Paxton's War (9 page)

Embleton silenced him with an imperious wave, and with the same gesture commanded him to approach.

“Damn!” Peter whispered to Jason. “What a pickle. Just arrived, and already partying. He'll be furious. Walk with me, will you?”

There was no way out of it. Made to walk the gauntlet between the two opposing groups of colonists, Jason wished he could become invisible.

“Lost no time, eh, Captain?” Embleton asked, returning Peter's salute.

“Sir, I—”

“Your troops looked good, considering they'd just landed, and your lieutenant was suitably impressive. On top of which, you're making yourself known with an alacrity I find commendable.” His face breaking into a smile, he dismounted, removed his glove, and extended his hand. “Well done, Captain Tregoning. And welcome to South Carolina. It's the arsehole of the world, but we've a job to do, eh?”

“Thank you, sir,” Peter replied, inwardly wincing. “May I present my friend, Jason Paxton. He's a—”

“Paxton.” Embleton frowned, tugged at his earlobe. “Something about a Paxton in the dispatches on last week's packet ship.” He peered at Jason. “Ah, yes. You the musician?”

“It's my honor, sir, to call myself—”

“Don't care much for music, myself. Damned infernal noise if you ask me. But the colonel does, and he's expressed some interest in you.”

Jason tensed, and he imagined the reaction that would elicit from his Patriot friends. “I'm flattered, sir,” he answered in a carefully uninflected tone.

“Be coming to Charles Town soon?”

“I have no idea, sir. I've only just now arrived.”

“When you do, look me up. Be a feather in my cap if I can introduce you to Tarleton. Well, then!” Pleased with himself, Embleton remounted. “I'm due at the Martin estate shortly. Tregoning? I'll be staying the night here and will see you tomorrow morning at the Customs House in Brandborough. We'll have a cup of tea, get acquainted, and discuss your duties.”

“It'll be my pleasure, sir,” Peter answered, saluting.

“Your servant, Paxton.”

“And yours, sir,” Jason said.

Thankful that the encounter was over with, Jason heaved a sigh of relief. And then, as he turned and saw his father's eyes boring into his and felt the ominous silence directed toward him, he realized that the real encounter had only then, perhaps, begun.

Chapter 5

It was too hot to dance, but dance they did, and with abandon. From seven to seventy, barefoot and booted, they shouted and kicked, wore away the grass to stubble, and raised a great cloud of dust. Skirts flew, coattails jounced, and wigs skid askew as the musicians, already a bit tipsy, played something that sounded like a mixture of an Irish jig and a Viennese sonata. No less comical than the musicians' inept attempt at harmonic and rhythmic unity was Buckley's attempt to follow them. Everything went wrong for him. No matter how hard he tried or how fast he danced, he couldn't keep up with Colleen. He'd taken the time to return to his carriage, where his slave, a black liveried in black and gold, had attended him, but even with a repowdered wig, fresh perfumes, and ointments, he felt woefully out of control.

Buckley had benefited from years of practice at society balls, but makeshift musical aggregations of the rustic sort left him flustered. At last, his temper fraying, he dismissed the musicians' incompetence with a curse, quit the field, and led Colleen to the line of shade on the western edge of the meadow, where on his earlier instructions his slave had laid out a blanket.

The wine he'd brought, and kept wrapped in damp towels, was refreshingly cool. “Barbarians!” he snorted, wiping his brow and leaning back against a pillow. “They want to govern themselves, they say. Yet how can any such mad rabble have such pretensions? There is a parallel, you know, my dear. The essence of government is order, and if this is an example—”

“I rather enjoy it myself,” Colleen said, the very voice of moderation in comparison to the way she felt.

“Because you've had so little chance to experience the more civilized aspects of society.” His gesture was grand and all-inclusive. “What is this, I ask you? A mob of unschooled rustics bouncing about in a field. No, my dear.” He leaned toward Colleen in his own inimitably pompous manner. “You deserve better. Far better. And only I, and my family, can place you in the position that a woman of your intelligence and beauty—”

“There you are! Given up already?”

