Bridgers furrowed his brow. “Sorry, Pat, I have to use Connie for the general,” he said glumly. “She knows his tastes already. She’s used to it.”
Pat pursed his lips as he buttoned his breeches. Sam flashed him a sympathetic glance. The general could be rough, but Constance was well-trained. “Yeah,” Pat sighed. “I understand.”
“Look, as long as he follows my rules, she’ll be safe.”
“Mr. Bridgers,” Chastity said smoothing down her shift. “I started my courses. I need a towel.”
“I’ll get you one, sweet,” Bridgers soothed. “Come here.” He patted his lap and she happily bounded over to him.
Sam sat opposite them on the edge of the bed fastening his spatterdashes. “We’re camping about a day’s ride from here, Bridgers. We’ll stay there until you can get the supplies to us. Unless you think that imprudent.” He stood up and winked at Prudence. “That’s what you should really be named, my dear.” He wrapped his arms around her waist, then kissed her willing mouth, tasting his own musky flavor on her lips. “If it weren’t for the war I could enjoy your charms all day.”
“And if it weren’t for the war, Pru would be a farmer’s wife with half a dozen fine strapping sons, and you would be a lawyer in some big city,” Bridgers commented scornfully. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Sam. Now you boys get out of here quickly.”
* * * * *
From behind the glazed lights surrounding the front door of the brothel, Paul watched as General Strathmore and his party arrived in the yard. There were five of them: the general, plus two Hessians he had never met, and two British officers—a colonel and a lieutenant colonel—he only knew by sight.
The patriots had left long ago, but not without a few tears from Constance as she said her goodbyes to Pat after her own client had departed. Paul knew he shouldn’t even offer Connie’s services to Strathmore. She was far too good for the likes of him. The general owed a substantial purse of money from his last visit, and the only reason Paul even let him build up credit was the fact that the British army paid on time for his legitimate services.
And Strathmore’s presence at the brothel was a potent reminder that the general was cheating on his beautiful, innocent wife. The man was a swine.
He sucked in his breath to compose himself and opened the front door. “General Strathmore, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Bridgers,” the general grunted his greeting before dismounting his ride.
Paul snapped at his grooms to take care of their guests’ horses.
“My wife is pregnant,” the general began. “I’m here with a few friends to celebrate the happy occasion.”
“Congratulations, my lord,” said Paul, masking his disgust.
The general ignored the felicitations. “I’ll want the usual.”
“Of course. The building is ready as we speak.”
“And that same girl.”
Paul nodded.
“It’s a shame you’re not closer, Bridgers,” the general said, removing his gloves. “I’m sending my wife to Manhattan Island for her confinement and she’s taking that whore of a maid with her. You should set up shop in Chesterton.”
“It is rather costly to run a brothel, my lord,” Paul insinuated shrewdly. “I would lose several regular clients if I moved. I certainly could not afford to keep two houses open.”
The fatter colonel chuckled and patted the general on the back. “Sounds like you owe him money, Strathmore,” he said.
A consummate strategist, the general ignored the bait of unpleasant topics. “How are those supplies from the northeast coming along, Bridgers?”
“The republicans want textiles and iron in return for unobstructed passage of your goods.”
The general sighed loudly. “I’ll allow it,” he said, not without a little annoyance. “Give them some rum as well while you’re at it. That might placate them for the next time. And my wine?” General Strathmore had ordered French wine as a gift for another officer.
“It should be arriving directly in Chesterton next week. I’ll have my man deliver it to your house.”
“Give it to Lieutenant Hawkins, he’s the only honest man I know. I’ll be at Knyphausen.”
“As you wish, sir.”
The Hessians and British officers were clearly impatient to do what they came to the brothel to do. Constance was already waiting in what was a former smithy on the property now set up as a space for clients who had a taste for restraint and discipline.
Paul bowed and gestured toward the outbuilding. “Now, if you are ready, please follow me, gentlemen.”
