The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (2 page)

"On her way to a Cherokee
village in South Carolina."
 
He glanced
at the sky.
 
"And since I don't
want to be recognized on the road, I must away to Williamsburg before it gets
much lighter."
 
His tone became
shrewd.
 
"I'm here only to assure
you your mother is safe and well, and she sends you her love."

The unreality of the situation
descended on Betsy.
 
She felt as though
cotton stuffed her head.
 
"A
redcoat from our garrison came by last night to relate the news.
 
You and Mother had been arrested as rebel
spies after chasing Grandpapa to Havana.
 
Then you were captured by Indians north of St. Augustine while the
redcoats were escorting you back to Georgia.
 
You and Mother, rebel spies?
 
Hah.
 
Perchance if men bore
children, yes.
 
Why don't you tell me
what really happened."

David ejected a soft laugh.
 
"Well, we did go after the old man, but
it was for his own good.
 
We aren't
rebel spies, and it's a great misunderstanding that would take me too long to
explain.
 
Rest assured, though, that
your mother is safe for now."

Betsy frowned.
 
Of course it was a misunderstanding, and no
one could dance a reel around the truth like her uncle.
 
"When shall I have the full
story?"

"When someone has the time to
explain it."

Ah, no.
 
He wasn't going to escape without explaining the greatest mystery
of all.
 
"Surely you can tarry long
enough to clarify
one
detail.
 
Wait here while I fetch what arrived by post yesterday and show it to
you."

"Very well, but hurry."

She bustled up the path, flung open
the back door, seized the package from within a cupboard, and trotted back out
to David.
 
"See here, this was
addressed as follows: 'To Mrs. Betsy Sheridan in Augusta, Georgia.'
 
Well, go ahead and see what's inside."

Stupefaction and recognition
flooded his voice when he examined the parasol and lace veil within.
 
"I don't believe it."

She set the box and its contents
down next to the basket of eggs David had collected.
 
"There's a brief letter here somewhere.
 
Who is Miguel de Arriaga, author of the letter?"

"Captain of a Portuguese
merchant brig, the
Gloria Maria
."

"So you and Mother had quite
an adventure!"
 
Awed and envious,
Betsy straightened and handed him the letter.
 
Then she leaned inside the henhouse, unhooked the lantern, and held it
to illuminate Captain Arriaga's script on the page.

David skimmed the letter, and she
followed the path his eyes took over it, having already memorized the contents:

MADAM:

Your Uncle and Parents were Passengers aboard my Ship, the Gloria
Maria.
 
I gave this Parasol and Veil to
your Mother, a remarkable Woman, and she lost them in Havana when British
Soldiers captured her.
 
If you see her
again, please give them to her and tell her I tried to help.

I am
Madam

Your
humble Servant

Miguel de Arriaga

"How did Captain Arriaga find
me?"

"Your mother told him about
you."
 
Her uncle folded the letter
with haste and handed it back to her.
 
"Here you go.
 
Now I must
away."

She'd once seen a large-mouthed
bass wiggle off a hook with greater finesse.
 
"Oh, no you don't."
 
After tossing the letter into the box, she seized her uncle's arm.
 
"You tell me what the captain meant by
my 'parents.'
 
No more pretense.
 
Look at me.
 
Dark hair and eyes, olive skin.
 
And these cheekbones!
 
Both my
mother's husbands had blond hair and blue eyes.
 
I couldn't be the daughter of either of them.
 
So who was —
is
— my father?"

David squirmed, trying his best to
get off that hook.
 
"Your mother's
the one who must have this conversation with you."

"But she's on her way to South
Carolina, and you're here."
 
Betsy
released him and set the lantern down.
 
"She's with my father, isn't she?
 
I shall go looking for
both
of them so I may have a proper
explanation."

"Come now, you've more sense
than to travel into a war-torn colony."

She jutted her chin forward.
 
"You tell me, then."

He sighed.
 
"Your father is Mathias Hale, a
blacksmith from Alton."

Astonishment shot through her.
 
"Hale?"
 
She had a vague recollection of the Hale family as respectable
blacksmiths in her hometown of Alton, south of Augusta.
 
The wonder of discovery began arranging
perplexing pieces of her past into a logical picture.
 
"
That's
why Mother sent me here to be fostered with
Lucas and Sarah seven years ago.
 
I must
resemble my father or someone in his family, and she wanted me out of
Alton."
 
Confusion trailed off her
words.
 
She blinked at her uncle
 
"Why didn't Mother marry Mr. Hale?
 
Was shame or hardship involved?"

David held up his hands.
 
"Another long story which I've no place
or leisure to explain.
 
Forgive me, but
I must begone."
 
He strode to the
back of the henhouse and unhitched his horse.

She tracked him, her thirst
unquenched.
 
"Is he a good
man?"

"Yes, a very good man."

"Well, then, I truly don't
understand why she didn't —"

"Betsy."
 
He turned to her and seized her
shoulders.
 
"You must leave it for
now."

"But can you not imagine what
it's been like for me, Uncle David, to never have had a father?
 
In all my seventeen years, I've had uncles,
a stepfather, and grandfathers, but they haven't been my
father
."

"You shall meet him someday, I
know it.
 
He's that kind of man.
 
