A Spring In Mount Vernon

Chapter 1

A Storm at the Ferry Landing

Rainwater streamed over the rutted road as anne mercer reached the ferry landing, one hand clamped around the leather case beneath her cloak. The potomac had swallowed the usual bank. Brown water pressed against the pilings, dragging branches, reeds, and a broken fence rail toward the distant bend. Across the flood lay mount vernon, its white house hidden behind a curtain of rain. Anne could almost see the office door, the ledgers waiting within, the hourglass draining toward the close of the spring accounts. She had come too far to turn back. “the ferry is not running today.” the voice came from beneath the dripping shelter beside the landing. A man stepped into view, tall and broad-shouldered, his coat dark with rain at the seams. He held a coil of rope in one hand and looked at anne’s boots, her soaked hem, and finally the case she guarded against her ribs. “i can see that,” she said. “i am not blind.” his mouth tightened, though whether from amusement or irritation she could not tell. “then you can also see the river is higher than the ferry rope.” “i can see a boat.” “you can see what remains of one.” near the bank, the ferry lay canted against two posts, its side stove in and one oar floating uselessly in the reeds. Anne felt the first sharp bite of alarm, but she would not give it a voice. She had promised herself she would deliver the papers without asking a soul to carry her, guide her, or question why she had been entrusted with them. “who are you?” she asked. “thomas bell. Steward to mount vernon.” the name meant something. She had heard it in the county - the man who kept the estate’s accounts, settled disputes among tenants, and found fault with every figure that did not balance beneath his eye. His gaze returned to the case. “and you?” “anne mercer.” “that tells me little.” “it need tell you nothing.” rain struck the shelter roof in a hard, steady rush. Thomas glanced toward the river. “if you mean to cross, miss mercer, you will need more than a name.” “i have business at the estate.” “many people do.” “my business is with the accounts.” that changed him, though only slightly. His fingers closed over the rope. “what accounts?” “the spring accounts.” “and who sent for you?” “no one sent for me.” “then why are you here?” anne’s hand tightened around the case until the leather creaked. “because the accounts must be delivered before they are closed.” “you have arrived at a flooded crossing with papers you will not explain, asking to pass into an estate where no one is expecting you.” “i am asking to cross a river, not to storm the governor’s house.” his eyes were gray, she noticed, not the dull gray of the rain but the color of pewter warmed by fire. They settled on her face with an attention that made her feel the wet strands of hair clinging to her cheek. “you are asking to drown,” he said. “do you always mistake caution for authority?” “only when caution is being ignored.” she stepped past him toward the landing. Mud sucked at her boots. The footbridge, if it could still be called one, ran along the lower bank toward a cluster of trees. Its planks had been washed loose, and the middle section sagged above the racing water. Thomas caught her wrist. The contact lasted no more than a breath, but the warmth of his hand traveled through her wet glove. Anne turned sharply. “release me.” he did so at once. “gladly. Provided you stop walking toward that bridge.” “i have crossed worse.” “not with this river beneath you.” “i do not require an escort.” “no,” he said. “you require sense.” her temper rose faster than the river. “and you require a habit of ordering strangers about.” “strangers do not generally appear with estate papers hidden under their cloaks.” “they are not estate papers.” “then what are they?” she should have lied. The thought came cleanly and without shame. But his attention was too direct, and some stubborn part of her wanted him to know that she had not come begging for favor. “figures from my father’s office,” she said. “invoices and statements concerning supplies purchased for mount vernon.” “your father’s office?” “mercer and son, in alexandria.” “i know the firm.” “then you know the papers belong in the hands of whoever keeps the estate accounts.” “i know that papers can be altered.” the insult landed with such precision that she stared at him. “you think i altered them?” “i think i do not know you.” “and because you do not know me, you have decided i am dishonest?” “because i do not know you, i have decided not to let you risk your life for a packet you refuse to show me.” the river roared between them. Anne looked