The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (36 page)

"A mere flesh wound."

"You're fortunate."
 
She turned her gaze away from the bone saw
at the table and tried to shut out Peter's babbling.
 
"How ironic.
 
Young
Peter over there loses his leg for his sincere devotion to the king, and you
walk away almost unscathed.
 
You look
surprised to see me."

Clark's lips tightened.
 
"I am."

"Or perhaps you're simply
surprised to see me
alive
after your friend van Duser nearly killed me
last night."

He shook his head.
 
"Jan wouldn't have killed you."

"Of course not.
 
He'd planned to tell you it was bandits who
slit my throat."
 
Doubt flickered
in Clark's eyes before he doused it.
 
"Just as he'd planned for you to be accidentally shot in the ambush
last night, tied back to back with a
true
Loyalist in a defenseless
position.
 
Fortunately for me, van Duser
believed my assertion that your safety was what motivated me.
 
Fortunately for you, the ambushing men
couldn't see well in the dark, and their aim on you was off by —"
 
She eyed his injured arm.
 
"— one foot."

"I won't stand here and be
insulted by you."

"Our furniture is in Josiah
Carter's barn.
 
What are you going to do
about it?"

"Nothing.
 
It's safe there.
 
I suggest you leave it alone."

"Clark, you may enjoy running
around in the forest picking up ticks and stinking like a goat, but I want and
need a home.
 
In case you've forgotten,
I'm carrying your child.
 
I don't enjoy
living off the charity of my cousin."

"Then you should have listened
to me and stayed in Augusta."

She stared at him, open-mouthed,
unable to believe how indurate he sounded.
 
This was her husband?
 
...what
a clever way to circumvent paying your most valuable employee.
 
Marry her
.
 
Adam's taunt didn't seem far-fetched at all.
 
"You've taken off on this damned fool
cause and abandoned me.
 
All my worldly
possessions are in a barn a mile and a half east of Camden.
 
You've ruined my life."

"If your life has been ruined,
it's you who've done it by disobeying me and following me here after I told you
to stay in the protection of Lucas and Sarah in Augusta."

"
Protection
?
 
Can it be then that you don't know I left
town to avoid being thrown in jail by Colonel Brown?"

"You're overreacting.
 
It was house arrest.
 
If you return, of course he'll throw you in
jail for breaking house arrest."

"Listen to me."
 
She took a deep breath.
 
"My Uncle David apparently spent Monday
night the tenth with Widow Fuller and told her he might drop in on me on his
way out Tuesday morning.
 
Naturally the
redcoats interrogated that out of her.
 
So you see, it really doesn't matter whether Uncle David saw me on his
way out.
 
In Brown's eyes, I'm an active
link to my uncle, whom he's certain is a rebel.
 
Even a lamebrain would realize there was no protection for me in
Augusta.
 
After all my 'friends' began
blaming me for your actions, I no longer even desired to remain there.
 
So I'm in the protection of my cousin Emma,
the only relation I knew how to reach quickly.
 
And here in Camden, I find my only worldly possessions confiscated, and
I receive confirmation that my husband has, indeed, abandoned me."

He leaned against a canopy post,
scratched stubble on his jaw, and sighed.
 
"I didn't know about your uncle.
 
I presumed you were here to harass me into returning to Augusta."

"It's a bit late for that,
wouldn't you agree?"

"It's been too dangerous for
me to contact you."

"You don't realize the half of
how dangerous it is.
 
Was the Spaniard
from
Casa de la Sangre Legítima
who chased you from Augusta the same who
was found flayed alive several days ago?"

"Yes."

"Then you've Lieutenant
Fairfax on your tail.
 
He's suspected of
flaying alive another Spaniard last month in Alton."

"Ye gods."
 
Clark swallowed.

"You may also expect
Lieutenant Neville to arrive in town hunting you sometime over the next few
days."

"Thank you.
 
I shall keep alert for his
arrival."
 
An awkward silence
opened between them.
 
"I still hope
to make this up to you someday.
 
Will
you let me?"

She studied him and felt nothing
inside, even though she suspected she'd feel a monstrous something later.
 
"I doubt you can make this up to
me.
 
You've voluntarily placed yourself
in a position where you're unable to protect me or the baby.
 
Since I'm forced to take measures to do so
myself, I shall leave Camden in a few weeks for a sanctuary in another colony.
 
At this point, I'm not making plans beyond
that day."

"But you'll tell me where
you're going?"
 
Incredulity
exploded across his face at her silence.
 
He drew himself up to his full height and hissed, "You
will
tell me, dammit!
 
You're my wife!"

"Am I?"

His expression returned to the
guardedness it had held at the beginning of their conversation.
 
"You know, I didn't want to believe it
Abel when he told me.
 
Now I see it's
true.
 
My wife and my apprentice,
sharing a bed."

"How dare you question my
fidelity when you won't be a husband to me?
 
And how dare you trust the word of Abel Branwell over me?"

He balled his fists.
 
"Well?
 
Is it true?"

She mirrored his posture.
 
"I've not been unfaithful to you,
though at this point, few would blame me if I were.
 
