Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland Page 26

  Lark spun, putting herself between Alice and Mason. “Then you must go, before he sees you. It is only a matter of time before he looks this way.”

  “I cannot leave Sena here like this.” Yet fear and desperation saturated her voice.

  Was it possible? Courageous Alice, so afraid. Spirited Sena, hurt and crying. She could only hope that sweet Kate had been urged by the Lord to pray. Pray that Lark, who wanted little more than to tremble and cry too, could be now what they could not.

  She gripped Alice’s shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “You have your children to consider, Alice. Callie and Hugh, and the life yet unborn. You must go. Go to the Calverts, and tell them to pray. You can be there in two minutes.”

  Alice’s eyes lost some of their panic. “Yes. Yes, of course, I must go tell them. And you must come with me.”

  She shook her head. “No, I will see how this ends. But I intend to stay out of sight. Go. Go, now.”

  After a mere moment’s hesitation, Alice nodded and grabbed up her skirts to better run. She headed down a drive and into what was presumably an alley that would put her out on West Street.

  Making good on her promise, Lark followed at a slower pace, pausing when she reached the rear of Calvert Hall. From back here, the voices of the men were disjointed rumbles and shouts, low throbs of threat and indignation. When her knees wobbled, she reached out to grip the closest thing at hand, though it looked like little more than a frozen clump.

  Her fingers dislodged the snow and closed around wrought iron. ‘Twas the stair railing, sturdy and strong. Unbent, undamaged, though covered by a winter’s worth of ice and snow.

  Lark closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.Dear Lord, help me find the iron within me. Help me find a way to help.

  Sleet hissed down, hard and fast, stinging her cheeks, her hand, any other inch of bare skin it could find. She raised a hand to shield her face, though it did little to protect her from nature’s attack. Opening her eyes again, Lark’s gaze landed on the door. She raced up the steps and a moment later tried the latch, amazed when it gave under her fingers. She couldn’t imagine why it was unlocked but wasn’t about to question good fortune. Stepping inside, she closed the door against the ice and absorbed the silence of an empty house.

  She followed the main hallway toward the front, toward the voices that slowly seeped back into her hearing. She had just stepped into the entryway when a rock crashed through the window beside the front door.

  In swept cold air, hate-filled shouts, and a flaming torch.

  A scream caught in her throat, but Lark swallowed it down and rushed forward, toward that flaming rod. It landed on a stretch of bare floor, and she snatched it up before it had time to light the wood or leap to any of the cloths covering furniture.

  Only then did she pause to breathe and to look at the black mark that already scorched the floor. Safe. For now. Though if the first torch failed at its job, a second would surely follow, and was probably ready even now to be tossed.

  And why? For what? Bitterness, bitterness and hatred. A decision not to understand, not to forgive. A choice to cling to war when peace hovered on the horizon.

  Warmth flooded her, bringing her chin up. She strode to the front door, threw the bolt, and wrenched it open. When she stepped out onto the stoop, the ice swirled into a gust of snow, then abruptly ceased.

  Lark thrust the flame into the air. Silence fell, and she felt the gazes of every man upon her.

  So long she had been invisible—but not now. So long she had held her silence—but not now. No, now she met every gaze, those of strangers and those of the same young gentlemen she had danced with at the holiday balls. Litchfield and Alderidge, Woodward and Griffith. Men whose jaws dropped upon spotting her. And in the back, a few more of the older men who were supposed to be leading these others.

  She then looked at Sena, still huddled against her father’s chest.

  A few of them followed her gaze and looked sheepish as they noticed the Randels. Those who knew them, no doubt, who respected them. Those who only now paused to see what their thirst for vengeance had wrought.

  And finally, she looked to Emerson, who stared at her in disbelief. Fear creased his brow, but pride still shone in his eyes.

  Lark drew in a long breath. “I daresay none of you much care to listen to the philosophy of a mere woman, so I will make no attempt to reason you out of this despicable show. But I will say this, gentlemen. You shame us all with such behavior. The time for destruction has passed. You have a nation to build.”

