by Jane Feather
“You wish me to take you to where I found you?”
“If you please.”
“And then I am to return and face your father, having assisted in the elopement or worse of his daughter?” His eyebrows lifted.
“I think that would be asking too much, even of such an old friend.” Bryony chuckled in spite of her own stinging sorrow at the thought of what her defection would do to her parents. But she had to make a choice of loyalties, and in the final analysis the choice seemed not to exist. She went on with her plan, pushing aside the sorrow. “I thought that if you said you were going to join the Tory force at Gloucester tonight, for instance, then I could creep out and ride behind you until we reached the place. You would not be implicated and no one would guess.”
Francis accorded the suggestion due consideration, then nodded. “I can see no flaws in it. Besides, the sooner I am away from here, the better. Having settled on this course of action, I’m impatient to implement it. We’ll leave after dinner.”
“I’ll meet you at the end of the drive,” Bryony said. “No one will question my decision to retire straight after dinner. It’s been an exhausting occasion, after all.”
“Quite amazingly so,” Francis concurred dryly. “I feel as if I have lived a lifetime in a mere three days.”
They went their separate ways, Bryony to lock herself in her chamber and agonize over the composition of the letter she must leave for her father. She could not tell him that she was following Benedict Clare without betraying Ben’s Patriot allegiances. If Ferguson knew that a spy had been a participant in their planning discussion, there was nothing to prevent him from changing the plans that Ben was taking to General Gates. Such a betrayal would hardly improve her case with her reluctant bridegroom. Eventually, she settled for a half-true, half-fabricated account of a love affair during her previous disappearance, of the impossibility of now settling for marriage to Francis, of her need to return to the man she loved, whose identity she could not reveal.
Bryony read it through with a grimace. All this talk of love would not appease either of her parents. But what else could she say? It was the truth. She closed the letter with a plea for understanding and forgiveness, although in her heart of hearts she was afraid that both would be denied her. But at least they would not again suffer the hell of not knowing what had happened to her. She could do no more.
Somehow she managed to sit through dinner at the vastly depleted table, where only Lord Dawson, Major Ferguson, and the Cullums remained as guests. Francis’s intention to leave for Gloucester that evening met with no opposition, and he and Bryony were rather pointedly left alone in the drawing room once the tea tray had been removed.
“Why don’t you run upstairs as if overcome with emotion?” Francis suggested practically. “Then I can make my farewell. I will wait for you on the road.”
Bryony nodded. Appearing overcome with emotion was not difficult since tears were very close, anyway. She found her parents on the terrace. They were alone, sitting side by side, Eliza with her embroidery frame, Sir Edward reading to her from a leather-bound book of poetry, and Bryony stood for a second watching this rare moment of complete companionship, glad that if this was to be the last time she saw them, she would have a warm memory. There was no further need to feign sorrow—the tears flowed freely now—and fortunately no need to explain the fervency of her embrace as she bade them good night. Her tears for Francis were considered perfectly understandable and her need for sympathy equally so.
Upstairs, she drew out the doeskin tunic from the back of the armoire, where she had kept it for memory’s sake. The moccasins were there, also. She wrapped them and the tunic into a small bundle that she could conceal beneath her cloak, then looked around the room that had always been her sanctuary, where the memorabilia of childhood and girlhood mingled with the appurtenances of womanhood. Was there anything else she should take out of this life? Anything without which she could not live? It was everything or nothing, really, Bryony decided. She would start anew, taking only the few pieces of jewelry that belonged to her. She might have need of money. Ben might have need of money. A small shrug accompanied the addendum. He had not appeared to suffer from shortness of funds these past days, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
She changed into a plain gown of worked muslin, which could be worn without a hooped petticoat, put on a pair of relatively sturdy leather shoes and the same light cloak that she had worn that morning, laid the letter addressed to her father on her pillow, and slipped out onto the landing. Luck was with her, and she reached the front drive unnoticed. She crossed the lawn into the trees bordering the drive and made her way swiftly down to the road, the screen of trees hiding her from any possible traffic on the driveway.
