Scamp's Lady

by Jackie Walton

  Kit spoke first. “Good day to you, Mistress Kershaw. May I present Mistress Morgan? She is assisting us and requires some supplies and other items.”

  Watching her, Deborah saw the young woman’s eyes narrow before her expression resolved into a shopkeeper’s polite blankness. Behind them, Deborah just caught the older woman’s glare before she turned to adjust items on the shelf behind her along the back wall.

  She could imagine her own feeling on being summarily evicted from her home by British troops. It didn’t mean they were patriots, but she doubted they were Tory sympathizers. Deborah didn’t blame them for being angry.

  “What were the items you needed?” Marshall addressed her. Deborah turned her attention to her list. She and the younger Mistress Kershaw wandered throughout the emporium, seeking out the items, leaving Kit to his own devices. When they reached the counter to tally the items, there was a hodge-podge pile of fabric bolts in marvelous colors lying there. Deborah could see several wools, a fine lawn, and what looked like linen on the top. Marshall leaned one elbow on the counter next to them. “Finished?” he inquired politely.

  “Yes, I think so,” she replied, glancing curiously at the stack of fabric that had not been there when they came into the store. She stacked her items a little ways away from the fabric pile.

  “Good. Mistress Kershaw, would you kindly cut lengths for dresses and shifts and, oh, a cloak for Mistress Morgan?”

  “What?” Deborah burst out, indignation flaring from every ounce of her being. “Absolutely not! I will not have some British soldier buying…”

  “Do you intend to go through the winter in that one lightweight gown?” One arrogant eyebrow lifted, and his other elbow found a resting place on the counter.

  She remembered how cold the ride into town was and how the worst of the winter was still well in the future. There was little chance she could escape as Adam did. Marshall had her trapped as neatly as if he’d clapped her in irons. It didn’t look like she was going to get back to the colonial army or her own clothes any time soon. The winter would be difficult, if not impossible, without suitable clothing.

  “Very well,” she grumbled. She had to accept it, but she didn’t have to be particularly gracious about it.

  “This is a first,” he quipped. “A lady not wishing new clothes.”

  The Kershaw women were listening avidly to the discussion. The older watched them stony-faced, but the younger smirked before turning away.

  Deborah knew he was laughing at her and her temper flared. “Yes, a lady. And a ‘lady’ does not accept such personal items from a stranger! Nor does a gentleman offer them.”

  She could almost see the outrage hit him between the eyes. She suspected the he probably had taken a number of women under his protection who did not claim the title of lady and who did accept personal gifts from strangers. His head jerked and he straightened. She was right.

  He quickly worked through the implications. Sketching a brief bow, he said, “My apologies for any misunderstanding. I meant no insult, although my remark was less than…umm…proper.

  “However it doesn’t change the fact that you will need warmer clothes for the winter.”

  “I know that,” she snapped. Taking a deep calming breath, she continues, “And that is the only reason I am permitting you to purchase the fabric.”

  He bowed again. “I thought these,” he gestured toward the bolts, “might be acceptable for a lady of your coloring. Don’t forget the cloak. Anything else, we can get at the dressmaker’s.”

  Deborah had been attracted to the colors when she first saw them, but knowing that they were for her made her wonder at his skill in choosing just the right shades for her. She briefly mulled the question of just how he had acquired that skill, but shoved it aside in favor of organizing the colors and fabrics into garments. The mahogany wool would do wonders for her amber eyes, and the olive green would make a spectacular cloak.

  Almost absently, she replied, “I can do these myself, but I’ll need…”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to sew them.”

  She shook off her reverie to demand, “Well, just how do you expect them to get made? Magic is generally considered to be a poor option.”

  “We will take them to a dressmaker, of course.” He looked totally confused by her objection.

  “There is no ‘of course’ about it. I frequently sew my own clothes, and I will sew these. I am accounted a fair seamstress.”

  “Yes, of course, but….”

  “Then ‘of course’ I will do them. I simply need a few supplies.”

  “I have every intention of providing dresses for you, not just hunks of cloth.”

  “That’s perfectly all right. Quite frankly, I do need clothes for winter, but I do not wish to be indebted to you for any more than is absolutely necessary, Colonel.”

  “Since you are with the army, you are entitled to a ration of clothes. I’m providing it now. Using the services of a dressmaker would only speed the production of them.”

  He was beginning to get riled and Deborah decided that a different tack was needed. “To be honest, sir, I have a great deal of time on my hands, even with my duties. This project will give me something constructive to do.”

  Having gained his objective, even though he lost the final skirmish, Marshall sued for peace. “Very well, what else do you need?”

  She specified her fabric lengths and found her pins and needles. The store did not have the correct color thread or the tapes to fasten the dress. She also needed a fastener for the cloak. They would still need to visit the dressmaker’s.

  She was glad to get out of there. The Kershaw women didn’t say anything overtly rude, but she could see condemnation in their eyes. It was an uncomfortable feeling; one that she knew, from their perspective, she deserved. At some point she would have to figure out how to make restitution to her own conscience which was making the same accusations.

