Her Honorable Enemy
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Mary Davis
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20
Chapter 1
San Juan Island, Washington Territory, Fall 1870
“‘See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek!’”
Sitting against the woodpile, Rachel Thompson pressed the open book to her chest with one hand and put her other on her cheek. She closed her eyes and imagined the strong hand of a handsome man on her face. “Wherefore art thou my Romeo?”
“Rachel?” her stepmother called.
Rachel groaned. Could she just hide here and pretend she hadn’t heard?
Honor thy father and thy mother.
Genevieve wasn’t really her mother.
But if she disobeyed, Papa would find out somehow. She hated it when he gave her one of his disapproving looks. She pushed to her feet and slipped the book into her apron pocket.
Her half brother and half sisters were playing in the yard. Ages twelve, eleven, seven and five.
She stepped into the dim interior of the clapboard house. It was not large, but it had three bedrooms, a kitchen large enough for a dining table and a parlor with sliding pocket doors.
Her stepmother sat in a rocking chair, nursing the six-month-old baby, Priscilla. “Did you finish your chores?”
“Yes.” Is that all she’d called her in here for?
“Have the children finished their chores?”
By the looks of them playing when she’d come in, she guessed not. “I don’t know.”
Priscilla finished nursing and sat up on her mama’s lap.
Genevieve buttoned her shirtwaist and stood, settling Priscilla on her hip. She pulled the book out of Rachel’s pocket and shook her head. “Rachel, dear, love is not like you read in your books. Romantic dreaming will not get you a husband. Love is hard work. You’re twenty. You need to stop dreaming.” She put the book on the fireplace mantel. “Would you make sure the children complete their chores?”
“Is it now my job to raise them?” She regretted her words the moment they crossed her lips. Genevieve had been a fine mother to her since she was seven.
“Of course not. But you are such a big help to me. And you know I appreciate you. When you get your head out of the clouds and find a husband, you won’t have to bother with any of us. But until then, while you are under your father’s roof, you will do your part.”
Rachel wished she could throw a tantrum, but Genevieve was right. Her stepmother wasn’t being unreasonable. And if Rachel complained to Papa, he would know she was being childish and treat her that way. “When the children’s chores are completed, may I take a walk in the woods?”
“To dream, no doubt. I don’t understand your affinity for the woods, but yes. Just don’t be long. I’ll need help this afternoon.” Genevieve carried Priscilla upstairs to change her diaper.
Rachel took one step toward the door, turned, snagged her book from the mantel and dashed out.
The children had done only half their chores, if that. It wasn’t that they couldn’t finish them. It was that they knew they could get away with not doing them when their mama was busy with the baby. After all, none of them had chores half as hard as Rachel’s. She dreaded trying to get all four of them to complete what little work they had. It could take her much of the day, having to watch them one at a time.
So she wouldn’t. All her stepmother cared about was that the chores were done. How much faster it would be if she did them herself. So she made short work of them and then slipped off into the forest.
Knowing just where she wanted to sit and read, she patted her book in her apron pocket and trudged through the underbrush. The forest smelled so fresh, even though yesterday’s rain had made everything wet. Her skirt got soaked in a hurry, but she didn’t care. She was free to enjoy a good chunk of the day in peace.
Crackle.
She froze and then spun around. Was that an animal or a person? Studying the terrain and seeing nothing, she continued. When dead ground cover crunched behind her again, she kept walking until she could pinpoint the noise’s precise location. Whatever was making it wasn’t moving away.
It was tracking her.
So it wasn’t likely an animal. At least not the four-legged variety.
Another step, and she swung around. She caught sight of the corner of a blue jacket.
“Lindy!”
Her twelve-year-old half brother, Lindley, stepped out from behind a large fir tree, not at all contrite at having been caught. With his hands shoved deep in his pants pockets, he swaggered up to her. “Where you goin’, Rachel?”
She narrowed her eyes. “It is none of your concern. Now go home and play with the other children.”
He shook his head. “But they’re girls.” He sounded indignant that she would even suggest such a thing.
“I’m a girl.”
