Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (6 page)

She swung out
of bed, stomped to the window, cracked it open, and glowered out at night.
 
Tears pressured her eyes, but she squeezed
them back.
 
Beneath her outrage crawled
the fear of her own vulnerability.
 
Her
naked skin chilled.

"Helen,
Badley's using your pride, throwing you bones, confident you'll take them.
 
He could be feeding you from a richer plate."

Years of
insipid assignments.
 
Of course Badley
used her pride.
 
But pride wasn't all he
counted on when he dangled the Legion project before her.
 
What was his motive for offering it?
 
Her voice emerged dull.
 
"He's asked me to ride with the British
Legion, write a feature about the unit."

David
laughed.
 
"Yes, he does have a
wicked sense of humor.
 
Oh, bugger
Badley.
 
What news from other
publishers?"

Her heart
submerged in dismay.
 
David didn't
believe her about the assignment.
 
Or
perhaps he didn't believe her capable of handling it.
 
"Rejection."

The bedroom
grew too quiet.
 
Wax sizzled on the
candlewick.
 
From the corner of her eye,
she saw him shift to the edge of the bed, posture contrite.
 
"Sweetheart, you're still in this house
with memories of Silas, still drinking from Badley's cup.
 
You need a fresh perspective of your
options.
 
Come away with me for awhile
to South Carolina."

Other widows
from New York to Augusta welcomed David's visits, but she was certain he hadn't
made his offer to them.
 
They couldn't
claim an acquaintance with him that extended back more than a decade into a
past tapestried in skeins of delight and devastation.
 
"What would I do among your kin?"

"Do?
 
I wouldn't ask you to
do
anything."

Whatever
response she'd expected from him, that wasn't it.
 
Her teeth chattered, and not from the brisk night air.
 
"The law is hunting you, David."

He emitted a
sardonic laugh.
 
"Is that an
excuse?
 
How unlike you."

At thirty-one,
David was very different from the man she'd met eleven years earlier.
 
He'd learned when to walk away from card
tables, rivals, even love.
 
As certain
as she knew the sun would rise in a few hours, she was certain that declining
his offer meant she'd never see him again.
 
Fear of more loss clenched her throat.

He stood and
went to her, offering the warmth of his embrace from behind, his voice tranquil
and kind.
 
"There is so much more
out there for you, waiting.
 
Experiences
to be had, life to be lived, gifts to receive, people who will embrace you,
rejoice with you, help you fill that emptiness, that hunger, if only
—"
 
His voice faltered around
sentiments he'd always stumbled over expressing.
 
"If only you'll accept it and — and — oh, gods,
Helen."
 
He turned her around to
face him and grasped her shoulders.
 
"Do you want me to marry you?
 
Is that it?
 
I would do it, if
that's what you want."

Anxiety
supplanted her astonishment at the torment knotting his expression: as if he
were a fly thrashing in a spider's web.
 
Was that a metaphor she wanted for marriage?

Panic swept
away the torment, and his expression settled into ambivalence, confusion.
 
He stepped back, as if to ward off his own
proposal.
 
"Even if that's not what
you wish, consider coming with me to South Carolina anyway."

The bedroom
grew quiet.
 
She heard herself gulp.

The batter of
someone's fist upon the front door of her house yanked a gasp from her.
 
David recoiled and snarled at the closed
bedroom door.
 
"Bloody hell, that
son of a whore has found me!"

Wham, wham,
wham
!
 
Neighborhood dogs began
barking.

David snatched
his shirt and shrugged into it, so she fumbled for her shift, her heart jumpy
with distress and bewilderment.
 
Just
outside her bedroom door, Enid grumbled, clomped downstairs to investigate.
 
"Son of a whore!" muttered
David.
 
"Damn the stinking son of a
whore!"
 
Crouching, he hopped into
a stocking, almost unbalanced.

Helen jammed
feet into slippers and threw on a bed gown.
 
"Stay here and keep quiet."

"The hell
I will!"
 
David tugged the other
stocking over his knee and grabbed a garter.

"Listen to
me, and don't act the fool.
 
I shall
manage this."
 
She jerked open the
bedroom door and slammed it shut on her exit.

Trudging back
up the stairs toward her, a candle illuminating her way, Enid layered contempt
in her tone.
 
"Mistress, George Gaynes
is on the front step with committeemen.
 
Says he must talk with you right this moment."

"Blast
that strutting parrot!"
 
Helen
rapped once on her bedroom door.
 
"Rebels from the Committee, David.
 
Stay put while I rid us of them."

Enid
scowled.
 
"Those jackals shall wake
the neighbors."

"Give me
your candle."
 
Helen stomped
downstairs with it, Enid padding after.

By the time she
reached the front door, every dog on the street had an opinion of the
ruckus.
 
Neighbors' servants cursed the
commotion.
 
A dog yelped, encouraged to
shut up by a thrown object or kick across the ribs.
 
Light from lanterns outside bobbed on draperies like St. Elmo's
Fire.
 
"Open in the name of the
North Carolina Committee of Safety!" bellowed the voice of George Gaynes,
the Committee's most loud-mouthed deputy.

Helen delivered
her tone icy.
 
"For what purpose do
you disturb our sleep?"

"We've
tracked a spy to your house and require admission to assure your safety."

"We harbor
no spies on this property.
 
Away with
you, and next time verify the address of your spy's lair so you don't awaken
decent citizens!"

Enid drew back
from where she'd peeked between front drapes.
 
"I count over a dozen men out there."

