The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (17 page)

“I hope it fits,” she said cheerfully.

It fit Clara as well as one might expect an unflattering servant’s garment to fit. The outfit hid every womanly curve. She gave a little turn for Martha.

“Why, you look just like a regular patriot’s woman,” Martha squeaked.

That brought up a very good point. “Martha, who are all these women? Isn’t this a fort with soldiers?”

Martha laughed and took Clara’s arm in hers. “I suppose it must seem a bit strange. You don’t follow your husband out on the battlefield, do you?”

Clara shook her head.

Martha led her to what looked like a large workroom with a hearth and cupboards on one end and, on the other, a cozy circle of chairs arranged on a rug. Along the walls were spinning wheels and looms.

“I thought not. Well, we’re all the wives and daughters and sisters of the soldiers. Some of the women are camp followers, if you get my meaning.” She wrinkled her nose at that. “And some of us are servants who’ve taken up with some of the men. That’s me. I was a maid in a colonel’s house along with Mrs. Scott,” Martha pointed to the matronly woman, “and they asked if I wanted to be here. So I said yes.” She leaned in. “That’s how I met my fellow Jacob.” She giggled softly.

“So this is a patriot fort?”

“We’re what’s called a fortified supply station,” Martha explained. “We supply other forts and regiments.”

The matron entered the workroom. “And we have quite a bit of work to be done around here ourselves, girls,” she said with a clap. She turned to Clara. “I don’t think we were properly introduced, my lady, I’m—”

“Mrs. Scott,” interrupted a masculine voice.

Clara spun around. Before her stood a very handsome man with brown hair and blue-gray eyes smiling down at her. She flushed at his attentions.

“Why, Captain Taylor!” exclaimed Mrs. Scott. “You’re looking a damned sight better than you did last night. Enough to wish I were a girl thirty years younger.”

“I wouldn’t be able to handle your spunk, ma’am. You’d tire me in no time at all,” the captain teased gallantly.

Now it was Mrs. Scott’s turn to blush. Clara stared unbelievingly at the captain. Overnight he had been transformed from a wild-haired, dirty, practically bearded soldier into a well-groomed, clean-shaven officer in uniform. His dark brown jacket faced with scarlet topped off a finely tailored waistcoat and breeches of undyed linen. Under his hat, his hair was neatly combed and bound in a queue, although one or two recalcitrant curls played against his smooth cheeks.

“My lady,” he bowed to Clara in greeting.

Clara bit her lip, then nodded in return. “Captain Taylor.”

The young women from bath-time scurried about the large workroom, tittering and giggling as they went about their tasks. Periodically they glanced at their handsome captain and blushed.

“Mrs. Scott,” Captain Taylor began. “Lady Strathmore is our guest until we can reconnect her with her husband. However, I’m certain she would be willing to help our efforts here with whatever skills she can offer?”

“Yes, of course,” Clara responded.

“Well, what is it you know how to do?” Mrs. Scott asked. “You know how to cook, love?”

“Yes, a little—”

“Nothing with knives, Mrs. Scott.”

Both women regarded the captain curiously.

“For her own safety,” he added with a smile that was less polite and more alluring.

“No knives, then. Can you work in our garden—”

The captain winced.

“—spin, weave, or sew?”

“I know how to sew, quilt, and embroider. And I can knit and mend stockings.” Clara flushed at the last. One did not say such things in front of a gentleman. After only one morning, the American girls’ immodesty was already rubbing off on her.

“Then it’s settled,” Mrs. Scott announced. “You will join our sewing circle.” She pointed to the ring of chairs.

“Lady Clara,” Martha called out. “Sit by me.” She patted the seat next to her.

“Of course, Martha,” Captain Taylor said. “But first I need to abscond with your lady to discuss some business.” He held out his arm.

