Pirate's Bride (Liberty's Ladies) (41 page)

“I do.” Bethlyn recalled meeting the man at a New Year’s party at Cynthia’s, and she thought he looked familiar to her until she remembered she’d seen him at the secret meeting at Simpson House. Like Ian, Forrest pretended to be a loyalist and now he’d been found out. “I’m quite sorry to hear about him.”

“Not half as sorry as I am. Forrest is the second man to be arrested this past week. Jacob Dennery was carted off to the Walnut Street Prison on Monday. I believe you met him at Shippens House.”

Why was Ian looking at her like she was some sort of an insect under a microscope about to be dissected? She didn’t care for this at all, growing nervous because he believed she was hiding something. “Yes, I did.” Dennery was another supposed loyalist whom she’d recognized at the secret meeting.

“Aren’t you a bit surprised, Bethlyn? After all, you have no reason not to believe they weren’t loyal to the king.”

“I’m very sorry for your friends, but nothing surprises me any longer.”

“Ah, then you won’t be too surprised or care too much if I should be the next man arrested on the list.”

“List? Someone has a list of names?” Her heart jumped in her chest at the thought. Suppose someone had learned about Ian and he was taken away from her? She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

He lifted an eyebrow, his face tense. “Maybe.”

“Ian…”

Moving quickly from behind the desk, he opened the door for her. “I have a great deal to do this afternoon. Give Molly my regards. And don’t wait supper for me. I shall be late.”

Bethlyn uttered her farewell, sensing that he wasn’t that busy. He was too angry and disappointed with her to even speak to her another moment. And there was something else which accounted for his brusqueness, the mistrust she read in his eyes. But what?

Stepping into the carriage Molly told her she didn’t feel like shopping today and could they please return home. Suddenly Bethlyn didn’t want to shop anyway, only too glad to order the carriage back to Edgecomb, welcoming Molly’s silence. All Bethlyn could think about was losing Ian.

~ ~ ~

Thomas Paine glanced up from the papers in his hand, his brows knitted into a frown when his gaze settled on Bethlyn, who sat across the desk from him.

“You’re serious about having your poems published, Mrs. Briston.”

“Yes, I am. I can see from your expression that you’re not exactly pleased. Are they very bad?”

“No, not all. In fact, your poetry is excellent, and I’m quite certain that if the poems are published, the Dove will be a success, and the British will be beside themselves, trying to discover the Dove’s identity.”

Bethlyn clutched her fox muff in her hands and licked her lips in nervousness. “Thank you for the praise, Mr. Paine. I was undecided whether to approach you on this matter, but having recently read your pamphlet Common Sense, a piece I much admired, I decided to visit you. I do hope you aren’t upset that I came to your home today unannounced.”

Paine leaned back in his chair and smiled a wary smile at Bethlyn, who made a becoming picture as she sat near the window, the soft sunlight of a late January afternoon highlighting her natural beauty. “I assure you that I welcome your visit, Mrs. Briston, but, if I recall, Common Sense was published anonymously. Why do you credit me with the piece?”

Bethlyn looked away, feeling the color rise to her cheeks. She couldn’t very well tell the man that she’d overheard Ian speaking to Marc about Paine’s pamphlet. In fact, she’d been blatantly eavesdropping, actually pressing her ear to the library door to discover why Ian never stayed at home nights anymore. She knew about his secret meetings, but she doubted the men met more than once a week. So where did he go when he left home?

The eavesdropping hadn’t answered that question, but she did hear about Paine and decided to approach him on the publication of her poems after secretly obtaining and reading a copy of his Common Sense. Now she felt ungodly stupid, hating to lie to him, so she skirted the issue with a half-truth.

“My husband mentioned you were the author of Common Sense,” she commented, lifting her gaze to Paine.

“I see, but why would your husband, a noted loyalist, think I’d written such a piece?”

Bethlyn cleared her throat, sincerity etched on her face. “We both know my husband isn’t what he appears to be, Mr. Paine.”

