by Jane Feather
Bryony stared up at the clapboard roof. Francis—her dear friend Francis. She allowed her mind to drift back to that evening, the evening that had brought her to this cabin in the woods and the arms of a loving stranger whose past held some savage secret and whose present was informed by the violence of war and the embrace of its bloodshed.
Two more different men would be impossible to find; yet, until the events of that evening, she would have married Francis cheerfully enough, once her father’s patience exhausted itself and he decided that she had had her freedom and could no longer hold off the yoke of family duty. Francis was her friend, and there were many worse fates than to be wedded to one’s friend. But Francis did not care for women—at least, not as wives and lovers….
She could still feel the amazed disbelief that had held her rooted to the spot in the doorway of the little pantry, staring at the sight of Francis and the Truemans’ young serving man locked in a passionate embrace amid the silver and the china. She had been so stupefied that she had been unable to whip herself out of the room before they became aware of her. She would never forget Francis’s face as his eyes opened and he saw her over the shoulder of his lover. Incongruous words of apology had formed on her tongue and found their way into the room, then she had turned and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Once the shock had abated a little, her first thought had been, peculiarly, one of anxiety for the servant. If his part in such a scandalous business was ever discovered, he would be lucky to escape with his life. For these deviations from acceptable practice, Francis could surely have chosen his partners from the ranks of those capable of looking after themselves. But then, justice and common sense had told her that in essence it was no different from the customary use of serving wenches to satisfy masculine hungers; at least there was no danger of Francis’s young man being left to bear alone the living consequences of such carnal indiscretion.
The absurdity of that thought had served to bring an element of humor and perspective to the situation. She had never heard such a practice discussed; indeed, it would be extraordinary if any of her mother’s social circle could imagine such a thing, let alone believe in it as reality. But Bryony had had the advantage of a rigorous education under the supervision of her scholar father, and such an education could not help but embrace the classics. Sir Edward had not been unduly squeamish, either, about providing the answers and explanations to texts that puzzled his daughter, although he had permitted no discussion or expansion of the subject. As a result, Bryony found herself shocked, not so much by what had been revealed about her fiancé as about his deception of her. He had never given the slightest indication of reluctance to agree to the marriage arranged by their parents, and in recent months had been pressing Bryony to agree to an early wedding. In fact, he had given the exemplary performance of a lovelorn suitor.
Not that she had believed for one minute that he was truly lovelorn. They had known each other from the cradle, were fond of each other in the way of old friends, and could neither of them see any just cause for disobeying parental ruling in the matter of their marriage—not when such disobedience tended in general to have uncomfortable consequences. Disinherited, neither of them would be in a position to find another suitor, and there was little reason to imagine that either father would treat the defiance of his child with greater lenience than was customary. It was a marriage arranged with the children’s best interests at heart. They had grown up together, liked each other perfectly well, and the merging of the two fortunes would create vast wealth for the new dynasty that such a young and healthy couple would be sure to create.
But what was to happen now? Bryony had gone into dinner with the question no closer to solution and had found herself, as usual, seated beside Francis. His condition was pitiable—his face gray, his hands shaking so violently that he was barely able to hold his knife, and his wineglass clattered against the heavy silver platter on the infrequent occasions that he set it down. Bryony had maintained a light, matter-of-fact conversation throughout the interminable hours of the formal meal that was to precede the ball, her cheerful chatter filling the silences of her companion so that nothing untoward would be noticed by the others around the table.
He had been one of the first to join the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. His expression as resolute as his complexion was pale, he had come over to Bryony with the quiet request that she walk with him in the garden. Eliza Paget had nodded her permission for the unchaperoned excursion. It was not a consent she was likely to withhold since her main object these days was to bring Bryony rapidly to the altar. Had she been a party to the conversation that took place between the so-called lovers in the garden, she would most probably have fallen into strong convulsions.
Remembering the excruciating embarrassment of that conversation, Bryony fidgeted on the straw mattress. Francis had all but wept, promising that such an aberration would never occur again, that he had no idea what had come over him. He had implored her to set a date for their wedding, maintaining that the two years of waiting to which he had been subjected by Bryony’s whim—a whim that no one could understand except as the selfishness of a spoiled child—had taken great toll on his peace of mind.
Angry at this cowardly evasion of responsibility, Bryony, never one to mince her words, had snapped back with brutal frankness, which she had regretted the minute Francis had left, making excuses of ill health to his hosts before riding home to the Cullum plantation. Bryony had danced the night away, and if anyone noticed a brittle quality to her laughter, a certain inconsistency in her conversation, they were too polite to comment. And when the household was abed, she had crept, still in her ballgown, out of the bedroom that she was sharing with half a dozen other visiting young ladies from neighboring plantations, and out of the house, seeking the solitude of the quiet night. Only to find herself caught up in a conflagration …
Her stomach growled in loud and vociferous protest at its empty condition.
“That is a most unladylike sound,” a sleepy voice murmured in the darkness. Ben’s warm palm flattened over her complaining belly.
