Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  So Devon sat behind them, feeling ill and blue, while they chatted about old times on the Black Eagle and Cornwallis's surrender.

  The landscape was pretty enough, but the closer the carriage drew to Yorktown, the more desolate the farms and houses appeared. The roads and yards were thick with grass, fences were broken, and most of the fields were overgrown and neglected. Many homes had been abandoned, their windows shattered and doors swinging in the autumn breeze.

  After an hour, Raveneau gave the reins over to Azalea and fell asleep. Both girls watched him, while pretending not to. Devon was angry with herself for the tender response he drew from her heart. She longed to nestle against him, to be wrapped in his secure embrace and listen to his heart beat.

  They reached the tent headquarters of Comte de Rochambeau about noon, where a few stragglers reported that the ceremony was scheduled to begin at two o'clock and most of the troops had already left for the field.

  Raveneau seemed unsurprised to learn how perfectly he had timed their arrival. Descending from the carriage, he slipped into the dashing white coat of his French officer’s uniform and smoothed back his unpowdered hair. Then he untied his horse and called to Azalea and Devon to alight.

  "There is bound to be a huge crowd," he informed them, "so I think it would be best for you ladies to walk."

  "Are you going off without us?" Azalea demanded.

  "I must join my regiment. Don't worry, the field is not far—just follow this street to the town outskirts. I'll be on horseback and easy to spot. Find a place near me, and I will come to you when the ceremony is over."

  With a last jaunty smile, Raveneau bent to graze first Azalea's lips, then Devon's. He mounted his gray stallion in one graceful movement.

  "A bientot!" he called, then galloped off.

  Azalea and Devon looked at each other.

  "I feel as though we've been jilted," Azalea declared, and the younger girl nodded agreement.

  "That man is insufferable. He thinks he can get away with anything."

  "I hate to say it, but he probably can."

  * * *

  Thousands of people from the countryside thronged the field where the allied armies had formed columns to await the British. Raveneau had been right; a carriage wouldn't have brought Azalea and Devon within a quarter mile of the ceremony, but on foot they were able to make their way to the front of the crowd. All around were men on horseback, carriages that held the families of wealthy planters, and brimming farm wagons of children with their parents. Overhead, small boys perched on tree branches.

  The French and American armies were a study in contrasts. The French were immaculate in white linen and pastel regimental silks, while their allies had no uniforms and were dressed in ragged, soiled homespun. Many of the men were barefoot, but their bearing was proud and defiant.

  Devon spotted Raveneau almost immediately. He had joined a group of French officers, all on horseback, and although he wore no powdered wig or elaborate decorations, she thought him by far the most handsome of all.

  When General Washington appeared, walking his horse between the seemingly endless allied files, a deafening cheer went up from the crowd. Devon joined in, impressed by the sight of the tall, somber man who was leading America toward freedom. Washington joined Rochambeau, and the two leaders waited expectantly for the redcoats to appear. A band played.

  Before long, the British and Hessians emerged from the ravaged village. Their band was playing a melancholy march that Devon recognized as "The World Turned Upside Down." The enemy columns were splendidly garbed, their swords and muskets polished to a high gleam, though nearly half the original six thousand soldiers lay dead, ill, or wounded behind the shattered walls of Yorktown.

  Cornwallis was not to be found. A handsome, ruddy-faced brigadier general led the British column. He sat erect on his horse and smiled cheerfully at the French as he passed, ignoring the Americans. The British leader introduced himself to General Rochambeau as Charles O'Hara. Washington's face darkened. The Frenchman shook his head and pointed across the road, announcing, "We are allied with the Americans. General Washington will accept your surrender."

  Thoroughly incensed, Washington refused to deal with O'Hara. Since Cornwallis had sent his second in command, he would do the same. Introducing the redcoat to Benjamin Lincoln, his field commander, he declared that Lincoln would direct the surrender. Shrugging, O'Hara gamely turned over his sword to Lincoln.

  A regiment of French Hussars surrounded a nearby field, where the British were instructed to march and lay down their arms. They did not surrender gracefully. Bitter and grieving, many of the men wept and tried to break their muskets as they hurled them down.

