Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (22 page)

The party beat
a strategic retreat southbound.
 
The
skirmish followed for ten minutes.
 
His
countenance unruffled as usual, Fairfax called a halt and walked his horse
around to evaluate epaulets of mottled, pea-green slime awarded to several men
and numerous white feathers clinging to hats and sweaty men and horses.
 
A feather dislodged from the brim of his hat
and drifted onto his forearm.
 
He
brushed it off.
 
"Hereafter,
no
one
feeds the seagulls.
 
Move
along."

"Tarred
and Feathered" was the title of Helen's journal entry that evening.

A brazier
installed in her tent fended back the cold, but she slept no better for
it.
 
Jonathan's company had become a
curious exercise.
 
Every time he touched
her, her skin twitched and clicked like metal from a musket fired too
often.
 
On some level, he sensed and
adapted to the change, and his caresses waned in chasteness.

Up at
five-thirty, she evaluated sketches of her former teacher by candlelight, her
heart atremble, territory familiar to Wiltshire girls infatuated over brawny
journeymen.
 
Infatuation: what a
ridiculous state for a twenty-nine-year-old widow.

You've
little more than two weeks to resolve Mr. Quill's role in the charade
.
 
Two weeks?
 
Gods, no, she'd never endure the tension that long.
 
She'd talk with Jonathan — but in George
Town, in a civilized inn, where they'd be assured some privacy for their
discussion.

***

The port of
George Town, occupied by Crown forces five months earlier, bustled with
commerce from the indigo and rice industries.
 
Militiamen and redcoats shared the streets with merchants, traders, and
sutlers.
 
With such a military force in
evidence, Helen doubted that Marion would threaten the town again.

The
three-to-one ratio of Negroes to whites startled her, accustomed as she was to
Wilmington's reduced reliance upon slavery.
 
Silk-gowned plantation belles gabbed gaily, their accent similar to the
one Fairfax faked in Wilmington, while their slaves, clad in threadbare smocks,
hung their heads and waited nearby like exhausted mules.

Names of
popular taverns hearkened to the area's not-so-distant pirate past.
 
Red Anny's Attic.
 
Caesar and Cleopatra.
 
Blackbeard's Head.
 
Helen
grimaced at the implication of the last name, hoping the owner hadn't somehow —
ye, gods — procured and displayed the severed, preserved head of some scoundrel
who resembled Edward Teach.

After making
certain that accommodations were ready for Helen's party at an inn of quality,
Fairfax betook himself and the nine men to an Anglican church where soldiers
were quartered.
 
Roger and Jonathan
stabled the horses and secured the wagon for the night, and the innkeeper's
sons helped Hannah tote baggage upstairs to their suite of adjoining
rooms.
 
Helen sketched the steeple of
Prince George's Church from her window and completed a journal entry.
 
Supper that included broiled fish, fried
shrimp, steamed crabs, and rice, was delivered to Helen's room.
 
She dined with Jonathan and the Pearsons.

At eight
o'clock, she closed a door leading to the Pearsons' adjoining room, lowered
herself into the chair nearest Jonathan, crooked her elbow on the armrest, and
propped her head with her hand.
 
Eyes
closed, she heard Jonathan sigh with weariness.
 
Quiet buried the room.
 
Such a luxurious meal after days of Spartan fare had left her head
feeling as though it were stuffed with lint.

He kept his
voice soft, just above a whisper.
 
"At last, we're alone so we may talk."

Thank heavens
he was going to initiate the discussion.
 
She sat up and regarded him.

"Have you
further thoughts on who tried to swindle you over the mortgage?"

So much for
amour.
 
Helen fought a yawn.
 
"I still think that Prescott might
target me.
 
Maybe his motive is revenge
this time, not money."

Jonathan patted
a yawn.
 
"Why would he revenge
himself upon you?
 
You paid him off
years ago.
 
I cannot envision him behind
simple fraud.
 
He's far too wealthy to
dabble with such amateur operations — and far too slippery."

"My
thoughts, too."
 
She felt glum.

"Much as I
know you'd like to pin something illegal on Prescott and see him ruined, I'm
afraid he's not your villain this time.
 
Tally it up to the attempt of a proletarian, and congratulate yourself
for not being victimized."
 
He
pushed himself up from the chair and stretched.
 
"What time are we away on the morrow — seven again?"

"Yes."

He leaned
forward, kissed her temple, and crooked his mouth.
 
"No doubt that bed over there will sleep warmer than your
cot.
 
Good night, my dear, and rest
well."
 
Before her fogged brain
quite realized it, he'd sauntered out the door.

She stared
after him, grumpy.
 
Six days and nights,
she'd reminisced about how handsome Jonathan looked when she first met him in
Ratchingham's study.
 
His warmth had
bolstered her during the Atlantic crossing, when they discussed works of
writers like Voltaire and painters like Michelangelo.
 
His presence had instilled such quiet in her during the days
after Silas's death.

Six days and
nights, she'd twitched at his touch and tossed in her cot.
 
By then, she knew how she felt about
Jonathan as a man, a
lover
, but he'd diverted her attention with that
issue of the mortgage.
 
He never
sidestepped anything he considered important.
 
Was that it, then — he considered the tension between them a
trifle?
 
Her mouth tugged into a scowl.

At her knock,
his door opened to reveal his sphinx-like expression.
 
"I apologize for imposing upon you, Jonathan, but we do have
another matter to discuss."

"Yes, I
know."
 
Clasping her hand in his,
he guided her inside his room, lit by a single bedside candle.
 
The door clicked shut, shoved with his foot,
and he caught her face in his hands.
 
