The Rebel's Return (8 page)

The kitchen door opened and male footsteps entered. “Good morning, Phoebe,” Nicholas said.

She hated the way the sound of his voice made her heart skip a beat. “Good morning, Nicholas.” She kept her voice very cool.
If he smirks, even one tiny smirk,
I shall be so tempted to slap his face.

She turned around then, and met his gaze. He did not smirk. He seemed embarrassed, unsure of himself, odd, for Nicholas.

“Do you need any help?” He glanced around the kitchen.

Surprised, she started to refuse, then changed her mind. “You can lay the board if you’d like.”

He found the bowls and began dropping them around on the table. Phoebe stirred the porridge.

“You know,” he began awkwardly after a moment of silence, “your mother invited me to stay here. I had no idea she would do that.”

“Nor did I,” she replied. Better make that clear right from the beginning, in case he wondered.

He hesitated. “I suppose that means—I mean, you never told her about—that day?”

“Nay,” Phoebe returned crisply, “but I certainly would, if it ever happened again.”

At that he laughed, his old familiar laugh, with the crinkles around his eyes. “Never fear. I don’t need to be told twice. I don’t go where I’m not welcome.”

Phoebe felt a sudden lifting of a weight, although she could not have explained exactly why. Perhaps it was relief that she and Nicholas understood each other. She remembered her letter to Lavinia, which now seemed totally unnecessary, but with any luck Nicholas would never find out about that. For an instant she felt a stab of apprehension that her mother might mention it to him. “Tell me about the war, Nicholas,” she said, ready to move to an impersonal subject. “Is it as bad as people say?”

His face darkened. “It is bad. Morale has never been lower, and men are deserting left and right. We’ve been totally pushed out of the city, except for Fort Washington, which the British are besieging. I don’t know if they can capture the fort, but I also don’t know what good it does for us to keep it. We need those men with the army.”

They were interrupted then by other family members coming to the kitchen for breakfast, and Phoebe returned her attention to the meal. After breakfast Nicholas told them he needed to rejoin the army that day, but he would be in the city again in several weeks.

He turned to Sarah. “I have a week of leave coming to me, and I wonder if I might trespass on your hospitality once again.”

“You are welcome here anytime, Nicholas,” she assured him, and actually offered him a motherly embrace. Phoebe had never seen Nicholas so flustered.

I had better get used to seeing him here,
she reflected as she carried the bowls to the wash basin.
He doesn’t seem to have any intention of avoiding me, and I have no way of avoiding him. I must learn to regard him as an indifferent acquaintance.

But she soon discovered, to her sorrow, that she would need to get used to the presence of more than one young man. Several days later, as the mother and sisters were sewing together in the evening, Sarah told them both that Miles Quincy had asked for permission to court Phoebe.

Phoebe looked up, startled, from the mending in her lap. Her mother was beaming, and Alice smiled at the news, as if well satisfied.

“I expected he would,” she nodded. “Edmund says he is eager to marry as soon as he is ordained, and we both thought he would be the perfect husband for Phoebe.”

Phoebe was so appalled she was speechless.

“Phoebe a minister’s wife!” Laughing, their mother snipped her length of thread. “Who would have imagined it? Well, stranger things have happened, and it shows that Phoebe’s prospects might not be so dismal after all. But Phoebe, dear, now that you’ve made this conquest, I do hope you will settle down and behave like a young lady, and try to impress Mr. Quincy with your ability to think on serious subjects.”

Phoebe had no intention of trying to impress Mr. Quincy with any of her abilities. She felt as if the breath had been knocked out of her, and sat in stunned silence until Alice rose and went to the kitchen to check on the bread that was rising.

Finally she spoke, in a very low voice. “Has Papa already told Mr. Quincy he may court me?”

Sarah looked up from Sally’s petticoat, puzzled. “He told Mr. Quincy he wanted to consult with me first. But Alice vouches for this young man’s good character, and I see no reason to refuse him.”

“I don’t want him to call on me.” Phoebe stared down at the tiny stitches in her lap. “I don’t want him to court me, or marry me, or anything. I don’t like him.”

“Don’t like him!” Sarah dropped her sewing in her lap and stared at her daughter. “Phoebe, what nonsense are you talking? You’ve only met the man twice. You don’t even know him. What is there not to like?”

