The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (19 page)

In the background, Fairfax eased
tension from his jaw.
 
Thomas Brown drew
back from her, evaluating her sincerity.
 
Clark cleared his throat.
 
"Colonel,
sir, I believe her to be telling the truth about not having seen her
uncle.
 
She knows I've been worried
about him also.
 
If she'd heard from
him, she'd have told me.
 
I don't
believe they made contact."

Betsy watched the colonel discern
the honesty in Clark's face, and she thanked the heavens she'd never confided
in her husband about David's visit.
 
Fairfax also perceived Clark's honesty.
 
His jaw clenched again.
 
Brown
nodded, a decisive motion, and raised his voice a bit.
 
"Very well, Mrs. Sheridan, I'm
satisfied for now that you're clear of involvement with the rebels.
 
You're free to go about your way."

Approval and applause rose from the
clustered spectators.
 
Relief swamped
Betsy, and she wobbled a curtsy.
 
"Thank you, sir.
 
I shan't
forget your fair dealing."

Clark shook Brown's hand.
 
"Indeed, thank you, sir."

Sarah and Rose bustled over and
hugged her.
 
Over Sarah's shoulder,
Betsy saw Fairfax step forward, his nostrils expanded.
 
"Sir, I remind you her blood relations
are rebel spies."

"Thank you, Mr.
Fairfax."
 
Brown faced him,
irritation flexing his lips.
 
"Again, I appreciate the brilliant investigative work you've
performed since yesterday, particularly when it comes to Mrs. Fuller's
involvement, and I've commended you to your superiors.
 
As you've a critical assignment awaiting you
in South Carolina, I shan't detain you.
 
The ferry is ready to convey you.
 
Good day.
 
God speed."
 
The undercurrent in his voice was as clear
as if he'd spoken aloud:
Good riddance
.
 
Stoddard and Sheffield had said the same.

"Sir."
 
Fairfax made a stiff salute.

Brown returned the salute, swiveled
to Betsy and Clark, and bowed.
 
"Good day, madam, sir."
 
He headed for his horse, held ready by one of the Rangers.

Sarah stroked Betsy's cheek, her
gray eyes kind.
 
"My sweet lamb,
I'm so glad that's over.
 
Coffee back
home ought to settle your nerves."

From the corner of her eye, Betsy
noticed the approach of Fairfax.
 
She
faced the horses and tittered out a nervous laugh.
 
"That sounds delightful."

Clark crooked his arm for her.
 
"Shall we, then, darling?"

"One moment, Mr. and Mrs.
Sheridan."

Rose coughed out disapproval, her
tone curdled.
 
"Good Lord, what
else do
you
want?"

Betsy turned back around with
reluctance, her apprehension escalating at how soft Fairfax's voice had
become.
 
Clark stiffened.
 
"Yes, Lieutenant, what
do
you
want?"

Fairfax looked them over, and a
midwinter chill scraped her at the soothing tone he invoked.
 
"How fortunate that Colonel Brown
grants the benefit of doubt where integrity is concerned, and your friends and
neighbors in Augusta are so supportive.
 
I presume I shan't encounter either of you in South Carolina.
 
You see, that which is circumstantial often
lacks little additional effort before being rendered substantial."
 
After a curt inclination of his head, he
pivoted and strode for the ferry and the soldiers under his command.

Clark pulled her against him and
pitched his voice low.
 
"That
tick-bitten rat."

Her muscles twitching with the
instinct for flight, Betsy clung to him and stared after Fairfax.
 
Now her husband
must
see the folly of
his assignment in South Carolina and agree to abandon the mission.
 
Surely he must.

Chapter Fifteen

VISITORS PLAGUED THE O'Neals until
past dinner, tongues wagging in curiosity and concern, preventing Betsy from
discussing the move to Camden with Clark.
 
He slipped away with Lucas after dinner to the White Swan, returned at
three to the bed where Betsy napped, and awakened her with kisses on her brow.

Alerted by perturbation on his
face, she sat, pulled on her shoes, and grabbed her straw hat.
 
Then they rode their horses north to the
burned foundation of their house, where, in the open, both could see passersby
on the road: free at last to speak without the fear of eavesdropping.

Clark propped his fowler against
the back of the hen house.
 
Upwind of
the bitter stench of burned timber, they strolled through the garden plot.
 
He snapped a twig and flung away the
pieces.
 
"Why did you tell Tom we
were moving?"

She kept her voice low.
 
"I needed to confide in someone."

"I didn't give you permission
to talk with anyone about it."

She squared her shoulders.
 
"I didn't give
you
permission to
spy for the rebels.
 
See here, we're in
this together."
 
She placed a hand
over her belly.
 
"All
three
of us.
 
Let's not make decisions
independently of each other from here on."

His gaze measured her a few
seconds.
 
Then his shoulders dropped an
inch.
 
"All right.
 
Exactly what did you tell Tom?"

"That your uncle needed help
with his business in Camden, and with our house destroyed, moving seemed like a
good option."

He nodded.
 
"That's the story he told me.
 
I'm glad you were sensible enough to keep
the rest of it from him."

Sensible.
 
Betsy wanted to scream with irritation.
 
She wasn't the party lacking sense, unless one considered the way
she'd lied to Colonel Brown.