The road in the gathering dusk appeared empty, and she stood hesitantly. To the right, the road curved, and guessing that Francis was adopting her own obsession with secrecy and was keeping himself out of sight, she ran toward the bend. Francis was standing by the trees, holding his horse, Dirk, and looking anxious.
“There you are. My father and Dawson came down the drive with me to bid me farewell, and I was afraid you might run into them as they were returning to the house.”
“No, I saw no one.” She went to Dirk, hitching up her skirt as she raised her foot to the stirrup. Dirk stood twenty hands from the ground, but she sprang upward deftly. “Come, Francis. The longer we dally around here, the greater the chance of discovery.” She couldn’t keep the impatience from her voice, and Francis, with a resigned shake of his head, mounted behind her, reaching around for the reins.
“Dallying, as it happens, was far from my intention. I am as anxious to be done with this business as you.”
“I crave pardon,” she murmured in subdued tones. “It is just that I am rather scared and I feel like crying….”
“Yes, I know,” he said with swift comprehension. “I suppose it would not be helpful to ask what you intend to do if Benedict is not where you expect to find him?”
“He will be,” she said with complete confidence.
“And what if he won’t take you with him?”
“He won’t be able to prevent me,” she replied.
Francis snorted a trifle doubtfully. He had formed the impression that Benedict Clare was not particularly malleable, even by one with Bryony’s determined talents. However, Bryony had chosen her own course, as he had chosen his, and casting doubts would not be constructive.
They rode in silence for nearly an hour as dusk became full dark, and Bryony wrestled with something that she had forgotten when she had so blithely made her plans. She would have to make her way through the forest in the dead of night. She shivered in sudden panic and then stiffened her shoulders. She had walked the woods at night with Ben. So long as she didn’t lose the path, she would come to no harm. Unless she crossed the path of a bear, of course, or …
“It’s here, I think.” Francis spoke suddenly, drawing Dirk to a halt beside the road. “I remember that configuration of oaks.”
Bryony found the beginning of the narrow path with no difficulty. The moon was reassuringly bright, although little light would reach the denser parts of the forest. But she must not think of that.
“I think I should accompany you,” Francis said, examining the path in frowning concern. “You can’t go into the forest alone in the dark.”
“Yes, I can,” Bryony assured him quietly, knowing now that she could. “The path is familiar to me.” She smiled in an effort to convince him, saying lightly, “It will not help my case with Ben if I trail the entire neighborhood with me.”
“What is he doing in the backwoods?” It was a natural enough question, although it was the first time Francis had asked it.
“He goes there when he needs to think,” she improvised with a careless shrug.
Francis sighed. “I wish I knew what he was doing thinking in the forest last summer, when he was only supposed to have arrived in the Colonies three months a
go.”
“Don’t press me, Francis. I can’t tell you, and yet I know that leaving you in ignorance is fine return for your kindness.” Her voice was muffled as the tears again clogged her throat. Francis took her in his arms in a sudden, fierce hug, and she clung to him, letting the tears flow without restraint, wetting his shirtfront.
“It is so hard to bid you farewell,” she whispered. “I don’t suppose we will ever meet again.”
“Don’t be so sure of that,” Francis replied gently, stroking her hair. “I have a feeling that this is not the last farewell for us, Bri.”
A graveyard shiver for some reason prickled her skin, and she stood away from him, smiling with determined bravery. “Will you go first, Francis? I’ll watch you out of sight.”
“If that is what you wish.” He kissed her then, and for a moment, she leaned against him, her body long with his as they shared the same thought: how easy it would once have been to follow the path laid down for them, never to have known the drive of passion, the pain of choice. Then, without words, they separated. Francis remounted as Bryony stood in the dark shadow of the trees, and he rode off down the road to his own resolution, without a backward glance.