  War or no war, the high road through Camden was busy. Shoppers, merchants, busy-bodies, and soldiers went about their businesses. An older man in a cassock-style greatcoat argued in front of the Green Goose Tavern with a younger gentleman holding the reins of a fine chestnut horse. Deborah thought she heard horses mentioned. An angry matron with a taffeta mantelet over a lace-trimmed skirt with a quilted petticoat showing in the front stood nearby. Her daughter looked very much the lady in her Watteau sacque with its wide neck-to-hem pleat in back. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the dollop of mud on her sleeve and the rock held carefully out of her mother’s view.

  The mother brightened considerably as Col. Marshall approached. She greeted him coyly, but he only nodded and did not stop. Deborah wondered if it was politics or something more basic that attracted the young woman.

  Marshall gallantly carried her bundle as they walked up the side street to the dressmaker’s shop. There was something she needed to do, even though the words almost stuck in her throat. “Thank you for getting me these things, Colonel. But more over, thank you for thinking about the fact that I needed them.”

  He hadn’t said anything since they left the dry goods store. “You are most welcome, ma’am. If I may say so, you are a most unusual woman. In fact, I think you are unique in my experience. I don’t think that even my mother, who is a most competent individual, would have insisted on making her own clothes when presented with the option of having them made for her. My compliments.”

  It took her by surprise. “Um, thank you. I guess that here, we think more in terms of doing for ourselves than having things done for us.”

  They were crossing a small alley. She looked down it to avoid his gaze. They were in front of the next building when she stopped abruptly and went back to the alley. “Oh my heavens!” She pointed to the far wall.

  Marshall peered into the gloom and saw what she had noticed. “Damnation!”

  A young woman’s body lay sprawled next to the wall, her dress bunched up around her thighs, and her throat cut.
r />   Chapter 7

  They both rushed into the shadowed alley.

  He tried to push her back toward the street. “Get out of here. This is no place for a woman.”

  She wrenched her arm from his grasp and shoved him away. “It’s the place for her.” Deborah pointed at the figure in the shadows. “And she’s a woman.”

  “But she’s been…”

  “Yes, and if it were me sprawled out here, I’d certainly like some understanding, and preferably female, hands to give me some measure of compassion and dignity. Now get over here and stop arguing.” Simple, clear orders always worked best with the male of the species; it was a trick she had learned from her mother. She put it to good use now. It worked, again.

  Dropping down next to the body, Deborah put her hand on the woman’s chest. There were few doubts about death, but it was wisest to check. Nothing. Marshall crouched on the other side of the body. She pulled the young woman’s skirt down. Gently, Deborah brushed the girl’s dark hair from her face and closed her eyes.

  Deborah grasped the cooling hands, both in fists. “I’d guess she’s been here for no more than an hour or so.” When she moved the fingers, a round, gold object rolled out of them.

  Marshall lunged at the object and caught it before it rolled off the body. He examined the thing as he spoke. “How do you know?’

  “It’s a cool day, but she’s still quite warm. What’s that?”

  Silently, he held out his hand. A brass button. “From her attacker, do you think?” she asked.

  “Very likely.”

  A scream rang out from the street. Marshall turned and stood. A man and a woman, a farm couple from the look of them, hovered at the mouth of the alley. Kit strode up to them and addressed the man. “Get the constable.” When the farmer goggled at the sight in the alley, Kit grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him. “Now, man.” The farmer took a few steps backward then turned and broke into a run. Kit escorted the lady away from the sight and dragooned another man to keep the alley’s entrance free of the merely curious.

  Deborah finished straightening the body when he came back and knelt beside her. She brushed a few light hairs off the girl’s bodice.

  He had a curious, preoccupied look on his face. “A shilling for your thoughts,” she said.

  “Hmm, this button may help us find the killer.”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but looking for a missing button from all the coats in Camden may be an impossible job.”

  “True,” he said, “but I may be able to narrow the field a bit. This is a button off of a British army jacket.”

  **

  Augustus Brightman, the shoemaker, and his sobbing wife collected their daughter Penelope’s body. Deborah tried to speak a few words of comfort, but there was little she could say under the circumstances.

  She and Marshall both gave their statements. He discussed his suspicions with the constable. Thaddeus Conner knew his job, but he also knew when to abrogate his responsibilities in the face of force majeure. Conner had the air of a man who knew exactly where his place in the world was. He knew how to deal with an aristocratic British officer. He listened deferentially to the quality’s tale of finding the body and the button and of the latter’s significance. He acquiesced when the Colonel took the problem of apprehending the culprit off his hands. The times when the nobs made life easier were few and far between, so Connor made every effort to accommodate him. He agreed to downplay Kit’s role in the discovery and not to mention the button in the public report of the incident.

  The one item of interest he added to the discussion was the fact that there had been three other similar murders of young women. They had all been prostitutes, so little effort had gone into discerning the similarities or finding the killers. Penelope’s murder, the first respectable girl, followed closely on the last one. Because respectable people were now involved, Connor finally put the pieces together.

  Marshall left with information on the other victims. With any luck, he might be able to find the culprit before the killer realized that he had left a damning clue behind.

