Maria

By Eugenia Price

The spirited story of Mary Evans, an extraordinary woman from colonial Charles Town who finds a place for herself in St. Augustine after Spain relinquishes Florida.

In this captivating tale, Eugenia Price paints a vivid picture of the tumultuous historic and political events that shaped the life of Mary Evans, a remarkably independent woman in the colonial south. Born in Charles Town, South Carolina, Mary, a skilled midwife, accompanied her first husband, British soldier David Fenwick, when his regiment fought the Spanish in Cuba. When Spain agreed to give all of Florida in exchange for the city of Havana, Mary (who became known as Maria) and her husband were forced to relocate to the new British garrison town of St. Augustine, Florida.

Maria exposes challenges that would unnerve a less resourceful woman, but she made a name for herself—developing and enhancing her position with influential citizens of St. Augustine. Eventually marrying three times, Maria proved herself to be an extraordinary woman, for any day or time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Turner Publishing Company
• Release date: Sep 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781618587039

Eugenia Price

Eugenia Price, a bestselling writer of nonfiction and fiction for more than 30 years, converted to Christianity at the age of 33. Her list of religious writings is long and impressive, and many titles are considered classics of their genre.

Book preview

     IN SPITE OF THE HEAT, PRIDE OF APPEARANCE FORCED MARIA TO wear her husband's military watch cape. The sun in St. Augustine was unremitting. Even the breeze, nearly a wind, sent gusts of heavy heat over her strong, slender body, whipping the folds of the cape as she walked. She could taste the salt air and smell the fishy water of Matanzas Bay.

     All but two of the six petticoats she was allowed to pack in Charles Town more than a year ago had long since been worn out or torn for bandages in Havana during the weeks of fighting against the Spaniards. Maria Evans Fenwick, along with her best friend, Ann Cameron, and the four other Charles Town women permitted to go to war with their British husbands, had shredded their own clothing to dress the wounds of the soldiers they nursed.

     The remaining outer petticoat which she wore now, faded blue and frayed, was ripped all the way up one side—caught on a nail while she was boarding the convoy ship, Renown, the day they sailed from Havana some two weeks ago. Sailing also on the Renown to the strange Florida land were her sick husband, Sergeant David Fenwick, and the other soldiers still too ill from fever or dysentery to care for themselves. The healthy members of four companies of David's British Royal First Regiment of Foot—the Royals—were so pathetically few in number that they could all be transported to St. Augustine in the two small schooners which followed the Renown. Well over half, more from fever than from battle wounds, had died. The mood aboard all three ships had been glum. Britain had won the battle for Havana, but there had been little heart or time to revel in the victory. Only a few, Maria and David among them, had found places to settle in Cuba. Then, early in July of this year, 1763, abrupt orders came for all British soldiers of occupation to abandon Havana and occupy St. Augustine, long the seat of Spanish power in Florida. The reaction was one of shock, disbelief, and resentment. In Paris, far from the scene of battle, an agreement had been made between Spain and England, and the exhausted, dispirited troops were uprooted and shipped out.

     As the Renown had reached the dangerous St. Augustine bar yesterday, not one needle or piece of thread could be found among the six women aboard. Maria's outer petticoat was unmended, and her last bodice was rust-stained and washed so thin that it no longer gave proper support to her full, high breasts. She wore her only shift today, too, because during the long hours of last night, in an attempt to keep cool packs on David's head in the oppressive heat of the old Spanish fort where they were billeted, she had torn up her one extra shift. So, to hide her shabby clothing, she wore his watch cape today. It became her, she knew, and Maria Evans Fenwick had no intention of showing herself a ragamuffin on her first day in St. Augustine.

     On the April morning well over two months ago, when Captain John Hedges had informed the troops in Havana that Cuba, for which the British had fought so hard, was to be traded back to Spain in exchange for Florida, Maria had suspected that David would be sent there with the occupation forces, in spite of his lingering weakness from fever contracted just before the British victory. Too many had died in Cuba for a man obviously recuperating to be discharged.

