Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (16 page)

"Dunstan
Fairfax, sir."
 
He nodded toward
the committeemen, who watched them.
 
"Also known as Mr. Black, special agent for General Washington.
 
Your accent — Wiltshire?"

"Yes.
 
I had the acquaintance of your father, a
good man.
 
I also had the acquaintance
of your stepfather, Lord Ratchingham."

"I
see."
 
The gaze of glacial green
shifted to Helen.
 
"Clearly your
friendship with Mrs. Chiswell extends back decades.
 
May I presume a business connection with her family?"

He leaned into
the silence that followed, and Helen's stomach tensed again at the predator
grope of his will for hers.
 
Jonathan
patted her hand on his arm, alerting her that she'd clutched him, and while she
eased tension from her fingers, he said in a breezy voice, "I defer to the
lady for a history of our familial connections."
 
Thrust and parry.

"Of
course."
 
Unsmiling, Fairfax
continued to flog her with his stare.
 
"Madam, Mr. Badley informed me the contract is signed and in order.
 
We've mapped out the route.
 
Do me the honor of dining with me this
evening, and I shall present you the itinerary."

Sensing the
myriad questions Fairfax's announcement aroused in Jonathan, Helen drew a
steady breath.
 
"My good friend
Jonathan is only just arrived this morning from his estate on the Lower Cape
Fear.
 
We plan to dine together tonight,
catch up on family news."

Jonathan patted
her hand again, his tone chipper.
 
"My dear, clearly you've pressing business matters to discuss with
Mr. Fairfax.
 
I've no objection to
sharing you with him over supper."

Parlor
games.
 
So long had it been since she'd
played them that she'd lost a good deal of nimbleness for the sport.
 
She may as well roll with it.
 
"How considerate of you, Jonathan.
 
Now, then, Mr. Fairfax, how does seven
o'clock tonight suit?" The idea that he'd eat leftovers from the meal he'd
purchased the previous night amused her.

"Very
well, madam."

A smirk caught
Jonathan's lip.
 
"I look forward to
hearing rollicking stories of your adventures with your wild Clancy
stepbrothers."

The
seven-year-old swung loose in Fairfax's eyes before he seized and submerged the
beast.
 
Helen's breath caught in her
throat.
 
She must warn Jonathan.
 
Needling Fairfax was like yanking the tail
of a famished tiger.

"I shall endeavor
not to disappoint.
 
Madam.
 
Sir."
 
He pivoted and headed from the churchyard toward his men waiting in
clear view on the street.
 
Helen, eyeing
the track his shoes made in the wet lawn, fancied she heard grass sizzle.

Jonathan
sighed.
 
"Helen, what in Hades have
you fallen into?"

"Mrs.
Chiswell!
 
Mrs. Chiswell!"
 
Hannah, her face splotched from tears,
strode to them from the reception.
 
Roger and Enid trailed after, concern and grief congesting their
expressions.

Remorse wrung
Helen's heart.
 
Preoccupied with her own
affairs, she hadn't tended the bereaved.
 
She caught Hannah's cold hands in hers.
 
"Oh, Hannah, do forgive me for not joining the reception sooner —"

"Bah,
never you mind that."
 
The blonde
planted her feet and jutted her jaw but quieted her voice, conscious of
committeemen nearby.
 
"Roger told
me of your project.
 
Papa's in the
ground now.
 
I'm ready to leave whenever
you are, proud to help you on your assignment with Colonel Tarleton for that
new magazine in London.
 
Just let me out
of this town for awhile."

Well, that just
about covered everything, didn't it?
 
Between Fairfax and Hannah, Jonathan should be able to summon the grand
picture of her adventure into Hades long ere they'd have a chance that
afternoon to talk in private about it.
 
She squeezed Hannah's hands.
 
"Thank you, dear."
 
Roger caressed his wife's shoulder from behind and nodded approval.
 
Helen said, "I thank both of you.
 
Join us for supper tonight at seven.
 
We shall discuss our route."
 
Releasing Hannah, she turned to Jonathan.

He propped a
fist on his hip.
 
"You weren't
jesting earlier when you said we must talk."

Chapter Fourteen

HELEN BADE THE
Pearsons good night, dropped the bar on the front door, and returned to the
parlor.
 
The clock chimed ten.
 
She stifled a yawn, eager for bed after the
awkward supper.

