The Sword of the Banshee (22 page)

“This is the time of year we make cider; in the spring its maple syrup,” Calleigh said as if to himself. “In Ireland the change of seasons are subtle. Here in America it is dramatic.”

They dismounted and walked up the steps into the house.

“You should feel honored, Lady Allen. I ventured forth for you during daylight hours. I usually stay undercover until sunset.”

“Why have you fabricated your death?”

He shrugged. “It was the easiest way to become anonymous. Now I may move freely in a variety of arenas under a wealth of aliases.”

She followed him down the hall, noticing the furniture was covered, and many of the rooms were at rest. Their boots echoed on the hardwood floors.

Quinn took her to the kitchen and started opening cupboards. “I imagine Powell keeps no food here.”

He searched around then suddenly reached up and pulled down an earthenware jug. “But of course, he has this,” and he uncorked the crock, taking a pull of whiskey.

Calleigh held the jug out to India, and she shook her head.

“Oh excuse me,” he apologized, grabbing a mug, pouring some whiskey and handing it to her.

Again India shook her head and said, “No, thank you.”

“Oh come,” he coaxed. “Surely being around men all your life, you have taken strong drink?”

“Well yes--”

“Believe me, you could use some of this,” he said.

Reluctantly, India took the whiskey. It burned all the way down her throat into her stomach where it left a warm glow.

“It is like drinking summer sunshine, is it not?” Calleigh said, pulling a chair over for her. Then he hopped up onto the cook’s table, casually swinging his legs.

The kitchen had a low timbered ceiling and large stone fireplace fitted with trammels, pots and spider trivets. “You will be comfortable here,” he said. “I will have it opened it up for you tomorrow.”

“You care to explain what is happening?” India said after taking another drink. She felt her cheeks and chest begin to flush from the alcohol.

“You will live here, and you will take the identity of a widow of limited means. You are staying here under the good graces of a Protestant landlord in Ireland who has inherited this property.”

“Am I a Protestant from Ireland as well?”

He nodded, pouring himself another whiskey then topped off India’s mug.

Her lips felt thick, and she stated, “I was raised an affluent Protestant in real life, so it will not be a difficult role to assume.”

“I know,” said Calleigh.

India’s eyebrows shot up.
How does he know so much about me?

“And Phineas?” she asked.

“He will reside here with you as a servant boy. He will be the only one in the house who will know your true identity.”

“The boy knows nothing about me,” she explained. “He knows that I am from Ireland, and that I am a lady of means but nothing more.”

“Good, we must keep him ignorant to keep him safe. Only my officers will be aware of our arrangement. No one in town will recognize you as the Irish servant who came here earlier, except the innkeeper, and he is one of us. You will at long last play the role you were trained for as a child, the role of a great lady. You will attract Tories and British officers who will spill important information to us. The Colony of Delaware is positively teaming with Loyalists.” Quinn looked around the kitchen and chuckled. “This is no Ballydunne, but it will nevertheless house a great lady.”

India looked sharply at Calleigh. “How is it you know so much about me?”

“There was talk of Lady Fitzpatrick everywhere, not just in Ireland. It was my passion to know everything about you.”

Quinn held India’s eyes for a moment then slid off the table. He walked to the window and looked out. “There will be great danger. You will be leading a double life.”

“I fear few things,” she stated flatly.

Quinn paused then asked, “Did you fear your husband, Lady Allen?”

“Yes,” she stated flatly. Calleigh watched her face. Her eyes hardened into a dark green and she said, “But not anymore.”

*           *            *

India and Phineas spent that night at the Quincy home then left on horseback the next morning for Philadelphia to be fitted for new wardrobes. The escort Calleigh had arranged for them left the two at an inn on Chestnut Street where they would meet with a dressmaker the next day.

Calleigh composed a letter to Reverend Ezekiel Archer of The St. James Anglican Church of the Brandywine Valley, a prominent loyalist. He made it appear to be from a wealthy landlord in Connemara and was just dispatched from a British vessel. He asked the reverend to welcome Lady Allen, recently widowed, when she arrives in one week from Ireland. She has no acquaintances in the Colony of Delaware and needs introductions to respectable Englishmen.

The following morning, India appeared at the dressmakers ready for her fitting. The dressmaker was a tall reserved man of later years who bowed low to her as she stepped over the threshold. She ran her eyes over the colored ribbons in the shop, the Belgian lace and faux flowers spilling out of the shopkeeper’s drawers and the hats on stands ready to be dressed.

The man introduced himself and said, “The gentleman from the Brandywine Valley would like you to be measured for five gowns, Madame.”

“Five?” India said. She was surprised. This was an extraordinary number. “Is it possible to make this many in a week?”

“Yes indeed,” the elderly tradesman said pulling out a tape measure. “I will have all my dressmakers working around the clock. We will be fitting your young companion for livery as well.”

He raised his hand and several assistants brought out bolts of wool, cotton and silk. The array of colors was sumptuous, and it pleased India to be around pretty things once more.

Running his hand over the fabrics the dressmaker said, “This is the last of my supply from England. There is talk of prohibiting the exchange of goods with the Mother Country until the disputes are resolved.”

“What will you do?” India asked.

The man adjusted his spectacles and shrugged. “We will do the weaving ourselves. It will be an adjustment for everyone.”

Pursing her lips, India sighed. She continued to have reservations about this rebellion.

After she was fitted for gowns, India selected hats, gloves, shawls and stomachers, and then she had Phineas called to the shop for his fitting. He was bored and fidgeted endlessly, but the dressmakers were patient, working quickly with the boy.

