Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (2 page)

She glanced at
the second fellow.
 
No gray streaked his
brown hair, caught back neatly with a silk ribbon.
 
Except for crows' feet at his eyes, his handsome face was devoid
of wrinkles.
 
He might have been any age
between thirty and sixty.
 
Serenity
suffused him, absent from the demeanors of the other men in the room.
 
Absent from most men she knew, in fact.

She bit her
lip.
 
Which man was Chiswell?
 
Who was the other fellow?

Treadaway
handed a half-glass of brandy to the man who'd requested it.
 
Then he aimed a polite smile at the drunk's
companion.
 
"A brandy for you, too,
Mr. Quill?"

Quill
.
 
Then the sot must be her future husband,
Chiswell.
 
Helen's spirits plummeted
further.

"Not this
morning, thank you."
 
Quill inclined
his head to Treadaway.

She regarded
the first man, who belted down brandy as if it were tea and deposited the glass
beside a crystal decanter.
 
He looked to
be in his early forties but was probably younger.
 
Excessive consumption of spirits aged people.
 
More revulsion rolled through her.

Treadaway
continued to address Quill.
 
"Well,
then, why don't you make yourself comfortable in the library while Mr. Chiswell
and I transact our business here?"

Chiswell cut
the air with his hand.
 
"Jonathan
stays.
 
He'd be bored in Ratchingham's
library.
 
His family imported silk and
porcelain from China, and he's traveled the world collecting books.
 
South America, Africa, Asia."

Dazed, Helen
studied Quill again.
 
Jonathan
Quill.
 
Who was this man to travel the
world collecting books?
 
Then she spied
the clench of frustration in Treadaway's jaw and grasped reality.
 
The procurer might have played up her
physical attributes to pass her off on Chiswell, but Quill, with the wisdom of
the world, wouldn't be duped.
 
The deal would
collapse.
 
Worse than marrying a drunk,
she'd become the sport of Treadaway and Clancy.
 
Dread danced specks through her vision.

"All
right, where is she, Treadaway?
 
I rose
an hour early this morning to squeeze in this meeting.
 
I'm a busy man.
 
I won't be kept waiting."

Treadaway
gestured to her.
 
"I present Miss
Helen Grey.
 
Miss Grey, Mr. Silas
Chiswell."

She gawped at
the fine Persian carpet beneath her slippers, appalled by heat and brutishness
in Chiswell's eyes.
 
A chuckle like a
bear's growl issued from him.
 
"Bloody hell, you found a docile one.
 
Is that why you thrust her back in the shadows, like a harem
wife?"

Treadaway's
obsequious tone brandished renewed enthusiasm.
 
"I complied with your wishes.
 
She's the eldest daughter of a merchant who died earlier this year,
leaving the widow in debt.
 
If she's
what you fancy, she can easily become
your
harem wife."

"Heh heh
heh.
 
Harem wife.
 
She literate?"

Treadaway
placed an opened Bible in her lap and pointed out a verse.
 
"Read it."

Her hands shaky,
Helen cleared her throat.
 
"'Who
can find a virtuous woman?
 
For her
price is far above rubies.'"
 
Odd.
 
She'd read that very passage years ago in
the parlor, for the vicar.

Chiswell strode
forward, snatched the book away, flipped to another section, and handed it back
to her.
 
"Miss Grey, read that
passage so I know Treadaway hasn't made you memorize verses to simulate
reading."

A reasonable
request, considering the reputation of men like Treadaway.
 
But Chiswell, perhaps aroused by the idea of
bedding his own harem wife, had selected the sensuous Song of Solomon.
 
Helen's ears burned with modesty as she
read.
 
"'O my dove, that art in the
clefts of the rock, in the secret places of the stairs, let me see thy
countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance
is comely.'"

Over Chiswell's
shoulder, Quill watched her.
 
His blue
eyes resonated with neither heat nor brutishness.
 
Seldom did she encounter a man not ruled by lust.
 
Some of her jitters calmed.
 
What would it be like to travel the world,
as he had done?
 
Her hands stopped
shaking.

Treadaway
yanked the Bible away.
 
"Yes, yes,
arise my love.
 
Song of Solomon segues
nicely into a discussion of her physical attributes.
 
Stand, Miss Grey, and turn slowly for Mr. Chiswell."

Humiliation
flushed Helen's face.
 
Was this what
captured Africans felt like, forced to strut upon the auction block?
 
Chiswell's leer cavorted from her bosom to
her slender waist.
 
The only difference
between him and the local louts was that Chiswell had money.

But Quill's
mouth tightened, and she realized that he'd noticed the way she clambered to
her feet like a commoner.
 
In haste, she
straightened her back, as Treadaway had instructed.

The procurer
beamed.
 
"Smile, Miss Grey.
 
She has excellent teeth, does she
not?"
 
Chiswell licked his
lips.
 
"And teeth being an
indicator of overall health, I venture to say that if you apply yourself to
task, within a year, you'll have that heir your mother has been nagging you
about."

Without taking
his eyes off her, Quill said, "The plantation, Silas."

"Eh?
 
Oh, yes.
 
Treadaway, I told you I need a wife who can help manage the books for my
turpentine plantation in North Carolina.
 
Computational skills."

Treadaway
cocked an eyebrow at her.
 
"Miss
Grey, what is seventeen multiplied by six?"

She pondered a
second.
 
"One hundred and
two."

Chiswell
grinned.
 
