The Miniature

By Wayne M. Hoy

From the moment Jonathan Whitman first glimpsed the portrait of the beautiful Catherine Rowland, painted in miniature and set within a golden locket, he was hopelessly in love. And when he stumbled across the young woman's brother, Phillip, lying bleeding and left for dead in the sodden English countryside, he had no idea the dramatic change his life would undergo. Jonathan, a tailor's apprentice, and Molly Hoskins, the tailor's daughter, hide Phillip until he is strong enough to travel to the coast and set sail with his family to their home in Boston. Once again Jonathan saves Phillip's life, only to find his too is in grave danger and he is forced to join the Rowlands on their voyage to Boston with the promise of a new life in the American Colonies.

But life in the Americas is fraught with its own perils as Jonathan and the Rowlands are faced with the threat of the untamed wilderness and swept up into the fight for freedom from England's tyrannical rule. Determined to prove his worth, Jonathan accompanies a party of surveyors only to fall victim to ambush by a vicious outlaw and his band of renegade Indians. Unbeknownst to all Jonathan escapes with his life, and smarting from his perceived betrayal he decides to remain with the Indians he comes to love. He is no longer a boy, but a changed man who emerges some time later, respected in his own right and walking among the Indians as one of their own. Until the hated outlaw once again brings tragedy to his life and Jonathan vows to avenge the man who, for the second time, took from him all that he once held dear.

Then Jonathan learns that Catherine has been taken captive by the very man he swore to kill, and her fate now rests in his hands. But Catherine would rather die than be rescued by the wild and rugged Indian, until she discovers a small bag tied around his neck, concealing an exquisite golden locket, a gift to a boy she once loved, and now home to the beautiful miniature cradled inside.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463419394

Wayne M. Hoy

Wayne M. Hoy presently resides in Southern Indiana with his wife of 62 years. A retired Police Lieutenant and father of nine, Wayne has taught a wide range of courses in criminal justice during his law enforcement career. His diverse education has supplied him with an expertise in many areas and he is an educator in the field of Theology as well. In his spare time, he indulges his passion for writing and researching settings for his historical romances, which include, The Wolf and the Stag, The Miniature, Appeal to Honor, Banners of Canvas, Fire in the Sky, Lone Star Justice, Ambush at Piñon Canyon, Day of the Outlaw, The Long Way Home, Where Eagles Dare, The Lady and ‘The Eagle’, The Eagle’s Wing, Casey Sue Thornton, A Chance Encounter and his latest, An Occasion of Valor.

Book preview

1772

CHAPTER I

Although her face was slightly averted, Phillip was still afforded a view of a high-bridged intelligent nose and lips finely molded, the color of deep coral. A snugly fitting bodice of green brocade accented the delicate contour of a slim shapely back above the billow of skirts that concealed yet hinted at the silken curve of hip and thigh. She suddenly looked in Phillip’s direction as though drawn by the intensity of his gaze. She returned his look and although many paces separated them, he saw her lips curve ever so slightly in a whisper of a smile.

Phillip moved up the steps to the veranda that extended the length of the front of the manor. He stepped aside to allow passage of a tall young man and his slim laughing companion clinging possessively to his arm.

Reaching the top step of the veranda, Phillip spied his sister. She stood next to the veranda rail surrounded by several young ladies and a like number of gentlemen. Catherine’s hair, peeking from beneath her lace cap, was a soft tawny color, and her smooth oval face, unadorned with cosmetics popular with young ladies of this generation, had a fresh suntanned beauty. She wore an elegant gown of blue mantua, styled at the neck to expose just a touch of youthful cleavage and about her throat was a thin ribbon of matching blue. The faces of the young ladies with Catherine brightened at Phillip’s appearance, and several flashed coy looks in his direction.

Handsome almost to a fault, it was not difficult to see why women found Phillip attractive. He was tall and well formed, with hair the same hue as his sister, and brown eyes, bright and intelligent that had a way of looking at a woman as if she out-shown all others. But at the moment the smiles of Catherine’s companions, openly inviting, enthused little interest in Phillip, for he was too intent on finding his lady in green. She was, however, nowhere in sight. Clinging in the air where she had stood was the faint fragrance of lilacs.

Momentarily at a loss as to where she had gone, Phillip skewed his mouth to one side, frustrated. Then, rounding the corner of the manor house he saw her and he paused watching as she moved with seemingly unconscious grace across the terrace, the folds of her emerald gown swaying in undulating ripples as she walked.

Now, that my friend is a thoroughbred, a bewigged gentleman standing a few feet away sighed appreciatively smiling cagily at Phillip.

Who is she? Phillip asked eyes still upon the girl.

