Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (20 page)

"Mr.
Fairfax, thank you for bringing my friend to me without mishap."

"Sir."
 
It was almost the first word Fairfax had
spoken all day.

"My
extensive library is open for your perusal this afternoon.
 
I trust you won't deny me another rousing
game of chess?"
 
Jonathan offered
Helen his elbow.

"As you
wish."
 
A glint of ice replaced
indifference in Fairfax's eyes.

"Ah, my
apologies.
 
You're also a man of
action.
 
A tour of my estate, then, and
— I say, do you fence, sir?"

Ice
gleamed.
 
"Indeed."

"Splendid.
 
Let us offer the lady entertainment this
afternoon, prior to supper."

Without a shred
of warmth, Fairfax grinned.
 
"I'm
at your disposal, sir."

Unease spiked
Helen.
 
She darted a look between the
two men.
 
"I shall only be
'entertained' if you gentlemen fence with the foil."
 
In other words, if they practiced.

"Of
course, my dear."
 
Jonathan patted
her hand where it rested on his elbow, not taking his eyes off the
lieutenant.
 
Five stable hands strode
across the lawn toward them.
 
"Thackery has set out beef and chicken for everyone.
 
Allow my lads to care for the horses and
baggage, and let's all take refreshment."

***

Servants had
pruned hedges and bushes in the gardens covering three acres of Jonathan's
property.
 
Even with a fishpond as the
centerpiece of the largest garden, there wasn't much color.
 
When the overcast released a sprinkle,
Jonathan, Helen, Fairfax, Roger, and Hannah dove into the hothouse, populated
by pineapple plants and trees of citrus and banana.

Later that
afternoon, Helen observed a chess game filled with more parries and feints than
she'd ever seen in fencing, while both men exhibited an almost somnambulant
inclination toward strategy, focus, and concentration during the fencing
practice.
 
Technically, Jonathan lost at
both pursuits, but she sensed he'd held back to study his opponent.
 
Fairfax, conscious of being revealed, resisted
it and worked to draw out Jonathan.
 
In
a gruesome way, she sensed that the men enjoyed the challenge of each other's
company.

After supper of
roast duck, wild rice with almonds and currants, squash, and red wine, Helen
strolled past the library but backtracked, alert to activity within.
 
Fairfax, aided by ladder and lantern,
browsed titles of volumes shelved floor to ceiling.
 
He stroked the collection, a lover with too many ladies to choose
from, never selecting a book.
 
She
frowned.
 
Seldom did she search
Jonathan's library more than thirty seconds before a book captured her
curiosity.

The deliberate
track of his search registered, then, and cold filled her arms and legs.
 
Fairfax was mapping the large picture of
where Jonathan's expertise lay.
 
A personal
library was quite a boon to a man seeking to understand a host — or enemy.

***

Footsteps in
the hallway outside her door roused her from bed.
 
She threw on her shawl, padded to the door, and opened it, but
Jonathan had already vanished from the hallway.
 
Annoyed with herself for not dressing earlier, she awakened
Hannah in the adjoining room, and soon swept fully dressed from the house out
onto the garden path Jonathan favored.
 
Perhaps she'd snag him before he began his dawn dance so they could
discuss the library incident.

Like scraps of
indigo flannel, scud scooted across the pale sky.
 
When Helen arrived at the lawn near the fishpond, she found
Jonathan immersed in his ritual, his coat draped upon a nearby bench, the white
of his shirtsleeves a beacon in the gloom.
 
She withdrew behind a crape myrtle and waited, wrapped in her shawl to
ward off nippiness.
 
Watching his dance
always filled her with peace.

Dawn engorged
the east, nuzzled twilight into retreat, and suffused the garden with pink
light.
 
The air smelled raw and sharp,
like the inside of a pecan shell, but with a hint of ocean.
 
Birds landed a few feet from Jonathan and
poked the grass.
 
Squirrels and rabbits
crept into the clearing and scuttled about.
 
A buck stepped from behind an alcove of ivy, lifted his antlered head to
test the breeze, and relaxed to sneak leaves from a bush.
 
The presence of a man with whispered
movements did not concern them.
 
Time
was suspended.

Of a sudden,
the buck's head jerked, his haunches tensed, and he leaped away, the crash of
hooves spooking the other animals.
 
Amidst chitters and squawks of annoyance, they also cleared the
lawn.
 
Helen sighed, disappointed.
 
Jonathan carried on, his concentration
solid.

A draft of
winter flowed over her neck.
 
Her
stomach growled.
 
Thackery probably had
coffee and breakfast ready in the morning room.

She turned,
paused.
 
Farther back on the path,
Fairfax watched Jonathan, dawn transitioning his fine coat from black to dark
brown.
 
Curiosity on his face awakened
irritation in her.
 
She gathered her
petticoat to avoid dampening it on dewy shrubs and glided up the path, where
she murmured, "Let us repair inside and allow our host his privacy."

His low
response halted her.
 
"A
fascinating man, Mr. Quill.
 
Has he
lived in the Japans?"

"Not to my
knowledge."

"Well,
then, where did he learn —
that
?"
 
His gesture encompassed Jonathan's movements.

"The
dance?
 
In China."

"China, of
course.
 
But it's no dance.
 
It's an ancient fighting form, a
hand-to-hand combat developed to prevent a weaponless man from losing his life
to a soldier."

Helen rotated a
gaze of incredulity to Jonathan — who had become, for the moment, a crouching
tiger — and remembered, astonished, the dexterity with which he'd bypassed
George Gaynes's impulsive swing at him in her parlor.
 
