The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution (6 page)

"And you must be Betsy."

What impudence.
 
She flared her nostrils.
 
"Mrs. John Clark Sheridan."

"Mrs. John Clark
Sheridan."
 
No emotion touched his
voice.
 
"Well?
 
The package."

"It arrived Monday, sent by
someone named Arriaga.
 
His letter said
that he'd given the items to my mother, and she'd lost them in Havana, so he
was sending them to me.
 
I didn't know
what to do with the items, and since my mother's property is upstairs, I
brought them along when I came for my interview."

"What did Captain Sheffield
think of the package and letter?"

"I didn't show them to
him."

"Why not?"

"Why should I have?"

"Don't trifle with me.
 
Your mother, a rebel spy, sent you
communication.
 
That warrants a full
investigation."

Betsy felt she should have laughed
at his insinuation, but she was unable to retrieve any humor with those icy
eyes on her.
 
"For goodness sakes,
it's just a parasol and a veil."

"The letter must be examined
for hidden messages.
 
I hold you
responsible for delivering it and the package to Captain Sheffield, and I shall
alert him to expect all of it from you."

Her lips tightened.
 
Arriaga's letter, stored in her pocket,
burned against her thigh.
 
Fairfax
wasn't a person in whom she wanted to confide the secrets of her paternity, and
he might ask after reading Arriaga's reference to her "parents."
 
"There were no 'hidden messages' in the
letter.
 
I've given you accurate account
of its straightforward content."

"Rebels write between the
lines of innocuous sounding missives using a combination of cobalt chloride,
glycerin, and water.
 
When the ink
dries, it becomes invisible.
 
Exposure
to heat then reveals the message."

Great thunder, that cipher she'd
found in the heel of the boot the previous morning — both sides in the war
might employ such ink.
 
She felt her
face pale, and in the next second realized that Fairfax had read her
expression.
 
His hand shot out.
 
"Give it to me."

"It's at my house in
Augusta."

He withdrew his hand.
 
"Perhaps you prefer to be
searched."

Did he presume to perform such a
search himself?
 
Ye gods.
 
Clark's cipher was also in her pocket.
 
Betsy thrashed down panic and steadied her
gaze on him, polluted as it made her feel.
 
"I shall turn it over to you on the morrow, if you so desire."

He said nothing, drilling his stare
through her brain, watching her the way a panther observes a deer.
 
No doubt about it, he knew she lied.
 
After too many seconds of silence, he took a
step closer.
 
"We've met
before."

For a moment, she resisted her
body's flight response.
 
Damned if he
was going to intimidate her like Susana.
 
Above the smells of horse and leather on him she detected the scents of
his skin and hair — dark, humid, savage — a combination her sense of smell
routed out and found fascinating.
 
Reasoning and senses collided, and she retreated a step at last.
 
For no reason on earth should a ghoul with a
glacier for a soul look and smell so superlative.
 
"No, we've not met."

"I'm certain of it.
 
Your features are familiar."

Her features must be represented in
half the populace of Alton.
 
"I've
never met you before this day."

"Have you heard from your
mother or uncle?"

"They were captured by Creek
Indians."

"I didn't ask if you'd heard
of
them.
 
I asked if you'd heard
from
them."

Her pulse stammered before finding
rhythm again.
 
Sweat beaded to her
forehead, and she swallowed, recalling David's visit just the day before.
 
She plastered a hopeful smile to her
lips.
 
"Have they escaped the
Indians, then?"

"Answer the
question."
 
She felt the very ether
between them convulse, flogged by his tone.
 
"Is it not true that you've recently had contact with your mother
or uncle?"

Her smile withered.
 
"No.
 
I've not."
 
She heard how
her voice croaked and knew he'd read her second lie, too.
 
Her flight response got the better of her
then, and she attempted to rush past him into the shop.

His hand braced on the doorjamb,
his arm imprisoning her.
 
"If they
escaped and contacted you, what action would you take?"

"Are you telling me they've
escaped?"
 
Horror spiraled through
Betsy.
 
Fairfax suspected her mother and
uncle were free.

"I asked what you'd do if your
kin escaped and contacted you.
 
Cease
evading me and answer the question."

From somewhere in her soul, she
found the strength to glare at him.
 
"Sir, how dare you ask of me a hypothetical question and demand a
definitive answer?"

The gray-green ice in his eyes
pinioned her.
 
"A non-hypothetical
interrogatory.
 
Very well.
 
State your loyalties."

Smothered, desperate for fresh air,
she sucked in a breath.
 
Her ribs
froze.
 
Her voice caught in her
throat.
 
"I'm neutral."

"There are no neutrals in this
war."

"Captain Sheffield doesn't
agree with you."

"Captain Sheffield's opinion
on this point doesn't concern me.
 
Your
grandfather, mother, and uncle are rebel spies.
 
Your aunt is a rebel sympathizer.
 
The apple seldom falls far from the tree, madam."

She continued to radiate
indignation and outrage to mask her fear of him.
 
The thought of being in his company seven hours on the morrow for
the return trip to Augusta appalled her.

After what felt like hours, he
softened his voice, but ice clung to his gaze.
 
"Rising to challenges, wretched at lying.
 