* * * * *
The yellow light of the autumn sunrise streamed through the window of the brothel’s bathing room. Constance could barely stand in the tub as Paul washed the blood from her bruised and beaten body. Chastity had to hold her by the arms to steady her as Connie was unable to sit or even lie down. It was heartbreaking enough to have to tend the welts and wounds that marred the previously perfect flesh, but to see tears streaming down Chastity’s face wrenched his soul. All his girls had a deep affection for each other, but these two were like sisters.
The general and his men had been particularly brutal the day before. It was unlike anything Paul had ever seen during his years in the whoring business. He hated himself for not intervening when he had first heard her screams but tried to placate his nerves with a reminder that he had, as he always did, gone over the rules with Strathmore and that Constance had screamed before. Usually the more corrupt clients expected—if not demanded—it. After a while, the screams had, as per usual, stopped, signaling the descent into a new depravity by the general and his entourage.
Sometime before dawn, General Strathmore and his companions had left unnoticed and without paying. Concerned by the eerie silence from the building, Paul dared to investigate only to discover Constance still tied up, covered in blood and semen, and barely conscious. It was the last straw. If Patrick Hamilton had been there he would have hunted down the officers and killed them all, probably with his bare hands so as not to waste precious bullets. But Paul was a trading man, a negotiating man, and would have to do something according to his own nature.
“I’m shutting down, Chas,” he sighed. “I’m sending all you girls up the Hudson as soon as Connie is ready to ride in a coach.” He tried to control his voice against the sorrow and anger raging within. His girls had seen him upset before, but this was so very different. He didn’t want to scare her.
“Yes, Mr. Bridgers,” was all she said.
Chapter Five
Clara dressed herself on the morning she was to leave for Manhattan, which wasn’t such a bad thing. Annabella had been morose ever since Redmond had disappeared, attending to her duties in the most subdued fashion, sometimes with tear-dampened lashes. Clara didn’t want her maid to see the spot of blood on her shift from the day before, anyway, or the stains on her nightgown when she woke up. She had no idea what to expect while with child, but she was pretty sure her courses were supposed to stop. Perhaps that was not true for all women. Still, she felt fine. It was the first morning without nausea. But Annabella would have probably called for the doctor.
She also did not want Annabella to know about her stays, so she slipped her arms through the shoulder straps and settled it around her. The less handling of the garment the better and Annabella should only have to deal with the laces. Alone at night during the last week, Clara had stripped out some of the whalebone stiffeners and replaced them with several pieces of her jewelry, carefully replacing the linen lining. The work had been tedious, and the garment was heavy. It was worth it, though. In the event she was left widowed and alone on Manhattan she wanted some sort of currency to purchase passage back to England.
Annabella came in a little later than usual to help her finish dressing. She apologized for her tardiness with a sniffle, and immediately went to work brushing Clara’s bright yellow Brunswick and petticoat. It was an unnecessary act. The suit was brand new. “T
he coach is ready, my lady, whenever we are.” Annabella’s fingers trembled as she laced up Clara’s stays. Something new had unsettled the girl.
“Thank you, Annabella.” Clara turned so her maid could button her jacket and fuss with the ruffle of her habit shirt. “I’m sorry Redmond won’t be driving us,” she said quietly, searching Annabella’s big brown eyes.
That brought fresh tears.
Clara clutched Annabella’s shoulders. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to bring up—”
“Oh, my lady! It’s not that.” She timidly shrugged Clara off then moved behind her. “I thought maybe the general would hire a driver from town,” she sobbed quietly, smoothing and straightening the back pleats. “But we are to be driven by one of the Hessian soldiers.” She came back around to the front, one hand wiping a tear as the other brushed unseen lint from the quilted silk. “I … I … the Hessians look at me with a sort of hunger in their eyes, if you understand my meaning.”
Clara flushed at the insinuation. “I’m afraid I can do nothing.” She gently tucked an auburn curl behind Annabella’s ear. “My husband is very particular in his ways.” And would never listen to her anyway.
