intention to publish the entire work online. However, if you would like a pre-release review copy, simply drop me a line at mj@maryjeanadams.com, and I will send you a pdf of the completed manuscript.
Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both: each army hath a hand;
And in their rage, I having hold of both,
They swirl asunder and dismember me.
Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;
Father, I may not wish thy fortune thine;
Grandam, I will not with thy fortunes thrive:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose.
~ King John by William Shakespeare, Act 3 Scene 1
To
my readers:
The
American Revolution tends to get portrayed in black and white. If you are an
American, the Rebels are the "good guys" and the Redcoats...well, not
so much.
When
you take a closer look at history, you’ll find pre-revolutionary Americans were
quite divided when it comes to the independence. Some, especially many of the
Founding Fathers, wanted peace with Great Britain and worked hard for it, even
after the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Others, like Thomas
Paine, may have preferred peace but were willing to give it up for the cause of
liberty. Then, as now, there were any number of citizens caught in the middle,
neither Rebel nor Loyalist. These hard-working men and women just wanted to carry
on with their lives but were often forced to take sides by circumstances beyond
their control.
This
series, The Peacemakers, tells the stories of those caught in the middle where
peace may not always prevail but love can if given a chance.
Mary Jean Adams
The
Rebel’s Kiss
Chapter One
November 1774, Wilmington, Delaware
"I will not marry him, Father."
Sarah Stevens' bald statement rang harshly
against the discordant notes of the quartet performing warm up drills in the
adjacent ballroom. Her father's annual officer's reception would begin within
the hour, and she had just finished her toilette when she received the summons
to his study.
Sarah assumed her father sought to
give her last-minute instructions for the servants. With no mother, the running
of the household had been hers at a time when other girls her age were still playing
with dolls.
How wrong she had been.
"Nonsense." Her father rifled
through the papers on his desk as though looking for something. "You will
marry Lieutenant Richardson, and I will announce it tonight."
Her father's massive, mahogany
writing desk loomed in front of her like a judge's bench. Sentence had just
been pronounced.
"Have I no say in the
matter?"
Sarah
blessed the errant piece of paper for which her father searched. She didn't
think she could be so bold if he looked her in the eye. She loved her father as
a daughter should, but theirs had never been what one might describe as a warm
relationship. Money was Stevens' first, and perhaps, his only love.
Stevens lifted his gaze and pierced his
daughter with startlingly green eyes, eyes that mirrored her own even though the
rest of her favored her mother. Her hair was the color of ginger, her skin fair, while her
father's olive skin tones suggested a more Mediterranean heritage — a
heritage he would take to his grave before he owned up to it.
"What say do you think you
should have?" His chin folded against his chest as he looked down his
nose at his daughter.
Stevens wore indignation well, and he
looked every bit a member of the House of Lords, a post he always claimed he
would have held, had his forbearers not made the dreadful decision to emigrate
to America and 'live among the savages.' Sarah was never sure to what title her
father laid claim. He was never very specific.
"Are you not my daughter? Am I
not the head of this household?" His multiple chins wobbled. "Is it
not my duty to protect you and yours to obey?"
Sarah knew he neither expected nor
desired a response, but she offered one anyway. "Times are changing, Father.
Many of my friends have been allowed to select their own husbands or at least
offer suggestions."
Her father scowled and returned to
the papers on his desk. "Then your friends have fools for parents. "
"But—"
Stevens cut his daughter's protest
short. "With those rebels making a ruckus, it is growing too dangerous to
allow a young girl to set her heart on a man not of her parent's choosing. A
girl needs a husband who can keep her safe, guide her through the countless
trials and temptations of this world." He raised his eyes briefly for one
last pointed gaze. "She also needs one who understands the importance of keeping
his wife busy so she does not have the time to think so much about things that are
none of her concern."
Sarah wanted to stamp her foot like
an immature seven-year-old, something she had never really had the opportunity
to be. She satisfied herself with a defiant, yet only slightly more dignified
retort. "I believe I may have some understanding of how the rebels feel."
Her father's face reddened. She had
his full attention now.
"What do you mean?"
Sarah squared her shoulders and
reminded herself to breathe. "Only that I know what it is like to have
your life directed by others without regard for your own desires, even though
you are perfectly capable of directing it for yourself."
A vein appeared in the middle of
Stevens' forehead. She could not recall that happening before. Still, he had
never so much as raised his voice to her let alone a hand, so the thick blue
line did not worry her. At least not overly much.
"Apparently," he spoke
slowly and in a quiet voice that compelled Sarah to silence, "I have given
you too much freedom over the years. I only pray your husband will take a
firmer hand. I will suggest it to the lieutenant on the morrow."
Desperation clutched at Sarah, and
she decided to try a different approach. Perhaps her father had some familial
instincts left in him. "Father, it has been so long since you and I spent time
together. Let us not ruin it by speaking of marriage, the rebels, or Lieutenant
Richardson. Cannot we hold off the announcement of my betrothal for another day
and enjoy what time we have left as father and daughter?"
