Scamp's Lady

by Jackie Walton

  One thing preyed on her mind, though. She thought she should air the linen. The only problem was that she wasn’t sure how to do it or even if she wanted any particular result. She only knew that, at some level of her being, she needed an answer. “I’m sorry if my…ah, working for you has upset your…friendship with Lady Claudia. I know you and she have a long-standing…um, relationship that I would hate to destroy.” She rushed on, “…Because she misinterpreted our working association.” The words tumbled out, landing on top of one another. She hoped against hope that he would understand what she was asking and prayed that he would take her query at face value.

  The buildings in this area stood separated from each other, and he drew her into a small, deserted alley, away from curious eyes. Weighing his response and choosing his words with care, he said, “My relation to Lady Claudia is only what courtesy, and politics demands that I accord the wife of a peer and an army supplier. I won’t deny that in the past we have had a …an association, or that she would like to continue that association, but it is not going to be. Does that ease your conscience?”

  She looked out toward the street and at his sleeve, anywhere but at him. In a low voice, she replied, “I don’t have any right to question your relationship…”

  “Yes you do. You have every right, because I’m giving you that right.”

  Deborah stared up at him. She stood perfectly still. This was more than she wanted or needed at this point. She was going to escape, for heaven’s sake. “Colonel…”

  “Kit.”

  “Kit. I,” she swallowed. He stared at her as though he could read her response in her eyes. “I can’t, won’t take over Lady Claudia’s place in your life.” Why did she say that?

  He nodded slowly. “I don’t want you to. That was dross. I think I want something much more from you.”

  She searched his eyes, her own feelings troubled and in turmoil. “I don’t know if we can…”

  A scream split the cool air of the morning. A nearby scream.

  Chapter 12

  Deborah sucked in her breath. Kit’s head snapped up, and his chin scrapped her nose. She barely noticed it.

  “Where?” he muttered and cocked his head, trying to localize the vanished sound.

  Deborah thought for a fraction of a second. Where was the scream? “That way.” She pointed out the far end of the alley. “To the left, I think.”

  He dropped her parcel as he charged down the alley. She ran after him, holding her skirts up so she could move quickly. In a quieter time, it would be indecent; now it was expedient.

  As she gained the street, Kit slowed to peer into the next alley up the road and then accelerated past it. People nearby stared at the redcoat pounding down the street. He passed the second alley like the first. A man hailed him, but Kit didn’t stop.

  He looked down the third alley to his left and started to continue down the road. Something must have alerted him because he glanced across the street at an alley opposite and charged across the street.

  She rushed after him, turning the corner into the alley just in time to see him reach into a writhing mass of clothing half-hidden behind a pile of wood and garbage and haul out a red-jacketed man.

  By the time she reached the scene, the battle was in full swing. She edged around them as Marshall’s fist sent the villain back against the wall. Muffled sobs emanated from the pile of clothes told Deborah the man’s victim still lived. “Thank God,” she whispered. Keeping one eye on the fight, she crossed back to the side where the woman huddled, curled into the corner with only her muddy back visible.

  The two men seemed almost equally matched, with Marshall’s size advantage balanced by the other man’s desperation. She winced when Kit took a blow to the face. He staggered back but stayed on his feet.

  She dropped to her knees beside the woman and wrapped her arms around her. The stench of the garbage warred with the woman’s perfume. Mud squished all around her. The woman stayed curled into the wall, her arms curved over her face. Deborah’s quick scan showed no blood. She glanced up at the men and smothered a shriek. A ball of furious males with arms and legs flailing rolled through the mud toward them. She fell over the woman to protect her. Grunts and the slurp of mud sounded in her ears, but she kept her head and body curled around the trembling unfortunate. Something struck her back before she felt the furor of the fight move on down the alley.