But now isn't the time to look for
him."
 
David pressed a kiss to her
forehead, released her, and climbed into the saddle with his fowler.
 
"
Don't
go to South
Carolina."

Betsy stepped back, certain she
exuded defiance in her stance.
 
"Why not?"

He wagged his finger at her.
 
"I mean it, Betsy.
 
Don't
go to South Carolina.
 
And, for that matter, stay clear of Alton
for awhile, especially a lieutenant by the name of Fairfax."

Oh, faugh.
 
Her uncle's "enemies" were all
cuckolded courtiers of wealthy widows.
 
She sweetened her smile.
 
"Not to worry."

The paling sky outlined perplexity
in her uncle's posture.
 
As much as he
enjoyed women, he'd never figured out what to do with those who were
headstrong.
 
"I cannot command you
to anything, can I?"

"Good luck in Williamsburg,
Uncle David."
 
She blew a kiss.

He shook his head, reined his horse
around, and trotted it from the yard with a final wave.
 
Betsy watched until the gloom of dawn
swallowed him before retrieving the lantern, eggs, and box.
 
Then she ambled back to the house escorted
by the aria of a mockingbird.

So.
 
Her kinfolk had evaded the Crown's "justice" upon the
gallows and torture at the hands of Indians and were
en route
to
sanctuaries in other colonies.
 
And for
the first time in her life, she had a father: a blacksmith, a "very good man."
 
At the back step, she paused to address the
sky, her shoulders back, her face aglow.
 
"Mathias Hale," she whispered, "expect me soon."

Chapter Two

THE STAIRS GROANED liked a gouty
old man, testament to Clark's descent, but Betsy continued dusting the counter,
her back to the door, pondering exile imposed on her uncle and mother, her
husband's note hidden in the cowhide boot, and a blacksmith named Mathias
Hale.
 
Clark entered the shop sniffing
the air, and she heard his grin.
 
"Coffee, and mmm, biscuits with your blackberry jam.
 
What's the occasion?"

She tried not to sound piqued or
nervous.
 
"No occasion."
 
The apprentices hadn't arrived yet.
 
Perhaps now was the time to talk with him
about the secret message.
 
"Clark,
I —"

"Ah, sweetheart."
 
He embraced her from behind and nuzzled her
neck through her tucker.
 
"I'd have
been up early, too, if my kin were prisoners of the Indians.
 
I'm surprised you slept at all last night."

Some of Betsy's tension diffused,
and she turned to face him.
 
Thank the
heavens her husband wasn't an insensitive lout.
 
A tremble not entirely feigned caught her lower lip.

"Hush, now, let's have none of
that."
 
He gathered her in his
arms, and they cuddled, the fine, navy wool of his coat warm on her cheek.
 
Never mind that his nose was crooked and his
face too narrow.
 
To her, that twinkle
in Clark's blue eyes made him handsome.
 
Besides, few were impervious to his boyish charm.
 
She slid her hands beneath his coat to his
breeches, tan wool like that of his waistcoat.

"Madam, know that if you don't
stop squeezing my arse, those biscuits will harden."

Biscuits, right.
 
She kept her hands on his buttocks and
indulged in his good morning kiss, letting the citrusy scent of his soap on his
skin drain more tension from her.
 
Some
women lost interest in their husbands after becoming pregnant, but she'd never
felt more lustful.

"I hope you baked enough
biscuits for the boys."

"
Boys
?
 
In case you hadn't noticed, Tom is my
age."

"Yes, I had noticed.
 
And speaking of Tom —"
 
They heard shoes scrape the front
porch.
 
Clark released her with a wink,
grabbed a biscuit, and headed for the front door.
 
She followed with the entire basket of biscuits.

When Clark opened the door, she
smiled at the entrance of tall, gangly Tom Alexander, forever one size larger
than the coat, waistcoat, and breeches he wore, no matter how quickly his
mother sewed.
 
"Good morning!
 
Bless me if you aren't the only one who's
always here a little early.
 
Have a
biscuit?"
 
But sandy-haired Tom
didn't lunge for several biscuits.
 
Nor
did he flush and shyly return her smile as usual.
 
He didn't even gawk at all that Cordovan leather, set aflame by a
beam of sunlight.

Instead, he fidgeted his cocked hat
in his hands, a crease of concern between his gray eyes.
 
"You folks haven't been out front yet
this morning, have you?
 
Better come
take a look."

The three walked out and turned to
face the front of the house.
 
Daylight
illuminated the message
TORY SCUM
painted red across the gray wood
siding on the first floor.

Shock rammed through Betsy.
 
Augusta was full of Whigs, but she never
believed they'd vandalize a neighbor's home.
 
Clark wasn't outspoken in his political beliefs.

The dogs trotted from around back,
and Tom patted Hamlet's side.
 
"Clark, did you hear any suspicious noises last night?"

"No."

"Dogs bark?"

"No."

Betsy's jaw slackened with
distress.
 
The vandal was someone
familiar to the hounds.
 
Otherwise
they'd have bayed an alarm.
 
Her uncle
wouldn't deface the home of kin.
 
Plus a
man on the run had no time to dally with paint.
 
A more likely culprit was Sooty.
 
But why would he do that to a client?