  The ceremony ended, the crowd began to disperse, and suddenly a stocky, fair-haired man appeared and seized Azalea in a crushing hug. Devon would have recognized Isaac Smith anywhere, for he looked exactly like his miniature.

  Even his face was as ruddy as it had been painted. He obviously adored Azalea, listened to every word she uttered, yet managed to voice his own thoughts. It soon became evident that he possessed a talent for making her believe she was getting her own way while coaxing her into cheerful compromise. After an hour with the couple, Devon knew they would be happy together.

  A short time later, she attempted to leave them together. They had meandered over to a tree and leaned against the trunk, embracing and whispering. As the crowd thinned, Devon wandered to and fro on the road, looking for Morgan. He had to be here today—if he hadn't been wounded or killed. That thought was horrifying, even though she hadn't the faintest notion what she felt for him any longer.

  Even the soldiers were heading back to their separate camps. There was no sign of Raveneau, but it seemed certain that he would return for her. Now that the excitement was over, Devon felt slivers of panic. What if she didn't find Morgan? What then? She could wander through the camps and inquire, but what if he were long dead? Azalea would be going home, Isaac in tow, for he had already announced that he was finished with the war. Raveneau would surely be anxious to return to the Black Eagle as soon as possible. What would she do?

  While pacing the road, Devon saw two men on horseback riding unhurriedly in her direction. They each wore the dark-blue and buff uniforms of officers in the Continental Army and, as the pair drew near, Devon could see that they were splendid representatives of the male species. Their smiles were wickedly reminiscent of Raveneau's own.

  The first man, who appeared to be about thirty, wore a cockaded hat over his jet-black hair, and even from a distance, Devon could see that his eyes were a vivid shade of aqua-blue..

  "Fair young lady, my friend and I have been wondering if you are in need of our assistance? You appear to be rather distraught."

  "I don't believe I am acquainted with you gentlemen," Devon replied frostily, only to be greeted by soft laughter as the two men exchanged ironic glances.

  "We beg your pardon, cherie!" the dark-haired officer exclaimed. "My name is Major Alexandre Beauvisage."

  "And I am Captain Lion Hampshire," supplied the younger man. He had removed his hat to display tawny hair that gleamed in the sunlight, and his handsome face was as deeply tanned as that of his companion.

  "We were on our way back to the house of a friend, and it happens that I have a bottle of excellent brandy," Major Beauvisage explained smoothly. "Perhaps you might consent to join us for a much-deserved celebration."

  "Absolutely not!" Devon burst out in astonishment.

  "I hope you do not imagine that we are less than trustworthy!" Hampshire interjected.

  "That is precisely what she ought to imagine," a fourth voice said sarcastically.

  Devon whirled around. Of course, it was Raveneau, astride the gray stallion, one dark brow arched high over flinty eyes.

  "Bonjour, Major Beauvisage," he said coolly. "I thought you were with Francis Marion in South Carolina these days."

  Beauvisage grinned lazily. "I wanted to be on hand for the surrender."
>
  Raveneau glanced inquiringly at Lion Hampshire, and Major Beauvisage made the introduction. Then Raveneau fastened a wintry stare on the two of them and said, "I gather that you lechers thought to amuse yourselves with this defenseless maiden?"

  "Raveneau!" cried Beauvisage. "You needn't get angry. How were we to know she belonged to you?"

  "She does not. This is Mademoiselle Devon Lindsay and she is here to seek out her fiancé."

  "And you are assisting her in her search?" The major could not repress a snort of doubtful laughter.

  "Perhaps you know of him?" Devon interjected. "Private Morgan Gadwin?"

  Lion Hampshire seemed amused. "No, Miss Lindsay, I fear not."

  Raveneau and Beauvisage conversed briefly concerning the latter's family-owned fleet of privateers and the latest exploits of the Black Eagle; then the Frenchman slanted a look in Hampshire's direction and said, "We do not want to keep you two gentleman from your celebration. Mademoiselle Lindsay is desperately sorry that she is unable to attend, however..."

