sought to make even the lowliest of her guests comfortable.
“Forgive me, sir, for disparaging your new friends.” Summerlin glanced over his shoulder toward the closed bedroom door and bent toward Frederick with a confidential air. “I am your servant in all things.”
Frederick mirrored his move. “Thank you. But there will be no trysts. The young lady will be courted properly.” He caught Summerlin’s gaze. “Only time will tell, of course, but I believe Miss Folger is all I could wish for in a wife.”
Serene comprehension washed over Summerlin’s face, softening his pale wrinkles. “As I said, sir, I am your servant in all things.”
A sharp rap sounded on the door. “Moberly, your guests are arriving.” Oliver’s tone sounded almost jovial.
Summerlin’s expression flickered with distaste for the briefest instant before giving way to his customary formal air. In that half second, Frederick knew without doubt that his devoted servant had purposely left Oliver’s letter on his desk, and warmth filled his chest, as it had over Templeton’s friendship.
Father would sneer at his idea of calling these lower-class men “friends,” but Frederick could consider them nothing less. And how relieved he had been to discover that Templeton was not the agitator, as Corwin had suggested.
“Coming, Corwin.” Frederick strode toward the door.
Summerlin hobbled close behind, brushing lint from Frederick’s coat all the way. “Have a good evening, sir.”
Visions of the lovely Miss Folger danced before Frederick’s eyes as he grasped the door latch. “That I shall, my good man. That I shall.”
The wagon rattled along the well-packed sand and seashell road beneath a canopy of oak, pine and cypress trees. Seated beside Papa on the driver’s bench, Rachel held her poorly mended parasol overhead while the late afternoon sun blasted its heat through the tree branches. Perspiration had begun to wilt her freshly pressed gown, and her curls threatened to unwind. Nevertheless, excitement filled her as she anticipated the party. She would try to discover if the patriot was among the guests. And she hoped to find the opportunity to tell Mr. Moberly how much she admired his wisdom in the case of the stolen pig.
Savoring the fragrances of the tropical forests, she studied the undergrowth for evidence of panthers, bears or poisonous snakes. Papa had assured her that this road lay too far from water for them to chance upon an alligator, yet she watched for them, as well. Several times she thought to have seen one of those fearsome dragons only to realize the object was a fallen tree.
As they rounded a stand of palm trees and a large white building came into view, Papa pointed with his wagon whip and whistled. “Thar she blows. Now that’s a house, if ever I saw one.”
Rachel laughed at his understatement even as her own feelings swelled. The two-storied mansion sat elevated several feet off the ground on a coquina foundation. A broad wooden porch extended across the wide front, and four white Doric columns supported the porch roof. Eight tall front windows, four on each floor, suggested airy rooms inside.
The blue and red bunting Mr. Moberly had purchased from the store now hung around the columns in a festive display. Their crisscross pattern against the white background vaguely suggested the British flag, a nettling reminder to Rachel of who ruled this land. With some effort, she dismissed the unpleasant thought. Even if their host had deliberately hung them that way, he was after all an Englishman who no doubt loved his homeland.
On the left side of the main house, smoke curled from the kitchen house’s chimney, and a warm breeze carried the aroma of roasting pork.
“That’ll set a man’s mouth to watering.” Papa steered his two mules into the semicircular drive before the front entrance, where several liveried black grooms awaited.
As Papa pulled the reins, one groom grasped the harness, and another stood ready to take control of the equipage. Rachel saw Mr. Moberly hastening from the house, followed by a slave carrying a small white boxstep. At the sight of him, finely dressed but by no means haughty, her heart missed a beat.
Papa jumped to the ground and hobbled to her side of the wagon. But Mr. Moberly reached her first.
“Good evening. Welcome.” Mr. Moberly shook Papa’s hand. “Will you permit me to assist your daughter, Mr. Folger?”
“As ye will.” Papa bowed.
“Put it here.” Mr. Moberly motioned to the slave and indicated a spot on the ground. “Miss Folger, may I?” He held out both white-gloved hands.
“Yes, thank you.” She grasped them with pleasure, and her face warmed as she climbed from the wagon. Never in her life had she received such attention.
“Welcome to Bennington Plantation.” Mr. Moberly offered Rachel his arm. “Won’t you please come inside?”
The entrance to the house was a welcoming red door with an oval etched-glass window. Inside they were introduced to Mr. Moberly’s cousin, a tall, older woman.
“Do come in. We’re pleased to have you.” Mrs. Winthrop wore a black linen gown, and her hair was pinned back in a roll. A kind look lit her finely lined face, and her voice resonated with sincerity.
Dr. Wellsey greeted the newcomers, and even Mr. Corwin spoke pleasantly to them. They met a Reverend Johnson and his wife, and the minister invited them to his church services. To Rachel’s surprise and delight, Papa accepted. Mrs. Johnson, however, showed no interest in further conversation.
Several other couples were in attendance, and Rachel studied each face upon introduction trying to discern if any of them might be the patriot. Although everyone seemed friendly, not one person lifted an eyebrow upon meeting the Folgers from Boston. Had they not heard of the British invasion and the battles of Lexington and Concord?
While servants passed trays of hors d’oeuvres and cups of citrus punch, the men stood in a group and chatted about crops and weather. Rachel passed by as one man mentioned the “agitator” who frequented the taverns, and she glanced about the group to see if anyone appeared nervous. Not one expression informed her.
“The problem is,” Mr. Moberly said, “his description does not match anyone we know along the St. Johns River or in the settlement. So, if you see a stout fellow with a long red beard, do mention it to the nearest soldier.”
While the other men accepted the charge without much concern, Rachel felt a tremor of delight. Now she had one description, but perhaps there were other patriots.
She joined the other ladies, who stood on the opposite side of the drawing room making polite conversation about the challenges of living in the wilderness. The youngest woman in the group, Rachel listened more than she spoke, as propriety demanded. But she prayed for an opportunity to mention the matter close to her heart. In Boston, all the talk had been of the revolution. Here, none of the women seemed aware that their counterparts up north were sewing uniforms for their soldier husbands and weeping for those who had died for freedom’s sake a short two months ago.
“Miss Folger,” Mrs. Winthrop said, “I understand your father’s store has many wares we are generally deprived of here in East Florida.”
“Yes, ma’am.” An unexpected wave of pleasure swept through Rachel at being addressed so particularly by this kind, elegant lady. “We have been fortunate
