Say what he will, but he loved her. He could not convince her otherwise.
Esther paced before the library windows, watching the road, hoping, praying, wondering if today she’d hear of Hamilton’s wellbeing. Was he even alive?
Kitch ran across the yard toward the veranda and she steeled herself, calmly leaving the library just as Father entered, drawn and tense. The ease and cheer of Christmas had well passed.
“What is it?” Esther said to Father while nodding to Kitch when he appeared in the doorway. He flashed a short note and slipped it under the vase by the door.
“Lord Whatham fears defeat.” Father dropped down at his desk. “He is frantic over his accounts.”
“Then you must reassure him. You are his trusted agent.” Esther kissed his cheek. “You must take care of yourself. Remember Dr. Rocourt’s warning against stress. You do not want another incident.”
“I am healthy as a horse. Now leave me be.” Father hovered over his stack of letters.
He was not healthy as a horse. He was pale and weak, coughing at all hours. He went to bed late only to rise early.
During New Year’s festivities, when Father was merry with wine, Esther inquired about the Christmas Day exchange with Hamilton, but he laughed, putting her off.
“Do not worry yourself, Esther.”
She’d sided with her father that day, and as the weeks passed, she began to fear she’d alienated Hamilton beyond reconciliation.
“If you don’t slow down I’m going to call for Dr. Rocourt.” Esther made her way toward the vase, eyeing the edge of the note. “What are Lord Whatham’s fears about the war? Surely once peace is reached, we can resume normal living. Wouldn’t that be a delight? We should throw a ball, Father. Like the ones we attended in Charles Town.”
“A ball?” Father glanced up from his correspondence. “What’s this about a ball? As for Lord Whatham, he fears the new American government will confiscate his land. Take his holdings.” He held up the letter he’d just read. “Your mother writes—”
“Another love letter to you?” Esther coyly slipped the note into her pocket.
Father frowned. “She begs me to send you home to Grosvenor Square. She misses you. Above all, she fears for your safety. She reads too much about the war.”
“Does she not worry for your safety as well?”
Father turned back to his desk, his shoulders rounded with the weight of care. “She understands my duty is here, seeing to Lord Whatham’s interests. Blasted rebels. And that Lightfoot. I can only hope he has met his doom.”
“Father! You cannot mean it.”
“Indeed, I do.” He muttered, speaking to the dark wood of his desk. “... needed that land... did what I had to do...” His back and, at least for the moment, his heart were against Esther.
“I’ll pray you find your Christian charity toward the Lightfoots. And forgive any dispute over Quill Farm. If indeed there is any at all.”
Sassy entered with a tray, casting a slight glance toward Esther. “Your tea, Sir Michael.”
“Thank you, Sassy.” Father opened another letter. “Did you bake your fine cakes?”
“Just the way you like them.”
“Esther, will you pour? Let’s forget about wars and land disputes for now.”
“Of course.” Esther moved to the sideboard with a glance at the departing Sassy. What was in the note Kitch left? By his stealthy actions, it had to be from or about Hamilton. Sassy’s expression warned her the news may not be good.
“Oh, my buckle has come undone.” Esther bent down to her shoes, taking the note from her pocket. Her back to Father, she unfolded the thick paper, hands trembling.
Wounded. Billeted at the surgeon’s. Dr. Nelson. Green River Road.
She exhaled, closing her eyes. He was alive. Wounded, but alive. Smiling, she tucked the note back into her pocket.
She poured Father’s tea and joined him on the divan, nodding as he talked of spring planting, his mood a bit more lively than moments ago. She masked her emotions with an adoring smile. The man she loved lay wounded in a surgeon’s home nearly a hundred miles away.
While Father talked, she devised a plan. One she would execute without delay.