Stevens' dark expression showed just
how much he cared for familial affections and sweet words.
"Our guests will be arriving
shortly. I suggest you hasten to ensure everything is in order." He
returned his attention to the papers on his desk.
It was a dismissal. Sarah recognized
the tone he used with his servants, his man of business, the local merchants, and
pretty much everybody else he deemed beneath him. Their time together, such as
it was, had ended.
*****
Jack Garrett tugged at the lace peeking
out from the end of his richly embroidered, velvet coat sleeves. The damned stuff
scratched like the devil and gave him an itch that nearly equaled that of his
long-suffering scalp that sweated under the weight of a powdered and perfumed
wig that stood at least a foot high. He longed to rip both of them from his
body and toss them out the carriage window. That indulgence, however, would
have to wait until his mission was complete. For the time being, he would have
to be content with pouring out his irritation into the look he gave his brother
seated across from him.
"Anthony, remind me again why
I was chosen for this assignment."
Anthony Garrett, ladies’ man, card
shark, and notorious Tory — or so it was believed — leaned back and stretched
out one long arm along the back of the richly upholstered seat. He examined the
well-manicured nails on his other hand.
"Because,” he paused just long
enough to look down his narrow, patrician nose at his younger brother. “You
will be less recognizable. You have been in Wilmington for less than a month,
and for the most part, you've kept yourself holed up on that land of yours like
some sort of monastic farmer."
He explained this all with the slow,
measured tones one might use when talking to a simpleton. Or to one's baby
brother. He pulled out the didactic style whenever he wanted to particularly
annoy Jack. Although Anthony's expression remained implacable, Jack knew he enjoyed
his brother's irritation.
"I fail to see how that
matters, Tony." He used the childhood nickname his brother despised just
to aggravate him in return. "You've lived here for nearly a year. You know
these people, and this is just the sort of thing you seem to enjoy, rubbing
elbows with the lobsters and talking nonsense. I fail to understand why the committee
voted to send me."
Anthony did not take the bait. "Because,
dear brother, while I know how to hob-knob with the right sort, I cannot take
the chance of certain individuals seeing me just yet." He pinched a bit of
snuff from a silver box he pulled from the pocket of his coat.
"And, the truth comes out, does
it not? My guess is you've been caught, once again, in a boudoir in which you
did not belong."
Anthony gave an elegant shrug of his
broad shoulders, sprinkled snuff across the back of his index finger, and then
held it to his nose. It seemed to be the only response he was inclined to give.
A bead of sweat trickled from
beneath Jack’s wig and soaked into the cravat wound around his neck tighter
than a hangman’s noose. Would they never arrive at their destination? They
couldn’t be far, but the carriage had slowed to a crawl. Outside, the carriage
drivers shouted and cursed at one another in a language that Jack understood
well. He’d fair far better in a conversation with one of these men than he would
in a ballroom filled with elite loyalists and erstwhile English noblemen.
"Nonsense,” Anthony said
finally. “I was not caught. I was seen leaving. There is a difference, you
know."
"So how is it that you are able
to procure an invitation for a man, namely me, that no one has ever heard of?
Especially if you can barely show your face among the gentry lest you be called
out. "
"Hah! You don't think Madame
Owens and I were indisposed the entire time, do you? On the contrary, I spent
most of that delightful hour singing the praises of a man who would
make a wonderful addition to Stevens' reception if only she could procure an
invitation for him."
Jack raised an eyebrow. "That's
all it took, huh? A few kind words from you, and the next thing I know, an
invitation is delivered to my farm by special messenger."
"Well, that, and a few other
things." Anthony took another pinch of snuff, then sneezed so forcefully
into a silk handkerchief that it rocked the carriage. He swiped at his nose then
stuffed the handkerchief back in his sleeve. "Although, I would suggest
you not allow a certain Major Owens to get a good look at your face. Although I
am notably the more handsome, we do share a certain familial resemblance."
The snuff. The paramours. The velvet
suits. It was all part of the act Anthony had perfected with such diligence
that Jack wasn't even sure he knew his brother anymore. He feared his brother had taken his assumed persona a bit too much to
heart.
"Our similarities stop
there."
"Ha! Someday, little brother,
you will discover a woman that entices you to risk your neck just to spend
another moment in her presence. I, for one, cannot wait to see it."
Jack turned to the window to watch a
pedestrian walking at a modest pace overtake the carriage and pass it by. "Let
us hope you live to see it."
Anthony pulled him back with a hand
on his sleeve. It was a different Anthony who looked him in the eye, now. The
one he idolized as a young child. The one he sought to emulate as they
matured. The one who enlisted him in the cause with an almost manic
eagerness after the attack on Lydia.
"Look, Jack, I cannot tell you
how tense the situation has become. I fear some of our friends in the committee
are hoping the conflict escalates to the point of violence. Frankly, I believe it's due to divine
intervention that no one has seriously injured or worse. I do not trust them."
"Nor do I." Jack settled
back into the velvet cushions. "Most are the honorable sort and have the
best of intentions, but they do tend to let their passions carry the day."