Phoebe wet her lips and swallowed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said I don’t like him. I’m sure he is a very worthy young man. But—he’s not interesting. I don’t enjoy talking to him. I don’t find him—attractive.”

“Attractive!” Sarah picked up the needle and jabbed it through the petticoat with swift thrusts. “Attractive! That shows, Phoebe, just how childish you are being about this. Do you think a good marriage is built on good looks or a lively personality? Do you think that because a man is good-looking he will make you a good husband? No, Phoebe, a good marriage is built on good character. That is what you should be seeking in a man, and the fact that you don’t seem to understand that makes me realize how much you have to learn about this subject.”

“I know character is important,” Phoebe protested, feeling tears sting her eyes at her mother’s rebuke. “But shouldn’t I also really like the person I have to marry?”

Her mother shot her a glance of exasperation. “Perhaps your expectations are too high. Alice doesn’t find anything objectionable in Mr. Quincy.”

“He isn’t courting Alice!” Phoebe burst out. “Alice considers him acceptable for
me,
but she would never care for him that way
herself
. And what about the time Tom Kirby wanted to court Alice, and she objected? You didn’t force her to see Tom!”

“You and Alice are as different as night and day, Phoebe. Alice has good judgment, and you do not. Tom Kirby is a fine boy, and I had no particular objection to him, but I also considered it likely that Alice would be able to make a better match if she tried, and so I allowed her to use her own judgment.”

“And I cannot!” Phoebe cried. “You think if I don’t accept Miles Quincy I will never find anyone else!”

“I didn’t say that, Phoebe.” For a moment her mother actually sounded flustered. “But the truth is you haven’t had men knocking down our door, and I won’t let you throw away the one likely prospect you have. And if you are thinking of Nicholas Teasdale, I beg you to put him out of your mind. He is a very pleasing young man, but Alice spoke the truth when she said that his family will look higher than us for marriage now that his father has made a fortune. If he were planning to court one of you, he would have chosen Alice, but he has never asked your father for either of you.”

Phoebe felt a burning in her chest and a burning behind her eyes. “I know Nicholas isn’t for me,” she began, “This has nothing to do—” and then a thickness in her throat prevented her from speaking. She threw down her mending and ran out of the parlor and up to her room, where she threw herself down on her bed.

She wasn’t crying over Miles Quincy or Nicholas Teasdale either, she told herself as she wiped her tears on her quilt. She would force herself to spend time with Miles if that would please her mother, although she couldn’t imagine ever falling in love with him. As for Nicholas, she knew he had no interest in her beyond a romp in the grass. It was her mother’s contempt for her that was so painful, her mother’s contemptuous way of comparing her with Alice, the implication that she would never find another man and needed to grab at the first one who offered for her. She had always known that Alice came first in the family, that Alice was the most important, the most admired, and had tacitly accepted her second-place position, but she had never heard her mother express it in such hurtful terms.

She recalled Nicholas’s question: “Do God and your mother always agree?”

Phoebe sat up and scrubbed her face with her handkerchief.
This once
,
just this once, Mother is wrong.

*     *     *

Phoebe had nearly forgotten about her letter to Lavinia Teasdale when an answer arrived. She felt a bit foolish whenever she remembered it. Now that she knew Nicholas was alive and well, her chief concern was that he might hear she had written to his sister and find it amusing. But at the same time, with the letter in her hand, she felt a good deal of pleasure and curiosity to know what Lavinia had written. She carried it up to her bedroom where she could read in private, and broke the seal.

My dear Phoebe,

I was so surprised and pleased to hear from you again after the passage of so many years, and happy to hear your family are well and in good health.  I often remember your family when we come into the city to visit my grandparents, and have wished for the opportunity to pay you a visit. I do especially hope that your brother George has come safely through the most recent battles and that you receive word of him soon. This war is a dreadful thing.

A sad event has occurred in our family since we last corresponded. My brother Philip was wounded at Lexington. My parents arranged to bring him home, thinking his wound was trifling, but it afterward became infected, and he died last May. My parents are both quite grief-stricken over this event, and doubly grieved by my second brother’s behavior.