“Mayhap, but a farmer’s lusty wench does not tend to be ladylike,” she said with a laugh that sounded awkward to her suddenly oversensitive ears. “And even ladies can be hungry.” It was a conversation too close to home, one that could have taken place without artifice when she had not known exactly who she was. Why did she not simply tell him the truth, now that she had it? Because to do so would mean making decisions, decisions that she did not wish to contemplate, let alone to make. And because she would have to tell the Patriot, in his Patriot hideout, that she came of Loyalist stock, just as he had feared. She would never betray him, and he would know that, but after what she had witnessed last night …
“I did try to wake you for supper,” Ben murmured, still sleepy and apparently not noticing the awkwardness that she had heard in her voice. “You were beyond all stimuli.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Bryony rolled into his arms, nuzzling his shoulder. “There are some stimuli I am never beyond.”
“I tried them all, lass, but to no avail, I swear it.” There was a comically mournful note in his voice now, and the drowsiness seemed fast disappearing.
Bryony put memories and insoluble problems aside. She needed solitude if she was ever to come to terms with either, and, at some point, she must. But for now, there was this warmth, this languid arousal, the joining of bodies that kept all specters at bay and brought the peace of a union that had place only in the universe that was their own, untouched by other worlds.
Why so sad, lass? You look as if you lost a guinea and found a groat.” Benedict crossed the clearing early one morning several days later, a rabbit dangling by its hind legs from his hand, his musket slung across his shoulder.
Bryony, who was sitting hunched over on the grass by the stone fireplace, was well aware of her wan appearance. “I have the bellyache,” she muttered.
“I to
ld you to be a little more circumspect with those plums last night,” he said, passing a stroking hand over her hair as he dropped his burdens to the grass. “You must have consumed at least two pounds.”
“It has nothing to do with the plums.” Bryony sounded more than a little snappish, and Ben frowned, dropping onto his heels beside her.
“Someone got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.” A long finger beneath her chin tilted her face to meet his scrutiny. “What has occurred to make you as cross as two sticks?”
“Nothing!” Perversely, she twisted her head away, scowling into the distant trees.
Ben shook his head in frustration. “Am I supposed to persevere in my efforts to find out what is the matter, or am I supposed to leave you alone? The message is not clear.”
“I told you, I have the bellyache and it is making me feel miserable,” Bryony offered, still staring into the trees.
“Well, if it is not caused by a surfeit of plums, what is it?” he asked.
“It’s private,” Bryony muttered rather feebly. She could not imagine why she should be so embarrassed after the intimacies that they had shared, but some deep-rooted reserve seemed to be holding her back from complete candor.
Benedict’s frown deepened, then he said, “Ahhh,” and stood up and went into the cabin. He emerged within a few seconds with a beaker. “A little brandy will help, lass.”
Bryony took the beaker. “How do you know what will help?”
He smiled. “I have not spent my life in a monastery, sweeting. Drink it up, now. It will relax you a little.”
She took a sip of the fiery liquid and felt its warmth slide down into her belly, loosening the cramped muscles. “The ache doesn’t usually last long,” she said, feeling immeasurably easier with him. “And I suppose we should be thankful.” She looked at him over the lip of the beaker, searching his face for reaction.
“And are you not?” he asked quietly, sitting down beside her again.
“Yes … yes, of course I am.” She was, but at the same time could not help the niggling thought that if she were with child, then they would be forced to make some decisions about a shared future, to face a reality outside the fairy ring of this glade in the woods. She could tell him of her identity, of Francis, of her father, and the knowledge of her background would not seem important or divisive if something over and above those facts joined them in love. And her father would accept the reality, would make the best of it, after the initial explosion. She would not have to betray Francis to Sir Edward, either, in order to break the marriage contract, since her own disgrace would be more than sufficient reason. And she could go to her father soon, put him out of the torment that she knew he must be enduring at her disappearance. Loving him as deeply as he loved her, Bryony had been stretched upon the rack of guilt these last few days at keeping him in ignorance of her safety.
“My love, it would not work,” Benedict said gently, smoothing back her hair. “There can be no future for us. I am not the kind of man of whom husbands are made.”
How had he read her mind with such accuracy? Bryony felt her cheeks warm. “What kind of man are you, then?”
“No more and no less than you know,” he replied in that soft tone that signified an end to the subject. “Finish your brandy. I’ll excuse you your chores this morning, so you may pass the time in idleness in the sun, like any other grand lady.” He gave her a smile that seemed to combine gently resigned understanding with the firmness of his resolution.
Bryony watched the competent economy of his movements as he fetched wood from the pile by the cabin and laid and lit the fire in the stone ring, then made coffee and ground maize with pestle and mortar to make the porridge for their breakfast. She had never met a man who could do those things and all the other tasks that he performed with such unthinking ability. The brandy and the warmth of the morning sun were making her drowsy, and she closed her eyes, resting her head on her drawn-up knees. The sun created a red glow behind her eyelids, and she could feel its rays, concentrated and hot, on the back of her head. What kind of man was he? A warrior with an all-consuming cause; a supremely skilled woodsman and hunter; a man of considerable learning, with many of the attributes of an aristocrat; a wondrously tender and experienced lover; a humorous man; a ruthless man of invincible purpose—and heaven help the person who stepped between the man and that purpose.
