The Rebel's Return (9 page)

“Offend her!” Edmund’s voice held a note of mock surprise. “Why Miles, she’s probably hoping you’ll try something! She’s probably disappointed that you haven’t!”

Miles’s face brightened. “Do you really think so?”

Harry was laughing too hard to speak. He took another swig of rum and almost choked before he swallowed.

“I think Miles just needs a few lessons. Hey, let me show you how ’tis done.”

He gestured to the servant and Jenny approached the table. “Can I fetch something for you, sir?”

Harry stood up, snatched Jenny in his arms, and laid a long kiss on her pretty mouth. Jenny jerked back out of his arms and flounced away. Harry pinched her backside as she escaped.

“There’s a lesson for you, Miles my boy!” Harry dropped back into his chair and lifted his glass again. “Try that with your little Phoebe next time you go courting!”

Nicholas tried to laugh, but it was a forced, awkward laugh. He hoped the other men didn’t notice and think he was odd. After all, it was no different than the sort of rowdiness he had often indulged in himself. Edmund shot him a keen glance.

“Watch yourself, there, Harry. Teasdale is an old friend of the Fuller family. Practically a brother, one might say. He might find it his duty to defend the family honor.”

“I’m terrified.” Harry took another drink. “He’ll no doubt defend their honor the same way his fellow rebels defended Fort Washington.”

Edmund shot Harry a warning glance. Nicholas took another long sip of his chocolate and carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin. It was strange, he mused. When one wasn’t drinking oneself, there was really nothing so obnoxious as a drunk.

“So tell us all about the war effort, Teasdale.” Edmund’s tone was casual. “You fellows have had a rough few months, haven’t you?”

Nicholas thought of the condition of the army as he had just left it, nearly disintegrating before his eyes. Not enough food, not enough blankets, not enough ammunition. Widespread hopelessness had replaced the earlier excitement.

He shrugged, keeping his expression matter-of-fact. “The last few months have been difficult. The capture of the fort didn’t help. The army is smaller than we’d like, probably no more than ten thousand men. But we have new recruits coming in every day.”

“Ten thousand men!” Edmund stared at him in disbelief. “Three thousand were lost at Fort Washington, and you still have ten thousand men?”

“Perhaps not quite ten thousand.” He knew full well that five thousand was a more realistic estimate. “The number might be closer to nine thousand. But the men love Washington, and they’d do anything for him. And as I said, more men are pouring in every day. We need to regroup, and then we’ll start pushing the redcoats back up to New York.” The reality was that no one was pouring in—rather, men were deserting in droves. He knew, as well as anyone, the widespread doubts about Washington’s ability and the talk of replacing him with another general.

Harry glanced at Edmund, but Edmund was staring down into his rum, looking pensive.

“Perhaps I should even join the fight,” he mused. “I’ve thought of it, you know, from time to time, even though I have no real fondness for war. I despise the way the Hessians have treated the people of New Jersey. I’d like to be there when the redcoats get pushed back up to New York.”

Nicholas lowered his eyes to his mug to conceal the contempt that he felt. “Aye, that you should. With your training you could become a clerk or a courier.”

Harry let out a loud guffaw. “How rich! Ingram as a clerk to George Washington! How I’d love to see that! Wouldn’t
all
your friends love that!”

Edmund shot his friend an angry glance of warning which Nicholas pretended not to notice. Harry was becoming too intoxicated to guard his tongue.

“Give your friend more credit,” Nicholas returned, appearing to misunderstand him. “Sometimes the studious, learned types can be a great benefit to the army. Mr. Ingram here is probably a man of many hidden talents. He could be extremely useful in this war if he chose to be.”

Edmund threw Nicholas a sharp glance. Nicholas met his gaze and smiled a benign smile.

“The war has found assistance in some of the most unlikely places,” Nicholas continued. “We have men in New York from old Tory families who use their connections to glean information about Howe’s plans and pass them along to us. Although, from what I hear, General Howe is more interested in Mrs. Loring than he is in actually fighting this war.”

