The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (22 page)

He offered his arm and motioned with the other that they should take a turn around the yard. She nodded and slipped her hand around his elbow, her fingers tingling at the point of contact, shooting a little thrill through her. She glanced to the side in hopes he would not see the flush on her cheeks.

“My grandfather was sent to America as a colonial administrator,” he began as they strolled. “During his service my father was born, in fact he was born here in New York. At the end of my grandfather’s tour of duty the family returned to England. My grandmother much prefers it there. But my father always held some romantic sentiment for the place where he was born. He emigrated here as a young man and married a girl from an old established family.”

“Your mother is American, then?” The noises of merriment and music dimmed as their tête-à-tête grew increasingly intimate.

“Yes, and like me a native of New York. My grandparents spent a few summers here after I was born. My grandmother loved to tell me stories of England, and felt compelled to send me letters keeping me up to date with the goings on of the fashionable families near Cirencester.” He leaned in. “Including yours, it appears.” He chuckled. “I suppose she felt I would return, but she doesn’t fully realize that, for me, there’s nothing to return to. I belong here.”

“Ah,” Clara said softly. The sting of defeat for her plan to return home was overcome by a strong curiosity toward the captain’s story. Their aimless sauntering had led them to the darkened passage under the second floor gallery, reminding Clara of the last time she had wandered away from the crowd at a dance. But being alone with Jeremy Strathmore in a dark garden was far different from being alone with Samuel Taylor. The captain lacked the seductive artifice of the general and, for that very reason, her burgeoning desire was genuinely felt and not a contrived reaction.

She released her hold on his arm and leaned back against a supporting post. “How is it that you can fight against the British when you still have familial connections?” she asked, absently biting her lip, gazing up at him for an answer.

He turned to her in the darkness, cutting off her view of the crowd, standing just a little too close for propriety’s sake, the warmth of his body penetrating the tight space, wrapping around her, reeling her in. His breathing quickened imperceptibly, but noticeably, no longer the captain in control of a garrison, but a man struggling with control of his desires.

No, there was no artifice. It was all very real.

* * * * *

Sam could not take his eyes off her. She was posed provocatively, her chest thrust forward ever so slightly as her hands grasped the post behind her. The light of now-distant torches and lamps illuminated her face—still glowing from dancing—and her hair—coyly disheveled. His arm still tingled where she had touched it, the heat of her body radiated into his, coiling in his crotch.

“I suppose we’re back to the civil war-colonial war debate, eh?”

She laughed softly.

“It’s a fair question, Lady Strathmore. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, on the western edge of Long Island here in New York. My father is a lawyer for the colonial administration. He wanted the same path for me, so he sent me to Harvard College for my education, thinking it the only alternative to his own Oxford.”

The unabashed giggling and tussling of soldiers and their women echoed around them. Sam placed a hand on the post above Lady Strathmore’s head to carve their own private space. She did not flinch at the hint of intimacy, yet his own heart skipped a beat at the closeness.

“He set me up as a law clerk with a colleague in Boston,” he continued. “So, I was in Boston when British soldiers massacred five innocent men, and there when we dumped crates of tea into the harbor. The taverns were filled with talk of separation and rebellion. Pamphlets and treatises arguing independence and freedom littered the streets. My friends and I were convinced of our cause so we joined the militia in Boston.”

“With Lieutenant Hamilton?” She subtly adjusted her position, moving closer.

“No, no. I met Patrick later.” He drew in a breath, gathering his thoughts, calming his pulse. “Eventually the militia became our Continental Army. I served under General Washington and we were sent to defend New York. When the British attacked Long Island last year the rebellion was suddenly real, not just some fantastical ideal. Unfortunately, my father has found it necessary to remain loyal to the king and, as a rebel, I was unable to return to my family. I’d have been arrested. During the fighting, we heard the Hessians had burned farms to the ground and slaughtered anyone in their way.” He stared out into the shadows. “Our retreat in the middle of the night was so close to where my parents live, but I simply could not desert to see how they fared. I felt angry and frustrated. That’s when I realized I needed to defend my home to the death, and I enlisted with the New York regiment.”