Humm, dost ye know Lady Annette Bowen? the other replied, raising an eyebrow. What blood lines. Granddaughter of the Earl of Sunderland, related to the Spencers of Hanover—her family tree’s thicker with earls and dukes than fruit on a plumb bush. And only nineteen years of age, he sighed. There be a lot of wear in that filly. What a fluky fellow, that Kertland.

She’s married? Phillip exhaled.

Nay, but as good as so. Young Roderick Kertland has set his sights on her.

I’ve heard the name, Kertland, Phillip said thoughtfully.

Aye. The Kertland’s are well known hereabouts. That be young Kertland there, the man said, nodding.

The girl had by now halted beside a young man seated at one of the gaming tables, her hand resting familiarly upon his shoulder. After only a placatory glance up at the girl, the fellow’s attention remained fixed on the cards in his hand. With a tiny hand still resting possessively on the man’s shoulder, the girl’s tranquil green eyes boldly met Phillip’s. She held his gaze for several heartbeats before casually looking away, a coy smile upon her lips.

* * *

A bright new moon sat well up over the horizon as the creaking carriage jiggled along the narrow rutted road. Phillip sat quietly, finding it an arduous endeavor to keep his mind on the events of the afternoon as he was jarred by the bounce and sway of the coach and the garrulous voices of his father and great uncle Thadeus Cooper who were deeply absorbed in another wordy discussion about the rights of men.

The coach leaned smartly to one side as it made a sweeping turn. Stone columns flashed by the carriage windows signaling the entrance to the tree-lined lane leading to Tempus Hall. The inert figure at his side pressed weightily against Phillip. He glanced down at his sleeping sister. Catherine’s head rested on Phillip’s shoulder, tawny locks clung in damp ringlets to her smooth cheek.

Do you think it wise, nephew, te burn your bridges behind you? Ye know you might want te cross them again some day, Thadeus Cooper said. His voice had a raspy disagreeable sound that fit his lean scarecrow physique. He sat directly across from Phillip, seemingly unperturbed by the jostling of the carriage. His wrinkled skeletal hands, almost obscured by lace ruffles, rested on the curved head of a slender varnished wood cane planted firmly on the floor of the coach between bony shriveled legs that Phillip swore could not support the old man’s weight. It was on the tip of Phillip’s tongue to shout for both men to cease their incessant quibbling. He knew well the position of each and knew further that neither was willing to compromise. It was James Rowland’s contention that all men were equal under God, free to direct their own destiny.

Government, James insisted, should derive its authority from the people. And be allowed to exercise that power only so long as the governed give their consent to be governed.

‘Tis the Chain of Being, nephew, Thadeus argued. Dost know that at the top there is the Lord Almighty, then comes the angels and then humans. God has created the world in this way and one is obliged te remain in the place God has put one. There are natural rulers and others who have been regulated by nature te be ruled.

Uncle Thadeus, the American colonies are on a collision course with England. Can’t you see it, for God’s sake? James spoke up, And it will come sooner than you think if the King and his ministers continue with this same tyrannical interference. I tell you these impositions of the King are not just!

"La, la, my boy, you talk like a fool. Why you’re of noble birth yourself. You can’t discard your rank as though it were a cloak that is no longer in style. You would have me believe that this Colonial rabble of yours—some not even a generation out of bonded servitude, could actually govern themselves, and by popular vote at that! Ridiculous, my boy! Dost recall your Shakespeare? Troilus and Cressida?

‘Take but degree away, untune that string,

And, hark! What discord follows; each thing meets

In mere oppugnancy,’

he recited smugly. Te attempt te claim another place then where God put you is to rebel against the God-given natural order! ‘Tis a wise child that knows its own father. The sovereignty of His Majesty is unquestionable. It’s an instrument of the Almighty’s justice!

Justice! James repeated. Who are we to talk of justice? Better we ask, if we could, the men who built the towns out of a wilderness, men who built a home with their bare hands, who fought off wolves and Indians. Ask them about justice. They understood it. They didn’t seek it in the King’s favor. They sought it as free men, for those are the only rights worth all that sacrifice—the rights of free men, equal under God to decide their course. Mark my word Uncle Thadeus; this continued bullying by the King—like the taxation on tea, among the others—is going to bring us to armed conflict!

The old man thumped his cane soundly on the coach floor. Catherine started and sat upright.

Humph! I never thought I’d live te see the day a blood kin of mine would talk of rebellion against His Majesty. You talk like a damn Papist! Thadeus Cooper said, shaking his head. The swinging lantern overhead deepened the shadows on his face, already a maze of wrinkles, and made him seem older still.

Thadeus dear, please don’t agitate yourself so, Irma Cooper said as she patted her husband’s wrinkled hand soothingly with a tiny hand nearly as wizened as her husband’s. She smiled reassuringly at Catherine.