     To most women, her mission today would be unnerving; a lone British woman hunting a house in a crumbling, foreign town filled with Spanish residents in turmoil because the King of Spain had sacrificed their long-inhabited province in order to regain Cuba. There was no reason to expect favors or kindness from these perplexed, troubled people; still, Maria was not unnerved. She was tired but, by sheer will, she had taken hold of today, and hope was not so hard to come by as it had been on the voyage over. The reason? David, who had filled her horizon since her first sight of him two years ago, seemed a bit more like his old, cheerful self this morning, after a fair night's rest on the wooden sleeping shelf at the fort, where he lay beside the other ill men housed in the makeshift infirmary. Oh, he was thin—thin and pale—and needed the healing rays of the sun to restore color to his cheeks, the strength to his arms, and the laughter to his eyes, but he could walk now, and early this morning she had helped him out onto the fort's ramparts, where their Charles Town friend, Private James Cameron, had promised to see to him.

     Captain John Hedges, in command of the four companies of British soldiers just landed in St. Augustine, had warned Maria that a good vacant property would be hard to find. There were only about three hundred houses, and the Spanish still had eighteen months in which to evacuate the city, according to the terms of the Treaty of Paris; but Captain Hedges had freely given permission to move David from the fort, if she could locate quarters. Hedges even took time to go over a sketchy map with her so that she would have some idea at least where she walked. It would be impossible to get lost, he assured her, since there were only four main north and south streets, bisected by lanes that led to and from the shores of Matanzas Bay on the east. The incredibly small, foreign-feeling town was less than a mile long and only a quarter of a mile wide.

     Maria read anger, bewilderment, and downright terror in the faces of the people who hurried past her. She and David would have to learn to live among these fear-ridden Catholics until the heartless Spanish monarch found a place for his subjects. The thought filled her with both pity and dread. George III, their own benevolent young monarch, would never treat Englishmen in such a heartless manner.

     She paused, leaned against a crumbling garden wall, and emptied sand from her slippers. So far, she had passed only two houses which appeared vacant. Both near the Plaza at the heart of town, but both too large for the Fenwicks' means. The heat was nauseating. She longed for shade, a moment of rest, but she kept walking toward the less barren south end of town, where Ann Cameron, James' wife and Maria's best friend, had said she might find a place more suited to her needs. How Ann knew this, Maria could not imagine, but Ann thrived on relaying news, true or false, and Maria, usually not interested in either gossip or hearsay, needed anything Ann could tell her just now. Her obsession with getting David out of the wretched fort before another night fell would keep her searching, and by now, the location mattered less and less. Yesterday, within an hour after the elaborate state ceremonies held on their arrival, the British command had changed the name of the massive, flaking, dirty-white fort from Castillo de San Marcos to Fort St. Mark, but nothing could change or cleanse the stinking, foul air of the stone-walled infirmary where she and David spent last night.

     Her husband's regiment had been shipped out from the South Carolina colony so soon after their wedding that Maria had wondered if she would ever be alone with him again. After all, most of their one year of married life had been lived in crowded quarters aboard ship. She had had her fill of the hardships and complainings of other people, although back in Charles Town, once David received his orders, there had been no thought but to find a way to go to war with him. Even the heartbreak of leaving her father had not changed that. She had received permission more easily than the other wives because her years of experience as one of Charles Town's leading midwives guaranteed her usefulness to the troops as a nurse. After the fighting ended, there still had been no privacy in Havana. Along with the other married couples, she and David had been billeted in a dank, rat-infested Havana barn. But that was behind them. Here in St. Augustine Maria meant, somehow, to get away from everyone—to be alone with David.

     In the back of her mind was also the determination to persuade David one day to leave the military altogether. This was certainly not the time to bring it up, but his brush with death from fever had been too chillingly close. She could not live without him. Even though her Lutheran father had instilled in her a horror of suicide, when David had been so near death two months ago in Cuba, she had thought of following him. Now she had made up her mind to find a way, once his term of duty ended, of persuading him to become a planter, or perhaps a carpenter like her father, who declared that David could do anything he wanted with his hands. Her own dreams tilted toward life as a planter's wife. There would be British land grants aplenty in the new colony—but all that must wait. A house, a small, reasonable house in fair repair, was the goal of the moment. A house in which they could spend their first night, in a long and bitter year, alone.

     She passed a stand of cabbage palms rattling in the wind, buoyed every step of the way by the cheerful smile David had managed for her this morning—at last. She could handle any hardship so long as he smiled. Now he seemed closer, less the ill, nearly silent stranger she'd nursed all these weeks.