Her mouth watered at the scent of his skin.
 
"Talk, my dear," he whispered.

His lips
brushed the corner of her mouth and caressed her jaw line.
 
Her mouth sought his, tasted him.
 
The tremble in her heart expanded, shortened
her breath to gasps.
 
His lips released
hers and traveled to the pulse in her throat.

A soft moan
lifted from her soul.
 
"What a fool
I've been.
 
All these years, I never
recognized how much you wanted me."

"Is this
an errand of mercy?"

"No, no,
not at all.
 
You're so very desirable,
and — and I see how much you love me."
 
He laughed softly, but when he set her out from him, she realized she'd
said something wrong.
 
She snagged his
hands in hers and kissed them.
 
"You're the kindest, dearest friend I have on this earth.
 
You've been my teacher and my advisor, and
you have encouraged me."

He scrutinized
her face.
 
"But you don't love me,
do you?"
 
His breathing steadied.

"I
do
love you!"
 
Confusion thickened her
voice.
 
"Jonathan, don't you want
me?"

He
groaned.
 
"Ye gods, how can you
even ask that question of me?
 
Ah, but
this isn't about me.
 
It's about
you.
 
You and David.
 
And you love David."

"No.
 
He and I are finished."

Pain twisted
his expression.
 
"I've heard that
before."

"But this
time it's true."

"You had a
quarrel about money.
 
You misunderstood
him.
 
Won't the two of you ever listen
to each other?
 
Oh, damn it
all."
 
He pivoted and walked away
from her a few feet, his back to her, his exhale sheer frustration.
 
"I refuse to be an interim for you,
Helen."

"You —
you've always thrust David at me.
 
Why?
 
Do you think I'm infatuated
with you?"

He ignored her
question and seemed to ponder aloud.
 
"Quill,
think
, man.
 
David isn't the issue here tonight."

Her heart felt
wrung and contorted.
 
Not for the world
would she have wounded Jonathan, but surely she'd just stomped all over their
friendship and trust and hobbled both.
 
She stared at his back, baffled.

"I don't
understand."
 
He wheeled back to
her, frowning.
 
"All these years, I
haven't changed the way I respond to you.
 
But the past few days — what suddenly alerted you to my
sentiments?"

Her mind
backtracked.
 
"Oh, gods."
 
Dismay and disgust shot through her, and she
lifted both hands to her cheeks briefly.
 
"
He
suggested it to me.
 
Mr. Fairfax."
 
She'd
succumbed to his manipulation.

"Well,
well."
 
Sarcasm closed
vulnerability from Jonathan's face.
 
"It seems Niccolo Machiavelli graduated quite a Master."
 
His expression grew pensive.
 
"If you're to succeed in the project,
you'd best understand Mr. Fairfax's motivation for wanting to control
you."

"It isn't
just me.
 
He seeks to control
everyone."
 
Pity, revulsion, and
fear swept through her, and she blurted, "It's the seven-year-old and his
hatred."
 
At the puzzlement that
pinched Jonathan's face, she recounted her memory from nearly twenty years
earlier, at Redthorne.

His face
gentled.
 
"Ah.
 
Perceptive of you."

"'Angel on
the outward side,'" she murmured.

He nodded and
studied her again.
 
"You've spent
enough time in his company to guess what overall reward he expects for his
efforts."

"Rank
advancement."

"Of course,
but think bigger."

"An award,
recognition from His Majesty.
 
A seat in
Parliament."

Jonathan
nodded.
 
"Indeed, and from what
I've seen, he belongs with the rest of King George's reptile collection mapping
out the glorious future of Britain."
 
More sarcasm stung his tone.
 
"But right now, he's a junior officer on the wrong side of the
Atlantic.
 
How will he get from one
point to the next?"

Helen let out a
pent-up breath.
 
"Prove himself
indispensable."
 
She pondered
Fairfax's fixation on the St. James family.
 
"Single-handedly uncover and dismantle a worldwide network of rebel
spies.
 
Make arrests.
 
Where solid evidence is lacking, manufacture
what's needed to enhance his own credibility."

"Excellent.
 
What stands in his way?"

"The
rebels?"

"Pah.
 
Think more personally.
 
The hate-filled seven-year-old."

She scratched
her temple.
 
"Someone with
knowledge of his background, someone who suspects or has evidence that Lord
Ratchingham's death wasn't suicide."

"What will
he do about it?"

She
considered.
 
"He'll attempt to
disarm or destroy anyone who suspects his origins."

Jonathan's
expression saddened.
 
"Now we know
why you're here tonight."

She gaped at
him, stunned, the taste of his kiss lingering in her mouth.
 
Her skin twitched some more.
 
Monstrous.
 
Fairfax had damaged the harmony with her oldest friend.
 
She had weeks ahead of her in the
lieutenant's company.
 
Anguished, she
hung her head.
 
"Oh, Jonathan, I'm
— I'm —"

He twined one
of her hands with his and tilted her chin to him, eyes kind.
 
"I'm honored to be the dearest friend
you have on this earth.
 
But you know as
well as I that you aren't finished with David."

No, she
wasn't.
 
What would the shape of
"finished" look like after an entire decade?

"What
concerns me more is a young woman named Helen Grey.
 
For the sake of opportunity, she set aside her culture, her way
of life.
 
She even set aside her
religion for a few years.
 
Although I
was her teacher, I don't know everything about her.
 
That's why I suspect that while it may have been convenient for
you to leave her behind in Ratchingham's parlor, you aren't finished with
her."
 
He cocked his head.
 
"Have you asked her what she has to say
about that?"