The Courier of Caswell Hall (18 page)

How could she tell Seth that she’d compromised his family’s loyalties and the British had retaliated by burning down his home?

She opened the iron gate behind the church and hurried under a brick arch. The steeple loomed above her, and in front of her stood dozens of headstones, some tucked back among the trees. Grandfather’s tombstone was beside the brick wall. His epitaph said he was resting in peace, but how could he be at peace when the world seemed to be falling apart?

Bitterness welled in her heart against the men who killed her grandfather, the men who drove her brother from their family. But Sarah was right—not all Patriots were evil. Men like Nathan hadn’t killed her grandfather, nor had Seth.

She stared at the epitaph of Lord Henry Caswell. “What shall I do?” she whispered.

Answers swirled in her mind, warring with each other.

If only King George would visit the colonies and see that most colonists were reasonable people. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to negotiate a compromise. They could stop all of this death and destruction before any more homes were burned or lives lost. Until then, how was she supposed to support the king while his men ravaged the colonies?

A twig cracked, and she turned. Had the soldiers come for her next? She was too numb to feel even fear.

“Who is there?” she demanded.

There was a long pause before she heard an answer. “It is Nathan.”

Her heart lifted. It
had
been him walking on the roadside. “How did you know I was here?”

“I saw your carriage in town.”

Now she could see his face in the moonlight, his steady smile. He leaned against his cane, but he appeared much healthier. And stronger.

“So you followed me here?” she asked.

“I fear I am guilty on that account.”

She gave him a slight smile. “I am glad you are well. After you left—I was worried.”

“I was pleased to be your servant.” He held up his satchel. “Just as I am pleased to serve the British as a barber.”

“You are not really a barber?”

He shook his head. “I am dreadful at it.”

She laughed and then felt guilty for her laughter.

His voice grew serious. “You played your part well, Miss Caswell.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, grateful that she had been able to help him escape. “Nathan . . .”

He tipped his head slightly. “What is it?”

She hesitated before she spoke again. “Why won’t you tell me your last name?”

“Someday I would like to tell you, when the war is over.”

Her heart warmed. It seemed as if he was trying to protect her, but even more than that, he wanted to see her again. Nathan had become a friend, and friends could ease their formalities.

“If I am to continue calling you by your first name,” she said, “then I would like it very much if you would call me Lydia.”

He smiled. “I would like that.”

She smiled in return. Except for Seth and the members of her family—and Major Reed, in his presumptive liberty—no other man called her Lydia.

He looked down at the tombstone in front of her. “Who is this?”

“My grandfather.”

“Was he on the wrong side of this war?”

“He was at the time.” She glanced back up at him. “But the tides keep changing.”

He traced through the grass with his cane. “A man must stand for what he believes, no matter what.”

She had been angry with the rebels who killed her grandfather, but until the British swarmed their house, she hadn’t thought much about supporting the Loyalists or Patriots. Her faith had been in God, her father, and Caswell Hall. And not always in that order.

“What if—what if one is not certain of what one believes?” she asked.

“Oh, Lydia.” He motioned to a stone bench. “Shall we sit?”

She nodded and sat beside him. Father had always kept her safe. Even if the two men
were
on the opposite sides of this war, Nathan reminded her a bit of Father.

She felt him turn toward her, but she didn’t move. “Did something happen?”

She hesitated before she spoke. “My friend—” Tears began to rise again. She wanted to confide in him, but he was supposed to be the enemy. Yet Nathan knew where her family’s loyalties lay, and he had done nothing to harm her. Even if others failed her, she desperately wanted to be able to trust him. “The British soldiers burned down her home.”

“Who is your friend?”

“Sarah Hammond,” she answered.

The curse that slipped from his lips surprised her. And endeared him to her. He felt her pain—Sarah’s pain. Perhaps he could help her understand why men would do this, why they would hate so much.

“Is your friend safe?”

“She is alive, but they killed her overseer and took away most of the slaves.” She leaned closer to him, imploring him. “Why would they burn an innocent person’s home?”

He was slow to answer. “In war, Lydia, many innocent people die.”

“They die, and no one seems to care.”

His voice was tender. “That is not true.”

“The Hammonds did not do anything to deserve this.”

It was her words, hers and Hannah’s, that had indicted them. With their words, she and Hannah strung the noose. The British just finished the hanging.

Nathan wanted to kick something, but the gravestone of Lydia’s grandfather—or any gravestone, for that matter—would hardly be an appropriate target for his wrath.

In his mind’s eye, he could see the British avenging Seth’s position—and perhaps Sarah’s role as a courier—by burning down the Hammond house. How would they have known about Sarah, though? He had taken every precaution to ensure secrecy, but the network sometimes failed. Money, promises—there were plenty of ways to coax a seemingly loyal person to talk. He hadn’t actually met Sarah—Seth was the connection between them—but Seth swore they could trust his sister, and Nathan trusted Seth implicitly.

Perhaps someone else suspected.

Thank God, they hadn’t killed Sarah in the process, but she must be devastated. And Seth would be as well.

Hammond Plantation had been a key link for their intelligence since last summer. The river allowed them easy access to bring the messages, and then Sarah delivered the messages inconspicuously.

What was he going to do without her help?

He could not visit the homes of their connections in town. In his barber’s disguise, he would stand out like a blot of ink on parchment. And without Sarah, Mrs. Pendell would have no way to return her messages to Nathan’s uncle. Delivering messages was a risk they all knew, but still this loss would be a major blow.

“It was my fault they burned Sarah’s house,” Lydia said.