Edmund leaned forward, his eyes alert, then lowered his gaze as if to conceal his curiosity. He waved to Jenny to refill the pitcher of rum. “How very interesting. I’m sure you must hear many such stories in your position. Serving under Lord Stirling as you do. I believe that’s what you said—Lord Stirling?”

Nicholas nodded. “That’s correct.”

“And these men in New York,” Edmund lowered his voice to an almost confidential tone, “I’m sure they can’t be from really influential families. I mean, you would never be able to recruit such men as spies, you know.”

Nicholas hesitated, then glanced right and left as if afraid of being overheard. “I can’t tell you much, of course. But I have heard a few names. Grant, Dunmore, Lewis—do those names mean anything to you?”

He saw Edmund’s eyes widen, but he said nothing. Harry Hastings let out a loud whistle before he took another long drink.

“There you go, Ingram. I’m sure old Maxwell will be interested in hearing about
that.
”

Edmund shot his friend a furious look which Nicholas carefully ignored. He glanced at Miles, who seemed befuddled by the whole conversation, and smiled a benevolent smile.

Chapter Seven

After supper the next day Phoebe carried the milk pail to the barn to milk the cow. It was a task she disliked, for the cow was temperamental and sometimes kicked, but tonight Buttercup was in an affable mood and stood calmly lowing as Phoebe milked. She was nearly finished when the barn door opened and Nicholas entered.

He went to his horse and began to saddle him. Phoebe glanced over her shoulder at him, and their eyes met.

“Is Buttercup behaving today?” he asked.

She laughed and nodded, surprised that he remembered the cow’s name. “Are you going for a ride?”

“Aye, I thought Syllabub could use the exercise, and so could I.”

She turned back to her task. “Did you ever find your letter?”

“Letter?” For a moment he seemed to have forgotten. “Nay. I recopied it.”

“Oh.” He didn’t seem concerned, so she dismissed the incident. “How odd.”

“Aye, it is indeed.”

There was a pause. Phoebe stood up and started to pick up the milk pail, when Nicholas said, “So who is this Quincy fellow anyway?”

She stopped and glanced back at him. “He—he’s a friend of Edmund’s.”

“Is he really courting you?”

“Who says so?”

“Jonathan.”

“Oh.” Phoebe shrugged. Nothing was secret with her younger brothers. “He did ask my papa for permission.”

She picked up the pail and started for the door, when he spoke again. “Do you like him?”

Phoebe stopped and swung back to look at him. Nicholas was still tightening the saddle, his face averted. What could she say? “I’m trying to keep an open mind,” she said carefully.

She had nearly reached the door when she heard Nicholas laugh shortly. “Please tell me he has money.”

“Money?” Phoebe set down the milk pail. “What does that mean?”

“Well, he certainly isn’t handsome, and he’s as dull as ditchwater, but I reckon there must be some attraction.”

“He’s a minister,” Phoebe replied in a tight voice. “That’s attraction enough for my mother.”

“A minister. I see now. Everyone knows ministers make the best husbands, after all.”

There was that sarcastic edge to his voice she had noticed before. “My mother says that as long as he has good character, other types of attraction are not so important.”

“What rubbish!” Nicholas burst out. “You aren’t really going to marry him, are you, Phoebe?”

Phoebe had no intention of marrying Miles, but it was none of Nicholas’s business. “I don’t know. My mother thinks I am lucky to have him.”

“Why don’t you stand up to your mother for a change and tell her you are going to make your own decisions?”

“Just like you did with your father?”

The words were out of her mouth before she had a chance to stop them. She saw his face blanch with either anger or embarrassment, and it was a moment before he spoke.

“Who told you about that?”

She hesitated, but there was no point in prevaricating now. “Your sister.”

“Lavinia wrote to you?”

“Aye.”

“What did she tell you?”

  “She—she told me you had quarreled with your father, and about your brother’s death. Why didn’t you tell us about that, Nicholas?”

He shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

“But I did!” Phoebe burst out. Now that the subject was broached, she could not let him slither away like that. “I asked how your family fared, and you said they were all well. That was not very honest of you, Nicholas.”

