Paxton's War (38 page)

Later that afternoon when Joy returned to Rianne McClagan's home, she found the seamstress and her niece in the workshop, busy with their needlepoint while listening to a man who, for all practical purposes, had the appearance of a pirate. His left eye was covered with a patch, his lined face was marred by a series of deep scars, and a majority of his teeth were missing. Even worse, he smelled as if he was in immediate need of a soapy bath.

“This is my friend Jeth Darney,” Colleen said, introducing the bizarre-looking old man to a curious Joy. “He's just come in from New York with news of the war.”

“Aye, and 'tis a treacherous time,” Jeth said excitedly as he sipped a tall glass of sherry provided by Rianne. “Traitors and turncoats—that's what they're discovering. Before I snuck onto the good ship
Suffolk
—the one that's sitting right there in Charleston Harbor—by bribing the bleeding British cook, I heard me enough to fill a book, I did. The worst is about Major General Benedict Arnold. You've heard of him, ladies, haven't you?”

“Yes, of course,” Rianne replied, looking up from her needlepoint.

“He's the commanding officer of the Continental forces that reoccupied Philadelphia earlier this year,” Colleen stated.

“
Was
. And is no longer. Right now he's fighting for the British.”

“What?” Colleen exclaimed.

“So help me God, ma'am. He sold the Hudson River to the Crown, he did. Some months ago, I was told, General Washington, who's no one's fool, caught Arnold with his hand in the sweets' jar. He was misusing public funds. Seems as if Arnold had found himself a young bride—Peggy Shippen by name—twenty years his junior, with an eye for fancy clothes—no reflection on you, Miss Rianne—and glittering jewels. Peggy, they say, is something of a Tory. Anyways, as we all know, a woman can do strange things to the mind of men, especially between the marriage sheets. Not that it was completely Peggy's fault. Not at all. The two of them were connivers and somehow figured out how to win back Washington's trust. Arnold convinced the general to give him command of West Point. Meanwhile—and methinks it was because the bills were piling up from pretty Peggy's purchases—Arnold was strapped for coin and began, if you can believe it, a correspondence with a certain British major, John André, head of all the Crown's spies here in the colonies.”

“Mr. Darney, how do you know all this? How can you be certain what you say is true?” Joy asked skeptically.

“Certain as I'm sitting here looking at you, missy. You see, this here André fellow was captured not long ago in Tarrytown, New York, and inside his stockings they found these letters from Arnold. It was all there, in cold black and white. Arnold, that worthless scum, was planning to turn over the whole bloody fort at West Point to the British in return for a commission from the Crown to fight on its side.”

“Has Arnold been apprehended?” Colleen asked.

“I'm afraid not. Word of André's arrest got to him in time and the traitor escaped. He's fighting for King George now, he is.”

“That's horrible,” Joy said, thinking of everything that Peter had told her about the English army.

“What of André?” asked Rianne.

“Oh, he'll swing from a tree. Clinton will try to convince Washington otherwise, but old George won't forget our Nathan Hale—did they give him a chance, and did they even grant him a trial?—and there'll be no pity wasted on André.”

“My God,” Colleen said softly, remembering her disquieting encounter with Buckley earlier in the day, “our own officers are deserting the cause.”

“Arnold's an ugly exception,” Jeth said spiritedly. “I've heard of no others, and besides, with five thousand Frenchmen to boost the Continental Army, all's far from lost. The rebels are hungry for a big victory, and speaking of food, Miss Rianne”—he paused, draining his glass of sherry and casting his one good eye around for the bottle—“might I prepare a feast for you lovely ladies tonight? Miss Colleen and her good father used to claim I was the best cook in all the colonies. If you've a little lamb or mutton, I've just the recipe to set your hearts a-dancing. What say ye?”

“I say you're looking for a free meal, Jeth Darney, and, under those terms, I'm pleased to give you one—that is, if you'll go out and bathe before you begin cooking.”

