Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (50 page)

The phial in
her pocket banged against her thigh.
 
When had Fairfax stolen her laudanum?
 
Why?
 
Surely the company
surgeon had laudanum, at least for ill or injured officers.
 
Even had Fairfax acquired a dependency on
the poppy, he had the money to afford his own supply.
 
She'd met enough opium dwellers to recognize signs of dependency,
none of which she'd ever observed in him.

For Fairfax,
the otherworldly experience — contact with the gods — wasn't attained with a
drug.
 
She shuddered to recall Francis
Marion's dead henchmen.

Tarleton's
batman awaited her at the campsite and informed her that Tarleton would see
her, briefly, at one o'clock in his marquee.
 
She agreed to the appointed time and thanked him.

In the privacy
of her tent, she examined the phial of laudanum.
 
None of it appeared to have been consumed.
 
She secured it in her portmanteau and sat on
her cot, baffled.

At times,
Fairfax seemed obsessed with her to the point of surreptitiousness.
 
Yet if a man had a fetish for a woman,
surely he'd sneak off something more personal from her: a hair ribbon, an
embroidered kerchief, a fan, a comb.
 
True, he'd confiscated two sets of her clothing, but she'd had full
knowledge of it.
 
If he were skillful
enough to steal her laudanum, might there be other personal items of hers
locked in his trunk?

She recalled
Kennelly's words:
I've not seen a woman's clothing in his marquee
.
 
It wasn't so much that a woman's touch was
absent.
 
Trunk and marquee:
all
of it lacked character.
 
A dictionary
and almanac: nondescript.
 
No works of
Shakespeare, philosophers, scientists, or popular authors like Fielding.
 
No portraits of family members or stack of
letters.
 
Fairfax's property might
belong to any man with money.

As if he had
grafted the trappings of humanity about him like a shell, and those trappings
served no purpose except to give shape to mist, to bestow upon a phantasm a
handsome exterior that passed for human.
 
Form without content.
 
She
shuddered.

***

The smells of
boot polish, wine, coffee, and ink surrounded Helen as the batman guided her
and Hannah past Tarleton and three officers in discussion over a map-cluttered
table.
 
She sat on a camp chair near the
cot in the marquee, Hannah hovering nearby.
 
A whiff of Margaret's perfume teased her nostrils, and the silken sleeve
of a bedgown peeked from beneath a blanket folded in haste upon the cot.
 
If the courtesan were distressed over
Fairfax's absence, she was making the best of the situation.

Cheeks flushed
from exercise, Tarleton strode over, caught her hand in his, and kissed her
knuckles.
 
"How are you?
 
I heard you were ill."
 
He straightened, the spark of eagerness in
his eyes.

"Much
improved, thank you.
 
The ride from
Winnsborough has agreed with you.
 
You're the picture of health."
 
With discretion, she tried to pull her hand from his, but just as that
morning at market, he captured it with his other hand and stroked it, so she
gave up.

"Being in
the saddle will never disagree with me.
 
And I apologize for canceling our ride.
 
I'd reschedule straight away, but for matters heating up with Morgan.
 
We've reports that he fancies capturing
Ninety Six with his rag-tag army.
 
Impudent, eh?"

She averted her
gaze from the battle lust boiling in his eyes.
 
Even his hands resonated with pent-up energy.
 
He ached for Morgan to head south so he could make another Buford
of him.
 
He coveted the sight of Will
St. James dancing in a noose.
 
And he
chafed against the strategy of watching and waiting that Cornwallis had imposed
upon him in Winnsborough.

Fairfax's
whispers into the ear of the Legion's commander had become a holy directive.

She glanced
from the officers awaiting their commander's return, to the maps on the table
between them and the pieces that marked where players banged shields and
rattled swords, and she heard Hannah's plaintive cry from days ago:
Something
horrible is going to happen to the Legion
.
 
Resignation poured through her soul.

"I shan't
keep you, sir."
 
She squared her
shoulders.
 
"I came to inquire when
I might expect my brother's return."

Disappointment
skirted Tarleton's dark eyes, as if he'd hoped her visit had a more personal
basis.
 
"Your brother.
 
Yes, of course.
 
He's in Winnsborough a few days at my Lord Cornwallis's
request."

What would
Fairfax whisper in
Cornwallis's
ear about the rebel spy ring around
which his net was closing, the net in which she was entangled?
 
To mask her own unease, Helen puckered her
brow with what she hoped looked like sisterly concern.
 
"Kennelly is sending Dunstan's trunk on
to Winnsborough and striking his marquee, as if my brother will be gone for
more than a few days."

"You wonder
whether you should move on to Winnsborough to be with him, eh?"
 
Tarleton stroked her hand again, his
appraisal earthy.
 
"Don't rush off
just yet.
 
Those rebels to the north
have blustered before, trying to startle a reaction out of us.
 
If the Legion is called to move out, I shall
send you and the ladies to safety."
 
His thumb massaged her palm.
 
"But if not, I shall likely find time to reschedule our ride."

Not even
Tarleton had definite word of Fairfax's return.
 
Soon, she could find herself either riding to Winnsborough to
rejoin her "brother" or remaining with the Legion to field Tarleton's
advances.
 
Neither prospect boded well
for a journalist who needed an objective story.
 
She doubted Jonathan would warm to either option.

"In the
mean time, Mrs. Chiswell, if there's anything I can do for you, don't hesitate
to ask."
 
He planted another kiss
on her hand.

"As a
matter of fact, sir, there is something you can do for me."
 
Anticipation loaded his expression.
 
