Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (39 page)

“You’re wrong there, Della, I am.”

“Hmph! I ain’t going to debate that with you. I’m here because I think you owe me something. If not for you, I’d have been Captain Hawk’s lady. But he took a fancy to you and never looked at me again. You owe me for the trinkets he’d have given me, the money I could have gotten out of him. Besides,” she lowered her voice, “your fine husband might be itching to know about you and Hawk. But I don’t have to tell him anything if you reimburse me for my losses.”

“How very considerate of you, and you’re right, you do deserve something for your losses, as you so eloquently put it.”

Della’s mouth dropped open in surprise: “I do?”

“Certainly, Della. I don’t intend to argue with you about anything, nor will I dicker over a price.” Opening the library drawer, Bethlyn pulled out a woolen knit bag and placed it on the desk. “This should more than adequately compensate you.”

Narrowing her eyes, Della rose and inched her way to the desk, drawn by the bag. When she opened it, she braced herself on the desk for support. Her face paled. “There’s so much — money.” She sounded breathless, disbelieving.

“It’s all in gold. There’s enough money there to last you for a number of years, that is, if you don’t live too high of a life-style. I think you should be able to buy a nice house, have nice clothes and tasty foods until the day you die. I’m being more than generous.” Bethlyn placed her hands on her lap, unable to keep them from shaking. Would Della refuse this? Would the silly woman want more money? So much depended upon Della’s absolute silence. “You may count it, if you wish.”

“No … no. I can see this is a great deal of money.”

“Are you satisfied then?”

Della truly looked baffled and shocked, but her hands burned to close the bag and run. “Yes, Mrs. Briston.”

“Fine. I have some stipulations which you will promise to honor before you leave here.”

At Della’s raised eyebrow, Bethlyn continued. “First, you will never tell anyone that I was Captain Hawk’s lady or mention that you’ve ever seen me before. Understand, you are to tell no one, for if you do, you shall regret your ready tongue. I have a great deal of money and power, and I know many powerful people who’ll be only too glad to stomp on someone like you. Secondly, you will leave Philadelphia no later than tomorrow and never return.”

“But, but,” Della stuttered, “what about Lieutenant Holmes?”

“What about him? Do you love him? Are you willing to give up enough money to last you the rest of your life for a soldier? Think, Della, what you’re giving up. Imagine all of the jewels, the fine clothes you’ll be able to buy. And who knows? You may attract a very wealthy man one day.”

Della grabbed for the bag, a large wiley smile on her lips. “I was getting tired of Holmes anyway. All right, Mrs. Briston, I agree to everything.”

“You promise to adhere to all of my terms? Everyone of them?” Bethlyn held her breath, not certain still she could trust the woman.

Della grew serious. “I promise. I may be a doxy, anything you want to call me, but I do keep my word.”

Bethlyn rose from the chair and extended her hand to Della, who took it. “We have an agreement then.”

“Yes, Mrs. Briston. Good day to you.”

The moment Della sashayed from the room Bethlyn sunk into the chair again, and finally took a deep breath. She trembled so much she poured herself a brandy. Soon she felt steady enough to mull over what had happened, coming to the conclusion that Della would keep her word.

Her spirits lifted. She went upstairs to rest before supper. A long night stretched before her.

~ ~ ~

Shortly after supper, Bethlyn pleaded tiredness. Not unexpectedly, Ian told her he had a great deal of work to do in his library and that he probably wouldn’t go to bed until quite late. He’d sleep in his own room that night rather than disturb her.

A sly smile lifted the comers of Bethlyn’s mouth as she left the dining room. So, he thought he could keep his comings and goings secret from her. Such a feeble excuse. No doubt he’d sneak out of the house as soon as the library door closed behind him. But she’d be ready long before then.

Dismissing Annie after she helped her undress, Bethlyn went to her wardrobe. Hidden in a corner on the floor were some breeches, a linen shirt, and a pair of well-worn boots she’d gotten from the stable boy who was her same size. Within minutes she’d changed into the clothes and had pulled back her hair with an ebony ribbon and threw a dark-colored velvet cloak with hood over her shoulders.

