Chase the Dawn

by Jane Feather

  Bryony woke to the smell of coffee and the most wonderful sense of bodily ease. Even though Ben was no longer beside her, the shape and feel of him remained imprinted on her body, and she knew that he had held her throughout the night. She stretched and yawned luxuriously, before hitching herself onto one elbow and regarding him sleepily. “I give you good day, sir.”

  “Good morrow, lass.” Ben smiled at her over the lip of his beaker. “I was beginning to think you would sleep forever. If you wish to have time for breakfast, you had better see to your ablutions with all speed.”

  Bryony got to her feet and stretched again, feeling her muscles expand as she breathed deeply of the fresh morning air, which was as clear and heady as champagne. “Am I not to receive a good-morning kiss, Mr. Clare?” she teased, going over to him and dropping onto her haunches beside him.

  Benedict kissed the tip of her nose lightly. “Hurry up, now.”

  “That was not a kiss,” she protested, putting her arms around his neck. “This is a kiss.” It promised to be a remarkably thorough demonstration until Ben broke her hold abruptly and took her face between his hands.

  “It will only make matters worse, lass,” he told her gravely. “In a few hours we must part, and I cannot bear to be reminded so powerfully of what is now finished.”

  Bryony’s mouth set, then she shrugged and stood up. “I will go and wash.” She took her time over her preparations, her mind trying to separate and order the ideas jostling for precedence. It did not seem sensible to confront Ben prematurely, here in the forest. She didn’t know the destination that was to bring the parting of the ways, and she didn’t know how Ben intended to leave her. Presumably, he intended making some provision for her return home, but Bryony couldn’t begin to imagine how a self-styled vagrant, moving undercover to join the American forces, could possibly do such a thing. When she understood his plan, then she would be better able to counteract it.

  They walked in silence, but it was not a hostile silence today; rather, it was one indicative of their absorption with private thoughts. When the forest quite suddenly gave way to a stretch of meadowland, Benedict halted, waiting for her to come up beside him. “We walk for about two miles in the open now,” he informed her. “We will reach the house from the back.”

  “Whose house?” Bryony peered into the distance, but the sun was too bright for her to see very far ahead.

  “A friend of mine,” Ben told her without expansion.

  “A Patriot?”

  At that he chuckled. “What do you think, Miss Paget?”

  “A Patriot,” she stated. “Will he assist you in joining up with General Gates?”

  “I trust so.” Ben set off across the meadow. “I need a horse, that is all.” And a little help in restoring Miss Bryony Paget to her own, he added silently.

  “Does he have a name, this Patriot?” Bryony pressed, half running to keep up with him. It seemed most unjust that, loaded down though he was, he could move so much faster than she, who carried nothing but her cloak bundle.

  Ben looked at her. “If he wishes you to know it, he will tell you himself.”

  She shook her head at this implication that she was an unsafe confidant, but she swallowed her irritation, prepared to harbor her resources for the greater battle.

  A solid two-storied brick house roofed with red pantiles came into view, set amid green lawns. There was no elaborate landscaping, though, Bryony remarked, unlike her own home, and the lawns gave way naturally to paddocks and meadowland. It seemed an affluent establishment, although not lavish—more that of a wealthy farmer than a planter.

  “We will use the side door,” Ben said, swinging to the right in the direction of the paved yard beside the house. Obviously, he was utterly at home in this establishment, Bryony reflected as she followed him, a prickle of unease undermining her earlier assurance. Benedict was presumably expecting some potent reinforcements to lie within doors, and one woman, even with all the determination in the world, could not hope to prevail against superior numbers.

  “Ben, my friend! I have been expecting you since the news of Charleston reached us!” a deep voice boomed from the doorway, and a tall, sunburned man with a shock of white hair and powerful shoulders came into the yard with a seven-league stride.

  “Paul.” Ben dropped his burdens and the two embraced with a warmth that bespoke a friendship of more than ordinary depth. Bryony stood to one side, feeling slightly awkward, like an unwitting intruder, until they stepped apart and Paul Tyler noticed Ben’s companion for the first time.

