The Golden Flask (35 page)

"My husband now, too, is missing," said Mrs. Hulter,
her lips quivering. "There are rumors he is dead."

"Jake can help find him," said Alison.

Mrs. Hulter smiled weakly as she took control of
herself. "He has tried. Come. Let us see about getting
you something to eat, and some clothes."

"What happened to the clothes I was wearing?"

Her hostess wrinkled her nose. "Those things? They
smelled of the river, and several farms' worth of ani
mals."

"They were my disguise."

"Yes, they certainly disguised you," said Mrs. Hulter,
in a tone that made it clear she was taking a propri
etary interest in her young charge. "But you seem to be
ready to burst the bounds of any such disguise. You have even excited some interest from my son."

"Really?"

"He's too young for you, dear; he's barely thirteen. But he had a look in his eyes when he told me about you."

"A look?"

"Men get an expression in their eyes, as if the sock
ets will collapse."

"Is that love?"

"Well, it is something like it."

"Can I trust you with a secret?"

"Of course."

"I love Jake."

The words rushed from her so suddenly they surprised her.

"Many women love him," said Mrs. Hulter gently.
"But . . ."

"Do you think he loves me?"

Mrs. Hulter sighed deeply, trying to be diplomatic
without lying to the girl. "He is too old for you, dear."

"He's not much older than I, only six or seven years."

"The war has aged him in ways it is difficult to exp
lain." Mrs. Hulter tugged her arm gently. "Do you think he loves you?"

"He saved my life. And I saved his."

"That is one type of love," allowed the older woman.
"Still, I think you are after something else, aren't you?"

"How can you tell if someone is in love with you?"

"A person's whole being changes. You will see, when
the time comes."

"I will make him love me."

Mrs. Hulter laughed. "I would think that quite diffi
cult. In any event, he is too much a gentleman to take
you as a lover, being both older and having been trusted with your safety. But as your guardian or friend, he is a powerful ally to have."

Alison was not ready to settle for that, even if she
might suspect it was the truth. Instead, she changed the
subject. Slightly.

"I have seen that look you were talking about," said
Alison. "If that is love. There is a lieutenant in New
York. He tries to be mean to me, but I know he doesn't mean it. He's only seventeen, and already he is a lieu
tenant."

"Perhaps you should turn your sights on him," said
Mrs. Hulter, rising from the bed. "Come, let's find you
something to wear."

Alison pushed away the coverlet and followed her hostess to the next room. She was completely without
clothes, yet felt no more shame than Eve before the Fall.

"This chemise is practically new." Mrs. Hulter with
drew a light linen shift bordered with fancy lace from the oaken wardrobe that dominated the small room. Alison stroked the lace, as if it were some precious metal she had never seen.

Mrs. Hulter next produced a jumper that had belonged
to a niece. This lightly boned corset, not nearly as restricting as the elaborate metal affairs preferred by city
ladies, nonetheless would be sufficient to leave little doubt as to Alison's sex — or beauty. Mrs. Hulter then
brought out a light blue dress so expertly woven from
homespun flax that it seemed like fine silk.

"I don't want to wear a dress. I want to serve our cause," said Alison, handing the chemise back.

"And so you will, no matter what you wear. This is a
patriotic dress. It was woven in defiance of the king's
ban on weaving. Women declared their independence
first in this land. Men may boast, but it is women who
take the risks and act first, protecting our homes and our rights. You will learn that as you grow older."

"I have already seen it," said Alison. She studied the
dress a moment. "Do you think it will look attractive?"

"I think you would look as pretty as a butterfly in it."

Whether it was Mrs. Hulter's appeal to patriotism or her soft, reassuring manner, Alison finally submitted,
allowing herself to be made up in a way she had scarce imagined possible. The bold patriot who had risked her
life to save Jake and clamored continuously to help
General Washington had not been banished; on the
contrary, defiance shone all the brighter in her eye. Yet
it had been magnified by a physical beauty that previ
ously had been severely disguised.

"Your hair is our final problem," said Mrs. Hulter,
stepping back. "It has a natural beauty to it, but it will
be months before it grows long enough to curl. A wig
would be too fussy — ah, I know just the thing."

She disappeared out the door and down the hallway.
There was a small mirror on the bureau. Alison picked
it up furtively, glancing at the image as if she might see
something painful. She had worn dresses before, of course — her father absolutely insisted on them for church — but she had never felt like this.

