The Oxford Triangle

Chapter 1

April 26, 1811

The Oxford Races

Talbot County, Maryland

Amanda Brewster wore a cream muslin gown with whitework embroidery. Against her dark brown hair and sable eyes, she thought she looked reasonably pleasant, though not as striking as her gorgeous sister Isabella. Moral strength and a fearless heart are required when a younger sister is more beautiful and talented. Amanda knew she could never compare with Izzie but she hoped there was a nice gentleman somewhere willing to settle for a little less.

Reasonably pleasant? Good gracious! That would never do. Her father, Bernard, was no gentleman so it would take more than reasonably pleasant to marry into the gentry. Fortunately, Papa was rich. He offered the hostess, Hattie Weston, a gift of two hogsheads of prime tobacco for the invitation to the elite Oxford Races. Amanda knew the outrageous cost because she kept Papa’s ledger, a job of dexterity and skill to track Bernard’s extensive merchant business, but no job for a lady. Isabella forbid her to discuss family trade, lest it offend the fine young gentlemen parading around in top hats and tailcoats.

So, with a fixed smile and to please Papa, whose greatest wish was his daughter’s rise in society, Amanda set out to capture the interest of an agreeable young man. But fate was against her on this sparkling spring day in the land of easy living, for Amanda was about to ruin her new gown, embarrass her father, earn her sister’s scorn, and open her heart to the wrong young man.

And, oh yes, she would develop a nasty bruise on her shin.

It started with shrill cries of alarm. Amanda’s heart stopped when she turned and saw a massive horse with four sharp hooves galloping towards her. She had three seconds to save her life.

Thomas Morgan, whose family had bred fast horses for generations, saw the tragedy unfold. A damned mutt nipped at the hocks of a large chestnut. Anyone with sense knows that a horse’s first instinct is to run from danger. The chestnut, his eyes wide, and ears flat, spooked and broke away from his groom. The wild beast was heading straight for the girl in the white dress! Thomas bolted forward, collected the girl in his arms and jumped to the side.

The stallion missed him by inches.

When Thomas landed, he lost his balance and fell. The girl came with him, though he managed to cushion her fall, letting her land on top of him. He did not expect her knee to jab his groin. Bloody hell! He moaned. His lips spoke into a soft cheek. When the girl turned her head, he delivered a proper kiss. Considering how his balls hurt, it was small payment for his agony. The moment was madness. He was a respectable widower with two young children but when she returned the kiss, god bless her, a dying ember in his heart sparked with long forgotten heat.

Amanda! Isabella’s screech eviscerated the fog in Amanda’s brain. Amanda raised her torso by pushing down on the muscles beneath her. Get off me, sir!

There was a low chuckle. "You are on top of me."

Good gracious! Amanda rolled and scrambled to her feet. A pair of strong arms helped her stand.

We took quite a tumble, Thomas said with a bemused smile, his eye on a tiny clump of dirt below her perfect bosom. Allow me to—

Amanda smacked his hand from her chest. You have done enough.

Sister, you are making a spectacle of yourself, Isabella hissed. And your garter has slipped. In contrast, Isabella looked flawless in a russet silk pelisse with gold piping.

It’s his fault, Amanda said as she straightened her skirt.

Isabella gave Thomas a charming curtsey. I must apologize for my sister’s behavior. This is her first racing event. She does not comprehend the traditions of this ancient sport, nor how to conduct herself.

That is true, Amanda’s eyes raked over Thomas. I had no idea wrestling was part of the festivities.

You were a dunce to stand in the path of a galloping horse, Isabella lectured. We must thank Mr. Morgan for his bravery and ask him to tea. Isabella offered Thomas her most promising smile, but he was gone.

Isabella’s beautiful face turned ugly. You are a curse and a burden to me, Amanda. From now on, I will attend social events without you. Once I am engaged to be married, you may resume your embarrassing frolics.

Banish me? But I am your sister!

Isabella’s eyes narrowed. You underestimate my determination. You just repulsed Thomas Morgan, a member of a very influential family.

Amanda wondered why a man who was repulsed gave her such a searing kiss?

Isabella sighed. I suppose there’s little harm done. Mr. Morgan bought his brothers’ shares in the estate after his father died.

A very industrious gentleman.

At higher than the appraised value?

A generous man. Amanda liked Thomas Morgan more and more.

