by Jane Feather
Her mouth curved in a sad smile against his finger. “I do believe it, Ben. Just as I also believe that it can be otherwise. But if I cannot convince you, then …” She shrugged. “We should return to the picnic. Even a search for wildflowers must come to an end or draw remark.” She walked away from him, back to the sounds of laughter and the chink of glasses, back to those intent on merriment, for whom the bright day contained no shadows.
Roger Martin sat glowering in the shade of a tall poplar. His sweaty scalp itched beneath his wig, and he pushed it up irritably to scratch at the shaven skin. It was too damned hot for this cavorting about on riverbanks. His belly was stretched, drum tight, pushing against the waistband of his satin britches, but he continued to fork the rich ox meat into a mouth already shining with grease. He took a deep draft of claret, chewing stolidly as he did so, and belched profoundly.
The scene in front of him should have gladdened the most jaundiced eye, sweetened the sourest temper. A boisterous game of blindman’s buffet was engaging every picnicker below the age of twenty, the noise vying with the scraping of a fiddle and the pipe of a flute as the next generation performed an informal galliard on the bank. What the dance lacked in ballroom elegance, it made up for in enthusiasm, and the elders of the party, those who were awake, sat smiling and nodding, tapping their toes on the grass as they reminisced about the pleasures of their own youth.
Roger Martin’s temper, however, was not to be sweetened. Through the fumes of alcohol befuddling his brain, something nagged at him as it had done since he had arrived at the Paget house that morning … or rather, since he had been introduced to that damned supercilious Irishman. Martin was a tenacious man as well as an impatient one, and this thing—whatever it was—that hung on the periphery of sense was driving him to distraction. He stared at the Irishman, who had moved out of the dance, some pretty little filly on his arm. And as Roger Martin stared, it was as if an invisible string tightened between them. Benedict Clare raised his head and gazed directly back. The power of the hatred in his eyes would have pierced the thickest hide, and Martin felt a strange cold prickle touch his scalp. He had been on the receiving end of that same stare from those same black eyes before. But God’s blood! Where and when?
Benedict cursed himself silently as he turned without apparent haste to look away from his enemy. He should avoid eye contact at all cost. He knew that perfectly well, just as he knew that he must control the surging temptation to close his hands around the man’s neck, to squeeze the life, slowly, chokingly, from him, to see those pale bloodshot eyes start from their sockets….
“Mr. Clare, are you quite well?” A hesitant voice spoke at his elbow, and he realized that he had drifted away again.
“Why, Miss Millicent, what man could be otherwise in your company,” he said with a smile that set the maiden’s heart aflutter. “But I think I should return you to your mama. She was most anxious that you should not spend overlong in the sun, and one can only commend her concern for such a delicate complexion.” The pretty words came so easily, he thought with a sardonic quirk.
The young lady was returned, and Ben left the circle of embroidering matrons and went in search of wine and a little peace and quiet for thought. By this time tomorrow, he must be on his way south. The party would break up in the morning, and it would be assumed that he would then join forces with Ferguson on the march to South Carolina. Was there an excuse he could find to delay his recruitment so that his true allegiance would remain unknown for a few more vital days? The longer the Tories remained in ignorance of the spy they had harbored in their camp, the greater time advantage Gates would have when Ben brought him the news of Ferguson’s movements.
“How long d’ye say ye’ve been in the Colonies, Clare?” God dammit! That truculent voice rasped in the remembered belligerence that habitually preceded some needling taunts that would hopefully prick the bondsman to a punishable insolence. Ben could feel himself slipping back, could feel his shoulders drooping slightly, his eyes lowering as he concentrated on breathing, deep and even, as he sought for the innocent, placatory response. And then he remembered that he was no longer Nick, that he was Benedict Clare, guest of Sir Edward Paget, that to behave like Nick in such a situation would be as dangerously revealing as a bold declaration of the truth.
“Three months,” he replied briefly, continuing to saunter across to the still-laden tables.
“Where’d ye land?” Again that belligerence.
