irony of this situation! How he would enjoy watching her squirm!

Her sleep that night was filled with very peculiar dreams, and she woke feeling tired and cross. While her mother busied herself with the younger children, Phoebe went to the kitchen to start breakfast, mixing the milk and porridge and setting it over the fire to boil.