  Shaking her head, she shoved the torch into a snowbank. Its hiss of death filled the air, and a ribbon of smoke curled upward.

  Conviction descended upon their faces, one by one. Not because of her words, certainly, but thanks to their own consciences.

  But Mason pushed forward, rage upon his face. “And who do you think you are, to tell us what we ought to be doing? Another Loyalist doxy? Another weak-willed Eve trying to undermine man’s authority?”

  For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Lark felt her lips pull up into a smile. “And who are you, Mr. Mason, that these men should follow you? A man who cannot rule his own house without revolt? A man whose business dealings are so suspect his daughter must make amends where he will not? I daresay the Mattisons would question your authority.”

  A few guffaws of laughter filled the air. And one of the burlier, illclothed men turned on Mason with folded arms and a glare. “You be that Mason? The one what cheated good Matty?”

  Several more men rounded on him, none of them looking too pleased with him now. One crowded so close Mason could probably smell what exactly befouled the man’s clothing. “The miss has a point—why ought we follow you? You, who cheat us whene’er you can? I say any man who’s an enemy of yours be a friend of mine!”

  The gentlemen all slunk away, leaving their supposed friend at the mercy of the rabble. Lark’s attention, however, was snagged by Emerson, who rushed up the steps until he framed her face in his hands.

  She couldn’t tell if he was pleased or angry with her, the way he stared so hard into her eyes.

  “Emerson, I know you said to remain at Randel House, but—”

  “Have you any idea how terrified I was when I looked up and saw you here?”

  She covered his hands with hers. “Perhaps as much as I when I saw them attack you.”

  “More, surely. For you know I can handle myself in battle. But you?” Finally, the corners of his mouth pulled up. “I pray God our children have your spirit, Larksong. Charging out with a flaming torch as you did…I am proud of you, but you scared a year off my life.”

  “I will have to find a way to give it back, then, as I want it only lengthened.” She grinned up into his handsome face, into those warm brown eyes she intended to lose herself in for years to come.

  He dropped his hands to her shoulders and pulled her close, chuckling against her hair. “I had better see you back to Randel House. You are like ice.”

  She nodded, even let him tug her down a step before she craned her head around to look at the house behind her. “Are they really giving it back?”

  “So it seems—or at least the governor is speaking of doing so. I imagine it will take some time for all the details to be determined.”

  “You convinced him, then.” She tucked her hand into his elbow and leaned on him more than necessary as they continued down the walk.

  “We are apparently quite the persuasive pair.” Grinning, he turned them down Calvert Street. “Wait until we tell your brother about this.”

  Laughter tickled her throat at that. She looked over her shoulder at the now-empty street, and the last drop of anxiety vanished from her soul. Though hard-won, at last peace blanketed her. She could hardly wait to share it with her family.

  Epilogue

  Endover Plantation, outside Williamsburg, Virginia 7 March 1784

  Wiley meandered around the edge of the gathering without a care as to where he headed. It
hardly mattered. The house was filled with friends from near and far, all here to wish Lark and Emerson well. Laughter rang out, violin music danced on the air, and smiles wreathed every face.

  None so bright, of course, as the wedding couple’s.

  Wiley allowed himself to grin as he caught sight of them, Emerson unable to take his eyes off Lark even while she joked with Miss Randel and Isabella a few feet away from him. Yes, it was worth that dreaded month of uncertainty, to see those two in love.

  “She is a charming bride.”

  Wiley spun at the voice, his posture snapping straight of its own volition. But General Washington wasn’t talking to him. Wiley had merely wandered near where he stood with Mr. Jefferson and Randel.

  Jefferson chuckled. “I hear she has the spirit of any Patriot soldier too. She talked a crowd away from following the bilious Mr. Mason.”

  “She did, at that,” Randel said. “I was there.”

  “Perhaps we ought to send her to Paris to provide support for Franklin, if he needs it to convince King George to sign the treaty.” General Washington clasped his hands behind his back and smiled out at the assembly.