Quill pursed his lips and
said, "Twenty-three multiplied by fourteen."

She pondered
several seconds longer.
 
"Three
hundred twenty-two."

Chiswell's grin
enlarged.
 
"God's foot, she's
docile, comely,
and
intelligent."

Quill said to
Treadaway, "Allow Mr. Chiswell and me five minutes complete privacy with
the young woman."

"Of
course."
 
Treadaway signaled the
maid and Clancy, and the three left the parlor.

Chiswell slapped
his knee.
 
"By god, this timid
creature is perfect, Jonathan.
 
I shall
purchase her and marry her, and Mother will finally cease badgering me."

Alarmed that
she'd slumped without realizing it, Helen straightened her back.
 
Quill marked her posture correction
again.
 
"Miss Grey, what is the
capitol of China?"

World geography
hadn't been a topic the vicar taught her.
 
She stared at Quill.
 
He intended
to prove her a fraud.
 
If Chiswell
failed to purchase her — her heart stammered several beats.
 
Would life with the merchant be an
improvement over her current situation?
 
Perhaps she could dance around facts.
 
"I-I'm nervous and cannot seem to recall, sir.
 
Bombay?"

"Bombay is
in India.
 
François-André Danican
Philidor is a French composer of opera and comedies.
 
For what other discipline is he famed?"

An opera
composer?
 
The only tunes she knew were
folk ballads.
 
It dawned on her that
there was much more to education that reading, writing, and ciphering.
 
Exploring the breadth of the world, for
example.
 
What
was
it like to
travel?

Quill cleared
his throat.
 
He expected an answer.
 
Her palms sweated.
 
"Um, he studies the stars?"

"Chess,
Miss Grey.
 
Philidor is a chess
master."

With ease, he'd
exposed her lack.
 
Despair clogged her
soul.

"Bah,
Jonathan, only a chess devotee like you would give a damn about Philidor."

"Miss Grey
isn't who Treadaway claims she is, the daughter of a merchant."

"So
what?
 
She's not a whore, either."

"No, but
basic education cannot hide common birth.
 
Your mother will never accept her."

"Damnation,
I'll have no part of marrying a Boston merchant's daughter as strong-willed as
Mother.
 
This wench will do as she's
told, and I'll go on living my life the way I want to live it."

"Marry a
commoner like her, and Agatha Chiswell cuts you from her will.
 
You know that."

The two men
squared off in what looked like a well-worn argumentative rut.
 
Ignored, Helen fought with tears and
whispered invocations to her gods.

The merchant's
expression grew sly.
 
"I've a
thought.
 
Let's transform Miss Grey into
a gentlewoman."

"What
nonsense are you babbling?"

"Use the
Atlantic crossing to teach her how to walk and talk.
 
Shakespeare, Haydn, Plato.
 
Unload what's in that brain of yours.
 
I'll pay you one hundred pounds if my mother accepts her."

One hundred
pounds
?
 
Clancy had doled out a mere
six pounds, yet Chiswell was willing to pay many times more for her,
educated.
 
Did the worth of a person so
increase with learning?
 
And what did
money mean to these men?

Quill drew back
in indignation.
 
"By god, I don't
need your money."

Another grin
consumed Chiswell's face.
 
"I know
that.
 
But you do need
challenges."
 
He pivoted Quill to
face her.
 
"And there's one
colossal challenge for you."

Suspicion eased
from Quill's face.
 
"What do you
know about America, my dear?"

She
shivered.
 
"Indians and Frenchman
with tomahawks.
 
Yellow jack and
malaria.
 
Tropical storms that destroy
towns.
 
Not enough food or
clothing."

Chiswell
snorted.
 
"Where the devil did she
hear that balderdash?"

"Probably
from Wiltshire's soldiers who returned from the French War."
 
Quill sighed.
 
"You poor child.
 
You
must be frightened out of your wits."

Helen bit her
trembling lower lip.
 
If she wept before
the men, they might think her silly.

Quill's tone
mellowed.
 
"Miss Grey, America is
what you describe, but new settlers arrive there every day.
 
Why?
 
Opportunities can be found in America where they've vanished
elsewhere."

In curiosity,
her gaze reached for his.
 
Years
earlier, at a Beltane feast, a village elder had told her that everyone she met
was her teacher.
 
What would Quill teach
her to increase her worth more than sixteen times?
 
Until that moment, she hadn't much considered the procurement as
an opportunity.

Quill smiled
gently.
 
"Your mother isn't really
widowed, is she, my dear?"

Instinct
prompted her to trust him.
 
"No,
sir."

He nodded, as
if he'd seen through Treadaway's lie.
 
"Do you want to leave England?"

Why, no one had
ever asked what she wanted!
 
She stared
at him, stunned.
 
"Yes.
 
Yes, sir."

His expression
grown pensive, Quill crossed his arms.
 
"Silas, you realize that many commoners practice the ancient faith,
older than what those Druids parade about Avebury and Stonehenge."

Chiswell's lip
curled.
 
"Bah, pagan rubbish.
 
We'll end that with a proper wedding in the
Anglican Church.
 
She'll be an Anglican
wife."
 
He glared at her.
 
"You understand me?"

They were
replacing her gods?
 
They'd already
replaced her name.
 
Was that the price
she paid for increasing her worth, for
opportunity
?
 
Anxiety bounded into her confusion, and she
trembled again.
 
If she didn't comply
with his terms, Chiswell would terminate the transaction.
 
"Yes, sir."