“I wish you well, my friends,” Hamilton said.
Though they’d gone, the kitchen echoed with their words. Uncle Laurence moved toward the parlor while Aunt Mary busied herself with washing dishes.
“Fear is an unkind master, Hamilton,” she said, turning to him, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Indeed it is. But it’s not the fear of fighting that has me bound.” He flipped his hat from the hook by the door. “Thank you for supper, Aunt. Now, I’ve something to attend.”
“If not fear, then what is your hesitation?” Uncle Laurence called after him, but Hamilton continued on his way.
Uncle Laurence was his father’s younger brother. He and Mary had taken Hamilton in when a redcoat’s bayonet and a housefire orphaned him.
Childless, Uncle Laurence and Aunt Mary loved him like a son. And he was grateful.
“Hamilton.” Uncle Laurence waddled after him, leaning heavily on his stick. “What is your hesitation? Death?”
“I don’t fear dying.” He paused by the well for a ladle of water. “Some days I think I’d welcome it. But if I give my life on the battlefield, who will care for you and Aunt Mary? Who will do the heavy lifting on the farm?”
And his unspoken question—what of Esther? Hamilton glanced toward the fading golden light on the horizon. He must be off.
“’Tis all? Just your aunt and me?”
“Yes.” No. There was his true trepidation. That once he’d fired the first shot, he wouldn’t stop until every man in His Majesty’s army had tasted his own blood.
“Then why do I sense you are still carrying a grudge? The Lord commands us to forgive.”
“Every day, Uncle Laurence. Every day.” He backed down the hill toward the edge of Quill Farm, toward the path to the willow tree.
“He’d want you to join, you know,” Uncle Laurence called after him. “Your pa. He’d be proud. Gave his own life for the Cause, as you know.”
Pa. The image of his father’s sharp eyes under bushy eyebrows stirred a longing in Hamilton. “Good night, Uncle.” He refused to carry on the debate. This war would just have to pass without him.
“Where are you off to now?” Uncle Laurence stepped toward him. “To see a young beauty returned from England?”
“Which beauty might that be?”
“Careful, son, she’s been presented to society and in court. She will not be the young lass who ran the hills with you in the summer. Guard your heart.”
Guard his heart? He’d done nothing but, since arriving in South Carolina. For once, he wanted to let go, be free, love!
War? He had no appetite for it. But love? He’d hungered for nothing else since the day Esther wrote she was sailing home.
CHLOE
Stepping from the bridal party limo, she made her way inside the Greystone Mansion, passing through the foyer, over the classic, marble black-and-white checkerboard floor to the outside courtyard, her pink stiletto heels dangling from her fingers.
Violet and Dylan’s wedding had been exquisite, overflowing with love and romance. And it made Chloe ache.
But love did not seem to ache for her.
Her teen romance with Chris Painter ended when he confessed to a magazine, “I’ve not met the love of my life yet, no... I’m only nineteen!”
She started dating actor Clark Davis two years later when he showed up at her twenty-first birthday. He perpetually cheated on her during their first and only year.
After Clark, came musician Finley Farmer, who was a great guy but still in love with his ex.
Last but not least, the hunky, egotistical actor Haden Stuart. An on-set romance that flamed into a quick and hot relationship.
Chloe entered the reception patio and descended the low, stone staircase to the outdoor reception where the golden aura of candles, sconces, and outdoor patio lamps accented dozens of white and gold tables. Overhead, a million stars gazed down from the Beverly Hills sky.