  Jefferson sighed. “Let us pray such recourse is unnecessary. I received word just before I left that New York’s harbor was finally free enough of ice for the two couriers to set sail.”

  “I praise the Lord for that.” Randel, too, looked over the room, his gaze directed at his daughter. “The thaw finally brought the husband of my daughter’s friend home, which brought rejoicing to our household. I was very glad to hear it finally released the Treaty from its icy hold as well.”

  Jefferson nodded, still serious. “There is no hope the treaty will arrive by deadline, but hopefully Franklin’s pleas for an extension will be granted.”

  “I shall pray Providence softens King George’s heart.” Washington’s voice was soft. “We are a nation ready for peace, Mr. Jefferson. Desperate for it.”

  Wiley turned away from the group and their sober talk and meandered from the ballroom into the quieter parts of the house.

  “Ah, Master Wiley.” Joe smiled and held up an envelope. “I must have missed this in yesterday’s post. I was just taking it up to your room for you.”

  The feminine script on the envelope caught his eye. Had Lark beaten one of her own letters home? Given this winter, it wouldn’t surprise him. “Let me see it.” But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t Lark’s hand at all.

  Curious now, he unsealed the missive and glanced at the bottom as his servant ambled away. And nearly choked on his own breath. Penelope? What the devil was she doing writing him? His gaze flew back to the top.

  Oh Wiley, I must beg you for help. George and I were married a week ago, and he has shown himself to be a veritable monster!

  Wiley pursed his lips. Owens hadn’t struck him as particularly monstrous, and blast it, he didn’t want to have to feel guilt over his cousin’s folly. She deserved whatever fate handed her. Though no one really deserved a monstrous spouse, did they? Sighing, he read on.

  Within days of marriage, his true nature showed. He tossed out half my wardrobe—half!—and insisted I commission these wretched, outmoded rags in their place, which do not flatter my figure at all. And then—oh, forgive the tearstains—then when I complained, he threatened to lessen my allowance if I persisted in wearing the styles I prefer. He is a tyrant, and my parents are no help at all, refusing to see my points. Please, Wiley, write him and tell him to be kind. He respects you, he told me as much, and since it is largely your fault I was foisted upon him…

  Wiley snorted and took great pleasure in tearing the letter in two. “Bad news?”

  He turned to smile at Emerson, who stood a few feet away with Lark tucked under his arm. “In Penelope’s eyes, it is. Her husband is set on forcing practicality upon her, and knows just which strings to pull—those of his purse.”

  Emerson widened his eyes and made a gasp of horror. “The blackguard! And what does she intend you to do about it?”

  “Intervene with him on her behalf, since ’tis all my fault she wedded the beast.” With more delight than it probably warranted, Wiley crumpled up the two halves of paper and tossed them over his shoulder. “Memory apparently is not her strong suit, if she appeals to me for help.”

  “In which case, she will forget how horrible he is as soon as he drapes some pretty bauble around her neck.” Lark grinned and motioned toward the ballroom. “You left as we were looking for you to wish you farewell.”

  “Stealing my sister, are you, Emerson?” Try as he might, he couldn’t convince his smile to shrink. “I know not what I shall do, Larksong, you being a whole mile away at Fielding Hall.”

  Emerson snorted a laugh. “Says the man who sent her all the way to Annapolis.”

  “For which you thanked me repeatedly.” Wiley chuckled. “Eventually.”

  They headed back toward the guests, Emerson’s grin still in place. “I am man enough to admit when I was a fool.”

  “Ha!” Wiley gave his friend an amicable shove in the shoulder. “Took you long enough to see it. And so you do not think yourself too perfect, let me assure you you are still a fool, Emerson. A lovestruck one.”

  Emerson didn’t seem to take offense. His eyes, in fact, went dreamy as a schoolgirl’s as he looked down at Lark. “’Tis a good kind of fool to be.”

  She smiled, blissful as she was resplendent in her silk. “You ought to try it sometime.”

  “There seems to be quite enough of that going around, thank you. Some of us must keep our wits about us.”

  Emerson dropped a kiss onto Lark’s brow. “Well, may your wits keep you company, my friend.”