Bryony stepped onto the path and allowed the forest to swallow her. She paused long enough to remove her dress and undergarments, and to slip on the tunic, feeling its cool suppleness against her bare skin. Her feet slipped into the moccasins, and suddenly it was last summer again. She stretched, reveling in the freedom of her body, the sense of its belonging in the elemental world of woods and creeks.
Her fear left her with this resurgence of the self who had known these woods. Wrapping her shoes and clothes in the cloak, she set off down the path, looking neither right nor left, not stopping to listen, because the forest noises might alarm her, just continuing doggedly on her way as the night wore on. It took her a little longer this time than it had that sunny summer morning, but she recognized the crossroads where the four paths met, and her heart lifted. It was simple from here—half an hour, perhaps. And yet she was taken by surprise when the trees suddenly gave way to the moon-washed clearing, so achingly familiar, as if no time had passed since last she was here.
She tiptoed across to the firestones. They were still warm, although the ashes were gray, but it told her all she needed to know. Ben was here. The cabin door was closed, and when she pushed tentatively against it, it did not budge. She knew there was a heavy wooden bar that could be dropped across the door, ensuring safety from intruders, but Ben had never used it last summer. Maybe there was more to be afraid of now.
A devastating wave of weariness threatened to engulf her at the knowledge that Ben and the bed were behind a barred door. She could bang on it, call through the window, but if she woke him she would have to talk, and she did not think she could form even the simplest words. She had had no sleep the previous night; had spent the day on a razor’s edge of tension; had been wrung out with the wretchedness of parting from her parents and from Francis; and had triumphed over her fear of the nighttime forest at the expense of her last residue of strength. If she could not creep into bed beside Ben, as she had intended, then she would sleep on the ground beside the firestones.
Her clothes made a pillow, her cloak, drawn tightly around her, sufficed as a blanket. The hard ground was a featherbed—even a bed of nails would have been welcomed so long as she could lie down. Deep, black unconsciousness consumed her, and when the birds burst into their joyous chorus at daybreak, the curled figure, as insensible as if in a coma, stirred not at all.
Ben stood in the cabin doorway, looking down at the sleeping figure before him. Why had he not envisaged this? Had he really thought she would allow him to walk away from her, from the love they had both declared, without a word of farewell? Without a word of explanation? He had been miserably afraid to give her either, and now that piece of cowardice had led to God only knew what complications—complications that he could ill afford. What excuse had she made for her disappearance this time? Or had she simply slipped away in the night? Maybe, so long as she went home within a few hours, no irreparable damage would have been done.
He knelt down beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder, but he realized instantly that it would take more ferocious methods than he was prepared to use to bring her out of this sleep. She was dead to the world, her breathing slow, her body heavy in total relaxation. Ben sighed in resignation and scooped her up off the ground. Not by so much as a flicker of an eyelash did she indicate any consciousness of her changed position. He carried her into the cabin and placed her on the bed, unwrapping the cloak. When he saw the doeskin tunic, he cursed with soft violence as the implications of her chosen dress became clear: Bryony had not come simply to say farewell.
Ben’s lips tightened as he anticipated the upcoming confrontation. He tossed the sheet over her and left the cabin, picking up the kettle before going down to the creek. Bryony was so damnably obstinate that he didn’t imagine for one minute that she would accept the inevitable with graceful resignation. But he didn’t want to part with her in anger; better the clean break he had intended when he had left her father’s house—even though cowardice had informed his intention—than acrimony souring the memories. He filled the kettle and returned to the glade, where he lit the fire and began to prepare breakfast. Bryony had a long walk ahead of her back to the Williamsburg road, and he himself had a march of several days through the forest in order to reach Paul Tyler’s plantation unobserved. It was much quicker by river, but the water highway was too well used; he could not risk being seen now that he had come out into the open and Benedict Clare was an identifiable figure in the area.
