The Steeplechase by Pagels Carrie Fancett

Author:Pagels, Carrie Fancett [Pagels, Carrie Fancett]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Hearts Overcoming Press
Published: 2017-03-23T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

In the distance, beneath thick-as-pudding clouds that hovered over Queen’s Creek inlet, Uncle Lightfoot’s dock loomed. At least with the mandatory visit with young Williams, Phillip had been able to use this as the excuse he needed to return to Williamsburg and bring the little Osborne boy for a visit.

Johnny squeezed Phillip’s hand. “Are we almost home?”

An arrow of pity pierced his heart. “Remember what I cautioned, for you shall not remain at home.”

The child’s full lower lip quivered and a tear trickled down his pale cheek. He sniffed and pushed back a stray strand of hair. “Yes, sir.”

On impulse, Phillip bent and lifted the boy up into his arms, surprised at how light he was—definitely not the sturdy little fellow who’d been deposited with them several months earlier. With one hand he clutched the rail and the other he held the boy to his chest. What would it be like to have his own children? A child with reddish hair like his mother’s? He’d not been able to keep an image of Martha from flashing in his mind. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t bringing the child here simply to assuage her concerns. Nor to dissuade her from any aspirations of racing with those young men whose exercise was in reality the beginning of training for possible future invasion by the British. No, he was here for a much more selfish reason. He, like this boy, needed to see her again. To see her light green eyes fixed upon his own.

“Do you think she could tell me a story before I go?”

The schooner shifted suddenly and Phillip held tight, flexing his knees as the crew began the process of securing them to the dock. Mates called out and a horn sounded. When silence, save for the lapping of the water, resumed, he set Christopher down. “I imagine she might.”

“Marty’s stories are almost as good as yours.”

“Marty?”

“That’s what I call her.”

“I see. I used to call my brother…” He caught himself before revealing his brother’s nickname. It wouldn’t do for the boy to slip and refer to his headmaster as Old Sneezy.

A gray-haired man ran up the docks, his muscular form leaving no doubt that this was Jefferson Lightfoot.

“Uncle!” Phillip waved.

“Who’ve you got with you, lad?” His uncle shaded his eyes and squinted at Johnny.

Mussing the boy’s wavy hair, Phillip called out, “One of Williamsburg’s brightest young scholars!”

The child gazed up at him, blinking. “Am I?”

“Of course. Or you wouldn’t be at our academy.”

The six–year-old straightened his shoulders and stood taller, as the crew set the plank down for them to climb down.

“Need to speak with you, Nephew!” From below, Phillip’s uncle scowled up.

Soon they had disembarked and joined Uncle Lightfoot on the wharf. He handed Johnny a coin and pointed to a cart piled with buns. “Go get one, Son.”

“Thank you, sir!”

As the child ran off, Phillip extended his hand. “How are you and Auntie?”

“Good, good.” As usual, his uncle delivered his bone-crunching grip and Phillip fought the urge to wince.

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