With well-manicured fingers, he tapped the top of his desk. “Forgive me, ma’am, but you’re the daughter of a British nobleman. Your roots are firmly entrenched in England. I find it hard to believe that your allegiance is with the American cause.”

“But it is, sir,” she persisted. “I’ve come to care a great deal about Philadelphia and her citizens. I’ve seen the cruelties forced upon some of our people by the soldiers when they wish to meet, to voice their views on liberty. I’ve heard about the hardships at Valley Forge, and I’ve read other pamphlets besides your own, enumerating the reasons why we must rid ourselves of tyranny. I freely admit that before I came to this country, I never thought about the war at all. But liberty is important to me now. I hope soon to conceive a child. I don’t wish to raise a child in a country which has no say in its government.”

Bethlyn’s face flushed becomingly and her eyes gleamed a bright brown. A person would have to be blind not to see her sincerity, and Paine was definitely not blind.

He gestured to the papers before him. “If I agree to have these poems published, you risk danger of exposing yourself and being hanged as a traitor.”

She winced, not caring for the image of herself swinging from a rope, but she’d already considered this possibility. ‘‘I’m aware of what may happen to me.”

“Yes, I believe you are, Mrs. Briston,” he said, and his face suddenly glowed with warmth. “I’ll have these published and distributed for you. Before you know it, you’ll be as popular as Emmie Gray.”

“I’ve heard of her.” Bethlyn had, of course, more than heard of Emmie Gray, having recently seen her in an intimate conversation with Ian and not about to forget her. The past month Emmie Gray had become an undisputed heroine. Her name was on everyone’s lips, from the servants at Edgecomb to the employees at Briston Shipping, her sad but heroic story recounted with such fervor and tear-filled eyes that Bethlyn had grown tired of hearing it. Truly, the citizens had taken the orphaned waif to their breasts, but Bethlyn didn’t like her.

Bethlyn stood to leave, extending her hand to Paine. “I have one request to make of you, sir. I know already that the poems will be published under the Dove’s pseudonym and that you shall keep my identity confidential. But I would deem it a great favor if you would not tell my husband.”

Paine looked a bit flustered. “I assumed he knew.”

“No, he doesn’t. My husband is a gallant man, a man who fights for liberty in his own way. He wouldn’t tolerate any of this and would be constantly fearful for my safety. I don’t want him to worry about me, but I must do what I can to help in this fight. I do hope you understand and honor my request.”

For a moment Paine looked ready to refuse, but he seemed to reconsider. Taking her hand, he kissed it. “I give you my word, Mrs. Briston. You’re a brave woman, a true patriot.”

“Such words from you, sir, are high praise indeed.” On the way home Bethlyn almost told the driver to take her to Cynthia’s when the carriage rolled onto Spruce Street, being a block away. She hadn’t seen Cynthia in some weeks, but she changed her mind, deciding that since Cynthia was newly married she might not appreciate an impromptu visit.

Dusk descended gently over the city, bathing it in a purple-gray light. The carriage had just passed a large, imposing home with two figures huddled together on the porch, causing Bethlyn to blink, unable to believe what she’d just witnessed. It’s a trick of my eyes because of the twilight, she thought, but she tapped furiously on the small pane of glass behind the driver and ordered him to halt.

Scrambling unceremoniously out of the carriage, Bethlyn paid the driver no mind when he gawked at her as if she were a bit mad. The cold wind stung her eyes and blew her cape about her legs, but she ran the short distance until she stopped behind a hedge planted in front of the house.

She waited, unaware that she held her breath, until the figure of the man drew away from the smaller one of the woman. To stifle a loud gasp, she covered her mouth with her hands to identify the two people as Ian and Emmie Gray.

His hearty and sensuous laugh drifted through the encroaching dusk, sounding husky and filled with something so intimate that Bethlyn thought her heart would burst from her chest.

For moments she couldn’t summon the strength to move. Should she fly up the stairs like a shrew and claw out Emmie Gray’s eyes? Or should she vent her hurt and wrath on her husband? Or both of them?

Instead she turned away, and soon found herself in the carriage on the way to Edgecomb.

