Whispers from the Shadows Read online

  Gwyneth shook her head, a frantic attempt to keep the words away.

  “What would you do then? Waste away until you die too? Let the nightmares taunt you into doing something stupid?”

  Another sob tried to bully its way up her throat, but she held it back with a hard swallow.

  Rosie shook her head. “You do that, missy, and you let them win.”

  We’ve already won.

  “They’ve already won.”

  The woman snapped upright, her eyes sparking. “Oh, no, they haven’t.” She reached past Gwyneth to the paper-strewn vanity top and came up with a book. Its worn leather cover looked familiar, but what was it?

  “ ‘Blessed Lord, let me climb up near to Thee…’ ”

  The prayer book. Of course. But what good could it do? Perhaps God had listened to those men who had first prayed the words. Perhaps He had let them climb onto His lap. But they had been so very much stronger than she, strong enough to flee persecution and build a new life in this wild land.

  And what, beloved, have you done?

  She lifted her head and turned it toward Rosie, though she had not been the one to whisper those words. Those soft, silent words that filled her heart rather than her ears. That beat back the shadows just a stitch and lifted that foggy veil just an inch.

  “ ‘…and love, and long, and plead, and wrestle with Thee, and pant for deliverance from the body of sin, for my heart is wandering and lifeless, and my soul mourns to think it should ever lose sight of its beloved.’ ”

  Mourn, came the hissing breath that clawed up her spine. Mourn the loss of your beloved. He is gone. They all are. Everyone you loved.

  A shiver overtook her…but then a warmth seeped in. Am I gone? Am I dead?

  “No.” Her lips formed the word, though no breath gave them voice.

  No. I AM.

  Yes. He was. She closed her eyes again and watched as another flash of light danced across their shuttered lids.

  “ ‘Wrap my life in divine love, and keep me ever desiring Thee…’ ”

  “Oh, God, forgive me.” She leaned forward, eased off her stool until the summer-warm floor welcomed her knees. How long since He had been her desire? How long since she sought Him, sought Him and expected to meet Him? “Let me climb up near to Thee.”

  Rosie settled beside her and rested one comforting hand on her back. “ ‘…always humble and resigned to Thy will, more fixed on Thyself, that I may be more fitted for doing and suffering.’ ”

  Fitted for suffering. Suffer she did, but not for Him. Not for His glory, but for her own misery, and that, it seemed, was a crucial difference. Because the grief that consumed her, while understandable, had kept her fixated on herself, not on Him. She had not been like Papa, who turned ever more to the Lord in the face of mourning. She had been like…a child.

  My child. Come unto Me, my laboring and heavy-laden child. I shall give you rest.

  “Rest.” The word came out on a moan. A yearning, a plea. She stretched a hand along the rug as if she could grasp that promise and pull it close.

  The hissing, waking nightmare of a voice came again. His rest is death. If that is what you seek, then go find it. Join your father, your mother.

  “No.” No, no, no. Exhausted as she was, she knew that was no answer. Had she wanted death, she would have screamed when her father fell. She would have let Uncle Gates strike her down then and there. She would have slid into the jowls of the monster on the ship and plunged into the netherworld. But death was not what she sought—simply peace. Rest.

  And she had thought she had it. Had thought it in her hand and, more, happiness with it. That all she had to do was make a place for herself here, beside Thad. That if she could but stay in his arms…but he had left. And what if, as Rosie asked, he never came back? How would she survive then? How, for that matter, could she join her life to a ship’s captain’s and suffer this anew every time he left?

  Rosie wove her fingers through Gwyneth’s still-outstretched ones. “Where is your rest, Gwyneth child? Was it in your daddy?”

  Her muscles went taut across her shoulders, up her neck, down her back. Papa, precious Papa—his death certainly marked the end of her peace. But if it had been in him, then would she not have felt so anxious, so exhausted every time he was away? On each and every campaign? But she hadn’t. She worried, certainly, but it had never consumed her. Not like this.

