Acadia Song 04 - The Distant Beacon (19 page)

He used a bundle to point toward the northwest.

“When do you return to the other side?”

The man’s entire face worked, as though it required much labor to extract the single word, “Dusk.”

With that, he turned and was gone.

The walk began in sheets of rain, although it seemed to her she’d scarcely gotten started along the trail before the rain tapered off. Had she not been outside in it, she would not have believed such a transformation could occur so swiftly. All she felt was the lightest puff of breeze upon her cheek, just enough to toss a few blustery droplets off her hood and onto her face. Yet up above the clouds seemed to be plucked asunder as a higher wind ripped away the heavy cover and revealed a morning of splendor.

By the time she caught sight of the church’s spires, the day was already so warm she had dropped her hood and opened the front of her cloak. The surrounding fields and orchards had awakened with a flourish. The birds sounded so loud to her ears she suspected they also were enthralled by the sudden change of weather.

The trail broadened and became a brick-paved road. This was something she’d always loved about villages in England, how they kept their towns so much neater by paving the main roads. Boston had such, of course. But Boston was a very imposing place, with many large houses and tall, fortified walls and structures. Boston was a city striving for grandness. This was a village.
Cambridge
, she read on a shop front—a lovely, English-sounding name.

The farther she walked through the village, the more she was enchanted. Even in the midst of war, Boston held to a grandeur that reminded her of London’s self-importance. Cambridge, on the other hand, held tastes of everything she had loved about England. And this was the perfect day to explore it, with the air sparkling from its recent scrubbing and the first hints of springtime green tracing new edges around the trees and shrubs. The houses were either splittimbered in the Elizabethan style or more staid and stalwart, dressed in stone and red brick. High-pitched roofs opened to dormer windows glinting merry and bejeweled, chimneys gave off woodsmoke, and the smells of morning meals lingered in the air. She heard a child’s laughter and smiled in reply. Truly this would be a very nice place to call home.

“Well, hello there, my darling missy!” A rakish man wearing a saber and double pistols across his chest doffed his hat and bowed so low the peacock feather in his brim scraped the earth. His mates chuckled at the theatrics, ogling her. “How’s about a kiss to greet the day?”

Not even this rudeness could ruin the day’s fine spirit. Despite their lack of uniforms, their stance and watchful gazes caused Nicole to approach and inquire, “Are you soldiers?”

“That we are, missy. That we are.” The man settled the hat back on his head, cocking it and grinning at her. Even with the dirt and the hour, the man presented a dashing look. “Unless you make it a point not to kiss soldiers. Then we’ll just have to be whatever it is that delights you.”

“I require a guide, sir. But I shall bestow my affection upon none save the lifelong companion chosen for me by my Lord.”

The man seemed taken aback by her poise and her response. “Then he is a lucky man.”

“Will you guide me?”

“That depends upon where you are headed.”

“I seek a word with the American military commander.” The man was no longer smiling. “You have business at garrison headquarters?”

“I do.”

“I make it a point not to get within cannon range of the officers. But for you, my fine lass, I will make an exception.”

The man dispersed his companions with a single motion of his hand. As he and Nicole walked toward the center of town, the soldier asked her, “From where do you come?”

“That, sir, is a difficult question to answer.” After a pause, she said, “Acadia to begin with, then by sea and overland to Louisiana. From there to Nova Scotia, and then to England. Then back to Nova Scotia and now here.”

“A lady who carries mystery in every word.” He pointed to a brick structure alongside a village green. The square was nearly lost beneath a neatly cordoned company of tents, weapons, flags, campfires, and men. “There’s the commandant’s quarters. What is your business there, if I might be so bold?”

“My true love—” Nicole said and had to stop. For saying it had brought a burning rush of emotion to her throat, and her eyes filled with tears. She quickly blinked them away and said, “Forgive me, good sir.”

“It’s been a long time since a pretty lass called me
good
. Tell me, has your beau run off for the army?”

She wondered if this man could perhaps help her.“May I trust you, sir?”

“Ah, now, if only you would,” he replied, but the smile was no longer rakish.

“My beau, as you call him, is being held at the British stockade as a traitor. I have come seeking answers. And help.”

The news pushed him back a step. “He was caught working for our boys—for us Americans?”

“That I do not know. But I think so, yes.” She struggled to form the words. “He is due to hang the day after tomorrow.”

“That is hard news. What is his name?”

“Captain Gordon Goodwind.”

“And yours?”

The question silenced her. What
was
her name? Who was she? Again tears threatened to force their way out. Questions and more questions.

The man moved in close and removed his hat. “It’s not an easy world, is it, miss?”

Nicole gave a tiny shudder in agreement. “No, not easy at all.”

“There’s something about you that makes me miss all the things I’ve lost since, well, since all this started.” The man looked down to where his fingers fumbled with his hat’s brim. “It’s a strange thing to say about a man facing the noose, but I’d count myself lucky to stand in his boots.” He then looked her in the eye and said, “You can trust me with your name, miss.”

“Very well,” she whispered. “I am the Viscountess Lady Nicole Harrow.”

By the time the soldier returned to escort her inside, there were faces in every window and more watching her from the front portico. “This way, your ladyship.”

