Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution (4 page)

Her brother-in-law,
John Greeley, stomped over.
 
"Susana reminded me you and I haven't had a dance, even though a
bloodyback
is
courting you."

Dousing her
retort was the sight of Fairfax tracking her.
 
Like the folk-tale girl who danced to death in a pair of magic slippers,
she took John's hand.
 
He trotted her
out, and his meaty, cooper's hands routed her through the dance with all the
subtlety of maneuvering tobacco hogsheads and corn barrels.

When the tune
was over, Sam Fielding interposed himself between her and Fairfax.
 
"How about
our
dance, Mrs.
Barton?"

By then, she
knew the script.
 
"Of course, Mr.
Fielding."

Fairfax knew
the script, too.
 
His eyes iced over
again.
 
"May I have the
next
dance, Mrs. Barton?"

"My
apologies.
 
I'm taken for the rest of
the evening."

Jacques focused
on her for the following tune and honed his flirting skills.
 
Laughing, forgetting her sore feet, she
danced up the line with him, and at the top, Fairfax and a townswoman jumped to
become their neighbors for the next thirty seconds of music.

The lieutenant
emerged from an allemande with Jacques and caught Sophie up into a swing.
 
"Where is your father at this moment,
Mrs. Barton?"

"Isn't he
here?
 
If not, I've no idea where he
is."

"What did
you print last night on the press?"

"I printed
nothing."

"Do you
expect me to believe you were asleep all night?"

Her mouth
tightened.
 
"I don't care what you
believe."

A smile devoid
of warmth rippled his mouth.
 
"Major Hunt has a blind spot when it comes to you.
 
I suffer no such affliction."

"How reassuring."

His smile
lingered when he handed her back to Jacques.
 
Not once had his stare strayed to her bosom.
 
"Such a pleasure dancing with you at last, Mrs.
Barton."

Chapter Three

DURING THE
BREAK, people thronged to the beverage table to slake thirst or bolster
inebriation.
 
Everyone ignored lightning
undulating on the western horizon and a thunderstorm grumbling in the swamps,
threatening to roll east to the Savannah River and give them a good soaking
down.
 
The air stank like the yeasty
insides of a cattle farmer's boots.
 
Fanning away gnats, Sophie discussed her garden with Widow Flannery, who
promised to send over some potted herbs.

With Mrs. Reems
ornamenting his elbow, David meandered Sophie's way.
 
"Huzzah!
 
You're
enjoying yourself."

Sweat gleamed
on Widow Reems's big breasts, pressed so high in her bodice they looked ready
to explode, a feat all the boning in the world would never accomplish for
Sophie due to lack of volume.
 
She aimed
a tart smile at her brother.
 
"I'm
having a delightful time."

"Jolly.
 
And don't worry about the redcoats.
 
Fairfax is interested in two Spaniards who
came to the dance looking for the old man."

"Spaniards?
 
Where?"
 
She looked around, noting the absence of Fairfax and all but five
redcoats.

David
shrugged.
 
"We've probably seen the
last of those Spaniards."

As if
adventuring with rebels wasn't enough, Will St. James must also dabble in
dealings with Spaniards.
 
With Spain
having declared war on Britain, small wonder that Fairfax bayed out his
pursuit.
 
She scanned the crowd again
and turned back on David.

"Now, now,
let's banter about the possibilities on the morrow.
 
I've other thoughts to occupy me tonight."
 
Smiling down Mrs. Reems's cleavage, he
kissed her hand before strolling her away.

Soon after the
dance resumed, an empty-handed Fairfax returned with his men, sweat streaking
their scarlet coats.
 
Preoccupied, the
lieutenant paid only cursory attention to the return of several Safety
Committee members and spent the rest of the event conferring with soldiers and
studying the crowd.

Grateful for
his waned interest, Sophie sat out a dance.
 
Committee scribe Donald Fairbourne plopped down on the sheaf next to
her.
 
"Evening, Mrs. Barton."
 
He jammed a piece of straw in his mouth and
gnawed it, watching the dancers.

"Evening,
Mr. Fairbourne."
 
She regarded his
damp hair and mud-caked shoes.
 
"Were you caught in rain on the way over?"

He glanced at
his shoes, the straw dropping from his mouth.
 
"I was gardening and lost track of time.
 
Would you care to dance?"

"No, thank
you.
 
What were you planting?"

"Perhaps
the next dance then."
 
He shoved
himself up.

She watched him
stride to Susana, intuiting that he'd hastened off to avoid discussing his
muddy shoes.
 
Charley Osborn, another
rebel, claimed her for the next tune, his hair damp, his shoes muddy, his
response to her queries just as evasive as Fairbourne's had been.
 
The hair of rebels Measure Travis and Peter
Whitney was dry and their shoes clean, thus dashing her theory that her father
and his associates were competing with two Spanish fortune hunters to recover
lost treasure from the swamps.
 
But
she'd have wagered six loaves of her molasses bread that those Spaniards
figured into the Safety Committee's intrigue.

During the
following dance, MacVie stepped on her left foot twice, as if penalizing her
for curiosity.
 
She doubted her father
had anything in common with the odious hog farmer beside the rebel cause.
 
At the end of the tune, she hobbled to the
sidelines, sweaty, irritable, needing a good night's sleep, but certain she had
everything in perspective.
 
A pox on
rebels and redcoats and everyone else whose small minds played at secret
missions.
 
Regardless of who eventually
won the war, the sun would continue shining, and the Georgia colony would
continue to resemble hell.
 
Unfortunate
that the men with the small minds weren't the primary casualties of war.

When the mayor
announced the final number, she didn't check for Edward Hunt.
 