“But you don’t do girl stuff and play with dolls.” He shivered dramatically and eyed the forest behind her. “You’re headed toward English Camp.”
Heaven help her if he tattled that an American girl was walking where she shouldn’t. Not with a war going on.
Lindley’s expression turned to a triumphant smirk. “If you let me go with you, I won’t tell no one.”
If she didn’t let him come, he would blackmail her. She’d wanted time to herself. She could just stop right where they were and read, boring him until he left. Better yet, she could read Romeo and Juliet aloud and scare him off. But he might wait at a distance and still follow. Of all her siblings, he could be the quietest. “Fine. You can come. But you have to do as I tell you.”
He strode ahead. “Come on. What are you waiting for?”
She caught up and took the lead. “Stay quiet.”
As she drew closer to the hill overlooking English Camp and Garrison Bay, she crouched and slowed. She had to make sure they stayed clear of the officers’ quarters and that no guards were patrolling up here.
The soldiers were marching around the field down below on the other side of the fancy garden. The reason she liked to come. The garden, not the soldiers.
“Wow,” Lindley said. “Look at all of them. How many do you think there are? Thousands?”
Rachel shifted her gaze from the blooming colors to the soldiers beyond and scoffed. “Hardly. The agreement between the American officers and the English officers was to hold dual occupancy of the islands until the matter of possession could be decided. Neither side is to have more than one hundred men. That was over ten years ago. You were too young to recall how it began.” But she remembered the tension on the island at first. She’d been afraid Papa would have to go fight and be killed.
“And you think the no-good English will keep to that?”
“I’ve counted before. I never got more than seventy or eighty. A handful of men were likely inside the buildings or off somewhere else.” She realized too late that her statements implied she’d been here several times. She hoped Lindley didn’t make the connection. Or at least didn’t make a fuss about it.
“Or maybe they are hiding a lot of soldiers in those buildings for a surprise attack, letting only a few out at a time so we don’t know how many are really here. A conniving, scheming, cutthroat bunch, the English are.”
Rachel rolled her eyes. He was repeating Papa’s words to the letter. But she knew he secretly admired the soldiers on both sides. He was a boy, after all.
A dinner bell rang, and the soldiers marched off the field. The middle of the afternoon was a strange time to have a meal.
All became quiet down below.
After a few moments, Lindley scuttled down the side of the hill.
“Where are you going?” Rachel called after him.
“I want a better look.”
“Get back here.”
But he kept going.
She threw up her hands. What was she to do now? She couldn’t let him go by himself. She shuffled her way down, at times sliding. If Papa found out, he would have both their hides. When she got to the bottom, Lindley was crouched behind a tree stump. She joined him. “What happened to doing as you were told?”
“No one’s around.” He stood and walked toward the manicured garden. “Come on.”
The water in Garrison Bay lapped gently at the shore, the strong smell of salt wafted on the breeze, and nearby seagulls screeched.
The garden she had stared at all summer had short hedgerows around flower beds, all encircled by a white picket fence. Each bed had a different type of flower. She cautiously inched up to the garden. The flowers were lovely. She surveyed the camp and saw no one, so she opened the small gate at the end closest to her and eased it shut so as not to make any noise. She went from flower bed to flower bed, peonies, zinnias, daisies. The spring tulips and crocuses had long been replaced by summer and fall varieties.
As she was studying a yellow bloom she didn’t recognize, she heard Lindley gasp and she spun around.
An English officer stood before her. A handsome officer with wavy brown hair. “May I help you, miss?”
She could see where Lindley crouched behind a low hedge, so she stepped back one pace, then another. And as she had hoped, the officer moved forward. Dare she speak? He would know for sure she wasn’t English.
And was trespassing.
She wiggled her hand to get Lindley to run.
And run he did. But he let the gate swing shut behind him, making a tapping noise.
The officer turned and saw Lindley scampering for the hillside.
“Run, Lindy! Run!”
The officer stared at her with raised eyebrows. “American. What is your name?”
She might be captured, but she didn’t have to speak. She pressed her lips together.
“Come now. You can tell me your name. I’m Leftenant Charles Young. And you are?”