  The handsome officers laughed, offered Raveneau and Devon mock bows, and bid them farewell. As they rode off, Raveneau observed, "Back to the matters at hand—I take it that you have been denied the tearful reunion you have dreamt of for so long."

  Devon turned around in time to see him pull off his white gloves and swing easily to the ground. "I can't understand it," she said. "Why isn't Morgan here?"

  "He may have been. Perhaps he was so far away that he simply didn't see you. There are a number of alternate explanations. Many things can happen to a soldier, you know."

  Devon's eyes brimmed with tears, and she saw his cool expression harden to ice. She couldn't tell him that her tears were not those of a lover, but of a girl who seemed to be blundering into progressively deeper predicaments.

  "I was a fool for ever allowing you to remain on the Black Eagle," Raveneau said, his voice cold. "I must have lost my reason. However, now that I am involved this deeply in your tangled affairs, I suppose I must see this through. You shall stay with me. Tonight I will search the camps for your precious Morgan. I'll wager that if he is not to be found, someone will have news of him."

  "And then?" Devon whispered, hating herself for needing him.

  "We will follow and find him. No one will be more pleased than I when you are reunited with that cursed phantom!"

  Chapter 14

  ***~~~***

  October 20, 1781

  Raveneau and Devon rode into Williamsburg the following afternoon. There had been no sign of Morgan in any of the American camps, but Raveneau did hear that he had contracted a mild case of camp fever during the march south and was likely to be found in the hospital in Williamsburg.

  During the twelve-mile journey from Yorktown, Andre had filled Devon in on Williamsburg's recent history. Williamsburg had been the colonial capital and the social hub of the Tidewater region not so long ago, he said. The town was small and elegantly designed, memorable for its gardens, its charming white houses, and a reckless air of merriment.

  Three years ago, Governor Thomas Jefferson had decided to move the capital to Richmond, nearer his own Monticello. Williamsburg had yet to recover from the blow. Many of her most prominent citizens followed the governor, including a number of physicians and attorneys, as well as the printers of the Virginia Gazette. Cornwallis's ten-day occupation the previous June had further ruined the town.

  Devon had listened with one ear. So much had happened that it was difficult to absorb all these details after the quiet month on the Minter farm. She had waved goodbye to Isaac and Azalea that morning as they set off in the carriage to return to her parents' farm. Raveneau had kept his stallion and managed to buy a chestnut gelding for Devon to ride from a farm near Yorktown.

  Now, slowing her horse to a walk, Devon glanced over at a pensive Raveneau, whose eyes examined every person as they turned from the York Road onto the broad Duke of Gloucester Street. There was no escaping the fact that she was glad to be here with Raveneau, glad that he hadn't located Morgan yet. It was too good to last, but for now she would take a page from Azalea's book and hoard her memories of these hours.

  Williamsburg proved to be an enchanting town, despite its recent decline. The public buildings were stately and built of brick, each one surrounded by sweeping grounds and abundant gardens. The private houses were generally constructed of wood, one and one half stories tall with numerous dormer windows. Devon had never seen so many gardens. Every home seemed charmed by patterned brick walkways and boxwood-edged flowerbeds.

  "Williamsburg must be heavenly in the spring," Devon sighed.

  "Yes," Raveneau agreed, walking his horse to the left to avoid a lone cow that stood motionless in the road. "You'll find it a far cry from Connecticut. The English influence has been strong here."

  They passed rows of shops with distinctive signs shaped like sheep, boots, teapots, or a wild boar. The windows were like pictures with their displays of imported hats and fruit, baskets, pewter, and elaborate wigs. Other shops stood empty and forlorn, their goods now enticing the people of Richmond. Soldiers were everywhere.

  Anthony Hay, proprietor of the Raleigh Tavern, barked that he had no rooms, until he turned to find Raveneau standing there. The two men laughed about things Devon didn't understand as they climbed the stairs, and she found herself wondering about all Raveneau’s adult years before they had met. Obviously he had spent a portion of his time since 1776 in New London, but where else had he been? She stole a glance at his dark, laughing face and wondered if he had ever been in love. Dozens of women must have been in love with him. And how many women had he kissed?