When you met Nicholas in town, he, no doubt, did not explain his situation with regards to our family. The fact is that we have not seen or heard from Nicholas in over a year, since shortly after Philip’s death. He and my father had a terrible row. I don’t know all the details, but it centered on the fact that my father is a Loyalist and Nicholas planned to join the Rebel cause. (Philip fought with a Loyalist militia.) They exchanged hard words, and Nicholas left, and my father refuses to speak of him to anyone.

My mother, I know, is especially pained over this rift in the family, and misses Nicholas all the more acutely from having lost Philip as well. I pity her very much. I know she prays for him faithfully, and when I showed her your letter she was greatly comforted to hear that Nicholas is still alive and has contact with some of our former acquaintances. If you have any more news of Nicholas, I know my mother would be relieved to hear of it.

How fortunate you are, Phoebe, if your family has not been divided by this dreadful war as mine has been!

My mother is calling me now, so I must close this letter. I hope to send a longer one next time, and until then remain

Your affectionate friend

Lavinia Teasdale

Chapter Six

Miles Quincy came to call on Phoebe that Sunday afternoon. Phoebe made coffee and served cakes, and then the two of them sat side by side on the settee in the parlor next to the blazing fire and tried to converse. Miles blushed and fumbled and stammered and mumbled in his rumbly deep voice, and Phoebe pasted a smile on her face and tried not to appear too fidgety. She wished she had brought some needlework to keep her hands busy and her eyes away from her suitor, and made a mental note to remember the next time, for she feared there would indeed be a next time. She suspected this was Mr. Quincy’s first essay into courtship, and it seemed too cruel to reject him outright on his first attempt, for he might never wrack up the courage to try again. Besides which, her mother would never forgive her, and so she resigned herself to endure many uncomfortable Sunday afternoons. Surely in a few weeks, or months at the longest, Mr. Quincy himself would conclude that Phoebe was far from his picture of the ideal minister’s wife.

It was so terribly unlucky, she reflected many times in vexation, that Miles Quincy’s courtship was not of a nature to help her put Nicholas Teasdale out of her mind. Unfortunately, Nicholas appeared so attractive in comparison that it required all her good sense and self-control to keep from repining. Surely somewhere in the world there was some man who combined  Nicholas’s liveliness and charm with Miles’s sterling character, although, if her mother’s judgment was reliable, such a man would not give Phoebe a second look anyway.

During the third week in November, news of the surrender of Fort Washington to the British flew from mouth to mouth. Phoebe knew neither George nor Nicholas was involved in the defense of the fort; nevertheless, it was a humiliating loss for the Rebel forces. Few men had actually been killed, but nearly three thousand were captured by the British. Rhoda Kirby confided to her that her brother Tom was among the captured.

“How dreadful!” Phoebe embraced her friend, her sympathy heightened as she remembered her mother’s fear for George and her own anxiety during the uncertainty at Brooklyn Heights. “Your poor mother! Poor Betsy! Have you told her about this?”

Rhoda dismissed Betsy with a wave of the hand. “She has a new suitor now, a Quaker fellow her parents approve. Oh, poor Tom! Papa says we had no business trying to defend that fort. How could Washington have made such a clumsy mistake? Three thousand men gone! And more deserting every day! I heard Papa and his friends say last night that Congress made a dreadful decision when they appointed General Washington as commander-in-chief. Mr. Norton said they should have chosen Charles Lee instead.
He
at least has some experience in European wars.”

Phoebe felt sincere sympathy over Tom’s capture, but knew not what to say about Washington. She knew Nicholas greatly admired Washington, but it did seem that during the last three months the army had nearly disintegrated under his leadership. One dreadful loss after another, and now this! And the next Sunday when Miles Quincy came courting, he concurred with Mr. Kirby’s opinion, adding that one more battle would finish off the Rebel cause for good, that only a miracle could save it now. This view did nothing to endear him to Phoebe, but at the same time she had to concede there was some validity to it.

She had thought of Nicholas more or less continually ever since the advent of Lavinia’s letter. His sister’s explanation made some things clear to Phoebe, and yet opened up a whole new set of questions. She had to admire Nicholas for standing by his convictions in spite of his father’s opposition, but was this alone the root of his rebellious attitude, his resentment against his father that had surfaced that one afternoon, even the cynicism toward God and religion that she had often sensed? It was a bit peculiar that he had never mentioned his estrangement from his family—even his own brother’s death! More importantly,
why
had he and his father fallen out so completely? Was it simply because of their differing political views?