     Maria searched a while along the Bay front, then cut over to what the Spaniards called The Street That Leads to the Land Gate, fairly sure of the name because the narrow thoroughfare passed Government House on the Plaza. Most homes were still occupied and most were in disrepair, the plastered outer walls cracked and weather-stained, the high walls enclosing the gardens, vine-split and decaying. But the town would not look this way for long. St. Augustine was His Majesty's city now. The British flag flew above the newly named Fort St. Mark; Acting Spanish Governor Felieú had turned over the reins of government to Captain Hedges until such time as England sent a governor for Florida. Given time, British proficiency and order would change the drab little foreign city. At present, most of the Spanish garrison appeared to be still here, and the looks on the drawn, hostile faces of the citizens showed them fiercely clinging in these final days to the place where their families had lived for nearly two hundred years. In spite of her British upbringing, she felt a fresh surge of pity toward them, but walked along with her proud, dark head high, her wide shoulders erect, her handsome body swinging gracefully beneath the folds of the watch cape. Dry, dusty, quaint St. Augustine was her city now. She was going to like it and conquer it.

     From the brief stay in Havana, she knew that few Spanish houses had chimneys. On a chill night the Spanish came by what heat they enjoyed huddled about open braziers. Well, if the house she found had no chimney, David could build one. She remembered their first winter's night before a roaring log fire in her father's house in Charles Town just before David had been ordered to Havana. Strange thinking of that now, her back wet with perspiration, her eyes squinting against the glare of white sun. She turned off The Street That Leads to the Land Gate and walked east on what must be St. Francis Street, according to Captain Hedges' directions. In spite of the bulk of the Catholic monastery at the Bay end of the street, she rather liked the quiet, tree-filled neighborhood.

     For a long time she stood looking at a double-storied, balconied house on the opposite side of the street. Too expensive for them now, but certainly they would buy a good house of their own some day—she would see to that. A place even finer than this one, with a walled garden and an orange grove.

     Slowly she crossed a sandy lane, smiling to herself. Thirty-three might seem middle-aged to some. Not to Maria. I'm a young, strong woman, she thought. There will be time for everything—everything I dream of being and doing and having. As David would say, The good gentle folk, the best fairies will see to that, because you are you, love. She found his simple, native faith in his best fairies disarming, but Maria's source of magic was herself.

     Feeling she could not bear the cape a minute longer, she removed it, draped it over her arm and pretended to saunter along nonchalantly with one hand on her hip—in reality, holding together the torn sections of her full outer petticoat. She looked as good as most women she'd passed—better. Except for the uniformed Spanish officials entering and leaving Government House on the Plaza, few citizens appeared at all prosperous. Petticoats and shifts worn by the Spanish women were made of once gaudy colors, but now the clothes were threadbare and faded. Some were filthy; at least, by her standards.

     She did not care for the flat-topped, one-storied Spanish houses and wondered if Spaniards just didn't mind that water stood puddled above their heads on a rainy day. Then she noticed baked clay pipes protruding from the coquina walls near the flat roofs and smiled at her British sense of superiority. Water drained through these pipes, of course. But there was a foreign, unfinished look about the flat-roofed houses which offended her taste, and she hoped limited funds would not force her to settle for one.

     Then she saw it—nestled on the north side of St. Francis Street—in its own small grove of orange and palm trees, as though house and trees had grown together through the years of their lives. Not a large place, only one-storied, but not too small. And with a steep, thatched hip roof. A cottage much like others she had seen in St. Augustine, yet with an air of its own and, wonder of wonders, glazed sash windows! Built of coquina stone plastered over, its plaster was only a little cracked. She knocked and then, on impulse, tried the heavy wooden street door. Locked. She laid one hand on the sheltering garden wall and peered through the spindle gate. The lot was enormous! Surprisingly so for a fairly small, single house. Shade trees clustered close to the building, where Maria could read to David as he dozed, but out beyond the trees was a large weedy garden in which he could putter in the sun. She tried the garden gate. It, too, was locked. A chicken squawked nearby, but the place seemed to be vacant.