Mrs. Hulter returned with a gauze-and-silk turban and a colored plume. Within a few minutes, Alison's
face was set off by a colorful crown. The overall transi
tion was so remarkable that Mrs. Hulter's son Timothy
was knocked speechless, retreating to the wall as the two women descended the staircase.

"Well now, you certainly look beautiful," said Jake,
meeting them downstairs in the house. He swept down
as if introducing himself for the first time. "Jake Gibbs,
on special service to General Washington. Pleased to
make your acquaintance, Miss."

Alison turned red and found it impossible to speak,
as if her wit had been left with her old clothes. It was difficult even to look at his eyes — though she strongly
hoped to find the shadow there Mrs. Hulter had spoken of.

For his part, Jake wondered whether he should try
and talk Mrs. Hulter into adopting Alison. But he de
cided the poor woman would have her hands full nurs
ing her brother back to health and keeping her farm
running besides. She had done yeoman's service merely
getting Alison to wear a dress.

"We have to leave soon for New York," said Jake. "It will take us more than an hour to get to the ferry from here."

Mrs. Hulter insisted that they eat before they leave.
It was now nearly four, and all she had given Jake for
breakfast was a half-loaf of rye. They sat down to a
large dinner of boiled salt pork with some freshly dug
potatoes. The meal was not a rich one, though Jake judged it must be as expensive a luxury as the good woman could afford during these difficult times.

"Alison, you have become very quiet," said Jake.

"I'm just — thinking."

"I see. Well, you may think a while longer while I
consult with Professor Bebeef once more," he said as he rose. "But then we will leave promptly."

As accomplished as he was in affairs of the heart, Jake in this instance had made a mistaken interpreta
tion, believing that Alison was infatuated with young
Timothy, not himself. He went across to Bebeefs rooms feeling rather smug.

"I have prepared the bullets," the professor told him, looking up from the jars and tubes that arrayed
the long desk where he was working. "I have adapted
some simple copper balls and soldered them whole.
They are somewhat fragile; you must not handle them
too much before they are loaded."

"They will stay in their case until the duel," said Jake. He picked up the small ball and shook it; it seemed solid, if light.

The matched pistols were very plain, with only the slightest piece of scrolling at the very end of their butts.
Their heavy, straight lock mechanisms betrayed their French design. No self-important English gentleman
would condescend to use either to dispatch his ailing
horse with, let along uphold his honor.

"They're the best I have," Bebeef apologized. "I'm not much for dueling."

"They'll be good enough. My friend may sneer all he
wants, but he is obliged to accept them."

"The poison will work so long as it can penetrate the
flesh. I have had to weaken the gunpowder mixture in
your small horn there, to guarantee the balls will not
explode in the barrel when the charge ignites." "So there won't be much power in the bullets?"

"I would not vouch for their flying more than twenty
paces with any real velocity," said Bebeef. "It would be
best if they had an unobstructed path to the flesh when
they struck. Even a thick coat might save the victim."

The thought of facing a bare-chested Bauer was al
most too much for Jake to stand.

"The bullets will pass through a light shirt and still do their duty," said Bebeef hopefully, noting Jake's
frown. "The liquid is red, so it will look like a very
handsome wound. Aim for the chest."

"I intend to."

"Here is all I have left," said Bebeef, holding up a small tube whose glass ends had been melted shut. "The material that bonds the ingredients is very
gummy, and will adhere to metal. If you rub a sword
blade with it, the effect will be the same."

"But it's red. Anyone will spot it in an instant."

"It's a good thing you didn't choose swords then," said Bebeef. "It must pass through the skin, so you have to wound the victim lightly."

Jake took the vial and placed it in his vest pocket.

"Touch the wound with pure water to counteract the
poison. Do not use city water by any means."

"I wouldn't even wash a horse with city water."

"You only need a drop. The effects will wear off in an hour without the antidote," Bebeef said. "The breathing and heart do not completely stop, but slow so much at first that it is difficult to tell. Gradually,
they improve. After a few minutes, even a country bar
ber could tell the victim is alive. I would advise you to
shoot first, no matter the code."

"But professor, I have to stand on my honor."

Bebeef could not tell whether Jake was kidding or not. "I have been wracking my brain for a truth serum," the professor added. "There are several formu
las in my books, but they are along the lines of love
potions and very undependable."