For his part Phillip couldn’t care less for the philosophy of either man. Tonight he was not in the least concerned with the rights of men, be they noble or base born, for a smooth oval face and eyes as green as her gown of emerald brocade filled his thoughts.

The carriage rolled to a stop before a towering weather blackened brick structure rising impressively above the shadowy landscape of trees and shrubs that surrounded it. Over the front entrance, hewed into the lintel stone and discernible in the moon’s luminous glow, was the Latin inscription, EMPUS EDAX RERUM. Two neatly pruned Red Spruce trees flanked the wide doorway, which was sheltered by a small vestibule. The area within this chamber was illuminated by a lighted lantern suspended by a tarnished brass chain from the center of the cupola shaped ceiling. A house servant in dark coat and breeches waiting just within the weak arch of light, hurried forward to assist the passengers from the coach. Catherine leaned sleepily on Phillip’s arm as he led her into the house.

Lawd sakes, Marse Row’and. Youse ought te be ‘shamed keepen Miz Cath’rine up ta dis hour. Youse know it way past her bed time, scolded a rather buxom Negro woman who intercepted Phillip and his somnolent companion. The woman rolled her eyes reproachfully and it was apparent, as she gathered Catherine into her arms, that she expected no retort from either man. Moments later in her room, Catherine gave way to a deep sigh as the tight laces of her bodice were loosened, and after wiggling into her night shift she fell across the bed, asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.

The voices of his father and uncle, still intently involved in their treatise on human rights, grew fainter as Phillip ascended the stairs to his bed. He pushed open the door to his room and went directly to the wine decanter where he poured a glass of Madeira that he disposed of in a quick gulp. Lighted candles positioned on a laver stand before an oval ornamented-framed mirror, evidenced an earlier attendance by the chambermaid. He refilled his glass and crawled upon the wide poster bed without removing his shoes. He lay with his back against the tall headboard and crossed his legs as his mind, undisturbed by his father and uncle’s querulous voices, recalled Annette Bowen’s pale lovely features. Suddenly he wasn’t so sure he was as eager as before to have the business that had brought them here concluded. There was one thing Phillip was quite confident of—his knowledge of women. The invitation had been there, plain as her pretty little nose. They would meet again, and not by chance he would wager, and lifting the glass to his lips drained its contents. Meanwhile the tapers burned low in their holders, and the normal household sounds dwindled and became indistinct.

* * *

Phillip slept late and when he descended the stair near midmorning he heard the twinkling harp-like strains of a spinet emanating through the tall open parlor doors. The high ceilinged room was pleasantly lighted as drapes, pulled to emit the morning’s bright sun filtering through yellowed windowpanes, spread a golden hue all about. Phillip’s father was seated on the far side of the room directly under large gild-framed portraits of King George III and Queen Charlotte. He gave no indication that he saw Phillip, but set relaxed, absorbed in listening to the cascade of notes rippling from the harpsichord. Catherine Rowland sat primly before the piano, her fingers moving easily over the keys. Seated in tall-backed walnut chairs were Thadeus and Irma Cooper, both equally engrossed in the music. At the sonata’s end, Mistress Cooper clapped joyously.

Oh, my dear, how delightful it is to hear such beautiful sounds coming from that instrument after all these years. Your grandmother was the only one who played it. Poor thing. Near the end she gave it up entirely, she sighed.

Catherine turned about on the bench, hands folded in her lap.

Dadda, you never told me that grandmamma played the harpsichord, she pouted.

James, for shame! Mistress Cooper scolded, then in almost the same breath, Your grandmother was quite gifted, she asserted, gazing at Catherine. You have surely inherited her talent—as well as her beauty, she nodded thoughtfully.

I have? Catherine breathed.

Indeed! Have you not seen a portrait of her?

Catherine shook her head, and Mistress Cooper cast her nephew another shrewish glance. Come child, we must make amends for your father, and catching up Catherine’s hand led her out into the hall.

Mistress Cooper entered a dimly lit room at the far end of the upstairs hall. Pull the drapes, child so we can see, she ordered, halting just inside the door.

Sunlight brightened the room as Catherine drew the heavy drapes, illuminating a myriad of floating dust flecks as its brilliance splashed across the tall poster bed. On the far wall above the fireplace mantle hung the portrait of a woman who, though matronly, was of positive beauty. Wordlessly, Catherine crossed the floor to stand before the painting.

That was the last portrait your grandmother set for, Mistress Cooper sighed, gazing fondly up at the gild-framed painting.

She was very pretty, Catherine sighed. I wish I had known her.

Yes, ‘tis sad that you did not. The two of you would have gotten along fine, Mistress Cooper said opening the top drawer of the tall bureau. Your grandmother left very few keepsakes. This little box was all that I found, she continued, extracting a small wood coffin no more than a foot in length, which she held out to Catherine.

