“Once Grandma started to get better, Grandpa volunteered to help dig fortifications east of the city. They say it’s the most likely place for a British attack,” Molly said. “General Sam Smith is in charge of the city’s defense, and he called for every man who had a pick, a shovel, or a wheelbarrow to start digging earthworks on Hampstead Hill.”
“Working together to defend the city is promising,” Richard said. “Not like in Washington.”
“I hope you’re right. Most of us have nowhere else to go,” Molly said soberly.
“What about Trey? Is he also out digging?” Callie asked.
“He’s joined a Maryland militia regiment and is drilling with them,” Molly said, her voice flat.
Callie gasped. “He’s only fourteen!”
“Almost fifteen, tall for his age, and he knows how to handle firearms. He’s not the youngest to enlist.” Molly turned her hands up in a gesture of helplessness. “How could I stop him?”
“You couldn’t have,” Callie said, not wanting Molly to feel guilty. “I don’t know if I could have, either. He’s a stubborn lad, your brother.”
“And of an age where boys are anxious to become men,” Richard said quietly. “Joining the militia doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll be sent into battle; it’s too soon to know. But his willingness to defend his family and home is admirable.”
“I keep telling myself that,” Molly said, her smile crooked. “What happened to you, Miss Callista? Why was our home burned down when they say most houses in Washington were spared?”
“Pure bad luck.” Callie gave a succinct explanation about the snipers, the shooting, and the fire.
Molly bit her lip. “Everything is gone? My clothes and my room?”
“I’m afraid so,” Callie said gently. Molly loved pretty things and had worked hard sewing her gowns and decorating her bedchamber. She’d thought she would be returning to them. “I was dragged out by some soldiers so I escaped the fire, but”—her gaze went to Richard—“if my friend here hadn’t come when he did, it would have been very bad.”
Molly was not a sheltered innocent, and she could guess at what might have happened. Horrified, she exclaimed, “You’re all right? You weren’t hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Callie smiled reassuringly. “My knight on a white horse rode to the rescue in the nick of time. Very like the Gothic stories you enjoy.”
“Thankyou!” Molly said to Richard. She looked like she wanted to kiss him, but she refrained. “Would you like to see Grandma? She might be awake by now.”
Callie jumped to her feet. “The sooner the better!”
Molly locked the front door, then led the way from the office to a staircase in the adjoining corridor. There were a lot of steps since two floors of storage space separated the ground floor from the living quarters. As they climbed, the close air became stifling.
Callie hadn’t seen the upstairs apartment on her previous visit to the warehouse, only heard it mentioned, so she didn’t know what to expect. She vaguely recalled hearing that there was a sitting area and a pair of bedrooms, but some of the space was used for storage when the warehouse was too full.
The door at the top of the stairs opened into a long, narrow area that extended the length of the warehouse, though the available space was diminished by a cluster of massive barrels. A faint, not unpleasant scent of tobacco permeated the air.
The apartment was crude, with worn furnishings and walls of rough planks. But a sitting area had been set up with chairs and a high-backed bench arranged around a worn rag rug, and windows in front and back allowed ample light.
The two bedrooms were carved from the back of the space and jutted into the main area with a primitive kitchen in between. The sitting area in front had a door leading to a strip of flat roof that had been turned into a balcony with a view over the harbor. Callie glanced out, then away as her imagination produced nightmare images of Royal Navy warships sailing in to occupy a shattered city. “Sarah is in one of the bedrooms?”
“Yes, the one on the right.” Molly gestured.
The door to the bedroom was open. The window at the back had been raised so there was a bit of a breeze, though not enough to freshen the stale air and lingering scent of illness. It was a far cry from their luxurious home in Washington.
Sarah lay on a straw mattress on a simply constructed bed, her eyes closed and her face drawn. Her nightgown and the light coverlet over her were damp and wrinkled and she looked frighteningly fragile. Chest tight, Callie knelt beside her. “Sarah, are you awake?” she whispered. “I’m here, safe and sound.”
Sarah’s eyes fluttered open and she gave a sweet, tired smile. “Miss Callista! I knew you must be all right. You’re like a cat with extra lives.” She tried to lift a hand, but it wavered until Callie caught it. Her friend’s bones felt frail.
“You must be going mad lying here,” Callie said affectionately. “At home you’re never still.”
Her friend made a face. “I surely am tired of this room. But when Josh gets home tonight he’ll take me out to the balcony for a bit of fresh air, and in a day or two I’ll be able to walk around again.”
A soft male voice said, “Would you like me to carry you out to the balcony now? It’s cooler there and the view is better.”
Wary of a strange man, Sarah jerked her attention to Richard, who stood in the doorway. He had the ability to look both elegant and self-effacing.