  “And who is this?” Bushy eyebrows rose, but the question was asked in a kindly fashion, and the man’s bright, intelligent eyes smiled a greeting.

  “I will explain when we are alone,” Ben said swiftly. “For the moment, do you have a bedchamber where she may rest? We have had a long walk.”

  “I am not in the least fatigued,” Bryony said stoutly. “And I am not going to be shut up whilst you plan how you may manage to be rid of me, for I have told you, I do not know how many times, that I am coming with you.”

  “You are not!” exploded Ben, seeing the end of his patience looming.

  “I am!” she reiterated just as forcefully, folding her arms and glaring at him.

  “Perhaps we should repair within doors,” Paul suggested tactfully. Intrigued though he was by this amazing scene, he was also conscious that others might find it equally fascinating, and an audience of laborers and servants was to be avoided. “Miss … uh …?” He gestured politely to the side door.

  “Paget,” Bryony informed him with a firm little nod. “I am Bryony Paget.” Tossing the raven-black cascade of hair over her shoulders, she marched ahead of them into the cool dimness of the house.

  Ben swore under his breath. “I am going to need your help, Paul.”

  “Yes, I can quite see that you might,” the other mused, a ripple of laughter in his voice. “As determined as her father, it would seem. That is the connection, is it not?”

  “Aye,” Ben agreed dourly, following Sir Edward’s daughter into the house.

  “Let us go into the parlor.” Paul opened a door onto a sunny, front-facing room with a canvas floor covering of black and white squares. Pretty checkered curtains hung at the windows, and the couch and cushions were covered in the same material. The furniture was for the most part solid and workmanlike, with none of the elaborate carvings and inlays that characterized the European styles with which Bryony was most familiar. “Ye’ll take some ale, Ben. Miss Paget, you would perhaps prefer lemonade.”

  “Thank you,” she replied politely, taking a seat on a straight-backed chair against the wall and clasping her hands in her lap. Paul Tyler’s lips twitched at this picture of patience and resolution. Ben, however, looked like a volcano on the point of eruption.

  The door closed on their host, and Ben strode over to the empty hearth, staring down at the brass andirons as he brought his temper under control. Slowly, he turned back to the still figure by the wall and spoke as reasonably as he could manage. “If you are going to persist in this foolishness, Bryony, we are both going to be left with a memory that we shall always regret. Let us draw what has been between us to a graceful close.”

  “I am coming with you,” Bryony declared simply.

  As she said this, the door opened on Paul Tyler bearing a laden tray. “Ah,” he said, setting the tray on an oblong cedar table. “We are back where we began, I gather.”

  “Since Benedict has neglected to introduce us, sir, perhaps you would be so good as to tell me whose hospitality I am accepting.” Bryony took the pewter mug of lemonade with a smile of thanks.

  “Paul Tyler, ma’am.” Her host bowed formally. “And you are most welcome under my roof.” He handed Ben a foaming tankard of ale and perched himself on the corner of the table, a smile lurking in eyes and voice. “You had better tell me the tale, children.”

  Bryony hid her smile at this sobriquet applied so casually to Benedict. Mr. Tyler, for all h
is lean strength, did look old enough to be his father, certainly. Seeing Ben for once somewhat taken aback, she decided to put her oar in first. “Benedict is going to join General Gates, taking him information about Major Ferguson’s plans,” she said. “I have left my home and my family to throw in my lot with Ben’s. Only he is being a little difficult about it.”

  “And you are about to find out just how difficult I can be,” Ben said dangerously. “I warned you that if you persisted in this, we would both regret it.” He crossed the room, seized Bryony under the arms, and hauled her to her feet. “Paul, I would be grateful if you would direct me to a room with a key that I may turn upon this importunate woman. She will stay there until I am well on my way; then, perhaps I may count upon you to arrange for her return home.”

