The Turncoat

by Donna Thorland

  Marriage, of course, was not what Peter Tremayne was offering. Untempted by matrimony, Kate had never considered that she might discover needs not easily satisfied outside the bounds of wedlock. Or a man who brought out those needs.

  Perhaps, had she not met Peter Tremayne, the matter would never have arisen.

  She shut her eyes and replayed their encounter abovestairs, imagining what they might have done next had Silas Talbert not intervened.

  It was then that it occurred to her that Silas Talbert had been rather too conveniently alert today. He had spotted the British on the road, when but for the lameness of his horse, he should have been miles away with Kate’s father. And he had spotted the Continentals tonight, at the unnamed farm to the west. Kate tried to remember which of their neighbors lived due west of them. Only the Millers, outspoken Tories, she realized, who had abandoned their property several weeks ago to seek the protection of the British.

  She was still sitting in the lolling chair when Mrs. Ferrers found her. The Widow was no longer dressed in the brocade robe she had worn earlier that night, nor her shell pink satin, nor her sensible Quaker ensemble. Now she was dressed for riding in dark gray wool. Only her cloak, edged with costly furs, hinted at her earlier élan. “We haven’t much time. I hope you can saddle your own horse.”

  “Yes, of course,” Kate said, and sat up. “But why?”

  “You can’t be here when they come back. Tremayne will realize that these”—Mrs. Ferrers flourished a sheaf of closely written pages—“are gone.”

  “You stole Howe’s letters,” Kate said hollowly. “How?”

  “It was simple. I waited for Tremayne to visit you in your bedroom. It was clear this afternoon that you had the best chance of distracting him. You’ve done well, but I can’t leave you here. Is there someone in the neighborhood who can take you in until Howe goes to ground in Philadelphia?”

  She could go to her friend Milly’s, of course. Milly’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Ashcroft, had been among the matrons fawning over Angela Ferrers that morning. Milly herself, six months gone with child and unable to travel, had stayed home. Kate considered what it would be like to shelter under her roof. To be the unwanted spinster guest, secretly pitied but welcomed as a pair of extra hands, though Milly would never treat her like that. Openly. But it would be true, all the same. Kate felt angry, manipulated. She had asked very little of life so far, and tonight she realized she had gotten even less.

  “I’m not leaving. Major Tremayne is coming back,” she said, but even as the words left her mouth she recalled Mrs. Ferrers’ story of Donop the Hessian colonel, tricked by the beautiful rebel spy.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Ferrers agreed. “He’s coming back. And not to steal ribbons from your jacket. Do you know what happens to spies, Kate?”

  “They hang.” She recalled the boy from Connecticut caught behind British lines. Hale. His name had been Hale.

  “No. They hang men. Women disappear. It’s only glamorous in novels, Kate. If we are successful, we can’t boast. Spying is a dishonorable trade for women, for precisely the reason you despised me this afternoon, and you despise yourself now. We exchange our virtue for their secrets. If we fail, we don’t have the privilege of a public trial and famous last words. Our reward for failure is an unmarked grave.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “Tonight? Very little. They’ll find the Miller farm burning, much as the Millers deserve. Tomorrow, when he reaches New York without the packet, court-martial and a swift return to England, I should think.”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Then do so quickly. I must reach Washington’s camp before Major Tremayne realizes we are gone.” Mrs. Ferrers turned to go, then paused in the door and betrayed, for the first time that day, a hint of unfiltered emotion. Kate realized it was pity. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him, Kate. He has money, power, and privilege at home. Even if he is just a decent man caught in circumstances beyond his control, he’s better off out of it.”

  * * *

  Kate paid Margaret and Sara two weeks’ wages each and sent the girls home across the tall rye fields. She watched their lantern bobbing in the darkness, until the waving grain swallowed the light. Then she saddled her horse.

  She had no desire for Angela Ferrers’ company on the road to Milly’s, and nothing further to say to her. The spy’s knowing manner and sudden, belated sympathy were an affront to Kate’s pride. But Mrs. Ferrers wouldn’t go away. She insisted on seeing Kate safely beyond the reach of Peter Tremayne before she continued on to the Continental lines.