down at the case. Its brass clasp was dull with rain, but the papers within were dry - for the moment. If she delayed until morning, the accounts might be closed without them. Her father had trusted her with the delivery because the figures concerned a discrepancy he had discovered. If she returned without having tried, he would see failure before he saw danger. “i must cross,” she said. Thomas’s expression shifted. “why?” the question held less suspicion now. That made it harder to answer. “because if i do not, i lose the only chance i have to prove my father was right.” “about what?” she lifted her chin. “that certain supplies purchased for spring planting never reached the estate.” for the first time, thomas said nothing. A gust swept across the landing, flinging rain beneath the shelter. Anne shivered despite herself. Thomas noticed. He pulled off his greatcoat and held it toward her. “i do not need - ” “take it.” “i am not cold.” “you are shaking.” “i am wet.” “that is generally how cold begins.” she should have refused on principle. Instead, she took the coat. It smelled faintly of cedar smoke and horse, and the wool settled heavily across her shoulders. Thomas turned away before she could thank him, as if the gesture were merely another task to be completed. “wait here,” he said. “i will see whether the upper path is passable.” “i am coming.” “no.” she followed him anyway. They moved along the bank where the road narrowed between the swollen river and a steep rise of slick clay. Thomas tested each board and stone with the butt of his rope hook. Anne kept one hand on the leather case and the other against the trunk of a sycamore when the earth shifted beneath her. “you might have warned me,” she said. “i did. You objected to the warning.” “i objected to your manner.” “my manner has kept three men from walking into this river since dawn.” “then perhaps your manner is well suited to fools.” he glanced back. “you admit you are one?” “i admit nothing.” a crack of thunder rolled over the water. The sky darkened with startling speed. Rain thickened until the opposite bank vanished entirely. Thomas stopped beside the footbridge. “the ferry cannot be repaired before nightfall.” “then the bridge.” he looked at it. Two planks were missing, and the rope handrail sagged toward the flood. “absolutely not.” anne drew his coat tighter. “you said the upper path was passable.” “it is not.” “then i will wait.” “for how long?” “until the rain ends.” “it may rain until morning.” she looked toward mount vernon, invisible beyond the storm. “i cannot remain here.” “why not?” the question was quiet this time. Anne pressed her lips together. “because waiting has never improved my circumstances.” he studied her, and she regretted the words at once. They had escaped before she could lock them behind the careful walls she had built after her mother’s death and her father’s declining health. Thomas leaned his rope hook against the post. “you think accepting help means surrendering control,” he said. “i think accepting help gives a man the right to claim he saved you.” “i have not asked for that right.” “you have been claiming it since i arrived.” his face hardened. “you mistake concern for possession.” the storm broke fully then. Wind tore at the shelter, and one of the roof boards lifted with a sharp bang. Thomas seized anne’s arm - not roughly, but firmly - and drew her beneath the larger overhang of the ferry shed. She stumbled against him. His hands closed around her elbows until her balance returned. “are you hurt?” “no.” he did not release her at once. Rain ran from his hair down the side of his face. They stood close enough that she felt the heat of him through the borrowed coat. “then stop fighting me for one minute,” he said. His voice had lost its edge. Anne could hear the strain beneath it. She looked at his hands. “you may let go.” he did, immediately. For a moment the only sound was the storm. Then thomas crouched beside the broken ferry and pulled a length of rope from beneath the bench. “there is a narrow footbridge upstream. It was built for the mill hands, not carts. If the rope holds, i can get you across.” “you cannot get me across.” “i can.” “i can walk.” “i am aware.” “then why say it as if i were a parcel?” “because the bridge is missing boards, the water is rising, and you are carrying papers that matter more to you than your own safety.” “that is my concern.” “it becomes mine when you fall into the river at my landing.” she almost smiled, but the expression never formed. “your landing?” “mount vernon’s landing.” “of course. Forgive me. I forgot the river belongs to the estate.” his eyes met hers. “no. It belongs