“You ask the impossible.”
“Why impossible? Come now, Father, confess. Have you mishandled Lord Whatham’s accounts? I see you despairing over your ledgers.” Esther leaned into her father’s expansive shadow. “So to protect your name, you steal from a widow and now a cripple?”
“Your impertinence does you no credit, Esther. You are not winning my favor.”
“Your favor? What of mine, Father? Do you care to win mine?”
A light cracked through the darkness, falling across the porch boards. Mrs. Lightfoot stepped onto the porch.
“Are you discussing my nephew?”
“Mary, talk sense into her. Advise her to return home where she belongs. Hamilton will not propose to her now. Not with his future so unsure.”
“Since we now rent the farm instead of owning it?” Mrs. Lightfoot placed her hand on Esther’s shoulder. “But your father is right. Though it pains me to agree with him. Now that I am apprised of Hamilton’s wounds, I can say with sincerity he would not like you to see him in his present situation. He prefers his dignity over humiliation. You know it to be true. In fact, did he not put you off after King’s Mountain?”
“What’s this?” Father said. Esther closed her eyes. Mrs. Lightfoot just handed him the ammunition he lacked.
“Yes, he put me off, but he was battle weary. Wounded. Ashamed of something he considered but did not do against the American Loyalists.”
“The murdering?”
“He didn’t murder, Father. He lowered his blade.”
“Well, if he was ashamed then, what must he be now?”
Mrs. Lightfoot moved to stand with Father. “Take your disappointment and go, my dear. I know Hamilton. He will not marry you now.”
“I do not believe you. Has he told you so?” Esther backed away from the consortium of Father and Mrs. Lightfoot. “I will go only if he speaks for himself.”
“He’s barely aware of his surroundings. He cannot speak for himself.” Mrs. Lightfoot seemed well versed in her arguments. “Go, he’d not want to see what he’s become in your eyes.”
“But I’ve already seen him.”
“He doesn’t have to know.”
“Butwhathas he become in my eyes? A hero! Nothing has changed for me. Nothing at all.”
“My dear, stubborn daughter, you are full of zeal and zero wisdom. Listen to Mrs. Lightfoot—she is right. Say your good-byes and return with me to Slathersby Hill. We’ve a long journey ahead.”
“I cannot. I will not.”
“Esther, you are not wanted or needed here.” Mrs. Lightfoot’s tone, low and driving, echoed over a distant memory. Mother. Complaining to Grandmama.
“She’s so flighty. I cannot manage her. I’m sending her to Michael. Let him bear the burden for a while.”
Burden. Underfoot. Not wanted or needed. Esther spun between Father and Mrs. Lightfoot.
“Surely I can be of some use. To Mrs. Nelson. To Hamilton—”
“He does not need you, dear.” Mrs. Lightfoot wielded her words like a sword. Sharp and cutting. “I can tend to him. You’ll only be in the way, another mouth to feed.”
But she’d been the one to bring food and blankets, supplies. Wasn’t she a good girl? A generous girl?
“Mary’s right. This is no place for you, Esther. Come home with me.”
She’d lost her breath. Her strength and will. When Fathertouched her elbow, steering her toward the carriage, she moved without resistance. Once again, she was ten years old with no control or say over her life.
But as she arrived at the carriage and Kitch jumped to open her door, she pulled away, her senses coming around.
