Emily's Vow

  Emily's Vow

  A More Perfect Union

  Book One

  by

  Betty Bolté

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-654-1

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2014 by Betty Bolté. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  To Lorel

  Chapter 1

  "Frank is due to return any day." Emily Sullivan suppressed a shiver and quickened her pace. If asked, she would blame the early evening breeze blowing inland across the Charles Town harbor for her reaction. Frank had once claimed to be a patriot but now had switched his loyalties to serve as a loyalist broadside printer in the occupied town. How dare he even show his face? Did he truly believe in the British cause or did he have such loose morals as to pretend for his own profit? Either way, she'd have naught to do with the man. Her long skirts swirled about her hurried steps. "I'm glad you wanted to walk with me, Samantha. Your company calms me. And of course it's nicer than traversing the distance home from Aunt Lucille's house with my servants."

  "Together we'll be safe enough for such a short walk," Samantha McAlester replied, "though I doubt your father will agree given his insistence that you remain at home."

  "It is my fault we left the sewing circle later than I intended, but I miss St. Michael's bells chiming the hour. What shall we do without them? The British should pay dearly for stripping our treasured bells from the steeple."

  "Come, let's get you home and off the streets." Samantha quickened her pace.

  Emily hurried down the sandy road beside her friend, noting the waning sunshine draping shadows across the street. The slap of the waves at the distant convergence of the Cooper and Ashley Rivers beat a syncopated rhythm against the array of ship hulls, large and small, in the protected harbor. Many of the masts bobbing against the darkening sky sported the hated British flag. The losing army had resorted to sanctioned looting of the beautiful homes—those still standing after two years of British occupation as well as fires and bombardments—as booty for the officers and soldiers before they withdrew. She hoped they would leave soon, but nobody knew exactly when the British ships planned to depart. They'd already sent the bells to London along with other pilfered items. In fact, the British officers sought retaliation for the threat posed by the patriots, who had hidden their true allegiance, against the loyalists living in the city. The officers encouraged harassment of the American citizens, which translated into her father, a leading merchant in town, fearing for her safety more than ever. Until the British actually evacuated, uncertainty and fear blanketed the town.

  Dragging in a deep breath, unease settled over Emily's frayed nerves at the thought of Frank's return. "I cannot believe Father insists I marry him after all that man has done. Surely Americans have matured enough they wouldn't force a woman to marry. It's 1782, after all. I'm not a child. Why doesn't he understand?"

  A seagull glided past, its laughing call bringing a smile to her face. Her enjoyment didn't last long, though. The occupation of the town created fear and disquiet throughout the citizenry. Add in the horror of her sister Elizabeth's fiancé Jedediah dying, leaving her pregnant and in need of a husband. Then Jedediah's brother Frank, the man Emily had secretly cared for, married her sister to keep the child from being a bastard. Emily survived the misery of watching Frank marry Elizabeth only to suffer much more when Elizabeth died in childbirth with Frank away at war. Emily had come to terms with the prospect of raising her nephew, but being forced into marriage with Frank, too? How could life turn and twist with such disregard for her future goals and plans?

  Frank's imminent arrival now distressed her as much as the three hundred British ships crowding the harbor. The rumor about town suggested the ships stood poised to carry away the defeated enemy troops along with any loyalists wanting to flee the town. Many slaves would likely take the chance on freedom offered by the British, despite the American protests. The constant motion of the water for once failed to soothe her troubled thoughts.

  "Have you told your father how you feel?" Samantha matched Emily's stride easily despite her slight limp and the basket she carried.

  Sharing her feelings with her father had once enjoyed an easy place in Emily's heart. Now his demands for her to cloister within the theoretic safety of the town house, joined with his desire that she marry to secure her future, made confiding in him difficult. His concern stemmed from her advancing age with few appropriate prospects for marriage due to America's fight for its independence from an overbearing mother country, which seemed to be winding down. She longed for those carefree days, years before, filled with friendly banter and heartfelt discussions with her father.

  Emily wrinkled her nose. "I haven't spoken with him, not that I think he'll care. He's more concerned with my supposed need for a protector while he's away." What a pickle. Did he have to choose Frank to serve as both bodyguard and suitor?

  The thought created ripples of fear along her spine. Marrying a man, any man, meant losing her individuality, a fate she dreaded. The vows included obeying and honoring him, which translated into having his children. She shivered, recalling her twin sister on her deathbed mere days after delivering her son. Emily held her hand as Elizabeth's life departed, her fingers falling limp within Emily's clutching grasp. Just like their mother before her.