Catherine carried the item to the bed where seating herself, and with the box resting in her lap, slowly unfastened the latch. A pair of thin wire-rimmed spectacles sat atop an assortment of jewelry. Among the bracelets and rings and several gold and silver buttons, an exquisite gold case richly set in brilliants caught Catherine’s eye. Hesitantly, she lifted the locket suspended on a light gold chain.

Oh, how beautiful, she exclaimed. When she opened the catch, however, she discovered it was empty. Oh, pooh! I thought it was a miniature of grandmamma, she sighed.

Well, her aunt mused, it is such a lovely locket. Why not place your portrait in it?

I would like that, but…I have none, Catherine sighed. Perhaps after we return to Boston.

And why wait that long? In Wallington there is a fine artist. He is a bit eccentric—French, you know. We shall go there tomorrow, her aunt declared frankly.

Following breakfast the next day Catherine and her aunt departed for Wallington. The clatter of the hooves on the cobbles by the high-stepping carriage horses echoed from the lofty buildings along the narrow street as they pulled to a stop before their destination. Warily Catherine followed her aunt as they climbed the worn treads to the upstairs loft of the tall half-timbered building. The room with its strong smell of paints was surprisingly large and the light from two dormer windows gave the place a cheery brightness. Catherine peered curiously about as her aunt conversed with a tall slender man wearing a leather apron besmeared with gaudy multihued splashes of paint.

Yes, yes, Madame, the man said speaking with a distinct French accent, his eyes all the while upon Catherine. He nodded again at something Mistress Cooper said, then advanced upon Catherine, taking her hand.

Bonjour mademoiselle, he greeted, in a friendly manner. I am Jean Fouquet.

Catherine smiled in return, curtsying. He said no more, but instead led her to a seat in front of one of the windows where, taking her by the shoulders half-turned her toward the light. Placing a hand gently beneath her chin he tilted her face slightly upward.

Ah, oui, oui, he murmured approvingly.

After a moment Fouquet turned, and arranging a small table and stool a few feet from her, began to lay out his paints. His moves were crisp and efficient and Catherine watched as he went about his business thinking him not far from being handsome though he was more than twice her age.

Sitting posed so still soon became rather wearisome and as the time lengthened, Catherine fell easily to daydreaming. Fouquet, however, worked both rapidly and efficiently over the small sliver of ivory and before Catherine realized it the painting was finished. When Catherine peered down at the ivory, she caught her breath. What she saw was a miniature of a young girl with a wealth of golden hair. The softly rounded chin was slightly arched giving the mignon face an expression of urbane pride. The eyes, shadowed by long lashes, appeared almost black and the mouth, its cupid’s-bow lips upturned in the slightest of smiles, conveyed an almost childlike innocence.

Oh! she exclaimed staring. Is—I mean—am I as pretty as that? she asked breathlessly.

I should say! her aunt declared smiling her approval. I am vastly pleased.

Thank you, madame, Fouquet said. Bring the frame tomorrow and I shall trim and set the ivory. The watercolours will be dry by then.

* * *

The girl reined the tall sorrel to a halt at the brow of the timbered slope overlooking a gently swaying meadow broken by patches of ripening orchards. She straightened in the sidesaddle, putting a hand up to smooth unnecessarily her unruffled ebony tresses.

You may return to the house, Richard, she said casually.

But m’lady, the groom protested, ‘tis not safe te ride alone hereabouts.

Do not be infantile, she scolded. I shall have an escort when I return, she said, not meeting his eye. Now leave me.

She waited some minutes, in which her horse began to prance restlessly, after the groom had disappeared from sight, eyeing the splendid manor below her. On the grassy lawn south of the house sited on a rolling knoll surrounded by tall evergreens, several people were seated in lounging chairs. With a confident smile, she prodded the horse into motion with a flick of her short pearl-handled quirt.

Phillip Rowland straightened quickly in his chair, his keen gaze recognizing the splendidly clad horsewoman approaching on the high-spirited thoroughbred.

Good morning, she greeted, reining up before the group on the lawn. Her small riding cap sat at a jaunty angle atop blue-sheen ebony hair held in place by a diamond brooch.

Lady Bowen, Thadeus Cooper said, delighted surprise evident in his voice.

Am I intruding? she asked sweetly, letting her gaze sweep over the gathering, her face animated and smiling. She afforded Phillip an especially dazzling smile as he rose quickly to his feet.

Ah, no not at all, m’lady, Thadeus denied as his eyes scanned the slope behind her. Ye’ve not come riding alone have ye? ‘Tis not safe ye know, he frowned.

Yes, I have, she smiled. But really, do you not think the menace overvalued? she remarked, her emerald eyes at the moment upon Phillip.

From what I’ve heard, uncle Thadeus is right, Phillip said, stepping forward.