Lef-tenant? She just loved the way the English spoke. Telling him her name couldn’t really do any harm, but she held her tongue.
The leftenant plucked a small purple flower from the nearby bed. “Were you enjoying our formal garden?” He held out the flower to her.
Rachel took it without thinking and smelled it. He wished to speak of the garden? What was he playing at?
He waited patiently for her to say something.
She twirled the flower.
A smile pulled at his mouth but didn’t quite succeed. “What book are you reading?” He pointed at her apron.
She covered the pocketed book with one hand. He wouldn’t take it from her, would he? He certainly was trying to start a conversation. As a captive of the enemy, she would not indulge him.
“Come now, I just want to know the title.”
Pulling it out, she showed him.
“Shakespeare. Are you enjoying it?”
If she refused to answer any of his questions, maybe he would tire of this and let her be on her way.
He studied her, waiting, then said, “Maybe you can’t read at all and just carry a book around to look as though you can.”
“I can so read. ‘Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Verona, where we lay our scene, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny, where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.’”
He smiled. A warm, inviting smile. “You can speak, other than to shout to the boy. ‘From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-cross’d lovers take their life; whose misadventured piteous overthrows do with their death bury their parents’ strife.’”
This Englishman knew Romeo and Juliet?
Rachel continued the opening quotation. “‘The fearful passage of their death-mark’d love, and the continuance of their parents’ rage, which, but their children’s end, nought could remove, is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage...’”
“‘The which if you with patient ears attend, what here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.’” He gave her a graceful bow with a flourish of his hand.
Her breath caught in her throat. He spoke the words so eloquently, as though Romeo himself were standing before her.
A soldier came up to the little white picket fence surrounding the garden. “Sir, tea is served in your office.”
“Thank you. Would you bring another cup? I will be having a guest.” The leftenant motioned to her. “Come this way.”
Rachel glanced back and saw Lindley scrambling out of sight at the top of the hill. At least he had gotten away. She maneuvered through the garden and out the other side. Entering a long building, she saw several soldiers sipping their tea and was ushered into an office. Was this teatime?
He touched the back of a wooden chair. “Have a seat.”
Was this where he would interrogate her? She thought about refusing, to see what he would do, but chose to sit. What did he have planned for her?
“Now, your name?”
“Isn’t it improper for a lady to introduce herself?”
Amusement danced in his gold-flecked hazel-brown eyes. “Not when there is no other to make her introductions.”
“I have no name, so introductions are unnecessary.” She paused. “Are you going to put me in your jail or the stockade?” She would rather be in jail than on display in the stockade. She swallowed hard. “Or am I to stand before the firing squad?”
* * *
Firing squad? Lieutenant Charles Young nearly choked on a laugh. This girl had quite a deep well for the dramatic. “I’m sorry, the firing squad is off duty at the moment. You will have to suffer my company.”
How old was this raven-haired beauty with eyes the color of the ocean? Fifteen or sixteen? Her face was round, almost heart-shaped. When she came of age, she would so securely steal a man’s heart, he would be helpless. Her every wish his command.
Nay, she would have a gaggle of boys falling over themselves to capture a morsel of her attention, hoping for a passing glance.
Under his scrutiny, she shifted in the chair. “If the death of a British pig could start this war, then imagine what will happen when they find out what the British have done with me.”
Charles contained his smile. He would like to see her reaction to a little teasing. He leaned closer. “No one will ever know. We British are adept at disposing of bodies.”
The girl gasped.
He did laugh then.
She couldn’t possibly believe him. A gullible, melodramatic little thing. But how could anyone take a so-called war seriously when the only casualty was a pig shot ten years ago, starting it all? Since then, it had been a peaceful standoff.
He would ease her fears. “I promise you, milady, no harm will befall you whilst you are in my charge.”
“Am I supposed to trust the word of the enemy?”
“Enemy is a rather discordant term.”
“Then what would you call people on opposite sides of a war?”
He thought a moment. “Spectators in a game of chess, awaiting a just outcome.”
“Spectators? Well, spectators can walk away from a game. And this spectator is going to do just that. Good day, sir.” She stood.