  Kate knew the Widow was not motivated by motherly concern for her safety. The truth was that Kate knew too much. If she was arrested, she could betray the woman, and worse, if Tremayne discovered who Kate was, she might be used as a bargaining chip against her father.

  When Kate thought of Peter Tremayne, she recalled with shocking vividness the warm scents of leather and wool and whisky, the fine weave of his linen shirt beneath her fingertips, and the soft wool of his tunic. The memory brought a flush to her cheeks. She turned to find Angela Ferrers, on her horse, trotting alongside her with the negligent grace of a cavalier and watching her with unconcealed amusement. Kate spurred her mount to escape the woman, but she kept pace.

  They were within sight of the Ashcrofts’ rambling hilltop farmhouse, their journey together nearly at an end, when the Widow took Kate’s reins and drew both horses to a stop. Angela Ferrers surveyed the silent orchards rolling away in all directions, and the empty road behind them. When she was quite satisfied they were alone, she spoke. “We probably won’t meet again, Kate. You’re angry, because I’ve used you, but I hope you’ll see past that and accept a word of advice. What Tremayne was offering, you can have from any man you like, if you take the proper precautions.”

  Kate hated how the woman seemed to read her mind. She had no privacy in her own thoughts. “That is not all that I wanted from him.”

  “Yes, but that is all he was offering. I’m sorry if this hurts your feelings. You did me a great service this evening. I’m trying to return the favor. You might know your way around a kitchen better than I do, but you don’t understand the first thing about the world outside Grey Farm.” Then, with an odd smile and an appraising glance, she added, “Though you’re a quick study, I’ll grant you.”

  Kate wrenched her reins away from the spy. “You’ve drawn my father into the war, embroiled me in treason, and driven me from my home. I don’t want any more of your favors. I’m going to spend the next two weeks with Milly and then go home to harvest our rye. Fornication does not figure in my plans.”

  “Only because you are infatuated with Peter Tremayne,” said the Widow coolly. “You’ll feel the same way about the next handsome man who falls into your orbit. You’re too passionate for spinsterhood and too independent for marriage. Your father’s been selfish, keeping you to himself. He should have found you a husband before you became so set in your ways, or taken you to town, where you might have found other outlets for your intellect. But there are alternatives to marriage and spinsterhood.”

  “Don’t talk about my father—”

  “Quiet!” she hissed, and turned to look back down the road.

  Kate froze. She heard distant thunder. No, not thunder. Not quite. A bass rumble vibrating up through her mount. It was a familiar tune played with a missing note. And then she knew where she had heard it before: at Grey Farm, this morning, when Tremayne’s troop had descended on the house.

  “Tremayne.” Kate turned to look at the empty road behind them.

  Angela Ferrers pursed her lips. “I think not.” For the first time that night, she looked uncertain.

  Ever since the Widow had donned her shell pink satin and begun feeding Arthur Grey’s letters to the fire, Kate had been caught up in events beyond her control. Throughout, Angela Ferrers had been confident and decisive. A few moments ago, Kate had hated her for it. Now its absence chilled her. “Who then?” Ka
te asked.

  “These men are riding with muffled spurs. That’s not Sancreed’s style at all.”

  The Widow reached for the pistol fixed to Kate’s saddle. She’d taken it as a precaution against bears. Kate gripped it hard and backed her horse away.

  The spy’s voice was icy. “We don’t have time for your Quaker scruples. Does your friend’s husband have any reason to fear the Redcoats?”

  Kate’s stomach lurched. “He was with Congress, but he’s home now. Milly’s having a hard time carrying.”

  Mrs. Ferrers cursed. “They’re coming to arrest him. You can’t stay here. We have to ride for it.”

  The Widow spurred her mount and cantered hard up the hill. Kate followed. They drew level with the house, but Angela Ferrers didn’t slow.

  Kate turned to look at the sleeping gables, where Milly lay heavy with child, then back down the still-empty road. There was enough time, just. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to warn them.” She plunged down the gravel-strewn drive toward the house.