to no one. That is why it kills people who believe they can command it.” there was no arrogance in the words. Only memory. Anne looked away. “who did it kill?” “my younger brother.” the storm seemed to draw nearer, though it had not changed. Thomas’s gaze remained on the river. “he was sixteen,” he continued. “thought he could bring a skiff in during a rise like this. I reached the bank after the boat overturned. I heard him call once. Then nothing.” anne’s fingers loosened around the case. She had wanted to see him as a man made of orders and suspicion, someone who placed rules above every human need. The grief in his voice made that judgment impossible. “i am sorry,” she said. He nodded, but did not look at her. “so am i.” the footbridge waited upstream, narrow and trembling above the flood. Thomas tied the rope around his waist and secured the other end to a stout oak. When he tested the first plank, it dipped alarmingly. “stay here,” he said. “i will cross with you.” “no.” “you cannot ask me to trust you while refusing to trust me.” his jaw flexed. “this is not a matter of trust.” “it is exactly that.” he turned. Rain silvered his lashes. “if the bridge gives way, i need both hands free. If you come, you do as i say.” anne lifted her chin. “i do not take orders well.” “i noticed.” “then you may leave me behind.” his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes. The glance was so quick she might have imagined it, but the awareness of it warmed her more dangerously than his coat. “very well,” he said. “come.” the crossing demanded all her attention. The boards shifted underfoot, wet and soft with rot. Thomas went first, testing each plank, then turned and offered his hand. Anne hesitated only a moment before placing hers in it. His grip closed around her palm. “slowly,” he said. “i know how to walk.” “not on this.” a board cracked beneath her boot. Anne gasped and lurched forward. Thomas caught her around the waist, drawing her against his chest. The case struck between them. For one suspended instant, she felt his breath at her temple and the hard steadiness of his body behind hers. “are you hurt?” he asked. “no.” “look at me.” she did. His face was inches from hers. “tell me the truth.” “i am frightened,” she said, before pride could stop her. Something changed in his expression - not triumph, not pity. Recognition. “so am i,” he answered. The admission steadied her more than any command could have done. He guided her onward, his hand remaining at her waist until they reached the far bank. They had nearly made it when the rope at the bridge’s side snapped loose. Thomas shoved anne toward the bank. She fell onto the muddy grass, and the leather case flew from her grasp into the shallows. “no!” she lunged after it. Thomas caught the back of her coat and hauled her away as the current seized the case. The clasp broke. Papers spilled into the brown water, white scraps vanishing beneath the rain. Anne stared after them. Thomas released her slowly. “miss mercer - ” “do not.” she scrambled down the bank, but the river had already carried the last page beyond reach. Ink bled across the remaining sheets in her hands, turning figures into blurred black veins. Her breath came unevenly. “they were the proof.” thomas crouched beside her. “some may be saved.” “not enough.” “then we will find another way.” she turned on him. “you said that as though it were simple.” “no. I said it because it is true.” “you delayed me.” “i kept you alive.” “and now i have nothing to deliver.” “you have yourself.” the words struck deeper than he intended. Anne looked at him, rain dripping from his brow, his hand still extended toward her though she had not taken it. Behind them, the road rose toward mount vernon. Ahead waited the estate office, the closed accounts, and questions she could no longer answer with a packet of papers. She placed her ruined documents in his palm. “then you will help me explain what was lost,” she said. Thomas closed his fingers over the sodden pages. “i will.” “not because you believe me.” “not yet.” the honesty should have angered her. Instead, it left her with a strange, reluctant relief. He offered his hand again. This time anne accepted it without argument. Together they climbed toward the estate, though the papers were ruined, the storm had not passed, and thomas bell now held the proof she had guarded more fiercely than her own safety. She had reached mount vernon before the accounts were closed. But she had arrived owing him a debt - and she could not decide which troubled her more: that he had saved her, or that she wanted him to believe her.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.