Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  That night the small band celebrated. Within twenty-four hours, however, danger threatened again. The British general, Lord Cornwallis, was moving quickly. By January 2, he faced the American position with 5,000 men while another 2,500 awaited an order join him from Princeton.

  “There is no way to fight this battle,” Washington said. “Campfires …” he muttered.

  “We leave them burning?”

  “We leave them burning.”

  They slipped away by night. On January 3, battle cries went up as they came upon the British regulars who were marching to join Cornwallis. The battle was fierce, and furious, and when it was over, the Americans were victorious. They hurried on to Princeton and captured vast supplies of military equipment, then hastened away to Morristown.

  That night they again celebrated.

  “They will tout you as one of the most brilliant commanders ever,” Eric told Washington.

  “Unless I lose a few battles. Then I shall be crucified.”

  “My God, no man can do more than you have done!”

  The general smiled, stretching out his feet. “Then until the spring, I shall be a hero. Cornwallis is abandoning his positions in western New Jersey because we have cut his communications. It is time we dig in for winter ourselves.” He hesitated. “I have some letters for you.”

  Eric was a mature man, a major general, a man who commanded hundreds of men, who shouted orders in the field, who never flinched beneath powder or sword. He was, in fact, growing old with the damned war. And yet now he felt his fingers tremor, his palms go damp. “From my wife?”

  Washington shook his head. “No, but from France. One from your man, Cassidy. Another from Mr. Franklin.”

  “Franklin!”

  “Mmm. Poor Ben. He’s been sent there by Congress to woo the French into assisting our cause. Seventy years old is Ben. And quite the rage of Paris, they are saying. A good choice by Congress, so it seems. The ladies are all charmed by his sayings and his wit and even his spectacles. Even the young queen is impressed by him.”

  “He is an impressive man,” Eric muttered as he ripped open the letter from Cassidy and scanned it quickly. Things were well, the voyage had been smooth, they were living in the shadow of the royal party at Versailles. Everything was wonderful, so it seemed, and yet Cassidy urged him to come. He looked at the letter and realized that it had been written in September. He frowned at Washington.

  “The letter went to Virginia before it reached me,” Washington said.

  Eric nodded, then ripped open the second letter. Worded in the most polite and discreet tones, Benjamin Franklin informed him that he was about to become a father. “ ’Seems a pity that the child cannot be born upon American soil as you are so firm and kind and staunch a father of our land, but nevertheless, sir, I thought that the news would delight you and as it seems from her conversation your lady is not disposed to write, I have taken this upon myself …”

  The letter went on. Eric didn’t see the words. He was standing, and he didn’t realized it.

  All the months, all of the longing, all of the wonder. And now Amanda was going to have a child and she was all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. And Franklin was right. There was no way that the child could be born on American soil. He tried to count, and he couldn’t even manage to do that properly. He had last seen her in June. He had seen her in March … but no, he would have known by June. What was nine months from June?

  “Eric?” Washington inquired.

  “She’s … she’s having a child. At last,” Eric said, choking on the words.

  “At last?” Washington’s brows shot up. “My dear fellow, you were married what—two years?”

  “Three now,” Eric corrected him. “I had thought that we could not, I …” His voice trailed away. He knew that no matter how dearly Washington had loved his adopted stepchildren and stepgrandchildren, he had wanted his own child. Washington bore no grudge against other men and loved Martha dearly, yet Eric felt suddenly awkward. It was the surprise, the shock. He sank back to his chair and he remembered that he had accused her of being Tarryton’s mistress. And he had sent her away in raw fury, God alone knew what she would feel for him, if she wouldn’t have rejoiced in betraying him in France. No! he assured himself in anguish. She was not alone. Jacques Bisset was with her, Jacques who surely knew that no matter what he had said or done, he loved her.…

  “God!” he said aloud.

  Washington sat back, studying him. “It is winter. I can foresee no action for some time to come. Perhaps I can send you with letters for the French to Paris myself. If … if you can find a ship that will sail.”

  Eric grinned suddenly. “I can find a ship to sail. My own, George. I shall take the Lady Jane. And I will make it up to you. I will capture a British ship with a multitude of arms, I swear it.”

  Washington leaned over his desk. “I will start on the necessary papers.”

  “Lady Cameron!”

  Amanda was seated in one of the small gardens off the tapis vert, or “green carpet,” the broad walk in the center of the gardens at the Palace of Versailles. She had gone there to be alone, but she knew the low, well-modulated voice very well now, and as was usual, she felt a smile curve her lip. It was Ben Franklin, and he was huffing a bit with the exertion of walking. He wasn’t a young man, of course, but he didn’t really act like an old man at all. His eyes were young, she decided, as young as his thoughts and ideas and dreams.

  “I’m here, Mr. Franklin!” she called, and he came around a newly planted rose bush to meet her.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear!”

  “Sit—if there is room!” Amanda encouraged him. She was so very large now, she felt as if she were taking up the entire garden seat with her bulk. He smiled brightly and did so.

  “How are things going?” she asked him.