“He’s to sleep with us at the inn tonight. In the same room.” Annabella absently tugged and toyed with the flounce of Clara’s sleeves.
“Where did you hear this?”
Annabella sniffled. “He told me. He took too much pleasure in telling me.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll have a talk with the innkeeper when we get there. Surely the wife of General Strathmore should not sleep in the same room as one of his soldiers.” At least an innkeeper would listen.
“Thank you, my lady.”
The morning was cold and clear. In the coach, Clara and Annabella sat bundled up side by side in matching black hooded cloaks, woolen blankets across their laps. They said little as each was mired in her own misery, and each stared out the windows watching her world as she knew it fade away into the distance with every turn of the wheels.
Suddenly, the coach ground to a halt, pitching the women forward before sending them tumbling back against the seat. Above, the Hessian growled curses in German. Banging and clamoring on the roof brought more cursing, then grunts and growls as the whole vehicle rocked from side to side. Clara and Annabella exchanged horrified glances. Highwaymen? Clara had heard of highwaymen back home but not in the colonies. She braced herself against the seat and gripped Annabella’s trembling hand.
The door crashed open. A cloaked man stepped inside brandishing a pistol, his brown eyes flashing beneath a hooded mask. He said nothing, but motioned with his weapon for Annabella to move to the opposite bench. He kept the pistol aimed at Annabella as he sat next to Clara and wrapped his arm tightly around her waist.
Terror ripped through her, but she dared not move, dared not threaten the life within. Her belly cramped from the tension of restraint. Panic ensued, dizzying her, overtaking her sense to breathe, until her lungs protested. She tried desperately to calm herself, taking small breaths, hoping the cramps would dissipate. A commotion outside jolted her attention out the window. Two hooded men, big in their own right but not as big as the Hessian driver, had the German between them, dragging him into the woods. The soldier fought back fiercely, almost freeing himself, but the men beat him to the ground, holding him prostrate with their feet. The larger of the two men took out a pistol. With one shot to the head, the Hessian lay motionless.
Clara gasped in horror as Annabella stifled a scream. Despite living in a war zone, neither had seen a man killed before.
Clara struggled against her captor. He held her more closely, too closely, his breath hot and heavy in her ear, the heat of his body penetrating hers. She relented. She had to, for the baby’s sake.
The two men outside donned heavy black cloaks and returned to the coach. The shorter one climbed up top to take the reins, the larger one—the killer—came inside. He took the seat opposite Clara and her captor, grabbing Annabella’s wrists in one thick hand, subduing her. The coach lurched forward. But they did not continue on their intended path. They turned in the opposite direction, away from Manhattan, to the north.
Clara’s captor held her firmly, one arm around her waist, the other around her shoulders, ensuring their bodies moved together as the coach swayed and bounced. His grip was almost an embrace, touching her carefully, delicately, as if he knew of her condition.
Not so the man opposite. He grappled roughly with Annabella until she was enveloped underneath his voluminous cloak, then pulled his arms through the sleeves and inside their private tent. He forced her legs open amidst her struggles and cries, subduing her with a harsh utterance in her ear. She surrendered, slackening against his body, letting him manhandle her, screwing her eyes shut against the assault, her whimpers quickly turning to agitated breaths.
Alarm coursed through Clara. She renewed her struggles, but her captor gripped her more tightly. “Unhand her, you brute,” she hissed, her voice shaking.
Her captor clamped his hand on her mouth to silence her. All she could do was stare with abhorrence at the monster opposite. From under his hood his eyes pierced hers with loathing. His eyes … a striking shade of blue-green. Only one man had such color eyes.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
Redmond. It was Redmond who ravished Annabella.
She tried to look away, but could not, thoroughly transfixed by the lascivious scene, Annabella’s expression a mirror to the pleasure elicited by her lover, a pleasure Clara barely knew herself. At Clara’s side, the heat rose in her captor’s body, radiating through her. He shifted in his seat, the movement exposing the wet fullness of her sex. His breathing was ragged, an aural accompaniment to Annabella’s moans. Unwittingly, Clara’s breaths synced with his, their chests rising and falling in unison, as if they too were joined intimately.