  “If you lock me up, Benedict Clare, I will jump out of the window,” Bryony said fiercely. “It will not matter to me if I break my neck, since I no longer have a life apart from yours. I have severed all—”

  “One minute,” Paul broke in hastily, suspecting that Ben was about to resort to lamentably primitive methods to achieve his point. “Benedict, my friend, there are many around the house who would be glad to see you again. Why don’t you go and greet them and leave me to talk with Miss Paget?” Although couched as a suggestion, it was an unmistakable instruction, and Bryony, who had never before heard anyone give Benedict orders, waited breathlessly in the sudden silence to see how he would take it.

  His expression did not lighten but his shoulders relaxed somewhat. “Be warned, Paul, she can talk you around her little finger. But since nothing will be achieved if I lose my temper, I’ll leave you to persuade her back to her senses.” The door clicked shut on his departing figure, and Paul, who had not moved from his perch on the table, turned to Bryony.

  “I think you began your explanation in the middle of the story, my dear. Benedict cannot have spent more than a few days in your father’s house. It seems a remarkably short time for one to throw one’s hat over the windmill as thoroughly as you appear to have done.”

  Bryony frowned. “Indeed, you are right. I will begin at the beginning….”

  At story’s end, she said, “So, you see, Ben has always maintained that there was something about him that I could not know, and that this something made it impossible for us to have a shared future. When Roger Martin made his accusation, I finally understood the secret, but now I think it is the fact that I know what he has been through that is causing all this muddle. He is very proud.” She gave him a tentative little smile. “I decided I would have to make the decision for both of us, since Ben doesn’t seem to be able to see things clearly at present. It is most unmaidenly of me, is it not, sir?”

  “There is little about your tale, my child, that could qualify as maidenly,” Tyler said bluntly, frowning at her. “Do you know why Benedict was sent here as a bondsman?”

  Bryony shook her head. “I have not asked because I am sure he won’t tell me—not yet, at least. But I do not care what he has done. I know what he is, and that is all that matters.”

  This simple statement drew a short nod from her audience. “I will not tell his secrets for him. But that is not one that should lie between you. It could create much unhappiness for you both.” There was another silence while he contemplated the fact of Roger Martin’s death, its manner, and the part this girl had played. It all seemed quite fitting. He said slowly, “Forgive me, but are you convinced that Ben’s love for you runs as deep as yours for him?”

  “But of course,” she replied with calm assurance. “If I were not, I wouldn’t be pursuing him in this fashion. I have given up everything, Mr. Tyler. Wounded my father so grievously that I am certain he will be unable to forgive me. That is a great loss, but I had a choice to make between losses. I made the only one possible.”

  Miss Paget had a head upon her shoulders older than her years, reflected Paul, pulling at his chin. He loved Benedict Clare as the son he’d never had, and in any other circumstances would have rejoiced that his son should have won the love of such a girl as this. But, unlike Bryony, he understood all the ramifications. However, if they parted at this point, they would never find each other again. If they went on together, the future was uncertain, could easily hold death for either or both of them, could hold the loss or death of their love, but it also contained the possibility of eventual happiness. The other way promised only loss. He nodded slowly, his mind made up.

  “Campaigning is a dangerous activity for a woman, Bryony.”

  “As it is for a man.” She shrugged. “I am prepared for the danger and discomforts.”

  That almost made him smile. He very much doubted that one as gently bred as Miss Paget could begin to imagine the discomforts of marching with an army fighting for survival.

  “Will you help me?” she asked directly.

  “I will not hinder you,” he replied carefully, “and I will not help Ben with his plans for you. But I cannot make up his mind for him.”

  “Indeed you cannot.” Ben spoke vigorously from the doorway. They had not heard him come in, and Bryony started, but Tyler merely nodded at him.

  “Good, you are well come, Ben. Bryony has told me her tale in some detail, and she is determined, it seems, to become a campaigner in Gates’s army.”