Or a fool, Isabella waved her hand. He will need several years of good harvests to replenish his purse. I cannot wait that long.

Amanda frowned. Don’t jest about such things.

Isabella’s face went soft with pity. You are supposed to be the smart sister, yet you have the brain of a two-year-old when it comes to finding a husband. Think of it like this, Isabella’s face was animated. A marriage is much like balancing Papa’s ledger. A woman has three assets: her beauty, her charm, and her ability to procreate. I score high in each category, so it will take a rich man to afford me.

I’m going to be sick.

No, you won’t, because I make perfect sense. A woman must know her worth as did every lady from Cleopatra to Martha Washington. I merit a wealthy husband. And an honorable one. At least, Isabella shot Amanda a look, I can have both wealth and honor as long as you behave yourself.

Amanda rolled her eyes.

Papa is rich, so they tolerate his rough manners but not from his daughters. You and I must be prettier, wittier, and better mannered than our so-called betters.

Maybe Izzie was right. Her sister had a gift knowing when to nod in agreement, when to drop her eyelashes in shy reserve, and when to flash her fan in flirtation. Her manners were impeccable, equal to any lady of society. She already refused three suitors and there were several men waiting for her when the carriage arrived at the races.

You may be satisfied to sit on the shelf, Amanda, but I am not. I will be married before year end. Only nineteen, Izzie was confident she would get what she wanted.

At twenty-three, Amanda lived in doubt. What she wanted she could not have.

Chapter 2

Hattie Weston hosted the Oxford Races on her plantation, situated along the Tred Avon River. The ancestral home was an imposing three-story brick with neoclassical pediments and Georgian architecture. Crisp white linen covered long tables on the lawn. The post-race meal included oyster stew, roast pork, pickles, cheeses and fruit pies. Dozens of servants scurried under Hattie’s watchful eye. Her family was connected to Lord Baltimore, Maryland’s founder and a counselor to King James I. The Westons were important, and no one believed that more than Lowell Weston, Hattie’s nephew and heir.

Amanda watched a sloop sail languidly up the Chesapeake Bay. Sometimes the bay water was agitated with white caps. Sometimes it was a murky, ominous brown. Today, it was a serene royal blue. Two noisy gulls fought over a cracked terrapin shell while the oat-colored shore grasses fluttered in the breeze.

Have you met my aunt’s newest project, Bernard Brewster’s daughters? Lowell asked.

No. Thomas lied, feeling protective toward the unpopular daughter standing alone by the river.

Nice piece of baggage, that Isabella. Lowell gave a wicked grin. Saucy smile, too.

Does your Aunt Hattie have Isabella in mind for you?

Egad, no. I won’t sink that low! Lowell made a face. Old man Brewster has an accent thicker than a Scottish fog. Did you notice his deformity? Blew his hand off working like a serf in the powder mills. Left that job and became a peddler. Sold his wagon and rented a storefront in Baltimore. Got lucky with a few cargo ships and made a fortune in trade since then. Owns stores all over the western shore. Lowell wrinkled his elegant nose, he and my Aunt Hattie are working on a scheme together. It’s a good thing I’m back from London. My dear aunt will open the house to rag pickers and fishmongers next if they promise to fatten her cash box.

What news from the city on the Thames? Will we have war?

I lived in that glorious city these past three years and I truly don’t know. Lowell swigged French wine from his canteen. I blame President Madison. I knew he was a war hawk.

Thomas frowned. My brother was forced to work on a British ship. The navy’s brutality nearly killed him. The British have no right to impress an American citizen or to interfere with our free trade.

I understand, Lowell said with a sympathetic smile. Selling tobacco to the European market had made both their families rich. But, having studied English law, I believe there is room for a fair treaty.

It’s time we took a stand for our sovereign rights. Ten years of false promises from Parliament is enough!

Gentlemen, Isabella fluttered her fan, distracting the men from war talk. With lovely caramel eyes and a figure that dressmaker’s treasured, she responded to the admiration in their eyes with a demure smile. Miss Hattie asks that both you gentlemen join her at the head table for the trophy presentation.

A small frown crossed Lowell’s face and then disappeared. He was still angry that he lost the main race, something he was meant to win considering the shocking sum he paid for his horse. But when he was a length ahead at the sixth jump and tasting victory, his damned mount snagged the rail, stumbled, and pulled up lame.