  “Ah, pas mal!” he said, “Not bad, not bad. And yet not so good either. I think that the French are our friends. Individual counts and barons support me, and I believe that eventually the king and his ministers will fall in for us. I believe the queen is all for me.”

  “Marie Antoinette? She is quite smitten, sir, I would say!” Amanda teased him. Of course, it was true. The queen was as taken with Benjamin Franklin as all the other ladies seemed to be.

  Franklin sighed. “Not that I’m at all sure she even knows what I’m asking for! Alas, they’re just children, you see. The king is scarce a boy of twenty-three, and the queen—oh! But then you are barely that yourself, milady! My apologies. It’s just that when you reach my age, well …”

  “There was no offense at all taken, Mr. Franklin. Besides, they say that Louis tries very hard, that he is thoughtful and considerate, but not a very talented ruler as yet. Perhaps he will become so in time. My goodness, I should hope so. This palace itself is so magnificent—and so huge!”

  Versailles was huge and beautiful, and under other circumstances, Amanda might have loved it. But she lived with too much bitterness inside of her to truly enjoy the magnificence with which she lived.

  She had not believed that Eric should be able to ride away from her so easily—and yet he had. She had watched him from their window when he had ridden, and he had not so much as looked back.

  And even then she had thought that he would turn around. That he would come back to her. But he did not. As soon as the necessary repairs had been done to the ship, Cassidy had told her that they would be leaving on the Good Earth. She had been delighted to discover that Danielle had recovered fully from her injury at Tarryton’s hands, and would accompany her, but she still could not believe that she was being escorted off her own property.

  She shivered suddenly. The story of the valiant Nathan Hale had reached France, and she could not forget that had she been a man and captured by some man other than her husband, she might well have swung from a rope herself. Except that she was innocent!

  Innocent …

  She had remembered her innocence during the whole long oc
ean voyage. She had remembered it when she had first started to get sick upon the open sea, and she had been so wretchedly sick that she had thought it a pity Eric wasn’t there. He would have thought her duly punished if he could have just seen the green shade of her face. She didn’t normally react so to ships, perhaps it was a just punishment for trying to save her cousin’s ungrateful throat!

  But then, slowly, she had begun to realize that it was not the sea making her so wretched. It probably took her longer to discover than it should have, but her mind was ever active, and she felt as if her heart bled daily. Sometimes she was furious with a raw, scarce-controlled passion; sometimes her anger was cold, something that made her numb. She swore that she would never forgive Eric, never. Then she missed him all over again and wondered if he lived and if he was well. Then she thought that he deserved to rot for what he had done to her, but then that thought would flee her mind, and she would pray quickly that God would not let him die because of her careless thoughts.

  They had nearly reached France by the time she realized, with some definite shock, that she was going to have a child. Joy filled her. No amount of anger or hatred could stop the absolute delight that filled her body, heart, and soul. She had been so afraid that they never would have a child. Eric had even accused her of trying not to have one. And now, when all between them seemed severed forever …

  She was going to have a child. An heir for Cameron Hall.

  Should the hall survive the war. For it was war now. The colonies were thirteen united states, and it was full-scale war.

  And in the midst of their own personal warfare and battle, a child had at last been conceived. She hugged the knowledge to herself at first, but by the time they at last stepped from the Good Earth to French soil, Danielle had guessed her secret. Danielle wanted her to write to Eric immediately, but Amanda could not do so. She was thrilled with the child and determined that she would do nothing to risk the babe’s health whatsoever, but the bitterness was alive within her, and she would not write. She would not have him send for the child. He could not have their babe so easily. When he determined to sail for her, then he would find out about the child.

  Perhaps there was more, too, she realized, trembling. He had accused her of adultery with Robert. She could not believe that he meant his words, but then she had never seen Eric so angry, so cold, as he had been that last time. She could not forgive him. She swore to herself that she hated him.

  But it was, of course, a lie, and she prayed nightly that he had not been killed. News came daily to the French court. Even if it was old by the time that it reached there, Amanda thrived on all that she heard. Virginia, Manhattan, Long Island, New Jersey, Pennsylvania—and Trenton. She heard about them all. General Washington’s maneuvers of the last days of December and early January were being characterized as some of the most brilliant in military history. And Eric was always with Washington, so it was always possible to know how he fared. Fine, and well, she was always told. A Virginia horseman to match any, he was usually seen mounted atop his beautiful black horse, Joshua, and always at the forefront of action. He had survived every confrontation.

  So far.

  It was nearly spring. The first days of March were upon them. Snows would be thawing in Pennsylvania and New York, and it would be time for men to go to war again.

  He could die, she thought. He could die without ever knowing that he had a child. And he would have one soon. Any day, perhaps any hour.

  “You look cold,” Franklin chastised beside her. “You should not be out here, Lady Cameron, and certainly not alone.”

  “Oh, I’m not alone, Mr. Franklin. A man of your acute vision must have observed that I am never alone! No, sir, my husband’s man, Cassidy, is with me now. And if you will note later, sir, there will be a handsome Acadian man near me, and there is my maid, of course, and my sponsor here, the Comte de la Rochelle.”