Oh? she tittered gaily, I’m afraid you have me outnumbered, sir…? she said hesitantly, arching an eyebrow.

My pardon, m’lady, Thadeus spoke up. This is my nephew, visiting from America, Phillip Rowland…Lady Bowen.

Lady Bowen, Phillip said, bowing.

Please, will’st call me Annette, she insisted, smiling bewitchingly.

Annette it is, Phillip grinned, a glint of arrogance in his eyes. Would you join us, he asked, sweeping his hand to indicate the others.

Why, I would be delighted, she smiled, extending a gloved hand for him to assist her from the saddle.

Once on her feet, he continued to hold her hand, which she made no effort to retrieve, and escorted her the few steps to where his father and sister waited. Annette curtsied gracefully as introductions were made. Catherine, smiling graciously, was not in the least unaware of the look her brother fastened upon the young woman, and had to admit to herself that she was tremendously stunning in her dark-brown riding habit with stitching that looked amazingly intricate, fitting the fullness of her bosom to perfection and enhancing the shape of her shoulders, and, of course, her pearl-handled quirt.

What would you like, m’lady? Mistress Cooper asked. We have tea, and chocolate as well, she smiled.

Oh, chocolate, yes, that would be most pleasant, Annette said, taking a seat on the chair Phillip proffered.

What, may I ask, brings you out riding alone, m’lady? Thadeus inquired.

And why not? she smilingly retorted, ‘Tis a glorious day! One to be enjoyed, do you not think so, Mister Rowland? she asked.

Indeed, Phillip said. But perhaps you should not return home unescorted.

Oh? she murmured, taking a sip of chocolate, as under lowered lashes her gaze peered innocently up at him.

If you will permit me, m’lady, I would see you safely returned, he offered.

I see it may have been unwise, my riding off alone, she sighed, tapping her knee with the end of her pearl-handled whip. But I do not wish to cause you inconvenience because of my foolishness.

Believe me, m’lady, it will be no bother, he assured her a smile in his eyes and on his lips.

* * *

The narrow trail advanced east into the woods presenting a very idyllic setting with its thick well-spaced trees and flourishing undergrowth. The branches of the trees spread a thick canopy overhead, sheltering them from the sun. The cool dimness seemed to muffle even the sound of their horse’s hooves.

Will you be staying in England long? Annette asked, tilting her head to peer at him from under the brim of her tiny cap.

During the course of their ride from Tempus Hall, they had maintained an ongoing conversation chatting about this or that, sometime teasing, sometimes serious, and Phillip was more than intrigued by her talk and manner, not the least her green eyes that seem at times to laugh at him and at others a transom of lusciousness.

Until father has settled Grandmamma Cooper’s estate, he shrugged. Several weeks yet, I imagine.

I envisage all sorts of wild, heathen images when one speaks of the Americas, she shivered.

Why is that? he asked, lips parting in that slow, white-toothed smile that women never failed to find attractive.

Well, it seems you have me, Mister Rowland. Goodness knows you do not look like a heathen, she smiled, and under lowered lashes her gaze slowly ran upward from his booted foot to the hat atop his head and then to meet his eyes, her own enticing, almost aurous in the shimmering rays from the sun sifting through the leaves above.

Fine feathers make fine birds, he shrugged dismissing her words as pure fluff, though his eyes were unmistakably confident.

At that moment they came out of the woods and Phillip saw in the distance the tall gabled mansion rising in gothic splendor above the surrounding landscape. The westerly sun shinning golden upon the weathered stonewalls sparkled brilliantly off the many windowpanes as though they were banks of fire.

I should bid you farewell here, she said, flashing him a look.

Oh? If you wish, he replied hesitantly, eyes questioning.

The truth be, she said, color touching her cheeks, I am so tired of being treated like a child. ‘M’lady, you must not go off unattended, ‘tis too dangerous.’ ‘Go here, don’t go there.’ I cannot stand it. I rode off today quite defiant, insisting I would do as I wished. I—would not want them to think I had to be—you know—escorted home like some helpless female, she finished, with a self-conscious shrug of her shapely shoulders.

Ah, he breathed, a glint of laughter in his eyes.

Do not laugh at me, she pouted prettily.

I’ll not, he declared.

Impulsively he reached to clasp her hand upon the rein fearful suddenly that she should ride away. Will’st I see you again? he asked.

Her eyes, almost amber in the glare of the evening sun, met his unabashedly. I would like that, she said.

Then, I will call upon you on the morrow?

Her eyes flitted toward the manor. I will wait for you instead—tomorrow morning, where we crossed the little stream, she replied, and in the next instant brought her quirt whistling down upon her horse’s flank. With a snort, the animal bound off. Phillip watched until she disappeared from sight behind the manor house.