“Boston.” The Irish lilt became yet more pronounced. It was not something Martin would associate with Nick. Ben reached for a glass, took the chased silver ladle from the matching punch bowl, and filled the glass with the potent brew. “Do you care for punch, Martin?” Still holding the ladle, he reached for another glass.
An expletive derived from the barnyard greeted the polite inquiry. “That muck is fit only for milksops! Give me the brandy.” This last was bellowed at a hovering slave. When the boy hesitated, looking for the required bottle, Martin’s hand shot out in a backhanded clout that sent the lad reeling.
The ladle shook in Ben’s hand, its contents spilling upon the white damask cloth, and blood pounded in his temples. Then a hand, cool and quiet, came to rest over his, easing it down so that the ladle was returned to the punch bowl. “Perhaps I can help you, Mr. Martin.” Bryony spoke, her voice glacial, sounding remarkably like Sir Edward Paget’s. “I must apologize if the service offered does not meet with your satisfaction.”
“Is something amiss?” Sir Edward appeared as if from nowhere. He looked from the lad, still clutching the side of his head, to Bryony, white and stiff, to the crimson, sweating Martin, and then at the motionless figure of Benedict Clare. In the silence, men moved slowly across the grass, drawn by the emanating tension, by the certainty of an impending explosion. It could no more be mistaken than the storm clouds presaging a thunderstorm.
Ben caught Martin by the shoulder in a movement shocking in its abruptness and spun him round to face him. “Brutality may be your creed, Mr. Martin, but it is hardly courteous to practice it upon another man’s property!”
Bryony stepped away from Ben, nausea churning in her belly as she felt the shape of an imminent horror. A rustle, maybe of agreement, maybe of disapproval, ran around the gathering circle. Paget opened his mouth to say something in an attempt to end what was about to happen before it began, but the horror could not be forestalled, had passed beyond all possibility of intervention three years since.
“You dare lay hands on me!” Roger Martin twisted in outrage, flinging off the hands on his shoulders, his face suffused. There was a moment when the two men were quite alone in a world that excluded the immediate circle of spectators, the plaintive offerings of fiddle and pipe, the excited whispers of servants gathering in an outer circle, the urgent demands for explanation from those in the background wanting to know what had transpired. They were alone in a time and place long past, and Roger Martin gaped as the incredible, unbelievable memory became reality.
“God’s blood,” he said again. “Nick!”
“What the devil are you talking about, man?” demanded Paget, not troubling to disguise his anger.
Martin extended a shaking finger. Indeed, his entire body seemed to quiver under the force of an ungovernable rage. “A runaway cur!” he hissed. “My bondsman, bought at the dock at Charleston five years ago!”
“Get ahold of yourself, man,” Paget insisted, taking his arm. “You babble.”
“Indeed I do not.” A fleck of saliva clung to Martin’s lip as he gazed with sickening triumph at the man he owned. “This piece of scum ran away, owing me twelve years’ labor!”
Say something, Ben, Bryony prayed with such intensity that she could not believe he didn’t hear. But he just stood there, pale and unmoving.
“What the devil’s he on about?” someone demanded petulantly. “Can’t say things like that about a gentleman.”
“Gentleman!” spat Martin. “He belongs to me, and I demand you
put him in irons, Paget. I’ll drag him back to Georgia at my stirrup.” Suddenly, he grabbed the ruff of Ben’s shirt. “D’ye need proof? I’ll show you the scars I put on his back. Take your shirt off, cur!”
Benedict stood as if carved in granite, and uncertainty flickered on the faces of those around him. A man would need to be very sure of himself to make such a monstrous accusation, to believe he had in his hand such corroboration.
Bryony never knew exactly what divine hand came to her aid, and she never questioned it. Such gifts one accepted without thought. Her voice rang clear, quiet and utterly assured in the shocked instant of silence—an instant that was about to give way to the baying of the hounds. “I cannot believe, Papa, that you will stand aside whilst a guest in your house is offered such atrocious insult. It is hardly worthy of Paget hospitality.”