     She looked about her. There was not a soul in sight. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she peered again through the gate. A privy and one outbuilding stood at the rear, and a well. The cottage had no chimney, but never mind that for now. In time, they could put on a shingled roof and add a fireplace chimney and maybe another for her kitchen. Maria would hate cooking in a typical Spanish kitchen of the kind she'd seen in Cuba, where the housewife's face and arms were streaked from smoke that refused most days to drift out through holes in the kitchen ceiling.

     Determined to inquire of the first person she met if the house were for sale, she strolled toward the Bay, to the north-south waterfront street, La Marina—Marine Street—at that end of the city. But even if she saw someone, how would she inquire? Would anyone speak English? Fearing robbery, she had not worn her mother's gold watch, but the sun was overhead now, it must be after eleven o'clock. David would be growing restless without her.

     Torn between delight in the St. Francis Street house and anxiety as to how she would ever find out about it, she stood at the corner across from the monastery and looked out over the glistening waters of Matanzas Bay. What houses there were on Marine Street stood only on the leeward side, with a view across the Bay of a rather large island and a watch tower. Most of the Marine Street houses, and there were few, were run-down and deserted. Anyway, she had found the house she wanted. Whatever the interior arrangement of the St. Francis Street cottage, she knew, as a carpenter's daughter knows, that it was well built and could bear additions in the future, even a second story.

     Her mind still on the St. Francis Street cottage, she stepped through the sagging, open gate in the wall of a little flat-topped building on Marine Street and peered into its gaping windows. There were few glazed windows in the whole town. The Spanish were either very poor or very careless, or didn't mind flies. Inside the cramped rooms, she could see large brown bugs similar to those she'd battled in Cuba scurrying over remnants of food. Dried meat scraps littered the filthy floors, and there were half-eaten crusts of bread along the stone counter in the smoke-blackened kitchen. A twisted strand of dried, dusty onions hung from a rafter, and in the shadows of one corner, she could distinguish a pile of old garments. Surely this family had left hurriedly.

     The empty, sorrowful little place repulsed her. She turned to look again at the water. David, in spite of the ugly house, would probably like living here with the view. He had grown up in County Mayo, fishing for brown trout in the wide waters of Lough Mask. She smiled again to herself. For him, if it turned out that they had no other choice, she would work her fingers to the bone to fix up even this little hut. Her impatience grew. Except for a few fagged children shouting Spanish phrases at her from the beach, Marine Street, too, was deserted.

     She crossed the bare yard to the other side of the dilapidated structure to glance in at the remaining two rooms. In the rough plastered walls were deep niches, stripped of their heathen religious figurines. How could one rid any house of such dark superstitions? Maria laughed a little. They could, of course. She and David could do anything.

     Good morning to you, ma'am. She had heard no footsteps, but behind her, a man's soft, whispery voice spoke in English.

     Maria turned to face a somewhat frail gentleman of medium height in a spotless linen waistcoat and shirt and carrying a satchel.

     He doffed his tricorn and bowed. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Jesse Fish, a St. Augustine resident. Anastasia Island, to be exact. He gestured toward the island across the Bay. I was wondering if I might be of assistance.

     As Maria introduced herself and stated her mission, she studied the narrow, sharp-boned face, the penetrating brown, almost black eyes. I didn't realize any British civilians were here yet, she said. I wasn't aware that anyone other than the military had come.

     Fish's smile was thin, but kind. I am English, but I haven't just arrived. It's been my pleasure to live in St. Augustine since 1736. You see, I came as a boy from the New York colony to learn the Spanish language and customs. When I had learned enough—at twenty—I became the official representative of the Walton mercantile firm which had sent me, and have conducted the business ever since.

     Then, you're leaving with the Spanish?

     Not at all. My work goes on. I like my plantation on Anastasia. My company is British. The firm will remain, at least this year, but I intend to stay on.

     Maria frowned. You—you were welcome here all these years with the Spanish? As an Englishman?

     Indeed, yes. His smile was puzzling. Almost too genteel. I can see you think all Spaniards hate all Englishmen. Most do, I believe. But I'll wager you'll learn a bit more about the virtues of accommodation if you remain in St. Augustine. The dark eyes twinkled. Trade makes possible a multitude of accommodations, you know.

     Maria was thinking too hard to respond. She did not feel particularly uncomfortable with this man, and if he'd lived here twenty-seven years, he must know every house in the city. He was a gentleman and he spoke English.