"My brother receives mail for my party.
 
With him gone, I've no idea what important
correspondences the postmaster might be withholding."

Tarleton
granted her a generous smile.
 
"I
see no reason why your party shouldn't receive mail directly in his
absence.
 
I shall send word to the
postmaster."

"Thank
you, sir."
 
Relieved, she stood.

Her reeled her
in a few inches, close enough for her to smell his masculine warmth, and kissed
her hand one more time.
 
"You're
most welcome, madam."

***

Late that
afternoon, Newman arrived at Helen's campsite with a letter for her that
appeared untouched.
 
A good thing that
was, for it had been scrawled in Enid's own rough hand.
 
"I wrot this letter in case Mr. David
was not able to git threw to ye."
 
It corroborated everything David had told Helen three nights earlier.
 
The housekeeper's postscript tightened her
throat with emotion: "I give Mr. David back his hat, mistress, seeing that
you won't be needing it."

Indeed, what
use had she for the hat of a man she no longer desired?
 
Enid's sagacity earned Helen's silent thanks.
 
David had brought color into her ghastly
world, and for that she was grateful.
 
In the absence of word to the contrary, he must be long gone from the
area, beyond the clutch of Fairfax and Tarleton.
 
She praised the heavens for his safe departure.

She slipped
Jonathan the letter and allowed him to read it.
 
Then, while he and Roger prepared supper at the kitchen, and
Hannah, whose stomach disagreed with her, rested in her tent, she burned Enid's
letter.

In the wee
hours of the morning, Saturday the thirtieth of December, she started awake on
the pallet she and Jonathan shared in her tent and gaped into the
darkness.
 
Not even the tranquil warmth
of Jonathan asleep against her left side banished the portent of her dream.

In a courtroom
devoid of witnesses, spectators, and most officials of the law, she faced her
judge from the box of the accused.
 
"How does the accused plead?" intoned a bewigged, black-robed
Fairfax, his expression devoid of humanity.

She
scowled.
 
"Not guilty."

"Not
guilty,
your honor
."

"You
aren't 'my honor.'
 
I'm not guilty.
 
Show me my accuser."

The bang of the
judge's mallet echoed around the polished, somber wood in the courtroom.
 
"Silence!
 
We find the accused guilty of violation of the inner sanctum and
sentence her to punishment."

Her scowl
transforming to a snarl, Helen leaned forward.
 
"Punishment?
 
What is this
'punishment?'"

He towered
over her and smiled, and she shrank from the wraith-white face, the eyes of
green frost.
 
"Violation of the
inner sanctum."

Chapter Fifty-One

WHILE HELEN
LOOKED at hatpins in the milliner's marquee Saturday morning, her gaze happened
to track Adam Neville strolling past, his companion a dark-haired redcoat of
medium height.
 
Braid on his shoulder:
was he the mysterious Lieutenant Stoddard?

A ribbon-trimmed
hat had captivated Hannah's attention.
 
Helen slipped from the marquee without her to tail Neville and the young
officer.
 
At first the marketplace
throng concealed her, and alacrity rewarded her with a snatch from their
conversation.

"Winnsborough?"
 
Impatience scratched at the redcoat's tone.

"I
expected his return with Colonel Tarleton yesterday."

Her pulse
quickened.
 
They were talking about
Fairfax.

The redcoat's
voice iced.
 
"He's twenty miles
away."
 
His was the same voice and
Yorkshire accent she'd heard the night of the Yule feast.

"Nothing I
can do about it.
 
Did you expect me to
tie him down?"

S — F in
camp through new year — N
.
 
Neville
and Stoddard were indeed plotting against Fairfax.

Neville seized
Stoddard's upper arm and spun them around to confront Helen.
 
Heart whamming, she pasted a smile to her
lips.
 
"Mr. Neville!
 
I apologize for startling you."
 
Think quickly
, she told herself.
 
"You mustn't have seen me wave to
you."

He released
Stoddard's arm.
 
"I'm
indisposed."
 
The stare he thrust
at her held as much warmth as frost-rimed onyx.

"Oh.
 
Of course."
 
She smiled at Stoddard, received a stare no warmer, and looked
back at the ranger.
 
"Stop by my
campsite later?
 
I'd like to hear more
of Colonel Brown's relationship with Governor Tonyn."
 
Confusion clouded the cold of Neville's
expression.
 
She breathed easier.
 
Her request lent credence to her awkward appearance
behind them.
 
"I'm curious about
those pivotal months when the colonel earned the respect of Florida's
governor."

Some of the
harshness in Neville's expression thawed.
 
"I won't have the leisure to talk with you for several days."

She hoped her
sigh of dejection sounded authentic.
 
"As soon as you find the chance —"

"Yes, yes,
I shall sit down with you."

"Splendid.
 
Thank you."
 
She transferred her smile to Stoddard, allowing herself a good
second look at him.
 
Tense and alert in
her presence, mid-twenties, a few pimples on his chin, an even-featured
face.
 
He studied her with just as much
attention to detail, and his dark, determined eyes invited to mind David's
description of him:
astute
.
 
Yes,
this Stoddard fellow was astute.

"Good day,
Mrs. Chiswell."
 
Neville and
Stoddard stomped off, their postures bespeaking adversaries united for the sole
purpose of achieving a single outcome.
 
Helen exhaled apprehension.
 
Behind her, Hannah called her name.
 
She waited for the younger woman.

Back at the
campsite, the lantern stand was twisted around to signify the presence of a
message in the Epsilon drawer.
 
As
expected, the secondary compartment was empty of a message.