The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (21 page)

"You're my husband, the father
of our child.
 
I need you alive, here by
my side.
 
I cannot raise this baby without
you.
 
It makes no sense for you to leave
in the middle of the night."

He nodded.
 
"War often makes no sense."

Tears of desperation and disbelief
heated her eyes.
 
She flung her arms
around him.
 
"For the love of
heaven, my husband, don't do this."

He disentangled himself.
 
"I must."

"Then take me with you."

"No.
 
You're safe here with Lucas and Sarah."
 
He reached for his coat.

Her throat constricted.
 
"I cannot believe you're leaving
me."
 
The first tears squeezed
out.
 
"Don't go.
 
Not this moment.
 
Please stay with me the rest of tonight."

He hesitated, then dropped the coat
back over a chair before stroking her cheek.
 
"Now, now, dry your tears, sweetheart.
 
I'm here."

He removed his shoes and waistcoat
and followed her down onto the bed, unresisting when she removed his breeches,
responsive when her mouth and fingers built his arousal, attentive when she
needed her own arousal addressed, compliant when she mounted him.
 
A stellar performance to the very end, when
a sleepy Betsy heard the clock downstairs strike one.
 
Yet as she drifted off to sleep, her legs wrapped around Clark
and imprisoning his sweaty body against hers, she sensed he'd never been there
making love with her.
 
He'd sent a
life-sized poppet in his place, and John Clark Sheridan was long gone to
Camden, South Carolina, in the service of the Continental Congress.

***

The clock striking five in the
morning jolted her awake.
 
She reached
beside her to feel the sheets still warm.
 
A horse whickered outside.
 
She
scrambled to the window and glimpsed Clark in the yard walking his gelding to
the street, fowler in one hand.
 
In the
next instant, he swung up into the saddle and kicked the horse into a trot
south on the road.
 
She raced from the
bedroom down the stairs.

She'd almost gained the front door
when a blob of masculine darkness rose from before the window, lunged for her,
and propelled her backwards into the wall.
 
He clapped his hand over her mouth to muffle her scream.
 
Something cold and sharp prodded her
neck.
 
A knife meant for slitting a
throat from ear to ear.
 
Terror squeezed
Betsy's throat.

"Scream,
señora
, and I
kill you,
comprende
?
 
Where did
he go?"
 
He peeled his hand off her
mouth while retaining the point of the knife in the hollow of her throat.

Her chest aching, Betsy gasped for
breath.
 
The knifepoint pressed inward,
burning.
 
"He wouldn't tell
me.
 
Said he wanted to p-protect me.
 
Please.
 
D-don't kill me.
 
I don't
know."

The wine-drenched warmth of the
Spaniard's breath washed over her face.
 
"He went to Camden, did he not?"

"D-don't know."

He chuckled.
 
"To Camden,
sí
, with all those
French-loving dogs who dream
ensueños francés de bobalicones
.
 
Stripping mighty Britain of her military
command — bah!
 
How the Rightful Blood
loves ridding the world of such imbeciles,
idiotas francés
."
 
The knife pressure at her throat
released.
 
"
Gracias, señora
."

He shoved her away, and, while she
lurched against a chair, flung open the front door and bolted outside.
 
His running footsteps faded into
predawn.
 
Somewhere farther away, a horse
was startled into activity.
 
Straightening, she drew a deep breath and screamed for Lucas and Sarah,
even though she suspected it was too late to catch the assassin, even though
she knew in her soul that it was also too late for Clark.

***

"Madam, my irritation grows
with each meeting."
 
Brown's glower
clouded the Saturday morning sunshine.
 
"You're withholding information.
 
He told you where he went."

A broom propped against the
fireplace seemed the safest place for Betsy to look.
 
"He only said he had to leave, and then he sneaked from bed
while I slept."

"With an assassin from the
Rightful Blood chasing him.
 
Your
husband is a rebel spy."

"The assassin didn't kill
me.
 
Surely that proves
I'm
not a
rebel spy."

"It proves you're damned
lucky."
 
Whack
!
 
He swatted his booted calf with a riding
crop.
 
"Beneath my very nose — how
long has he been an operative for the Congress?"
 
She remained silent, her soul resounding with grief, her brain
numb with fatigue and doubt.
 
"Answer me!"
 
After
stalking forward, he kicked the leg of her stool.

She flinched and hung her
head.
 
"I don't know."

"Where did he go?"

Into the depths of sprawling,
bustling Camden-hell: fallen angel.
 
"I don't know."

"What's his mission?"

Depriving the redcoats of their
commanders, if she believed the assassin.
 
Cornwallis: 402.
 
Was Clark
supposed to assassinate him?
 
The rebels
were
idiots if they'd given a shoemaker such an assignment.
 
"I don't know."

He hovered like a panther on a tree
limb, lord of the swamp, flicking his tail, waiting to spring and
eviscerate.
 
After half a minute, he
lowered his voice.
 
"Are you a
rebel spy?"

"No."

Whack
!
 
"Look at me when you answer.
 
Are you a rebel spy?"

She lifted her head and met granite
for an expression.
 