“Wouldn't do it any other way.” He smiled while scratching his head. “And if it wouldn't make any difference to you, ma'am, I might just sleep down in your basement tonight, as I've done before, making no disturbance or …”

“How long do you plan to be in Charleston?” Rianne asked.

“Oh, I won't be bothering you for more than a few nights. I'll slip back down around the harbor tomorrow and see which way the winds are blowing. I was able to sell a few items to a rebel acquaintance earlier this morning, so I'm fixed for a while. Some dandy muskets and knives I liberated from the
Suffolk
. Didn't get nearly the price I deserved, but that's the cost of patriotism. The problem is, what with this Benedict Arnold business, it's getting harder to tell friend from foe, if you catch my drift.”

“I do,” Colleen said, feeling increasingly anxious about the state of affairs.

Chapter 8

The Monday before Jason's recital, Ethan Paxton arrived back in Brandborough, where a number of people stopped him on the street to warn him of English and Tory troops in the area conducting house-to-house searches. Paxton took the news in stride, too preoccupied with the death of his daughter to grow alarmed. Roy McClagan, who rode next to him, reacted with more apparent apprehension. His deep-seated fear of the English returned in the form of a nervous stomach. Yet, what could be worse than his experience of the past days and nights? His most pressing concern was for Colleen.

“I must ride to Charleston,” he said to Ethan as the two men entered the Paxton home. They stood facing one another in the foyer.

“We'll make the trip together,” Ethan promised. “No matter how despicable their political persuasions, I must tell Joy and Jason about their sister. But not today. You and I both need at least a night's rest. I can see in your face that you haven't slept in days. Let me show you to a bedroom.”

“I prefer to leave immediately,” Roy said. “I fear for my daughter's safety.”

“She's a rebel, isn't she?” Ethan asked, shocking McClagan with the directness of the question.

“I fear she is,” the doctor answered, too weary to be anything but honest. “And, strangely enough, she is enamored of your son.”

Paxton, still weak with grief himself, shook his head. The world was so strange, so unfathomable. His Tory son, McClagan's rebel daughter. In spite of everything, though, he felt a deep bond with the doctor—for his dedication and courage in trying to save those lives; for the fact that, like himself, he was a father who loved his daughter; for the notion that their children might well be in love with one another. “All our differences,” Ethan said, “seem so insignificant.”

“In the face of death,” the stoop-shouldered physician added, “all things appear insignificant.”

A half hour later, in the privacy of their separate bedrooms, the gentle doctor cried himself to sleep while the rugged farmer stared into space.

Piero Sebastiano Ponti, dashing about the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, took an especially hefty snort of his special-blend snuff. He looked at the engraved invitation that he had just received by messenger and called Robin.

“Trouble with the stew?” asked the potbellied instrument maker who arrived from his workshop holding a metal file.

“Read this, if you will.”

Robin looked over the engraved invitation and raised an eyebrow. “Strange that we should receive this after a personal aide to Major Embleton came by yesterday to request our presence.”

“Last time we received no invitation whatsoever,” Piero remembered. “Jason simply brought us along.”

“It's as if they're almost
too
anxious to have us attend,” Robin observed. “Do you smell something wrong, my friend?”

Piero sniffed, feeling the effects of his snuff. “In truth, I don't know what to think. Perhaps we should mention this to Jason.”

“I'm reluctant to disturb him. He's been practicing for two straight days now, though I can tell by the sounds that he's still struggling. A distraction would not be beneficial.”

“As long as you're convinced that nothing's wrong,” Piero said.

“Who can be convinced of anything these days? Suspicion is more rampant than the swarms of our famous Carolina swamp mosquitoes. We've all been bitten by the bug. Perhaps, though, it's merely a matter of Embleton's being better organized this time around, what with the city so neatly under his thumb. You weren't considering not attending, were you?”

“Perish the thought! Wherever Jason goes, go I. I was only fearful that …”

“Yes, I understand, but we'll simply have to live with our fears, and carry on as best we can.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I understand that tomorrow evening Jason Paxton is giving a recital,” Captain Peter Tregoning said as he stopped Major Randall Embleton in the halls of the Old Customs Exchange.