“You can’t go until you’ve had tea. It wouldn’t be proper. Please take your seat.”
She sat back down.
Private Coats entered and set a second china teacup and saucer on the desk next to the pot of tea. “Shall I pour, sir?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The soldier poured from the white china teapot into a matching cup on a saucer and then held up a small crystal pitcher. “Cream?”
The girl’s eyes widened, and she shook her head.
From the expression on her face and from her comment about the firing squad, Charles suspected she thought they might be trying to poison her. He gave a nod to the private, who poured cream into Charles’s cup.
Charles motioned to the soldier to put half a teaspoon of sugar in his cup.
Coats gave him a questioning look but spooned in the sugar. He then held up the bowl toward the girl. “Sugar?”
She eyed the bowl and nodded.
The soldier ladled in a spoonful. When the girl still eyed the sugar, he scooped another spoonful. She nodded, evidently liking her tea sweet.
Charles excused the soldier and held out the girl’s cup of tea to her.
When she hesitated, he said, “You saw him pour everything from the same containers. It’s safe.”
She took her cup and stirred it.
He sliced open a scone and made a production of stirring the clotted cream and the strawberry preserves before spreading some of each on both halves. He handed her a plate with one portion of the cut biscuit. He’d made sure she could see that he was eating and drinking the same as he gave her. So, unless he was poisoning himself, she would know the food and tea were safe.
She tilted her chin up. “Is this to be my last meal?”
Her tone wasn’t that of fear, but more like a challenge.
“You seem to think we English are barbaric. I assure you, we are quite civilized.” He took a bite of scone and a sip of tea. “When I am confident you are sufficiently refreshed, I will see you safely out of camp and on your way home.”
“You expect me to trust the word of the en—”
“You wound me. Please refrain from calling me that, for I would never think of you as my enemy. You are far too fair.”
“Then how should I think of you? A spectator armed with a sword and gun?”
He glanced at the weaponry he always wore. “Think of us both as residents on opposite sides of a fence. We are just trying to determine to whom this fence belongs.”
“Well, this fence is definitely American.” She nibbled the scone.
Was she baiting him? “The Oregon Treaty states otherwise.”
“I am afraid you need to brush up on your reading. The treaty clearly portioned these islands to America. Anyone can see they are south of the forty-ninth parallel.” She sipped her tea.
“Yet they are on the English side of the strait.”
“The wrong strait. Haro is the strait in the treaty, not Rosario.”
“I beg to differ. It is all in the interpretation.”
“And the English are obviously masters at misinterpretation.”
This girl was fun to parry with.
“We would argue otherwise.”
“Argue all you like. That still wouldn’t make you right.”
They could go round and round on this and never acquiesce. He sat on the corner of his desk. “Do tell me your name.”
“It is inconsequential. After today, you’ll not have need of it.”
“Pray tell why not?” She was a cunning one.
“You will either release me or have me shot.”
He laughed. She was certainly amusing. “Did you enjoy our formal garden?” He’d watched her on a number of occasions gazing at the garden from her perch on the hill. She’d even ventured down a few times when she’d evidently thought no one was around, but never advanced inside the gate. He had always let her be. But today he’d been helpless when she and her brother entered. He had been inexplicably drawn to her.
“It is very beautiful. I grudgingly admit it is one thing the English can do.”
He smiled. “So we are not all deplorable?”
“Just because one can grow a flower or two does not make one inherently virtuous.”
“We do know how to brew a fine cup of tea.” She couldn’t possibly argue with that.
She seemed to think a moment as she took a sip. “It’s all right. I’ve made better.”
She was not going to give him anything. Except the formal garden. Sort of. “Did you like the scone?”
“It was a little dry.”
A laugh burst out of him, overtaking him before he could contain it.
This girl was a spark of charming diversion in an otherwise languid “war.” He wished he’d made her acquaintance on her first visit to the formal garden. Life here the past two months would have been far less tedious.
Her mouth twitched.
He couldn’t tell whether she wanted to laugh as well or break down in tears. He would like to see her laugh. Or at least smile.
He was sure she had the most lovely of smiles.