  She shook her head, the rug rubbing her forehead.

  Rosie smoothed a hand over Gwyneth’s hair, so neatly caught back now. “No, your rest can’t lie with him. Maybe it seemed so at first, since his loss started you on this journey. But he never stopped being gone, yet you stopped being so restless for a while there. Right?”

  She tried to swallow, though her throat felt too dry. “I…” An attempt at a steadying breath sent a tremor through her. “I cannot explain it. I had begun to feel safe—”

  “Only when Thaddeus was here. Ain’t that right?”

  Of course not. That couldn’t be, and she opened her mouth to say so. But her tongue tangled around the words, and the realization pounded her like the rain did the pane of her window.

  Every time, every single time she had slept before he went on this trip had been when he was home. As if attuned to his footsteps, she had awakened the minute he left the house—and often fallen asleep within minutes of his return. Beginning, for some bizarre reason, the very day she arrived.

  “That makes no sense.” She squeezed Rosie’s fingers and wished she could grasp the workings of her mind so easily. “Perhaps now it would, given how much I…”

  Rosie chuckled. “Go ahead and say it. How much you love him. We all know you do.”

  Perhaps she did, and perhaps they all knew it. But such words ought not be spoken so casually. “But at the start, I scarcely knew him. I knew only that…”

  She jerked upright and met Rosie’s gaze. “I knew only that my father trusted him, and so I trusted him.”

  Rosie patted her hand. “Makes sense when you think of it like that. Rest can’t come unless you put your trust in someone. Problem is, you put yours in a man. And as wonderful a man as he is, he can’t always be here, child. He gonna go away now and then. He gonna mess up now and then when he’s home. He gonna fail you.”

  He will fail you always. He will never come home. Why should he come home to you?

  She shook her head to clear it of those doubts and called up the image of Thad. Thad, with his selfless heart and intuitive spirit. Thad, who must have altered his entire life to accommodate her needs these last two months. His smile, always so quick to try to tease out hers. His hands, so quick to catch her when she fell. His eyes, speaking those words she wouldn’t yet put to voice.

  Was trust enough to have made the connection she felt to him? Was it merely that her father had entrusted her to him? It couldn’t be. That alone couldn’t account for how her feet always found him, for the way he had filled her heart.

  Had Papa known, when he sent her here, that she would tumble straight into love? But loving him wasn’t enough. Not when his absence sent her back into this abyss.

  Rosie tipped up her chin. “Where is your rest, child? In who?”

  Nowhere. In no one.

  Her lips parted, ready to echo those words so obviously true. Had she anyone to give her such a thing, any place in which to find it…

  “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

  She heard Him, heard Him call her. Heard it in the silence, in the whisper within, the murmur that pulsed with a light from which the darkness fled. Inch by inch, the next flash of lightning seeming to strike within her.

  Blessed Lord, let me climb up near to Thee…

  “Oh, dear Jesus.” Tears blurred her eyes, and she made no attempt to blink them away. They magnified the truth before her. When the Lord blessed her, she needed to rejoice and praise Him, recognizing that a gift had been given, one so thoroughly undeserved. And when loss ca
me, as it always did, then hers was not to rail, was not to succumb to the dark waves. Hers was to focus her eyes on Him and walk across them. Not just to weather the storm, but to trust Him to still it. To breathe peace into the night.

  To be her rest, if she would but go into His arms. His, that would never let her go.

  “Did you hear what Emmy was reading this morning?” Rosie urged her up and steadied her when her knees wobbled.

  Gwyneth shook her head. Since Thad left, the days had run together like watercolors.

  “I didn’t figure. You was more focused on your drawing than anything else.” She slipped an arm around Gwyneth’s waist and led her toward the bed. “She read that part in Mark four where Jesus was asleep in the boat and the storm came up.”

  Gwyneth stood still while Rosie positioned the pillows against the headboard and pulled back the blankets.

  “There, now. You sit and have your pudding right here.”