  The sun lay low in the sky by the time they finished with the constable. Two very tired people, mentally and physically, started on the road back to the Kershaw farm. They said very little until just before they reached the bridge over the creek.

  Deborah shifted the somewhat muddy bundle in the foot well. The movement caught Marshall’s eye and he burst out, “Damnation, we forgot the dressmaker!”

  She startled and then relaxed. “Oh, is that all?” She brushed the omission aside. “I’m sure Mistress Kershaw has some supplies at the house. I can use them to get started. It shouldn’t be a problem.” She thought briefly about Mistress Kershaw’s animosity and wondered just how gracious such sharing would be if the lady actually had to be asked to provide the items. Mercifully the Kershaws stayed in town. Mistress Kershaw would probably never know about it. She chuckled at the thought.

  Kit looked at her and smiled. “What’s…?”

  A whine came from near the creek. He turned to listen to it. “…That?”

  She heard the same sound. “A dog?” She looked past him towards the source of the sound. A distressful yip came this time.

  “There it is,” he said, pointing towards the water.

  “Oh, stop, please. We can’t just let him drown!”

  He glanced sideways at her as if to say “Can’t we?” However he stopped the wagon and got down.

  Deborah jumped down without waiting for assistance and raced to the bank. She picked her way down, mentally seeking the most efficient path and planning her rescue attempt. Halfway down the bank, he grabbed her arm. “I’ll get it,” he grumbled. “You stay here or you’ll get soaked.” He stripped off his uniform jacket and hung it unceremoniously on a bush.

  She ignored him and continued down to where she could see the cold, wet, little dog clinging to a rock part way out in the stream. It slipped and clawed its way back up to the meager safety on top of the rock. Attaining its goal, the dog sprawled on the rock, shivering, exhausted. When it finally lifted its head and saw the people, it yipped, as if to say, “I’m all right, but please hurry.”

  It wasn’t that far away, but Marshall would have to get into the stream to get the dog on his own. “Let me anchor you,” she suggested. “I’ll hang onto this tree and hold your hand and then you can step on that root and pluck him off the rock.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her. Deborah knew he was thinking “Certainly and I’ll land in the water for sure that way,” but he got into position facing the dog and extended his arm to her. Squatting down, he stepped out onto the exposed root out in the water. Water swirled around the root, and his foot slipped a bit. A little balancing steadied him, and her arm held firm. He scooped the dog from the rock and plopped it onto dry land, with only a wet boot for his troubles.

  Standing up, he tried to push off the root and whirl onto the bank, but he’d forgotten the dog underfoot. Trying to avoid the exhausted pup, he twisted. Crashing into Deborah, they both lost their balance and fell, pinning her under him.

  “Umph.” She thought he was going to push her through the grass. His hands wound up on the ground, framing her head, imprisoning her. His legs straddled hers, and his body stretched full length on her. She could feel every muscle and every sinew frozen into corded tension. His face was scant inches from hers, and she could see the dark rim around his gray eyes and the small scar in his eyebrow. Though he barely breathed, she could feel his heart pounding. Or was it hers?

  He shifted slightly, and his hard maleness pressed into her belly. Her breasts, the nipples now plump and full, brushed against his chest. She watched his eyes focus on her mouth, then look up and back to her eyes. Her lips parted under that visual touch.

  His fingers teased wisps of hair that had fallen onto her face. Each time he toyed with one, he caressed the skin just underneath it.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, h
is mouth descended towards hers. She could feel the breath from his parted lips mingle with hers. She breathed a sigh. His mouth touched hers with the delicacy of a feather, but she felt its electric tingle all the way to the center of her femininity.

  Another whisper of a touch.

  And another.

  And another big wet one up the side of her cheek.

  Kit launched himself off of her to stare at the dog, soaking wet, and standing with his front paws on Deborah’s arm. They both goggled, open mouthed, at it as if it were a strange and wondrous creature—until the dog shook itself and sprayed them both with water

  Deborah could feel the laughter bubble up through her and finally it escaped, first as a giggle and then a most unladylike snort and finally gales of laughter. Kit dropped back down to the ground and held his belly while the laughter convulsed him.

  And the little dog jumped and barked and wagged his tail at his new-found friends.

  **

  Wrapped in the blanket, the dog slept on Deborah’s lap as they road back to the British camp. They were both quiet, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet.

  “I think I’ll call him ‘Scamp’ because he certainly is one,” she said as she gently petted one pointed, erect ear. He, as it turned out, was not much more than a puppy. With a wiry wheaten coat that was flecked with gray, he looked like a little old man, but his eyes were clear and bright, and his paws puppy-large.

  “So, you’re going to keep him.”

  “I can’t very well throw him back in the river or just let him go, can I Colonel? He’s probably been washed quite a ways downstream, and he’d never get home.”

  “Umph.” He reached over to pull the blanket off Scamp’s face. “I suspect he’s a Norwich terrier. One of our grounds men had one as a ratter. Good dogs, but quite fearsome if you consider they don’t come up to the top of my boot. Can’t say they win any beauty prizes, though.”