Paxton's War (26 page)

It was an extraordinary moment, and Colleen was grateful to be standing next to Jason, Robin, and Piero, whose sensibilities, in this instance, matched her own. Like her, they couldn't help but see the strange humor of the situation: carried in atop a table whose legs were lifted by four large slaves was the colonel himself—thin-faced, half blind, his palsied hands waving to an ocean of guests he could only barely see. A round of hearty cheers greeted the old man, dressed as a Crusader, who appeared more than a little baffled and senile. Behind him, his Paulina was dressed as Little Bo Peep, a diminutive elderly lady in a baby-pink shepherdess dress she wore a large pink bonnet and carried a staff adorned with pink satin bows. Her face seemed frozen in a painted smile as she led an actual sheep on a leash. Trailing the sheep, a slave carried a small shovel to tidy up after the woolly creature.

In a tentative, high-pitched voice, Colonel Hugo welcomed his guests and introduced Major Embleton, whose last name he failed to remember. The major, dressed in full battle regalia, stood in front of the orchestra and asked them to play “God Save the King.” They did so as many of the guests sang along, while others, such as Colleen, flatly refused. When the song had been sung, the major cleared his throat and began to speak as Jason prayed that he not be chosen for the Tory post.

“I understand that on a night such as this no one is enamored of speeches”—a lusty cheer went up—“so I shall be brief and, even more, do what I can to keep your spirits light. That shouldn't difficult with the news I bring, for there's victory to report. In the north-central sector of this colony, General Cornwallis has turned back a large-scale attempt on our supply base at Camden. Indications are that the rebel forces led by Gates and deKalb have been severely trounced in what purports to be an even larger triumph than the one so satisfactorily effected here in Charles Town. With this great victory, there can be no doubt that the South is secure for those loyal to King George the Third.” Embleton paused for the inevitable cheers, mixed with more than a few faint derisive cries.

“The second happy note of the evening concerns an appointment I wish to make—the Commander of the Continental Tory Militia. Believing that it's vital that the post be filled by a Loyalist who hails from this great region, I've decided upon a gentleman whose gallantry, honor, and skill are beyond question or reproach. I am speaking of”—the major let the guests wait a few seconds as he cleared his throat again—“the grandson of our most gracious host, Colonel Hugo … Buckley Somerset.”

Deeply disturbed by the news of the defeat at Camden, Jason nonetheless breathed a sigh of relief as Buckley grinned from ear to ear, grabbed Colleen's hand, and tried to lead her toward the orchestra and Major Embleton. She refused to budge. Showing something of her old self, she was furious and ashamed of her escort, wanting nothing more to do with him. Why had she allowed Rianne to involve her in this? Where was her sense of integrity? She moved instinctively to Jason's side and let Buckley make his tedious acceptance speech by himself. When he was through and the music began again, Jason danced her into the far reaches of the ballroom, away from Buckley, who was busy accepting congratulations from his many Tory friends.

Colleen and Jason responded to the minuet with identical rhythms. They floated together, easily, naturally, hands and legs moving with the same syncopation. At least for a while, this goddess and clown returned to the state of grace that had greeted them his first day back in America, at the picnic and in the woods. The slightest touch, the mere brush of their skin, renewed the excitement and sent them dancing farther and farther away from the crowd, until they found themselves in a distant corner of the balcony, overlooking the gardens. Dressed as they were, given their moods and desires and the glow of silver moonlight, it was all Jason could do to keep from embracing Colleen. Suddenly she reached out to him, placing her head upon his chest.

“This isn't right,” Jason whispered, angry at himself for abandoning his vow to leave this woman alone. “Not here, not now.”

“Then when?” Colleen asked. “When can we be together again? When can we run away? It matters not where.”

“Everything matters—that's the problem.”

“Must we think about everything? Can't we just be ourselves and be happy? Ever since …”—she hesitated before saying it—“… since Ephraim, I've done nothing but think. Oh, Jase, I'm so tired of thinking. Please just hold me and say that this bloody business will soon be over and there'll be nothing to worry about, no bad dreams, no fearful nights, just you and me and moments like this, peaceful and …”

“But there is no peace, Colleen. We can pretend, but to what avail? You heard Embleton's news.”