Benedict paused in his tasks to observe the hunched figure, arms wrapped around her knees, lost in her reverie. In spite of his overwhelming relief that she was not with child, he was conscious of a certain sadness. Their exchange had told him clearly what he had known but had tried to ignore. Bryony was not going to be able simply to accept what they had for as long as they had it. Hopes of permanency had entered her soul, and they were hopes that he had had to dash without explanation. It was time to bring an end to the idyll in the woods before she got in any deeper.
Before she got in any deeper? A mirthless smile quirked his lips. Before he found himself in waters too hot and too deep. If he were truly honest with himself, Miss Bryony was well and truly under his skin, and he could not afford such an encumbrance—for either of their sakes.
He poured himself a beaker of coffee and sat back on his heels, still watching her covertly since it was clear she was not asleep. He knew very little about amnesia, but surely her memory was taking an unconscionably long time to return? It was not as if the loss was complete, and for a while she had been remembering little things on a daily basis, but that seemed to have stopped in the last few days. Benedict sighed. He would have to go in search of her identity himself. It would mean going into town, where news of a missing girl in the neighborhood would surely have been circulated by now. Maybe some of the men who worked in town had picked up some gossip. It was something he should have done days ago, but he had been curiously reluctant, telling himself that someone would bring the information to him when they had it. In truth, of course, he had been afraid to find out, knowing that it would signal the end of the idyll, one way or another.
Her head turned on her knees, and she opened her eyes, looking directly at him, without saying anything. Her expression was grave, with a resignation that he knew was mirrored in his own.
“Come and have some breakfast,” he said quietly, pouring a second beaker of coffee.
She came over to the fire, taking the offering with a tiny smile of thanks.
“I’m going to leave you for a little while this morning,” Ben told her casually. “I should be back by mid-afternoon.”
“May I come with you?”
“No.”
Bryony shrugged. In another mood, she would have demanded a reason for his refusal, but she could not summon up the energy, somehow.
Benedict considered softening his denial with the explanation for his absence. But then she might be frightened at the very idea of his going in search of her identity. It would be a terrifying notion, he thought—if one had lived in the trackless wastes for such a time, creating a self out of the present, suddenly to contemplate the imposition of a past over which one had no control. No, better to leave her in ignorance for the moment.
“I hope you do not expect me to skin that rabbit whilst you are gone.” Bryony attempted to lighten an atmosphere that seemed heavier than the maize porridge on her trencher.
“I do not expect you to do anything but lie in the sun until your ache is better,” he replied in similar accents.
“Then I shall take the brandy bottle to the creek and lose myself in a sodden, swinish, sun-soaked stupor.”
Ben regarded her through narrowed eyes. “If that was an attempt at provocation, lass, permit me to tell you that it was successful. It is only your present delicate condition that restrains me.”
“From doing what?” she bantered with a mischievous gleam.
“Don’t ask, you might not like the answer,” he returned smartly.
When he left thirty minutes later, the despondent gravity had dissipated completely
, more by conscious effort on both their parts than by chance. Bryony pottered around the cabin, performing her customary tasks, although Ben had told her to leave them for today. She actually found the business of tidying, sweeping the earthen floor, and straightening the coarse holland sheets on the bedstead relaxing. It freed her mind while her body moved along accustomed paths, and there was considerable satisfaction in the efficient performance of even these small tasks for one who hitherto had been unaccustomed to tying her own shoelaces.
Benedict’s destination was a forge in Williamsburg. But he went first to Joshua’s farm, where he borrowed a sturdy cob that would carry him the seven miles rather faster than his legs. For all that the town was strongly supportive of the Patriot cause, habitual caution led him to avoid the place as a rule, on the principle that the fewer people who saw his face, the better. He was not remarkable in clothing or bearing so long as he remembered to walk like a backwoodsman and not with the challenging stride of a Clare. But he had learned to disguise the aristocratic bearing—to lower his head and gaze, to round his shoulders and scuff his feet a little as he walked—during the years of his servitude, when the natural arrogance of his birth and breeding had so exacerbated his master. Now no one would look twice at the bearded man in jerkin and britches, wearing his own hair unpowdered, like any workman, hands callused from hard work, long legs astride an unremarkable if stolid mount.
William barely acknowledged him when he appeared in the doorway of the forge and watched the young lad who assisted the blacksmith vigorously pump the bellows. Sparks flew with the clang of steel upon steel as William hammered a sickle out of the glowing, pliant iron upon the anvil. The heat from the roaring fire was oppressive, and both the smith and the lad, in their heavy leather aprons, were pouring sweat. Ben wiped his brow with his checkered neckcloth and sauntered out into the street again.