He shrugged again, but his face was hard. He swung up into the saddle. “Then add it to my other sins. You should know I have quite a list by now.”

“Nicholas—” As he pushed past her she reached out to him, touching his ankle, but he kicked his horse and trotted out the door.

Phoebe listened to the rhythm of the horse’s hooves until they faded away into the night. Well, she had certainly botched that conversation. But it was partly his fault for being so nosy about Miles. She picked up her milk pail and started back to the house, the milk sloshing over the top and wetting her petticoat.

Nicholas did not appear the rest of the evening, and the whole family went to bed at the normal hour, their mother wondering aloud where he might be. Phoebe lay awake after Alice and Sally were both breathing rhythmically in sleep and the house was silent.

She heard the trotting of a horse to the stable behind the house, then, a few moments later, the kitchen door opening. Suddenly in the stillness there was a clatter, and a muffled curse, as if someone had stumbled in the dark.

Phoebe sat up. Alice rolled over and was silent. In the rest of the house no one stirred.

On an impulse she climbed out of bed and pulled her petticoat on over her shift. She crept down the stairs, hoping not to waken her parents.

The kitchen was dark, but Phoebe found a candle stub and lit it in the smoldering embers of the fireplace. The pale flame showed Nicholas where he had dropped onto a kitchen bench and sat watching her, his eyes dark and circled.

“You are going to wake the whole family,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

She approached the kitchen table. Was he drunk? At least he looked sober, but then she had little experience with drunken men. Was he, perhaps, upset over their earlier conversation? “Nicholas, I apologize for bringing up such an unpleasant subject earlier. I did not intend to mention it.”

He shrugged again. “Don’t fret about it, Phoebe. It was my fault for criticizing your mother and your lover.”

She winced at hearing Miles described as her lover. “Your family is very concerned about you, Nicholas. Your mother particularly, Lavinia says.”

She saw him flinch as the mention of his mother, and lowered his eyes. “I wish I could see her again. ‘twas none of it her fault.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, then closed it. She dropped down on the bench across from him. For a moment they sat in silence.

“Phoebe, do you know what it is like to always be second best?” The words burst out of him all at once. “To never be adequate? To always be less important? That’s the way I felt, all my life, growing up. Philip was always my father’s favorite, the good son, the important one. Everything with Philip came first. I was always second. Less clever, less handsome, less able. I could never measure up. I could only please my father by trying to be Philip, and that was impossible.”

Phoebe said nothing, but listened in silence.

“One incident from my childhood always stands out in my mind. I suppose it was a silly thing, but I can never forget it. When I was fourteen our mare birthed a foal, and when the foal was big enough to ride I broke him myself. I remember we had guests one evening, and I rode the horse around the yard, showing off, I suppose, and everyone admired me. Everyone but my father, who said not a word. That day at dinner the lady complimented my achievement, but my father just changed the subject and started talking about Philip, who had started college, and what a scholar he was. And I thought, nothing I do will ever measure up, in his eyes, to what Philip can do.”

“I can understand,” Phoebe said quietly. “I’m sure that was hurtful.”

He bit his lip for a moment before continuing. “By the time I reached my late teens I began to rebel, I suppose. If I couldn’t be Philip, I would be as different from him as I possibly could. I began to indulge in certain behaviors that a good little Methodist girl like you would never approve.” He managed a crooked grin at her. “And as the political situation worsened, since my father and brother were Loyalists, I took the other side. I really did believe in the cause, you understand, but I also took pleasure in opposing them. I suppose it was part of my rebellion too.

“When Philip finished college, my father asked him to stay in Boston and handle the business there as my father’s partner. As the political problems grew, Philip joined a Loyalist militia that was supposed to help maintain order. How proud my father was! His son, defending the King, against all those ornery Rebels! But in April last year his militia rode out to help Lord Hugh Percy seize the supplies at Concord, and Philip was shot in the arm in the confrontation at Lexington. My parents managed to bring him home, hoping to nurse him back to health. They brought a doctor to him, who said the arm would need to be amputated, but Philip refused. He would rather die than live as half a man with only one arm. Three days later they fetched the doctor again, but it was too late. The gangrene had already spread too far to amputate. And Philip got his wish.”

