The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (28 page)

"More than any of us make in a
year."
 
Tom seemed just as
impressed as Joshua did.

"Excellent location.
 
Well-to-do district, and there's the
courthouse yonder —"

"Out of the way, you rabble,
out of the way!"

The five coaxed their horses to the
side of the street.
 
A gaudy carriage
rolled up to the Leaping Stag, accompanied by ten redcoats on horseback.
 
After it squeaked to a stop, an attendant
leaped down to yank open the door for a stout colonel who waddled to the
entrance of the tavern with bodyguards marching behind.
 
The entourage made no effort to remove
themselves from the road.

After the colonel and his men disappeared
indoors, Betsy caught the whiff of a fragrance even Widow Abby Fuller couldn't
have afforded, though whether it came from the colonel or the tavern she
couldn't tell.
 
"Cousin Emma's done
quite well."

Joshua gestured for the door.
 
"Well, don't just stand there catching
flies on your tongue.
 
Go inside and
find her.
 
We'll secure the horses and
join you in a moment."

Tom assisted her in dismounting,
and she did what she could to straighten her homespun petticoat and short
jacket, even though four days of travel had creased in the dust and grime.
 
Just inside the warm, cavernous common room
smelling of tobacco, yeast, and human musk, a tall, ropy man in linen and silk
blocked her way.
 
"May I help
you?"

Betsy looked up his nose.
 
"I'm here to see Emma Branwell."

"I don't think so."

"I
do
think so."

"She doesn't have an
appointment scheduled with you for this afternoon.
 
There's the door.
 
Good
day."

What an obnoxious cur.
 
"I'm her cousin Betsy, just arrived
from Augusta."

"Hrumph!"
 
He eyed her from head to foot.
 
"I shall convey word of your
arrival."
 
He turned to leave.
 
"And don't move from that spot while
I'm gone."

Afraid she'd pickpocket the
clientele, eh?
 
Betsy blew out a sigh of
exasperation.

An ensign from a nearby table
swaggered up and strolled his gaze over her in a way she didn't find
comfortable.
 
"I heard you ask old
Todd for Mrs. Branwell.
 
You new in
town?"

"I just arrived from
Augusta."

"Ooh, an exotic lady from
faraway Georgia colony."
 
He made a
bow straight out of court.
 
"Terrance
Halsey, Ensign, at your service, madam.
 
I'm off duty until the morrow at eight and would consider myself the
most fortunate man alive to be able to show you a bit of Camden."
 
He extended his hand in expectation that
she'd give him hers.

What a rude bore.
 
How dared he fancy her a slattern in so fine
an establishment?
 
She turned back in
the direction the other obnoxious fellow had taken.
 
"No, thank you."

"I was just paid this
noon," the ensign whispered.

She scowled and faced him.
 
"I said no.
 
Which are you: deaf or half-witted?"

One of the leering soldiers from
Halsey's table imitated to perfection the sound of chair legs collapsing to
deposit someone's arse on the floor.
 
Halsey flashed Betsy a mirthless smile.
 
"Perhaps another time, madam."
 
He bowed and slipped back to the jeers of his tablemates.

"Betsy?
 
Oh, it
is
you, dear!"

Betsy beheld a pretty, plump
brunette in her early twenties bustling through the common room for her.
 
"Hello, Emma."
 
She smiled and hugged her cousin.
 
"You're looking quite well."
 
Not just well, but wealthy.
 
The material for Emma's polonaise gown cost
more than all of Betsy's petticoats together.

"And you're looking — er —
happy to be at the end of your travels.
 
Oh, you poor dear.
 
Everything
gone in the fire, and now you and your husband have come here to start
anew."

A gust of wind signaled the
entrance of Joshua and Tom.
 
Before the
man in silk and linen could evict them, Betsy waved at him.
 
"Those two gentlemen are with me."
 
Joshua reached her side first.
 
"Emma, this is my uncle, Joshua
Hale."

"Pleased to meet you,
madam."
 
Joshua kissed Emma's hand.

"Likewise, Mr. Hale.
 
Oh, and you must be Betsy's
husband."
 
Emma rushed past in a
cloud of lilac perfume, caught Tom by the elbow, and dragged him into their
little circle.
 
"My, such a
handsome fellow.
 
You two make the
perfect couple."
 
She turned on
Betsy.
 
"Forgive me if I seem a bit
distracted, dear.
 
I wasn't expecting
all of you so soon, and I was hoping you might arrive a few days later, after
the criminal for that horrific murder had been caught."

"Murder?" said Betsy,
Tom, and Joshua at the same time.

"Oh, it was ghastly.
 
They found a Spaniard flayed alive in town
square last night after first being shot in the knee."

Joshua coughed.
 
"Excuse me, did you say a Spaniard was
flayed alive?"

"Horrid, isn't it?"
 
Emma lifted white fingertips to her pearl
choker.

Hair polarized on the back of
Betsy's neck.
 
