“He must be married by now.” She tucked the heavy books under her arm, her heart thumping. He’d last written seven, no eight months ago. Plenty of time to fall for a local girl. Perhaps that’s why he ended what little correspondence existed between them.
A man like Hamilton Lightfoot needed a wife. And what up-country girl did not set her cap for him? More than handsome with his dark hair and crystal-blue eyes, he was kind and well spoken, a defender of the downtrodden and weak. Strong and strapping, a bit of a brooder, he concealed some darkness in his own soul.
“Married? Mr. Hamilton? Not to my recollection.” Sassy lifted a red, silk gown from the trunk. “Well now, ain’t this a pretty thing?”
Esther watched as Sassy held the party frock against her lean frame. Catching Esther’s gaze, Sassy quickly moved toward the armoire, her head lowered.
“Bet you were the belle of every ball in this here dress.”
“The red is beautiful against your skin, Sassy. You can have it.”
Sassy paused, the gown gathered in her hands. “Come again, miss?” She slowly turned.
“Please, take it for yourself. I insist.” Esther smiled with a nod. “It’s too tight for me. Mother claims I dined on too many chocolates while in London. We had to let out my stays, and the dresses from my first season no longer fit. ’Tis yours, Sassy. The dress will be beautiful on you.”
“And where am I to wear such a fine gown? To church? Thefloors are dirt and the hardwood benches full of splinters. This fine silk would be pricked and pulled.”
“Sit on a blanket then.” Esther shifted the books from one arm to the other. “Better yet, wear it Sunday afternoon as you sit on the front porch.”
Father gave the servants a whole Sabbath to rest and reflect. He’d purchased Sassy, her husband, Isaac, and their fourteen-year-old son, also named Isaac but affectionately called Kitch, from a man down Charles Town way who aimed to separate them.
Lord Whatham, a strict abolitionist, discouraged Father from owning another human being. An admonition with which Father agreed. Besides, the upcountry had little need for slaves, but Father could not bear to see Isaac, Sassy, and Kitch torn apart.
Isaac, acting as a foreman, was Father’s right hand these days, helping him tend to Lord Whatham’s interests—the farm, the trading post, and hunting and trapping ventures.
Besides hoping for a glimpse of Hamilton, Esther sensed a tension in the air tainting her homecoming. The war had moved to the South since she’d been away. The London papers touted tales of the wicked Whigs and the American rebels. But surely the might and power of the British army would crush the rebellion any day.
Father had written that Ninety Six remained loyal to the Crown. But on her way home she’d seen a band of buckskin-clad American militia training with the Continentals.
Once again Sassy inquired about the dress. “Are you sure you won’t be wanting this, Miss Esther?” But she’d already set the dress aside.
“Quite sure.” Esther lowered her voice. “My bosoms float over the top of the lace, and Father would never stand for it.”
“Perhaps, but I bet Mr. Hamilton would.” Sassy’s bold laugh filled the room.
“Sassy!”
“Come now, I’ve seen you gaze out that window for him. But never you mind, he’ll be along. Go on down to breakfast. Yourfather is waiting. And I do thank you kindly for the gown. I’ve never had anything so fancy.”
“For that, Sassy, I am most sorry.”
“Ah, the good Lord looks after me. For tonight’s dinner, I’ll bake you a pie. You can count on it. I’ve got dried apples and cherries.”
Esther descended the broad, grand staircase and entered the dining room, finding Father breakfasting with Lieutenant Twimball, a member of His Majesty’s army.
Isaac greeted her with a nod, holding out her chair. “Tea and biscuits, miss?”
“Yes, thank you, Isaac.” Esther set the books on the edge of the long, polished table. “I thought you’d enjoy these, Father. The latest English dictionary andThe Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire. They say a second volume is due for publication soon.”
“My darling daughter, you know how to please your pa.” Father beamed, reaching for the books, his linen napkin tucked into his waistcoat. “Lieutenant Twimball tells me you had a rough journey from England.”
Twimball, a rather puckish-looking man who regarded himself with the utmost personal esteem, had met her packet in the Charles Town harbor. He was to collect and organize fresh troops from London yet insisted she wait for him to escort her home, despite the fact Isaac and Kitch attended her.
He seemed rather keen on courting her. A notion she found repugnant.
“’Twas rough. Let me inform you now, Father. That was my last voyage for a very long while, if ever. I detest the high seas.” The very thought made her shudder.
Father laughed with a glance at Twimball. “Now you see why I sent her home. She was in need of refinement. I see her mother had no more success than I.”