  So many young women across the country feared pregnancy and being brought to bed for that very reason. Elizabeth, like many of those women, had written out her will when she discovered she carried a child. At least the document detailed her wishes for her son. And her surrogate husband, Frank Thomson. Elizabeth was to wed Jedediah, the betrothal announced and celebrated, before Elizabeth revealed she was with child. The banns had been read twice when his militia duty arose and he'd left to fight. If Jedediah hadn't been killed, Frank would not have felt obligated to do his duty as Jedediah's brother to wed Elizabeth and give the unborn child a father and thus avoid bastardy.

  Emily used to think of him as her Frank, until he told her his decision to wed Elizabeth. Her heart had hurt for months as she struggled to understand and accept the reality that she could never have him. But once Elizabeth died in similar circumstances as their mother, Emily's fear of dying as a result of childbirth eclipsed any naive desire to marry.

  No, better to pursue her dreams of opening her ladies' accessories shop. She squared her shoulders, ready to face the astonishment of the ladies in town as well as plan a strategy for the battle when her father voiced his objections.
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br />   Lost in thought, Emily slowed involuntarily as Samantha paused in front of the empty bakery, its door shut tight. Next door the printing office boasted the glow of lanterns through the windows, signaling someone working late to prepare the British broadside for the morrow. Emily turned her attention back to the vacant bakery. She loved the little building so full of wonderful memories. Signs posted in the two plate-glass windows flanking the front door vainly tempted passersby with blueberry or cranberry muffins, apple pie, or pumpkin bread. She inhaled expectantly. Tears smarted her eyes when she smelled only sea salt and wood fires.

  "I cannot believe they actually hung the poor Widow Murray," Samantha said. A gust of wind snagged a few strands of ink-black hair, tugging them free from the casually wound bun nestled inside her bonnet. She tucked the strays behind one ear and glanced at Emily.

  "It is not surprising, when you consider her penchant for gossip, now is it?" Emily stopped also. The stooped woman had delighted in sharing titillating chitchat while Emily selected her two loaves of bread. Mischievous, she was, cackling over another's indiscretion. The woman refused to be circumspect, saying more than acceptable once too many times. But to be hung by the British as a spy? The foul Britons had no respect for American ladies.

  The darkened shop sat cold and lonely compared to the once-bustling business. A chill skated down Emily's spine, and she hugged herself. The Widow Murray had survived the death of her husband at the fight for Stono Ferry in June of 1779, and her bakery served as a popular early morning and late afternoon stop for the townspeople, until the British invaded Charles Town in May 1780. Then everything changed.

  Sadness mixed with anger settled in the pit of her stomach. She missed her brothers, off fighting with the militia, but at least their efforts yielded the nearing peace. "And to think, she stopped three deadly attacks on our boys just by sharing with my father what she heard."

  Samantha shrugged. "Yes, but it still makes me sad."

  "Her little shop feels so abandoned." Emily squinted at the store, assessing its size and features. The quaint store sat along a normally busy thoroughfare that promised to provide plenty of potential customers after peace returned. But first, she had to find the right moment to share her intentions, starting with her cousin Amy Abernathy and Samantha. Amy was her strongest ally and thus the perfect person to stand with her. Second, find a way to tell her father. After all, her new resolve to take care of herself unfortunately still required his assistance to secure the shop, given contracts were men's domain. Convincing her father she meant to conduct business on her own presented a nearly insurmountable challenge, but she would find a way to do so. Then she'd have to share her plans with the ladies in the sewing circle in order to garner their support of her efforts. She already envisioned mannequins within the cool dimness behind the glass panes, displaying embroidered dresses, shoes, slippers, and gloves. She pictured herself waiting on customers, sweeping up scraps of floss and fabric from her sewing, keeping the windows shiny clean.

  Peering at the empty building, she sighed. The stone and wood-plank structure invited passersby through its half-glass door. Large glass windows would allow the sunlight to filter inside, illuminating the interior in a way that made Emily smile with pleasure. She wanted to set up shop immediately. Her father would resist allowing her to do such a daring thing, citing society's expectations of women. Marriage, children, housework. No mention of a proper education nor avenues to personal achievement in the merchant world. Her father's stature in the community dictated her options, limited such as they were. She wanted more than a clean house and a productive garden from life. Somehow, she must persuade him to see reason.

  With a long last look, Emily turned away from the temptation of the store. "We must go. I don't want my father to catch me here without his required escort, and we're very late as it is."

  Few other people ventured onto the street as darkness crept closer and the stars began to wink at her from above. A lone wagon lumbered by, pulled by a dapple-gray draft horse, its ribs clearly visible in the evening light. Emily's heart went out to the beast. Even the horses suffered from want of adequate food, much like the townspeople. The prices of food and wares had increased a thousand percent since the onset of the war. The Continental Congress embargoed staples such as rice, indigo, corn, beef, and pork to ensure the American armies had provisions. If it weren't for her father ignoring those embargoes and continuing to export rice and indigo to the West Indies and France, they too would suffer financial distress. He also imported goods for sale in town, enabling them to continue to purchase food despite the exorbitant cost.