Something about the
murder sounded familiar.

Joshua licked his lips.
 
"Mrs. Branwell, might I inquire whether
the Seventeenth Light has been through Camden recently?"

"Why, now, Mr. Hale, I do
attempt to keep abreast of the units in town."
 
She indicated the common room, inhabited by nearly thirty
redcoats, including the Colonel, who drummed his fingers on a tabletop with
impatience.
 
"As you can see,
soldiers are important clientele.
 
I
shall inquire of Margaret to be certain, but I believe she entertained an
officer from the Seventeenth late last night."

Shock emptied Joshua's face of
color.
 
Betsy rushed to his side.
 
"Are you all right, Uncle?
 
You look ill."

His gaze passed between Tom and
her.
 
He lowered his voice to a
whisper.
 
"The coincidence is too
great.
 
Watch yourselves.
 
Lieutenant Fairfax has been in town, I'm
certain of it."

Chapter Twenty-Two

EMMA PEERED OVER Betsy's
shoulder.
 
"Shall I fetch you some
spirits, Mr. Hale?
 
Of a sudden, you
look rather pallid."

He shook his head.
 
"I'm well now, madam."

She clasped her hands.
 
"Well.
 
I still haven't been introduced to Betsy's husband."

Tom opened his mouth to clear up
the misunderstanding, and Joshua slapped him on the back.
 
"Where are your manners, lad?
 
Mister Thomas Sheridan.
 
Mrs. Emma Branwell."

Tom covered up astonishment by
kissing Emma's hand.
 
In the next
second, Betsy understood her uncle's rationale for using Tom's name.
 
Searching for a rebel spy in a town of
British soldiers was risky enough.
 
If
Fairfax heard that John Clark Sheridan was in Camden, he'd look for them and
make good on his threats to her.

Emma fluttered her eyelashes at
Tom.
 
"Betsy was stingy with
details in her letter, but at least she told me your trade, if not your
name.
 
I've a client list for you if
that uncle of yours can spare you."

"Thank you, madam."

Jitters in her stomach, Betsy eyed
Tom.
 
With each passing second, the lie
deepened.
 
Tom, her friend and an
apprentice, had become her husband and a master shoemaker.
 
For the moment, he rolled with the
deception, a good sign since Emma had offered ready customers for a
cordwainer.
 
However, Tom would have to
acquire a set of tools.
 
Betsy cleared
her throat.
 
"Ah, speaking of Tom's
uncle, his name is Isaac Sheridan.
 
Do
you know where we might find his shop?"

"Isaac Sheridan?"
 
Emma frowned.
 
"And he's a cordwainer?
 
I'm not familiar with the name."

"How about Samuel
Taylor?"

"I'm afraid his name isn't
familiar to me, either."

Both names must be code names.
 
Without "Uncle" Isaac or Samuel
Taylor, she wasn't sure how to find Clark, and there was also the matter of
tools for Tom.
 
"Perhaps both
gentlemen are members of a multi-partner business."

"Perhaps.
 
There are several here.
 
I shall write the names and directions for
you under the condition that the three of you return and dine with Abel and me
tonight for supper."

Betsy cast a skeptical look at
Tom.
 
"Your uncle will want us to
dine with him tonight, too."

"Don't worry.
 
I'll manage Uncle Isaac.
 
Dining with your cousin will provide far
better company."
 
Tom kissed Emma's
hand again.
 
She flushed with appraisal
and flattery.

***

In the street with their horses and
the Creek, Tom shucked the confidence he'd mustered indoors.
 
"Joshua, why did you mislead Mrs.
Branwell into thinking I'm Betsy's husband?"

"You two don't need the name
of John Clark Sheridan following you around.
 
I suspect Fairfax murdered the Spaniard last night.
 
You want that species of varmint tracking
you?
 
Even if
he
never returns,
Neville has figured out by now that we've duped him.
 
He won't waste time riding here to search for Clark."

Tom sighed.
 
"I see your point.
 
But it isn't ethical.
 
And I'm not even a journeyman yet."

Irritation gripped Joshua's
face.
 
"Lad, look around you.
 
Do you think you'll find a rebel spy in this
town using ethical means?
 
You aren't in
Augusta anymore.
 
Play the part."

"But —"
 
The two Creek were giving Tom knowing
grins.
 
A blush crawled up his
neck.
 
"But Betsy's your
niece."

"See here."
 
Joshua clapped a hand to Tom's shoulder, and
Betsy heard sarcasm in her uncle's tone.
 
"This is rough business, but you have to do it.
 
Betsy won't find a better friend anywhere
than you.
 
Settle up with Clark down the
road if you feel you have to."
 
He
gave the street a baleful glance.
 
"If you can find him, that is."

Betsy peered at Joshua.
 
"You don't think we'll find him?
 
If the murdered Spaniard was the assassin
who chased Clark, perhaps Clark is somewhere nearby."

"I wager the Spaniard
was
the assassin tracking Clark.
 