  She peeked out of her cocoon to see where they were. A few yards away, the assailant used his locked hands as a club to knock his opponent off him and back into the mud. Seeing the opportunity he started to start to crawl to his feet, but Kit rolled toward him and knocked his arm out from under him; the man fell. Before the attacker could recover, Kit hauled up, drew back his fist, and smashed him in the mouth. Blood spurted, and the man collapsed.

  Deborah drew her first easy breath since she first heard the scream. Turning her attention to the woman, she loosened her protecting arms and looked into the face of Lady Claudia.

  **

  Deborah sat back in the tub of deliciously hot water and let the heat drive out the cold and mud and soreness. Slowly, the heat chased the tension from her body.

  Thank heavens for Rogers. That man was an angel. Lady Claudia had bellowed for the tub as soon as they arrived back at the house, but Rogers saw to it that the coveted item arrived at Deborah’s room first, along with a copious supply of very hot water.

  Deborah let her head drop back as she thought about the aftermath of the fight. As soon as Lady Claudia realized that she wasn’t in any more immediate danger, she began screaming and sobbing and yowling. Mercifully, Deborah thought, most of that was simply undecipherable noise. When the lady’s wits cleared, the situation changed.

  “What took you so long? That lunatic could have killed me.

  “Where have you been? You’ve been gone ages.

  “I’m freezing! Get me a blanket.

  “Aren’t you going to kill him?

  “Kit, you took off with your little hussy and look what happened to me!

  “Pay attention to me!

  “Get rid of these gawking yokels.”

  The squawks went on while reinforcements came to deal with the man and while Kit stood with the mayor in the alley and explained would happen to the miscreant under military law. It went on while Kit had Deborah’s mislaid package recovered and while she tried to attend to his bloody mouth. It went on while the carriage was summoned. It went on all the way home.

  Deborah tried to be grateful that all she had to do was listen to it and stay out of the way. It was difficult.

  The cooling water induced Deborah to get out and get dressed. With clean clothes, her thoughts turned to the present. Sighing, she thought about Lady Claudia’s attacker. A little on-the-spot persuasion in the alley cleared up the murders of Penelope and several other less reputable young women. Deborah knew justice was going to be swift and final, but she still mourned it. The loss of human life during the war reached a number so appalling that even this one more was regrettable, even if he richly deserved his fate.

  However, there would be an end to the whole thing, and her debt to the young woman she’d known only in death would be paid. Deborah could finalize her escape plans with a clear conscience.

  **

  Dinner was subdued. Deborah heard the burst of rifle fire late in the afternoon that signified the end of Guy Foley, deserter, rapist, and murderer. Its aftermath did not make for a very convivial evening.

  Col. Marshall now wore a red jacket and white breeches, as opposed to the matched brown set of the afternoon. He ate slowly and deliberately, probably out of respect for his bruised cheek and cut lip.

  Lady Claudia was inordinately quiet. Sir Oliver gave what comfort he could by awkwardly patting her hand throughout the dinner. About half way through, it struck Deborah as unusual that the lady would allow it. They were not an affectionate couple. Knowing what she did about their marriage, she gave Sir Oliver credit for his support o
f his wife when she needed it.

  Just as dinner finished, Marshall cleared his throat in a bid for the table’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, as I may not see you tomorrow morning, I will take my leave of you now.”

  Deborah glanced around the table. The senior officers sat impassively, while the younger officers and civilians looked startled.

  Lady Claudia showed the first sign of life all evening. “What do you mean, Kit? I’m sure there must be some mistake.”

  “No, Lady Claudia, there is no mistake. Lt. Bradley and I are taking some troops out on patrol. We hope to be back before Christmas, but I can’t guarantee that. In the meantime, Col. Johnson will be in charge.”

  “But what about all our plans!”

  Marshall leaned back and looked at the ceiling for a moment. “I,” he emphasized, “have no plans for Christmas. I am fighting a war.” He looked directly at her. “My men are fighting a war also. You may not dragoon them to assist in producing your Christmas pageantry.”