How like your mother.
 
It
took me little time to dismantle her lies.
 
I'm intrigued to imagine what set of stimuli might loosen
your
tongue."

Intuition dragged Betsy's gaze to
the black veil peeking from the package on the counter.
 
Her stomach churned again.
 
Without knowing how, she sensed that Fairfax
had used the veil to degrade her mother.
 
If she didn't free herself of him soon, the scream compressed in the
back of her throat would explode.

He shifted his gaze, too, verifying
the object of her attention.
 
A smile
dallied on his lips, gruesome when employed with that midwinter stare, and he
removed the hand blocking her escape.
 
"I appreciate our spirited and informative conversation and look
forward to more of it."
 
After a
bow, he retrieved his hat from the counter.
 
"I shall return at seven on the morrow to escort you to
Augusta.
 
Good day, Mrs. Greeley.
 
And good day, Mrs. John Clark
Sheridan."

Chapter Five

THE BELL OVER the shop door jingled
again, and a dark-haired man Susana's age entered carrying a hoe.
 
"Afternoon, Susana."
 
He brushed soot from his apron.
 
"I apologize for taking so long with
your hoe.
 
Father and I had to let that
new apprentice go."
 
He granted Fairfax
a nod of minimal civility.
 
"Lieutenant."

Fairfax nodded and strutted for the
door.
 
"Mr. Hale."

Hale
.
 
A relation to Betsy's father, perhaps?
 
She perked up and stepped into the shop, in clear view of the man with
the hoe.

He spied her.
 
"Oh, you've company."
 
His eyes widened, and recognition sliced his
expression.
 
"Susana, who's
this?"

"You remember my niece, don't
you, Joshua?
 
Sophie's daughter,
Betsy.
 
It's been years since she last
visited Alton."

Fairfax lingered inside, privy to
their conversation.
 
Joshua, still
staring, said, "How peculiar!"

Mary thumped down the stairs.
 
"Mrs. Greeley, I've finished the
floors."
 
Her jaw dangled at the
sight of Betsy and Joshua in proximity.
 
"Why, Mr. Hale, don't Mrs. Sheridan look a bit like your uncle,
Jacques le Coeuvre?"

"Le Coeuvre, yes!"
 
A laugh full of dark humor exploded from
Fairfax.
 
"Jacques le Coeuvre and
Sophie Barton.
 
Oh, that's rich,
indeed.
 
No doubt such a revelation will
vibrate Major Hunt's sense of humor, too."
 
With another laugh, he yanked open the door and exited.

Silence seized the shop after the
bell tinkle faded.
 
Betsy fidgeted.
 
Of Jacques le Coeuvre, to whom she was now
linked, memory furnished her only with the image of a wandering, old
storyteller fond of brandy.
 
Her heart
sank.
 
Could that be correct?
 
Not a pedigree to boast of.

Mary looked around.
 
"Did I say something wrong?"

Susana snatched the hoe from Joshua
and thrust it at the servant.
 
"Put
this in the shed outside and weed the bean plot, you lazy wench."

Mary fumbled with the hoe,
curtsied, and scurried out while Betsy, Joshua, and Susana studied each
other.
 
"Betsy looks more like my
mother."
 
His face long, Joshua
gazed in the direction Fairfax had taken.
 
"But I don't suppose that matters now."

Susana fanned herself with
vigor.
 
"Well, Betsy, I see why
Sophie hid you in Augusta all these years.
 
What do you know.
 
Uncle Jacques.
 
That sly, old dog."

Betsy cleared her throat.
 
"Uh, Mr. Hale —"

"Call me Joshua."
 
After a hesitant start, his smile
firmed.
 
"Cousin."

"May I have a word with you,
alone?"

"Go ahead, dear."
 
Susana flicked her hand at the package on
the counter beside Betsy's tote bag.
 
"What shall I do with
this
?"

"Put it all in my mother's
room."
 
Betsy motioned Joshua
toward the door.
 
"Shall we go for
a walk?"

He followed her outdoors around the
corner of the house between trees laden with peaches, where they regarded each
other.
 
Insects hummed in the air sultry
with honeyed fruit.
 
Her lips produced a
tentative smile.
 
"You've a brother
named Mathias?"

"He's my half-brother.
 
His father was a Creek warrior who died of
smallpox."

Creek warrior?
 
Betsy touched her cheekbones, understanding
where they came from at last.
 
While the
idea of French ancestry gave her no pause, she didn't know what to think of
being one-quarter Creek Indian.
 
Indians
were so
different
.

"Our mother married Jacob Hale
and had Mathias four months later, and in a few years, Jonah and I came
along."
 
Joshua's scrutiny of her
deepened.
 
"Here, now, let me look
at you more closely.
 
Ah.
 
You're Mathias's daughter, aren't you?"

She nodded.
 
"
Uncle
Joshua."

He grinned.
 
"Well, what a surprise.
 
Here's a hug.
 
Watch the grime."
 
He
brushed at his apron again.
 
"Blacksmithing's dirty work."
 
They embraced and laughed, and Joshua held her a long time.
 
It felt the closest she'd ever felt to
hugging a father.
 
She didn't want to
let go.