     My husband is recovering from Havana fever, Mr. Fish, she began firmly. I hate the thought of leaving him in that hideous dungeon the Spanish call a fort for another night. It's no fit place for a man in good health. I want to buy a house—now. I have the money.

     Well, I'm afraid it's a mite early. Legal arrangements for sales have not been completed.

     But the governments have already changed hands.

     True, but His Spanish Majesty intends to see to it that his St. Augustine subjects are financially protected. The Royal auditor, Don Josef Elixio de la Puente, will be back from Cuba, I hope, before too long—to handle the sale of the people's properties for them. To see to it that they get fair treatment. If all goes well, I—uh—will be assisting him. A few properties are quite valuable. All are valuable to those forced to evacuate.

     Maria laughed. Not this one. I'd guess no one valued it much. Look at those shutters, ripped right off their hinges.

     And just last night, too, Fish said evenly, but not by the poor family who had to leave. By the newly arrived British soldiers—for firewood at the fort. In one night they seemed intent upon tearing up a good part of our town, in fact. I hate to think what it will look like after they've been here a month!

     Of course, the Spanish government with any show of courtesy would have had wood on hand for our soldiers. For cooking at least. Maria's voice was flat with sarcasm. They've known for a month that we were coming.

     Her manner did not ruffle him. It's been a sudden transition, ma'am, he said. Governor Felieú tried, but all contingencies could not have been anticipated.

     Maria did not like an Englishman speaking in defense of the enemy. But she needed Mr. Fish. Suddenly remembering her torn outer petticoat, she flung the cape around her shoulders and asked in a haughty voice, If we can't buy a house, can we rent one?

     Yes, Fish said. Some are for rent.

     I know the one I want, providing the rental is within reason, she said. It's right around the corner on St. Francis Street. A cottage. Not in what one would call excellent condition, of course. My husband would have to do an enormous amount of work on it. She exaggerated with a clear conscience. After all, it was up to her to strike a suitable bargain.

     Yes, I know the place. But it's in remarkably good condition compared to other St. Augustine houses. It even has paned windows. Just vacated three weeks ago by one of our more careful families, the Gonzáleses, among the first to go. It so happens their property is in my hands to rent for them.

     Maria's growing excitement almost betrayed what she hoped was a cautious, businesslike manner. Surprisingly, she was beginning to feel a strange interest in Jesse Fish, in spite of the fact that he had lived most of his life among the Spanish. Her manner had not intimidated him one bit, and she respected that in anyone. She could feel her heart quicken but said in a controlled voice, Are you certain we're speaking of the same property, Mr. Fish?

     Only one-storied house vacant on St. Francis Street. It's the same one, all right. Thatched hip roof?

     Yes. How much rent?

     He bowed again. For you, a modest fee, ma'am. I'm sure the Gonzáles family would want to rent it to someone who would look after the property.

     I'll take it, Maria blurted. Then she laughed, feeling her face color. I know I should see it first, but my husband is still quite ill—I've been away from him all morning. Would you think me too foolish if I said I want him to see inside it with me the first time?

     He only smiled, but her cool manner had vanished. She was going to rent a house from him. She needed his help now; and if she were to make the right contacts for her profession later on, who was more likely to have them than one so closely connected through his work with both governments? She had tried to be wary of Jesse Fish, but she didn't honestly feel that way.

     She reached into the roomy pocket tied around her waist. How much do I owe you, sir? I must get back to my husband.

     Fish held up a hand. Nothing now, Mrs. Fenwick. It will be my pleasure, if I may, to drop by later this afternoon. You've enough problems to handle, moving a sick husband. He and I can settle then. That is, if he's able.

     I think he's strong enough. I'd like him to meet you. She paused. Do you have any idea what your kindness means to me on my first day here, Mr. Fish?

     Perhaps I do. Perhaps not. By the way, in their haste to flee the British, the Gonzáles family left their furniture in place. Took only their clothing and religious treasures.

     Her heart leaped. The house is furnished?

     I am to dispose of the furnishings, too, should you like them.

     Whether I like them or not, I need them!

     Of course, you'll find the place a bit dusty, but Tomás Gonzáles took care of his home. It would require but a few minutes to show you the house now.