* * *

Phillip threw another stone, watching it skip across the smooth surface of the water. He turned his head, poised, listening. Sounds came to him from close about; a jingle of bit chain and the creak of harness, followed by the solid thump of a hoof from where his horse was tethered a few feet away. Some type of flying insect buzzed about Phillip’s head once or twice before darting away as suddenly as it had appeared. The wind stirred the leaves overhead and from somewhere beyond the stream came the sound of a nut falling, smacking leaf after leaf on its way to earth.

Well, Rowland, looks like you’ve been set up! he shrugged kicking angrily at a tuft of grass, then froze, listening. Was that the clop of horse’s hoofs, there where the trail crossed the stream? He strained to catch the sound. Seconds slowly ticked by, minutes became hours, but she did not come.

No use wasting anymore time! he muttered, pride wounded. Certainly it was a new experience for him, that a lady should leave him sitting on his hands.

Resolved now to depart, he wasted no more time, but set about tightening the loosened saddle cinch, and quickly mounted his horse. Phillip reached the carriage road and saw through the trees a glimpse of the stone and timbered buildings of Corydon.

Y—you are vile, Charles Mather and I—I shan’t! came a young woman’s small voice, a tremble with outrage, from just out of sight around the curve of the road.

Why ’re ye so squeamish, Molly my sweet? a man purred enticingly. Come on give me yer hand now.

Phillip, who having reined his horse to a halt at the sound of the voices, now eased the animal forward. Only feet beyond, her way blocked by a man on horseback stood a girl. Her back was to Phillip but he saw a trim youthful figure attired in a modest gown. Her slim rounded shoulders were held rather rigid and her breath, quite agitated, came quickly. The horseman, wearing servant’s livery, leaning toward the girl, hand outstretched, a sly grin on his face, suddenly straightened having caught sight of Phillip. The girl, whom Phillip noticed carried a wicker basket under her arm, darted a quick look over her shoulder at Phillip upon seeing the look on the man’s face, and, although the brim of her bonnet shielded part of her face, he caught a glimpse of smooth cheeks and a sweet mouth now rounded in nervous expectation. Phillip was conscious of the man’s dark gaze, and shifted his eyes to that worthy aware of the undisguised antagonism there.

What’s going on? Phillip asked, eye upon the girl. Is this fellow annoying you, miss?

‘Tis but a lover’s spat, m’lord, the man said. Nothing fer a gentleman as yerself te fret over.

‘Tis a lie, sir! He is not my—lover! the girl quickly spoke up. He—he would not let me pass till— she faltered then, head bowed.

Oh? Phillip murmured. So, he has no claim on you? he asked, nudging his horse closer to the man who scowled, eyes dark but uncertain.

He does not! the girl cried.

The chit exaggerates, m’lord, Mather sneered, looking Phillip up and down. Beware, sir, mayhap she has set her sights on ye.

Phillip heard the girl’s gasp of mortification and, wheeling his mount along side Mather, sent his fist smashing into the man’s face. Blood spurted from his nose and he rocked back in his saddle. Black thunder! he bellowed, hand to his nose.

That is to remind you, Phillip said, to be respectful of a lady’s wishes!

Mather glared at Phillip, face black with hate, I’ll— he sputtered.

You’ll what! Phillip drawled menacingly.

The man’s murderous gaze held Phillip’s for several heartbeats, then slowly it fell away.

Ahuh, Phillip nodded sagely. I sized you up right. You’re bluff and threat when it comes to a chit of a girl, but not much else. Now get out of here!

Have yer way with the wench! Mather snarled, and jerking his horse about jabbed the animal with his spurs. In a moment he was lost to sight.

Thank you, sir, the girl murmured, still with bent head, eyes hidden.

You’re very welcome, he chuckled.

The girl flashed him a look from beneath the brim of her bonnet, and before he could say more she bobbed in a quick curtsey, turned and hurried up the road. Phillip sat his horse watching her, a curious smile on his lips. He imagined her quite pretty, and wished suddenly he could have seen more of her face.

By the time he reached the edge of town the girl was nowhere in sight. The door of Stuckey’s tavern stood open and the aroma of something delicious reached Phillip from the grillroom. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and upon impulse reined in before the place. The interior was dim and the air still and close. Phillip hesitated a moment allowing his eyes to become accustom to the obscure light. On the far side of the room, silhouetted against the glow of the evening sun slanting across the floor through the window, set three men, the room’s only occupants. Phillip made his way to a nearby seat.

The innkeeper, a robust man with a quick smile, apparently an avid sampler of his own cooking, made his way to Phillip.

What’re ye havin’? he asked.

After Phillip bid him bring something to eat and drink, the man shuffled off. Shortly he returned to deposit a large pewter mug of ale on the table in front of Phillip. The liquor smote his insides, empty of nourishment since morning, like a seething scoop of thick hot gravy, spreading a heated tingle to the very tip of his toes.

