Beloved Enemy (69 page)

They
reached the grassy area outside the wash house where lines of clothes and
linens flapped, and bolsters and mattresses lay taking the air. "Thank
you, sir." Ginny turned to take the bolster from Alex. Mischievously, he
hung onto it. "Alex, stop it," she whispered fiercely. "You do
not know whose eyes might be upon us."

"I
cannot resist teasing you," he replied as softly as she. although his eyes
danced still. "I have to kiss you before I go mad with the craving."

"Not
here," she said helplessly, feeling the water enter her veins, her knees
begin to buckle. "You were always so cautious; what has happened to
you?"

"Desperation,"
he said, and the laughter died between them. The bolster fell to the grass.
"You must walk down by the river after dinner. I will contrive to join you
somehow." He left her on the instant, and Ginny wondered how she was to
comply with the instruction. There was neither the time nor the opportunity for
solitary strolling at Harrington Hundred these days, and wishing for solitude
would be considered most odd in her. It would never occur to anyone in this
large, rowdy household that a body might prefer to be alone once in a while. At
the very idea, Susannah would probably rush her to bed with a hot brick at her
feet and an emetic to ward off whatever sickness threatened.

Ginny
returned to the house through the garden where servants were busy setting out
tables beneath the trees for tomorrow's feast. The kitchen was a hive of
activity with the cooks trying to prepare today's dinner, which could not be
allowed to suffer simply because they were to feed a hundred people on the
morrow, while stirring, mixing, and boiling for the next day. Her own task at
this point was the dressing of the Salamagundy—a delicate operation where
sliced chicken, anchovies, eggs, and onions must be arranged in prescribed
order on a bed of lettuce leaves. The skinning and carving of the chicken was a
fiddly task, and given the number of the birds required, a time-consuming one.

She
was just completing this when little Lizzy burst into the kitchen.
"Please, Mistress Courtney—'' she began breathlessly.

"Whatever
is it, Lizzy?" Ginny spun round. "You are supposed to be at home looking
after Esquire Courtney."

"He
sent me to fetch you 'ome,' the girl said, sniffing. “Says he's not feelin'
well, and you've to come and physic him."

''What
is he complaining of, girl?" Susannah asked, wiping her hands on her
apron, exchanging a look with Ginny.

"His
hip and stomach," the girl replied. "He won't let me do anythin' for
him, and shouted at me when — "

"Very
well, Lizzie, that will do," Ginny broke in swiftly, conscious of the
flapping ears in the kitchen. It was too humiliating to have her husband
discussed in this way, even though his vagaries were well known to everyone
here and she was well aware of the pity they felt for her. "You may find
your dinner here, and stay to help as you may. I will not need you at home
until after the party, and I am sure Mistress Harrington could use another pair
of hands." With a small jerk of her head at Susannah, she walked out of
the kitchen into the hall. "I am sorry, Susannah, but I must go to him. I
will try to come back early in the morning."

"What's
to do?" Robert Harrington came into the hall followed/by Alex, the jovial
question on his lips. "You both look as if you've been visited by a ghost.
Has the syllabub not curdled?"

"Oh,
it is no laughing matter, Robert. Giles has sent Lizzy to fetch Ginny home. He
is not well, it seems, but of course there is nothing the matter that—"

"Susannah!"
Robert thundered, and his wife stopped on the verge of gross indiscretion with
a horrified gasp.

"I
do beg your pardon," she whispered, stricken with remorse, gazing at
General Marshall standing behind her husband, looking every bit as shocked as
he must feel at this appalling display. She had been criticizing someone else's
husband, not just in the presence of the wife, but in the presence of a
stranger. "Pray forgive me, Ginny." The plea was directed as much at
her husband, however, as at her cousin by marriage.

"Think
nothing of it, Susannah," Ginny said briskly, hoping to avert Robert's
wrath. Suannah stood in some considerable awe of her husband. "It is most
inconvenient, and you cannot be blamed for finding it so. I do myself."

"It
is your husband who needs you," Robert stated in frigid tones. He could
not take his cousin to task for her lack of respect in this matter, but he
could make his displeasure felt at the unseemliness, at the unwomanliness of
her sentiments.

"Quite
so, Robert." Ginny met his eyes directly. "And we are all aware of
the facts, are we not?" Unable to stand against the candid challenge in
the gray eyes, Robert coughed and turned away.

"Alex,
let us continue with our discussion on those earthworks." He marched back
into the parlor. Alex, after one look at Ginny, followed. "My
apologies," Robert said gruffly. "I cannot imagine what you must be
thinking of us that the women of the Colonies should have such unbridled
tongues and show so little respect."

