Storm of Love - A Historical Romance Set during the American Revolutionary War Read Online Free Page B

her mother ask her a second time, and this time it was apparent that she had found her staunch will and that the stern wall of composure she had so consistently displayed throughout Abigail’s life up until this point was fast recovering. Abigail thought it wise to respond favorably this time.
              Slowly, rubbing one eye for effect, she turned over in her bed and sat up, blinking as though she was seeing the sun for the first time. With the best confused expression she could muster, she looked toward her mother with questioning eyes, hoping to appear fragile and innocent and young, thinking that perhaps it would soften her heart and take the sharp edge off of her next words. If it worked, it wasn't noticeable.
              "Yes, Mother?" she asked, as she noted her blotchy, tear-stained face.
              "Get up. Work starts early today. Your father is dead."
              Just like that, in the amount of time it took for her to walk down the hall and open Abigail’s door, the expression of humanity she had seen in the doorway had disappeared and was replaced immediately with the stern demeanor of a dictator.
              "What do you mean Father is dead?" I asked, true concern showing in my face, no need for acting anymore.
              "He's dead, Abigail. Gone. Shot to death in that wretched revolution of his."
              I tried my best to keep the look of shock from my face, but it did no good. Even for my mother, this cold and uncaring language was remarkable. His revolution? She acted as though he single-handedly asked the British to fight us, as though he had, on his own, planted the seed for revolution in the minds of the people, as though he himself had created the idea of freedom in the first place and then incited everyone in the American colonies to defend it. His revolution. It was the revolution of us all, at least those who cared enough about life outside of laundry and garden tending to realize its necessity.
              "Oh, come along, Abigail, don't give me that look! You were always just like him." She did not say this in a loving tone or as though it were a compliment. Instead, the words left her mouth as though she were spitting out poisonous venom so that it would not kill her, as though the very thought of my father, and by extension me, made her sick. She continued in no softer tones. "You and him with your silly ideas of revolution and freedom! And now look! Are you happy? Are you glad for what you've done to this family? Without your encouragement, maybe your father would still be home, but now he's dead, and with your help. Get out of your bed, Abigail, you can be the man of the house now, since you've never had any need for the lifestyle of a woman."
              Her eyes were like dark pools, almost entirely black, as though she were possessed by some evil being or demon. It was as though Satan himself had come to their little town and taken hold of Mother. But Abigail knew better. If she was, indeed, possessed, she had been contending with the indwelling beast for as long as Abigail had been alive. Some people are just born with a stone heart, and Mother was one of them.
              Tears stung Abigail’s eyes, more at the loss of her father and the reality of his death sinking in, but in small part because of her mother’s words, as well. It was one thing not to approve of their position on the revolution, one thing not to care about freedom for yourself or your family, but it was quite another to accuse your child of sending her father off to die in a war. Abigail knew better. She knew her words were not true. But they stung just the same.
              Abigail threw back her covers and stormed over to her mother, coming nose-to-nose with the demon itself and returning her gaze with her own fiery betrayal. If she