While Phillip gratified his gnawing hunger, he indulged freely in mug after mug of stout ale. By the time the taproom had filled with its nightly crowd of ill-smelling and coarse-mouth patrons, Phillip was beginning to feel quite tipsy. He had no way of knowing what time it was but something in his groggy brain signaled that he should be on his way. Phillip managed to stagger to his horse and after a few fumbling attempts, pulled himself into the saddle. His last vague recollection of the night was turning his horse in what he thought was in the direction of Tempus Hall.

* * *

Molly Hoskins was returning to the kitchen quarters at the rear of the small tailor shop when she noticed a horse standing head down and hipshot near the front gate. She hesitated, setting the heavy oaken water bucket on the stone walkway. The last chore before retiring was to bring in fresh water for next morning. She knew the hour was late and the presence of the animal made her wary. She would not put it past that hoodlum, Charles Mather to be lying in wait for her again as he had been doing these past few weeks. In the pale light of the moon just topping the trees behind her she could see the shadowy figure of a man lying on the ground below the horse’s head. The horse snorted and the dark shadow moaned, moving slightly. Cautiously, heart racing, Molly approached the horse realizing suddenly that there was something familiar about the animal and its prostrate rider. She stood for a moment, looking up and down the street, but nothing stirred. Molly patted the horse’s neck. The reins were wrapped around the man’s arm pinioning the animal in place. She knelt and slowly turned him over.

"Oh, it is you! she cried. He expelled a drunken curse and the stench of alcohol stung her nostrils. Good Lord, mister, she gasped, a pitiful sight you make. Filled to the gills you are." She leaned back, looking down at him.

Oh, dear, I can’t just leave him here in the road, she murmured, Not after what he did saving me from that awful Mather, and leaping to her feet, raced back to the house.

Jon, she cried, spying her father’s young apprentice, hurry, come help me!

What’s the matter? the boy asked, alarmed, looking past her toward the door. Molly had told him of her earlier encounter with Charles Mather and for an instant thought the man may have been in pursuit of her.

‘Tis him, the gentleman that gave that Charles Mather his comeuppance. He’s—well, she sighed haplessly, it appears he’s drunk and fallen off his horse—

Hah! the boy guffawed. Some knight in shinny armor.

‘Tis not funny Jonathan Whitman. Come and help me, she ordered. We’ll put him in the garret room.

With an acquiescent shrug, the boy followed Molly out into the night. They found Phillip lying where he had fallen. After tugging and pulling they managed to rouse him enough that he staggered to his feet. He would have fallen for certain had they not supported him, however, one under each arm. Slowly they made their way up the narrow stair where they laid him out in the bed.

As Molly tugged to remove Phillip’s dusty boots, he called out, his voice slurred and nearly incoherent. Molly could not be sure but she thought his drunken mutterings had something to do with a woman. Alone with Phillip when Jonathan left to stable and feed Phillip’s horse, Molly had a chance to study the young man’s face. Even slack in drunken slumber, it still shown with a virile handsomeness. She gently brushed a lock of tawny hair from his forehead, letting her fingers trail lightly across his cheek feeling the bristles there. She quickly stood up.

Lordy, what a handsome fellow, she sighed, and blowing out the candles, quietly left the room.

Phillip had not the slightest idea where he was when he opened his eyes. He lay quite still for a moment, then sat straight up. He groaned. His head throbbed fiercely, and he sat frozen, afraid to move. Slowly the pain subsided. Cautiously, with only one eye, he looked about. The room was small and by the slant of the heavy ceiling beams, which he could almost touch from where he sat in bed, he surmised that he was in an upstairs room. A dormer window to his left emitted a bright shaft of sunlight.

Phillip eyed the water pitcher on the side table resolutely as he worked his tongue about in an overly dry mouth. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he saw his boots standing neatly at the footboard. He speculated, after some thought, that he must be in a room above Stuckey’s tavern, although he hadn’t the slightest idea how he got here. Phillip filled the washbasin and began to splash water in his face slurping a mouth full in hopes of placating the dryness there. He glanced with disgust at his unbuttoned waistcoat and wrinkled shirt. At that moment there came a buoyant knock on the door. A woman’s muffled voice called, Good morning, sir. Are you awake?

Before Phillip could answer, the door opened and a very pretty young woman thrust her head through the opening. She evidently expected to find Phillip still in bed and spying him standing only a few feet away, her head made an instant retreat.

It’s all right, lass, come in, Phillip called.

The dark-haired head appeared again to peer modestly at him, and then the girl stepped self-consciously into the room. She appeared no more then seventeen and wore a white apron over a chintz cotton gown that hugged her slim waist.

I was wondering how you felt this morning, sir. You were in your cups last night when we put you to bed.