“Embleton and Buckley Somerset are simple, vain men who …”

“… wield enormous power of which we must be cautious.”

“Please, Jase, don't you understand that I've been cautious for weeks, so cautious that I've been afraid to live? But now you and I must start to live. Somehow and somewhere, we must be together, Jase. We must.”

Confused by Colleen's new attitude—the last time they were together she had accused him of betraying Ephraim—Jason reminded himself that he hadn't time to contend with this perplexing female. His critically calculated plans for the evening would go awry if he didn't act soon, and so he tried to extricate himself from the situation as best he could. Unfortunately, there was no easy way.

“Let me take you back to Buckley,” he urged Colleen.

“What? Is that some sort of cruel jest?”

“Not at all. After all, he is your escort.”

“If you love me, Jase, if everything you have ever said to me is true, then you and I will walk out of here this very instant and never look back.”

“That's impossible.” He shook his head, unable to look her in the eye, but determined to keep to his own way.

“Then your hypocrisy is exactly as I thought.” Her voice started to freeze. She felt herself grow tense as she longed for the two greyhounds that Rianne had given her, the only companions she could trust.

“I ask only for time and understanding.” Jason took her hand, but she withdrew it quickly.

“How can I understand what you refuse to let me see? Who are you, Jason Paxton? Are you a musician or a clown, a Tory or a rebel? What am I to believe when you tell me nothing?”

“What am I to believe when you tell me everything? Who are you? A rebel, a would-be artist, or a love-struck girl?” Jason retorted. “You tell me, Colleen, just who is the hypocrite?” He turned on his heels and walked away, unable to witness how his words had stung her, how the tears came to her eyes, the eyes of his beloved. He tried to tell himself there had been no other way. Time was of the essence this night. Someday he would make her understand. Someday …

In the gardens below, near the outer rim of the magnificent
fontana del moro
, where Bernini had depicted a Moor attempting to tame a dolphin, the gentle spray of spring water touched lightly upon the faces of the centurion and angel who, far from the crowded ballroom, spoke to one another in the language of love. Colleen watched them—now touching, now separating, now touching again—as a stream of warm tears ran down her cheeks. The keen edge of his reproach had cut her to the quick. “Jason, I hope never to see you again,” she whispered as strains of elegant Mozartian music wafted through the night air, somehow adding to her sorrow and pain.

“'Tis not a foregone conclusion that the scheme will work, maestro,” said Piero as he slipped nervously into Jason's harlequin outfit while the musician donned the gray cloak of Will-o'-the-Wisp. They were inside Piero and Robin's carriage, which they'd left at a remote section of the vast Somerset grounds.

“I've no doubt it will work,” Jason replied. “Just do as we planned. Act as if you're drunk. Don't speak directly to anyone, yet be certain your presence is in evidence.”

“Your shoulders are broader than mine,” Piero complained, reaching for his snuff.

“There's not a soul who'll notice,” Robin assured him, “and with these heightened shoes, the ruse will be complete.”

The clown and the butterfly left the carriage and headed back to the ballroom. Jason waited, made certain he wasn't being watched, and then walked a quarter of a mile to a tree where, earlier, he had tied Cinder. Minutes later, he rode off swiftly, deep into the moonlit night.

Chapter 8

Hope left the Old Customs Exchange in silent despair. Her meeting with Allan had lasted barely a half hour. She was shocked by his weak condition and pathetic appearance. His once muscular, stocky body had thinned markedly. Fifty pounds lighter, head lowered, eyes sunken, he whispered to his Hope words she shuddered to hear. “They're flogging us,” he told her, “the bastards are flogging us every day.” He began to show the scars on his back, but the sentinel stopped him. When Hope started feeding him food she had prepared—plump breasts of chicken and pieces of cake—the guard interfered again. She began to argue and verbally abuse the English soldier, but Allan put his frail finger to her lips. “Don't,” he told his wife, “they'll boot you out. I've seen 'em.”