He leaned toward the beautiful woman next to him. “It could not possibly be your fault.”

“My sister told them I am betrothed to Seth Hammond, a soldier in the Continental Army. They retaliated.”

His mind raced in the silence. Lydia was betrothed to Seth? Why had his friend never said he was engaged to marry?

He cleared his throat. “They already know who is loyal to the Crown and who is not.”

“But the rest of the Hammond family is loyal.”

Shadows from the branches danced over the gravestones as Lydia breathed softly beside him. He wondered what he should say to comfort her, but the words eluded him.

Not only had they lost a vital link in the network, but the woman next to him—the woman who had saved his own life—was betrothed to one of his best friends. Nathan couldn’t even hate the man she planned to marry.

Seth had spent the previous summer at Colonel Fielder’s plantation in Maryland, and he’d spent much of the past year talking about the beauty and wit of the colonel’s daughter. Nathan never confirmed a marriage proposal, but he had assumed that Seth would marry Fielder’s daughter after the war.

How had the detail of Seth’s engagement to Lydia escaped him? For a scout, he had done a rather lousy job of obtaining that important bit of information.

More than anything, he wanted to draw Lydia into his arms and tell her that everything was going to be fine . . . but no one could guarantee that, especially not him. And he would never intrude upon the woman Seth would marry. Instead of holding her, he sat quietly beside her in the darkness, wishing he could say something more to ease her pain.

The breeze fluttered the ruffles on her gown, and she shivered. “Do you believe in this war?”

“We have no choice but to fight if we want freedom and peace.”

Her gaze fell to the tombstone. “Grandfather thought the best way to maintain peace was to remain loyal to the king.”

“The colonists have been trying to do that for a long time. Unfortunately, it has not worked well.”

“We should pay the taxes to prevent the loss of more lives.”

He tapped his cane on the ground. “It is not only about the taxation,
Lydia. It is about being taxed even though no one from the colonies represents our interests. It is about a king four thousand miles away being able to mandate whatever he wants on a place he’s never visited.”

“And that is worth a war?”

He understood her question. He’d wrestled with the same one for years. While some had pushed for war, many had attempted a peaceful pact with Britain—and failed. It seemed the colonists had no other recourse.

“When we declared our independence, we hoped King George would relinquish in a reasonable way. If we surrender now, they will crush us—and any hope of our being free.”

“Freedom sounds so appealing.” She paused. “And utterly impossible.”

He examined her face for a moment before he spoke again. “It is not impossible. Not if we continue to band together. They can hire thousands upon thousands of Hessians and send them over to fight against us, but none of those soldiers care about freedom. The Patriot soldiers are fighting with their hearts.”

He leaned closer to hear her soft reply. “What would it be like to be free?”

He rubbed his hands together. “We would no longer be forced to answer to the whims of a stubborn king, and any taxes we’d pay would fortify our own country rather than the most powerful empire in the world. We would live in peace, create our own laws to protect the colonies, and speak freely about what we believe.”

She shook her head. “I do not care much about any of that.”

“But you must care about something.”

Her gaze rested again on the tombstone of her grandfather. “I care about my family. And about our home.”

“When this war is over, the king might very well take away your family and your home.”

“He would never—”

“He does what pleases him, and if we do not stop his men, they will do to Williamsburg what they did to Richmond and the Hammond plantation. Not even Caswell Hall will be safe.”

She looked at him, her eyes wide. “But my father remains loyal . . . and there are still Loyalists in Williamsburg.”

“Not as many as you think.”

She rubbed her hands together. “I do not want our colony to change.”

“I fear change is inevitable for all of us.”

An idea flashed into his mind, and he considered it for a moment. Some might think it risky to trust Lydia with his secret, but she had cared well for him even after she discovered he was a Patriot. And even if she wouldn’t help him, he felt certain that she would not do anything to harm him or his work if he asked.

He swallowed hard. “I need your assistance.”

She looked up at him again. “What can I do?”

“There are certain—there are messages that must be delivered to people in Williamsburg.”

She hesitated. “What sorts of messages?”

“Messages that will stop the destruction of our colonies.”

She scooted away from him. “Why would you want me to do this?”

“No one would suspect you,” he said, drumming his cane against his hand.

“But it would be dangerous.”

He nodded. “It would.” It was his job to protect the colonists—including Lydia Caswell—and he would do everything he could to prevent her from getting hurt.

She stood up and straightened her petticoat. “I am not certain.”

“Consider it,” he said. “I must go away for a while, but I will obtain your answer upon my return.”

A piece of hair slipped over her shoulder, and he almost reached out to push it back over her ear. Instead, he dug his hand into the pocket of his coat.

She twisted the strand of hair. “How will I find you?”

“Do not worry.” He stood and then stepped away from her. “I will find you.”

Smoke lingered in the air as the Caswell coach passed by the Hammonds’ land. Lydia hadn’t wanted to leave Sarah in Williamsburg, but Mrs. Pendell promised to help her find transport to her aunt’s home in Philadelphia. Lydia had no choice but to return home.

Mother looked out at the fields beside them. “I should have invited Sarah to come to Williamsburg with us yesterday morning.”

“We had no idea this would happen.”

Mother shuddered. “I am tired of this war.”

“Me too.” She paused. “Do you think the officers at our house started the fire?”

Mother’s response was swift. “We cannot allow ourselves to think it. We must stay in the good graces of the king.”

Lydia wished she could be like Mother, focusing more on what she knew than on what she suspected. Nathan was right. Change might be inevitable, but she did not even know who she wanted to win this war.