Paxton's War (23 page)

“I see my message reached you, Paxton,” Major Randall Embleton announced the next morning in his office. “Decent of you to drop by. Care for a spot of tea? I'll have my aide fetch you a cup.”

“Thank you kindly, Major,” Jason said, curious to learn why he had been summoned to Embleton's massive, messy office in the Old Customs Exchange. He wasn't really concerned that the English official might suspect him, though naturally he was on guard. He welcomed this new opportunity to look over the papers, maps, and plans that were invariably scattered about.

“Care to drop in on your brother-in-law, Paxton?”

“I think not. I'm afraid a visit from me is of little comfort to him.”

“So I assumed, but I was hoping nonetheless that you'd encourage him to behave. Because he's a relation of yours, I've gone out of my way to tolerate the bloke. But he's becoming more and more difficult. My men say he's a swift pain, practically daring us to flog him. Well, we'll flog him all right. We'll do a lot worse than that if he doesn't behave. Why can't he and the other obstinate rebels understand that the more they curse, the more I'll see them bleed? I'd have thought that the elimination of the old printer would have demonstrated something. Well, at least we haven't heard a chirp from the Sandpiper since Kramer was hanged. I'm pleased to say that I've put those half-literate broadsides to a stop.”

Jason suppressed an angry response and welcomed the arrival of Embleton's aide with a tray of tea as an opportunity to change the subject. He understood that his brother-in-law's life was threatened, and yet the one way to save him—to free him from prison—was something he hadn't yet devised.

Benson left quickly, and the major, his large stomach protruding in rolls from the tight waistband of his uniform, dropped the subject of Allan Coleridge with a final comment. “It's clear,” he said to Jason, “that you've as little interest in that ruffian's welfare as I.”

Content to allow the matter to rest there, Jason veered the conversation toward military history. Playing to the major's vanity, Jason encouraged Embleton to demonstrate his familiarity with the great battles of the Middle Ages. His long, self-satisfied monologue, accompanied by his usual practice of pontificating while parading back and forth, gave his guest ample opportunity to scan the office. Ten minutes later, it took a loud rap at the door to interrupt him.

“Enter,” he ordered.

Buckley Somerset, a scarlet-plumed hat upon his periwigged head, his hand on his hip, stood in the doorway with a sly smile on his face. Oddly enough, his waistcoat, vest, and trousers were covered with a fine film of dust, and even more peculiar, he smelled of smoke.

He was surprised to see Paxton, yet ignored him. Nothing could spoil the good news he had come to report to Embleton. “You'll be pleased to learn, Major, that the Bronson farm has been burned to the ground.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed the Englishman. “You saved us the trouble.”

“A group of my own men, organized and led by me, attacked only a few hours ago. We found that the damned rebel farmer had been hiding grain and livestock marked for requisiton. We took possession of the cattle and grain and transported it to one of our plantations just north of the city. We await your further orders, Major.”

“A job well done, Somerset. You local gents have a feeling for who's hiding what around here. You're to be commended. Of course you know young Paxton.”

“The tunesmith?” He laughed, instinctively touching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I've known him since he was a young schoolboy tripping over his own gawky legs.”

“Well, I'm glad you're both here,” said Embleton, “because you're precisely the two men I've been considering for a critical post I've decided to create. Commander of the Continental Tory Militia—that's what I shall call it. A brigade of rough-and-ready men to supplement our efforts in the Brandborough and Charleston areas, and beyond. What do you say to the idea?”

“Bloody good,” Buckley blurted out, “but why you'd consider the harpsichordist here is beyond me. I'm not certain he knows the difference between a musket and a baton.”

“Indeed he does.” Embleton rose to Jason's defense. “We've had long discussions on military matters, and the gentleman is as well versed as anyone I've encountered in the colonies. He knows his weapons as well as his symphonies, and, what's more, he has the respect of the region's most prominent Tories.”

“Begging to differ with you, Major,” argued Somerset, “but those very people, my dear colleagues, barely know who he is.”