"Mrs.
Chiswell, if you don't open this door, I'll see that you and your servant spend
the morrow in jail for obstructing justice.
 
We got scant patience in Wilmington for the bloody King's Friends, we
do."

The inflexible
element in his tone was distinct.
 
The
two women regarded each other.
 
Enid
licked her lips.
 
"Do as he orders,
mistress, so we'll be rid of them."

Helen glanced
upstairs, knowing she'd have to keep them from her bedroom.
 
With a nod for Enid, she handed over the
candle, pulled back the bar, and opened the front door.

Lanterns
scattered and bounced shadow off the men's surging entrance.
 
They possessed the foyer with the clatter of
muskets and the smells of black powder, alcohol, and masculinity.
 
Most were pups younger than age twenty.
 
The door banged shut.

Gaynes, stocky
and swarthy, clumped over to Helen, preceded by a blast of poor hygiene.
 
A sneer rippled his mouth and fanned ale
fumes in her face.
 
"I knew it, you
bloody Tory wench, pretending to comply with us while you've harbored a spy for
General Cornwallis!"

Fear clutched
her throat at the malevolence pulsating from Gaynes and men around him, and she
barely stopped herself from backing away.
 
"How dare you barge in my house in the middle of the
night?"
 
Despite her effort, her
voice quavered.

"No need
to terrify the lady, Mr. Gaynes."
 
A man of medium height, in his mid-twenties, stepped parallel to the
committeeman, his tone and expression dispassionate.
 
"I'm certain she doesn't require the use of a heavy hand to
allow us a look around."

Still shaking,
she regarded him.
 
His suit, of the
quality and workmanship that George Gaynes couldn't afford on a year's pay, was
tailored with precision to his solid build.
 
Education and culture oozed from him.
 
He carried himself with the excruciating posture she'd observed in
military officers — as out of place in Wilmington as a tiara of emeralds on a
two-shilling whore.
 
Her pulse whammed
her throat.
 
Who was he?
 
Where had he come from?
 
And his accent: Carolina gentry?

Gaynes
transferred his sneer to him.
 
"Oh,
right, this is
your
show tonight.
 
But if your way don't work, we'll try my way."
 
He glared back at Helen.
 
"Forgive my manners, Mrs.
Chiswell.
 
This fellow, Mr. Black, is a
special agent who's come straight from General Washington on the trail of a
dangerous Tory spy.
 
If you cooperate,
he and his lads will have your house searched and be gone in five
minutes."
 
Gaynes grinned.
 
"But I'd really rather you didn't
cooperate with him so my lads and I can have some fun.
 
Now, what's it going to be?"

Helen stared
from the inferno in Gaynes's face to the frostbite in Black's and
swallowed.
 
"I've no spies harbored
under this roof, Mr. Black, but if you insist upon a search, make haste."

With a curt
nod, Black faced Gaynes.
 
"Wait
with your men outside while we search."

The
committeeman scowled.
 
"Aw, no, we
finish this job together."

"We've
already had this discussion.
 
My team
and I have received special training from French investigators in search and
apprehension techniques.
 
Your presence
will impede our efforts.
 
We require
your cooperation for success.
 
Wait outside."

Anxiety jangled
Helen's instincts.
 
Faint, almost
imperceptible undercurrents wove through Black's accent, belying him as
Carolina gentry.
 
He wasn't who he
professed to be.

Gaynes growled
but backed down, pummeled into submission by inhuman chill in the other man's
eyes.
 
"French investigators.
 
Huh."
 
The committeeman stumped for the door.
 
"Come on, lads."

As soon as
Gaynes and six men had exited, Black directed an expression of stone upon the
remaining men and said quietly, "You five, search the grounds out back
including the kitchen and stable.
 
Morton, you search the study.
 
Farmer, the dining room.
 
When
you two are finished, search the remainder of the ground floor."

"Sir."
 
They clomped off.
 
Outside, dogs barked and servants cursed.

The Carolina
accent had vanished.
 
In its place was
an accent every bit as English as Helen's accent.
 
Shock slammed her.
 
Mr.
Black was most certainly David's family hellhound, Lieutenant Fairfax.
 
What a brazen, perilous act of impersonation
he'd undertaken.

Chapter Five

HELEN COULDN'T
EXPOSE Fairfax.
 
Gaynes wouldn't admit
being duped, and Fairfax knew that the only way she'd have knowledge of him was
through recent contact with David.

"Mr.
Black, you lied to the Committee.
 
You're as English as I am."

Fairfax didn't
even look at her.
 
"McPherson,
escort the ladies to the parlor and keep them out of the way.
 
Parker, upstairs with me.
 
We have him at last, like a fox in a
den."

Horror cut
Helen.
 
Fairfax would succeed in his
ploy, apprehend David, and haul him off to the gallows.
 
"I forbid you to enter our
bedrooms!
 
Mrs. Jones and I are decent
widows and will not be treated like slatterns!"

The lieutenant
took the stairs two at a time, his man following.
 
Enid tramped for the parlor, muttering in Welsh, outraged.
 
McPherson wrapped a hand about Helen's upper
arm.
 
"This way, madam."

She pivoted and
kicked his shin, startling him enough to wrench loose.
 
Halfway up the stairs, she heard bedroom
doors whammed open.
 
She'd failed to
protect David.

Heart in her throat,
she gained the second floor and skidded to a stop before her bedroom.
 
Inside were Parker and Lieutenant Fairfax,
each with a lantern.
 
David was nowhere
in sight.