A noise outside her door perked up her ears. It was Molly’s footsteps heading in the direction of her own room. She heard Annie’s voice mixed with Molly’s, then ten minutes later the door opened and closed again, and Annie padded down the hallway to the backstairs.

All was silent.

Bethlyn went to the window which overlooked the rear of the house. In the murky darkness she made out the black shape of the stables; the only point of light came from the lantern on the windowsill. She strained her eyes to see, wishing a moon was out to provide some illumination, because traveling in the dark would be perilous, but at least there would be less chance she’d be spotted.

The clock in the foyer chimed ten, and she grew edgy.

Why hadn’t Ian left by now? Perhaps the meeting had been postponed and she waited here like a dark specter for no good reason. She hoped it hadn’t been canceled. The desire to know what Ian did with his time was too strong for her to resist. She hated spying on him, but his love for liberty was a part of his life he refused to share with her, and she wanted to know everything about him.

Half an hour later, she yawned, trying to decide whether to go to bed. A slight movement outside caught her attention, bringing her to full alertness when a shadowy shape crossed the yard to the stables. By the long, purposeful strides she knew it was Ian.

Seconds later a horse and rider left the barn and proceeded across the snowy landscape. Luckily the snow had melted some that day, allowing the stallion to gallop at a steady pace. She watched Ian turn onto a winding path which would take him through a forested area and then onto a back road to the Simpson House.

Glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, she noticed the time and waited twenty minutes more before leaving to give Ian and the others sufficient time to assemble.

When Bethlyn finally did leave her room, she treaded quietly down the hallway to the back stairs, praying none of the servants saw her.

Soon outside, she breathed a deep relieved sigh, her breath freezing and hanging on the air. Entering the stables she saw Amos, the stable boy, waiting with the reins in hand beside a black, spirited mare.

“I done just like you said, Miss Bethlyn. I waited till Mr. Ian was gone before I done saddled Star here for you. I kept my mouth shut, too, just like you asked. I won’t tell a soul about you running off.”

“Thank you, Amos. I’m pleased I can trust you.” She mounted Star, placing her hood over her head, and smiled at the thin red-haired lad who was no older than fourteen. She’d told the boy she needed his utmost cooperation and silence. In the morning she’d make certain that he received new clothes for the old ones she’d taken from him, and also send a fat goose home with him to his mother.

“Be careful, Miss Bethlyn,” he cautioned her. Assuring him that she would, she rode out of the barn, following the same route Ian had taken.

Cantering into the heavily wooded area, she carefully guided the horse beneath an endless canopy of bare-limbed trees. The darkness was so thick she could barely see the horse before her, but Star seemed to have little problem finding her way.

A shiver slid down Bethlyn’s spine, suddenly aware of her vulnerability. Anything or anyone could be hiding in these woods. She’d never ridden this path before, having taken Molly’s word that this was the fastest way if one wished to take a leisurely jaunt in the general area of the Simpson place.

Wanting to discover what happened at the secret meetings was one thing, but to traverse through the woods on a moonless night was something else, Bethlyn quickly discovered and wondered at her foolhardy sojourn. For a fleeting moment she almost turned back to the house, but she kept onward, determined to obtain some knowledge of her husband’s cause.

By the time she’d reached the back road she felt she had ridden for an hour, but less than a quarter of that time had elapsed. The horse galloped easily now, and before Bethlyn was fully aware of it, the dark silhouette of a large house loomed before her. Halting Star, she took shelter behind a cluster of bushes, surveying the situation.

From her vantage point, she saw no one and nothing unusual, and wondered if the meeting place had been changed. She almost decided to turn Star in the direction for home, a bit upset with herself for traveling all this way on a bone-chilling night and aggravated with Ian for keeping secrets from her. But a flicker of light from a downstairs window spurred her to tether Star to a small oak tree and investigate.