She longed to ask him these questions, but could not do so very easily without mentioning Lavinia’s letter. Besides, she knew it was really none of her business, and if Nicholas had never brought up the subject he must not care to discuss it. It was her duty to keep her distance from him, not to become embroiled in his family quarrel which she could do nothing to resolve anyway. But all these sensible reflections did not squelch her curiosity or her solicitude.

During the last week of November Nicholas arrived at the Fuller household to spend his leave. Phoebe greeted him along with the rest of the family and then left the room as soon as she was able to think of a reasonable excuse. She would
not
, she resolved firmly, linger near him all week waiting for a word or a smile, or make any excuse at all to speak with him. She wondered how long he intended to stay with them.

“I truly don’t understand Nicholas coming here to spend his leave,” Alice remarked that night as she and Phoebe undressed for bed. “Why wouldn’t he spend it with his own family? They don’t live any farther from the army than we do.”

Phoebe shrugged and made a non-committal reply. That much at least made sense to her now after Lavinia’s letter, but she had never shared any of it with her family. She wasn’t sure whether or not she should.

The next evening Edmund and Miles came together to visit with Alice and Phoebe. At least, Phoebe thought ruefully as she greeted her suitor, having the four of them together would make the situation a bit more enjoyable. They all repaired to the parlor and, at Edmund’s suggestion, gathered around the harpsichord to listen to Alice play. Phoebe was pleased with the arrangement, for it would be unnecessary to carry on a conversation while someone was entertaining them with music. She managed one smile in Miles’s direction and then settled back to listen with a kerchief that she was embroidering.

When Alice had finished two pieces, Nicholas entered the parlor, and she looked up from her music.

“Please don’t let me interrupt you.” Nicholas glanced around the room with a smile that included them all. “I was hoping to use your father’s desk to make a copy of a letter from my commander. But if this is an inconvenient time, please tell me so. I can wait till tomorrow.”

“If my playing doesn’t distract you,” Alice told him, gesturing toward the desk in the corner. “Please, feel free.”

Nicholas smiled at them all again, and Phoebe fancied for just a second that his glance lingered on Miles, sizing him up. But perhaps that was just her imagination.

He sat down and opened the desk, and Alice began to play again. This time she chose some of the hymns from the Methodist service, and they sang along with the lively modern tunes: “Love Divine, all Loves Excelling,” “Amazing Grace,” and “O For a Thousand Tongues to Sing my Great Redeemer’s Praise.” Nicholas finished the letter and left the room, and then Alice paused in her playing and suggested that Phoebe fetch them some refreshments.

Phoebe willingly rose and went to the kitchen, and as she passed the desk she noticed Nicholas had left the letter lying unsealed. She brewed coffee, dawdling as long as possible in the task, then added bread and strawberry preserves to the tray and carefully carried the load back to the parlor. But as she passed the desk she noticed the letter was gone.

She began to serve the coffee around the room, then spread a slice of bread with preserves and settled back in her chair to sip and nibble and listen to the men talk about acquaintances of theirs of whom she had no knowledge and less interest. In a moment Nicholas reappeared. She saw him search the desk for the letter, but couldn’t find it. He frowned, glancing around the room at the two men, and then caught Phoebe’s eye. She frowned back at him and spread her hands to show she didn’t know where the letter had vanished to. Nicholas seated himself again and picked up the quill.

It was certainly odd. Had Edmund taken Nicholas’s letter? Or Miles? But that was absurd. Why would either of them do such a thing? The letter had been written by Lord Stirling, Nicholas had said. It probably contained information about the war. Neither Edmund nor Miles was involved in the war in any way. Of course, Phoebe did not know Miles well at all. But he was seated on the far side of Edmund; he could not easily have confiscated the letter without his friend’s notice.

She glanced back at Nicholas and saw him studying the room carefully, a thoughtful, enigmatic expression on his face. When he met her gaze he lifted his eyebrows and smiled at her, the sort of smile that had always struck Phoebe as either mocking or amused.

She glanced away, mentally shrugging. It was none of her business, anyway.

