Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (38 page)

"Hackneyed
as it may sound, it came to me in a dream."

"I
see."
 
He petted her hand.
 
"What are your plans, then?"

"Plenty of
magazines will pay for a feature on Tarleton.
 
I've work to continue."

"Such
spirit!
 
The gods reward warriors.
 
You'll see."
 
He craned his neck to look at a merchant's woodenwares.
 
"And for funding, you brought along
your champion, the many-talented Mr. Quill."

Fairfax envied
Jonathan; Jonathan envied Fairfax.
 
That
moment, she wished for a cast-iron skillet and the opportunity to clobber them
both in the head with it.
 
"You're
going at your chess matches in much too civilized a manner.
 
Play for parcels of land."

He laughed and
tweaked her fingers.
 
When they passed
the next merchant, who also dealt in polished wood, Helen couldn't help but
notice Fairfax's scrutiny of the items.
 
He said, "You're at market quite a bit.
 
Might I ask a favor?
 
Search for a gift for me when you're here.
 
If you find it, have the merchant set it aside and notify me
immediately."

How
quaint.
 
He wanted her to shop for
Margaret.
 
Helen compressed her lips and
counted to five.
 
She ought to count her
blessings while she was at it.
 
At least
he wasn't asking her to spy on Neville.
 
"What is this gift?
 
A book
of poetry?"

"Not at
all.
 
I fancy purchasing a portable desk
similar to that one you brought along.
 
The Spaniards make quality desks of mahogany and even go to great pains
to carve birds and flowers into the trim —"
 
He caught her when she stumbled.
 
"Hullo, watch yourself, there."

Stomach
knotted, she swept a frantic gaze over the marketplace.
 
Fairfax knew about the desk Neville had
given her.
 
How much did he know?
 
Her laugh sounded taut, mocking.
 
"You might find an oaken footstool of
American workmanship here, but a mahogany desk imported from Spain?
 
Be reasonable."

"Point
well taken.
 
I received a tip that such
a desk might make an appearance.
 
What
do you say to giving me a bit of help on this?"

An intelligence
source had alerted him about the desk, but several days too late.
 
Now she'd have to sew a canvas carrier to
cover it all the time, even when she left it in her tent.

How to best
play out this latest development?
 
Her
business sense buzzed.
 
She threw a
glance over her shoulder.
 
Kennelly was
a discreet distance back.
 
"Hrumph.
 
So I'm your buyer
at market, eh?"

"It's just
the one item."

She dislodged
her arm from his and planted her feet to face him.
 
Kennelly and Hannah halted.
 
"One item becomes several, and my own project languishes while I
waste time working for you."

"A bottle
of that Italian red wine for you, then."

"Is that
an offer or a jest?"
 
Fascination
heated in his eyes at her bartering.
 
She almost shrank away.
 
Encouraging his fascination wasn't wise.
 
"Exactly when do you expect this desk to arrive?"

"No
definite word."

She exhaled
irritation.
 
"I'm a busy
woman.
 
I don't have time to dawdle for
weeks."

"Not
weeks.
 
Within five days."

"Five
days."
 
She crossed her arms over
her chest and tapped her foot.
 
"Very well, I shall look for your desk.
 
At a rate of two shillings per day, I shall become your agent and
comb the marketplace for you."

"
Two
shillings
?"
 
His jaw clenched.

"I follow
up each day with merchants and sutlers.
 
Your maximum outlay for my services is ten shillings."

"And I
suppose you won't find the desk until day five."

Triumph twisted
her upper lip.
 
Ten shillings would keep
her going awhile longer, push farther into the future the moment she'd have to
borrow from Jonathan.
 
"You've
already observed that I'm not desperate for your money.
 
Do you want me to help you find that desk or
not?"

"One
shilling per day."

"Eighteen
pence per day."
 
Seven and a half
shillings was still a bargain.
 
She
stuck out her hand for a business handshake.
 
"Do we have a deal?"

He caught her
hand and lifted it to his lips.
 
"Indeed.
 
And I doubt you'll
disappoint me."

Her instincts
jangling danger, she withdrew her hand and bobbed a curtsy.
 
"Good day, then —"

"Seeing
that Portuguese wine back there reminds me of summer.
 
While aboard a ship-of-the-line, I chased a Portuguese brig with
a hold full of wine down the East Florida coast.
 
We got so close that, with a spyglass, I could see terror on
David St. James's face as he stood on deck."

Jolly.
 
Fairfax was in the mood to swank.
 
"He never told me that story.
 
He must have considered it of little
consequence."

"Alas, we
lost sight of the brig in a tropical storm."

"Ships
wreck against the Florida reefs during tropical storms, just as men dash their
brains out holding to senseless beliefs about others.
 
I haven't seen David since the night you ran him from my house.
 
I'm not going to see him again."

"He
fancies himself the bravest of knights when his damsel is imperiled."
 
Fairfax grinned.
 
"I assure you, you will see Mr. St. James again."

She sighed,
annoyed.
 
"I see where this is
leading.
 
You received intelligence that
David will arrive in camp within five days carrying a portable Spanish desk
made of mahogany."

"I shall
be honored to explain it to you over Midwinter supper on the morrow.
 
Roasted duckling, a leek tart, suet pudding,
apples, carrots, nuts.
 
Waes hail."

His invitation
surprised her.
 