“He wouldn't dare touch me,” Hope snapped, showing her husband a defiant strength he had never before seen in her.

“You don't understand their brutality,” he said.

“I understand,” she whispered intensely, squeezing her husband's hand and looking squarely in his eyes, “that one way or another, we're getting you out of here.”

“'Tis hopeless.”

“'Tis only a matter of time. Believe me. Meanwhile, you must never give up. That's what they want. They want your spirit, Allan, but they won't have it, will they?”

Allan saw the expression of courage in his wife's burning eyes. She had her father's pluck. For the first time since he was jailed, over three months ago, he managed a small smile.

“I know what you've been through,” she said, placing her hand behind his neck. “Most men would have crumbled by now. But not my Allan. It's going to take more than a handful of bloody Redcoat jailers to keep you down. Now here's something to help your spirits,” she said, quickly glancing around to make certain that the guard wasn't looking, then slipping pieces of chicken along with a slim bottle of whiskey into Allan's shirt.

“Be strong,” Hope whispered in Allan's ear before leaving him. “I know better than anyone that you possess a passionate endurance that can outlast a whole army of these English fools.”

“I love you,” the farmer said to her, amazed by the force of her optimistic conviction.

“I love you, Allan,” she replied, fighting back tears, as she let go of his hand and walked away.

In spite of her brave façade, it was clear to Hope that, slowly but systematically, her husband was being beaten to death. Nothing had prepared her for this realization. Choked with fury and agonized frustration, she hurried through the streets of Charleston, back toward the Paxton town house, unaware of the cloaked figure who, from a distance, had been following her path, making certain that she was undisturbed by the rowdy soldiers who stumbled from the pubs and inns.

The pirate had found his prize, a veritable goddess, and, for what seemed the hundredth time, led her around the dance floor. He was ecstatic. This was the greatest evening of his life. He had been chosen, above all his colleagues, to lead his people in battle. He had humiliated his arch rival. He only wished his parents could have been there to hear the news, but illness had kept them from attending. What a pity, for his victory had been proclaimed in the most public manner possible, and he was convinced that there was nothing in the world that could not be his—including the amber-eyed beauty with whom he danced.

“'Twas between me and the clown,” he told Colleen with smug satisfaction. “Embleton himself said so. The two of us were called to his office. ‘But Major,' said I, ‘the man may be suited to strike a clavichord, but certainly not a rebel. Let the women and musicians be, and the men shall win this war for you.' He laughed heartily and, as you can see, he agreed. Paxton! The mere thought of him in battle is enough to make me howl.”

At which point Somerset did howl—from pain. Colleen had stepped on his foot with great force, but professed innocence. “So sorry,” she offered immediately, not certain whether she was angrier at Buckley or the man he was ridiculing.

From across the ballroom, she caught sight of the floppy harlequin hat and, in spite of herself, stretched to see whether he might be coming her way. He wasn't. She watched as her aunt and her Chinese warlord passed by, and she noticed that Rianne's frivolous mood had heightened. She simply smiled at her niece, saying, “You look too serious, my dear. Remember—revelry has its place.”

Even during a revolution?
Colleen wanted to reply, but there was no time. Rianne and her Chinese-styled companion had disappeared into the crowd, and Colleen, still forced to listen as Buckley received compliment after compliment on his new post, felt herself more torn and baffled than ever. Wherever she looked, she seemed to see the floppy harlequin's hat, and whenever she started to follow it, she stopped herself. He had clearly rejected her, so why pursue him? Why, indeed! Why not drink instead? Drink—that seemed such an easy solution to her sour state of mind. Why hadn't she begun earlier? Wasn't her aunt right, after all? Revelry! She took a glass of brandy from a tray carried by a servant and quickly drained it. The results came suddenly. A light-headedness, almost a giddy release. She gasped, each breath soothing her throat. Another servant, another tray, another glass, this time port. What was real and what was make-believe? Was there actually a war outside this gilded palace, and, if so, what were these dancers—these bears and butterflies, courtiers and fops—what were they doing whirling around the room? And, oh, how the room whirled! Who was tending to life's somber responsibilities?