     No. No, thank you. I know I want it and I must go. I'll have to arrange for rations. Oh, and transportation. You see, Sergeant Fenwick isn't strong enough to walk all this way. I'll have to find horses or a cart—some means of getting him here. But would you be kind enough to unlock the house on your way past? She laughed at herself. I'm thinking of things in bunches, am I not?

     I doubt it would be safe to leave it unlocked, with the British troops in town. He reached into the satchel and handed her a heavy key. Wouldn't you like to have your husband unlock your new front door for the first time?

     Maria held the key, beaming, for some reason not at all embarrassed to show emotion with this stranger. I—I wouldn't have believed a businessman such as you would also be a romantic, Mr. Fish. Thank you.

     I know at least what it is to be lonely, he said, his voice still even. I have no one. Then, I'm sure I can help you with the problem of getting your husband here, too.

     Maria could only stare at him.

     One of the eight Spaniards chosen to stay on—my longtime, trusted friend, Don Luciano de Herrera—should be back in the city by now and with some Spanish horses he's been commissioned to round up—to sell, if possible, to the British.

     But—I don't want to have to buy a horse, sir!

     I wasn't thinking of you doing so . . . Captain Hedges should know of Luciano's whereabouts. When you find him, tell him I said to rent you two good mounts for your ride down here.

     When she had thanked Fish warmly again and watched him walk away around the corner out of sight, Maria hurried up Marine Street in the direction of the fort. She ran halfway to the Plaza, and then, dizzy from the heat, she made herself slow to a rapid walk; then, with effort, to a measured stride. She needed time to think.

     FOR ALL THE YEARS OF HER LIFE, EVEN AS A CHILD, SOMETHING HAD forced Maria to stop and test whatever made her sad or afraid, or even extremely glad. She was glad now, excited, and in spite of her eagerness to tell David about the house, she felt the need to test her own inner responses to what she'd done.

     Ever since her mother's death when she was eight, especially because of the added responsibilities of her childhood, she had fled at certain times—happy or solemn or frightening times—down, down into the deep and private place within her. A place which to her young mind—indeed, to her adult mind now, in the heat of the strange Florida city—was a safe and sheltered refuge, a garden all her own, shadowy and green. No flowers bloomed in her secret garden; only thick-layered greens grew there, bright and dark—soft moss and fern, green leaves and tangled vines, embracing cheerful, hidden glooms where she could withdraw and think. A place where the very roots of her being reached for an awareness beyond explanation, her inner garden had been the sheltered source of her strength even during the horror in Havana when she thought David might die. She needed that strength now.

     She needed it for the painful, perhaps even dangerous task of moving her husband in this strangling heat, she told herself as Maria Evans—not Maria Fenwick. It gave her immense joy to share David's surname, but when she paused to retreat to her innermost being, as now, she still thought of herself—especially to command her own attention—as Maria Evans. At the moment, her attention kept wandering to David. Was he all right? Had James Cameron helped him back inside, out of the hot sun, as he'd promised? She was turning and reaching toward her green and secret place for some assurance that she'd done the right thing by renting a house sight unseen from a stranger, but her concentration was broken into by thoughts of the man she loved more than her own life. In these thoughts, she seemed to be experiencing a renewal of the freeing sense of adventure which had begun upon her first sight of Sergeant David Fenwick that rainy summer afternoon two years ago, when he had arrived to take up quarters in her father's workshop to the rear of their Queen Street home in Charles Town. From the start, even before she'd met David, an unfamiliar recklessness had possessed her.

     I dread his coming, daughter, Richard Evans had said in his quiet, solemn way. I don't intend to behave in the disloyal fashion of those New York colonists, refusing to billet soldiers on their property, but even without your mother, Maria, I've found a kind of happiness here in our house with you. I pray this Sergeant Fenwick will turn out to be a gentleman. At least, one we can tolerate.

     Ever since that terrible July day in 1738 when her mother had died in the smallpox epidemic, just past her own eighth birthday, Maria had been comforting her father. As to whether billeting a soldier would be tolerable, she had only laughed at his anxiety. We think alike, Papa, but not always. I don't dread the sergeant's coming one bit. The man can't be out fighting the Cherokees all the time. He'll be a help to you. That's part of the bargain, you know. Any soldier billeted on the property of a Charles Town citizen works. We'll do fine—or he'll get a sharp piece of my mind.

