The conversation fell silent as Father read his letter. The clock in the hall ticktocked the hour. Nine o’clock. The china cups and saucers tinged together as Isaac freshened their tea.
Father scooted away from the table. “Pardon me.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing to concern you. Oh—” Father paused in the high, arched doorway leading to the parlor. “The Lightfoots. We are no longer on cordial terms. You are to stay away from Quill Farm.”
“Stay away?” Esther shot to her feet, toppling her chair. “No longer on cordial terms? Whatever do you mean? They are our friends and neighbors.”
“The reverend is a traitor. Not only to the Crown but to us.”
“Surely not, Father. He’s a godly man, a minister. Why, I’ve heard you amen his sermons—”
“Esther, there is no debate here.” Father’s boring gaze caused her to flinch. “Perhaps I’ve given you too much freedom in your speech, let you state your mind and opinion without reserve, but on this matter you cannot reason me from my opinion. The Lightfoots, for all intents and purposes, are our enemy. Am I clear?”
Behind her, Isaac righted her chair and Esther slowly sat. “Yes, Father.” She had no recourse but agreement.
When Father was out of hearing, Lieutenant Twimball cleared his throat and set down his tea. “Major Ferguson has tried to recruit the younger Lightfoot—”
“Hamilton.”
“—to our cause, but he resists. He, too, is a rebel.”
Esther held her teacup close. Twimball prattled on, but she tuned out his words.
She’d never seen Father so adamant and ardent. It frightened her. How could he turn on the Lightfoots? Their sweat and toil were part of Slathersby Hill.
But Father was her world, and she would not allow any discord with him. Especially after such a long absence. This season was to be her happy homecoming.
Upon her arrival in Charles Town twelve years ago, she was frightened and alone, more than any child deserved to be, and she clung to him with adoration and desperation. He, in turn, wrapped her in his love. She admired no one more.
Until one day she saw Hamilton Lightfoot no longer as the pesky boy from the neighboring farm with whom she caught crawdads in the creek, but as the handsome man with an awkward elegance, an abandoned smile, and vibrant eyes.
“—Miss Esther? Did you hear me?” Twimball angled forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table. “I’m glad we’ve this moment alone. I want to request permission of your father to call upon you.”
“Call upon me?” Esther’s cup rattled against the saucer. “Howkind, Lieutenant. I’m flattered. But I’m just home from a busy season in London. I’m rather weary of being coquettish, batting my eyes from behind a fan. Besides, when this ghastly war has ended, you shall sail for England. My feet, however, are forever planted in South Carolina.”
The lieutenant blanched, rearing back. “You won’t give me a chance? May I ask why? Certainly you have no other attachments.”
“Why, Lieutenant Twimball, are you not more astute to the fairer sex?” Esther wiped her lips with her napkin and gave the solider a coy smile. “A woman never reveals her hand.”
And yes, she had another attachment. There was no suitor in the drawing rooms, salons, or ballrooms of London who compared to him.
Isaac returned with a note in hand. “This came for you, Miss Esther.”
“Thank you, Isaac.” She pressed her pale hand against his dark one. “I’m happy to be home with you, Sassy, and Kitch.”
“As we are to have you here. Slathersby Hill is not the same without you. Your father will never admit it, but he was most depressed during your absence.”
“Then he never should have sent me away.”
Clearing his throat, the lieutenant stood, straightened his jacket, and excused himself. “I must be on my way. I’ll say good day to your father, then be off.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
Isaac cleared away the remaining dishes, and Esther was alone. Holding the note in her lap, she peeled back the folded edges and read four simple words.
Sundown at the willow.