Lady Strathmore’s quiet gasp brought him back to the present. “That’s where I met Pat,” he said.

“And your family? Do you know anything?” Her voice held a tremor of despair.

“As my father is connected officially with the British government, they were spared. They only suffered property damage. Some of our patriot friends, however, were killed.”

“Captain,” she began, her voice quivering with emotion, “I know it means nothing, but I apologize for the vicious actions of my countrymen. And, although it is little comfort, please know that my husband was not involved in the matter. We arrived some time later.”

Sam looked down at her. “I do know that, my lady.”

She blinked up at him, the pale light reflected off the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The sounds of lovers in the dark grew stronger, emboldening him. He lowered his head. She remained as she was, her décolletage rising and falling infinitesimally more rapidly. He could make her his if only for one moment, and, in the distracted darkness, no one would know. He brushed aside a tear as it coursed down her cheek, his thumb lingering on her face as his fingers cupped the back of her head. She relaxed against his palm in acquiescence, and licked her lips in invitation. He moved toward her until his lips hovered above hers, her breath hot and moist as it mingled with his. She closed her eyes.

And then Sam remembered that the young, beautiful, seemingly willing woman within his grasp was the wife of the enemy. She could never be his. To think otherwise would be foolhardy. He pulled away, dropping his hand. “Please, forgive me, my lady,” he murmured.

“No, don’t apologize,” she said softly. Her fingers threaded through his, firing every nerve in his body. She squeezed gently before letting him go.

Sam stepped back, his head still spinning from their almost-union. “I think I should have Corporal Bowman escort you upstairs, my lady.” His voice was husky, unwittingly revealing his unfulfilled desires.

“As you wish,” she replied.

“Unless you feel you would like to continue dancing.” Sam was finding it very difficult to tear himself away.

He followed her gaze to the yard. Very little dancing was still going on. Couples had paired off into the dark recesses of the fort. It would be unseemly for Lady Strathmore to spend any more private time with him.

“No, thank you. I think I will retire for the evening, captain.” She righted herself from leaning against the pole. “Please take me to Corporal Bowman, sir.”

It was going to be very hard to get any sleep that night.

Chapter Sixteen

Several nights later, Clara was sure the captain regretted ever wanting to kiss her, for at that moment, red-faced and pacing before the fire in his quarters, he looked like he wanted to throttle her.

“The ‘divine right of kings,’ madam?” he bellowed, waving his arms in disbelief. “You have got to be joking!”

She looked up from her darning. She was repairing a hole in his stockings, a far too intimate chore which she initially balked at, but relented when the womenfolk all agreed her handwork was by far the best. “I assure you captain, I am not. Why else would our King George be monarch?”

“Yes,” snickered Lieutenant Hamilton. “Rumor has it that he is certainly not qualified for the task.”

Behind the captain’s back, Clara winked at the lieutenant who returned a smile. Earlier that evening, they had conspired to tease the easily aroused Captain Taylor.

“And what gives your leaders their right, captain?” she goaded.

“They are elected by the people, madam.”

“Except for Ben Franklin,” the lieutenant quipped. “I do believe God himself gave Mr. Franklin some sort of divine right.”

Clara tried to hide a laugh. “And what, pray tell, gives the American people the right to elect their leaders, sir?”

Outside someone clomped noisily up the wooden stairs, yelled to Corporal Bowman, then ran back down to the yard.

The corporal banged on the door. “Captain!”

Captain Taylor went to the door and threw it open.

Bowman stood at the threshold, his face sober and pale. “Captain, they found him, sir. They found Bridgers. He’s dead, sir.”

“No,” Clara gasped.
It can’t be Paul
.

Captain Taylor bolted out and down the stairs. The lieutenant grabbed Clara’s arm. “You’re coming with me,” he said.

“Yes, of course.” She stood up, dazed. The lieutenant had to practically drag her down the stairs.

The fort’s residents milled about in the yard, some with torches, some gathered near a wooden cart that looked as if it had seen battle action. The captain questioned a bedraggled soldier, cuts and bruises still fresh from a recent skirmish.

“What happened?” Captain Taylor was gentle but firm.

