town. A trip she’d only found the courage to take during the past few years. Before that, constant dangers that lurked on the city streets had kept her home frozen in fear. Yet now she was beginning to wonder whether her farm offered her any refuge at all.
Bright morning sun angled across the carriage windows and glittered over Aunt Muira’s pearl earrings—a remnant of the lady’s former wealth. Her jewelry being the only luxury she had kept from her past.
As they turned down Baltimore Street, Rose adjusted her bonnet and gazed at the brightly colored homes passing by in a rainbow of colors. Mulberry and hackberry trees lined the avenue while pink and red hollyhocks dotted the landscape. Turning, they ascended a small bridge that crossed over Jones Falls River into the east side of the city. The wooden planks creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the carriage. The
clip-clop
of the horses’ hooves echoed over the sparkling water that frolicked over boulders and fallen branches toward the sea. On days like this, it was hard to imagine that their country was at war. It was hard to imagine being frightened of anything.
Aunt Muira smiled at Rose—a calm, loving smile that reminded Rose of her mother’s. A pang of longing pinched her heart. Oh how she longed to talk with her own mother—to share her fears, her hopes, her disappointments. Though Aunt Muira didn’t hide her love for Rose, neither did she harbor much patience for Rose’s timid temperament.
The smell of salt from the nearby port mixed with the sweet nectarof flowers blew in through the window, and Rose drew a deep breath. She looked forward to Sundays—a day of rest and worship. Safely surrounded by family, it was a day she could get away from the farm. Away from her problems.
From the British officer hiding in the icehouse.
A twinge of guilt stiffened her. While it was the Christian thing to do, Rose felt like a traitor to her country for helping Mr. Reed. She should hate him. She should want him dead for what his countrymen had stolen from her. But after he returned her insults with courtesy and her threats with graciousness, she could conjure no feelings of contempt toward him. Regardless, she must put him from her mind. His strength was returning and he’d soon be gone. Back to his ship. Back to his nightly raids.
Back to being her enemy.
“You seem lost in your thoughts today, my dear,” Aunt Muira said.
“Yes, forgive me.” Rose gripped the window frame as the coach jostled over a bump in the road. “How was your trip to Washington?”
Her aunt’s lips pursed. “Worthwhile.” She shook her head as a breeze sent her red curls dancing. “My heart saddens for those poor little ones. This war has stripped many children of their parents. And of course, Reverend Hargrave takes them all in. Why, the orphanage is bursting at the seams with lost, desperate children.” The lines on her face seemed to deepen as she spoke. “And with only dear Edna there to assist him. No one in Washington seems to care. They are far too busy with their politics and their fancy balls.”
Amelia tore her gaze from the window. “I see no harm in an occasional ball. It is most agreeable to have a pleasant diversion from the war.”
Rose cringed at the impropriety of her maid chastising the lady of the house.
Yet Aunt Muira only smiled. “I quite agree, Amelia.” She tugged upon her white gloves. “I myself enjoy a good soiree now and then, yet never at the expense of the comfort of those in need.”
Amelia nodded as the landau pulled up in front of Uncle Forbes’s small stone church. Mr. Markham leaped down from the driver’s perch and assisted them one by one to the cobblestone walkway leading to the front door. A sign by its side read F IRST P RESBYTERIAN C HURCH .
R EVEREND F ORBES D RUMMOND . Pride swelled within Rose for her uncle’s accomplishments.
An odd assortment of people ambled through the open front doors, ladies in gowns of calico
Bright morning sun angled across the carriage windows and glittered over Aunt Muira’s pearl earrings—a remnant of the lady’s former wealth. Her jewelry being the only luxury she had kept from her past.
As they turned down Baltimore Street, Rose adjusted her bonnet and gazed at the brightly colored homes passing by in a rainbow of colors. Mulberry and hackberry trees lined the avenue while pink and red hollyhocks dotted the landscape. Turning, they ascended a small bridge that crossed over Jones Falls River into the east side of the city. The wooden planks creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the carriage. The
clip-clop
of the horses’ hooves echoed over the sparkling water that frolicked over boulders and fallen branches toward the sea. On days like this, it was hard to imagine that their country was at war. It was hard to imagine being frightened of anything.
Aunt Muira smiled at Rose—a calm, loving smile that reminded Rose of her mother’s. A pang of longing pinched her heart. Oh how she longed to talk with her own mother—to share her fears, her hopes, her disappointments. Though Aunt Muira didn’t hide her love for Rose, neither did she harbor much patience for Rose’s timid temperament.
The smell of salt from the nearby port mixed with the sweet nectarof flowers blew in through the window, and Rose drew a deep breath. She looked forward to Sundays—a day of rest and worship. Safely surrounded by family, it was a day she could get away from the farm. Away from her problems.
From the British officer hiding in the icehouse.
A twinge of guilt stiffened her. While it was the Christian thing to do, Rose felt like a traitor to her country for helping Mr. Reed. She should hate him. She should want him dead for what his countrymen had stolen from her. But after he returned her insults with courtesy and her threats with graciousness, she could conjure no feelings of contempt toward him. Regardless, she must put him from her mind. His strength was returning and he’d soon be gone. Back to his ship. Back to his nightly raids.
Back to being her enemy.
“You seem lost in your thoughts today, my dear,” Aunt Muira said.
“Yes, forgive me.” Rose gripped the window frame as the coach jostled over a bump in the road. “How was your trip to Washington?”
Her aunt’s lips pursed. “Worthwhile.” She shook her head as a breeze sent her red curls dancing. “My heart saddens for those poor little ones. This war has stripped many children of their parents. And of course, Reverend Hargrave takes them all in. Why, the orphanage is bursting at the seams with lost, desperate children.” The lines on her face seemed to deepen as she spoke. “And with only dear Edna there to assist him. No one in Washington seems to care. They are far too busy with their politics and their fancy balls.”
Amelia tore her gaze from the window. “I see no harm in an occasional ball. It is most agreeable to have a pleasant diversion from the war.”
Rose cringed at the impropriety of her maid chastising the lady of the house.
Yet Aunt Muira only smiled. “I quite agree, Amelia.” She tugged upon her white gloves. “I myself enjoy a good soiree now and then, yet never at the expense of the comfort of those in need.”
Amelia nodded as the landau pulled up in front of Uncle Forbes’s small stone church. Mr. Markham leaped down from the driver’s perch and assisted them one by one to the cobblestone walkway leading to the front door. A sign by its side read F IRST P RESBYTERIAN C HURCH .
R EVEREND F ORBES D RUMMOND . Pride swelled within Rose for her uncle’s accomplishments.
An odd assortment of people ambled through the open front doors, ladies in gowns of calico
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