  Wiley chuckled at the pretty blush that bloomed in Lark’s cheeks. Mrs. Fielding at last.

  And finally the headache of seeing his sister happy was over. He loosed a happy sigh and couldn’t resist one more poke at his friend. “I don’t imagine you will be stopping by tomorrow for our usual chat, given your wedding trip the next day. Shall I come to you, then?”

  For a moment, Emerson’s casual smile actually gave him pause. Until, that is, he put a seemingly friendly hand on Wiley’s shoulder that was far too firm in its grip. “Wiley, old friend. Don’t even think about it.”

  Ah, yes. All was right in the world.

  Author’s Note

  When I decided to set a book in historic Annapolis, there were some things I knew I would include, and which I couldn’t wait to highlight. The Liberty Tree, where the Sons of Liberty met. Bladen’s Folly, the abandoned governor’s mansion that later became McDowell Hall, the anchor building for my alma mater, St. John’s College. The State House in all its Colonial splendor, the charm of the bay, the picturesque beauty that I associate with the city I called home for five years.

  But as I sat down to research the Annapolis of 1783–1784, when it was capital of the nation while DC was being built, I discovered quite a number of things I hadn’t realized but couldn’t ignore. For starters, the treatment of Loyalists in those years directly following the Revolution. Though most Tories fled to Canada or back to England, some chose to remain in the US and underwent an epic battle to regain the property and assets that the Americans had seized during the war. Though stipulations for the return of property were included in the peace agreements, they were largely ignored for years. Many Tory families returned to Annapolis as soon as peace was declared, however, and adapted to the new circumstances. Historian Walter B. Norris observes that “it is creditable to the patriots to notice that the wounds of such a bitter difference of opinion were not long in passing away” (Annapolis: Its Colonial and Naval Story. New York: Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1925, p. 108). Within a decade, such differences were forgiven as all rallied under the banner of being Americans.

  In Maryland, one of the first families to regain its holdings was the Calverts, who had played such a pivotal role in the state’s founding that respect for them eventually outweighed resentment of them. Because of that legacy, I chose to
create a fictional branch of the Calvert family to represent their struggle and share some of their reasons for remaining loyal to the Crown. The threat of vandalism to an ancestral Calvert home is fictionalized, but at that point Loyalists were still so hated that it’s a reasonable inference.

  Though my beloved Annapolis was by all accounts past its prime after the Revolution and was considered a backwater again by 1790, memory of its golden age still would have been strong during the so-called Long Winter of 1783–1784. Perhaps those days-gone-by filled the minds of the statesmen as they wondered if their fellow representatives would brave the snows in order to guarantee a peace that seemed tenuous at best.

  Though the couriers with their two separate signed peace documents did not in fact reach Paris by the agreed-upon March 3 deadline (they were iced into New York harbor until February 21), King George surprised them all by graciously extending the deadline. Perhaps because the winter had been just as brutal in England, or perhaps because he was more tired of war than he let the Americans believe. But on March 29, 1784, Benjamin Franklin finally welcomed the signed Treaty into Passy, France, and peace was soon after settled once and for all.

  Those at home pressed ever onward, the battle for freedom finally won. Of course, the path of the nation had yet to be determined. Those same great men we get a glimpse of in this book had years of debate ahead of them before they struck upon a Constitution and a form of government that soon revolutionized, not just a collection of thirteen colonies, but the entire world.

  About the Author

  ROSEANNA M. WHITE grew up in the mountains of West Virginia, the beauty of which inspired her to begin writing as soon as she learned to pair subjects with verbs. She spent her middle and high school days penning novels in class, and her love of books took her to a school renowned for them. After graduating from St. John’s College in Annapolis, Maryland, she and her husband moved back to the Maryland side of the same mountains they equate with home. Roseanna is the author of two biblical novels, the senior reviewer at the Christian Review of Books, which she and her husband founded, the senior editor at WhiteFire Publishing, and a member of ACFW, His-Writers, HEWN Marketing, and Colonial Christian Fiction Writers.