Clara stopped cold in her tracks. The soldier was none other than Ethan Pitt, Paul’s boy-of-all-work.

She looked frantically for Paul. Surely he would appear and all would be well. Maybe he was outside, or in the hospital, or…

“You’re not going anywhere, my lady,” Lieutenant Hamilton murmured in her ear. “Corporal Holmes!”

The corporal approached instantly and saluted.

“Hold on to Lady Strathmore. She appears to want to escape again.”

“Yes, lieutenant.”

The corporal’s grip was cruel. Clara acquiesced. Surely Paul would be there at any moment and explain everything.

* * * * *

“After the brothel was burned—”

“The brothel was burned?” Sam was incredulous.

Pat approached and stood at his side. “What about the women? Ethan, what happened to the women?” he asked, barely masking his fears.

“They had been sent away well before then.” Ethan looked at the two officers. “Mr. Bridgers never told you any of this?” he asked under his breath.

“No.” Sam tried to remain calm. “I’m sure he had his reasons. Go on.”

“Well, we joined up with the band that Redmond Moncrief had formed, you know, to dig at Strathmore’s incursions. He had sent a handful of soldiers—”

“Up this far?” Sam snapped. “Why would he do that?”

“Sam,” Ethan said in a very low voice. “I thought you knew. You have her here. don’t you?”

“‘Her’?”

“Lady Strathmore, Sam.”

Sam cast a glance behind him. Corporal Holmes looked like he was holding on to her for dear life. “Yes, Ethan, she’s here. Please go on.”

“Mr. Bridgers kidnapped her so he could get the money the general owed him.” Ethan spoke in hushed tones. “And because of what he did to Constance.”

“Constance?” Pat yelped. “What’s wrong with Constance?”

“She’s fine now, Pat,” Ethan assured him. “The general beat her pretty bad and she had to recover at one of the houses up the Hudson. That’s where the other girls were sent, too.” He looked from one officer to the other. “The truth is that the situation became somewhat personal for Mr. Bridgers.” He glanced around again. “He sort of fell in love with Lady Strathmore,” he said quietly. “And she returned his affection, if you understand my meaning.”

Sam’s chest tightened, but he remained stoic as he nodded.

Ethan continued in his clandestine manner. “And Redmond had it out for the general, too, what with his raping his girl. They acted together. I helped. They just didn’t account on the general taking things into his own hands. They figured he would act like a proper English commander. We’ve been fighting his men for weeks now.”

Confusion and despair roiled Sam’s gut. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, which only served to drag up an uncomfortable emotion. “Where is Bridgers’s body now?”

“There.” Ethan pointed to a plain wooden cart.

“Oh, God!” Lady Strathmore ripped herself away from the corporal. She ran to the cart, leaning in to examine the face, touching the body gingerly, murmuring her disbelief.

Her wail cracked the solemn silence of the small crowd gathered in the yard. One of the women went to her, embracing her in their mutual grief. More of the women began to cry.

Sam’s gut twisted at the scene.
Jealousy
. He hated being jealous. He turned to Ethan. “What’s the state of your militia?”

“We’re only about five men now, but with the native tactics, we’re able to seem like more.”

Sam motioned to Pat. “Lieutenant, round up your riflemen.”

“Yes, captain,” he said, and took off to do as ordered.

“Pat’s the best marksman we have, Ethan,” Sam explained. “With his aim and the addition of a few of our men, you’ll be free of the British just after dawn.” Pat was trained in the use of the fast-loading Kentucky rifle and could probably take on the redcoats himself, but it was best to be cautious.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Now go get cleaned up and attend to your wounded.” Sam patted Ethan on the back as the boy hurried away. He looked over at the cart containing Bridgers’s body. Questions buzzed in his head as he approached the mourning women. “Lady Strathmore?” he began.

She wrenched around and reached for him, her hands sinking into the shoulders of his jacket, desperately clinging for solace.

Sam stroked her back warily, fearing for his own emotions. She pressed into him more closely, her sobbing body shaking against his. He had no choice but to hold her a little more firmly. Between sobs she repeated Paul’s name like a litany.