Love Thine Enemy. Louise M. Gouge

      Now Papa had once again set aside his frugal ways for the party and insisted she use an expensive fabric. Rachel didn’t know what to make of his interest in her clothing. Perhaps her claim to have no appropriate gown for the party wounded his pride, especially spoken in front of Mr. Moberly.

      “So you think el patrón’s fiza…” Inez wrinkled her forehead, then shrugged. “Fiza-something.”

      “His physician?” Rachel asked.

      “Sí, the fiz-iz-cion.” Inez laughed, and the age lines around her eyes deepened. “The one who fix your hand. He will be at the party, no? This one, he is not married, is nice to look at, is not so old for—” She gave Rachel a sly look. “Hmm. Maybe Inez say too much?”

      “Not at all. You may speak freely when you and I are alone.” Rachel studied her stitches to make certain they gathered the delicate fabric without puckering it. “But perhaps you don’t understand the English. Dr. Wellsey is a member of the gentry and no doubt regards himself as being above a shopkeeper’s daughter. For my part, I would not consider receiving the attentions of an Englishman.”

      “No?” Inez stared at her. “You do not like the English?” She busied herself with the lace again, muttering to herself in Spanish.

      “What is it, Inez?”

      “Have we not agreed, señorita, Dios has love for every man? Jesu Christo, He die for every man?”

      “Yes, of course.”

      “Then if we do not like the English, is the love of Dios in us?” Maternal warmth glowed in Inez’s eyes. “Does He not say to love others as He love us?”

      Rachel concentrated on her work without answering. Inez had not abused her freedom to speak her thoughts, and her words conveyed great wisdom.

      In truth, Rachel had hated the English for as long as she could remember. They stole from the colonists, both in taxes and in seizing men and property for their own use. Yet she had not considered that God might love them, as He did every soul. Her Quaker mother would be disappointed in her, for she had taught Rachel the Bible verse Inez quoted.

      The jangle of the bell over the front door startled her from her thoughts.

      “Hello, is anyone here?” Mr. Moberly stood inside the door, hat in hand, blinking his eyes as everyone did to adjust to the dimmer store light after being out in the sun.

      “Yes, sir.” Rachel set aside her sewing and hurried to greet him. “How may I help you?”

      “Miss Folger.” His smile seemed almost boyish. “Good afternoon.”

      “Yes, sir. How may I help you?” You just asked him that. She gazed up into his dark gray eyes, transfixed by the intense look he returned. At the memory of his rescuing her from the soldier, she felt her cheeks grow warm. Now, as then, she thought perhaps some Englishmen might not be purely evil. His black hair was swept back in a queue, but one stray lock curled over his forehead like an unruly, and utterly charming, black sheep.

      “I, well, um,” he said, “I wondered how your father’s business is faring. I have been telling everyone they should patronize your store. Even written the news of your establishment to other plantations along the St. Johns River. Settlers have done without many necessities and nearly all luxuries here in the wilderness and waited a long while for a proper mercantile close by…” He pursed his lips. “Now who’s being too loquacious?”

      Rachel laughed. Her face grew hotter. To think he had recalled her silly comment. “Papa will be pleased to hear that you are, um, pleased.”

      “Yes.” He glanced around the store and then back at her. “Ah, I should have asked straightaway. How is your hand?” His right hand moved toward her slightly, then retracted, as if he would take her injured one but thought better of it. “Did Dr. Wellsey serve you…well?” He grinned.

      “Oh, indeed, he did.” Forbidding herself to laugh again, Rachel flexed her fingers to show the hand was on its way to complete recovery. “Although I must say he seemed to regard my little injury as a scientific experiment.” The pleasant young doctor had never once looked at her face and seemed disappointed at the ease with which the splinters came out. “But, gracious, the smell of that salve.” She waved her hand beneath her nose at the memory.

      “Dreadful stuff, I agree.” Mr. Moberly gave her a comical frown. “Yes, the good doctor is a serious scientist. But a competent physician must be, do you not think?”

      “Why, I’ve never considered—”

      “What’s this?” Papa’s voice boomed from behind Rachel as he entered from the back room. “Ah, Mr. Moberly. What can I do for ye today?”

      Jamie followed close behind Papa and raised an eyebrow to question Rachel. She shrugged one shoulder and hoped Mr. Moberly did not see their silent communication. For some strange reason, she felt an urge to remind the Englishman that Jamie was her cousin, not a suitor. But why should he care about such things?

      “Good afternoon, Mr. Folger.” Mr. Moberly extended his hand. “Mrs. Winthrop has sent me for thread and, oh, several other items. I can’t recall them all.” He pulled a crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Rachel. “Do say you have everything she wrote down, Miss Folger, so I may continue to recommend this establishment for its many and varied wares.”

      “Yes, sir.” Rachel walked to the counter and pressed the paper flat with her hand so she could read it. Mr. Moberly reminded her of a little boy who had not yet learned to be entirely neat, but she found it charming. Darning needles, twenty ells each of red and blue bunting, cinnamon, black pepper, several shades of thread, plus other needs. She gathered the items on the front counter but kept her ears open to the men’s lively conversation.

      “I did not know if I would see you again, Captain Templeton.” Mr. Moberly’s tone was jovial, as if chatting with an old friend. “Were you not to sail to England this week?”

      “I’ll sail day after tomorrow, weather permitting.” Jamie’s expression brightened to match Mr. Moberly’s. “But since you’ve been here for some time, I hoped to ask your advice about the merchandise I should bring from London.”

      “Of course.” Mr. Moberly clapped Jamie on the shoulder. “This is truly fortuitous. We have had many newcomers whose needs we failed to anticipate. I shall make a list for you.”

      “Very good.” Jamie grinned. “List as you will, and I’ll obtain it. And if you give me a letter of introduction, I shall be pleased to call upon any of your associates for you.”

      “I shall prepare that letter this very day. Do you have time to ride to my plantation this afternoon?”

      “Sir, that is most agreeable.” The last reservation fled from Jamie’s expression, replaced by a broad smile.

      “Excellent.” Mr. Moberly perused several items on display: knives, flintlock pistols, a barrel of cast-iron nails. “While I am here, I should like to enlist your assistance.”

      Rachel’s ears tingled, and she leaned closer to the men.

      “Ask as ye will, sir,” Papa said.

      “A dissident agitator has entered our settlement and tried to stir up sympathy for the rebellion in Massachusetts and the other colonies.” Mr. Moberly toyed with a length of rope coiled for sale. “The chap slips into the Wild Boar Inn or Brown’s Tavern and makes a few remarks while men are in their cups, then slips away before anyone can apprehend him.”

      Rachel’s heart raced. Another patriot, right here in St. Johns! She must learn his identity and try to contact him.

      “Of course, no man here is of that mind.” Mr. Moberly settled a placid smile on Papa and Jamie.

      “Not that I’ve discerned,” Papa said.

      “Certainly not.” Jamie sent Rachel a warning scowl. She wrinkled her nose