Buckley's eyes narrowed as he looked up and saw Jason standing over him. “Just resting for a moment, old boy,” he said between clenched teeth. “Why don't you run along and—”

“Run along?” Jason asked. “When there's dancing to be done? After eight weeks aboard a ship, the muscles in my legs are about to atrophy if I don't give them a good exercise.” He held out a hand to Colleen. “What do you say, Colleen? One dance, to get a poor seafarer's blood moving?”

“I'd love to. Be a dear and hold this for me, will you, Buckley?” she asked, handing him her glass and jumping to her feet.

“Now, look here!…”

“Terribly kind of you … old boy,” Jason said, tongue in cheek. “I promise to return her to you unharmed in just a few moments.”

“I wish you hadn't said that,” Colleen complained as they moved to the center of the meadow, where dozens of couples were whirling around.

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to be returned to him, thank you.”

Jason smiled, appreciative of her spirit, and found himself leading her in an improvised dance that seemed to have been building within him for hours, even years. Not even the angry scowl of his father stopped him. Unlike Buckley, he loved the hybrid music. Its rawness and confusion seemed to match his own, making him feel carefree and loose. Entering in the spirit of the afternoon, he and Colleen linked hands with the other dancers in a moving, swirling circle, his old neighbors in their finery and their plain work clothes, his newfound friend in her gown of yellow, lavender, and green, her eyes catching the afternoon sun. They danced in a square, danced in a circle, changing partners and flying with the breeze, over and under, arms and hands, kicking up dust and singing out, squealing and hollering and not caring whether the steps were wrong or right, Jason finally shedding the tension that had crept under his skin, Jason reveling in the freedom, the wild-spirited freedom of the bastardized concoction of minuet, cotillion, quadrille, reele, allemande, rigadoon, and hornpipe. It was as if the melody of the morning—from Jason's ship and Colleen's bedroom—had been refashioned into an exuberantly shapeless form. Jason laughed out loud as he thought of the dance masters he'd met in Europe, and what they would think of the improbable, confusing extravaganza.

I am with him. He asked me to dance. He sought me out, saved me from the terrible boredom of Buckley Somerset. He's everything I've ever dreamed of …
Colleen's head bounced from side to side and her feet flew. Not caring if she appeared giddy or undignified, her doubts about Jason's political persuasion forgotten, she abandoned herself to the whirlwind dance, threw herself into the crazy jig. When the dance ended, the spell lingered. Colleen and Jason stood facing one another, the heat of the rhythm and their impassioned movements still passing through them, their eyes expressing thoughts and feelings that their tongues dared not utter. Only the announcement of the basket auction interrupted their hypnotic stares.

“You brought a basket?” Jason asked.

“A beige wicker hamper tied with a light green bow,” Colleen answered as if in a dream. Shyly, she looked down at the ground, then back into his eyes. “I'd be … pleased … if we could share it.”

“And Buckley?”

Colleen's eyes flared. “If you think for one minute, Jason Paxton, that—”

Jason grinned, then touched one finger to her lips to stop her. “You're looking at a hungry man,” he said. “Don't worry. I'll think of something.”

“I know it ain't the best time to eat,” Chester Wills, the auctioneer, announced, “but seein' as the supply of spirits is gettin' low, and that of tempers is startin' to rise—not to speak of the mosquitoes that'll move in in another few hours—the committee's decided we'd best get on with it. Now, this basket here …”

Off to one side, where the grass was still green and the dust was at a minimum, the women stood arrayed behind a line of blankets on which sat their baskets. In front of them, in a tightly packed group, stood the anxious men. Since money, like everything else, had grown scarcer as the war wore on, the bids were low—the orphans' fund would suffer—but Chester, with his salty humor and impish grin, did the best he could. “This woman's strawberry jam,” he said of Becky Siswell, who blushed the color of strawberries, “has been tasted by many a starving man—and ne'er a one of 'em left her table unsatisfied.” No spring chicken, Becky was secretly glad for the strong endorsement. James Gaffin, a lusty carpenter whose wife had died of scarlet fever six months earlier, beat back the other bidders and, with a merry gleam in his eyes, escorted Becky and her basket away.