Very few
Spaniards in these parts.
 
Suppose
Fairfax captured him and tortured him to death, obtaining what information he
could about the Ambrose ring.
 
Suppose
Fairfax also found out Clark is in town.
 
Can Clark afford to surface right now?
 
No.
 
He's gone deep into
hiding."

Betsy scowled.
 
"But I'm his wife."

"And if Fairfax gets hold of
you, he won't waste time adding what you know to what he knows.
 
The Ambrose ring isn't going to let you and
Clark within a mile of each other until some of this blows over.
 
Sure, we'll see if we can find Isaac
Sheridan this afternoon, but I'm doubtful he'll show.
 
My advice is to sit tight with your heads down, ears open, and
mouths shut."

Tom nodded, looking none too
happy.
 
"I'll need a complete set
of tools.
 
I brought what I have, but it
isn't enough."

"Well, then, we'll shop around
for tools."

"I haven't much money."

"Show the shoemakers on this
list Mrs. Branwell gave us how talented you are.
 
I cannot imagine any of them hurting for business in a town
hosting the British Army."

Betsy sensed Tom was still weighing
his worth.
 
Clark really should have
given him journeyman status months earlier.
 
"Tom, forget being an apprentice anymore.
 
You're a journeyman now."

She watched him grow an inch
taller.
 
"Very well."

"That's it.
 
Play the part, both of you.
 
After awhile, perhaps you'll be able to
extricate Clark from this web he's woven for himself."
 
Joshua unfolded Emma's list.
 
"Now, let's see whose name is
first."

***

Shadows lengthened across Camden's
dusty streets.
 
A block over from the
courthouse, Tom received yet another invitation to return on the morrow for
employment at a handsome rate of pay.
 
Alas, he informed his traveling companions, shoemakers Gamble and Wade
hadn't heard of Isaac Sheridan or Samuel Taylor, either.

Joshua glanced at his watch.
 
"Six o'clock.
 
We're due at the Leaping Stag soon."
 
He assisted Betsy into the saddle.

"I wish we'd had just one clue.
 
I feel so useless."

"Clark cannot hide
forever.
 
But since we didn't find Uncle
Isaac, we need to consider where to spend the night.
 
I've little money for the return journey and must be frugal with
it."

"Emma might house us tonight
and suggest a place to live."

"Her tastes are more expensive
than what you and Tom can afford.
 
By
the by, he's a fine fellow.
 
Part of
me's hoping you won't find Clark."
 
He grinned.
 
"Whoa, there,
do I detect a blush?"

"He's my friend."

"I'm mighty glad to hear
it.
 
The two of you put your heads
together.
 
You'll do some fancy
thinking."
 
He mounted his gelding
and craned his neck.
 
"Where's the
lad got off to?
 
Ho, there he is down
King Street with his horse."
 
Joshua nudged his gelding in Tom's direction, Betsy coaxed Lady May into
a walk, and the Creek followed.
 
"What have you got into, Tom?"

Afoot, one hand holding the reins
to his horse, Tom examined the sideboard of a large wagon parked before a
two-story wood house.
 
As Betsy caught
up, he ran his fingers along a wheel.
 
Then he pivoted to them, discovery lighting his expression.
 
"This is it!
 
The wagon!"
 
Seeing
blank gazes, he hopped from one foot to the other.
 
"Remember?
 
The wagon
your furniture was hauled away in!"

Betsy clicked her tongue and sent
the mare up ahead.
 
"How can you be
sure?
 
You said you only saw it for a
second or two."

"I lied."
 
Tom helped her down.
 
"I was actually standing there watching
the men load the wagon with your belongings for about three minutes before
somebody hit me."

"Tom, wagons all look
alike."

"Not really.
 
See how the left rear wheel is newer than
the others?
 
I remember that.
 
And look at that big knot in the wood just
above the axle.
 
It rather looks like —
er — um —"

"Like a woman's
bum."
 
Joshua joined them beside
the wagon.
 
"I wouldn't have
forgotten such a detail, either."

Betsy grinned and gazed the length
of the street.
 
"This
is
King Street, where Sheridan and Taylor supposedly reside.
 
Perhaps my furniture is in one of these
houses."

Tom passed his reins to Joshua and
rubbed his hands together.
 
"Let's
peek in some windows."

Leaving Joshua and the Creek with
the horses, Betsy and Tom headed for a first-floor window of the nearest
house.
 
He stared inside.
 
"Clark's workbench!"

Her breath fogging the glass, she
peered in, too.
 
"Zounds, it
is
his workbench, at least a part of it.
 
And there's the wardrobe from the bedroom.
 
I wager my extra clothing is still in the top drawer.
 
I see two of our dining chairs, too.
 
Nothing's in order.
 
Looks like they just unloaded the wagon and
didn't sort furniture."
 
She backed
away, unsure of whether to feel jubilant or angry.
 
Had Clark planned to set up house there?