  All these thoughts served to make her feel more insignificant than ever. Raveneau left her at her room to wash and rest and went on to his own with Hay. The chamber was pretty, with a canopy bed and wing chair covered in matching rose and cream cotton and two gleaming dormer windows that offered a view of the garden below. A serving girl knocked, then brought fresh water for the pitcher and a neat stack of snowy linens.

  No sooner had Devon washed her face and slipped out of her dusty gown than her eyes began to droop. The feather tick was deep and cool; she sank into it and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.

  She woke with a start to the sound of a throat being cleared. Alarm squeezed her heart as she remembered the soldiers in the street, many of whom had been laughing and shouting drunkenly. Still half- asleep, Devon struggled to sit up.

  There was Raveneau, standing at the foot of the bed, leaning against one of the posts.

  "How did you get in here?" she demanded.

  "The usual way."

  "You might have knocked! I'm not dressed!" She put one hand over the bodice of her thin chemise.

  "I don't mind." He grinned. "And, for the record, I did knock. Several times."

  Devon dropped back onto the pillows and yawned. "I must have been too tired to hear."

  "You should be glad that I came in, otherwise you might have slept right through the night and missed the festivities."

  "What festivities?"

  Raveneau brought a tray over from the bureau and set it on her lap. "You must be hungry. It is past six o'clock."

  "Six!" she exclaimed, then noticed the indigo darkness outside and the candle he had lit beside her bed. The tray looked and smelled wonderful, containing hot spiced shrimp, tender rolls, strawberry jam, and green beans in a cream sauce. Between bites, Devon repeated her question. "What festivities?"

  "Well, a friend of mine has a new home here that he hasn't been able to enjoy because of the war. The victory at Yorktown seemed a perfect excuse for a party, so he has planned a ball of sorts for tonight. I know that you can think of nothing but Morgan, but—"

  "A ball!" Devon echoed rapturously. "But what would I wear?"

  A sardonic smile flickered over Raveneau's face. Crossing to the wardrobe, he opened one door and withdrew an exquisite gown. Devon nearly choked on her shrimp. The dress was fashioned of ivory satin embroid
ered with slender, blood-red flowers on swirling green stems. The square bodice, sleeves, and petticoats were lavishly trimmed with ivory lace.

  "Do you like it?" he inquired.

  "It is the most beautiful gown I have ever seen! But—"

  "I have many friends in town, petite chatte. I simply queried a few dressmakers until I discovered one who had the right gown of the right size." He brought it to the bed so that she might feel the heavy fabric. "You understand that it is just for tonight. It was made for the mistress of a nearby plantation."

  Devon was radiant. "I don't mind. One night will be more than sufficient!" She reached out to touch one of his strong hands. "Thank you."

  Raveneau returned the gown to the wardrobe, then seated himself at the foot of her bed. This reminded her of many occasions past on the Black Eagle.

  "You don't mind postponing your search for Morgan until tomorrow?" he asked.

  Devon could feel her cheeks heat guiltily. "Well, after all, it is already dark."

  "I could have gone. If he is in one of the hospitals, I would have known within a few hours."

  The Governor's Palace had been converted into a hospital for wounded Americans. The capitol building and the College of William and Mary served as hospitals for the French.

  She didn't know what to say. It seemed terribly impolite for him to put her in such a position. She really ought to forgo the ball and send him straight after Morgan.

  Unable to meet his steely gaze, Devon stared down at her food, crumbling a roll. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in that gown, dancing in Raveneau's arms. "No," she whispered. "Morgan may not be at the first hospital, and then the entire evening would be wasted. You deserve a party, and—" She looked up defiantly. "So do I!"

  Raveneau bit back a smile and an urge to toss aside that tray and hold her. Just when he would begin to convince himself that she was not special in the least, there would be a moment like this one when she absolutely bewitched him. She possessed none of the glamour of his past lovers, yet right now, with her tousled strawberry-blond curls, vivid blue eyes, and flushed cheeks, he found her breathtaking. Worse, the memory of the night they had made love remained with him, tormented him. He was convinced that he felt guilt for taking her virginity, and that by reuniting her with Morgan he would be able to erase the stains on his conscience.