     Maria had been away on an errand when David Fenwick got there, and all of life had changed the instant she entered the tiny, paneled parlor of the Queen Street house, her shopping basket on her arm, and found her father and the sergeant deep in conversation. Right now, in her mind's eye she could see him as he had been at that moment—lithe, vital, golden. She had never been able to remember that her father had introduced them. He had, of course, but when the beautiful young man sprang to his feet smiling, the shadowy house had filled so suddenly with his light that Maria, all but blinded by it, could only stand and look—aware instantly that she wanted this man's arms around her.

     Are you sure I even acknowledged Papa's introduction, David? she had asked a hundred times since. I'm seldom at a loss for words. I was at that moment, wasn't I?

     And how would I be knowing what you said, love? David inevitably replied, always as eager as she to relive that first shining moment. Wasn't I as love-struck as you? And have I ever recovered? I have not. I never shall. I shudder, my Maria, to think you might not have fallen as much in love with me on that first sight as I with you.

     And then, for all the months of their married life, until his sickness from the fever in Havana, she would often do exactly what she had longed to do on their first meeting—rush into those strong arms to be held and reassured. He still loved her the same, even in his weakness, and with care, he would be well again—perhaps soon, as his smile this morning had seemed to tell her. The pale, drawn face would glow again under the crown of tawny curls, and the green eyes would laugh as the two of them sat together in their rented house, touching, talking, dreaming, wondering aloud about poor Papa alone back in Charles Town. David and Papa had developed a mutual attachment as close as a devoted daughter could wish. She could never have endured the agony of leaving Papa for any man on earth but David Fenwick.

     Distantly related to the prominent English Fenwicks of Charles Town, his great-grandfather had, for love of an Irish girl, left England for the wide valleys and blue-green hills of County Mayo in Ireland. David's speech and ways and sense of play were still more Irish than English. Maria was captivated by his light brogue and relished his unfailing humor. She laughed again and again at the same reharsal of a rale oul' tale when the lilting voice dipped into the magic of a deep country accent to spin a story that, he vowed, matched the most skillful Irish shanachie reciting before a charmed audience in a wake house, or on the banks of a lough in summer.

     Maria had not been his only charmed audience. Her father, too, listened to David's tales, had laughed the freest laugh that she could remember in all the years since her mother died. It had seemed yet another tragedy for the aging, kindly man to lose the companionship of both his daughter and his newfound son. But Richard Evans had borne the loss more bravely than had either Maria or David. Often during one of David's spells from the fever, memories of her father's loneliness would stab him until, as the fever soared, he sobbed from weakness. She had cradled his head in her arms in her effort to soothe him. She kept up her own spirits on the voyage to St. Augustine by assuring David that, now that they were to live in a British colony nearer to South Carolina, Richard Evans would surely join them. She found solace in the thought, but always with reservation. She knew how much her father loved every foot of timber in the Queen Street house which he had built for her mother with his own skillful hands, how firmly memories held him there.

     Eager as she was to get back to the fort to tell David, as excited as she was about her blind transaction with Jesse Fish, she closed her eyes for a painful moment against the thought of her father living alone day after empty day, cooking his own meals in characteristic, uncomplaining silence.

     For all of her thirty-three years, Maria had adored her father, and since her mother's death had devoted her enormous energy to a continuing, untiring effort to assuage his loneliness. She had been contented, even stimulated, as a single woman pursuing her chosen profession as midwife, happier caring for her father, she knew, than were many of her friends with husbands.

     Maria's high spirits were her mother's, but her mind worked with her father's thoughtful deliberation. Physically vigorous and striking, outwardly she was her mother's child—the deep-set violet eyes, the straight nose; she held her head in the same proud manner—but inside she was her father's daughter, independent in judgment and determined to succeed at whatever she undertook. That confident determination had been enough to keep her happy until David Fenwick changed everything. He had come into her life loving her as she loved him, and now, in St. Augustine, a whole new world would open.

     She walked faster. David was stronger today. The nightmare in Havana was behind them. She was free to plan again and dream. The only woman in all the world who can dream practical dreams, David once teased. Soon he would feel up to teasing her again. One fine day he would be full of laughter, and his arms would grow hard and able to hold her. She would work at her profession and make a name for herself, and David could be proud of her when they were once more in decent English society.

