Louise M. - Love Thine Enemy

Oliver regarded him with a skeptical frown. “Just be certain you don’t socialize with the little Nantucket wench while you await those English ladies.”

“Enough of this.” Frederick slapped his riding crop against Essex’s flanks and urged him into a gallop.

The steed easily outdistanced Oliver’s mare, and Frederick arrived home far ahead of his companion. At the front porch, he jumped down and tossed the reins to the waiting groom.

“Give him a cooldown and brushing, Ben. He’s had a good run in this heat.”

“Yessuh, Mister Moberly.” The slender black man led the stallion away.

Three black-and-white spaniels bounded around the corner of the house to greet Frederick. He ruffled their necks and patted their heads. “Down, boy. Down, girls. I’m on a mission.”

He took the four front steps two at a time and crossed the wide porch with long strides. The door opened, and the little Negro girl who tended it curtsied.

“Welcome home, Mr. Frederick.”

“Thank you, Caddy.” He pulled a confection from his coat pocket, handed it to her and patted her scarf-covered head.

Inside, he strode across the entry toward the front staircase. “Cousin Lydie, I’m home.” He listened for his cousin’s response. Soon the soft rush of feet sounded above him.

“Dear me.” Cousin Lydie hastened downstairs, shadowed by Betty, the housemaid. “I expected you to be in the village much longer. Dinner is not yet prepared.”

“Don’t fret. I only announced my homecoming because I have this for you.” He pulled the fabric samples from his pocket and handed them to her. “Oliver has the other items, but I wanted to give you these myself. Be quick to order the dress lengths you desire, or the vicar’s wife will beat you to it.” He winked at her.

“Why, sir.” Cousin Lydie’s gray eyes exuded gratitude as she spoke. “You’re too kind.”

Frederick noticed the longing in Betty’s expression. The once cheerful maid had become a sad little shadow after an alligator caught her skirt and almost dragged her into the river. If Oliver hadn’t shot the beast, Frederick would have had a bitter letter to write home to Father’s groom to report the loss of his daughter.

“And be certain to choose something for Betty, too. Something to mark her status in the house.” He felt tempted to pat the girl on the head as he had the child at the front door, but thought better of it. Such innocent contact with serving girls had been the beginning of troubles for his older brothers.

“Thank you, sir.” Betty curtsied, and her pale face brightened.

“Think nothing of it.”

“Mr. Moberly.” Cousin Lydie insisted on addressing him formally in front of the servants. “A flatboat arrived bringing mail. Summerlin put several letters on your desk.”

“Ah, very good.” Frederick proceeded down the hallway to his study and sat at his large oak desk. Trepidation filled him as he lifted the top letter and broke Father’s red wax seal.

As expected, he could almost hear Father’s ponderous voice in the missive. The earl always seemed to find something wrong in Frederick’s correspondence and scolded him about nonexistent offenses. Yet the abundant shipments of produce and the financial reports sent by Corwin confirmed everything Frederick claimed about the plantation’s success.

Through the tall, open window beside him, he stared out on the distant indigo field where slaves bent over tender young plants. Last year’s crop had been modestly successful, and this year should produce an abundance, perhaps even rivaling the success of Lord Egmount’s nearby plantation. Why did Father doubt the veracity of Frederick’s reports?

He blew out a deep sigh. Pleasing his father had always proven impossible, so he cheered himself with Mother’s letter. She chatted about a party she had given in London and said how much she missed him. As always, she thanked him for giving her widowed cousin a home where she could feel useful. Frederick would make certain he responded that Cousin Lydia Winthrop did more for him than he did for her, managing the household with skill.

Marianne’s letter brought him laughter. His younger sister had rebuffed yet another foolish suitor who, despite an august title and ample wealth, possessed no wit or sense of adventure. “I shall remain forever a spinster,” she wrote. Frederick pictured her dramatic pose, delicate white hand to her pretty forehead in artificial pathos. How he treasured the memories of their carefree childhood days.

The letters had done their job. Father’s dire warnings had been mitigated by Mother’s and Marianne’s gentler words. Frederick rested his head against the back of his large mahogany chair and gazed out the window again.

In his most amiable dreams, he considered that his success in East Florida might move His Majesty to knight him, as Oliver had said. Then, in due time, he could complete the picture by returning to England to choose a woman to be his wife from one of the families who once had shunned him. But how could he win the king’s favor when his own father gave only disapproval?

He recalled the words of the pretty young miss he had met two short hours ago. In America, every man had the opportunity to earn his place in society. Not be born to it, as his eldest brother had been, but to earn his fortune by his own honest sweat. More and more, that peculiar idea appealed to him, for he found great satisfaction in his work. And the sort of woman Frederick required for a wife must be willing to leave her cushioned life to establish a new home, just as Miss Folger had done for her father.

Frederick would do well to foster a friendship with the merchant and his daughter to discover what kind of woman would make the perfect wife to bring to this savage land. Perhaps inviting the two to some sort of social gathering would be beneficial. A party such as Mother had given in London, where no expense was spared to please her guests.

Eager to enlist Cousin Lydie’s help in the project, he rose from his chair, but noticed another letter bearing Father’s seal lying facedown on the desk. Two reprimands? What had the old earl forgotten to scold him for?

Frederick snapped the wax and unfolded the vellum sheet, not caring if he tore it. The salutation made him blink twice.

My dear Oliver—

Frederick turned the missive over. Oliver’s name was clearly written in Father’s hand across the outside. A coil of dread tightened in Frederick’s stomach. Father had never addressed him as “My dear Frederick.”

He should not read this letter. Summerlin had left it here by mistake. Yet Frederick could not resist.

Received your letter of December 20. You have my gratitude for your faithful reporting of the matters we discussed. I shall make my decision accordingly. Please continue your endeavors to keep my son from further overspending. As to the chit from Oswald’s plantation, do all in your power to keep them apart.

Gratefully, Bennington

Frederick slumped back into his chair. What matters? What overspending? What chit? Frederick had visited the manager of Oswald’s plantation last year, but met no young woman.

And Oliver knew it. Oliver, the illegitimate son of a well-born lady, who had depended on Father’s generosity since childhood. Oliver, Frederick’s lifelong friend.

His hands curled into fists, crushing the heavy paper into a ball. He thrust it into the fireplace, then snatched a piece of char cloth from the box on the narrow mantelpiece. But before he could strike flint against steel to light it, other thoughts stayed his hand.

Working to subdue his anger, he pressed the page out on his desk, refolded it and then consigned it to the hidden compartment beneath his desktop. He must not let Oliver know that he had discovered his treachery.