  Franklin nodded and patted her hand. “Well, my dear, there was a rumor, you know, that you were sympathetic to the British.”

  Her eyes widened. A sudden burst of emotion hurtled past her walls of cool defense. “Rumors! Sir, shall I admit all to you now?” He was her friend, she realized. One of the best friends she had ever had. She knew why he was loved. It wasn’t for the things he said, though they were charming—it was the way that he listened, the way he really heard what she had said. The elderly Comte de la Rochelle was very kind, and it was in his apartments in the far wing of the palace where she stayed, but it had not been until Ben Franklin arrived that she had felt comfortable. From the start he had sought to meet with her, he had come to her after his appointments with the ministers, and she had discovered in him a new meaning to revolutionary fever. Until the middle of 1775 he had been eager for reconciliation with Britain, but then he had seen that the desire for independence lay deep in the very hearts of the people. “Once the tide reaches the heart, milady, then no man can change that tide!” he had told her. She had believed him, and she quickly came to see through his eyes. By New Year’s day she had realized that she was not just a Virginian but an American. She might have been a loyal British subject once, but she was an American now. What that truly meant, she knew, she had yet to discover.

  “Amanda, admit to me—”

  “Well, sir, there was some truth to rumor,” Amanda said softly. Agitated, she rose. She stared back at the palace and caught her breath. Versailles. It was more than half a mile long, she had been told, with two enormous side wings. Once it had been the sight of a small hunting lodge, but Louis XIV had planned a very grand palace, and begun work upon it in 1661. He had hired the best architects, sculptors, and landscape gardeners. His successors had added to it, and now the palace boasted hundreds of rooms, marble floors, hand-painted ceilings, and the most beautiful gardens and landscaping that could be imagined. The king and queen and their retainers lived in such splendor and opulence that it was hard to imagine. They were like children, masters of this fairyland.

  She looked from the beauty of the palace, rising against the sun, to Mr. Franklin, and she smiled. He was so plain and simple beside it all, his hose a dull mustard, his breeches blue, his surcoat a dark maroon, and his heavy cloak black. A civilian tricorn sat over the bald spot atop his head, and his hair, snowy white and gray, tufted out from either side. His face was wrinkled and jowled and reddened from cold and wind, but within were those eyes of his, soft blue beneath his spectacles, seeing and knowing all. And he was so much more impressive than the men of the court in their silks and satins and ungodly laces. And the women! Some wore their hair teased and knotted a good foot atop their heads. They called much of it Italian fashion—the most outlandish of it. Thus the term “macaroni.” It was used in the song that was becoming very popular called “Yankee Doodle.” This impressive fellow was far from “macaroni” fashion! Her smile slowly faded. Neither could they ever accuse her husband of being so. He had never even bent to fashion so far as to powder his hair. His shirts were laced, but never ostentatiously so. And when he moved about the estate he usually wore plain wool hose and dark breeches and a shirt that opened at his throat to display the bronze flesh of his throat and chest and the profusion of dark hair that grew short and crisp upon it …

  “I was not guilty!” she swore suddenly. “Would God, sir, that you at least would believe me! I was free, can you understand? They had blackmailed me with my cousin, but once I knew he was free, they had nothing else to use against me. I gave away nothing!”

  “There, there, now!” Franklin was on his feet. He caught her hands and brought her back to the bench, sitting again. “You must be careful. Mustn’t upset the babe! Why, I remember my own dear children’s birth … I’ve a son who is still with the British, my dear, so trust me, I do understand. Most men understand. This war is a fragile thing! If you say you are innocent, then I believe you.”

  “That simply?”

  “Well, of course. I do believe that I know you rather well.”

  She started to laugh
. “My husband should have known me well.”

  Franklin sighed. “He is a good man, Lady Cameron. I’ve known him long and well too, and you must see things as he did. His name is an old and respected one. It was risked, and he believed that it was by your hand. He fights a war, he marches to battle daily. You have mentioned to me that you do not correspond. I implore you, madame, when the babe is born, you must write to him.”

  She withdrew her hands quickly. Eric could die! He could ride into battle with his musket and his sword, and he could falter and fail. Exhaustion could overtake him, and his great heart could stop. She could not bear it if he were to perish!

  But he had exiled her, cast her away. God knew, he was probably planning divorce proceedings this very moment. She had sworn that she would not forgive him. Her heart had grown cold.

  But he could die.…

  The thought was suddenly so painful that she doubled over. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Lady Cameron?” Franklin said anxiously.

  She shook her head. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s quite faded now.”

  He nodded, watching her anxiously still. When she seemed to have recovered, he smiled. “I’ve a confession of my own, dear. The moment I arrived here, I wrote to your husband.”

  “What?” She gasped in dismay.

  “I had to, my dear. Lady Cameron, I was sent to England last, and while I waited there at the order of my country, my own dear wife departed this world. Life is short, and wisdom ever so hard to gain, and too oft gained to late. Forgive me—”