“How dreadful,” Phoebe whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”

“It
was
dreadful, in more ways than one.” Nicholas clenched his teeth. “After Philip died, my father wanted me to move to Boston and take Philip’s place in the business, and join the Loyalist militia. That way at least he would have one son fighting for his king, and he could be proud again. I told him that King George was not my king, and I had already decided to join the Continental Army. We had a terrible quarrel then; I don’t even recall all the things that were said. But at one point I said,” Nicholas paused, swallowing hard, staring down at his folded hands with their white knuckles, “I said, ‘You wish Philip were still alive and I were lying down in the family plot,’ and he said, ‘Aye, I do; he was a son to be proud of and you are a disgrace.’”

“Oh, Nicholas.” Phoebe reached her hand to him, horrified and saddened. “You know he didn’t mean it. He was speaking out of his grief and anger.”

“Aye, he was angry and grief-stricken, but he meant it. ’Twas the truest thing he ever said to me. And at that point I told him I was leaving and never coming back. So I left, and I haven’t returned since.”

Their eyes met across the table, his anguished and defiant, hers sorrowful. “I think you broke your mother’s heart,” she said softly.

“I’m certain of it,” he sighed. “But what could I do?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Don’t you miss your family at all?”

He shrugged. “Aye, but I cannot go back.  Nothing I do will ever please him.”

Phoebe hesitated, reluctant to give advice in such a situation, and yet struggling to frame her thoughts into words. “Perhaps you are right, Nicholas. Perhaps you will never please your father. But you can look above him and do what is right, whether he ever approves or not.”

“Look above him? What do you mean? How can I do that?”

“It is not my place to tell you God’s plan for you,” Phoebe said slowly, groping for the right words, “But the most important thing is for you to be at peace with Him.”

For just a second she expected another mocking comment, but Nicholas folded his hands, resting his chin on them, and stared off above her head in deep thought.

“I know that you are a real Christian, Phoebe,” he said finally. “But for me, God was just another person who was always disappointed in me.

“Your father isn’t God, Nicholas,” she told him. “God accepts you, he loves you, even if your father doesn’t.”

He was silent for a long moment, staring at her intently. “I find that difficult to believe,” he said finally.

Phoebe fell silent. If she were someone else, more intelligent, articulate, or devout, perhaps she could reason with Nicholas further, but she found herself at a loss.

“You and I have different tempers,” he went on. “Call it pride, arrogance, whatever, but I cannot humble myself the way you do. When Alice or someone else in your family puts you down, you accept it, and I want to fight back.”

Phoebe remembered his criticism of her in the barn. “You think I am too meek?”

He shrugged. “My way has never been the model for Christian behavior; who am I to criticize? But I sometimes feel your humility is really a lack of confidence in yourself, in your judgment and abilities.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she said slowly, and then, on an impulse, recounted her quarrel with her mother over Miles Quincy, omitting her mother’s reference to Nicholas himself. “I must confess, it hurt me very much that her opinion of Alice is so much higher than her opinion of me.”

Nicholas nodded. “Aye, that is exactly what I mean. As if you don’t have the good judgment to choose a worthy man on your own.”

Pheobe stared down at the board cloth and traced a circular pattern with her finger. “Perhaps I don’t.”

He leaned across the table then, and to her amazement covered her hand with his own. His touch was warm and strong, his palm and fingertips callused. “Aye, you do, Phoebe.” He smiled at her gently. “As I well know, to my own disappointment. As Quincy will surely find out. You are too pretty to settle for someone you dislike, and too wise to let yourself be hoodwinked by some clever rogue who might try to take advantage of you.”

For a long moment they sat looking at each other, their gazes locked, and then Phoebe lowered hers to the table top. Nicholas withdrew his hand and pushed back the bench with a scraping sound.

“And on that note,” he added, rising to his feet, “I think we both need to find our beds before we awaken your whole family.”