  A lamp flared in an upstairs window as Kate reached the garden gate. The casements were open to the warm night air, and Milly’s long red tresses blew like pennants in the breeze.

  “Is that you, Kate? What’s that noise? What’s happening?” Milly’s pale skin was luminous in the moonlight, her freckles like fairy dust over her nose and cheekbones. Kate wasn’t surprised to see her up and restless in the middle of the night. For the first three months of her pregnancy, Milly had slept all the time. Now, three months further on, she seemed to sleep not at all.

  “Yes, it’s me, Milly. The Redcoats are coming for Andrew. He has to leave.”

  Kate was dimly aware of the spy reining up behind her.

  “Kate,” the Widow said urgently, “we can’t be found here.”

  The plans. Angela Ferrers and those damnable stolen plans. She and Angela would hang as traitors if they were taken with those papers. And Milly’s husband would be implicated. Kate had only brought them greater danger by stopping here.

  The muffled clatter of hooves was unmistakable. Now Milly heard it too.

  “What should I do?” Milly asked, bewildered.

  Angela Ferrers looked up at the girl in the window, whose hands were clutched over her round belly. For a fleeting second, the Widow appeared stricken; then she shook her head and said, “I’m sorry,” and led Kate, unresisting, into the woods.

  The farmhouse and barn were built on a hilltop, and the thickly forested ground fell away sharply behind it. It was a steep drop, and Kate was forced to crouch in her saddle, digging her fingers into her horse’s mane, to keep her seat.

  Angela Ferrers took the hill like a steeplechase on home ground. At the bottom was a cider house. The spy tied their horses up behind it and pressed her lips to Kate’s ear. “They will loot the house. We can’t risk attracting their attention by making for the road now. We must stay hidden until they leave.”

  From their hiding place Kate could see only the shadows beneath the eaves of the old house. The night was warm, but the cider-tinged air tasted like autumn and the press smelled sharp and metallic: sour apples and damp stone.

  Kate listened to the thunder above grow to a crescendo, then die away as the soldiers reached the hilltop. She heard the butt of a pistol hammering on the thick oak door. Then, faster than anyone could have answered, wood splintered, boots pounded over floorboards, glass broke.

  This was not supposed to happen here. The Ashcrofts were Quakers. Andrew was dangerously close to being read out of the meeting for his involvement with Congress, but that was just words, men talking in rooms. Peaceful men. Kate’s father had taken up arms both for and against the Crown, but Andrew Ashcroft had never raised a hand against man or beast in his life. Soldiers were supposed to protect people like them, not batter down their door in the middle of the night.

  Milly screamed.

  Kate was moving before she realized it, climbing the hill blindly, scrambling over rotting apples and dead leaves.

  It was hard, rocky, useless ground, churned with twisted roots and steeper here than where she’d descended on horseback, but it didn’t matter. She must reach the top. Her hands scrabbled at last over level ground, and she craned her neck to see over the crest of the hill, then froze.

  Kate had expected destruction, broken windows and burst cushions, but not this. Milly’s husband lay on the ground, bleeding. He was unconscious, and the deep gash across his forehead ran red over his face and nightshirt. His mother, who had listened to Angela Ferrers with girlish delight only that morning, knelt sobbing on the ground beside him.

  And Milly was being dragged toward the barn. Her hair was the color of her husband’s blood in the torchlight. Her swollen frame was awkward beneath her thin lawn shift. She struggled, impotent as a kitten, against five dragoons in tall bearskin hats. They paid her no heed. She dug her heels into the ground, and they lifted her over their heads and carried her.

  Kate opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clapped over it, and a heavy weight landed on her back, pressing her down into the carpet of dead leaves. Then Angela Ferrers rolled them down the hill and out of sight.

  They came to a stop in the hollow of a broken tree. The Widow’s voice was an icy whisper. “There are a dozen dragoons up there. Trained soldiers. We are two women, with only one weapon between us. Even if you overcame your pacifism, we could not prevail by force of arms. There are other ways to fight, but here and now, you cannot stop what is happening to her. Rape is not fatal. There is no such thing as a fate worse than death. If they found us here with these papers, Milly and her husband would hang with us.”