At Badley's
insistence, the route to the Crown's backcountry base of Camden, South Carolina
zigzagged through the Santee, realm of rebel-lord Francis Marion, and farther
north, where rebel Thomas Sumter reigned.
 
Fairfax had explained the risks to the publisher, but Badley was keen to
thrust his journalist in the path of potential opportunities for interviews.

Helen couldn't
envision either rebel chief pausing reconnaissance of the backcountry to chat
with a journalist.
 
If the rebels
discovered she was a Loyalist, she'd never leave the swamps alive.
 
Fairfax agreed.
 
As a countermeasure, everyone in their party would don the garb
of backwoods dwellers before their arrival in the Santee, to help them blend in
with residents.
 
Some of Helen's
misgivings about their route eased.
 
Still, Marion and Sumter had spies.

The departure
awaited only Helen's wardrobe, complete by Wednesday, and a man to assist
Roger.
 
But Hannah's worn expression
concerned Helen.
 
She wondered whether
the younger woman was up for the journey, whether she'd be better off spending
the immediate weeks after her father's death at home.

She regarded
Jonathan, who stared into the unlit parlor fireplace.
 
His reserve throughout supper and physical distance from others
afterwards reinforced for her how confounded he was by the venture.
 
Never had she seen him so preoccupied.
 
She said, "It's late for you to drive
back.
 
Stay here tonight.
 
Enid can ready your room in a moment and
prepare a pallet for your man."

"You're
most obliging."
 
He bowed his
head.
 
"I shall stay, then, and if
the night isn't too damp, stroll in the back yard while my room is
prepared."

In response to
his request for her company, Helen preceded him, pausing at the dining room to
request that Enid prepare accommodations for their guests.
 
In the middle of the back yard, Jonathan
inhaled and took his time releasing the breath, as if the atmosphere of the
parlor were noxious.
 
Helen waited while
he repeated the exercise.
 
Never would Jonathan
be rushed into conversation.

Uneasiness
groped at her throat.
 
Jonathan
disapproved of the project.
 
She hoped
he wouldn't try to talk Badley out of it.
 
While never close friends, he and Badley were cordial.
 
If anyone could change Badley's mind, it
would be Jonathan, but that must involve Jonathan's offer to compensate Badley
for his losses.

"My dear,
David St. James would be perfect for your second man on this
expedition."
 
A half-laugh of
denial escaped her, and she faced him.
 
He meandered over, his scrutiny of her expression keen in the semi-night
conferred by lamplight from neighbors' yards, and fog.
 
"Why not?"
 
His tone firmed.
 
"Have you two quarreled again?"

She wondered
why Jonathan was so strong an advocate of her relationship with David.
 
At times, he almost seemed to shove David at
her.
 
"Yes, we did, three nights
ago."
 
Exasperation vented through
his nostrils, so she summarized what had happened between David and Fairfax.

"Good
gods, Helen."
 
Astuteness seized
Jonathan's expression.
 
"And your
rationale for accepting the assignment with the Legion?"

She lifted her
chin.
 
"I'm bored writing about
Wilmington society."

Motionless as a
sculpture from an ancient temple, he studied her.
 
"The Chinese believe that everyone who enters your life is
your teacher with a lesson for you.
 
Should you fail to learn the lesson the first time —"

"The
universe will provide me a more potent teacher the next time, and stronger and
stronger teachers, until I've finally learned the lesson."

"Jolly!
 
You remember!"
 
He grimaced.
 
"Now, what lesson does the universe intend you to learn with
Mr. Fairfax as your teacher?"

As if his
rebuke had delivered a physical slap, she recoiled and touched her face.
 
"Really, Jonathan, you've never toyed
with me in such a manner."

"You've
never toyed with yourself in such a manner.
 
Something catastrophic influenced you to accept the assignment.
 
Your quarrel with David — no, you've more
sense than to make decisions with your heart.
 
And I'm certain you've more courage than to run away from the
Committee's bluster over Charles's murder."
 
Enlightenment flooded his face.
 
"Only one topic backs you into a corner.
 
This is about money, isn't it?
 
You accepted that wretched assignment for
money
."

She stalked
away.
 
Jonathan could speak of money
with contempt.
 
Not for a day in his
life had he worried about it.
 
Her
transformation during the Atlantic crossing had drawn upon all the alchemy in
his repertoire, but Silas's monetary reward had been immaterial.
 
Jonathan's true "payment" had
arrived when Agatha Chiswell approved of Helen after spending less than an hour
in her company.