  “But, Kit. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind if…”

  “But I would.”

  “Kit!” she pouted, but he simply toyed with his wine glass and looked at her.

  Deborah watched the scene silently. She had to use every ounce of control to keep from singing hosannas. If the Good Lord watched over her, her elation wasn’t showing on her face. Marshall was going to be leaving Camden. Not only would his absence make it easier for her to get away, but she wouldn’t have to deal with this growing attraction for him.

  Thoughts and plans and scenarios rolled through her head. She glanced up from this happy jumble to see Marshall’s brooding gaze focused on her.

  Something told her there was going to be a problem.

  **

  “Mistress Morgan,” Kit summoned her as they left the table. “A moment in my study, if you please.”

  Deborah wasn’t sure she wanted to hear whatever he had to say, but she followed him. Maps, pens, record books, and a few weapons cluttered the room. He offered her a seat but remained standing himself.

  “I know you have a great desire to leave here,” he began baldly. “Unfortunately, I am unable to grant that wish.”

  “Why not? Surely you have no reason for holding me here.”

  “I need your services.”

  “You can get a doctor in Camden if you need one. A real doctor!”

  “But I have you here, and I intend to keep you.”

  “This is absurd!” She shot to her feet.

  “You may be right about that. Nevertheless, you will be staying.”

  “I …”

  “I want you here when I return.”

  “But I…”

  “Or your friend Sarah Kershaw, wife of known traitor Joseph Kershaw, and a rebel sympathizer in her own right, will bear the brunt of my displeasure.”

  She whispered, “You wouldn’t.”

  He moved up to a hand’s breadth in front of her. “I wouldn’t want to. Don’t make me. Don’t think about the possibility of making me.”

  She stared at him, open-mouthed.

  He ran his finger lightly down the side of her face. “If you think about it you’ll get angry, and I don’t want to leave with you angry at me.” He bent his head towards her. “I’d prefer you looking forward to my return.”

  Gasping, she pulled away. “How can you think…?” She stared at him for a moment and then whirled and raced for the stairs.

  She did not sleep well that night.

  **

  The next morning, Marshall and a goodly bit of the encampment were gone when Deborah arose.

  Lady Claudia complained bitterly. Finally she left for a few days in town, along with a mountain of luggage and Sir Oliver in her wake.

  **

  The full moon turned what was left of the front lawn a silvery gray. Standing before the window in the dark parlor, Deborah could see an occasional fire in among the soldiers’ tents farther away. Here and there a soldier or a camp follower moved among the stillness.

  Deborah pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. Although the house was chilly, she resisted lighting a fire in the sitting room. She kept telling herself that it was time to go up to bed, but, for some reason, her feet refused to take the hint.

  The stillness, the moonlight, made her think of her own home on just such a cold, clear winter’s night.

  Once, when she was little, Papa tied some ropes and a piece of wood to a high tree branch for a swing. He would push her up, up, up, until she was shrieking with fright and excitement. Then the swing came down, down, down. The wind whistled through her hair and billowed her skirts. As she wiggled and giggled, her way down towards her papa, she seemed to leave her stomach somewhere up among the branches.

  When she was a child, the up and down, fright and delight, were thrilling. Papa would say it was time to get off, and she would beg him to continue.

  Now, this swing of life alternately terrified and delighted her. Christopher Marshall was central to it. She was terrified she would give in to him and afraid she wouldn’t. She wanted to always be with him and feared his interest was temporary. She wanted to help her country and knew there might be huge consequences both in and out of his clutches. Deborah didn’t know if he was the swing, the pusher, or the wide blue sky; but she did know that, with him, the highs promised to be exquisite and the lows devastating, perhaps even fatal.

  In the distance a woman gave a soldier a quick hug.

  She thought of her mother, undoubtedly managing the farm with her customary quiet competence. Dearest mamma, who could make the most monstrous of childhood tragedies better with a kiss and a big hug, where are you now that I need you so desperately? Maybe you can’t make it go away with a smile, but just your ever-available shoulder to cry on would be a help. I need you, mama.