In the next second, the implication of Fairfax's knowledge struck
her, and she regarded him.
 
"Do you
also know this skill?"

His focus on
Jonathan didn't waver.
 
Nor did his
voice rise.
 
"I've witnessed its
demonstration.
 
It requires years of
training and practice to be rendered thus."
 
His lips twitched.
 
"A pity the Army isn't schooled in the technique.
 
We'd stomp the rebels with it."

"Only if
it enables men to pluck musket balls and cannonballs from midair."

"No, but
it transforms hands and feet of an adept into weapons.
 
I've seen a charge averted, an attacker
knocked flat on his back, a knife kicked from the hand."

He faced her
full on, then.
 
"Our host is called
'the Professor.' Obviously a scholar, a man of wealth, a world traveler."
 
The sweep of his arm encompassed the
property.
 
"All this land, and a
library filled from floor to ceiling with wisdom of the world.
 
But where are the grandchildren?"
 
His smile was thin.
 
"Where is
Mrs
. Quill?"

In truth, she
wasn't sure why Jonathan's house wasn't boisterous with grandchildren.
 
Although Jonathan had never given her
substance on which to base her impression, Helen suspected "Mrs.
Quill" had died decades earlier, in China.
 
"Your inquiries tread upon personal matters."

A dismissive flick
caught Fairfax's cheek.
 
"Tempting
to fancy a house of concubines in Peking who await his return, since he doesn't
appear inclined toward men, boys, or beasts.
 
The simplest explanation is that Mrs. Quill resides in Wilmington, on
Second Street."

After several
seconds of incomprehension, she blurted, "
I
?" and
grinned.
 
"What an absurd
suggestion.
 
Jonathan and I don't share
that sort of relationship."

Incredulity
bled into his tone.
 
"You've never
noticed his tender regard for you?"

"Tender
regard?
 
No, I —"
 
She stared up at him, denial arrested in
mid-sentence by his suggestion.
 
Confusion germinated inside her.
 
Without a doubt, Jonathan did enjoy kissing her hair, holding her hand,
and embracing her.

"Ye
gods."
 
Derision drenched Fairfax's
murmur.
 
"David St. James
does
want for instruction at love, doesn't he?"

At the last
second, she squashed a retort in David's defense.
 
Fairfax's resourcefulness flabbergasted her.
 
She'd almost spilled information about
David.

"If your
intention is to present a tight cover to the Legion, you've little more than
two weeks to resolve Mr. Quill's role in the charade.
 
From where I stand, he looks like your lover, not your father or
a kindly uncle.
 
I guarantee he'll look
like your lover to Colonel Tarleton, too.

"Such
peculiar harmonics between the two of you."
 
Fairfax scrutinized Jonathan, whipped his stare to her, then
pinned it to Jonathan again.
 
"In
some way, you are a work of art for him, like da Vinci with the Mona Lisa.
 
No, that's not quite it.
 
Pygmalion
."
 
Fascination thawed the frigidity of his
gaze.
 
"Pygmalion and
Galatea."

Panic rocketed
through her blood.
 
Her voice abandoned
her.

He snaked
another glance at Jonathan before evaluating her with awed leisure, a man
appraising a masterful piece of artistry.
 
"You've also little more than two weeks to accustom yourself to my
name."
 
In one step, he consumed
the space between them.

She swallowed,
outraged enough to not back away.
 
With
her next breath, she harnessed the cold of dawn.
 
"Dunstan."
 
She
slathered a seductive whisper over her sneer.
 
"
Dunstan
.
 
Will that
do for today, or shall I expedite the process of being worn down by your
sincerity and charm — swoon for you this morning, crawl into your bed and await
your
tender regard tonight?"

Silent humor shook
him.
 
Again, the appraisal of her, as if
she not only amused but entertained him.
 
"How did Lady Mary Wortley Montagu put it?
 
'But the fruit that can fall without shaking
indeed is too mellow for me.'"
 
He
stepped back, bowed, and strode up the path.
 
A breeze of winter flung his laughter her way.

Chapter Nineteen

FROM THE PARLOR
window, Helen watched Roger boost Hannah into the wagon and climb aboard.
 
The horses looked well rested, and the
soldiers in civilian clothing stamped about and conversed, eager to be on their
way.

Their banter
ceased at Fairfax's approach.
 
Frowning,
Helen tracked the confidence in his carriage.
 
David St. James does want for instruction at love, doesn't he?
 
Arrogant cur.

No, Fairfax was
beyond arrogance.
 
He exploited ignorance
and weakness in others.
 
She imagined
that handsome face of his illuminated by a Beltane bonfire and grimaced.
 
Surely the gods didn't wed menace with
virility.

The parlor door
squeaked, and she heard humor in Jonathan's voice.
 
"There you are.
 
I thought
you'd fallen in the fishpond and was about to send Benson out with a net."

He joined her
at the window, and she studied his expression.
 
So warm, open, and embracing.
 
How could she not have seen all that for more than a decade?
 
She turned back to the window, slammed in
the slippery whitewater of new sentiment.

"You're
having second thoughts," he murmured.

"Not about
the assignment."

He paused.
 
"I saw you this morning with Mr.
Fairfax."

Relieved for an
escape route, she faced him.
 
"Last
night, he combed your library, examining what was there so he could —"

"—
assemble a big picture of me and probe for my weaknesses.
 
I invited him to do so."
 
His expression serene, Jonathan took her
hands in his.
 
"Don't worry about
me."

As in countless
times past, his thumbs massaged her palms, but for the first time, she
recognized the passion in his touch.
 
How obtuse she'd been, never before to have noticed.