And when at last dawn broke and silence descended, he stood with the men again to see what was left of Fort McHenry. His gaze went up as morning light broke through the storm clouds, and he saw their flag fluttering in the wind.
They had survived. The fort still stood strong. They had made it. As Gwyneth had said they would. But what of her? He would come home, but where would she be?
“Look! Look!” Arnaud actually smiled as he peered out over the wall. “They are retreating!”
And into his spirit came the word for which he had been waiting all these long, sleepless hours.
Go.
Thad burst into his house, his heart out-galloping any speed Electra could ever achieve. “Gwyn? Gwyneth!”
But it was Mother who surged from the hall, tears in her eyes and everyone else close behind her. Everyone but the one he so desperately needed to see. “She is gone, Thaddeus. We just returned from Philly’s. We were afraid to leave during the night. Rosie said Gates was here, that he took her. He threatened to kill Jack if she left the kitchen until morning.”
“Where?” He spun to Rosie, whose red-rimmed eyes gleamed with apology.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know. But he said he had men outside who would kill us if we went for help. I wanted to help her, but I had Jack—”
“You did the right thing.” The only thing she could have done. He strode to her and planted a kiss on her cheek. Then put his arms around his mother. “We will find her. How is Philly?”
“There is hope, I think. ’Twas the fear that broke her, not pain as with the other times. Thaddeus, I am so sorry. We should not have left Gwyn.”
“Had you not, they may not have stopped with the threat of violence.” He pulled away and looked to Father. “Did she leave anything behind? Any clue?”
Father held out a sheet of paper with her familiar touch upon it.
His gaze devoured it line by line, curve by curve. Gwyneth’s figure, her expression full of love and pleading and yet peace. And then his parents, ready to leave. Their wagon behind them with Father’s laboratory equipment. As if…
As if they were going home.
“That’s my girl.” Pivoting on his heel, he flew back out the door.
Father ran after him. “Where are you going?”
His lips turned up as he sprinted toward the stable and Electra. “Annapolis.”
Thirty-Four
Gwyneth blinked awake, amazed she had slept at all. She was lying on a couch in the parlor of Mrs. Mercer’s Annapolis home, the same one she had fallen onto when they had finally made it here last night, drenched and shivering and exhausted from the harrowing journey over battlefield and through storm. She sat up and stretched, expecting sore muscles, a headache, something to tell of her night’s travails.
All in all, she felt quite well.
A claim it didn’t look like Uncle Gates or Sir Arthur could boast. The younger man sat hunched over in a chair, head on his hand in what seemed a fitful sleep. Her uncle stood at the window, his eyes ringed in shadows. When she stirred, he snapped around to face her.
“Are you feeling more reasonable this morning, niece?”
She smiled. Largely because she knew it would irritate him. “I am feeling quite reasonable indeed, Uncle. Because I have every confidence that Baltimore would have survived the night quite well, that Thad will come for me, and that justice will be done.”
“Justice.” He narrowed his eyes. “You sound like your father. Always so concerned with some heavenly justice.”
“Thank you.”
He looked fit to snarl as he strode her way, grabbed her by the arm, and yanked her to her feet. “Open your trunk. I believe your father packed something in there meant for me.”
“No, I do not believe he did.” She went where he shoved but sat upon the trunk rather than opening it.
His hand flashed and caught her across the cheek. “I said open it.”
Sir Arthur jerked up, his eyes still bleary. “See here, what is all this?”
“Sit back down, Hart. ’Tis a family matter.”
Instead, his hand settled at his side, where his pistol rested. “Did you strike her?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She spoke, not to Sir Arthur, but to her uncle. “I can open this trunk and take out every article of clothing and every drawing and letter. I can unpin the cloth and remove the false bottom. I can spill each coin upon the floor. But you will not find what you seek. All the evidence my father compiled against you is gone.”
Granite overtook his features one by one. “What do you mean, gone?”
Was that what his face had looked like when he asked the same question of Papa? Had the hatred, the violence spewed so hot from his eyes? Had that been the moment when her father knew he would never join her?