  “God dammit! No!” But in spite of the force of the negative, a look of uncertainty had crept into his eyes. He had not, for one minute, imagined that his dearest friend would fail to take his part in this. “It is quite impossible.”

  “Why is it impossible?” asked Bryony. “I will not be in your way. And I can keep up with you. Women have followed armies since men first went to war.”

  “Camp followers, maybe,” Ben growled. “That is not a role you will play.”

  “No, I think it would be best if you regularized your arrangement before you left here,” Paul agreed calmly. “Pastor Williams will be glad to perform the ceremony.”

  Benedict paled and spoke with soft intensity. “You know why I could never be wedded with a Paget, Paul.”

  Before the other man could reply, Bryony spoke up. “I do not know why you cannot, but it doesn’t matter. I am no longer a Paget. I have severed those ties and bear the name in name only. Your cause is mine, love. Whatever future is in wait for you, I will share. I have no other.”

  Benedict looked helplessly at Paul. “What am I to do?”

  “If you love her, Ben, the answer seems simple enough.”

  Ben studied Bryony as she sat in her tunic, her hair tumbled about her shoulders, her face set, the pansy-blue eyes meeting his gaze with fearless clarity. What she wanted was insane. She could not wed a traitor, a vagrant, a soldier of fortune with a legacy of hatred for those like her father who were destroying his homeland—a legacy that she could not begin to understand, never having acknowledged that part of her heritage. But, dear God, he did love her; would count himself thrice blessed if he could spend some part of his life with her, could postpone the parting. For love of him, she had cut herself off from every support, had yielded herself totally to whatever passions drove him, prepared to embrace them as her own. A feeling of awe at the monumental decision, at the enormity of the sacrifice that she had made for love of him, filled him with a slow sweetness. He had no right to reject the offering, and no desire to do it, at all.

  Into the silence, Paul spoke, as if accurately reading the other man’s thoughts. “You cannot take her unwed, Benedict.”

  It was true, Ben knew. If he accepted what she was so freely offering, he must do so honorably, must offer her the legal and moral supports she had relinquished when she had followed him. He would tie her to a traitor, as he would tie himself to a family who abused the land and people for whom he had forsaken his freedom, and for whom his friends had given their lives. It was a bitter thought, a secret bitterness that he must hold tight within him, for its revelation could only hurt Bryony more deeply than he had yet wounded her.

  “Come then,” he said, holding out
his hand. “If you will throw in your lot with a vagrant who has neither family nor fortune to protect you, then so be it. You come in freedom, and if ever you choose to leave, it will be in the same way. I will not hinder you, should you ever remember that passion makes a poorer master than reason.”

  “I have not forgotten it,” she said softly. “Nevertheless, I will go where passion drives.” She placed her hand in his.

  “And I, also,” he replied, his fingers closing over hers. “We will take that road together.”

  Vainglorious fool!” pronounced Benedict Clare, several weeks later, fastening the strap of his saddlebags with a vicious tug.

  “What has he done this time?” Bryony was in no doubt as to who had earned Ben’s derision. General Horatio Gates, since winning the Battle of Saratoga three years previously, seemed to believe that he was invincible, much to the dismay of the officers and troops under his command.

  “He intends taking a shortcut to meet Cornwallis at Camden,” Ben spat. “And the road lies through a—”

  “Anyone home?” a cheery voice hailed as a chubby, rosy-cheeked young man pushed through the tent flap. “The smells coming from this region tell me it’s dinnertime.” He beamed at Bryony. “What has the hunter caught for us today?”

  “You are a scavenger, Charlie Carter,” Bryony accused with a chuckle. “You have your own mess tent.”

  “But it never produces victuals like yours,” Charlie replied with truth. “The commissary is all to pieces, and no one has Ben’s skill with the knife and the musket.”

  “They could always take the trouble to learn,” Ben said shortly, bent double in the confined space as he stacked the saddlebags against the tent wall. Charlie’s eyebrows shot up at the curt tone, and he looked to Bryony for enlightenment.