America's First Daughter: A Novel(4)
“John Coles’s place on the Green Mountain,” he replied, a wary eye on the road. The certainty in Mr. Short’s voice calmed me a little. Mama released a shallow breath, as if the words provided her a bit of ease, as well.
We’d taken supper at Mr. Coles’s Enniscorthy estate before. The memory of thick ham steaks and rye bread ought to have made my stomach rumble, for we’d not had breakfast, but the ache in my belly wasn’t hunger. To my terrified eyes, the tree branches flying past the carriage window reached for us like the gnarled hands of death. And in the faintest glow of morning, unable to tear my gaze from the blurred view, I gasped at every red flower or rock in a ruddy hue. “Is that a redcoat?” I asked Mr. Short. “Are the dragoons ahead of us on the road?”
Squinting to see, Mr. Short replied, “The dragoons wear green. Worry not, Patsy. We departed in time.” He peered over his shoulder at me, the ghost of a smile on his lips, and winked. Ordinarily, that kind reassurance would’ve lured a returning smile, but I saw the nod he gave to Mama and feared he only told me what I wished to hear.
Another hour passed before we heard the thunder of horse hooves behind us. When we did, Mama gasped and pushed me and Polly down to the carriage floor. While my sister cleaved tight to my chest, I saw the glint of a pistol in Mr. Short’s hand.
“Stay silent, whatever comes,” he said, his voice thin and shaky.
Still, Mr. Short’s arm was steady as he pulled himself up to the window of the carriage, ready to fire upon our enemies. Blood rushing past my ears, I waited for the blast.
Instead, the young man blew out a breath. “Mr. Jefferson!”
Relief flooded through me so hard and fast that I bit back a sob. I popped my head up over Mama’s shoulder, never happier to hear Caractacus’s furious whinny. The stallion’s brown coat was slick with sweat and the froth on his lips told us how hard Papa must have ridden him to catch up with us.
“Halt!” Papa cried.
As the carriage slowed and Papa rode up to the window, my mother rose up, shaking with relief. “Pray tell me it’s a false report.”
“I cannot.” Papa sat tall in the saddle like the skilled horseman he was, the leather saddlebags beneath him bulging with papers and the violin he never journeyed without. My eyes scoured over him for any sign he’d come to some harm, but he appeared only a little winded. “British horses have come to Monticello. I rode up Montalto and saw them in my spyglass.”
I gasped. Why had he remained behind so long? When everyone else was fleeing in a mad dash, had my father gone up the adjoining mountain to look for the enemy by himself? Whatever he saw convinced him to run. More than that, to worry that we might still be in danger. “I’ll ride ahead to scout for enemy soldiers,” Papa said.
Mama shook her head. “But—”
“Don’t stop for anything,” Papa told us. “If you are stopped, say you don’t know me. Say you’re from another state. Say you’re passing through to see a kinsman.”
Tears stung the backs of my eyes. He was asking us to lie—a thing forbidden by God’s laws. To ask it, he must’ve believed Mama would be safer if she were another man’s wife. That I’d be safer if I were someone else’s daughter. Perhaps anyone else’s daughter.
Mama looked away, as if in agony at the thought of denying him. And my mind rebelled at the very thought.
“Patsy,” my father said, reading my mind as he so often did. “You can pretend, can’t you?”
His question was more a command. I nodded even while my heart ached. But Papa was relying on us. Yes. I can pretend. Not only because he asked it of me, but because, for the first time in my life, I understood that a lie could protect those I loved.
My father rode off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. The carriage lurched forward a moment later. When would we reach safety? I didn’t remember Enniscorthy being so far. Fear and anticipation made me wonder if we’d ever get there, but at long last, morning light filtered through the trees and made a welcoming picture of the big two-story plantation house nestled amongst the mountains.
Enniscorthy.
Climbing from the carriage, my body felt battered and bruised. Mama fussed with my hair beneath my nightcap, but Mr. Coles and his family cared little about our disheveled appearance and quickly ushered us into their home. In the room provided to us, Mama instructed me to wash in a bucket of water while she sponged the dirt from the road off Polly. Then she found clothes for us from her satchel.
By the time she had tugged a white frock dress over my head and tied it with a pretty blue sash, Papa had arrived. He gave us all cheerful kisses atop our heads, as if the British hadn’t just chased us from our home. And then we sat down to a meal.
Mama, voice still wavering, thanked the lady of the household again for our food and shelter. With a trembling hand, she fed Polly spoonfuls of porridge, but took for herself only the tiniest bites, washing it down with sips of tea that our host vowed had been honestly smuggled, without tax or duty paid upon it to the British.
Mimicking my mother, I tried to be dainty and nibble at my food, but Papa and Mr. Short gulped down hearty portions of eggs and smoked sausages and bread. The last had been scarce since the start of the war and the prices of food quite high, which made us even more grateful for the hospitality when we were invited to stay. But Papa said we weren’t far enough away yet from the reach of the British dragoons.