Midwinter on the
morrow.
 
She'd almost forgotten.
 
When she'd been eleven years old,
Ratchingham had invited his cronies to a Midwinter celebration at
Redthorne.
 
For a week when she arrived
for lessons in the parlor, the manor smelled of evergreen, roasted pheasant,
and drunken gentry and merchants.

A man's blurred
visage bobbed up from subterranean memory again.
 
Ohh, girl
.
 
Rum
fumed her face.

What the hell —
Was she going mad?
 
From where did this
vision come?

"A simple
'yes' or 'no' will suffice."

Propelled to
the present by impudence in Fairfax's voice, she blinked.
 
Her imagination furnished a graphic image of
Midwinter supper with him: no roasted duckling the centerpiece, but Helen
Chiswell, and an accompanying course on obedience.
 
"No.
 
No, thank
you."

"Good
day, then, dear sister."
 
He took a
step back from her, bowed, and swaggered over to his horse.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

BY THE TIME
Helen and Hannah returned to their campsite, Helen regretted her
impulsiveness.
 
Fairfax would
expect
her to turn up a mahogany Spanish desk, and she wasn't about to surrender
hers.
 
Now she had to throw him off her
trail.

Jonathan and
Roger sat outside the tents, the locksmith running his mouth faster than a
rabbit with a two-foot lead on a hound in the brush.
 
Both men rose to bow at the women's appearance, and Helen handed
Jonathan his letter.
 
She wondered when
the argument was coming between the Pearsons.
 
Life in the Legion looked easy, the only apparent prerequisite the
enthusiasm Roger already possessed.
 
If
Hannah didn't put her foot down soon, Roger might sign himself up.

The lantern was
rotated away from Helen's tent door.
 
The messenger had had two hours of everyone's absence to retrieve the
cipher.
 
She couldn't wait to check the
desk.
 
"Coffee," she whispered
to Hannah and shut herself inside.

The secret
drawer was empty.
 
She eased it back
into concealment.
 
An easy enough
delivery schedule to monitor.
 
She'd
establish a routine with the Pearsons every morning to encourage
regularity.
 
In theory, the four of them
could leave the messenger several hours to plant a cipher.
 
She'd pick her point of observation with
care.
 
The messenger would never know
she watched.

She hid the
desk and exited.
 
Jonathan and Roger
rose, and she nodded to Jonathan.
 
"Let's walk, shall we?

Halfway to a
line of trees in the east, he said, "You don't appear tired today.
 
Phineas's draft came?"
 
She shook her head.
 
Surliness caught his lip.
 
"I doubt it's his fault."

"Come now,
Jonathan, this posturing is too polite.
 
You and Mr. Fairfax simply must find a more satisfying metaphor for
ripping each other's heads off.
 
I
suggested to him that you play chess for parcels of land.
 
Kingdoms
, if you will."

He smiled.
 
"When did you develop such a waspish
tongue?"

"At the
same time you eschewed essential points of logic when you formed your
conclusions."

"What
logic points did I disdain?"

"All our
mail goes through Mr. Fairfax before it reaches us.
 
If he intended to make me financially dependent upon him, he
wouldn't have allowed your bank drafts through.
 
Far simpler to destroy those pieces of mail and claim they never
arrived."
 
And she suspected that
Fairfax preferred voluntary surrender, not a thrashing capitulation.
 
It allowed him to claim more of a subject's
soul.
 
She leaned toward Jonathan.
 
"Have I made sense?"

His smile had
disappeared.
 
"Yes."

"Good.
 
Let us presume that Mr. Fairfax isn't lying
to us and thus form hypotheses about the absence of Badley's bank draft.
 
Number one: Badley has posted it in good
faith, and it is tangled in the dispatch system somewhere.
 
Number two: Badley has broken his contract
and posted me no bank draft.
 
Do you see
any other hypotheses?"

"Not
immediately.
 
I shall ponder it."

"You do
that."
 
She firmed her chin.
 
Fairfax, she felt certain, wouldn't come
through with his seven and a half shillings, even if she gave him her
desk.
 
"I've run through my money
and must transact a loan.
 
Is your offer
still available?"

"Of course
it is.
 
And don't concern yourself with
repaying me right now.
 
Just write your
story, and make it the best you possibly can.
 
That's all I ask of you."

The gentle
acceptance in his expression carried her to a place where tempests ceased to
storm her heart.
 
Jonathan had always
believed in her.
 
Why did she forget so
easily?
 
She extended her hand.
 
"Thank you."

He clasped her
hand and scrutinized her fingers.
 
"What have you been up to, washing dishes?"

Washing your
shirts and stockings
, she thought with perverse amusement.
 
"My hands got chapped in dry weather a
few days ago."

He released her
and shook a finger at her.
 
"Salve
and gloves."
 
They faced the
campsite.
 
His voice softened.
 
"On the morrow is the solstice.
 
I've noticed they don't much celebrate the
old ways here.
 
It's even difficult to
find a decent bonfire for Guy Fawkes."

She
shrugged.
 
"A gloomy lot, the
Protestants.
 
From Anglicans to
Anabaptists, they barely acknowledge the birth of Jesus.
 
The Jews, they keep to themselves.
 
And the others are far too sensible to find
an excuse for revelry.
 
I've always been
curious.
 
Does the Enlightened One honor
Midwinter Day?"