"I
was not thinking that at all," Alex said. "You have said something to
me about Mistress Courtney's husband in the past, if you recall. It would be
hard for a woman to show respect for such a man—a drunkard and a wastrel, if I
may use your own words."

"Maybe
so," Robert sighed. "But such matters lie only between husband and
wife, and Mistress Courtney should keep such sentiments to herself. As for my
wife — "

"Come
now, you cannot blame her," Alex cajoled. "She has so much to think
of, and to lose her right hand so abruptly. ... It would incline a saint to
indiscretion."

"Ah,
I suppose you are right." Robert Harrington smiled in resignation. "A
glass of brandy? We had best stay immured in here if we do not wish to be swept
under the carpet in all that zealous activity."

Ginny
paddled back to her cottage, furious at her husband for the selfish command
that she knew to be unnecessary. He had wanted to accompany her to Harrington
Hundred, and only the lack of invitation had kept him away. What he saw as a
deliberate slight had also made him livid, and his refusal to allow her to
complete her work for Susannah was presumably the consequence. And now she
would not be able to walk along the river after dinner. ... It was that
thought, rather than having had to abandon her Salamagundy, that fueled her
disconsolate irritation, Ginny realized without too much surprise. But she was
in no conciliatory mood when she tied up her canoe and stomped up the garden
into the house.

"Giles?"
There was no sign of him in the kitchen and no immediate response to her call.
She called again, going to the stairs. A weak moan came in reply.
"Malingering hypocrite," Ginny muttered, ascending the stairs that
opened directly into the upstairs chamber. Her husband lay upon the bed, fully
clothed, his eyes red and angry and unfocused, the whiskey bottle beside him.
"What is the matter," she asked with scant sympathy, "that you should
drag me away in this peremptory fashion?"

"Your
place is with me." He struggled up until he was sitting on the bed.
"My damn hip is paining intolerably, and you have no right to be anywhere
but here, seeing to my comfort and my needs."

"I
left Lizzie to do that," Ginny retorted, anger, disappointment, and
disgust putting her beyond caution. "I will prepare a poultice for your
hip and bring you laudanum." She picked up the whiskey bottle, but Giles
lunged for it, wrenching it out of her hand.

"Yes,
you left some half-witted girl-child to look after me," he said furiously.
"What is there at Harrington Hundred that is so much more appealing and
important than serving your husband who is owed your loyalty and
obedience?"

"Everything,"
Ginny muttered, then gasped with pain as he twisted her wrist.

"What
did you say, soldier's whore?" he hissed. "Is that it, then? The mere
sight of a soldier is sufficient to—"

"Stop
it!" Ginny yelled, pulling at her wrist, heedless of the pain. with a
final twist, she broke his grip. "You have no right to talk in that
way." Except that he did have the right. She turned away from him, back to
the stairs, rubbing her wrist. "Do you wish me to prepare a poultice for
you, or would you prefer I bring you more whiskey to drown the ache?"

Giles
dived for her but tripped and fell to his knees. A look of surprise crossed his
face at finding himself on the floor, but he seemed to forget about following
Ginny and dragged himself back to the bed, falling across it with a groan.

He
would be unconscious in a short while. Ginny's lip curled in utter contempt as
she went back downstairs. They would be having dinner now at Harrington
Hundred, and she was very hungry. She ate a giblet pie she had left for Giles.
He would be unable to stomach it now, once he came out of his stupor. Spiced
gruel was about all he could take these days, and even that sometimes
aggravated his stomach after a particularly heavy bout. How would he be
tomorrow, at the party? Perhaps he would not be able to go, which would mean
that she would not be able to attend either. They would both sit in lonely
bitter enmity in their house while the revels went on . . . and Alex . . . Oh,
it was all hopeless. There was no future to anything. Ginny went out of the
house. She would walk herself into exhaustion; then at least she would be able
to sleep.

Alex
paddled slowly up Piper's Cut, looking out for the house. He did not know what
he would do when he saw it, and particularly what he would do if he saw Giles
Courtney. Paddle on by, presumably. There was so much bustle at Harrington
Hundred that his departure after dinner had drawn no surprised comment. Indeed
his host had remarked enviously that he wished he could do the same, but Susannah
would not look kindly upon her husband's desertion at this juncture.

The
small, square house came into view as he rounded the bend. Smoke curled from
the chimney, and the garden around was neat and well tended. As he would have
expected of Mistress Courtney's husbandry. The canoe and rowboat were tied up
at the bank so she was not out upon the water this evening. Lifting his paddle,
Alex allowed the canoe to drift, noticing the lean-to under the trees where two
horses were tethered. either she was within doors, tending her husband, or she
was out and about on foot. Well, there was no reason why he should not paddle
by, keeping his eyes open. The creek was a public waterway, the marshes on
either side alive with game fowl, and his musket rested in the bottom of the
canoe as ample evidence of his hunting intentions.

