Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (7 page)

Fairfax turned
from the window to her, lantern light tossing russet highlights through his
hair and gouging darkness in his face.
 
"You appear as surprised as I at not finding him here."
 
Without unpinning his stare from her, he
rapped the frame of the wide-open window behind him with his knuckles.
 
"Next time, I shall remember his
climbing skills, useful in eluding husbands."

Dogs redoubled
barking efforts in response to the men combing Helen's yard.
 
She reassembled her glare and steadied her
pulse.
 
Wherever David was, thank heaven
he hadn't been apprehended.
 
"How
dare you insult my honor and presume I entertain men in here?"

Fairfax held up
his thumb and forefinger and rubbed a bit of fabric between them.
 
"Was it you or your servant who tore
this piece of mauve wool from a garment upon the sash?"

She gaped, then
closed her mouth.
 
"I've no idea
what you're talking about."

Parker, several
inches taller than his commanding officer, advanced on her.
 
"Sir, shall I escort her to the
parlor?"
 
Devonshire farm-boy
stock, from his accent.

"Unnecessary.
 
She's quite helpful."
 
He strode to the headboard of the bed, and
she caught her breath when he plucked David's hat off the post.
 
"Her personal fashion tastes are
unique, wouldn't you agree, Parker?"

Parker
stretched his lips over a smile.
 
A
front tooth was missing.
 
Helen doubted
he'd lost it while milking a cow in Devon.

"Inspect
the other bedrooms again."

"Sir."
 
Parker saluted and stomped past Helen for
Enid's room.

"That hat
belonged to my dead husband."

"Of course
it did."
 
Fairfax peered at the
label.
 
"Mr. Chiswell had exquisite
taste.
 
Sutton and Miles — out of Boston
or New York?
 
When was the last time you
saw David St. James?"

She tilted her
nose up.
 
"I don't recognize that
name."
 
Outside, neighbors'
servants had regressed to the point of offering each other vulgar suggestions
about how to silence the dogs.
 
The
outrage had gone on long enough.
 
"Your spy isn't here.
 
Leave
my house."
 
He sallied past her
with the hat.
 
She grabbed for it,
incensed when he tucked it beneath his arm and trotted downstairs holding his
lantern high.
 
"Give me the hat,
you cad!"
 
Fuming, she trailed
after him.

On the ground
floor, she heard soldiers report that they hadn't found David.
 
Parker thumped downstairs and confirmed the
quarry absent from the second floor.
 
By
then, she knew better than to rejoice.

David may have
escaped, but Cerberus patrolled her house, the consolation prize of a
fashionable hat secure beneath his paw.
 
The concerns David had expressed earlier about Lieutenant Fairfax no
longer seemed irrational.

Leaving men in
the foyer, Fairfax strode into the parlor, where several candles had been lit,
and signaled McPherson to join those outside, giving him his lantern in
passing.
 
Helen entered the parlor in
time to see Enid rise from the couch where she'd been guarded, her lips pinched
with ire.
 
Fairfax bowed.
 
"Ladies, His Majesty appreciates your
cooperation."

Enid jutted her
jaw.
 
"And where is your spy?"

"Alas,
Fate has granted him a few more hours' freedom."

"For
naught you disturbed my mistress's sleep."

Helen caught
Enid's eye and shook her head, wary of five hundred years of Welsh resentment
she heard smoldering in her servant's voice, wanting only to be rid of the men.

"Regrettable,
but necessary.
 
As loyal subjects, you
understand."

"Aye, we
do —"
 
Enid's upper lip
curled.
 
"—
Saesneg
."

English
.
 
Dismay and fear plowed through Helen, and
her gaze riveted to the lieutenant.
 
Did
he understand Welsh and the insult Enid had delivered?

He slammed a
stare harsher than sleet at the servant, flogging defiance in her posture into
submission within seconds.
 
"Tongues less insolent than yours have been cut from their owners'
mouths.
 
The only king in the civilized
world is named
George
, not Llewellyn."

Pivoting to
leave, he clipped the edge of the easel.
 
Down it clattered.
 
Before Helen
could rush forward and rescue her watercolor, Fairfax had snagged it off the
floor.
 
She sucked in a breath of
consternation, again hearing Silas's disapproval in her memory.
 
If the soldiers had recognized the shrines
to the gods she and Enid set up in the back yard, she hoped they wouldn't make
a fuss.

She bit her
lip, picked up the easel, and reassembled it, her back to Fairfax.
 
Then, she stiffened, hands atremble, skin
prickling.
 
He lowered the watercolor
into place on the easel from behind her, so close she could hear his breathing,
sense it against her neck.
 
Derision
drenched his murmur: "You omitted the druids."

Gooseflesh
possessed her arms and neck.
 
Feeling
him shove something upon the crown of her head, she winced but remained
motionless, her back to him.
 
Even when
he swaggered out to rejoin the soldiers in the foyer, she stared at dawn
without druids on the Salisbury Plain.
 
Her front door crashed open.
 
Clattering and shuffling, the men headed from the house, banging the
door shut after them, renewing the interest of dogs on Second Street.
 
"Mr. Gaynes," said Fairfax,
faux-Carolina accent revived, "our spy isn't here.
 
Has he another petticoat to hide beneath in
town?"
 
Men's voices faded, and
oppressive silence seized the house.

Dazed, Helen
snaked her fingers up.
 
David's hat
rested atop her head.

In a blur of
fury, Enid shoved a front window drape aside.
 
"Bastards, all of you!"
 
She shook her fist at the darkened street.
 
