Deborah studied the room briefly and then turned her blandest expression on Sarah.
The older woman must have seen her looking around and guessed her thoughts. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t do the decorating here. This is normally Rose’s room, as I’m sure you can tell. We’re sharing these days.” She added with a grimace. “I love my daughter dearly, but her taste is very…pink.”
With a snort of laughter, Deborah wandered around the room. She picked up a small glass pot from the dressing table. Examining it without really seeing it she replaced it none too gently on the table.
“God’s teeth!” Deborah borrowed her father’s favorite turn of phrase. Sarah, bending over a dress she was folding, looked up at her friend’s indelicate vocabulary, but said nothing.
“I finally find one person I can talk to in this awful place, and now you’re going.”
Sarah chuckled, “And that, my dear, is a synopsis of life.”
“Who am I going to talk to? And that witch, how am I going to deal with her? Not to mention our gracious Colonel who won’t release me because I’m the only one he can find to treat his wounded.
“I have an idea! If you can inquire in Camden for a Tory doctor who would be willing to come out here, I would be able to convince Marshall that I’m not indispensable. If he’s forgotten about questioning the number of blankets in the wagon, or accepted my explanation, maybe he’ll let me go.”
“I’ll ask,” Sarah agreed. She walked to the door of her chamber, casually looked up and down the hall, and softly closed the door.
“You realize,” Sarah said slowly and quietly, “how valuable as a source of information you are here. If you can get to me in town, I can easily send information to General Greene.”
Deborah stiffened and watched her closely. Then, sitting on an uncluttered spot on the bed, Sarah folded her hands on her lap and stared down at them for along moment. Deborah could see that there was something weighing on her friend’s mind, so she waited for Sarah to gather her thoughts.
Scamp jumped up on Sarah’s lap, and she absently petted him.
“It would be dangerous,” Sarah continued, “very dangerous, but you are in a unique and sensitive position to gather information on British troop movements.”
Deborah walked over to the window and pushed aside the damask curtains that partially closed out the sight of troops drilling alongside the house. She stared out the window but saw nothing. Sarah was suggesting that they become spies. She could barely think of the ramifications of such an endeavor.
Remaining at the window, she cocked her head to listen.
“I’m aware that I’m asking you to take the most vulnerable position, since they already suspect you. And if they ever found out about your father, well…they’d know for sure.” Sarah plucked at the shawl next to her and then tossed it aside in an angry gesture. “This may be a fool’s game. You know what happened to Major André and poor Mr. Hale. Maybe we should just forget it.”
Deborah knew that here in the British lion’s mouth, she might be even more valuable than the two executed men.
This was war. There were great risks, but there was also the promise of great rewards.
Her father would be furious.
Turning back, she said simply, “All right.”
“Just like that?” Sarah goggled.
“Just like that. You do know that the risks are going to be the same for both of us. They may look to me first, but they know your husband’s in exile because of his connections with the Continental Congress, and that we’re friends. They’ll look to you a very quick second.”
Sarah nodded.
Deborah added, “You might want to get Rose out of town. Do you have any relatives that she can stay with?”
Sarah pursed her lips and nodded again.
“I’m sure I can get into town. I can go get supplies or just go on a social call. Can you arrange a courier out of Camden without putting yourself at risk?”
“People are in and out of my shop all the time. I know several trustworthy patriots who could get the messages through without calling attention to themselves.”
“Hmm, good. Marshall is going to be going down towards Congaree Swamp in the next few days. Could you get something arranged in time to take that news to Marion?”
“That’s awfully quick, but I’ll try.”
“Good.” Deborah picked up a petticoat and began folding it. She admired the fine embroidery on the front where it would show between the front panels of a skirt.
“Well, we’ve planned that battle; now how about the battle with Lady Claudia? That may be even more difficult.” Her tone was light, but her eyes narrowed grimly. “You realize that you’re leaving me to fight that one alone.”
“I know, but there isn’t much I can do about it. It’s for the best, anyway. I’m sure you will acquit yourself admirably.”
**
Deborah waived Sarah and Rose off shortly before noon. “Remember to ask about a doctor. No, better not.”
“Yes, I will. I want you to tell the Colonel that I’m looking. It’s consistent with you wanting to leave.”
After she watched the carriage disappear in the distance, Deborah went to check on the injured men. She didn’t want to stay in the house any more than necessary since Lady Claudia had already established her court in the main salon. All but one of the burned men left were fit for duty, so it was with some relief that just as she was about to leave, a soldier stumbled into the infirmary, leaning on another man and holding his bandaged right arm stiffly. A quick glance at the red and yellow-stained bandage told her that the man had an infected wound.
She sat the soldier down on a stool and gingerly began to unwrap the cloth.
“What happened here?”
The injured man gazed at her stupidly and started to topple. She and his escort caught him and dragged him to the nearest bed. Feeling his forehead, she realized his blank stare resulted from a raging fever. She sniffed and grimaced at the stench coming from the wound.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’um,” the man’s companion began, “we was choppin’ wood las’ week. “H’Allen, ‘ere, was ‘olding han Oi was choppin.’ Musta ‘it a knot or sompum, cause the hax jus jumped an’ caught ‘im just above the wrist. It bled sompum fierce, but we got ‘im bound up. We’re gonna brin’ ‘im in ri’ den, but Major Smythe said no.”
