The Rebels: the Kent Family Chronicles
“The older of the two, Philip Kent, walked with a slight limp that contrasted with the frolicsome skips and jumps of the small boy clutching his hand. The boy was dark-haired, handsome. His brown eyes sparkled as he surveyed the orchards and stone fences and wind-blown pastures of the peninsula.
The boy tugged his father’s hand. “Papa, couldn’t we have a race?”
“You know I can’t run a footrace,” Philip said in a sharp voice.
“But we run together sometimes.”
“Only because you insist, Abraham. And... only at home.”
The boy frowned. “All right, But can’t we go over to that other hill? I want to see the ships better—”
“You’ll stay here. We won’t be all that long.”
“Papa, please—”
“I said no!”
The Marquis de Lafayette adjusted his tricorn against the slant of the sun. On one of the hat’s upturned sides, Gil sported the white-centered cockade that symbolized the French alliance.
“My good friend,” he said, “would it hurt to let your son roam?MoreLess
The boy tugged his father’s hand. “Papa, couldn’t we have a race?”
“You know I can’t run a footrace,” Philip said in a sharp voice.
“But we run together sometimes.”
“Only because you insist, Abraham. And... only at home.”
The boy frowned. “All right, But can’t we go over to that other hill? I want to see the ships better—”
“You’ll stay here. We won’t be all that long.”
“Papa, please—”
“I said no!”
The Marquis de Lafayette adjusted his tricorn against the slant of the sun. On one of the hat’s upturned sides, Gil sported the white-centered cockade that symbolized the French alliance.
“My good friend,” he said, “would it hurt to let your son roam?MoreLess
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