The groom made an indirect comment about being heavy-handed on the reins. Impudent scum! Lowell fired him on the spot. It didn’t help his mood that Thomas and his famous gray gelding, Smoky Joe, won the race.

By all means, Tommy, let’s celebrate your win. Lowell hid his bitterness with a practiced smile.

Chapter 3

The winner of the pony race, a bulky boy with a sly look, organized a tag game with the other children. He easily dominated the game and was especially nasty to a little girl of four dressed in a frilly pink gown.

Baby! Baby! Baby! The rider taunted. Can’t catch me!

The little girl raised her chin. You are vewy mean.

Ha! Ha! Twy to tag me, baby! he teased, running backwards.

Another boy sneaked up behind the little girl and pushed her shoulder. You’re it!

The determined girl scrambled to catch the older boy, but he did a clever spin and grabbed her skirt making her lose her balance. She flopped forward belly first. Her skirts blew up, settled around her waist and exposed a chunky white bottom. The children jeered in mean laughter.

Shame on you. All of you! Amanda dropped to her knees and helped the little girl sit up. Are you hurt?

A single tear escaped.

What is your name, little one?

Mawtha.

Martha is a pretty name. Let’s find your mother? Amanda gave an encouraging smile.

My mothew is dead.

Amanda’s heart tightened. I am sorry to hear that Martha. I have lost my mother too.

The child instinctively leaned into Amanda’s shoulder and Amanda felt her heart grow two sizes.

I fell down today, too, Amanda said, And my skirt flew up, just like yours.

Martha raised her head, did you cry?

No, but I was very mad.

Martha’s intelligent blue eyes considered her comment. You smell like fwowers.

It is my perfume, Amanda said.

My Nana wears perfoom, but I like your smell bettew.

Thank you, Amanda wanted to wrap Martha in her arms and take her home.

Martha! The deep voice was threatening. Martha! Thomas Morgan charged toward Amanda as if he wanted to toss her back into the path of the runaway horse.

Papa!

Thomas lifted his daughter in his arms and demanded, what is going on here? He leveled Amanda with a hostile look.

Your daughter was playing and suffered a fall, Amanda straightened her shoulders, something we ladies find rather embarrassing.

She saw his eyes react in understanding before he turned and carried his daughter back to the racing crowd. He might have muttered a thank you, hardly compensation for his rude manner. She watched him easily fold into his group of friends. The others circled around him, forming a protective seal, until only the back of his broad shoulders and head were visible.

He was one of them. One of the ones that mattered.

Amanda felt utterly alone.

Chapter 4

Two Years Later

April 1813

If anyone were born to the sea, it was George Cockburn (pronounced Coe-burn). With recent triumphs against Napoleon in the Caribbean and Spain, he was a newly minted rear-admiral, a great accomplishment for someone only forty-one.

Sailing on his magnificent flagship, the HMS Marlborough, the admiral saw drab, trifling villages perched along the Chesapeake shore. Idyllic perhaps, but with only one or two brick buildings of note and meager arsenals of defense. He noted a few six-pounder and nine-pounder cannons, but manned by a militia of farmers and shopkeepers, George doubted if they would get off a shot before running for safety inland. George’s pulse quickened. Unlike Spain, this was going to be an easy war.

The second son of a Baron, George was born into the ruling class. He believed America was an experiment doomed to fail. It was weak, with a backwoods government of inferior men. Declaring war against King George demonstrated their inability to govern. Self-rule? Ha! Mayhem, more like it.

With eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates under his command, the admiral controlled the land and waterways. His firepower was enough to flatten the largest cities in the Chesapeake Bay. So far, he had captured or destroyed every American ship attempting to break his blockade. And he was sending his men on daily raids, collecting a small fortune of Maryland tobacco. He knew to the penny how much he earned from his share of the prize.

The great admiral finished writing his letter to his wife, Mary. He described the small island he was using for his base. He named it Fort Albion. Several hundred dark-skinned slaves lived there, seeking freedom he promised for joining the fight against America. He explained to his wife it was a strategy to wreak havoc on the slave-dependent economy, while at the same time stopping a barbaric custom neither condoned. He was for the Slave Trade Act Parliament passed four years before and was proud the Royal Navy patrolled the West African coast to stop the slave ships.

Easy land raids. Rich