But One Life Read online

  But

  One

  Life

  Wyn Estelle Owens

  Copyright © 2018 Wyn Estelle Owens

  All rights reserved.

  Dedication

  For Mom and Dad, Katie and Christy, for doing all they could to get this story to the way it is today,

  And especially for Ana-Marie, who always believes my stories are the best: this, and every one after, are for you.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter the First

  Chapter the Second

  Chapter the Third

  Chapter the Fourth

  Chapter the Fifth

  Chapter the Sixth

  Chapter the Seventh

  Chapter the Eighth

  Chapter the Ninth

  Chapter the Tenth

  Epilogue

  Character List

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So here we are, in the Acknowledgements! It’s pretty amazing to finally be here, and I have sooo many people to thank.

  My friend who first helped grow and plot this little germ of a story idea—thank you so much, I wouldn’t be here without your help.

  My youngest brother who both helped with edits AND helped me burn things to see if a plot points would work, my two other brothers who made me laugh while I was stressing about British plots, and my cousin Ana-Marie who kept my spirits up by gushing about how much she likes my stories.

  I want to thank all of my friends from the Five Poisoned Apples Facebook page (especially my dear new friends Christy Kimmerly and Katie Hanna—You guys are the best!), and the judge that read my story and thought it had promise enough to be an Honorable Mention. Anne Elisabeth Stengl, for hosting the wonderful, amazing contest that gave birth to But One Life.

  Thanks to all my lovely beta-readers, your input was EXTREMELY helpful. I’m still very new at this (as some of you undoubtedly noticed) and this story would have greatly suffered without all of your kind help.

  Kendra, for choosing my story to be a part of this collection and helping me through the Unknown Wilderness that is Self-Publishing—I couldn’t be more grateful. All my other fellow Mirror Sisters: Heather, Meredith, Sarah, and Kathryn—your help and support has been absolutely lovely and invaluable during all the pre-release craziness!

  My Mom, who helped inspire this story by teaching me history and giving me amazing books to read which helped teach me how to write, and some of those stories were a large part of the inspiration for But One Life.

  My Dad, who spent New Year’s Eve hacking at my story with a giant broadsword just to help me make the deadline. I’m so, so thankful for all of you.

  And especially God. Thanks for giving me a brain capable of hosting wonderful characters and stories, so that I can attempt to display my love for you and this world you’ve made.

  Thank you all <3

  Prologue

  “Can you tell me a story, Mama?”

  The little girl was in a frilly nightgown, tucked beneath warm quilts to chase away the winter’s cold. Her eyes were drooping slightly, but there was enough light in them to indicate she wasn’t quite ready to fall asleep yet.

  “It is getting late, and you need your sleep,” Mama replied gently. She was a lovely lady, with smooth coppery skin and shining black hair, and a gentle smile that was full of warmth. She wore a dress as fine as her looks, indicating her husband was in possession of considerable wealth.

  “…Please?”

  Mama sighed, but she was also smiling, so the little girl suspected she wasn’t too put out. “Very well, Guinevere. What story do you want to hear?”

  The child popped up excitedly into a sitting position, her fists tugging on her blankets. “Tell me the story of me!”

  “Again?” Mama said with a laugh. “You ask to hear that story nearly every night!”

  “‘Course!” her daughter retorted. “It’s the very best one, Mama.”

  “All right… Once upon a time, long before you were born…” Mama began, as she always did. Guinevere happily snuggled into the pillows at her back, listening to her Mama’s funny voice. It wasn’t funny in a musical, lilting way, like the way her Grandfather talked (especially when he was telling Guinevere stories that made her shiver with fear and delight), and it definitely wasn’t funny like the way Old Isaac spoke, warm and deep and somewhat rumbly. No, it was a special, pretty funniness all Mama’s own, and just hearing it made Guinevere feel warm and safe inside.

  “It was a cold and snowy day, very much like this.” The wind rattled ferociously against the pane, as if to affirm her words. “Our people, the Oneida, had sided with the Iroquois against the French. But the French didn’t like that we were helping the British soldiers, so they decided to send soldiers to our village. Most of our men were away, so my aunt told me to run as fast as I could to where the British soldiers were to get help.”

  “Go, Mama!” Guinevere cheered. “Beat the nasty French!”

  “Hush, little one, and let me finish my story.” Her daughter nodded, suitably chastened, and Mama stared thoughtfully into the little flame of the candle.

  “I was running through the forest, as fast as I could. It was very hard to see, because of all the falling snow. But there, ahead of me, I suddenly saw a flash of red, and I ran straight towards it—and knocked into—”

  “PAPA!” Guinevere yelled happily. Mama shook her head.

  “Guinevere, why should I tell you the story if you already know what’s going to happen? Maybe I should just leave you and the story alone.”

  “No, Mama!” Guinevere protested. “It’s oh so much better when you tell it, even better than when Papa does.”

  “Is that so?” Mama smirked slightly, with a fond twist to her mouth. “Very well, then. But do try to listen instead of speaking, this time.”