He
came across Ginny some hundred yards downstream from the house, sitting on the
bank dabbling her toes in the water. Her face lit up when she saw him, then an
expression that he had never before seen and had thought never to see on that
courageous, challenging countenance, an expression that filled him with
nameless rage appeared in the gray eyes as she looked nervously around. She was
afraid. Then the look was gone as swiftly as it had appeared. "Round the
next corner," she said. "I will race you." She was on her feet,
picking up her shoes and off and running on the instant, leaving him to follow
as fast as the paddle would allow him.

When
he rounded the corner, there was no sign of her, and he stopped in midstream,
looking around. There was nothing but the marshes, where curlews rose and
called, and the wooded bank. Then he heard an unmistakable chuckle from
somewhere above. Looking up, he saw her in the crotch of an oak tree, peeping
impudently at him through the copper leaves. "Can you climb trees,
General, or are you grown too full of consequence for such childish
sport?"

"You're
going to pay for that," he threatened with a mock scowl, paddling to the
bank and tying the canoe. The tree was not an easy climb, particularly as Ginny
tossed twigs and leaves down on him as he clambered up to where she sat astride
a thick branch, her back resting against the tree trunk. "Gypsy," he
declared, swinging astride the branch facing her. "Disrespectful hoyden."
Putting his hands on her shoulders, imprisoning her against the trunk at her
back, he kissed her, subjugation in mind. Ginny laughed and twisted against his
mouth but eventually yielded, her head going back as her lips parted and her
arms went around his neck.

"What
brings you here, sir?" she inquired, when at length he released her.

"A
promised meeting along the river bank with a gypsy," he replied. "A
kiss to claim. Must we stay up here?"

"Not
if you do not care for it. But it is very private."

"Yes,
but devilishly uncomfortable, and I think caterpillars are crawling down my
back."

Ginny
chuckled, swung her leg over the branch so that she was sitting sideways, then
launched herself into the air. Alex gasped, open-mouthed, then relaxed as she
caught onto a branch opposite and swung like a monkey some six feet from the
ground. "You had better catch me, sir."

He
jumped down, coming up in front of the swinging figure, putting his arms around
her waist. "Let go then. I have you safe." She dropped into his arms,
her hands on his shoulders, smiling down at him as he held her up. Then he let
her slide through his arms to the ground. Ginny straightened her skirts,
reached up to pluck a twig from his shoulder. Alex took her wrist with a frown.
"How did you do this?"

"Do
what?" she said with an assumption of carelessness, glancing idly at her
wrist where an ugly bruise was purpling against the bone. "Oh, if you
climb trees, you expect a few scratches." She shrugged nonchalantly, but
Alex's frown deepened.

"That
is not a scratch, and it did not come from tree climbing. How did you do it?
And don't lie to me, Ginny."

"I
do not entirely recall," she said with bland but necessary disobedience.
"And it does not hurt in the slightest."

Alex's
lips tightened as he remembered that look in her eyes, but there was nothing he
could do if she would not confide in him. And there was little he could do if
she did, he thought bleakly. The only tiling he could do for her was to avoid
endangering her further.

"Do
not look so somber," she said suddenly, softly pleading. "We are
quite safe here, and it is surely too rare an opportunity that we should waste
it. It will be dark soon, and you will have to return to Harringtons', or they
will send out a search party for you."

"And
your husband will be looking for you," he said directly, tipping her chin,
forcing her to meet his eye.

Ginny
tried to evade him but could not. "I do not suppose he will be looking for
me for quite some time," she said matter-of-factly. "He is in a
swinish, whiskey-sodden stupor, if you wish to know the truth."

Alex
sighed and asked painfully, "Has he beaten you, Ginny?"

"Not
so far," she said shortly. "And you need not fear that I would stand
for it if he did. You should know me better than that."

And
with that, Alex had to be satisfied. He left her soon after, paddling back as
dusk turned to full night. Never had he felt so helpless, so totally without a
plan of action or even the possibility of forming one. She was dearer to him
than life itself, and he knew that he could not possibly leave her again, now
that he had found her.

But
what future did they have? He could stay here, buy land, and make his life as a
planter. It was a good life for those with the drive and energy to make it
work. He would be close to her and they would love—hugger-mugger and in
constant fear of discovery, the voice of reality chimed. The secret
scramblings, the fear, would eat into them, eventually destroying what they
had. And he was a soldier, not a planter, a man with a life of power waiting
for him at home. He could Jake her with him, wrest her from her husband to live
with him in disgrace, a social outcast, a declared adulteress who could not be
married because she had a husband already. And his career would be destroyed
utterly under the harsh moral climate presently operating in England where
adultery was now a hanging offense.