The cold statement abruptly brought hard-edged reality to the hypnotic trance that seemed to hold them all in its grip. Martin’s accusations were those of a madman, and even if, by some aberration, they could be proved otherwise, they were the grossest transgression of all the rules that made life pleasant and possible. Sir Edward, as host, was responsible for restoring order on the instant. If his guest was offered insult under his roof, then it was the equivalent of an affront from himself, and Bryony had reminded him forcibly of his duty.
“You will accept my apologies, Clare.” He bowed briefly. “I can only assume that Mr. Martin has a touch of the sun.”
“And the brandy,” came an added mutter as people began to relax. It was a story that would keep many a dinner table exclaiming for months to come.
“God dammit, man, did you hear what I said? I want this man in irons—”
“Sir Edward.” Benedict broke into the enraged bluster, his tone almost neutral. But it was the first time he had spoken, and even Martin fell silent. “I much regret the necessity of causing you further unpleasantness, but I fear that I must insist on satisfaction. Such an affront cannot be borne by a man of honor.” No one could guess the deep, warm glow of satisfaction that infused him. His vengeance was there now for the plucking, and quick-thinking Bryony had placed the tool in his hand even as she had saved him.
Martin gobbled like a turkey cock, a corded vein standing out on his temple as he appeared on the verge of apoplexy. Sir Edward, taking advantage of this disablement, said quietly, “The accusation was lunacy, Clare.”
“Maybe so, but the terms in which it was couched were not,” Ben responded, equally quietly.
“Why, you … you … you dare to believe I would fight such trash!” Martin seemed to lose the power of speech again, and the gobbling resumed.
Sir Edward did not deign to look in his direction. Instead, with a punctilious bow, he offered, “I would be honored to act for you, Clare.”
Benedict returned the bow. “The honor is mine, Sir Edward.” He cast a disdainful, dismissive glance at his opponent. “Pistols at twenty-five yards … but not until he’s sober.” Swinging on his heel, he strode down to the beach.
Bryony took a step after him, then re-collected herself. Somehow she must contain herself, contain the turmoil and confusion of this revelation that told her so much yet explained so little. He had told her that he was truly Benedict Clare; she had seen the initials on his shirt … but a runaway bondsman? There was no sense in it, yet she knew it to be the truth.
Pandemonium boiled around her as explanations were demanded by those who had not been a party to the drama, and Roger Martin continued to rage. But the power of his vilifications and imprecations was somehow weakened by an occasional note of whining bewilderment. Sir Edward cut through the tumult with incisive authority.
“Name your friends, Martin.”
The chilling impatience of the demand served to remind everyone of the realities. There was a duel to be fought, and at twenty-five yards—a range that only the most experienced, assured duelist would choose—it would be fought to the death. Clare, as the injured party, had taken with a vengeance his rights to the choice of weapons and to the stipulation of conditions. Some of the choleric flush faded on Martin’s cheeks, and he drew himself up. “I’ll not fight my bondsman.”
A gasp ran around the group. Then, as one body, they turned their backs on one capable of such dishonor, except for Paget, who said with soft insistence, “Do not be a fool, man. You have made such accusations of a gentleman as cannot be tolerated. You must defend them in the only honorable way, as he will defend himself. Name your friends.”
There was no help for it, as Martin well knew, even as he raged inwardly at the gross injustice, the quirk of fate that had brought him to this position. To refuse the challenge was to stand dishonored, to be forever spurned by his fellows, an outcast to be regarded with loathing by all honorable men. He wiped his brow with a soiled kerchief and looked around. The group of his peers had turned to face him once more, but no one stepped forward to offer their services, and he was obliged to ask. “Cullum?”
The curt question was directed at Sir Francis, who barely nodded in acknowledgment before saying to Paget, “This is not the place to discuss such matters. I will confer with my principal and meet with you this evening.”
The party broke up almost immediately, there being no enthusiasm for further revelry. Subdued, talking in whispers, they all made their way back to the boats, leaving behind on the bank the forlorn remains of the picnic. Of Benedict Clare there was no sign, but an oarsman told them that the gentleman had taken one of the canoes, saying that he would paddle himself back to the great house.
