Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (29 page)

"Here in
my pocket, but Jonathan, that man, he's — he's —"

"Yes, I
know!
 
Don't
turn back
around.
 
Roger."

"Yes,
sir."
 
Roger moseyed over.

"Inform
Mr. Fairfax that his sister and I shall be down the street at the stationer's
shop to post her letters, and we shall meet all of you afterwards at the inn on
Church Street."

"Very
good, sir."

Jonathan hooked
her hand inside his elbow and marched her south on Broad Street.
 
Only after they'd passed the defunct Leaping
Stag did she dare breathe.
 
Jonathan
exhaled relief.
 
"That was close.
 
I don't think he got a good look at either
of us."

Helen's teeth
chattered.
 
"This is a-a
nightmare.
 
What's Tobias Treadaway doing
in America?"

Disgust
deepened his voice.
 
"His
procurement business must have dried up in Wiltshire."

Cold slithered
her spine, followed by a wave of heat.
 
"What if he recognizes me?
 
He mustn't see me again!"

"He's the
Legion's agent in Camden.
 
You'll
encounter him while Tarleton's camped close by.
 
Expect him to dine with us tonight."

"Then I
must dine alone, in my room, to prevent his recognition."

"I doubt
he'll be able to reconcile your being the gently born sister of an officer and
the widow of a gentleman.
 
He'll think
his memory is faulty."

"But what
if he remembers
you
?"

"A
distinct possibility.
 
Let me ponder on
it."
 
Still holding her elbow, he
paused before the stationer's shop window.
 
"However, I'm certain that if you're to succeed in your deception,
you must make your performance with Mr. Fairfax more convincing."

The furrow of
concern between his brows tensed her stomach.
 
"How do you mean?"

"Treadaway
has spent his life deducing hearts and minds from what's held in the face and
body.
 
The 'quarreling siblings' duet
between you and Mr. Fairfax may have satisfied the dragoons on the Santee
Road.
 
But herein, you must invest more
of yourself in the role of Mr. Fairfax's sister to avoid creating doubt in
Treadaway.
 
In Colonel Tarleton, as
well."

Another groan
passed her lips.
 
She'd have to show
Fairfax
affection
.
 
Without a
doubt, he'd take advantage of her for it.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

HELEN'S
ATTENTION DRIFTED off her fellow diners.
 
No bank draft had awaited her at the post office.
 
Rebels and road conditions often delayed
riders or prevented posts from arriving.
 
But what if Badley broke the contract and didn't pay her?

Her awareness
returned to the private dining room at the inn, and the conversation, not to be
missed for its currents of friction.
 
Lieutenant Adam Neville had spoken: Neville, who earned the special
attention of Fairfax.
 
And Helen was
beginning to understand why.

Neville, the
provincial on leave from Thomas Brown's Rangers, who'd introduced Fairfax and
Badley, happened to be in Camden to purchase iron for the Legion's
blacksmiths.
 
His long face shrewd, he
ran the tip of his right forefinger once around the rim of his empty coffee cup
before he regarded Fairfax.
 
"Colonel Brown estimates that between a third and a half of the
civilian population claims neutrality."

"Neutrals."
 
Campbell pushed aside his empty dessert
dish.
 
The ambient warmth of candlelight
in a branched, brass holder suspended from the ceiling imparted the hue of
fresh-cut grass upon his wool uniform jacket.
 
"What do you expect out of Georgia?"
 
He belted down the Madeira remaining in his wineglass.

At the head of
the table, Fairfax steepled his fingers, that chilly smile on his lips, his
uniform coat scarlet.
 
"I presume
Colonel Brown made his estimation before the rebels besieged him in
September."

Neville held
Fairfax's gaze.
 
He appeared older than
his mid-twenties and still wore his ranger's hunting shirt.
 
"I doubt the siege in September changed
his mind."
 
His dark eyes gleamed.

"You doubt
hanging thirteen of his captors would change his mind about the intentions of
neutrals?"

"He didn't
hang neutrals.
 
He hanged rebels."

If such a man
existed who could be Fairfax's friend, Neville wasn't that man.
 
Across the multi-course, three-hour supper,
the veil over their rivalry thinned to reveal two soldiers of the same rank and
competence, one provincial and one regular, who had mistrusted each other for
months.
 
From the first moment Helen
witnessed interchange between them, they butted heads.
 
The posture of Neville's body belied a
capacity for unconventional thought, even when he held his tongue on an
issue.
 
His mere presence challenged
Fairfax.

If Fairfax's
suspicion of Badley was grounded in his suspicion of Neville, his agreement to
uphold the cover of Badley's journalist was incomprehensible.
 
Another scheme played out, another agenda
advanced.
 
Disquiet snaked over
Helen.
 
What was Tarleton's role?
 
Were he and his big dreams of Parliament but
sacrifices in their games?

Jonathan had
suggested that the assignment might be a plot to discredit Tarleton, but he
wasn't there to enjoy the show.
 
To
excuse his attendance at supper, where Treadaway might recognize him, he'd
feigned a flare-up of an ulcer and taken to his bed.
 
With the Pearsons her silent servants, she'd watched contention
unfold during supper.

Treadaway
returned his drained wineglass to the table and swiveled to Neville, who sat
beside him.
 
"Don't all those
neutrals make you nervous?
 
Seems as
though a man ought to be able to make up his mind one way or t'other.
 
Someone who cannot or will not do so is a
bit dangerous, you know, rather like an alligator lazing in a pond.
 
And I doubt there are neutrals on the
battlefield
."
 
He focused on Campbell.
 
"Have you ever met a neutral on the
battlefield, sir?"

