Law, Susan Kay (4 page)

"Better not let Father catch you smiling at them like
that." Brendan's soft voice coming from the shadows in the corner startled
her; she hadn't thought anyone would notice.

"I'm not smiling at them."

He puffed on his pipe, the rich scent of tobacco drifting to her.
"Oh?"

"Of course not."

Arching one dark brow skeptically, he waited.

"I was smiling at him," she admitted.

"Him?"

"Lieutenant Leighton."

Brendan shook his head in mock sadness. "Elizabeth,
Elizabeth. You of all people should be immune to handsome faces, large brawny
bodies, and empty heads. I'd thought you'd learned to appreciate finer, more
subtle men."

"Men who have some of the same qualities as, say, you have,
perhaps?"

"Exactly."

Laughing, she reached for a big pewter tankard. "Can I get
you something to drink?"

"You didn't really think I'd say no, did you?"

She carefully poured fragrant hard cider into the mug. "It's
not that I appreciate him, you know—at least, not the way you meant. But how
can you not smile at him? He's so happy. So simply happy."

Brendan reached around her for a bottle and added the hefty
portion of dark rum that turned the cider into a "stone wall."
"Simply happy? You think so?"

"You don't?"

He took a long sip of his drink. "Is anything ever really
that uncomplicated, Elizabeth?"

"He is," Bennie said with conviction.

"Maybe."

Elizabeth filled her own mug with cider and leaned against the
wall next to Brendan, studying his fine, dark profile. Of all her brothers,
Brendan was the one she felt closest to, perhaps because they were the two
Jones progeny who were different from the rest.

"I'm sorry, Brendan." She traced the rim of her tankard
with her forefinger. "About what Dad said about wondering how he produced
you, I mean."

Brendan took a sip and leaned his head back against the wall.
"It's nothing new, Elizabeth."

It wasn't. In the Jones family, a man was judged by his size and
his brawn. Brendan wasn't exactly small, but he was definitely on the lean
side. What no one seemed to appreciate was that his clear, brilliant mind was
the equal of anyone's anywhere. Bennie knew he'd wanted desperately to go to
Harvard and test himself among others who loved to think and learn but even if
Da had had the money to send him, both Bennie and Brendan knew he never would.
Cadwallader Jones would consider it a complete waste; a man should be working,
not thinking.

"I know it isn't," she said softly. "Still—"

"Never mind, Elizabeth. That wound has been scarred over for
so long I scarcely feel the pricking anymore."

"I just wish he would... I don't know. Stop expecting you to
be like him."

"He's not going to change. I stopped hoping he would a long
time ago." He pushed himself off the wall and grinned at her. "Now,
enough of the diversionary tactics. Are you going to tell me you're really
interested in that big lug?"

"I wouldn't say interested. I just feel kind of sorry for
him. I wonder what he was like before his accident."

"Ah. So you're simply picking up strays again, is that it?
Mother will be so disappointed. She's only been trying to marry you off for six
years or so."

"Oh, stop." She gave him a small shove. "At least
that's six years fewer than she's been trying to find a wife for you. After
all, you're the only other never-married person over the age of twenty in New
Wexford."

"I know." He placed his hand theatrically over his
heart. "I'm 'in violation of God's command to multiply,' as Mother so
frequently reminds me. But who would want to marry a poor printer like
me?"

"Poor? You do a fine business, and you know it. The next
nearest printer is all the way to Boston."

"I'm sure the right woman for me is all the way in Boston,
too."

"Well, then, I guess we're stuck, aren't we? Mother will just
have to do with the grandchildren she gets from the rest of the family."
Across the room, Rufus waved for more beer. "I'd better get back to
work."

***

The evening wore on; candles guttered in their holders, and the
chill wind screamed outside the Eel. Inside it was tense and quiet; a night of
steady drinking, uninterrupted by the customary conversation, left the
colonials a little drunker than usual. The equally unaccustomed proximity of
British soldiers left them a little angrier than usual, and a little more
inclined to try and get rid of these unwelcome interlopers by any means
necessary.

Whispers and murmurs simmered around the room. Nerves were
stretched taut, and Cadwallader was torn between the anticipation of a bloody
good brawl and apprehension that his tavern would get smashed in the process.

The redcoats seemed oblivious to the colonials' hostility. They
sipped their drinks, turning to beer after they finished the flips. Finally,
Captain Livingston stood to leave, his men scrambling to their feet after him,
and Cad and his customers heaved a collective sigh of relief.
At last.

Livingston waved curtly, signaling Cadwallader. A bit miffed at
the abrupt summons, Cad was nevertheless so happy about getting these intruders
out of his place he hurried over.

"Yes? What would you be wanting now, Captain?"

The captain carefully brushed imaginary dust from his stained
uniform. "First, I'm assuming there will be no charge for the rest of the
drinks."

"And just why would you assume that? You owe me four
shillings."

"How many of your customers actually pay you in hard
coin?" Livingston asked, pointedly glancing around the room.

"Not many," Cad acknowledged. "But all trade me
useful goods or services. What have you to offer?"

"You are all ready receiving the services of the British
army. There is no need to offer them for barter."

"I say there is."

"We are here for your protection."

"Protection! Bah!" Cad planted his fists squarely on his
hips. "You are here for our persecution. The Quartering Act is no longer
in effect, and the people of Massachusetts are under no obligation to provide
for your upkeep. And we have no need of your protection. We are all perfectly
capable of protecting our own."

