Chapter Six
April 27, 1763
The Frost Residence, Temperance
Temperance Bay, Mystria
Clearly Caleb meant to terrify Owen, but the words hadn’t had quite that effect. Owen did not fear for himself. If what Caleb said was true, the wilderness remained truly uncharted. Specifically, the maps back at Horse Guards were worthless. If a strategy was being planned based on them, none of the details would be relevant. Any military expedition would be doomed.
Which makes my mission even more important.
Owen looked up, thinking to ask Caleb a question, but was struck by two things. The first was that a remarkable change had overcome his guide. Caleb had straightened up and moved more tightly—not nearly as loose-limbed and gangly as he had first appeared. He’d also tucked his shirt in, buttoned his coat, and had combed fingers through his hair. The transformation effectively disguised him as a gentleman.
Second, they had come to a house at the top of the hill at the corner of Diligence and Virtue streets. The square house rose to three stories with a captain’s-walk atop the roof, and a balcony above the door. The house faced the bay and had been constructed of granite blocks, and trimmed with another, lighter stone at the corners. It had a slate roof and two chimneys, one at either end. A granite wall surrounded the house. Well-tended bushes and a couple trees shaded the front.
Caleb pushed open the dual iron gates and beckoned Owen in. A servant came running up the drive from the side of the house and took charge of the horse. He led it off toward the back of the property where, Owen presumed, a stable and carriage house lay.
Owen hesitated. “This is a grand house.”
“My grandfather built it.” Caleb mounted the steps and opened the door. “Come on.”
Only when he reached the top of the steps, and saw the people gathered in the foyer before the broad stairway leading to the second floor, did Owen realize his coat had ridden with his horse into the stable. He paused on the doorstep, then Caleb grabbed him and pulled him into the house.
“Mother, Father, may I present Captain Owen Strake, of the Queen’s Own Wurm Guards. Captain Strake, this is my father, Doctor Archibald Frost.”
Owen offered Dr. Frost his hand. “You are most kind, sir, for taking me in. I apologize for my uniform…”
Archibald, a small man with a pear-shaped physique and apple-red cheeks, clasped Owen’s hand in both of his. The man’s cheeks fought a losing action against a broad smile as he pumped Owen’s hand warmly. “No apologies, sir. It is an honor. May I present my wife, Hettie.”
Mrs. Frost proved the opposite of her spouse, being tall and slender, even regal. She smiled warmly, though nowhere near as effulgently as her husband. “It is our pleasure to welcome you, Captain Strake.”
“You are most kind, ma’am.”
Doctor Frost turned and introduced a half-dozen children ranging in age from thirteen to three. Their names immediately fled Owen’s memory. He’d take abuse from Caleb when he had to ask about them again. He put it down to still wondering about Caleb, because the man who introduced him to the family was not the same man who had led him to the house.
But, then again, he’d have forgotten the names anyway, because the end of the introductions was when she descended the stairs.
Doctor Frost waved a hand impatiently. “There you are, Bethany.”
Bethany Frost combined the best of her parents. Slender and tall, with long, golden-brown hair gathered into a braid, she glided fluidly down the stairs. She had her father’s smile and bright blue eyes the same shade as his wife’s, but decidedly warmer. Her smile broadened as she first saw him, then she missed a step and almost tumbled down the stairs. She caught herself on the railing, then laughed delightedly, her cheeks flushed.
Owen couldn’t believe it. Had any Norillian woman come to the stairs late, it would have been with the intent of making an entrance. The stumble would have been taken as evidence of poor breeding and grounds for suicide. For Bethany, however, it appeared to have no more significance than a simple accident would merit.
She reached the bottom of the stairs. “A pleasure, Captain Strake. Forgive my being late, but I was making sure your room had been made up.”
“I thought he was sleeping in the stable.”
Doctor Frost chuckled. “Yes, Caleb, I’m sure you did.”
“Father.”
“Caleb, you see, Captain Strake, has some very definite feelings concerning Her Majesty’s government and how we are treated. He’s at Temperance College, studying for the Clergy. Alas, I fear he is becoming something of a free-thinker.”
“He was quite friendly, sir. A gentleman.”
Owen allowed himself to be steered down the central corridor and to the right.