Alarmed by the conversation, Jason felt obliged to speak, addressing his remarks to Embleton. “I'm flattered by the consideration, but honesty requires that I represent myself as a musician, not a soldier.”

“Nonsense, Paxton,” Embleton retorted. “There's no sweeter music you could make than the patter of patriotic rabble being put to flight. You're very much in the running, lad. I shall take but a few weeks to make my decision,” he said, looking back and forth between the two men and obviously savoring the competition he was provoking between them. “I'll announce the appointment at the costume ball, which your grandparents, Somerset, are so graciously hosting.”

“I'm afraid,” Jason was quick to add, his mind plotting schemes, “that I've not been invited to the gala.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Embleton insisted. “An obvious oversight on Somerset's part. Am I right?”

Buckley hesitated for a second, saw there was nothing he could do, and said, “Why, certainly he's welcome to attend. If one of the flautists falls ill, Paxton could be especially valuable.”

“Yes, yes,” said the major, dabbing at his lips with a silk kerchief. “Now you two run off. I've a full day ahead. Our prisons are overflowing with rebel scum who grow more unruly each day. They and the beastly heat make the colonies intolerable this time of year. Oh, to be back in London and the seat of civilization! Good day, good day.”

Outside, in front of the gates of Old Customs Exchange, Jason and Buckley stood together for a brief moment.

“I warn you,” Somerset said, jabbing his finger into Paxton's chest, “stay away from her at the ball.”

“Stay away from whom?”

“Colleen McClagan. She'll be attending with me—at her own request, I might add, and she'd not appreciate any distractions from the likes of you.”

“I wouldn't think of it. I respect your privacy far too much to interfere with any private matters you might be negotiating. Though the other day you seemed to be having a bit of trouble with your newest paramour—what with your carriage running wild. I'd have sworn you'd lost your breeches, just as you lost your purse at the picnic. Do take better care of yourself, Buckley,” Jason said before bidding good-bye to a flabbergasted and infuriated Somerset.

Chapter 5

“You'll not tarry in this room another moment,” Rianne insisted as Colleen turned from her reverie at the window, her movements slow and weighted with self-pity. “Now mark me well, Colleen McClagan,” said Rianne. “I've coddled and cradled you long enough. It's been a month since you've closed yourself up in my house, pouting about and feeling sorry for yourself. I'll have no more of it. I thought I was helping by letting you be, but now I see that my lenient attitude has allowed you to fall into a dangerous state of melancholy. Melancholy is understandable. 'Tis part of the lives we must lead, but you've gone too far. You're indulging yourself in melancholy much as the obese man indulges himself in sweetbread. Such indulgences lead to sloth, surrender, and, even worse, early death. If you prefer not to live, have the courtesy to extinguish yourself quickly. But please do not drag out the ordeal in this perfectly lovely bedroom. Do you hear me? Is my meaning clear?”

“I know you mean well, dear Auntie, but …”

“Save your drooling affection for another day. I'm not interested in sentiment now, Colleen, I'm interested in work. There's but one decent remedy for melancholy, and that's forthright, diligent, God-fearing work. Will you work now, woman, or not?”

“I … I …”

“Good. You've made the right choice. You'll select your outfit for the day, and then you'll walk downstairs, where you'll assist me, beginning now. There are costumes to make, dozens of costumes, and none more important than the one that you'll be wearing. I have every clever seamstress in Charleston due here within the hour, and I'll not have them find you in this state.”

“Costumes? For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of not attending the Somerset costume ball in a state of undress.”

“Oh, that. I completely put it out of my mind.”

“Well, put it back in, because you're going,” Rianne said as she helped her niece out of her nightgown and into her undergarments. “And Buckley Somerset is to be your escort,”

“You're jesting.”

“Not in the least.”

“I refuse.”

“You can't. You're the one who requested that he be your gentleman for the evening.”

“How is it possible?”

“Through Rianne McClagan, all things are possible. I made the request in your name.”

“You're no better than my father.”