*     *     *

Nicholas slid into the dim alley beside the tavern, lifted the lid of the crate, and groped in its darkened interior. For a moment he felt nothing, then realized the paper was standing up on its side, not lying flat. He snatched it up and stuffed it into his pocket, then strolled out of the alley and down the street. After rounding the block once, he opened the tavern door and entered.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light within. He heard a servant call, “Good evening, Mr. Teasdale,” and turned in the direction of the voice.

“Evening, Jenny. You’re rather busy here tonight, aren’t you?’

“Aye, we’ve been jumping all evening. Are you looking for some supper, sir?”

“I’ve already eaten,” Nicholas told her. “I just want a drink.”

The pretty, buxom girl laughed. “Just looking for some company, hey?”

Nicholas smiled. “You could say that.” He glanced around the room until his gaze picked out three figures at a table against the wall. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ve found my company.”

He strolled over to the table. Edmund Ingram looked up and surprise registered on his face.

“Ingram! And Mr. Quincy, if I remember rightly.” Nicholas bowed to the three men in turn. “What a coincidence! I never imagined to meet you fellows here!”

Observing Edmund narrowly, he saw the man’s expression of surprise become thoughtful, calculating, before he smiled. Edmund rose to his feet, bowed, and gestured to the chair across from him.

“It certainly is a pleasant surprise. Come join us, if you will.”

“Thank you. I hope I don’t intrude.” Nicholas dropped into the proffered chair and studied the stocky, muscular man seated next to Edmund, wearing the waistcoat and fine shirt of a gentleman. In spite of his elegant clothes, he was rather red-faced and sweating, either because of the heat of the tavern or quantity of liquor he had already imbibed. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with your friend.”

“Excuse my manners. This is Mr. Harry Hastings, a merchant here in town. Harry, this is Nicholas Teasdale, an officer in the fine army of George Washington.”

Nicholas saw Harry barely cover a smirk as the two men nodded to each other. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Join us for a drink.” Edmund poured a tankard full of the heady dark liquid in the pitcher and pushed it toward Nicholas. “My compliments.”

So that’s the idea. Get me liquored up and hope I babble like an idiot. 
Although from the nearly empty pitcher Nicholas guessed one of others might start babbling first. He turned to the servant who was passing by the table. “Jenny, could you bring me some coffee, please? Or better yet, do you have any chocolate?”

“So tell me, Teasdale.” Edmund took a long swig from the glass in front of him. “How do you come to be staying with the Fullers? Old friend of the family, Alice tells me.”

“That’s true.” Nicholas nodded around the circle of men. “We were neighbors as children, and I often visit when I’m in town.” His gaze rested briefly on Miles Quincy. So that was the fellow who was courting Phoebe. Of course one shouldn’t judge by appearances, the man might be a brilliant conversationalist, but he couldn’t help but wonder what the attraction was.

“Don’t have your eye on either of the daughters, I assume,” Edmund persisted. “Pure friendship, hey?”

Nicholas accepted the mug of chocolate from Jenny with a smile and took a sip.

“Just a friend of the family. Nothing more.”

“Lucky for you, hey, Miles?” Edmund lifted his glass to his friend. “You wouldn’t want this brave officer of General Washington stealing your little sweetheart away, now would you?”

Harry Hastings laughed a raucous laugh while Miles smiled an uncomfortable smile and Nicholas almost felt sorry for him. He took another sip of chocolate. Edmund certainly didn’t seem worried about anyone stealing his own sweetheart away, he noted.

“Oh, Miles doesn’t have a thing to worry about,” Harry laughed. “He’s become quite the ladies’ man now that he’s courting. Tell us all about it, Miles. Does little Phoebe give you calf’s eyes? Has she ever kissed you? What else has she given you? Come on, we’re all men. You can tell us all the details.”

Edmund hooted with laughter while Nicholas bit hard on his lip, keeping his expression perfectly blank to hide his contempt. For just a moment that day back in August flashed before his eyes, filling him with shame and then outrage. If Miles ever, ever—no, he wouldn’t believe it. He should give Phoebe credit for better sense than that.

Miles seemed confused by the banter of his friends. He glanced from one to the other and then at Nicholas, his expression uncertain.

“I’ve never tried to kiss her. Do you think I should do that? I don’t want to offend her.”