  The door closed on Milly, and the screams turned to sobbing. Kate shut out the other sounds, guttural and grotesque. It went on for longer than she thought possible. Then the barn door sighed open on its Quakerly, well-oiled hinges. There was more shouting, and the sound of men mounting up, hooves plowing the earth and fading into the distance, and finally silence.

  Kate waited in the quiet dark until Angela Ferrers released her. She climbed to the top of the hill once more and looked out. The garden was trampled and littered with broken crockery and glass. They’d tossed furniture through the upstairs windows, chairs and books and Milly’s sewing table and the cradle Andrew had carved and painted just that summer. There was no sign of Milly, or her mother-in-law, or Andrew Ashcroft.

  “They’ll take him to jail in Philadelphia,” Angela Ferrers said. “His mother was wise to go with them. She can petition Howe for his release.”

  “And Milly?” Kate asked, though she did not want to hear the answer.

  “Will serve them on the road until they tire of her.”

  Kate wanted to be sick, but her stomach was empty and would not oblige her. The barn doors gaped open, so she crossed the moonlit hilltop and pushed one, then the other closed.

  There was a carbine leaning against the wall of the barn. It had been hidden behind the open door, the leather straps of the powder horn and the cartridge box looped around the barrel. One of the dragoons must have left it there while he took his turn in the barn. Kate could imagine him, hulking in his bearskin hat and scarlet coat, too busy plundering to realize he’d forgotten his gun. He would be back for it.

  She turned to see the Widow staring also. They heard the hoofbeats at the same time, and turned together toward the road. Two dragoons crested the hill and stopped, as surprised to see Kate and Angela Ferrers as the women were to see them. For a moment, no one moved. Then one of the dragoons laughed and the other said something crude, and they spurred their horses and rode hard toward Kate and the Widow.

  “Run,” Angela Ferrers said quietly.

  Kate didn’t hesitate. She plunged into the trees behind her and ran tumbling and sliding down the hill. She could hear the dragoons, crashing through the trees, and turned for an instant to look. All she could see were flashes of red and sharp metal glinting in the moonlight. A hand gripped her sleeve and pulled hard and Angela Ferrers said,
“Never look back.”

  They reached the horses, and Kate flew into the saddle. She dug her heels into her beast’s flanks. Branches whipped her face, tore at her clothes. She crouched low over her mount as she jumped a broken tree stump and skidded downhill to emerge, after what seemed like an eternity, on the road below the house.

  Angela Ferrers was beside her. She flashed Kate a quick, pleased smile, which faded when the dragoons broke through the trees.

  “Whatever happens, whatever you hear, just keep going.” The Widow spurred her horse to a gallop. Kate followed. She had never ridden so fast. She’d always been a poor horsewoman, but desperation freed a certain grace. They were swallowing the road in great plunging strides, but still the dragoons came on. And they were closing on them.

  She’d been told to ride, but she didn’t know how they could possibly outpace professional soldiers on first-class mounts. Or what they would do when the men overtook them. The men who had taken Milly to the barn.

  Kate risked a quick glance, and discovered the Widow now had possession of her pistol. Before Kate’s amazed eyes, the woman loaded, primed, and cocked the gun in a series of deft, purposeful movements. Difficult to do in the dark. Trickier mounted. Almost impossible on a galloping horse at night. And done in the twinkling of an eye.

  Then Angela Ferrers fell back, twisted gracefully in the saddle, and fired.

  The first dragoon jerked like a marionette. His gun flew up in the air, spun, and fell to the ground. His horse slowed, and his body, caught fast in the stirrups, bobbed along with it, a cork on the seas.

  The second dragoon pulled back on his reins, checking his mount. He was unarmed. The man who’d left his carbine leaning against the barn. His wide eyes followed the ghastly progress of his dying comrade’s horse, moved to where Mrs. Ferrers now stood her own mount to reload, flicked over his shoulder to check the route back through the woods.

  There was a moment, as the Widow tamped and primed the pistol, when Kate realized she ought to object.