It was you who put me to bed, huh? he murmured, allowing his gaze to move slowly over her speculating to his later sorrow that she was a maid from Stuckey’s Tavern. Had his mind not been still somewhat muddled by last night’s strong drink he might have recognized her from the previous afternoon’s encounter on the road, but he did not.

She nodded, and moved to the bed where she began to fluff the pillows and straighten the mussed counterpane.

I don’t recall seeing you last night, he mused. Where has the landlord kept you hidden?

Landlord? she asked, with a quick nonplus look over her shoulder.

Come now, lass. No need to tease, he said, dropping his hand to the curve of her backside and giving her fanny a gentle squeeze. The girl straightened with dispatch and whirled to confront him, her face crimson.

How dare you! she gasped. You—you—and I thought you a gentleman! she sputtered, her cheeks paled then colored only to pale again. Why you—you are no better then that—that vile Charles Mather!

Good Lord! Phillip exclaimed, and by the look of pure chagrin on his face it was unmistakable that he had suddenly recognized her. I thought—you—I beg your forgiveness, Miss, he groaned.

I’m not sure I believe you, she replied, chillingly, and whirled with a swish of petticoats and hurried from the room, leaving Phillip standing mouth agape.

Phillip made his way quickly down the stairs. He could see that the kitchen was down the hallway to his right. He smelled the fresh aroma of baking bread. The door diagonally to the stair opened revealing a youth of perhaps sixteen, though his smooth cheeks, still void of whiskers, made him seem younger. His dark eyes surrounded by long lashes, the envy of many a lass, peered steadily at Phillip.

Say, how did I get here? Phillip asked, rubbing his chin. I’m rather confused.

‘T’was Molly’s doing, the boy said. She found you lying in the road.

Molly, is she your sister? Phillip asked.

Naw, the boy denied. I’m apprenticed to her father, Mister Isaac Hoskins, he’s a tailor. My name’s Jonathan Whitman, what’s yours?

Phillip Rowland, he said looking again down the hall. He laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Will you give this to Molly? he asked, pressing two gold florins into his hand. For the trouble I caused.

He turned toward the door, hesitated, Was I still in possession of a horse when you found me? Phillip asked.

Jonathan chuckled. Yep. I put ‘em in the barn in back. I’ll show you.

* * *

Phillip reached the crossroads south of Corydon; he fished a folded piece of paper from his pocket and read it again. It had been delivered only that morning as he lounged in one of the over-stuffed armchairs peering with tedium out upon the lawn. A glance at the words had set his heart racing with anticipation.

Where the path crosses the stream.

A.

When Phillip arrived at the appointed place, he approached slowly. He saw no one about and experienced a momentary touch of doubt until he noticed the ears of his horse alertly poised, pointed off the trail at some unseen movement. Moments later he entered a small glade. He saw her then, seated at the base of a slender young tree. The skirts of Annette’s riding frock lay billowed daintily about her as though positioned with practiced endeavor. Color touched her cheeks, highlighting her pale delicate features. She paused in the act of tossing a tiny pebble into the water, watching Phillip dismount. He stood gazing at her. She hung her head sheepishly.

You’re angry, aren’t you? she said.

Tell me why I shouldn’t be, he mused, I waited, but you never came.

But, you’re not anymore—angry that is, she purred, and he chuckled in spite of himself, settling easily on the grass beside her. She gazed into his eyes for a long moment, then looked away, lips turning downward. I did so want to come, she said, but— she shrugged. I was detained.

Ah, and his name is Kertland no doubt, Phillip mused.

She flashed him a look, one eyebrow raised. Of course, she answered archly. He has proposed marriage to me.

Yet you come to meet me, he said, gazing into her eyes.

And why should I not? she asked, roguishly.

Do you love him?

Love? she mocked, uttering a small humorless laugh. One doesn’t speak of love. It is simply a matter of financial and social gain for both families. You think me shameless? she demanded when he didn’t respond. "Why do you stare so, Phillip? What do you see? she breathed.

Lust. I see lust in your eyes, he mused. Her eyes widened, color deepening.

Lust? In my eyes! she gasped.

Do you deny it? he asked, leaning close.

Well, I— His face was only inches away, Yes— I deny it, she whispered, breath velvety soft against his cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed as their lips met, and her arms immediately encircled his neck. As one they fell back in the tall grass. The sweet ecstatic scent of lilacs engulfed him. Her lips parted, warm and yielding, her breath like an inebriant, filling him, stirring, awaking a yearning that obsessed his very being. He found that her passion rivaled his own, as eagerly, shamelessly, she met each touch, each caress…

A chorus of birds set up an incessant chatter in a nearby tree before fluttering away to seek another perch. One of the horses shook its head and stomped a foot impatiently, but for Annette and Phillip, enthralled in love’s intimacies, the sounds about them