  She sniffed back incipient tears and grimaced. She was old enough to be a mother, herself, and here she was crying for her mama. Angrily, she pushed the thoughts away and stood up a little straighter. She needed to think about what she could do, not cry over what she couldn’t.

  The door to the sitting room opened and Deborah whipped around with a gasp. Rogers came in, holding a candle.

  “Begging you pardon, ma’am. I hope I didn’t startle you too much. Why are you standing here in the dark? Do you require a candle?” Carefully he closed the door and placed his candle on a nearby table.

  “I was just thinking, Rogers. I’m fine.”

  The black man nodded. He watched her for a moment with shrewd, but compassionate eyes. “Very good, ma’am.

  “A message just came from Mistress Kershaw. She has arranged transportation for you one week from today.”

  Deborah thought for a second. “That’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  For that moment, elation lanced through Deborah. Reality closed in quickly.

  “Rogers,” she hesitated, knowing she was tossing away her best chance at freedom. “Col. Marshall said that if I try to escape, he’ll hold Mistress Kershaw responsible. I believe him, and I can’t risk harming her. Tell her not to make any arrangements. Maybe an opportunity will come along later.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” He bowed slightly. “And I’m sorry.”

  It was one more cycle of the swing.

  **

  Deborah wrapped the gauze around the woman’s cut hand. After adjusting one of the windings, she tore the end lengthwise and tied it off. “The St. John’s wort will speed the healing. Keep it dry and I’ll change the bandage tomorrow.”

  “’Right ya are, an’ methanks, m’um.” The camp follower’s grin showed two teeth missing, but the smile was genuine. “By the bye, ya got anything fer, ya know, female complaints? I been having some mortal fierce belly aches wi’ me monthlies.”

  “Of course. When your time comes, I can give you some bee balm tea that may help.”

  They both looked up when the door to the infirmary opened. Lt. Claiborne strode in and hesitated. He looked
around and swept off his hat when he spotted Deborah. “Ma’am.”

  The camp follower appraised the red-haired young man with blatant appreciation, then grinned again and winked at Deborah before scuttling around the officer and out the door.

  The red-head’s curse flared up his cheeks as he watched the woman’s antics. He swallowed and launched into his proposal. “Mistress Morgan, I was wondering if you would care to, and you’ve nothing better to do, that is, if you have the time, I thought you might like, if it pleases you, to come, if its not too cold for you, and you wouldn’t mind to…to…”

  Deborah cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “Towalkaroundthecampwithme?”

  She ruthlessly suppressed a smile. “Why thank you, Lieutenant. I do believe I’d like to stretch my legs. Let me get my cloak.”

  **

  Scamp curled in his usual place before the fire. The sitting room was warm and quiet except for the rhythmic clicking of Deborah’s knitting needles. The white wool yarn hadn’t fared too badly from its stint in the mud while Lady Claudia was being rescued. It was almost a week since that incident. She stopped a moment to look at her progress on the long scarf. “Humph.” Usually I can knit things faster than this, she thought, especially a relatively simple piece like this, she thought. There’s nothing to it, and yet I still haven’t finished it. Been busy with winter problems, even with fewer men in the camp. Still, there was another, um, four or five inches to go and then the fringe. It’ll look nice.

  She fingered the rows of slipped stitch ridges that gave the scarf a little interest. It wasn’t a fancy thing, more suited to a man than a woman, really. She pushed that thought away and went back to knitting and watching the activity in the camp from the large window.

  Through the open door, she could hear the rapid patter of booted feet, Lt. Harvey, from the sound of it. As she got to know him, she realized that he rarely walked anywhere. His slowest pace was a canter. He rushed into the sitting room, greatcoat flying around him, and stopped. The flapping coat settled around him like a lover. In the doorway, he fidgeted.