“I’ll deal with the Major later.” Upon inspection, the wound proved to be red and infected and ugly, but without the spidery red streaks that would have pushed the infection past her skills. She looked at Allen’s friend. “I won’t try to pretty this up.” She began to clean the cut. “He’s badly hurt, but it could be much worse.”
After cleaning it, she took several maggots from the precious supply a grateful soldier had shared with her a few days before. They would eat the dead flesh and avoid the living, cleaning the debris from the wound.
“Thank you for bringing him in,” she told the man. “I’m going to keep him here for a few days. If the good Major has a problem, send him to me. I’ll deal with him. And thank you again. You’re a good friend.” She laid a sympathetic hand on the man’s jacketed arm and froze.
The man sensed her withdrawal. “M’um?”
Deborah stared at the blond hair on the jacket sleeve. It was Allen’s blond hair, left on his escort when he supported Allen on the way to the clinic. She clawed at his sleeve. The poor man looked at her as if she had lost her wits.
It was a blond hair such as this that Deborah remembered brushing off Penelope’s body in the alley.
This was what had bothered her about the men in custody. All of them had brown or red hair. The killer was a blond.
Marshall had to be told. She chivvied the man out and made sure Allen was as comfortable as possible. Grabbing her cloak, she flew out the door. Five paces out, she heard a hail directed at her. A camp follower had broken her leg.
It was almost the dinner hour by the time she was able to l
eave.
Marshall wasn’t in camp, not then, not for dinner. At least Lady Claudia and Sir Oliver were also absent from the table. She thanked Heaven for that smallest of mercies.
**
The next day blossomed cold and bright, with the crystalline clarity that only winter can bring. Before breakfast, she went to check on Allen. Attending him took longer than she’d anticipated. Over her late breakfast, Rogers informed her that the Colonel was already out and about. He quietly added that Lady Claudia was with him.
Deborah grimaced, but when out in search of them. Scamp danced along beside her, reveling in the exercise, as well as the soldiers’ and camp followers’ petting. She had a somewhat heavier tread. Nevertheless, she responded civilly to the greetings from the men and women in the camp.
She spotted her quarry near the artillery depot. He appeared to be showing off his big guns to Lady Claudia. The “lady” stood close enough, Deborah observed sourly, that if she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush the Colonel’s jacket. Claudia appeared to be entranced with whatever Marshall said. He didn’t appear to be objecting.
“Fine, lovely,” Deborah thought. “Looks like Madame is renewing old acquaintances. Seems her redcoat was just killing time with me. Just as well. I don’t need him, that’s for sure. I’ll just deliver the information and get back to the house. I don’t need to come between these two. I don’t want to come between these two.”
Her steps slowed as she approached the artillery. Common sense told her to deliver the message and leave. Non-sense told her to give Lady Claudia the kind of Yankee disapproval that her mother used to administer when the situation warranted it.
Even Lady Claudia’s attentions couldn’t prevent Marshall from seeing Deborah approach. He greeted her politely, but made no attempt to distance himself from his companion. When Scamp pranced nearby, he called the dog over to scratch his ears. Deborah held her breath until he maneuvered Scamp away from Lady Claudia.
“Colonel, I need to talk to you right away. It’s urgent, and I couldn’t find you anywhere yesterday!”
Lady Claudia looked over Deborah with the air of someone confronted with a faintly disagreeable odor. “Kit, darling, do your camp followers always keep such good account of where you are? I’m sure she could find someone else to service her.”
Deborah decided that the other woman wanted to be the first one to fire in this skirmish of their undeclared war. Deborah didn’t mind, so long as she was the one to fire last. She didn’t mind in the least that Marshall might get caught in the crossfire. She opened her mouth to return fire, but Marshall spiked her guns. “I presume this is official business?” Deborah nodded. “Lady Claudia, please excuse us. Sergeant,” he called over his shoulder, “escort Lady Claudia back to the house.”
With no option, the woman turned and headed back to the house.
Deborah waited until Lady Claudia was out of earshot. “Camp follower? I won’t be spoken of like a strumpet, especially by someone like her.”
The expression on his face said that he was losing patience with the female squabbling. “What did you want?”
His voice was so cold that she straightened formally and looked him in the eye. “Release the men you are holding in detention for Mistress Brightman’s murder. Something has been bothering me about them. I just realized what it was. When I held her body, I brushed a blond hair off her. She had brown hair. The men you are holding all have brown or red hair. I don’t think any of them…”
“Is the murderer.” He finished for her. “You’re sure about this hair?”
“Yes. When it happened, I didn’t think too much about it. I just flicked it off her.”
“I understand.”
“I was attending a soldier yesterday who had a light hair on his sleeve, and it struck me. She had blond hair in her hand, as if she’d fought and torn out some hair.”
“Yes, I see your point.”
“Are you sure you inspected every man in the camp?”
“Yes, we did and that means that we are looking for blond deserter.”
“Or possibly a scavenger.”