Quinn Calleigh seemed to have thought of everything, mused India. He not only paid for their clothes, but he had purchased their rooms, their meals and tickets to the theater if they wished to attend. Colm had never been this solicitous during all the years of their marriage, and it gave India an odd sensation to be cared for in such an intimate manner.

She pulled up the hood on her cloak as they stepped out onto the street after the fitting. Phineas was hungry again, and she needed a cup of tea. She supposed that the import of tea would be prohibited soon as well, and she wondered what everyone would drink instead.

The crowds were thick on Market Street as they pushed along looking for a reputable inn. Phineas took India by the arm to help her avoid the mud and dung. He swerved her away from the horses and carriages and kept a sharp eye out for pickpockets as they were jostled by the crowd.

Vendors hawked their wares as carriages roared past. India called over the noise, “Phineas, let’s find a quieter street.”

The boy nodded and they ducked down an alley that opened onto a different avenue. Determined to lead the way, Phineas rushed down the alley and into the street without looking and was struck suddenly by British soldiers marching past in formation. Stunned, the boy stumbled to his feet but tripped and was knocked down again. Trapped on the ground, the regulars did nothing to help Phineas. They continued to march over him, kicking and stepping on him as they passed.

“No!” screamed India pushing and yanking savagely at the soldiers, trying to reach the boy.

“Carry on men!” barked an officer on horseback, witnessing the mayhem. The men marched blindly onward as India tried to reach Phineas. He rolled himself into a ball and covered his head with his hands. Just as she reached him, the officer galloped up on his mare. Wild with panic, India dove on top of Phineas.

“God damn it!” the officer roared. The horse danced around, desperately trying to avoid the fallen human beings, almost throwing the officer. White with rage, he dragged India to her feet by the hair shouting, “You stupid bitch!”

India managed to drag Phineas over to the steps of a building. They were both panting as she frantically ran her hands over his scalp, shoulders and arms. When she was satisfied that he was unharmed, she hugged him savagely.

The troops passed by, their boots stomping and splashing them with mud. She wiped the sweat from her brow and smoothed her hair while Phineas held a rag to his bloody nose, cursing under his breath.

India watched one redcoat after another march by, and suddenly memories of Ireland flashed before her eyes. Her heart started to pound as the familiar rage returned. As if it was yesterday, she felt the vile soldier outside the public house grab her between the legs and jostle her. She cowered once more under the wagon at Colm’s rally to avoid being trampled by horses, and once more she saw the small, defenseless boy scooping up oats in the mud after the officer had kicked him to the ground.

Dazed, India gaped at the line of regulars as they marched on. An older officer on horseback was the last in formation. He looked around arrogantly, his eyes resting at last on India. He ogled her with a lusty smirk and started to make a remark about her breasts when suddenly his smile dropped, and the blood drained from his face.

Phineas looked at India. She was slowly raising a pistol at the officer with both hands.

“No!” Phineas screamed, shoving her before she could put a bullet in the man’s skull.

India staggered back, as if waking from a dream, falling hard against a railing. Phineas yanked her around the corner into an alley. “Run!” he barked, as cries issued from the street. Emerging from her stupor, India started to a run. She ran behind Phineas down alleys, winding through tangled streets and across private lawns, on and on until they were too exhausted to run anymore. At last they stopped on a dark lane far from the center of town. Panting, they leaned against a brick wall deep in the shadows. A cold sweat drenched India, and she began to retch uncontrollably. When she was finished, she looked up at Phineas who was staring at her, wide eyed.

India pushed the hair from her face. Putting her arm around him, she said, “I’m alright now. Come let’s return to the inn. It is dark and no one will see us.”

They returned to the inn undetected and immediately India sent Phineas down to the innkeeper for a bottle of brandy. When he returned she poured herself one drink after another, determined to erase the memories of the day.

Phineas curled up on his trundle bed by the fire, falling asleep instantly. India sprawled in a chair nearby, dazed and confused. Every time a memory surfaced, she took another gulp of brandy to dull the pain. She continued this way until she stumbled into bed. In spite of the alcohol, India’s sleep was fitful. Nightmares plagued her throughout the night until at last she bolted upright, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Her hair was tangled about her face and she cried, “Phineas, do you hear that?”

The boy was asleep and did not answer.

“It’s the pipes. Do you hear them?” she mumbled.

Pulling the covers off, India ran barefoot to the window, throwing the shutters open and peering into the darkness. The bagpipes echoed in her ears. India stood motionless, unsure whether minutes passed or hours.

*           *            *

When Phineas awakened the next morning, he found India sitting at a desk, writing furiously, still barefoot and in her shift, her hair falling wildly about her shoulders. She did not look up, and the boy did not bother her. She was making plans for an American Revolution.

Chapter 21

Over the next week as the dressmakers crafted India’s gowns, she poured over documents and pamphlets found on the streets of Philadelphia about British outrages. She haunted taverns sitting in the shadows listening to arguments and lingered in public places eavesdropping on conversations about the revolution. The men talked freely around her assuming, since she was a woman, she couldn’t understand what they discussed, so India was able to glean valuable insights and information for the rebellion. These men never dreamed she may be using this material to further a campaign of war.

She stood outside Carpenter’s Hall, the meeting house of the colonial delegates, and watched affluent gentlemen step out of carriages and sedan chairs and ride up on beautifully groomed thoroughbreds. She knew these men of wealth and power were those most likely to influence the masses for or against bloodshed. They didn’t notice the woman in the black cloak and hood, scrutinizing them from the sidelines, examining their clothes and demeanor, gaining insights into their character and rank.