  In years past Charles Town had bustled at this time of day. The town's women would have been chatting together while strolling to the marketplace, once replete with a variety of foods and wares. The men engaged in heated discussions on their way to McCrady's tavern for a pint after a day spent at the Exchange conducting business. Wagons and carriages rumbled along to the steady rhythm of horses' hooves, creating puffs of dust to drift up and settle on the long skirts and pants of those on the street. All under the watchful eyes of the seagulls soaring and screaming overhead.

  Danger patrolled the streets in the form of British soldiers searching for anyone who dared be a patriot within the town limits. Those who had not signed the loyalty oath to King George's dictatorial ways were either run out of town, their property confiscated, or imprisoned on the ships at anchor in the harbor. Indeed, one night in August 1780, several prominent patriots, including Governor John Rutledge's brother, Edward, and Peter Timothy, the editor of the Gazette, found themselves charged with seditious activities, arrested, and sent to the St. Augustine prison in British East Florida. They were released after a year or so, but instead of being allowed to return to their homes in Charles Town, they were sent to Philadelphia to be with their exiled families.

  Samantha gripped the basket's arched handle with both hands and shrugged. "Your father will chastise us no matter, so what's the point?"

  "At least I can honor his request by being home before night completely falls. He objects to me being on the street, but my skills are needed. The cloth and shirts we're sewing will make our soldiers' lives a little more bearable. Perhaps even one of my brothers will receive comfort, wherever they are now." A seagull swooped onto the street in front of Emily, and she shooed it away with her skirts. Looking down the shadowy lane, she tensed. "Fiddlesticks, I'd hoped to avoid this."

  Two British soldiers, replete in crimson coats boasting dark blue facings and white breeches, ambled up the street, their rifles slung over their shoulders, bayonets sheathed. The two men saluted a third—a loyalist officer, by the hated dark blue coat faced with white and the crossed white straps—as they neared him on the opposite side of the road. To her mind, loyalists were worse than the British regulars because they chose a distant, controlling king over their friends and, in many cases, their own families.

  "Quick, while they are busy," Samantha whispered as she pulled her bonnet closer around her face, though she kept an eye on the men. "Perhaps they won't notice."

  Emily's heart sank. She'd gone and done it now. Her father would skin her like a rabbit if she landed in trouble. Again. Try as much as she did, she seemed to invite mischief. She furtively watched the men engage in a brief exchange. Solidly built, they stood as tall as young saplings, their broadcloth uniforms stretched taut over massive chests. One soldier winked at her with a slow, hungry leer as they approached. She lowered her head so the bonnet shaded her face but still allowed her to watch their actions. "I fear it's too late. Surely, though, they won't harm us standing on a public street."

  She glanced at the men, the lanterns they carried casting wavering light across their faces, alarm sparking inside her at the hungry amusement on their faces. She grabbed Samantha's arm and started down the sandy road. Her heart beat a staccato rhythm when the men neared, intercepting the two women on the nearly deserted street. As the soldiers drew to a halt in front of them, a low,
menacing chuckle from the taller of the men sent terror snaking down her back.

  "Now, now, ladies, don't be in such a hurry," the first soldier said, blocking her path.

  He reached out to tug loose a string from her tea-colored bonnet, her last decent one. She'd pulled it from her mother's trunk, forced to use even those last remaining articles of clothing. The filth. Bad enough they were British. Emily recoiled, gagging at the odor of sweat and tobacco. She swatted his hand away. The major—from the insignia she could now see far too closely—approached them. Something in his eyes, glittering beneath his hat, tugged at her memory. She dared not investigate more for fear he'd misinterpret her look as one of interest. She glanced away but kept an ear on the soldiers' movements.

  "They just want to have some fun," he said, his voice sharp as he stepped closer. "Where is your father, Miss Sullivan? Surely he didn't allow you to venture out alone?"

  "He's awaiting my return, if you'll permit me to pass." Emily made to continue on her way, but the officer raised a hand, stilling her movement.

  "Not yet. We merely wish to speak with you, make your acquaintance. After all, there's no one to stop us, now is there?"

  "I will." Samantha planted her feet and gripped the basket with both hands, glaring at the men.

  She would, too. Samantha proved the strongest of her friends, capable and confident. Emily often wished for Samantha's fortitude. Where had she learned to confront an adversary with such confidence?

  The officer chuckled. "It would be fun for you to try, at least. Perhaps then your father will mind his business ventures with more care."

  Samantha's eyes narrowed at his comment, but she held her ground. "We are late, sirs. Please, let us pass."