The dragoon's
lip curled.
 
"Never."

Fairfax spoke
as if explaining a simple sum to a child.
 
"There
are
no neutrals.
 
Everyone who claims neutrality is, in fact, a rebel."

Helen studied
Neville's tense jaw.
 
Neville being
outnumbered interested her.
 
Who else at
the table besides Fairfax suspected the breadth of his unconventional
opinions?
 
How unfortunate that he
didn't debate the issue.
 
She enjoyed
watching men fly into a frenzy and guard their opinions as if they were
sacrosanct.

Treadaway, inebriated,
leaned elbows on the table and ogled her.
 
"Mr. Fairfax, we haven't yet heard your lovely sister's view of
neutrals."

Fairfax sounded
bored.
 
"She hasn't a view on
them."

Helen
laughed.
 
"Poppycock, Dunstan, I do
have an opinion."

"The
gentlemen don't want to hear it, Helen."

Treadaway's
eagerness gave him the appearance of a spaniel.
 
"
I
want to hear it."

"Well,
then, from Mr. Neville's comments, I should enjoy a chat with Thomas
Brown.
 
Not one of the neutrals I've met
has ever struck me as being a rebel in disguise."
 
She winked at Fairfax.
 
"They each seemed just as concerned
about the disastrous effect of war on the country as Loyalists are.
 
How do you explain that, dear brother?"

"Yes, of
course they're concerned, madam!"
 
Treadaway seemed to have forgotten that the moment before, he'd
disparaged neutrals.
 
"Surely His
Majesty will find a suitable argument to get them to hop off their fence and
support the Crown."

Campbell
snickered.
 
"That argument is known
as a 'bayonet.'"

"Pay that
puppy no mind."
 
Treadaway's gaze
swept her bosom.
 
"Any
man
can judge your exceptional intelligence.
 
You and I simply must sit down and discuss the philosophy of —"

"Mr.
Treadaway."

The steel in
Fairfax's voice registered on Helen.
 
He
was neither a jealous suitor nor a concerned champion.
 
His motivation for stifling Treadaway's
clumsy advance was perfunctory: to maintain their cover as siblings.
 
Still, the interjection relieved her.
 
Treadaway, drunk, possessed the subtlety of
a lovesick mooncalf.

"A thousand
pardons."
 
Treadaway maintained his
enthralled gaze upon her.
 
"Peculiar, Mrs. Chiswell, I could swear that we've met before.
 
Perhaps your late husband and I transacted
business years ago, eh?
 
Chiswell.
 
When might he have been in Wiltshire
last?"

Oh, hell.
 
Treadaway's memory improved when he was
drunk.
 
Helen dropped all pretenses at
courtesy and rammed iron into her tone to cover her fear.
 
"We've never met before this
night."
 
She concealed a fake yawn
and caught Hannah's eye.
 
"Gentlemen, excuse me, but I find myself fatigued after our
journey."
 
When she moved to stand,
Fairfax pulled her chair out for her.
 
Three other chairs scraped backwards on the floor as the men stood.
 
She curtsied, and the men responded with
bows.
 
"Please do stay and help
Dunstan finish that last bottle of Madeira."
 
Treadaway, Campbell, and Neville murmured wishes for her pleasant
repose.

She escaped
with Hannah into the pipe smoke and revelry of the common room.
 
Fairfax overtook them, his expression
detached, as usual.
 
"As Mr. Quill
is indisposed, I shall escort you to your rooms."
 
Without waiting for Helen's approval, he
took her arm and headed upstairs with her.
 
Hannah followed with the candle.

Halfway up,
Helen mustered a cool voice.
 
"Don't be rude and leave them to finish the wine by
themselves."

"I shan't
be long."

Good news.
 
She didn't want his company.
 
They reached the second floor.
 
Hannah walked ahead, opened the door to
Helen's room at the end of the hallway, and preceded her inside to light
candles and turn down the bed.

Fairfax towed
Helen into the dimness of the hallway, where he pitched a soft tone.
 
"You and Mr. Neville share similar
opinions."

She kept her
tone indifferent.
 
"Do we?
 
I hadn't noticed."

"Of course
you noticed that business about neutrals."

She stifled a
yawn.
 
"I hope you don't make a
mountain from that molehill.
 
It must be
terribly disillusioning for you, but I see matters in gray, not in black and
white.
 
I'm flawed as a Loyalist."

Light from the
room flashed on his smile.
 
"Not
disillusioning.
 
A boon.
 
Neville is a valuable resource, but he and I
don't seem to communicate."

Helen wished
Neville could hear the conversation.
 
He
probably wouldn't believe it.
 
She
didn't.
 
"The fault isn't on his
end."

"Oh,
Helen, now you wound me."

"Very
little wounds you.
 
You're a bully and
proud of it."
 
The plaster wall
grazed her back.
 
"So now I suppose
you'll attempt to bully me into gaining Neville's confidence so you can
manipulate your valuable resource."

"I have no
intentions of bullying you."

She glanced to
her right, where he'd braced his left hand on the wall in between her and the
door.
 
"Ah.
 
I should have paid closer attention.
 
Rather than bully me, you'll attempt to
seduce me.
 
No, thank you.
 
I'm for bed.
 
Run along, and develop some skill at communication."
 
He blocked her attempt to head for the door,
and she scowled.
 
"After sleeping
on a cot for a week and a half, I'm truly looking forward to sleeping on that
bed in there —
alone
."

He smiled
again.
 
"You and Treadaway know
each other."

"Of course
we don't know each other.
 
The effect of
wine on satyrs is the same.
 
They
recognize every woman they meet as a previous mistress."