He needed Rachel.He patted her shoulder to reassure her. “It’s okay to cry.”
And she did.
No doubt, she cried for the life she could not control, barreling toward the truth with the speed of electrical fire. “I could not grieve because I had to care for my younger brother, Thomas.”
Anthony pulled her closer and his jaw ached from gritting his teeth so hard. She referred to when her parents had died.
She shivered and took a deep breath, sinking into the rhythm of her story. “The British controlled Boston and the Quartering Act was executed. I was forced to house and feed His Majesty’s soldiers. The same ones who killed my father.”
His body tensed. The Quartering Act was a diabolical measure enforced by His Majesty upon the Colonists. But a lone defenseless woman, housing men? He could imagine her terror.
She shook her head, her breath trembling in her chest and rattling through her lips. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“Go on. You can confide in me, Rachel,” he encouraged, but his voice hardened. Then he spoke more temperately. “I’m listening.”
How strong she was to shove away the self-protective veneer she hid behind.
“I was alone, trying to deal with a house full of British soldiers. They knew of my family’s patriotic involvement in the war and hated us for it. I was frightened of them”
Her voice broke. He knew what was coming.
“One soldier, an officer…I felt his eyes on me. When I served his meals, he would find excuses to touch me…I-I complained to his commander but was ignored. The officer would trip Thomas, make my little brother the butt of his sick humor. I had to protect Thomas…my future, a mere whim of British soldiers.”
“The mare began to foal. I went to the stable…the soldier followed me…attacked me…I fought…so strong…Thomas came…he tried to save me…so small…” She clutched his shirt, unleashing a flood of desperate gasps, reliving the horror.
“The officer backhanded him across the room…Thomas’s head h-hit a block and tackle…he paid the price. If only I hadn’t gone to check on the mare, Thomas would be alive. Little Thomas, barely nine summers, so full of love and mischief and life. He died, protecting me. Why didn’t I die instead?”
Envisioning her helplessness, Anthony balled his hands into fists. A howling wind threw rain against the window in strong gusts, and the air hung heavy and cold as stinging nettles.
“The British officer renewed his attack on me, knocked me unconscious. From what I learned later, Jacob arrived, beat the officer. Other soldiers arrived. The officer who attacked me accused Jacob of murder. Who was to take the word of a drunken Colonial against one of the King’s men?
Jacob was arrested and dragged away in chains. Incarcerated and awaiting trial, he faced execution. I lay in a coma for many weeks, unable to aid his defense. Everyone knew the charges were ludicrous. With the help of Patriot’s, Jacob escaped. Because of me, he had to leave Boston, and then took up the dangerous practice of privateering.”
“When I awoke, people treated me like a social pariah. Men who had loved to dance with me…” she shrugged. “…dropped off. All I ever wanted was a husband and children…”
She pushed away from Anthony, but he held her solid.
“I-I don’t deserve anyone’s affection… I am not worthy.”
Because I’m not that desirable.
Now he understood. Anthony wanted to pummel his fists into the bastard officer’s face, to beat him to a bloody pulp.
The horrors she had been drawn against. That this bright, beautiful woman had suffered so much. In rapid succession, the death of her parents, the impressment of British soldiers, no family to protect her, the death of her baby brother before her own eyes. How one vulnerable girl had faced a world gone mad. He cursed his countrymen, the sore need and greed of men for power over the Colonies.
He offered her his handkerchief. “Dry your tears,” he said with gentleness, far from the roar he forced down in his throat.
The stinging grief and crushing guilt, she suffered, had never abated. The yoke of responsibility in protecting her brother, followed by his murder, weighed a lodestone around her neck. No wonder she withdrew at times. No wonder she felt unworthy. Deep down, beneath that glowing smile was a magnificent woman who held an ongoing sense of helplessness, bearing the weight of everyone dear to her.
He rubbed his chin in the silkiness of her hair. The dog lay on the opposite seat, head sagged between her paws, and eyes lifted in empathy. “I’m glad you told me. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause it and you didn’t deserve it.”
Rachel’s lingering self-condemnation from the failed rape and the stigma attached haunted Anthony. In England the disgrace would be bandied about with ruthlessness, but puritanical Boston Colonials? She’d have been crucified.
To exhibit the tremendous strength and courage she had, striving to do good, to push away her pain and sufferings, and then she did everything in her power to protect others. That she faced the humiliation of a tyrannical British officer. That she rose from the ashes to take over a shipyard, a job for men. That she championed him at Lord Chelmsford’s. That she put up with his stubbornness and impatience, demonstrated she was beyond an angel…and she cried for the profound loneliness that filled her heart, and a future that seemed bleak and uncertain.
Rachel’s kindness to his favorite aunt said a lot about her character. Many of the women of his acquaintance were like Celeste. They would have been unaware of an old woman’s comfort, covering Aunt Margaret with a blanket while she slept. Polite but haughty, and with certainty, never would they have exercised the compassion Rachel did.
She touched his soul. Anthony held her, the painting in the library of God and his angels came to mind. “The experiences of our past are the architects of our present. Do not let the bad overwhelm what is good. Sometimes, suffering out of our control marks us but need not scar us for life. What we allow the mark of our suffering to become is in our own hands. You are nothing but goodness, Rachel.”