The instant Clara threaded her arm in his, a familiar but utterly unexpected warmth fluttered up her spine. The captain led her out of the women’s workroom and into the vast courtyard of the fort. It was her first glimpse of her new surroundings in the light of day. Thick, partially whitewashed masonry walls rose two stories high enclosing the inner yard with its several small buildings, barracks from the looks of them. The stone walls themselves immured two levels of rooms, including the women’s dormitory and workroom she had just left on the ground floor. A wooden gallery with staircases on each of the four sides of the fort clung to the masonry parapets giving access to the upper floor and its rooms. A girl with a broom disappeared behind one of the wooden doors along the second floor. Officers’ quarters, most likely, which, at that moment, needed cleaning. Above, a roof of jutting logs only partially covered the opening to the sky, giving a view of the tops of two of the four crude but massive lookout towers. In the yard itself, Clara spied cannon and howitzers at the ready, while young men rushed about moving boxes and barrels labeled as containing foodstuffs, but which probably contained gunpowder and weapons. It
was
war.

As they walked into the courtyard, the captain leaned over. “‘Clara’?” he said inquisitively in her ear.

His soft, deep voice so close to her sent a pleasant tingle to flush her skin and prickle the peaks of her breasts. The reaction alarmed her. She had only ever experienced such a feeling with Paul. “That is my Christian name, Captain Taylor,” she responded curtly, letting him know he was most certainly not allowed to call her that.

“It is a very pretty name.” He smiled a devastatingly handsome smile. “It suits you.”

Clara flushed again, surely a shameful shade of crimson. “What is the business you wished to discuss, captain?” She tried desperately to maintain a tone of propriety.

He released her arm and faced her. “I would appreciate your participation in a little fiction about your situation here. I’ve told Mrs. Scott and some of the girls that you were traveling, your carriage broke down, and, after unsuccessfully trying to fix it, your driver fled but never returned, leaving you alone in the woods. Then we came along and found you, and you’ll be our guest until we can contact your husband and make arrangements. Of course, your husband’s name and reputation precede you, so they know to whom you are married.”

Clara studied him. “You still don’t believe I’m who I say I am.”

He exhaled with a touch of exasperation. “To be honest, no, I don’t. I think you are far too young to be the wife of General Strathmore—”

“But—”

“And don’t say I’m too young to be a captain,” he said with annoyance. “I’m twenty-six years old and I’ve been fighting redcoats since they massacred our men in Boston. I’ve earned my cockade.” He pointed to a yellow bow-shaped ribbon sewn to his hat.

Clara looked up at him. “So why is my own age an issue?” she asked defiantly.

“We received reports of two missing women, one of whom has red hair.” His gaze flitted around her uncovered hair. “Your color is more of a golden, honey-brown.”

The heat rose in her cheeks again. It was too poetic a description from practically a stranger. “That is my maid, Annabella,” she said succinctly.

“And how do I know it is not you who is the lady’s maid?” he challenged, his eyebrows raised provokingly. “Never you mind. I have a very knowledgeable source near the area where we found you, and I am certain he will be able to confirm your story.”

Paul.
“Then this source of yours will be coming here to identify me?”

“Possibly. He also has men who work for him who might come in his stead. You see, if you really are Lady Clara Strathmore, then you are worth a lot to us in terms of recovering some of our own men who are being held prisoner by the British Army. We intend to barter your life for theirs.”

Clara’s heart raced. So possibly Paul, or maybe Ethan or Redmond, was coming to identify her. Then what? Would she really be able to leave with Paul? Or would the captain force her to return to her husband? Was Paul involved in this somehow and never told her? All she knew was that she could not possibly stay in the fort. She had to find Paul and get a straight answer.

“I understand, captain,” she said softly. “I think I should return to the women and their sewing.”

The captain led her back to the workroom and bowed graciously before taking his leave.

“He likes you, my lady,” whispered Martha once the sewing tasks had been explained to Clara.

“Whatever do you mean?” Clara asked ingenuously.

“Well, I’ve never seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you. He looked like he was courting you.”

Clara flushed yet again. “The captain is just being polite.”

Martha shrugged. “I suppose. There’s not a woman in this fort who wouldn’t want him to act so politely around her, if you get my meaning. He keeps his distance. Not like any of the other men.”

Clara kept her head down concentrating on her stitches. “Maybe he has a sweetheart back home?”

“Not as I’ve heard. Anyway, if he likes you, you should make the most of it. He’s so very handsome.”

“Yes, I suppose he is,” Clara found herself saying.

“Is your husband very handsome?”