  “Yes, Mama…”

  “Now, the soldier I ran into was Papa, and I found him very, very strange,” Mama said, a fond grin on her face. “I hadn’t seen many white men before, and never up close. And your papa was so white—nearly as white as the snow all around, just like you!” She poked Guinevere’s pale cheek, and the girl obligingly giggled and squirmed.

  “Once I got over his strangeness, I quickly told him my message, and he immediately went and told his commander. And because of that, my entire village was saved from the nasty French.”

  “Yay!” Guinevere said, hugging her quilts in excitement. “Go, Papa! What happened next, Mama?”

  “Well…” Mama said, “I had run far, and it was so awfully cold. I ended up getting sick, and your Papa took me back to his family’s farm where his mother could take care of me. And after I got better, I started to notice how handsome and brave your Papa was, even if his skin was such an odd color. And after a while, we got married and I got a new name—Mrs. Charlotte Phillips.”

  She paused strategically, and on cue Guinevere piped in as she did every time, “But what does that have to do with me, Mama?”

  “Because,” Mama said, tapping her cheek again, “after we were married, we got you. When I found out you were coming, the weather was also very like today. I looked out the window and saw pale white snow and black winter branches, and a red sun setting in the west. And I looked at that and thought how pretty it all was, so I prayed a special prayer. I asked Providence that if I had a little girl, I would very much like her to have the hair of my people, black as the bare branches of winter, and skin the color of her father’s kind, as white as the fresh snow falling from the heavens, and to have lips as red as the blood that runs in us both, the color of the setting sun. And do you know what?”

  “What, Mama?” Guinevere asked, breathless in excitement, as curious and expectant as if she had never heard the tale before.
r />   “The good Lord saw fit to grant my prayer, and when you came, I saw a very pretty baby with hair as black as the winter branches,” Mama said with a tug on one of Guinevere’s braids, “and skin as white as new snow,” and here she stroked her fingers along her daughter’s cheek, “and lips as red as the sun as it sinks into the west,” she finished with a quick tap on the small, rosy lips, gaining a sleepy smile in the process. “And your Papa and I knew then that we had the most beautiful baby girl in all of New York Colony, and maybe in all thirteen.”

  Guinevere nodded, her eyes sinking heavily as she did so. Mama gently leaned her back and adjusted the pillows, drawing the warm quilts up to her daughter’s chin. She picked up the candle and turned to go, but her daughter’s sleepy voice called her back once more.

  “Mama, do you think the new baby will have all that too?”

  Mama smiled and smoothed a hand over her ever-so-slightly rounded belly. “I don’t know, Guinevere. Only time will tell. Now go to sleep, my love. Goodnight.”

  And with that, she blew out the candle and shut the door, leaving her daughter to dream of a little sister with her mother’s hair and her father’s skin. But that spring—the spring of 1769, the throat distemper came, and Ginny (as she was called by her Papa) was sent away to her Papa’s Uncle, who owned a large farm in the Massachusetts Bay countryside. It was isolated and far away from the crushing masses of people in the cities where the disease spread fastest, so they hoped Ginny would be safe there. Their plan worked, and Ginny survived the summer with nary a cold.

  By the time Ginny returned home in the autumn, Charlotte and the baby were three months gone.

  In time Ginny grew up, as little girls often do, spending her winters in the library and her summers in her father’s huge apple orchards. She missed her mother, but she had her father and the servants for company. What more could she want or need?

  Apparently, Captain Phillips decided she needed a mother. This was understandable, for Ginny had no one that could teach her the complicated and intricate art of being a woman. So, the summer when Ginny was twelve he went off to New York and returned with what he thought was a good, suitable wife: Mistress Martha Wells Phillips. She was coldly beautiful, tall and blond, with chilling grey eyes. Captain Phillips thought she was the perfect person to be Ginny's new mother—educated, well-versed in the social graces, with infinite connections.

  He was wrong, as he later found out, but the deed was already done. All seemed well, at first, but as time went on, the new Mistress Phillips changed. She became arrogant and dismissive instead of polite and gentle, and she clearly showed disdain at the Captain’s more rebellious political leanings and the ancestry of his daughter. Captain Phillips soon came to regret his decision to marry her, but he was a man of honor and treated her well, and did his best to run interference between her and his daughter whenever he was home. Mistress Phillips herself acted the part of the adoring wife and mother in public, and begrudgingly fulfilled her role in training Ginny in the arts of womanhood. Those moments of instruction, however, were the only time either Ginny or she spent even somewhat willingly in each other’s company. At any other time, they avoided each other like the plague, and a cold, tentative truce settled upon their home. A strained, chilled peace, not unlike the one that had fallen upon the colonies.

  Ginny turned thirteen the year peace fell apart. Tensions had been rising for years: the Boston Massacre when she was eight, the Tea Party three years ago, the First Continental Congress the year after that. Then in 1775 someone shot a gun on a green near Boston.

  Chapter The First

  Friday, July 12th, 1776.

  Ginny woke to the bright glow of dawn’s early light. She glared at it, pulling the feather coverlet over her head to snatch a few more minutes of sleep.

  But then her Papa’s voice filtered in through the cracked-open window. Bolting upright and tossing the coverlet aside, she scrambled out of bed and to the window.