“You'll find that I'm a good deal worse. I consider myself far more ingenious.”

“And if I refuse to go?” Colleen asked with a sign of the old defiant spirit in her voice.

“Then you'll be sent home.”

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Somerset was a convenient ploy to convince my brother to leave you here, a ploy, I'd dare say, with which you yourself are most familiar.”

“It'll be horrid.”

“It'll be a splendid evening. The Somerset Ball is the event of the season.”

“They're the most sinister Tories in South Carolina, and you know it.”

“Indeed I do. But what you don't know is for that one evening identities will be so confused as to render the line between Loyalist and Patriot most insignificant. You'll be surprised just who will attend. Even I will be going. Some of my wealthier patrons have secured an invitation for me. They want me there in the event that their costumes require repair during the evening. But come, finish dressing. There's work to be done. I'm satisfied to see you agitated. By week's end, I intend to agitate you a great deal more.”

Week's end came quickly for Colleen. The shop was bustling as her aunt overwhelmed her and the other six seamstresses with work. Rianne eliminated all discussions of worldly and metaphysical matters. Customers, among those the city's most prominent citizens, came in to check on the progress of their costumes, and, for each, Rianne had a kind and comforting word. At the same time, she let the client know firmly that she'd appreciate not being bothered again, and that, without further interference, the deadline would be met.

“Aside from the Christmas season, the Somerset Ball provides me with the year's largest income,” she told her niece one night after the other ladies had left. Aunt and niece sat at a large worktable, Rianne sewing furiously, while Colleen, like the assistant to a surgeon, passed her needles and threads, buttons and bows. Rianne was careful to involve Colleen in certain aesthetic decisions involving color, fabric, and design, but when her niece complained that she was tired and wanted to rest in her room, the older woman flatly refused. “You're to stay here and work,” she insisted.

Rianne knew what she was doing. While Colleen's melancholy did not fade immediately, her energy began to surge slowly. She responded to the challenge—the dozens of small tasks, the fact that she was accomplishing something, albeit stitching a collar to a dress. The nightmare was not yet over. Her mind was still plagued by her responsibility for Ephraim Kramer's death, but her aunt's demands dominated her days. She had no choice but to chase after a bolt of blue cotton or a piece of lace. The bustle of the busy shop had a not unpleasant rhythm. “Hurry!” Rianne demanded, working with the speed of a rabbit and the tenacity of a beaver. “And when you've found the fabric, you'd do well to make us all a bit of lunch. We'll eat right here at the table. No time for dallying, not now.”

Thus went the daily routine. They awoke at daybreak, worked with the hired helpers all morning, all afternoon, and, when alone for the night, by lantern and candlelight, they labored on. Rianne made a list of the various costumes and posted it on the wall so everyone could see what progress had been made, and the amount of work still to be done. No doubt, there was drudgery to the tasks, especially since Colleen's contributions were essentially secondary. There was also a distinctly creative side to the activity that awakened her dormant imagination. The costumes themselves were marvels of invention as they hung around the shop in various stages of completion—the shepherdess outfit, the Renaissance courtier, Neptune and Nero, mermaids and barmaids, and soldiers of fortune. No matter how great her desire to retreat to the bedroom, Colleen couldn't help but imagine the effect the outlandish costumes would have on the partygoers. Little by little, in spite of Buckley Somerset, she found herself anticipating the evening with a degree of pleasure. For the first time in over a month, she was actually looking forward to something, and that, Rianne noted with satisfaction, was progress.

Considering everything, all work was going well until late one Friday afternoon when Colleen happened to glance out the window and caught a glimpse of Jason driving by inside a carriage with Piero and Robin. She thought of waving, of running from the house to stop the carriage so that she might speak with him. Instead, she did nothing. She'd sworn not to see him, not even to think of him. But think of him she did. For the remainder of the afternoon and late into the night, she dreamed of his gentle fingers and sleepy eyes and the fugue they had played together, she and he, outside of time, deep in the recesses of a green ravine known only to them.