Clara sighed. “Yes, he is, rather.” General Strathmore was incredibly handsome. Unfortunately, he was an utterly horrible man. She could not, would not return to him, and she could not let the captain use her as something to barter. She had to leave, had to try to find Paul. And she had to do it that night.

* * * * *

Lying awake on her cot in the women’s sleeping quarters, Clara found out what Martha had meant when she said the other men of the fort did not keep their distance. Several times during the night, men came into the dormitory quietly and then entered the small curtained spaces of their chosen girls. All around her were the muffled sounds of couples whispering, moving, then finally fornicating. One or two made no secret of their climaxes, crying out as if they were alone and not mounting their amatory attacks in a room full of others.

Disgust shuddered through her. She must have been dead asleep the night before, but she was wide awake now and able to evaluate the situation. There was no reason she could not just leave the room. Surely if some of the men were coming to the women’s dorm, some of the women would be going to the men’s? She thought she had overheard that some of the officers even had their own rooms. Wouldn’t their women prefer to be with their men in private rather than in a communal bedroom?

As quietly as she could, Clara slipped into her own clothes, then tiptoed down the central pathway between the cots, opened the door, and walked out into the night air.

* * * * *

Clamorous pounding on his bedroom door jolted Sam out of bed. He groaned. It was the middle of the blasted night.

“Captain! Wake up!”

It was Patrick, which meant it was serious. Sam threw on his shirt and breeches and unbolted his door.

“What’s wrong, Pat—lieutenant?” he said steadying his sleepy body against the jamb. His eyes flew open the second he saw Lady Clara Strathmore standing before him, with Patrick and one of the night watchmen, Elias Bowman, on either side of her.

“She tried to escape, captain,” said Pat. “Corporal Bowman here caught her and brought her to me. She was wearing this.”

Pat held out a leather belt with a sheath, a sharp knife securely tucked inside.

“Christ,” Sam muttered. He turned to her. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I don’t want to be a part of your prisoner exchange scheme.”

Sam studied her. She was hiding something. Why didn’t she want to return to her husband? Pride? Utter disdain for imprisonment? Did she prefer wandering about in the woods to a patriot fort with a bed and food?

He turned to Pat. “What do you suggest we do, lieutenant?”

“She needs to be watched at all times, sir. I suggest you keep her here at night under guard.”

“And where do you suggest I go at night?”

“You’ll also sleep here. As it was in your tent the other night. Sir.”

Sam wanted to throttle him, but he had to rein himself in given their present company. Earlier that day, he had confided in Pat—as his best friend, certainly not as his captain—that he had found the lady quite appealing after she had taken a bath.

“Right.” Sam ran his fingers through his hair as Pat led Lady Strathmore into his quarters. “Go get a cot and blanket from the hospital, corporal,” he instructed, then watched as Elias left to execute his orders.

As Patrick lit a candle stub, Lady Strathmore surveyed the small room, her expression of obstinacy melting into admiration as she took in the simple yet comfortable furnishings. Sam prided himself in his refuge from the business of war: his books, his desk, his well-worn wingback, his washstand with chipped but fine porcelain basin and pitcher, his walnut blanket chest from home.

Lady Strathmore’s gaze landed on his bed, a very comfortable featherbed certainly big enough to accommodate more than one person, an idea Sam entertained for a split second.

“Where am I to sleep?” she asked with a plaintive tone.

Sam was absolutely not going to give up his bed. “In there.” He pointed to a minuscule antechamber along the wall perpendicular to the entrance. Between the annex and the entry door was his bed. “If you’re planning on escaping again, you’ll have to slip past my bed, then slip past the guard at my bolted door.”

She looked at the little room. “May I at least draw the curtain?” she asked, indicating the tattered drape that hung limply in the doorway.

“Yes.” He could at least pretend she was in another room.

She turned to the bookcase. “May I read your books?”

“Yes,” Sam grumbled. “But only in here. Probably not much of interest to you, anyway. Some are in Latin.”

“I can read Latin,” she protested.

That roused him.

“What do you have?”

Despite his annoyance at the whole situation, he had to admit having a highly educated woman in his midst would be diverting. “Caesar’s campaigns and such. Please feel free to read what you like.”