“What do you make of it, Bri?” Francis asked softly, perching beside her on the narrow thwart.
Bryony shrugged. “Martin is crazed—and drunk,” she added. “And he’s a boorish oaf.”
“And Clare will kill him for that?”
She looked up at him, replying casually, “Would you not, Francis, if you had been subjected to such public insult?”
“It is not always easy to put oneself in another man’s shoes,” he responded soberly. “But there is something devilishly queer about it, say what you will.”
Bryony was not about to venture any further opinions. Curiously, she felt no deep repugnance at the idea of Benedict’s killing Roger Martin. If, as Martin had admitted, he had put those scars on Ben’s back, then he deserved to die. At least he would die in a fair fight. But if he did not die … A shudder ran through her. If he did not die, he would have killed Ben, or worse—wounded him so that he could exhibit the marks of the bondsman and drag him back to an existence that she could not bear to contemplate. There was only one possible, bearable conclusion to this. She knew that Ben was a fine shot, and he would hardly have chosen such a range if he had not been sure of himself.
What was to become of them now that she knew some of the truth that lay behind those terrifying moods of Ben’s, now that she had had some glimpse into the nightmare world that he had inhabited? Surely, it could only bring them closer. Surely, Ben would cease his objections to her plan now that she knew the dreadful secret that he had been keeping with such tenacity. The thoughts tumbled, jumbled, made no orderly pattern. When Ben came to her that night, as he had promised, came to her for the night of loving that was intended to be their last, then she would be able to make sense of this whirling chaos; then, surely, she would learn the whole truth, and Ben would understand that no truth, however dreadful, could make any difference to the way she felt, to her certainty that they were bound to each other by ties that transcended the slings and arrows of fortune.
Throughout an interminable evening, Bryony tried to catch Ben’s eye, wanting simply a look, a smile, but he ignored her, although he showed no indication of strain. He smiled, talked, joked, flirted lightly—in fact, behaved as impeccably as one would expect of a man facing a duel at dawn. Of Roger Martin there was no sign, and Bryony gathered from Francis that he had been persuaded to spend the evening in sober seclusion with his second.
“Such a dreadful thing to have happened. Seldom h
ave I seen your father so upset,” bemoaned Eliza. “That abominable man Martin! He’ll never be welcome under my roof again.”
Bryony regarded her mother with raised eyebrows. “It is to be assumed, Mama, that after tomorrow he will not be in a position to avail himself of an invitation, even should you feel inclined to extend it.”
Eliza went white beneath her rouge. “Oh, Bryony! How can you be so callous and unwomanly?” She sounded genuinely angry. “I do not know what is to become of you, now that Francis is …” Her voice faded and she dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.
Bryony, filled with remorse, apologized for her sharpness, comforting her mother as best she could. But it was difficult to offer comfort when she needed it herself. Her father had answered her questions curtly, telling her that Clare and Martin would face each other at five o’clock the following morning on the bowling green, with pistols and at the range decreed by the injured party.
The evening ended early and with universal relief. Benedict bade his hostess good night, carefully avoiding the slightest implication that it might also be farewell. The affair would be settled long before the ladies appeared downstairs, and on the surface everyone behaved as if the fair sex knew nothing of this unpleasantness; it was not, after all, a fit subject for delicate sensibilities.
“Good night, Miss Paget.” He took her hand, brushed her fingertips with his lips, but still he did not look at her, did not even apply pressure to the hand he held. It was as if she were of no more account than any other young lady in the room.
Bryony curtsied, murmured her own good night, swallowing the sick dread of something that she had not thought possible until this minute. Ben was going to go through this without a word to her. There would be no talking tonight, certainly no loving. It was as if he had lopped her off from his tree trunk, as if she had no part, no right to draw strength from the sap that she had thought they shared. Her soul cried out at the injustice. With her quick thinking inspired by the all-consuming fear for the one she loved, had she not given him the way out? Was there to be no acknowledgment, no understanding, even, of her fear, her need?