“Please, I decry such titles. I used it only because the matter is so pressing.” She did her best to ignore all the eyes fixed on her. “Forgive me, sir, but I do not even know your name.”

“John Jackson, most recently of Philadelphia. And many’s the day I wish I never left. But today is not one of them.” He cocked his head and with a solemn look on his face said, “There’s something about you that makes me wish I was a far better man.”

“I sense there is more goodness about you than you give yourself credit for, Mr. Jackson.”

He led her up the stairs, through the throng of officers, and into one of the front rooms. “This is the lady herself, General.”

“Mitchell’s the name,” the man barked, not rising from his desk. “So you’re a duchess, do I have that right?”

“Viscountess, sir, but please—”

“And what might you have about your person to confirm this claim of yours?”

Nicole fumbled with the clasp of her cloak. Jackson was there to help her. Underneath she wore a day frock of emerald green, mud spattered and damp despite the cloak’s covering. Even so, the officer’s eyes widened at the evident grandeur of her gown. Nicole opened the leather carryall she had hung over her shoulder and extracted an oilskin pouch. From this she withdrew the oft-folded document. “Perhaps this will help to answer your questions, sir.”

The general eyed the document for a long moment before murmuring, “You carry a treaty signed by our Continental Congress. Why, I see here the signature of General Washington himself.”

Only when the whispered exclamations were heard did the general realize his door was still open. “I say there, get back to your duties! Shut that door, will you? What did you say your name was?”

“Jackson, sir. Sergeant Jackson.”

The general glanced down at the treaty again. “Harrow. Harrow. I know that name.”

“My uncle wished to help establish hostels for those made widows or homeless by the war.”

“Of course. I remember now. Sir Charles Harrow spoke up for us in the British Parliament.”

“That is correct.”

“You were there?”

“Yes, I had the honor.”

“Wish I’d seen it myself.” He stood and gestured to the chair. “You must excuse me, ma’am. To have a beautiful young lady arrive on my doorstep and declare herself to be both a viscountess and the champion of a man I thought a turncoat, well—”

Nicole cried, “You know Gordon?”

“I’ve met him, yes. Know him, no. Not at all. My first impression was that of a good man, an officer we could trust with a difficult and vital mission. Then the Frenchie we had assigned him as liaison returned to say that the man was nothing more than a spy, sent here to study our ranks and gather information for the coming British attack.”

“Please, sir, you must believe me. I do not know precisely what has happened, or even why Gordon came to you. But one thing I can say with all the certainty this heart can muster. If Captain Goodwind declared himself for you and your cause, he can be trusted with your life and the lives of all your men.”

The general appeared uncertain, even anxious. He said to Jackson, “Have my aide come in.”

The young officer must have been standing just outside the door, for he appeared at lightning speed. “You wanted me, sir?”

“What’s the name of that Frenchie we sent off with the English captain?”

“Robichaud, sir. Henri Robichaud.”

Nicole only managed to aim her collapse so that she fell onto a nearby chair and not the floor.

“A trustworthy chap, wouldn’t you say?” Then he must have noticed Nicole’s state. “What on earth’s the matter?”

“I . . . that is . . .” She felt the room swirling about her. “Forgive me.”

“You’ve gone white as a ghost.” From a side table the general poured her a glass of water. He brought it over and said, “Here, now.”

“Thank you,” she managed through stiff lips. Her mind raced frantically as she sipped.

“Do you know this Frenchie fellow?” the general asked.

“I . . . I am not certain. What was his name again, please?”

“Henri Robichaud,” the aide offered, eyeing her Janette Oke / T. Davis Bunn carefully. “He’s a good man, sir. Hates the British with a passion. Fine a fighter as they come.”

It could not be her father. It wasn’t possible. Yet her mind couldn’t escape the horror-stricken question that followed. What if it was? What possibly could have happened that might persuade her father to leave Louisiana and join the battle? Was her information false and had the British attacked the bayou country? What of her family?

Nicole realized the general was watching her. She handed back the glass and forced herself to present a calm fac ade. “Might I have a word with this—this French gentleman?”

The general turned to his aide, who responded, “He’s off to the north, sir. You sent him yourself. To await the arrival of the French troops.”

“Ah, yes, so I did.” He turned back to Nicole. “You say you know this Robichaud?”

“No, perhaps the name only sounded . . .” She let her words trail off. It just could not be!

“Right, then.” The general returned to his desk. “Much as I hate to see a good man swing, there is little we can do to rescue your officer gentleman. We are at war, and things are only going to heat up further once the spring season takes hold.” He picked up a silver letter knife and jabbed idly at his leather portfolio. “Don’t suppose you could give us any idea of the state of the British army.”

Focusing on the general and his words proved to be a difficult task. Finally Nicole answered, “I’m sorry, sir, but all I can tell you for certain is that Boston is swarming with troops.”

“That’s no help at all, I’m afraid.”

“Begging the general’s pardon,” Sergeant Jackson piped in. “Perhaps I could travel across with the lady here and have a look around.” He glanced over. “That is, if you’ll be returning to Boston.”

“At dusk,” Nicole confirmed. She had a thousand questions. But they would have to wait. She had no choice but to force these new worries to the back of her mind. Gordon’s life was what mattered at the moment.