“Amazing.” Gwyneth looked out at the long line of wagons loaded with produce and at the farmers who wore smiles upon their faces and determination in their eyes. And then to Winter, who surveyed the sight before them with a satisfied sigh. “All it took to convince them to come to the city was the assurance that their horses and wagons would not be confiscated?”
Her mother-in-law nodded and looped their arms together to keep them moving toward the makeshift hospital. They each carried a basket full of rolled bandages and what medicinals they could spare. And they were only two of many women about the same business.
“It had apparently been the only thing keeping them on their farms. Thad was right.”
At that, Gwyneth had to chuckle. “I imagine they are all eager to get a fair price for their vegetables anyway.” Because they all knew if they did not before the British army marched through, then their choices would be to burn it all before it could be confiscated or hand it over in exchange for their lives.
It was, had always been, the way wars were waged. And yet not at all the way the Americans were running this one. She spotted a baker up on a cart loaded with breads, heading toward one of the temporary barracks dotting the landscape. A man down the street led a group of officers into his home with the words, “Welcome” and “As long as you need” drifting to her on the wind. Everywhere, all over the city, normal business had ceased. Every effort, every person was focused on preparing for the attack they all knew was coming. The two-week lull since the burning of Washington had not seen any spirits flagging. Nay, it seemed instead that each day was viewed as a blessing and a cause for redoubled activity.
“Mrs. Lane!”
They both turned to the voice and then exchanged a smile. Gwyneth had expected it to take months before she was accustomed to answering to her new name, but with as often as people called it in the last fortnight…
A young man rushed their way with a beaming smile. His gaze was on Gwyneth, though it included Winter too. “I spoke with my father last night, and he approved our contribution to the cause. Does that bring the total above the half-million mark?”
A little thrill moved through Gwyneth. When Thad had told her that the plan to pay for the fortifications rested on contributions and loans from both banks and private businesses, she had to admit to skepticism, but the people of Maryland had risen to the task. “It does, Mr. Jones, and well beyond. I do believe that will bring us to more than six hundred thousand dollars.”
Mr. Jones did an impromptu jig as he laughed. “He will be pleased beyond measure. I am headed to the bank now to draft the cheque. Good day to you, Mrs. Lane. And Mrs. Lane.” He reeled his way past them. “And good day to you too, Mr. Mercer.”
Gwyneth froze, willing it to be some other, any other Mr. Mercer. Knowing, even before the expression that stole over Winter’s face when she glanced behind them, that it would not be. She started forward, hoping he was merely passing down the side street and would pay them no heed.
Yet she was not at all surprised when that too-familiar figure matched his pace to hers. “Mrs. Lane.”
Gwyneth gripped her basket tighter. “I believe you mean ‘cousin.’ ” The documents Papa had sent said as much, and so much else besides. All the details of the slave trade that Uncle Gates had set up with the help of this baseborn son of his, first in foreign waters, stealing Africans from their own shores, and later, when that trade was made illegal, within the borders of the United States.
Mercer gave a small smile. “An odd discovery, was it not? Here I had resigned myself to never meeting any of my father’s family. How very fortuitous that I would stumble across a first cousin in my own city.”
Her back went stiff as her step picked up still more. “I daresay my Aunt Gates would not find it so.”
Winter’s hand found her wrist and gave it an encouraging pat.
Mercer breathed a laugh. “I suppose you did not realize your uncle was a bit of a rake, hmm?”
A rake. That would imply that Mr. Mercer’s poor mother was not his only indiscretion. And why, knowing all she did about him, did that fact still make disappointment weep through her? “I did not. But I know he is a murderer.”
He didn’t stumble, didn’t so much as falter in his stride. He merely lifted a single brow at her in the very way Uncle Gates did. “Do you now?”
She raised her chin and turned the corner with Winter, who sent her a questioning gaze. But what did it matter if she told Mercer now that she knew? The worst he could do was tell Uncle Gates, and the worst he could do was come for her again, which they all knew he would do anyway. He would know very well, no matter what she had said, that if Papa had sent a mask with her, he would have sent more. And he would stop at nothing to get it back, to stop them from revealing his crimes to both the American and British governments.
So she tilted her head Mercer’s way, their gazes clashing. “I watched him kill my father.”
His expression softened, reflecting not shock or horror, but sympathy. “That must have been difficult for you.”