Bryony woke abruptly with a surge of panic. She lay blinking in the dim light of the cabin until consciousness returned fully, bringing recognition of her surroundings and the realization that Ben must have put her to bed.
She swung herself off the bed but found that her body seemed drugged with sleep, her head muzzy. She sat on the bed with a flop and struggled to collect herself. How long had she slept? The smell of wood smoke drifted through the unshuttered window with the unmistakable aroma of bacon. If Benedict was cooking breakfast, then it must still be early. Bryony stood up again, discovered her strength returned, and made for the door.
“Ben, we should leave here soon.” She spoke even as she stepped out into the clearing, brushing her tousled hair away from her face. She peered anxiously up at the sky, where the sun was climbing rapidly. Her letter would have been discovered by now.
“Yes, you must retrace your steps,” Ben stated with soft decisiveness. “As soon as you have had coffee and breakfast, lass, that is exactly what you are going to do.”
Bryony felt the last vestiges of weariness drop from her limbs, the muzziness leave her brain. “No, I am not,” she said with a calm firmness to match his. Squatting down beside the hearth, she helped herself to coffee and drank deeply, feeling its revivifying warmth lick her muscles back to life. “I am coming with you. Your cause is my cause, and I will fight for it beside you.”
“Don’t be absurd.” Ben was not, at this point, too alarmed. He had expected as much, and it did not occur to him for one minute that he would fail to prevail in the end. He cut two slabs of wheaten bread, laid several thick rashers of bacon between them, and handed her the substantial sandwich. “Quite apart from the fact that Miss Bryony Paget’s destiny does not lie with that of a vagrant with a war to fight and no future beyond that war, a battleground is no place for a woman.”
“You are quite mistaken,” Bryony informed him, placidly chewing. “It doesn’t matter who or what you are now or may become, my destiny is bound inextricably with yours. And women have always followed armies, anyway. I fail to see why this one should be any different.”
Benedict began to feel the first hint of apprehension. Bryony’s assurance was so absolute. “Finish your breakfast and get on your way. I am leaving as soon as I have closed up the cabin.”
“Good,” she
said. “Shall I put out the fire? The sooner we are away from here, the better, I think.” Still munching her sandwich, she stood up and reached for the kettle, tipping its contents onto the glowing embers.
“Bryony, you are not coming with me!” He took her by the shoulders, his fingers gripping with painful intent. “We have to say farewell, here and now, and go our separate ways. We have always known that this is the way it would be in the end.” His voice softened. “Do not make it more difficult, lass, than it must be.”
“It is not going to be at all difficult,” Bryony responded. “There will be no farewell. I love you and I cannot envisage my life without you, therefore I am coming with you. You don’t quite understand how it must be, but you will soon, I am certain of it—once you have recovered from the events of the last two days and can see matters clearly again. At the moment, you must trust me to know what is best for us both.”
Benedict’s jaw dropped at this lecture delivered with such utter composure. “I will not take you!” was all he could think of to say.
“I am not asking you to take me,” Bryony pointed out carefully. “I am coming of my own free will, assuming responsibility for myself and my decisions.”
“You naive little baby,” he said with a scornful crack of laughter. “How can you possibly take responsibility for yourself in such circumstances? Apart from those six weeks you spent with me, you have never done so much as tie your own shoelaces.”
Bryony flushed. “That is not entirely true,” she said in a low voice. “But even if it is, I will learn. I will not be a burden to you, and I will never interfere with what you see as your duty during this war. When it is over, then we will decide what we must do.”
Benedict came to the desperate realization that, short of tying her to a tree in the clearing and leaving her to the wolves, he was helpless to prevent her following him if she insisted. He could, however, ensure that her following was short-lived. Shrugging, he released her shoulders. “Please yourself.” He strode into the cabin, leaving Bryony, somewhat surprised at the ease of her victory, to finish her breakfast.