The darkness of her attire blended in perfectly with the ebony night. She was more than glad to have the warm boots as she silently trod through the snow, her figure clinging to the shadows of the massive oak trees which lined the long drive.

At one time Simpson House had been quite grand, but now the gray stone dwelling was deserted, the Tory family who’d lived there having returned to England. Bethlyn well understood why the house had been chosen for secretive activities. Far from the main road, the property fronted an infrequently traveled back road, the Simpson dwelling being the only residence for miles around. The chance of discovery was slim.

About halfway from the house, she stopped, scanning the front. Two massive pillars graced the portico, and four windows ran the length of the house. She saw nothing through the windows, no flickering lights. Had she imagined she’d seen something?

Moving closer, a voice cut through the still night air and she jerked, stopping dead in her footsteps. The irregular beating of her heart coincided with her pulse. Any moment she expected someone to seize her, to drag her before the assemblage, before Ian, and she knew she’d be mortified to try to explain why she was there. No one would believe that the daughter of the Earl of Dunsmoor might wish to know the reasons why her husband fought for liberty. They’d no doubt think she was a spy, and she dreaded having to answer to Ian.

But seconds passed and no one pulled her protesting form away from the shadows of the trees. Suddenly she heard laughter coming from the portico.

A candle illuminated two masculine figures, and she saw the unmistakable gleam of a musket.

“Any sign of anyone?” a male voice asked the owner of the musket.

“Nay, nary a peep” came the other voice.

“Good, then get out of the cold and come inside and have a cup of cider with the gents. ‘Tis not every chance we get to meet a true heroine of liberty.”

The musket man said something else and followed the other man into the house. Bethlyn watched the light, weaving its way into a nearby room, only to disappear as if it never existed.

They must be meeting in the back of the house, she thought, and gingerly made her way through the snow. Following the drive and then skirting the entire length of the house, she kept her eyes and ears sharp until she came upon a well-lighted window.

Fortune had indeed smiled upon her. The window was open a crack, allowing her to hear the mingle and rumble of voices inside before she saw the men assembled in the room.

Peering in, she counted about twenty men, finding Ian with little trouble since he was the tallest and handsomest man there. There were furnishings in the room, probably original to the house, which attested to the fact that this must have been a sitting room. No fire burned in the hearth, but no one appeared cold, seemingly much aroused by an inner fire. Bethlyn felt unbearably chilled despite her warm clothes, but she wouldn’t leave until she could understand why grown men would brave a cold winter’s night to meet in a deserted and forgotten house.

From her vantage point she identified some of the gentlemen present, already having met them at many affairs. All of them were supposed loyalists, men like Ian, who pretended to be faithful to the Crown but in actuality worked against it. Goodness, she thought, General Howe would enjoy arresting this crowd.

Some of the other men there she’d never met, concluding that they weren’t Tories but dyed-in-the-wool patriots. Their voices mingled, and then they fell silent when a white-haired man rose from his chair.

“Gentlemen” came the surprisingly strong voice from such an elderly man, “many of you have known me all of your lives. My ancestors settled here with William Penn, and, ever since, a Babcock has served in local government to do our duty to king and country. However, the day has finally arrived when the Babcock family will no longer serve a king who cares naught for his people. How can any of us serve a tyrant who sends troops to our shores, soldiers who cause destruction to our businesses and manhandle our women? This king regards us as unruly children who are unable to govern ourselves. We’re expected not to cry for liberty, for equality. I say to everyone of you here that the time is long past for silence. Someone must speak for us in a different way now. Our protests have fallen on deaf ears.”

The old man trembled from emotion, wiping a tear from his eye. Heads nodded in assent. Finally he drew himself up tall and continued. “I lost my grandson in battle. He was a lad of seventeen years and the light of my life. So young but so brave. My heart is broken at his passing, but bursts with joy at his heroism. I’m certain that if he’d lived, he’d have followed our gallant General Washington to Valley Forge and would gladly have endured the cold and hunger our heroic soldiers face each day while His Majesty’s finest partake of our bountiful tables and comfortable homes.”