"Ah." Livingston held up one long thin finger.
"That brings me to one more thing: It has come to my attention that it is
nearly time for your annual mustering of the local militia."

"Yes." Cad said, wondering why the captain had broached
the subject.

"It will not take place."

"What!" Cad drew himself up to his full height. "It
most certainly will. There has been a yearly mustering on the common as long as
there has been a New Wexford."

"It is no longer necessary. The British army is here to
protect you now."

"It is our right as free men and English citizens to see to
our own protection. It is a man's business to take care of the safety of his
family. I would trust no one else."

"You will trust us." The three privates suddenly formed
a solid line behind their captain, standing rigidly at attention, their hands
hovering close to the short swords strapped at their waists. A few seconds
later, Lieutenant Leighton stumbled over to join them, bumping only one of the
soldiers before finding his own spot and stiffening his large body.

"I am ordering you—all of you," the captain said,
sweeping his arm to encompass the entire room. "There will be no mustering
of the militia in New Wexford."

All the men in the room surged to their feet, their anger palpable
in the suddenly seething air.

"There will be," Cad stated with utter implacability.

"It was an order, Jones. You are British subjects."

"We are Americans, sir," Cad said proudly.

A small smile played about the corners of the captain's thin lips.
"We shall see." He turned to leave, his men following him in perfect,
sharp formation. Even Lieutenant Leighton was barely a shade out of step, and
no one doubted he had the strength to use his weapon.

"Oh, yes," Livingston said, as if it was an
afterthought. "Any protests from the Sons of Liberty will be dealt with
most severely."

"The Sons of Liberty?" Cad asked warily. "Why would
you think any of us would know one of them? Everyone knows they are
headquartered at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern in Boston."

"Boston is only fifteen miles away, Jones. Not so far for
such radicals to travel."

"I know nothing about them."

The captain chuckled softly. "Well, perhaps if you should
happen to run across one, you could pass on the message. They but play at
politics and war. They are dealing with soldiers now."

His carriage proud and confident, he strode out the door.

Lieutenant Leighton was the last to leave. He whirled abruptly,
throwing himself slightly off balance, and grabbed the doorframe to brace
himself. The night was black and thick. Cold air crept in around his big body,
seeping across the planked floor of the tavern, ruffling the flames of the
tallow candles.

He swung his head from side to side, like an animal searching a
new clearing, seeking prey or danger. Finally, his gaze fixed on the spot near
the back where Bennie waited, watching them leave. His eyes brightened and his
broad, happy grin spread once more across his strong-boned face.

"Good-bye, Bennie-girl."

***

The other men would call him traitor. He called himself prudent.

Thoughtfully, he watched the British leave. So that was the new
ranking officer in the area. His contact would not change, of course; in fact,
the captain would never know he existed unless it became essential. Still, he
was glad to have the opportunity to see Livingston in action. One never knew
what necessity would bring.

The captain was pompous, certainly. What he didn't know was
whether that pride would become a problem. Could Livingston put it aside and do
what needed to be done? At least the captain had intelligence. It could be
worse.

He didn't know who could be trusted yet, he decided. It was too
soon to tell, and too important a decision to be made quickly and carelessly.
He would continue to listen, to gather bits of information and pass them on. He
would watch, and wait.

The important thing was to be careful. That, and to stop this
madness before it went too far, to stomp out the small, isolated fires before
they burst into a wild conflagration that would bring only one thing.

War.

Bennie tightened her grip on the handle of her leather case and
took a cautious step down the stairs. She paused, listening. It was quiet. She
continued stealthily on, placing her weight carefully on the old boards, trying
to avoid causing any telltale creaks.

The last thing she wanted was for one of her family to catch her
before she slipped out of the house. If her father found her, she'd be put to
work instead of allowed to go off by herself. If her brothers caught her,
they'd tease her unmercifully. If her mother saw her—well, that didn't bear
thinking about.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she peered both ways, into the
dark, quiet dining room to her left and the silent, meticulously polished
parlor on her right. Both rooms were empty. She had only to slip across the few
steps to the door and then through the small clearing in front of the house
without being seen and she was free.

The door opened. Bennie froze; it was too late.

"Hello, Mother."

"Elizabeth." Mary glided into the house, her market
basket tucked over her arm, and quietly shut the door behind her. "I was
just down at Rufus's store, and look what I found." She stopped, finally
glancing up from her basket and getting a good look at her daughter. "Oh,
Elizabeth," she said, her lyrical voice tinged with disappointment.
"What are you wearing?"

Bennie glanced down at her loose linen shirt, breeches, and
scuffed boots. "Clothes, I believe."

"I thought we decided you weren't going to wear breeches
anymore."

"No, Mother,
you
decided. I decided I would wear them
only when skirts made things difficult. Besides, think of how many yards of
material we're saving by my wearing trousers instead of a dress."

"Elizabeth." Mary reached up, her slender hand elegantly
graceful, and gently smoothed one of the disobedient curls escaping Bennie's
braid. "I don't understand why you won't even try. You are so statuesque.
With the proper clothes, you could really be quite striking."

Statuesque. Striking. Resigned, Elizabeth smiled at her dainty,
petite, and utterly ladylike mother. Only a few strands of gray threaded the
dark, smooth, shiny mass of her mother's hair, neatly woven into a tight bun.
Not a stray hair escaped.

Bennie was nothing like her mother, and she knew it. Her dark eyes
were the only feature she could say she'd inherited from Mary; everything else
came from Cad.