The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) Read Free

more riot to the already protesting mobs in Boston. However, I could scarcely consider such thoughts when standing in Monsieur Beaumont’s presence.
    Common sense vanished when I looked up into his eyes, so dark, so blue. How I desired to gently touch his glossy black eyelashes that framed those orbs of his, but how I needed to never do exactly that. I was engaged–engaged to the man holding my waist at that moment. I was considered pious and obedient. I was a mess.
    “Come now, Mathew.” Mr. Randolph suddenly appeared and pulled on Mathew’s sleeve. “Let’s make a bet on the winner of the horseshoes.”
    Mathew chuckled and was easily led away. “Forgive me, darling, but I’m tempted to make more easy money off Mr. Randolph.” He looked at Monsieur Beaumont and said, “Take care of my darling for me!”
    I wanted to call out to Mathew to return to me. Of all the times to gamble, it was not now. I needed him. I needed his presence to keep my head on my shoulders. I needed him near to make the earth under me stop from crumbling under my feet.
    Glancing back at Monsieur Beaumont, he had a warm smile on his face while he bowed his head in Mathew’s direction. “It would be my honor, mon ami .”
    Monsieur Beaumont turned toward me. “Miss Buccleuch, shall we take a turn?” He extended his bent arm to me while the other flourished forward toward the Concord Common greens. 
    Horrified, I stood still. Not even daring a breath for fear that if I did I would unleash some evil I’d never known before. Until that very moment I’d been proud of the kind of woman I had become, the provider for my mother and sister when my Da died; the moralist who strived for responsibility and ethics the way a pilgrim staggers on his bloody knees to Jerusalem; the woman who’s most proud possession was loyalty. Yet that sun-filled warm day in late February, as I remained motionless upon God’s green earth betwixt a foreign French man and an unbending oak tree, everything would change for me.
    I took in a shaky breath and reached for Monsieur Beaumont’s arm.

Chapter Two:
The Philosophy of Justification
     
    “I’m sorry, but, no, you may not have my handkerchief.”
    My sister joyfully scolded a young man who was begging on his knees in front of her, Monsieur Beaumont, and me.
    “Why, Mr. Foster,” she teased, “you are quite aware of my feelings regarding a certain lieutenant. I have no affections for you. Now, be gone, you beast.”
    “Hannah!” I reprimanded my sister with pursed lips and a quick shake of my head. I turned toward the strapping young man with as much sympathy as I could muster. “Mr. Foster, I’m so sorry for my sister’s—”
    “I like it when she calls me a beast.” He got back to his feet on a jump and a large grin. “I’ll win you over yet, Hannah Buccleuch.” He shouted as he ran toward the crowd of Concordians now serving brandy and wine.
    Monsieur Beaumont’s chuckle was not apparent except that he was standing very close to me, and I felt the bubble-like repercussions from his laugh tickle my arm and shoulder, like it was champagne for my skin. No, no, I didn’t just think that.
    My sister turned to Monsieur Beaumont and me and rolled her eyes. “Well, he is a beast. My virtuous sister would never say such things, but I will. Mr. Foster is a pest, Monsieur Beaumont, mark my words.”
    Monsieur Beaumont’s smile widened and he nodded. “I am sure you would know best.”
    Hannah smiled at him, then looked at me, her voice hushed. “How are you doing, my dear sister?”
    She knew I was uncomfortable in crowds, but I nodded, which gained me a quick smile from my sister. 
    Then her grin morphed into a giant sunbeam at Monsieur Beaumont. “My sister isn’t a gossip either. So if you want to know all the juicy fat about my community, you’ll have to ask me.”
    “Noted.” He bobbed his head again and was still quietly chuckling.
    “How is it that you make me sound like such a bore,