"Not a decent
Cymro
among you!"

Helen strode
forward, yanked her away from the window, and shook her by the shoulders.
 
"Have you lost your wits?
 
You might have been flogged for your
insolence!"
 
Enid's expression
yielded to shock and dread.
 
"Give
me your word this instant that I needn't worry about you brandishing your — your
opinions
again."

Devotion
displaced defiance in her eyes.
 
Enid
nodded.
 
"You have my
word."
 
Her gaze lodged on the hat
perched on Helen's head, and her expression became forlorn.
 
"Did Mr. David escape?"

Helen tossed
his hat onto the couch.
 
"Get your cloak
and clogs.
 
We shall check
Morris's."

The barking of
dogs had subsided.
 
Reluctant to stir
things up, wary that soldiers might lurk in hopes of catching David, the women
waited several minutes before they slipped from the rear of the house and
sneaked across the yard for the neighbor's property.

The door of his
stable was ajar, and Helen smelled horse and fresh dirt on the night wind.
 
She nudged the door open six inches with her
clog.
 
A horse within roused.
 
In case David was holed up inside, ready to
clobber anyone who entered, she hummed a few bars from one of their favorite
tunes, "Over the Hills and Far Away."
 
But only the horse responded, a sleepy snort.
 

Dried grass
beneath the housekeeper's clogs rustled.
 
"He's gone, mistress.
 
The
only horse inside is Mr. Morris's."

Helen's sigh
blended relief with melancholy.
 
David
had gone without even a goodbye.
 
She
might never see him again.
 
Head bowed,
she toed the stable door shut.

"The
King's men are crazy to pose as rebels.
 
Mr. David's no spy."
 
Enid's
hand sought hers in the darkness, a fleeting comfort.
 
"Soon as it's light, I shall put out some bread in the
garden.
 
Rhiannon will watch over
him."

Helen plodded
back to the house, Enid following in silence.
 
Rhiannon.
 
What special magic
could a Welsh mare goddess conjure in defense against a fiend?

***

Her bedroom was
icy cold, the window left wide open.
 
She closed the window, dressed, ordered Enid to brew coffee, and
descended to the study.
 
She'd write
overdue letters to avoid feeling the space left empty in her heart by David's
departure.

The study was
as frigid as her bedroom, the window jimmied open.
 
A soldier inspecting the yard must have forced reentry to the
house that way.
 
Annoyed at his
insensitivity, she shoved the window shut.
 
Then she realized she'd need a carpenter to repair it because of the way
it had been forced, and she cursed the soldiers aloud.

Dried mud and
grass boot prints extended from the window.
 
She followed the trail, arrived at shelves holding her ledger and legal documents,
and quivered with resentment until a survey assured her that nothing was
missing or seemed out of place.
 
Even
the case holding Silas's dueling pistols on the top shelf appeared undisturbed.
 
Misbegotten mongrels, nosing in her
possessions.

Enid announced
coffee but scowled at the mess on the floor.
 
Helen retreated to the dining room while the servant swept out her
study.
 
Night held the sky, and she
pondered over her coffee.

If she sold her
house and moved to a smaller dwelling, the money she cleared from the sale plus
her dower should enable her to live with less struggle.
 
But more than six years of war had ensured
that a healthy market for house sales didn't exist in the colonies.
 
Wilmington, prosperous due to the naval
stores industry, suffered the indignity of being governed by a rebel minority
while occupied mostly by Loyalists and neutrals, a condition that depressed the
sales of houses.

If she managed
to sell her house, would the money allow her to support herself and Enid the
rest of their lives?
 
She gnawed her
knuckle.
 
Keep going.
 
Was that the culmination of her life, then,
to keep going, to merely exist?

She peered out
the window.
 
Fog from the previous day
had rolled off, leaving a clear sky.
 
She needed a fresh perspective.
 
Realizing that she'd echoed David, she swallowed at the lump in her
throat.
 
Where was he — safely upon the
road and well south of Wilmington?
 
Would she ever have the satisfaction of knowing?

***

In the solitude
of her back yard, Helen faced east, waiting while the sky paled.
 
She breathed into her belly as much as her
stays allowed, and exhaled it in slow rhythm.
 
Every morning since Silas's death, she'd reached for the old faith.
 
Like the tide, her breath wove in and out,
in and out.
 
Awareness of cold dawn dusting
her cheeks faded.
 
The tide of breath
became all.

Her chin level,
she spread her arms, lifted them at her sides halfway, and bent them, palms
forward and faced toward the east, her shoulders flung back.
 
In the dawn place, she opened her heart and sought
clarity.
 
Those moments, the rhythm of
the earth poured inside her.
 
Birds sang
from within her soul.

Later that
morning, she delivered the embroidered petticoat to her client, wife of a
Loyalist merchant.
 
"How lovely,
Mrs. Chiswell!
 
Such a unique blend of
colors and even stitching.
 
I shall look
divine in this.
 
Here.
 
Another shilling for you.
 
I cannot wait to show the ladies.
 
You know the vicar's wife is interested in
your embroidery?"
 
The client
peered at her.
 
"We haven't seen
you at church lately."

"Enid and
I have had colds."
 
Helen faked a
cough and tried not to imagine one of her watercolors hanging in the woman's
parlor.

"There's a
vile cold going round.
 
Do take care of
yourself.
 
I hope we see you at the
service on the morrow."

It was probably
time to make another appearance in church.
 
Helen smiled noncommittally, curtsied, and headed back home in the
Indian summer sunshine.