"Have you told anyone
else?"

"I posted letters to Joshua
and my cousin Emma this morning.
 
They
received the same story Tom heard.
 
We
could use Joshua's company on the road, and Emma can help us settle in
Camden."

"Who else have you told?"

"No one."

"Good.
 
Perhaps we can trust those three to keep
quiet about it because frankly, I'm not sure we should go to Camden now."

She gasped.
 
"Oh, can you mean it?"

He nodded again.
 
"Lieutenant Fairfax is too close to
figuring out everything.
 
With a broken
cover, I'm a threat to the mission.
 
The
Seventeenth Light must surely pass through Camden.
 
I cannot place our lives or the mission at risk by going.
 
I shall post a letter on the morrow advising
my contacts of my position and alerting them of Fairfax."

"Oh, thank heaven."
 
Relief plowed through Betsy.
 
She hopped across the plot to embrace him.

He removed her straw hat and kissed
the top of her mobcap.
 
"And after
what happened Wednesday, I imagine the redcoats in South Carolina will be on
their toes for awhile anyway."

"Wednesday?"
 
She frowned up at him.

"Crown forces under the command
of Captain Christian Huck were in the Catawba Valley, burning houses and
plundering plantations.
 
Some of Thomas
Sumter's men caught up with them early Wednesday.
 
Huck was killed.
 
His men
surrendered."
 
He dropped the hat
back on her head with a swagger.
 
"They're damned lucky we
allowed
them to surrender, what
with the cries of 'Tarleton's Quarter' resounding through the land."

Betsy shivered in the July
heat.
 
Tarleton's Quarter.
 
Back in May, rebels had labeled the bloody
victory of Tarleton's British Legion over Continental forces "Tarleton's
Quarter."
 
Her grandfather Will St.
James had printed broadsides about the incident — crude pictures of a British
soldier bayoneting a kneeling militiaman — before he slipped through British
hands and fled Alton, bound for that ill-fated meeting with Spaniards in
Havana.

Clark stroked her cheek.
 
"I see how this has distressed
you.
 
I can still do the Patriots good
by continuing my observations and reports from Augusta.
 
Let's stay and rebuild our home."

Joy flooded her heart.
 
She flung her arms about his neck and hugged
him, not caring that it knocked her hat into the parsley.
 
"Oh, thank you!"

"I enjoy seeing you smile,
sweetheart."

"I'd smile more if we had our
furniture back."

He sighed.
 
"I'm not sure it's prudent for all of
it to turn up in Augusta straight away.
 
For now, let's assume we won't see it again for awhile.
 
I'm truly sorry."

After catching her hand in his, he
scooped up her hat, led her from the herb plot, and replaced the hat.
 
He grabbed the horses' reins and picketed
them out of sight behind the hen house.
 
During his embrace, she didn't allow her disappointments and misgivings
to spill into the response she gave him.
 
But projecting the appropriate warmth cost her.
 
Since Wednesday, her trust in him had
decayed.
 
Although he'd come to his
senses about Camden, she wasn't certain what priority he placed on family
safety.
 
Ah, but surely trust could be
regained?

He nibbled her fingertips and
whispered, "When we rebuild the house, I shall make certain we have at
least six bedrooms to accommodate our multitude of children, my Betsy, my
love.
 
Mmm, your wrist, so soft, so
delicious.
 
Plead fatigue after supper
tonight so we can retire early, and I can massage your naked shoulders
abed."

She snickered.
 
"Safety agrees with you, my
husband."

"Mmm."
 
He kissed her hand.
 
Then he released her, pivoted for the edge
of the shed, took a half-step from concealment, and jumped back behind again.
 
"The devil!"

She registered the stiffness in his
posture.
 
When he snatched up his
fowler, she frowned.
 
"What is
it?"

"Shh."
 
He peered around the edge of the shed a
second or two.
 
"Stay out of
sight.
 
Don't make noise," he
whispered.

"Why not?" she whispered
back.

"It's that Spaniard I saw
watching me in the tavern today.
 
He's
snooping in the ruins of the house."

What
Spaniard?
 
Dear gods, not the same man tracking them
the day before, the one who'd murdered the Givenses?

Clark cocked his fowler and peeked
back around.
 
Wind sighed in pine
needles.
 
Hens in the shed gave
occasional, soft clucks.
 
Betsy peered
around the other side of the shed.

He faced the road in what had two
days earlier been Clark's shop, his dark hair queued up beneath a broad-brimmed
hat.
 
When he swung back around, dark
eyes scouring the charred remains, Betsy slunk for cover, chilled with
recognition.
 
Amid the ruins of their
home, his face was just as cold with determination as it had been at the
Givenses' shop and out in the brush.

In half a minute, she saw Clark's
shoulders sag with relief, and she heard the whicker of a horse on the
road.
 
"Good," Clark
muttered.
 
"He's leaving."

"He's the one.
 
He killed the Givenses and tracked us
yesterday."

"You're certain?"

"Yes.
 
Who is he?"

"I don't know."
 
Clark rolled his shoulders back.

Betsy took a deep breath.
 
"
Casa de la Sangre Legítima
."

He sucked in a breath and gripped
her shoulders, his expression belying the fact that he was all too familiar
with the Rightful Blood.
 
"Where
did you —?"