A long trestle table had been set for one, with the seat near the fire. Dr. Frost sat at the table’s head, with Owen at his left hand. Caleb sat opposite. Owen’s host unstoppered a crystal decanter and poured red wine for the three of them.
He raised the glass. “To the Queen’s health.”
“Her health.” Owen drank. “Very nice. Better than I had in Tharyngia.”
“I should hope so. My father bought it thirty years ago and it has been maturing in the cellar.” Frost set his glass down. “And you have not fooled me by covering for my son. I know him well. He seems to forget that animosity does not excuse one from behaving as a gentleman.”
Caleb glanced into his wine. “I apologize if I offended you, Captain.”
“No apology required. I found our conversation very informative.” Owen turned to Dr. Frost. “And I, sir, would like to apologize for the behavior of the other officers you have hosted. I should like the names of the offenders. I shall take great delight in thrashing them at the first opportunity.”
“You’re most kind, Captain, but I doubt that will be necessary.”
Hettie entered bearing a bowl of stew. Bethany followed, bearing a small basket with sliced bread. Caleb reached for a piece of it, but she slapped his hand. His mother gave him a reproving stare, so he sat back and grumbled.
“You’ll forgive the meager fare, Captain. My husband and I were hoping to have a more formal dinner on the Lord’s Day, after services.”
“Nothing to forgive, ma’am. I’ve been on a ship for seven weeks. It’s been weak broth and hardtack for far too long.” Owen smiled, breathing in the aroma from the thick brown stew. “It smells wonderful.”
Hettie and Bethany joined them at the table, book-ending Caleb, with Bethany closest to her father. “Please, Captain, eat.”
Owen spooned up a carrot, a pea, and a small piece of beef and ate. He closed his eyes, letting the scent fill his head. Things were tender enough he didn’t need to chew, but chew he did so he could savor the mouthful. He washed it down with more of the wine, then smiled.
“This is the best I’ve eaten for over a year.”
Caleb arched an eyebrow. “I’d have thought the Wurm Guards would have the finest of everything.”
“They do, if they have a wurm.” Owen broke a slice of bread in half and dipped it into the stew. “The Regiment has five battalions; one of wurms, one of heavy cavalry, two light cavalry, and one of light infantry. We’re the skirmishers. First to battle, last to leave; last to mess, first to leave. Story is they keep us around in case the wurms get hungry—and wurms prefer their food lean.”
Mrs. Frost took a salt cellar and pepper mill from the side table and placed them near Owen. “Captain, may I ask if you were at Artennes Forest?”
“Yes, ma’am, I was. I have a lot of respect for the Mystrian Rangers.”
Mrs. Frost’s smile broadened, but Bethany’s slowly evaporated. “Do you remember Major Robert Forest?”
Owen sat back. “Very well, ma’am.”
“He is my brother.”
“Is he well?”
Caleb snarled. “Isn’t much of a one for a handshake, being as how he left half an arm in the forest.”
Owen rested the bread on the edge of the bowl. “I ask after him, Master Frost, because I dragged him out of the woods, him still shouting orders to his men. I tied off the arm so he’d not bleed to death, and I fetched him brandy for when the butchers decided the forearm had to go.”
Bethany leaned forward. “Did you know Ira Hill? He was in the Rangers.”
“I do not recall the name, Miss.”
“He was tall, black hair, green eyes, darker than yours.”
Owen searched his memory. “I can’t promise, Miss, but I recall a man fitting that description. Always had a joke?”
Her face brightened. “Yes, yes, that was him.”
“I remember digging beside him as we tried to clear a road. It was raining. He said he’d trade his shovel for a bucket and bail more than he could dig. I didn’t know his name, though. Is he a friend?”
“Was.” Her face closed again.
Caleb glowered. “He died in those same woods, Captain.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Bethany nodded. “It’s hard not knowing, and people, they say…”
Dr. Frost took one of Bethany’s hands in his own. “The Rivendell book, you understand, Captain. Ira had asked for Bethany’s hand before he went off and, well, most people are believing the Rangers were cowards.”