She didn't care whether he'd returned.
 
Over the course of the evening, her interest
in him had waned.
 
He belonged to the
group of people who thought themselves clever that night by being dishonest
with her.
 
Eccentric, overly independent
widows couldn't be bothered with such games.

"Don't
tell me you're going to sit out the waltz."

She tilted her
head and cocked an eyebrow at Mathias Hale, having concluded that it must have
been him outside talking with the four warriors.
 
When she, David, and Susana were children, they'd run hoops
through the dirt streets with the three Hale brothers.
 
Now Jonah, tangled in rebel intrigue, never
jested with them anymore.
 
And Mathias
had his own little game going with the Creek.
 
"My feet were stepped on too often tonight."

"Have
I
ever stepped on your feet?"

Feeling
obstinate, she looked away.
 
"I'm
tired."

He leaned over
and whispered, "You're sulking."

Her gaze
swiveled back around to challenge his.
 
"You should have invited your four Creek friends to dance."

Eyes hardening,
he stared at her several heartbeats before he whispered, "They don't like
European dances."

After a night
of subterfuge and lies, she'd given up expecting anyone to admit to anything,
let alone trust her with secrets.
 
She
mused why Mathias, of those at the dance that night with clandestine dealings,
had trusted her.
 
Clearly his stakes
were on a different plane.
 
"How
unfortunate."

The guard in
his expression retreated.
 
Straightening, he extended his hand.
 
Up on the platform, the fiddlers meandered into "Give Me Your
Hand," a tune by the Irish harpist Rory Dall O'Cahan.
 
Sophie took Mathias's hand.

They danced
without conversation.
 
Taller than his
uncle by several inches but just as wiry, the blacksmith led her around without
stepping on her feet or colliding with anyone.
 
When the fiddlers finished, thunder boomed closer.
 
A cool downdraft fluttered torches and
stirred a murmur through the applause.
 
Rather than lingering and socializing, people hurried off the grounds,
eager to return home ahead of the storm.

Sophie spotted
Susana and John herding their six children for the horses and wagons.
 
"Pardon me, but I must help my
sister.
 
Good night."
 
After a curtsy for Mathias, she retrieved
her kerchief and fan and bustled after the Greeleys.

The major
caught up with her at the family's wagon just after she lifted Susana's little
girl inside to Mary, the St. James's servant.
 
"A moment, please!"
 
Lightning illuminated the contrition on his face and the distaste of the
Greeleys.

Vexation
pressed Sophie's lips together.
 
"Visit me at home on the morrow.
 
We're off.
 
We've no desire to
get drenched tonight."

"I shall
make sure you're home ahead of the storm."

Expelling
annoyance, she motioned Susana to go on without her.
 
Her sister glared from Sophie's earrings to the pendant at her
throat, and acid stung her voice.
 
"Wearing Mama's garnets.
 
Such airs you give yourself lately.
 
Must be the company you keep."
 
Then she turned her back on Sophie to settle down children scampering
over each other like squirrels hitting upon a cache of acorns.

Damp wind
smelling of swamp, sand, and Piedmont red clay whipped Sophie's petticoat.
 
Edward Hunt seized her hand.
 
When they reached his horse, he vaulted into
the saddle, and he and a private hoisted her up behind him.
 
A tepid raindrop splashed her cheek as she
wrapped her arms around him.
 
They
trotted for the road, passing wagons.
 
When she glanced at the four accompanying soldiers, lightning
illuminated a sheet of rain sweeping over Zeb's barn.
 
The major spurred the horse into a gallop.

A quarter-hour
later, ahead of the rain but followed by thunder, they arrived at the St. James
house and print shop.
 
The town stank of
livestock, rotten fruit, and wood smoke.
 
From the direction of the Red Rock Tavern, south of Town Square, came
avian screeches and human cheers from a cockfight in progress.
 
Two soldiers saluted their commander and rode
south on the dusty main street lined by most of Alton's two-dozen wooden
buildings — businesses on the ground floor, residences upstairs.
 
The other two dismounted with their
commander and Sophie.

Will's hounds,
Achilles and Perseus, crawled from beneath the porch, shook off, and ambled
over.
 
She and Edward Hunt petted them
before he escorted her to the porch, where she turned to him.
 
"Thank you for bringing me home ahead
of the rain."

"You're
most welcome.
 
May I come in for a
moment?
 
I've a matter to discuss."

"My sister
and her husband will arrive before long."

"I don't
need much time."

She
nodded.
 
He instructed his men to wait
on the covered porch, removed his hat, and opened the door.
 
They entered the stuffy darkness of the
shop, where the St. Jameses also had a small post office and sold Will's
almanacs, magazines, books, and maps.
 
Thunder rattled the house.
 
She
closed the door and reached for the shelf beside it.
 
The absence of the expected candle made her recall that she'd
given the holder to Mary to clean.
 
Scowling at the servant's laziness, she groped her way to the
pressroom.
 
"I've a candle in
here."

Sharp and
musty, the odors of ink and lye hung in the air.
 
With the lantern lit, she faced Edward, who'd followed her
in.
 
His gaze ranged over the clutter of
ragpaper and the half-opened drawers of type before he set his hat atop a
cabinet.
 
"Are you assembling the
galleys for Wednesday's paper?"

More thunder
crackled, and the front window shook.
 
"Yes."

"What will
you print about the military incident on May twenty-ninth in the Waxhaws?"

The formality
in his carriage indicated the all-business nature of the visit.
 
"What's being called Buford's
Massacre?
 
I shall state facts — an
engagement between regulars and militia from Virginia commanded by Buford, and
His Majesty's provincials commanded by Tarleton — with the provincials
victorious."