“My money’s on a deserter. The last engagement near here was the battle of Camden in mid-August. A scavenged uniform jacket, worn out of uniform, would have stood out by now. Soldiers go into town fairly regularly. No one of them would stand out there, so a single deserter in uniform just might be able to hide in or near the town.”
He thought for a moment. Almost to himself, he muttered, “Unfortunately, that means our man is still out there and liable to kill again.”
Looking at Deborah, he said, “I need to go into town to warn the mayor to keep his patrols up. But it’s not going to be today. Don’t you have some unfinished shopping to do in town?”
“Yes.” Her word was hesitant because, after the scene and his attitude earlier, she didn’t think she wanted to do anything with him.
“Very good. We’ll leave after breakfast. I want you to present this development to the town fathers.”
“But I…”
“Good day, Mistress Morgan.”
He turned and walked away, leaving Deborah flapping her mouth after him.
**
In spite of the cool winter air, Kit desperately wanted to wipe what felt like sweat from his face, but pride kept his hand swinging at his sides. A murder investigation he could handle, but a cat fight between two women was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Facing colonial muskets didn’t hold half the belly-roiling fear of that debacle.
Still, he congratulated himself for avoiding the worst of it. Damme, he thought, if I can do that, maybe I have a brilliant future in diplomacy or perhaps even politics.
Keeping the two women separate seemed to be the key to the thing. At least it worked this time. But how to keep it up?
He didn’t want Deborah hurt. He’d seen all too often the damage inflicted by the claws of the ladies of the ton. Claudia seemed bent on reviving their affair, using her husband’s dealings as a flimsy excuse for propinquity. Somehow, the thought of that left him unmoved. Her claws were among the sharpest he’d ever seen. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remove her from the camp because her husband had a legitimate, if not imperative, reason for being there.
Well, the problem couldn’t be too difficult, could it? After all, he’d successfully diffused the confrontation this afternoon.
Now he needed to set his mind towards finding a murderer. He glowered as he strode between the tents, towards the quartermaster’s tent, twisting the problem around in his mind.
The woman stirring a cook pot curtsied as he passed and watched him warily. He barely noticed her.
He would convince the town fathers that it was in their best interests to allow a search, especially of the less desirable parts of town. Their quarry most likely had a bolt hole in among the stews. The British Army would play ferret to his rat.
“Damnation,” he muttered, “I thought I had brought this mess to heel.” His failure to have the culprit in custody galled him for several reasons.
First the murderer was probably one of his own and therefore his responsibility. The quartermaster would know recent deserters and could get descriptions from the officers.
When he looked on the recently ravished corpse, two thoughts had coursed through his mind, either of which would have been sufficient motivation to bring the killer to justice. Marshall knew the horror she must have gone through. He had mercifully escaped. He had survived. Now he’d rot in hell before he allowed another to suffer the same fate or go unavenged.
The other half of that thought was that the young woman sprawled dead and abused in some god-forsaken alley could have been Deborah.
He would protect his little camp follower tomorrow. She wouldn’t be out his sight.
Walking through the camp, Kit whistled at the thought of spending the day with his little camp follower. Camp follower? Humph.
He might have to do something about the luscious Lady Claudia aft
er all. But what?
**
As dinner progressed, Deborah wondered if simply obtaining sustenance was worth the torture they called a formal dinner. More than once, she longed for the solitary bliss of dinner in her room. Each time she reminded herself that such bliss would be interpreted as capitulation. That was unacceptable, so she suffered.
If the table conversation was any indication, others shared her feelings. Few, aside from Lady Claudia, had anything to say. She hardly closed her mouth.
“…And we’ll get bay and holly and, of course mistletoe, to decorate the house and invite all the quality in the area for dinner and dancing on Christmas Day. And I’m sure we can have another party on Twelfth Night, too.”
Marshall drawled, “I believe that the owners of this house, the Kershaws, are about as ‘quality’ as you are going to find in this part of the world. Are you going to invite them?”
‘La, Kit, of course I mean Tories. Anyone else is simply not quality.”
Deborah looked up at that comment, but decided wisdom and discretion should be her sword and buckler at this particular moment.
With none to gainsay her, Lady Claudia forged onward. “I’m sure we can get some of your soldiers to form a choir. I do love ‘I Saw Three Ships’ and ‘The Snow Lay on the Ground.’ They can cut some branches to decorate the church. It’s so delightful to come into a church smelling of rosemary or pine at Christmas time.”
“Lady Claudia, let me remind you that we are in the middle of a war. My men are not at your disposal to decorate for the holidays.”
“But, Kit…”
“No.”
**
Deborah opened the curtains and confirmed what she suspected: it rained overnight. She hoped that today’s city excursion would be canceled accordingly. Reality reared its ugly head and hissed and slithered her forlorn hopes away. Marshall was as immutable as the sun, when it was shining.
Scamp jumped up on the bed with a little assistance from the footstool, and landed squarely on top of Deborah’s stomach. “Oosh! How is it, young man, that all the males I know are so good at making their wishes known. For example, I bet you want some breakfast and a walk, not necessarily in that order, hum?”
Scamp's Lady Page 12
