Read Surrender the Wind for Free Online

gray hair spying out from beneath her white mobcap. “The wise gentleman brings a good coat with him when away from home. If you give me your traveling suit I’ll brush it for you and polish your boots.”
    Seth pulled off his boots and handed them over, then his coat. She was short, stout about the middle, and waddled over to him to take them in hand. “These are fine, Mr. Braxton.” She held them out and studied them. “Soon you’ll have finer.”
    “I can’t be sure of that, madam,” Seth told her.
    “No one knows what the future may hold, Mr. Braxton, save for the good Lord. We hope for the best.” She headed through the door and turned back to close it. “I’ll put your boots out here in a half hour, so as not to disturb you.”
    That night the windows in Stowefield's house stood open. The boxwood and roses from the garden scented the tepid air, and candlelight bathed the room in a haze of gold. The interior of the house was stuffy and warm, with that musty smell old houses seem to have.
    As he descended the staircase, Seth heard laughter. Dressed in his best navy blue jacket and beige breeches, he entered the dining room. Stowefield introduced him to his guests and he bowed. They were Stowefield's generation, some fat, some lean, gray, and wrinkled. The ladies wore heavy powder upon their faces, and the gentlemen dressed as natural men, a trend admired in Ben Franklin when he won the hearts of the Parisians.
    They supped together on a simple yet delicious meal of roasted chicken, pole beans, and potatoes. Partridge stood back near the door and wrung her hands while she watched Mr. Stowefield carve the birds she had prepared. They were burned on the outside, and she fretted they were spoiled.
    “I fear they’re ruined, Mr. Stowefield.”
    “In spite of their charred appearance,” Stowefield said as he popped a piece into his mouth, “the meat is delicious and succulent, Partridge. Nothing to fear.”
    Still, Partridge bit her lower lip and wiped her hands over the front of her apron as Stowefield placed the chicken on his plate.
    “It's a fine table you set, Mrs. Partridge,” said Seth, tasting the bounty. “I’ve not had food this good in a long time.”
    “Thank you, sir.” She dipped with a broad smile and left the room looking happy.
    “I imagine camp food was not to a man's liking,” said Stowefield.
    “Not to mine, sir, the little we had.”
    “It was the same in the French and Indian War, I assure you. Bread as hard and tasteless as wood, and not a good ale to wash it down with.”
    “You served in that war, Mr. Stowefield?”
    “Indeed I did, and I have a few scars to prove it. I shall not tell where.”
    The group laughed. The middle-aged woman to Stowefield's left, Mrs. Jenny Bayberry tapped him on the shoulder with her spoon.
    “We’ve heard the stories a thousand times over, John Stowefield, so much so that we know them by heart. Let us talk of other things.”
    “Well, all right. Our young guest, ladies and gentlemen, served in the Revolution,” said Stowefield. “Is that not so, Seth?”
    “I was among a group of Virginia sharpshooters, sir.”
    “Virginia is proud of her sons.” Stowefield drained his glass of wine and lifted the decanter in front of him to refill it. “As is Maryland. Our Frederick riflemen were praised as the best sharpshooters of the war.”
    “A hero sits among us,” Mrs. Bayberry exclaimed. She was a widow, and older than Stowefield by her look, her eyes gray and misty with cataracts, her face a collage of wrinkles.
    “Ah, ma’am, I would not say that.” Seth smiled. “I did my duty, that's all.”
    “You’re too modest, Seth Braxton. Our Mr. Stowefield was a rich lawyer before the Revolution. Dedicated to The Glorious Cause, he forfeited his plenty to aid the rebels in their struggle for independence. You no doubt gave up much as well.”
    Seth bowed his head to the lady. “We all did, ma’am.”
    “Indeed, Mr. Braxton. I lost two sons