Annabella’s yelp of ecstasy shot right to Clara’s core.
She flushed in chagrin, hyper-aware of the closeness of the coach, and that her captor sat aroused at her side. He removed his hand from her mouth, brushing her cheek reverently before he resumed his grip of her shoulder, as if a caress after love-making.
Clara shuddered in shame.
* * * * *
They drove all day. Clara’s body cramped with the tension of trying not to lean against the man holding her, to not renew their unexpected intimacy. They did not even stop for relief and she feared the dampness on her under-petticoat was not just sweat. It was thoroughly barbaric.
As dusk turned to night, they pulled into the drive of what was apparently the kidnapper’s intended destination, a well-maintained two-story wooden house, rather elegant with six-over-nine pane windows. A still-masked Redmond carried Annabella to the front door, while the driver carried her traveling box. Clara and her captor waited in the coach in silence. With the end of their journey imminent, his muscles relaxed as his breathing evened, so she took the opportunity to shift slightly to relieve her discomfort.
The driver returned and took his position. As they drove away, Clara saw a candle flicker in an upstairs window. Annabella and Redmond would be having a reunion of sorts.
Minutes later, the carriage stopped before a small cottage with a steeply pitched roof and large chimney. In case she had the urge to run, which she certainly did not, her captor flashed his gun as she was helped out of the coach by the driver. Once on the ground, her kidnapper picked her up and carried her in his arms. Before them, the driver opened the door to the little house, then went about lighting candles. Clara’s captor put her down and motioned with his gun for her to sit in a wingback. She did so immediately, then surveyed the tiny space. One wall was almost entirely taken up by an enormous hearth, well-used, with a black pot hung inside. The driver knelt to start a fire. Along the walls were shelves and cupboards. The room was obviously a kitchen, but one with a large bed placed in a corner.
The fire lit, both men stepped outside for a minute and conversed in low tones. Her captor stepped b
ack inside, keeping his eyes on her. The driver returned shortly, carrying her traveling box, then left. As her captor locked the door, the coach pulled away, the crunch of wheels on gravel and the jangling of harness and axle disappearing into the distance, leaving only the crackle of the growing fire to fill the void.
Clara’s gut clenched. She had never been left alone with a man other than her husband or brother. It was unseemly, more so given the scene they had witnessed earlier that day.
He stood at the hearth with his back to her and removed his cloak and hood. He let out a heavy exhalation. “I am so sorry to have frightened you, Lady Strathmore.”
Mr. Bridgers?
Clara balked at the familiar voice, then jumped up when he turned around. Disheveled from his hooded mask, bedraggled from the ride, his brow twisted in remorse, he was still the handsome, gallant object of her fantasies.
Her fantasies. She had just been in his arms for the better part of the day. Confusion agitated her senses, mixed with a bit of relief and excitement. For some unknown reason, Mr. Bridgers had abducted her, Redmond had abducted Annabella, and both men were now alone with their respective captives. She had entertained many imaginary scenarios of being alone with Mr. Bridgers, but this one was playing out too roughly for her tastes. A man had been murdered, for God’s sake.
“Mr. Bridgers, please, what is going on? What is this place?”
He sighed as he hung up his garments near the door. “Until a few days ago it was a very profitable brothel.” He sounded disappointed.
“A brothel?” She never imagined such an establishment would resemble the estate of a gentleman farmer.
“Annabella and Redmond are in the main house. This is the kitchen.” He peered inside the pot next to the fire, then swung it over the flames. “I had it built separately as clients do not always like the smell of food while they are, uh, being diverted.”
Clara eyed him incredulously. “You? This is your property?” A brothel? “I had no idea.” Her back twinged in pain. She sat down.
The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale Page 5