Owen turned to Bethany. “Look at me, Miss. The Rangers did more than most on that campaign. I got assigned to liaise with them, some folks thinking I was as expendable as they were. The Rangers fought well and hard. Don’t believe anything different. What Lord Rivendell wrote is fable beginning to end. He wrote it to make himself and his son look good. You just remember that the Tharyngians feared the Rangers enough that they sent their best against them. They won, but it was a close thing. If there had been two Ranger battalions, the war would be over.”
Bethany’s lips pressed together and tears glistened. She nodded, then kissed her father’s cheek. Wordlessly she left the room. Her mother followed her.
Dr. Frost patted Owen’s arm. “Eat, sir, don’t let it get cold. I appreciate your saying what you did. You have to understand something about us Mystrians—things that not even my son understands. Norisle cast the first of us out because we were undesirable. Some of us were criminals. Some of us thought the Church was too strict. The Virtuans thought it too lax. And some of us were simply thought lazy or stupid and shipped away to die in the colonies.
“Many did, but this land vitalized those who survived. It gave us strength. It gave us opportunity. So now we’re like some big puppy, full of energy, and we want to please our master. We do what we can, but getting swatted, it sits poorly.”
Owen nodded. “I understand, sir, far better than you can imagine.”
Caleb refilled his wine glass. “But it is more than that, Father. The very philosophers and great thinkers you teach about at college, they are saying that the rights of Men are not bestowed upon us by kings and queens. They are our birthright as Men. They say we cede power to the nobility in return for guidance and assistance. When we get neither, they have broken the contract through which they get power.”
Dr. Frost slowly rotated his wine glass. “You make it sound so simple, Caleb.”
“It is simple, Father.” He tapped a finger against the table. “It is a simple matter of theft. Power is being stolen from us.”
“No, Caleb, it is not that simple. We are born of Norillian traditions. Our laws, the customs by which these colonies are governed, are based in Norillian Common Law. The colonies themselves function with Royal Charters. Our Governors are appointed by the Queen. Her nephew is our Governor-General. Norisle has given us a very great deal. We cannot unilaterally declare any previous debts null and void because we are displeased with the current situation. We would cut ourselves off from our beginnings. If we do that, we forget who we are.”
“Perhaps it is time, Father, for us to cease trying to remember, and for us to just decide who we are.”
Dr. Frost laughed. “Bravo, Caleb. To parrot so effectively the pamphlets that circulate in camera is an art. Captain, what do you think of the rights of Men and nobility?”
Owen looked up from swiping a piece of bread through the empty bowl. “To be honest, sir, the army does not encourage philosophical discussions, nor does it leave much time for them. In the army we revere tradition, so I agree with you there. But, I suppose, were I the puppy, there would come a point where taking a bite out of my master’s hand might seem appealing.”
“Ha!” Caleb smiled and refilled Owen’s glass. “You see, Father!”
“Well now, Master Frost, I’m not saying I agree with you. Men aren’t puppies. A puppy isn’t aware that a beating will follow that biting. A man should know better, and know if he wants to invite that beating.”
Caleb’s eyes sharpened. “But, Captain, is a man a man when he accepts that someone else says he’s inferior and never tests that assumption? As my father said, Mystrians were cast upon this shore because we were expendable. Everyone in Norisle would have been happy if we had died. Fact is, we didn’t. My grandfather came over as an indentured servant to a miller. Worked his way out of his obligation, then turned to trading. In thirty years he made enough to build this house, endow part of the College, and send ships to every corner of the globe. Yet there’s not fishmonger in Highgate or a lowly clerk in the City that doesn’t believe himself better than the best of us.”
Owen ran a hand over his jaw. He’d seen the same treatment at school and within the army, but there, to react was to be punished quickly and severely. Did curbing his desire to defend himself make him less of a man? Did it stop his shots from hitting targets?
Dr. Frost raised his wine glass. “I submit, gentlemen, that this discussion, which is really the eternal struggle of children to gain the recognition of parents, will not be resolved this evening. Let us, therefore, table it and discuss more pleasant things.
“After all,” Dr. Frost’s smile wavered for the first time, “if your reason for coming here, Captain Strake, is true, the least pleasant of man’s inventions will be coming to our shores. And, I suspect, it is an immigrant which will be most reluctant to leave.”