“Sir Michael!” Hamilton, in his buckskins, his dark hair flowing about his face, filled the entryway. A fire lit his eyes.
“Hamilton,” Esther whispered, starting toward him. Father held her back.
“You are trespassing, Lightfoot. Get out of my home. I’ll give you the benefit of the season and not ask one of these loyal Englishmen to thrash you.”
Hamilton raised a crumpled scroll. “What have you done? Robbed a widow? Stolen what was rightfully hers?”
Father turned to his guests. “Please, go on into the dining room. I’ll be along. This young lad apparently has misinformation.”
The guests hesitated, especially the British officers, then gradually moved on.
“You too, Esther,” Father said with a gentle push against her back.
“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind.” Hamilton. Were she not mindful of their guests, she’d run into his arms. At last, he was here. Angry or not.
Since rebuffing her the day he returned from King’s Mountain, the day she washed his hair, he’d become all but invisible to her.
He refused her invitation to meet at the willow. Then when she rode Gulliver over to Quill Farm to call him out, he’d already marched off with the Upper Ninety Six.
“Give us back our farm, Sir Michael. Or I’ll—”
“What? Burn me down? I’ve a room full of British officers with a battalion of men at the ready. Your threats mean nothing.”
“You lied to Aunt Mary. Asking her to sign a document that would protect her and the farm. But it was all a lie. You took advantage of her grief and sorrow.”
“It was merely business. While I used less-than-normal tactics on your aunt, I satisfied the expectations of my employer, Lord Whatham. To whom the land belonged in the first place.”
“Then you must pay her for it. Three hundred pounds, not a cent less.”
“I will not waste good capital acquiring land I now own.”
“What did you do?” Hamilton headed toward Father with a snarl. “Squander Lord Whatham’s money on your own pleasures? Perhaps a mistress in Charles Town?”
Esther gasped as Father flared, his face beaming. “How dare you! Get out of my house at once. Leave. Now.”
“Father, please, I’m sure Hamilton didn’t mean—”
“What do you know of this? Have you been consorting withhim behind my back?” His eyes bulged with white ire. “Are you loyal to this heathen over me?”
“Father, no.” Esther lowered her voice. By the lack of conversation in the dining room, she knew they must all be listening. “Please, I’m merely concerned for your health. But did you take Mrs. Lightfoot’s land?” Father was a demanding man, to be sure, but he was also a fair man.
“I did what I had to do.” Father coughed, pressing his hand to his heart, then doubled over, gasping, at last dropping to one knee.
“Sir Michael!” Hamilton knelt beside him as several men rushed from the dining room into the foyer. “Esther, call for Dr. Rocourt. Didn’t I see him among your guests?”
“Take him to his library,” Esther said. “Dr. Rocourt, Father is in need of you.”
When Father was settled with Dr. Rocourt tending him, Esther exited with Hamilton.
“He’s going to be all right, Esther.”
“He has to be. He must be.” She pressed her hand over her heart. “I cannot imagine a world without him.”
“My apologies for interrupting your evening. But I could not contain myself once I heard.”
“Is it true? Father swindled the land from your aunt?”
“Yes.”