Peter Tregoning would not be outbid for Joy's basket, much to the delight of Joy and the obvious annoyance of Ethan, Hope, and Allan, who had slipped back to join the crowd. Colleen remained calm until Chester picked up her basket and asked for an opening bid. She desperately didn't want to share her lunch with Buckley, who was standing directly next to Jason, but didn't know how to stop him if he was determined enough. Jason participated in the early bidding, as did several others who fancied Colleen. For several minutes, Buckley laughed to himself as the meager bids built, and then calmly, almost casually, he raised his hand and called out, “Five pounds!”

The crowd gasped. It was as though he were buying much more than a basket of simple luncheon fare. With such a sum, in silver, the average citizen of Brandborough could feed himself and his family for months. Colleen, whose face fell with the realization that no one could match a bid so ridiculously inflated, looked fleetingly at Jason, who could only offer his customary shrug and shy, little-boy-lost smile before ducking out of sight and disappearing.

Five pounds was more than all the rest of the baskets put together would bring in, so no matter how much he disliked Buckley or how sorry he felt for Colleen, Chester didn't bat an eye. “Well, you won it, so come an' get it—and the lucky young lady,” he called.

Enjoying himself and his victory over Jason, Buckley stepped forward and reached into his waistcoat pocket for his purse. “That's strange,” he said. He patted his coat pockets. Nothing. His trousers pockets. Nothing. “I had it right here,” he muttered, his face turning red as, once again, he searched each pocket and even looked around on the ground.

“Lose something, Bucky boy?” someone shouted.

“Oh, my!” someone else groaned comically. “Daddy forgot to give him his purse this morning.”

“Thief!” Buckley roared, whirling to confront the chorus of guffaws, catcalls, and whistles. “Thief, I say! I've been robbed!”

Chester held out his hand. “That'll be five pounds, Mr. Somerset.”

Furious, Buckley turned his back on the crowd and reached for the basket. “You'll get your five pounds tomorrow, damn your hide!” he spat.

“Sorry.” Five pounds was a fortune, but the spectacle of Buckley Somerset being caught out was of inestimably greater worth. “This is cash and carry, Somerset. You knew that when you bid. Now quiet down, all of you!” he yelled, stilling the crowd. “Accordin' to my best recollection, Jase Paxton, who's just got home, made the next highest bid, and accordin' to the rules”—which he'd made up on the spur of the moment—“he gets the basket and the girl. Jase? Where'd you get to?”

“Right here, Chester. What did I bid?”

“A pound, two pence.”

Jason pulled out his purse and made a show of counting out the money. “That much, eh? Lucky for me,” he added with a broad wink to the crowd, “that I have that much right here.”

The crowd applauded. Colleen, making no attempt to hide her happiness, kissed him on his cheek. “Sorry, Buckley,” Jason said, pausing as he and Colleen started to leave.

His eyes burning with hatred, Buckley stared back. “You stole my purse,” he said flatly. “You—”

“It's a dangerous thing, to accuse a man of being a thief,” Jason said, cutting him off, “especially when I distinctly remember seeing your purse on the floor of your carriage.” Again, he winked, but this time for Buckley alone. “That's where you must have dropped it earlier. I meant to mention it before, but it somehow slipped my mind.”

Enraged by the knowledge that he'd been bested and publicly humiliated, Buckley toyed with the idea of slugging Jason flush in the face, but then, instinctively touching the break in his nose, he decided that both time and place were wrong. Instead, he stood stock still as Jason and Colleen walked off together, and only then, swearing to see Jason suffer before the day was over, did he stalk through the derisive laughter toward his carriage.

It was never said or even suggested that they walk through the woods, and yet they found themselves unable to stop, traveling deeper and deeper into the hushed silence of the forest. They were relieved to be free of the crowd, free of Ethan's scrutiny and Buckley's watchful, jealous gaze. Mostly, though, they were grateful for the privacy and for one another's company in a setting whose lush scent of fresh green growth made them heady. The smell of pinecone and sweet wildflower mingled in a sensual, pungent perfume. Shafts of golden sunlight darted through the trees while, from above, birds exotic and plain cooed and wooed one another with lilting spring mating songs.

“The sunbeams remind me of the cathedral at Chartres,” Jason reflected, breaking the easy silence between them. “The first time I was there, the sun danced through the magnificent stained-glass windows and suffused the whole incredible interior with the eeriest and most heavenly light you can imagine.”