"And there are those among them
who prey on those passions."
Jack knew his brother spoke of men
like Sam Adams, a Bostonian whose revolutionary fervor knew no bounds. He was
widely believed to have been behind the organization of the dumping of tea into
the Boston Harbor, although there had been no hard evidence. None of those
involved were talking.
Of course, Parliament seemed not to
care whom the responsible parties were. The series of Acts they passed were
clearly intended to punish all of Boston. A serious blunder as far as Jack was
concerned. Towns and villages as far as away as Wilmington had come to Boston's
aid. Even he had donated a couple of head of cattle from his struggling
farmstead. More importantly, Boston's problem was now an American problem, and
the bastards in Parliament had brought the country one step closer to war.
The air in the carriage grew thick,
and Jack tugged at his cravat. "So it was necessary for me to dress like a
peacock?"
"Don't you dare." Anthony swiped
at his brother’s hand. "With your
fidgeting, it took me over an hour to tie your cravat so it lay just so. If I
had left it to you, your slipshod dressing habits would have given away your
loyalties in an instant."
"You act as though you are the
one making sacrifices. I am the one who would prefer homespun, and yet I am
forced to wear velvet and lace. If it weren't for the breeches, one would not
be able to tell me from the girls." That was an exaggeration. No one could
ever mistake Jack's sturdy, five-foot-ten-inch frame for a girl's figure no
matter how much lace he wore. Nevertheless, Jack was on a roll. "I even cut my queue so I could wear this damned wig."
"You,
little brother, are like a covered tea kettle at full boil." The imperious
macaroni had returned. "You utter barely a word while you stoke that
temper of yours. Then, you let it off in a noisy burst of steam lest you
explode."
"I'm not even sure what that
means, Anthony."
Anthony snorted. "It means you
say little, but complain much. You had to cut your queue, yes, but you still
have those adorable curly brown locks of yours.
They remind me of when you were just a babe."
At twenty-seven,
Anthony was almost two years to the day his elder. It was doubtful he recalled
what sort of haircut his younger brother wore as a baby when he was barely out
of swaddling clothes himself.
"More importantly," Anthony
continued, "people will see what they want to see."
"A Tory macaroni," Jack
said the words as though uttering an expletive.
"Exactly." Anthony tapped
on the carriage roof with his cane as they rolled up to a two-and-a-half-story,
red-brick Georgian. The house was oddly out of place on a main thoroughfare,
sitting among its more humble neighbors. Much like the man who owned it.
"What you are is sometimes more important to people than who you are. If they look at you and see
a young man-about-town looking for his next dalliance, they'll move on to more
mysterious prospects. But if they cannot tell immediately what you are, their
gazes may linger. And that may lead to speculation we can ill afford."
One of Stevens' footmen opened the
door and lowered the steps. Jack stooped and stepped through, remembering just
in time to duck to avoid dislodging his wig. He alighted on the gravel drive
with a litheness that belied his pampered appearance.
Anthony rested his arm on the
carriage window and leaned forward, a wicked grin lighting his face.
"There is just one more thing you need to make your costume
complete."
Jack knew that grin. Anthony only
wore it when he was about to say something sure to torment his younger brother.
"No. No more of that damned odor of Cologne or whatever they call it.
It smells worse than the French themselves. I swear my head is going to explode
from the stench of my wig alone."
Anthony’s grin grew even more
devilish. "Ha! You should have smelled the wig before my valet refreshed
it. But in this instance, I have a more important question for you to
consider.”
“And that would be?” The itch on
his scalp had grown worse and Jack was in no mood for Anthony’s games.
“What does a macaroni usually have
draped over his arm?"
"A cane?" Jack held up the
silver-tipped cane with an ivory handle that Anthony had loaned him for the
evening. "I have one of those, and yes, I shall return it undamaged as
promised."
Anthony rolled
his eyes. "Both arms then."
"Why would I need two
canes?"
He hated to carry a cane. It might
be a necessary affectation, but he felt like an old man. Just the weight of it
made him want to clunk someone over the head in a fit of elderly pique. He’d
start with his brother.
"No, dear brother. I mean
women. You do know what they are, do you not?"
"I do."
"Good. For the macaroni, the
sole purpose in life is the opposite sex." He paused. "Well, occasionally
the same sex."
"Are you sure their sole
purpose is not spirits, cards, or horses?" If Jack found no enjoyment in
Anthony’s riddles, he found even less in his brother's ill-favored jests.
"Those are important, yes, but
they are a means to an end. Women are the purpose, and it wouldn't hurt to find
at least one with whom to dally."
With that, Anthony shut the carriage
door in his brother's face. Accompanied by the grinding rumble of wheels
against gravel, the carriage rolled away, leaving Jack standing alone in the
street. Almost alone anyway. Stevens' footman stood a few feet away, an
inscrutable expression on his face, waiting for his master's latest guest to
make up his mind. Was he going in or not?
"Ah, well, I have survived
worse." Jack stiffened his spine and his resolve and headed toward the
front door.
Read chapter two here.
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