"This is a
once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to write more than society drivel.
 
Badley's paying me four times my daily
rate."

"Yes, this
is
about money."
 
Jonathan
overtook her, yanked her around to him.
 
"You hit a financial snag.
 
David offered help.
 
You
declined.
 
That's what your quarrel with
him was about."

"I suppose
now I shall hear
your
offer of financial help?"

"No, my
dear.
 
You would despise me for it.
 
You've made your aversion to being purchased
quite clear.
 
Help me comprehend how
Phineas succeeded where all men since Silas have failed."

While Helen
worked her mouth for a retort, she almost missed Jonathan's glance to her
left.
 
He shoved her away with a
shout.
 
A flash lit the night, the
report of a pistol thundered in her ear, and she smelled the sulfurous heat of
a ball singing air that separated them.

Before she
could gasp, before the first neighborhood dog had responded, Jonathan vaulted
in pursuit of the assailant over the low hedge between her property and Mr.
Morris's.

***

Gaynes
completed a lap of investigator-strut before the fireplace.
 
"You're certain you didn't see enough
to corroborate Mr. Quill's description?"

Helen wondered
when she'd get a good night's sleep again.
 
Unable to sit, she fidgeted in the doorway near two deputies who leaned
against the parlor doorjambs.
 
They
stank of ale.
 
"The pistol flash
startled me.
 
By the time I recovered my
bearings, Jonathan had given chase, and the assailant was well away."

Gaynes
grunted.
 
"Mighty detailed, your
description of him, Mr. Quill.
 
Five
feet four inches tall, plump, limping on the left leg, wearing a dark coat.
 
To be sure, he sounds like Landon's killer
and our fugitive.
 
If I were you, Mrs.
Chiswell, I'd sleep with the doors barred and windows locked."

The latch on
the study window wasn't yet repaired, thanks to her recent distractions.
 
Indignation seared her weariness.
 
The Committee's priority had always been
clear: protecting Whigs in the community.
 
Gaynes implied that she must provide her own defense against
Wilmington's criminals.

He waved a
battered, cocked hat at Jonathan.
 
"Too bad he escaped, but at least you recovered his hat."

Also posed near
the fireplace, Jonathan squared off with Gaynes, dignified despite hedge-stains
and a tear on one stocking and a pocket flap dangling from his coat.
 
"Arthur Sims remains at liberty with
murderous intent and a stolen pistol.
 
Apprehending him is the responsibility of the Committee of Safety.
 
You'd best do so soon, lest he attempt
another murder, and you find yourself replaced as deputy."

Gaynes's eyes
bugged.
 
He swelled his chest and jutted
his jaw.
 
"Are you threatening me,
Mr. Professor?"

Jonathan
studied him, his tone calm.
 
"Did
you understand nothing of what I said?"

"I got
ears, don't I?
 
And with those ears, I
heard you browbeat me to find Sims."

"I've
heard that Special Agent Black handed you a number of excellent leads on
Sims.
 
Exactly what progress have you
made toward finding this killer and closing the case?"

"I ain't
required to give you any details, but we're making plenty of progress.
 
Rooting out criminals ain't like hanging
laundry.
 
There's skill to it, like —
like baking bread."

Helen repressed
a sigh.
 
Heaven help them.
 
Gaynes had learned crime solving from a
baker.

"Well,
then," said Jonathan, "I trust you won't leave the majority of those
Wilmington loaves in the oven too long, simply because they're loyal to the
king or neutral."

Fury flared in
Gaynes's eyes.
 
"Tory
dung!"
 
Like a bear, he swung a
fist out at Jonathan.

Reverberations
of Gaynes's bulk sprawling to the floor between the couch and fireplace echoed
through the house for several seconds.
 
Helen blinked.
 
Jonathan had
stepped aside with the reflexes of a deer and allowed Gaynes's momentum to
pitch him forward onto the floor.

The deputies in
the doorway guffawed.
 
Enid and
Jonathan's driver, Peter, ran in from the kitchen to investigate the clamor.

Jonathan took a
step toward the fallen man in concern.
 
"Are you injured, sir?"

With an oath,
Gaynes lumbered to his feet, straightened his clothing, and snatched his hat
and Sims's from the floor.
 
"We're
competent at catching criminals."
 
He scowled his deputies into silence and stomped for the door.
 
"Tories — always trying to order how we
conduct our business."