     In a year of married life, Maria had shown no sign of giving him a child. It haunted her at times, but her way was to put the whole thought aside by seeing to it that, until she did have a child, David would find her enough.

     She was aware of her professional accomplishments and of her good fortune in having a husband who praised them freely. Her growing stature as one of Charles Town's most sought-after midwives had in no way threatened this happy-natured man. At thirty-four, he was content to be nothing grander than a good soldier—a sergeant able to command the respect of his men—and to leave ambition to Maria. As loyal as he was to his regiment, David's profession was living. He had taught her, an only child, how to play at nearly everything they undertook, and Maria found it all good. Not that she believed—as David swore he did—in all the antics of David's gentle folk, the wee red men—Lochrie Men, a little taller than leprechauns, whose long beards glow in the dark. The certain earth remained under Maria's feet, but she had learned to pretend, and the enchantment and vitality David brought to her added light to her days, a light she meant never to let grow dim.

     David seemed equally captivated by her common sense and ambition. During the rough voyage from Havana, on one of his better days, he had even suggested her urging talkative Ann Cameron to spread the word that Maria's skills as a midwife would now be available to the British women who would surely accompany their husbands to the new English colony of Florida once the Spanish left. It would take little urging. Ann's favorite pastime was any endeavor that involved word of mouth.

     In her own opinion, Maria was far above average where her profession was concerned. It had been necessary for her to learn patience with nature, to be sure, and she prided herself on knowing when and when not to force a birth. The learning had not been easy, but she had studied every available book, had gone often as a young girl to assist one of Charles Town's aging black midwives, and knew that, more than most, she used her mind as well as her hands. She considered herself a female physician, born to the work. A new city offered new stimulus. What she had not yet learned, she would master here.

     Past the Plaza on her way back to the fort, Maria carried herself so lightly and her expectations were so heady that she unconsciously smiled into the anxious faces of the Spanish people who hurried in and out of their ramshackle houses. She could see signs that a few more families were already packing. She wanted the hapless Spanish people out of the city for good, yet her pity for them as she walked along was real.

     Back in respectable, protestant Charles Town, she had been taught, as had all her friends, to fear Spanish Catholics who lived on the Florida land next to the new colony of Georgia—land His British Majesty needed for the protection of his other colonies. She had lived most of her life with a vague fear of a Spanish attack on Charles Town. Until today, she supposed, she hadn't even thought of Spaniards as human beings; she knew only that Spain and Spaniards had struggled to hold on to the province of Florida against many attempted invasions earlier in the century from the colonies of both Georgia and South Carolina. But today she saw the Spaniards as people like herself and David and Papa; and people, in her opinion, never really have a hand in the doings of any government. Men and women and children of all countries simply believed, because they had been taught to believe, that their monarch was benevolent and had their best interests at heart. Spaniards were pawns, obviously, of an evil king.

     Amazed and rather pleased, she realized that she had enjoyed her search in the strange foreign city; that she'd even enjoyed being alone again after such a long period of nursing the ill and wounded. There had been an unexpected relief in being by herself where no one knew her. Because she was the most capable nurse of the lot, according to the regimental surgeon, for more than six months since she and David had waved goodbye to her father at the Charles Town wharf, she'd known precious few minutes alone. Perhaps, now that David was better and the fighting over, she would once more find time to explore the varied levels of her own inner world, the green deeps of the familiar place where her own true intent came unmistakably clear. Even David could not penetrate—did not know about—this mystery of her secret self. This place of utter certainty. No one was there except Maria Evans, when she could quiet herself enough. She supposed her father would call what she did at these times praying. To her, it was taking depth soundings which confirmed or refuted impulsive decisions such as the one just made—to have rented a house she had never seen inside, for a rental she had not settled—to be calm about the intuitive feeling of trust and affinity she felt for the gentle, enigmatic Englishman, Jesse Fish.

     She crossed the drawbridge over the sluggish moat at the fort. No doubts gave her pause; she'd done the right thing, no matter how daring. Mr. Fish was going to be trustworthy. He had to be.

     THE STENCH FROM THE FORT'S STONE-FLOORED NECESARIAS, CLEANED only by