  Pudding in bed. Shaking her head, Gwyneth sank onto the mattress and leaned back upon the feather pillows.

  Rosie fetched the treat from the tray on her vanity and brought it over. “While she was reading, something jumped out at me that never did before. Now, the disciples, they were right scared of that storm.”

  A roll of thunder punctuated her words. But it sounded more distant now, muted. Gwyneth spooned up a bite. “They woke Jesus up, frantic. They asked Him if He cared that they were perishing.”

  “That’s right. And do you remember what Jesus did?”

  She let the sweet taste of the pudding dissolve on her tongue and then swallowed. “He chided them for their lack of faith and spoke to the storm, commanding it to be still. And it obeyed.”

  “Close.” Rosie grinned and patted her knee. “He rose up and rebuked the storm first. Then He spoke to the men who ought to have had faith enough to know that the Son of God wasn’t going to be killed by no random weather. He calmed the storm, child. He calmed the storm first, because His friends were scared and asked Him to. He calmed it so that they would be at peace. And then He could speak to them of faith.”

  Calm my storm, Father God. Please Lord, calm my storm. Still my fears. Be my rest. Though she spoke not aloud, she heard her prayer as a cry within her and felt it shudder the very foundations of her being. That shaky, fractured foundation so desperate to be shored up.

  You are shattered. Broken.

  Yes. She smiled into the hiss as she let her eyes slide closed. She was shattered. Broken. And she was His. She had only to put those pieces into the Potter’s hand and let Him make her into a new vessel.

  The weight was lifted from her hands as Rosie took the dessert dish, and Gwyneth snuggled between her soft sheets. More, the weight was lifted from her soul, and she climbed up into the lap of the Father who had never been any farther away than a whisper.

  Twenty-Five

  The sweet sound of sails snapping in the crisp wind brought a smile to Thad’s lips. He raised his spyglass and scanned the horizon. As with every other time he had done so since weighing anchor at the break of dawn, he breathed a prayer that those waters would remain clear. That no British ships would follow him out of Bermuda, that no new ones would appear. That he would make the Chesapeake free and clear, and that the Lord would provide a quick way back into the bay.

  Home. Home to Gwyneth, who had yet to fade more than a shade from his thoughts since the Lord brought him to his knees last night. To his family—Philly had been heavy on his mind this morning too. And to Tallmadge, who would be eager indeed for the news he carried with him.

  “If the wind stays with us, we should make it home in less than a week.” Michaels stepped up beside him, his eyes alight. “Though part of me would as soon stay out on open water. There are plenty of British ships begging to be harassed.”

  Thad chuckled as he slid his spyglass closed. “True as that is, and much as part of me would love to play the menace, we need to get back. This information will be helpful to our military.”

  Michaels snorted. “Assuming they listen, you mean. A grand assumption, if you ask me.”

  “They will listen. This time they will.” They must. If they didn’t…well, then the entire region would pay for it, as they would for their months—nay, years—of refusal to prepare for the coming attacks.

  Because this would be more than another raid. If Cochrane and Ross gave Cockburn his way, which they had sounded inclined to do while Thad treaded water by the hull of the Tonnant last night, then Washington City would be the next target. As soon as this newly arrived fleet made its way from Bermuda, they would plan the attack.

  Assuming it took them another week where they were, then a week to organize in America, that meant two weeks after Thad reached home with the news to get everyone ready. Two weeks to strengthen their early warning method of keeping abreast of British activities. Two weeks to fortify and position troops. To call up troops.

  A chill swept through him despite the balmy early August breeze. God of my end, my nation rests in Your hands. Deliver us.

  As if in response, a gust of wind blasted by and sped them over another wave.

  “I’m going to check my charts.” Thad gave Michaels a pat on the shoulder and strode toward his cabin. Henry was already inside, his gaze not on the navigation charts but on the map of the Eastern Seaboard. “Plotting where to bury your treasure?”