And frankly, Clark, I'm weary of standing here defending my
character.
 
It suggests that you and I
never trusted each other.
 
I shan't
waste more of my time with you when I'm needed over there among the
wounded.
 
You know where to find me.
 
If you want to talk with me over the next
few weeks, send word.
 
I shall attempt
to meet you.
 
But I'm through with
chasing you."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

FROM THE CLUTTER in the print shop
on Littleton Street that afternoon, Betsy wondered whether her Aunt Susana had
lent a hand at its management, too.
 
She
stepped around a bucket of lampblack, over a pile of ragpaper, and marched to
the front counter.

The skinny, balding man behind the
counter stood.
 
"May I help you,
madam?"

"I'm here to talk with the
owner."

"His name is Frank Harker, but
he's behind schedule arranging next week's paper."

"I thought so.
 
I'm here to help him."

The man chuckled and wagged his
forefinger at her.
 
"Now, what does
a young lady like you know about printing newspapers?"

"Column arrangement, for one
thing."
 
She spread Wednesday's
paper on the counter.
 
"This is all
wasted space.
 
Drop the point size on
the columns, and you could get four columns to the front of the page with no
wasted space."
 
She flipped over
the paper.
 
"You could block in
woodcuts and advertisements better."

The skinny man's jaw dangled open.

"You also could stand another
pair of eyes editing the articles.
 
This
sentence fragment belongs at the beginning of the paragraph up here, while over
on this article, you've double occurrences of the word 'the.'
 
And you need to overhaul your type
trays.
 
A capital E looks like an F, and
what is this letter over here?
 
An
r?"

The man cleared his throat.
 
"Frank, come here a moment."

The owner, a big, stocky fellow in
his late thirties, shuffled out wiping hands stained with lampblack and varnish
and swept a gaze over her before addressing his associate.
 
"What's the problem?"

"No problem.
 
This lady knows how to arrange
columns."

"You do?"
 
Harker focused on her, and sarcasm stretched
his lips over his teeth.
 
"I
suppose you've helped pull a printing press before?"

"Not since I was nine or ten,
sir, but I haven't forgotten how it was done."

Harker's humor vanished.
 
"And where might you have learned the
printing business?"

"From my family's business in
Alton, Georgia."

"Bust my buttons.
 
You must be a St. James."

She frowned.
 
"How do you know the St. Jameses?"

Harker belly-laughed.
 
"Every printer knows Will St.
James."
 
He unrolled one of her
grandfather's captioned "Tarleton's Quarter" broadsides with relish.
 
"This here's a work of art."

Art?
 
Alarm shot through Betsy.
 
"I'd nothing to do with the printing of that broadside.
 
I wasn't even in the same town when it
happened."

Harker sniggered.
 
"You needn't offer me any
excuses."

"It's not you I'm worried
about."

"Oh.
 
Pshaw."
 
Harker
rolled up the broadside and returned it beneath the counter.
 
"Colonel Tarleton was in here several
weeks ago laughing over it, asking if we'd seen new ones circulating.
 
He's flattered by what it's done for his
reputation."
 
The printer emerged
from behind the counter with his hand extended.
 
"Frank Harker, madam."

She shook his hand.
 
"Betsy Sheridan."

He grimaced at the copy of
Wednesday's paper.
 
"My — er —
assistant skipped town two weeks ago with the contents of the till.
 
So you're interested in helping me?"

"Yes, but I require
compensation."

"He didn't take
all
my
money."
 
Harker's jollity
wilted.
 
"See here, I'm in a pinch
arranging next week's paper.
 
If you've
the talent and help me get the paper out on time, I'll pay you.
 
Well, what exactly do you want to be
paid?"

From the desperation in his
posture, he wasn't in a position to bargain on wages.
 
Betsy never believed she'd be able to name her price.
 
Perhaps she could grow to appreciate the filthy,
grueling business of printing after all.

***

In the sticky twilight of Friday
night, she trudged back to the Leaping Stag embracing the exhaustion brought on
by hours of work.
 
She hoped to collapse
in bed and be spared dreams of linen bandage strips, feverish soldiers,
amputated limbs, and husbands abandoning wives.
 
When she entered the dining room at the rear of the tavern,
Hattie guided her to the table.
 
"Child, just look at them hands of yours."

Betsy sat and regarded ink on her
fingers.
 
"Yes, I'm back in the
printing business."
 
Her stomach
growled over the cozy scents in the dining room.
 
She yawned.

"No food and no sleep ain't
doing that baby of yours no good.
 
I got
the remedy for your belly, but then you got to get on upstairs and
rest."
 
A plate piled with string
beans, turnip greens, ham, and buttered cornbread appeared on the table, and
Betsy's mouth watered.
 
She picked up
her fork and dug in.
 
"Lord, you
and yo' man eat like you got hold of the last food on earth."

Betsy glanced around the dining
room.
 
"Did Tom come back
yet?"

"'Bout half an hour ago.
 
He eat three plates like yours 'fore heading
up.
 
Bless me if I know where he puts it
all."