Someday, Brown was
going to find the rebels who'd tortured him, and the sight of their corpses
dangling from gibbets would purge his soul of torment.
 
"I'm not a rebel spy."

He forced her to ride the steel of
his gaze for what seemed an eon.
 
"You're either telling the truth, or you're made of stronger fiber
than many men I've known."
 
At the
window again, he scrutinized the day outside.
 
"You will remain on this property while our investigation continues.
 
Should you venture away without permission,
I shall consider you a traitor and mark you for execution.
 
However, should you recall significant
details that might advance our investigation and inform me of them, I shall
release you from confinement.
 
Do you
understand?"

"Yes."

Whack
!
 
"Good day."
 
He strode
to the front door and yanked it open.
 
The two Rangers posted at the door followed him out.

Their footsteps were almost
soundless, each trained by Indians in furtiveness.
 
Provincials: individualists, sometimes radicals.
 
Yes, Thomas Brown was an individualist, a
clever and deadly individualist.
 
She
couldn't see him wasting time finishing up the investigation to uncover her
lies.
 
When he returned to haul her back
to jail, she'd have had no choice but to wait for him in Lucas's house,
trapped.

Her foster-parents entered through
the front door.
 
Sarah drew her into her
arms.
 
Lucas's face looked old, drawn
with worry, and his hunched shoulders projected that he knew they'd be
back.
 
"Did you tell him what the
assassin said?"

"No."
 
She was surprised at how firm her voice
sounded.

"You've everything to gain by
telling him what you know."

"I'm neutral, regardless of
what oath I had to swear."

He shook his head.
 
"He'll figure it all out.
 
You'll be sharing that jail cell with Widow
Fuller."

She repressed a shudder.
 
What had Mrs. Fuller done but try to convey
the best escape odds possible on a man she loved?
 
Surely Mrs. Fuller's silence for three days had bought David the
time he needed to get to Williamsburg.
 
Surely her own silence would increase Clark's chances of getting to
Camden.
 
However the worst part was
believing that silence was the only way she could help her husband.
 
Passivity.
 
How she hated passivity.

Chapter Seventeen

RUTH GLENN SNIFFED over her coffee
cup.
 
"A rebel spy."

Betsy looked up from her own
cup.
 
"No one has proven him to be
a spy."

"Bah.
 
He lived a double life.
 
You never knew him.
 
None of us did."
 
She handed Sarah her empty cup.
 
"Fugitives don't often escape.
 
I doubt he'll come back."

Betsy felt her face pale.
 
What a brutal thing to say.
 
She'd never have believed it of Ruth, a
model Christian woman, always so busy tending the poor.

Jane handed her empty cup to
Sarah.
 
"Ruth has a point.
 
Men do foolish things.
 
He shouldn't have run off.
 
He's not worthy of your devotion."

"At least he isn't a double
agent."
 
Ellie looked hopeful.

Ruth waved off the suggestion.
 
"We've all had far too much excitement
lately.
 
Especially you, Betsy.
 
We're your friends.
 
Sometimes friends have to deliver honesty
that hurts.
 
In all honesty, it's time
for you to move on."

"Move on?"
 
Betsy cocked an eyebrow at the vicar's wife.

"You must put this behind you
and focus on keeping yourself well for the sake of the baby.
 
And that means smiling."

"Smiling?"
 
Betsy could hardly believe her ears.

"Yes, try smiling.
 
It will make you feel better."

Dull anger churned Betsy's soul,
bruised by women she'd trusted.
 
She
fantasized giving Ruth a gesture other than a smile.

Ellie frowned.
 
"I hope you don't run off after
him."

"She won't do that," said
Jane.
 
"She's too sensible.
 
But Betsy dear, your primary concern right
now should be your baby.
 
Thank goodness
you have a home with Lucas and Sarah."

"That's right."
 
Ruth stood.
 
"It isn't like Mr. Sheridan left you homeless.
 
What time is it getting to be?
 
Goodness, Sarah, I've drunk far too much of
your coffee.
 
Thank you ever so
much.
 
I must be off, ladies."

Ellie and Jane stood, following
Ruth.
 
Each seemed relieved to be
leaving.
 
Betsy bit her lip, speechless
with hurt and indignation.
 
How did the
women expect her to put Clark behind her?
 
He was still her husband.

The warmth of Sarah's hand rested
on her shoulder, but her voice held an early frost.
 
"Thank you for coming."

Ruth situated her straw hat on her
head.
 
"Thank you for taking care
of her, Sarah.
 
You're a sensible, good
woman."
 
And what did that make
Betsy, a lunatic for loving Clark?
 
"Call on my husband anytime.
 
We shall pray for Mr. Sheridan to come to his senses and surrender
peacefully."
 
Ruth grasped her
basket.
 
"Poor, foolish man."

"Take care, Betsy," said
Jane.

Tears blurring her vision, Betsy
stared at her cup while the women exited.
 
When they were gone, Sarah removed the cup from her lap and sat next to
her.
 
Pain strangled Betsy's voice to a
whisper.
 
"Yesterday they supported
me.
 
Today they shun me."