  His friend offered him a wide grin. “Oh, I buried that long ago.” He turned back to the map and tapped the area along the Patuxent. “The system Smith set up under Barney ought to work well enough if we fortify it.”

  “I have been thinking the same thing.” They had a reliable enough way of conveying information on the British movements. Cannons and guns were fired by one town as soon as the enemy came near, and tracking that from village to village gave the next one advance warning of their coming. And for more specific information, they had mounted couriers to take messages from one observation station to the next.

  Thad had assisted in the construction of it months ago. He would put all the members on alert as soon as he got home, especially in the areas between the British’s current location and the capital city. As soon as the enemy moved that way, messages would begin to fly.

  But as Michaels had wondered, would the politicians listen?

  Thad shook his head. “I am not surprised they are considering Cockburn’s plan, yet I cannot quite believe they would do it. Tactically, it makes no sense. Winning Washington will accomplish them nothing in terms of position.”

  Henry tilted his head to the side. “Ain’t you the one who said this war isn’t about gaining strategic positions?”

  “Too true. ’Tis about destroying American morale—nothing more and nothing less. Dividing us. And they think destroying our capital will defeat our spirits.”

  Henry’s lips twitched into another grin. “More the fools, them.”

  Thad smiled back. “They have obviously not heard that their similar attack on the city of Hampton has become a rallying cry.”

  “Still.” Henry nodded toward the map again. “Best to try to head them off and keep them away from the cities and townsfolk.”

  No doubt the generals would have the same thought and would seek to meet them well outside the city. “Let us hope we have the strength to do so. Unfortunately, the newspaper articles that have convinced Cockburn we are weak enough to make this a viable plan are not mistaken.”

  “There’s still time to strengthen.”

  But enough? “Let us hope so.” Just as he would have to hope that there would be time enough to strengthen the foundations of his own house. To resolve the issues with Arnaud. With Gwyneth. To convince them both that they hadn’t the leisure to indulge in bitterness. Not when Washington was a target and Baltimore could easily be the next.

  Thad could feel it, the coming wave of war. Feel it mounting on the horizon like a hurricane. They would all have to batten down the hatches of their defenses and of their lives because there would be no avoidin
g the thick of things. Not if they intended to hold on to their liberties. Even if that meant a certain risk to their lives.

  Gwyneth’s face filled his vision again, and he shut his eyes to better see it. Was she well? Sleepless again? Would he return to that shadowed shell, one filled with anger with him instead of the horror of her loss? That need that hit him last night, that had kept him praying for two solid hours…

  “She’s all right.” Henry gripped his arm and gave him a tiny shake. “You felt the peace last night like I did after we prayed. You wait and see. My Emmy’s there, and you know well she can set the world to rights with one bat of her pretty eyes.”

  Laughter brought Thad’s eyes open again. “I don’t doubt it. Still, I worry for her. Does that ever stop?”

  Henry gave him a look that labeled him an idiot. “What do you think?”

  Thad sighed and pulled out his navigation charts. He thought he had a whole host of worries that would be waiting for him when he got home, none of which were ever likely to fade. So he had best see about getting them home safely and quickly. And keep his heart inclined toward prayer.

  “He said what?”

  Gwyneth pressed her lips together, but still she couldn’t hold back the smile. And why should she? Dabbing her brush in the sepia, she added depth onto Emmy’s countenance and then glanced up at her model again. “That you had three noses.”

  From behind her, Philly laughed in that full, lively way of hers. “Oh, Emmy, you should see the look on your face. Paint her like that, Gwyn.”

  Emmy repositioned her hand on her rounded abdomen and made an unsuccessful attempt to school her features. Though the outrage had faded, now it was a grin that marred the peaceful expression Gwyneth had put to canvas. “He has never forgiven me for besting him in that footrace when we were children, that is all.”

  “No, more for your refusal of a rematch after he grew a foot in eleven months.” Laughter colored Philly’s voice, though a moment later she set her cup down with a clatter, and her “Oh, dear” sounded anything but amused.