The darkness outside resembled her soul. Emmie Gray was the reason Ian didn’t stay at home at night, why he sauntered into the house after the clock had long since chimed twelve. Apparently he visited her at that house, and she was almost positive the home belonged to the Babcocks, the family who’d taken in liberty’s newfound heroine.

“Heroine, my eye!” Bethlyn groused. “Emmie Gray is a strumpet.”

This was the second time she’d caught Ian and Emmie in an intimate discussion. Now, what was she going to do about it? Tell Ian she knew and risk his learning that she’d followed him to Simpson House to spy on him and his cohorts? Say nothing and pretend everything was fine?

But nothing was all right and hadn’t been since Emmie Gray mysteriously appeared. The young woman had somehow survived the hostile wilderness, hunger, and extreme cold for days while Bethlyn knew that soldiers at Valley Forge, men who were larger and stronger than Emmie, died from exposure and starvation with little effort.

Had the woman survived only to find her way to Philadelphia and steal Ian away from a wife who loved him? Bethlyn couldn’t bear thinking about it.

Tears formed in her eyes, threatening to spill onto her pale cheeks. Had she lost him already? He hadn’t come to her bed in a number of weeks, weeks which were numbered by Emmie Gray’s arrival. She admitted that her mistake concerning Della hadn’t endeared her to him, either. He hadn’t mentioned that incident to her since the day she’d left his office, not even when she’d replaced the money she’d taken.

Ian treated her courteously, but she’d catch him watching her sometimes, a puzzled frown on his face, as if he totally didn’t understand her. Once she almost lashed out at him, intent on making him reveal the reason why he didn’t seem to care for her any longer. But now she knew.

Had Emmie taken Ian from her? Did Emmie appeal to the part of him which admired her heroism, their mutual love for liberty? She wished she could tell him about her poetry and prove that she now felt as he did about America’s freedom, but she couldn’t. Ian would, no doubt, believe she’d composed the poems to gain his attention and wouldn’t take her seriously.

She found herself in a potentially dangerous situation and couldn’t confide in her husband.

A part of her wished she’d never written the poems or showed them to Mr. Paine. Yet another part found the danger exciting. She doubted her poetry would cause barely a ripple of interest in Philadelphia, and she convinced herself that she was safe from discovery. Thomas Paine was the only other person who knew her identity and he’d never tell on the Dove.

Her momentary sense of elation diminished to think about Ian with Emmie Gray. Was Emmie Gray her rival? Perhaps not, perhaps she’d built something in her mind which didn’t exist. She had to learn the truth.

“I believe I should call on the Babcocks and pay my respects,” Bethlyn muttered aloud, and wiped away her tears, already feeling much better now that she decided to take action and end her torment. “Then I shall meet Emmie Gray and decide for myself if this paragon of virtue truly is trying to steal my husband.”

~ ~ ~

Before noon the next day, Bethlyn already had her answer. She’d used Mr. Babcock’s recent bout with influenza as an excuse to visit. Arriving with Pearl, who carried a pot of chicken soup, her specialty, which she claimed could cure any ill, Bethlyn was admitted into the house by a servant. As the maid ushered Pearl to the kitchen, Bethlyn took a seat in the parlor and awaited Mrs. Babcock.

The frail, silver-haired old woman joined her five minutes later, and it was Emmie Gray who supported Mrs. Babcock by the elbow and helped her to a chair. Emmie, wearing a fashionable but modestly styled green and blue print day dress, sat near to Mrs. Babcock and smiled warmly at Bethlyn. Only Bethlyn was aware when Emmie’s welcoming smile dissolved during the introductions or that her bright blue eyes flickered over her in cold disdain for a fraction of a second.

“I’d heard Mr. Babcock has been ill,” Bethlyn said. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here before today to see if there is anything I can do for him.”

Mrs. Babcock inclined her head, her low voice sounding soft but clear. “Thank you, my dear. I appreciate your visit, and I shall tell my husband that you inquired about him and brought that delicious soup, too. However, he’s much too under the weather to have guests, I’m afraid. Your husband was here yesterday, but he couldn’t go upstairs. Emmie was kind enough to entertain him.”