And that is your pig?” Frederick pointed to the sack.
“Yes, sir.”
Frederick noticed that Baker’s expression held more worry than anger. Interesting. Did he hope for leniency or vengeance?
“Now, John, you have been accused of stealing this pig. Did you do it?”
Misery clouded the lad’s blue eyes. “Aye, sir. ’Twas not just fer meself. Mr. Baker don’t feed us aught but gruel. A man’s gotta have meat now and then or he can’t work the land.”
Frederick saw color rush to Baker’s cheeks. He did not deny the charge.
Lord, grant me the wisdom of Solomon. Frederick recalled that Governor Grant had required one man under judgment to hang his more blameworthy friends.
“Well, Mr. Baker, this man belongs to you to do with as you will. If you want him hanged, you will do it yourself.” Frederick pointed his quill pen toward the noose hanging from the oak tree.
A great gasp and much murmuring rose from the crowd, some approving, some grumbling. Frederick would not permit himself to look at Miss Folger to see what her reaction might be.
“Now, Mr. Moberly, sir,” Mr. Baker said, “if I hang him, I’m out a servant to work my land. I paid his fare to these shores, and he owes me six more years.”
Frederick shrugged. “Then what do you consider a just punishment?”
Baker scratched his head. He glanced toward the stocks. “Forty lashes and a week in the stocks should teach ’im a lesson.”
And kill him in the process. Frederick set down his quill and crossed his arms over his chest. “Three days in the stocks and ten lashes afterward. And you will scourge him yourself.”
Baker’s posture slumped, and he hung his head. After several moments, he gave John Gilbert a sidelong glance, then raised his eyes to Frederick. “That’ll do justice. Thank you, sir.”
The crowd burst into cheers and applause. John Gilbert slumped to the ground on his knees. “God bless ya, Mr. Moberly, sir. God bless ya.”
Emotion flooded Frederick’s chest, but he managed a gruff dismissal. “Are there other quarrels?”
With none coming forward, Frederick made notes in his ledger, blotted the ink, and closed the book. As the crowd dispersed, he cast a hasty glance at Miss Folger and barely contained a smile. Her head was tilted prettily, and a look of wonder filled her lovely face. Once again he swallowed a rush of emotion. Whether or not his judgment had been correct, her obvious approval was all he required.
Rachel knew she must turn and walk away like the others, but her feet refused to move. To her relief, Mr. Moberly approached her. She struggled to think of a Scripture verse to relate to him in praise of his decision. But she could think only of some words from Shakespeare that nonetheless imparted an eternal truth: The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
“Miss Folger.” Mr. Moberly gave her that boyish smile of his that belied his august position. “What brings you to the common on this lovely day?”
Unable to meet his gaze, she stared down at his well-polished black boots, now covered with sand. “Just a trip to the cobbler.”
“Ah. And did Mr. Shoemaker serve you well?”
She looked up to see a twinkle in his gray eyes. “Indeed he did.” At least with her shoe.
“Very good.” He nodded his approval. “If I am not being too bold, may I escort you to your father’s mercantile?”
Happiness swept through her. On the way, she could recite her Shakespeare to compliment his judgment. “That would be—”
“Moberly.” Mr. Corwin approached them with a determined stride. He barely glanced at Rachel. “The tavern keeper had a visit from that rabble-rouser last evening. He can give us a description.”
Mr. Moberly drew in his lips and shot a cross look at his friend. “I am certain he can wait for an hour.”
Rachel’s heart thumped wildly. The patriot was still at work.
“No, he cannot wait.” Mr. Corwin’s frown matched Mr. Moberly’s. “He must meet his suppliers on the coast before nightfall.”
Mr. Moberly blew out a cross sigh. “Miss Folger, will you forgive me?”
“Of course.” A riot of confusion filled her mind. How could she long to become better acquainted with this gentleman when he represented everything she opposed?
For the briefest moment, she thought to delay him so he would miss learning more about the patriot. Or she could follow him and try to discern the man’s identity herself. But both actions would be shocking improprieties. She would wait until next Saturday’s party at Mr. Moberly’s plantation. Surely there she would learn something useful to the revolution.
Chapter Six
“Are you certain I should wear this one?” Frederick studied his reflection in the bedroom mirror while his manservant fussed with the turned back tails of the gray linen coat. “Why not the red brocade?”
“Sir, if you will permit me, the red most assuredly is your finest coat.” Summerlin brushed lint from the gray garment’s padded shoulders. “However, I despair that you would waste it on these rustics.” His lip curled. “Should you not save it for the day when you are called once again to the capital of this wilderness?”
Frederick shot him a disapproving glance in the mirror, but Summerlin had shifted his attention to the lace at Frederick’s cuffs. Never mind. He hated to scold the old fellow, who had been ordered by Frederick’s father to leave the comforts of London and come to East Florida, a crushing change for a man in his fifties. Perhaps he was another spy like Oliver, sent to make certain Frederick brought no scandal upon the family, as his brothers had. But, white hair and stooped shoulders notwithstanding, Summerlin’s talents as a valet could not be matched.
“Very well. I shall accept your choice of attire but not your attitude toward my guests.” Frederick kept his tone soft. “Some of these ‘rustics’ can be quite charming, not to mention intelligent and clever at business.”
Summerlin straightened in his odd way and stared at Frederick. “Charming, sir? Oh, dear. Has some young lady caught my master’s eye?” The clarity in his pale blue eyes and the half smile at the corner of his thin lips removed any doubts about where his loyalty lay. “Well, then, perhaps the red—”
“No, this will do.” Frederick breathed in the orange and bergamot cologne Summerlin had concocted for him. “Now that I think of it, if I were to dress as for an audience with the governor, my clothing might intimidate my guests. Since my purpose is to ensure their loyalty to the Crown and foster a feeling of community, I should avoid strutting before them like a peacock.”
“Ah, well said, young sir.” Approval emanated from Summerlin’s eyes such as Frederick had longed for in vain from his father. “Lady Bennington would be proud.”
Summerlin’s