“Yes, yes,” the flatfooted superior said in a huff, avoiding Peter's eyes.

“Not wanting to appear out of place, Major, but I was just wondering, since I consider Paxton to be not only my friend, but a dear friend of my family in England, whether I might be expecting an invitation?”

Embleton thought quickly. He had intentionally struck Tregoning's name from the list, knowing full well that he and the musician were chums. Having learned that the captain had been seen with Paxton's sister, he'd also excluded him from all sensitive planning sessions. These associations with the rebel family meant that the captain could no longer be trusted. Stories of Benedict Arnold had reached the major. Allegiances were short-lived. On the other hand, Embleton certainly didn't want to cause Peter any alarm. If he were in cahoots with Paxton, he might well tip him off. No, that wouldn't do at all.

“You received no invitation? A silly oversight. I'll reprimand my secretary at once. I look forward to seeing you there. Good day, Captain.”

“Thank you, Major,” Peter said, saluting sharply.

After dinner, Colleen went to see Jason. Robin was reluctant to disturb him, but the concern on her face caused him to change his mind. He called the musician down from the music library to the parlor.

When Jason entered the room, looking thinner and more withdrawn than usual, Colleen dashed to his side, as if he were in grave danger. They embraced and, as he held her body, he could feel her shaking. Filled with their own fears, Piero and Robin remained for the discussion that followed.

Colleen told of her visit from Buckley Somerset and Jeth Darney, reporting each incident in ample and careful detail. When she was through, Robin relayed the story of their double invitations. Jason listened to them all intensely.

“Colleen, Rianne McClagan, my sister Joy, Robin, and Piero …” Jason reflected—“… it seems rather obvious that he wants everyone there.”

“Why?” Piero asked nervously. “That's the question.”

“My mind has been so concentrated on my music,” Jason confessed, “I've had to brush all other concerns aside.”

“Yet the concerns are here, Jason,” Colleen said.

For a long while, Jason thought. Was it
really
that unusual? Or was Embleton not merely being polite, wanting to show one and all that an original work by a distinguished composer had been written and would be debuted while the city was under his enlightened command? He knew that Piero was certainly an alarmist, and could have easily set off Robin. Colleen might well be suffering a relapse of her fears from the hanging of Ephraim Kramer. Besides, it was too late. What could he do at this point?

“Cancel the recital,” Colleen said. “I beg you.”

“And give Embleton a real reason to suspect me?” he asked.

“I'm afraid,” she said, moving from her chair to his, falling at his knees and grasping his hand. “I'm afraid something dreadful will happen. I feel it in my bones.”

Jason looked into her bright amber eyes and saw the fear. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her gently and then speaking confidently in a reassuring voice. “Last week 'twas I who expressed such doubts. Now that my outlook has brightened, yours has dimmed. It seems as if this business of fear changes hands as quickly as a thief's ill-begotten lolly. But all of us must remember”—he raised his voice, casting an eye at Piero and Robin—“that we aren't thieves. We have stolen nothing. Our cause is just. Our aim is true. Our challenge is formidable. To meet that challenge is to conquer the fear that lurks within. Anything else is defeat.”

Stirred by his noble sentiments and sweet, sloped eyes, Colleen was persuaded by Jason's words.

Later, in the home of her aunt, alone in bed, she heard the sound of scattered musket fire breaking through the thick silence of night and slept not a wink, thinking how much this man meant to her, how futile life would seem without him, how she loved him with all her heart and soul, how she longed for him—now and evermore.

“Master Buckley,” announced one of the house slaves who had known him ever since he was born, “your mother is here.”

Somerset, who had been taking an afternoon nap in his bedroom at Somerset Hall, leaped to his feet. “What!”

“Yessuh, with Mr. Windrow an' Mr. Simkins, suh. They jus' come in.”

Buckley threw off his sleeping gown, threw on some clothes, and raced down the great staircase. Waiting for him at the bottom, her bejeweled black cane by her side, her arms opened, ready to embrace her son, was Miranda Somerset, looking remarkably vibrant and young.