  Captain Phillips stood in front of the house, dressed for travel, holding the reins of his horse and talking quietly to Old Isaac.

  Ginny darted out of the room, thundered down the stairs, and burst out the front door. “Papa! Where are you going?”

  The Captain turned and smiled, hands outspread. “Ginny! I didn’t want to wake you.”

  Ginny grabbed his hands. “What’s happening? You never leave without telling me!”

  Her father’s eyes softened. He wrested one hand free and cradled her cheek gently. “You’ve grown up into such a beautiful young woman. I’m proud of you.”

  A stab of fear shot into her heart. “Papa?” she whispered.

  He dropped her hands, turning to look southward. “The British soldiers landed on Staten Island on July third and took it over unopposed. They’re likely planning to invade Long Island soon.”

  Ginny reached up to touch the small silver locket that hung from a chain around her throat. “You’re going, aren’t you,” she said quietly. “You’re going off to war again.”

  He looked at her, his head tilted to the side. “Don’t worry, Ginny-girl. I’ll be fine.”

  She blinked rapidly. “But how can you know?”

  He smiled gently. “Sweet, I have something to show you.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “Look at this. It’s a page from The New York Packet.”

  Confused, Ginny took it and unfolded it. “Column three,” her father said.

  In CONGRESS, July 4, 1776, A Declaration of Independence by the Representatives of the United States of America in General Congress assembled.

  Her head shot up, an incredulous smile spreading across her face. “Is this what I think it is, Papa?”

  Her father took her hand, smiling. “Congress declared independence from Great Britain. We now live in the United States of America.”

  Ginny stared down at the piece of paper in her hand. When, in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…

  It was a small piece of paper, but something told her it would change everything.

  A tear slid down her cheek.

  “I must go,” Captain Phillips said. “You know this.”

  Ginny squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then nodded and smiled bravely to keep from crying. “Of course. Go and defend our freedom, Papa.”

  His own smile faltered in return. “That’s my brave Ginny-girl. Your mother would be so proud.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead, a father’s benediction. “Continue to be a brave girl, and find some way of your own to defend our freedom for me.”

  “I will, Papa,” she whispered.

  He pulled her into a tight hug. “And someday, we’ll be able to look out the window and see a free land.”

  Then Papa let go and stepped back, smiling at her briefly. The next moment he spun around in a swirl of his coat-tails and strode down the steps to where Old Isaac stood with Papa’s horse.

  The Captain swung up into the saddle, turned, and waved. “Farewell, Ginny-girl!”

  Ginny clutched the paper to her heart as he turned the bend and vanished, trying to banish the foreboding that she would never see her father again.

  Saturday, September 21st, 1776.

  Ginny jolted awake, nearly knocking her head against the trunk of the tree she sat against. She reached over and picked up her fallen book. “Falling asleep in the middle of the day? Fie, Ginny! What would Aunt Dolly say?”

  She stood up, briskly brushing off her skirts. “Whatever woke me, I thank you, or Mother-in-law would have my hide for tardiness.” She turned to leave, but a rustle behind her reached her ears.

  She paused, turning slowly. That sounded too heavy to be an animal. She clutched her book to her chest and sneaked stealthily towards the sound.

  She stepped around a tree and found what she least expected.

  “Ahhhh!” Ginny leapt backwards, nearly tripping and stumbling on
her skirts.

  “Ahhhh!” replied the man leaning against the tree, attempting to scramble to his feet and instead falling on his face.

  Ginny grabbed the nearest thing to hand and brandished it. “Not a step closer, sir!” she demanded.

  The man stared at her weapon and blinked. “And what is that, miss?”

  Ginny glanced down at what she held, then lifted her chin. “The Holy Scriptures, sir.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, a faint half-grin flitting across his face. “You’re threatening me with the Holy Scriptures, miss?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and both her chin and tone reached lofty heights. “They are called ‘The Sword of the Spirit’ by Saint Paul in his letter to the Ephesians, are they not?”

  The man laughed, his half-grin reappearing. He sketched her a clumsy bow. “I stand corrected then, miss. But I’m afraid you won’t need it. I’m not in much of a position to attack anyone just now.”

  It was then Ginny noticed the dark red stain coloring the cloth strips wrapped around his buff breeches. “W-What happened?”

  He smiled faintly and gave her a small salute. “Captain Ethan Armstrong of the New York 1st Battalion Light Infantry, at your service.”

  Ginny realized he was wearing the blue regimental coat of the Continental Army. She blushed. “My apologies, Captain. I-I didn’t notice you were a soldier, sir.”

  He grinned easily. “I don’t exactly look like one right now, miss, so I can’t blame you.”

  It was quite true. He was nearly covered in filth she dearly hoped was mud, dotted with twigs, leaves, straw, and the massive bloodstain on his breeches. Ginny bit her lip and set her copy of the Holy Scriptures on the ground. “Captain, if you would permit me to look at your wound?”

  He shrugged. “Be my guest.”

  Ginny nodded and knelt next to him, unwrapping the bandages. They fell away and revealed a stab wound that was just starting to close. She examined it carefully, then looked up. “Where and when did you get this?”