“Can’t say as you can or can’t as I don’t know how long I’ll be detained.” He sounded terse, and although he appeared relaxed, the look on his face remained guarded and somewhat threatening.
The ensuing silence seemed dreadfully loud and sinister as Sophia waited nervously for Colonel Tyndale to respond. Yet she crossed her arms and tapped her foot, staring defiantly at the British officer to give the impression he was detaining the trader for a trifle when matters of great magnitude loomed. “May I presume that you have concluded your business with this man so that I may begin mine?” she asked at last.
“Are you trying to rush me, Miss Adair?” Tyndale’s tone had menace in it—perceptible and distinct. Having spent so much time in his company, Sophia was familiar enough with his character to know that those who incited his anger were not disposed to rouse it again.
“Why, I wouldn’t do such a thing for the wide, wide world, Colonel Tyndale,” she replied with innocent astonishment. “I’ll wait in the parlor to conduct my business with this gentleman. You can kindly send him to me when you have concluded yours.”
She turned and walked out the door, wanting more than anything to stay, but knowing that if she did, she might appear a bit too anxious. It was just a ribbon after all, hardly a reason to get into a quarrel with the commanding officer of the British army.
Before heading to the parlor, Sophia made a hasty trip to her chamber for her sewing basket and a piece of paper. Her fingers began to tremble as she tried to hurry, and she fumbled miserably in her task of undoing some of the stitches of the ribbon.
Finally, her mission accomplished, she put the ribbon back in her hair, and flew down the stairs to the parlor. She began pacing its length, twisting her dress with her hands as she walked, wondering if she’d said too much or too little, acted too anxious or too indifferent. The steady ticking of the clock made the seconds feel like hours as she waited for the supposed trader to appear.
At last she heard footsteps and whirled around. Colonel Tyndale’s aide appeared in the doorway first, closely followed by Colonel Morgan, who strode in as relaxed as if he were being received as a guest at tea. She found his calm bearing and dauntless resolution intimidating.
“The trader, miss,” the aide said before retreating to the far side of the room to stir the smoky fire.
Sophia raised her eyes to look into Morgan’s, expecting perhaps to read something there. But his dark countenance was as remote as ever, distant—if not perhaps a little angry. He suddenly seemed taller than she had remembered, more rugged, and not a little forbidding.
“I’ve got no ribbons with me, miss,” he said somewhat harshly before she had time to ask the question. His face was grim, and the muscles at the corners of his lean jaw appeared knotted and hard.
“Oh, how very disappointing.” Sophia stomped her foot like a spoiled child, causing the aide to glance over his shoulder before going back to his business. From his look of disgust, she assumed she had reinforced her reputation as one who demanded immediate service and accepted as natural that she should receive it.
“Do you sell in Smithtown often?”
“Whenever it strikes me.” Colonel Morgan’s tone made it clear he wanted no part of meeting with her again. “I hold to no schedule.”
“Oh dear.” Sophia sniffled, as if not getting a matching band was as close to the end of the world as she could envision. “I did so want another for a ball next month.” She wiped away an imaginary tear and looked up at him. “I don’t suppose you could bring one here. I would pay extra.”
“Look here, lassy.” His tone was harsh and cold, making it clear he intended to leave little opportunity for dispute. “I sell furs, and sometimes trade for trinkets and ribbons. There’s no way of tellin’ if I got another like that one.”
Sophia remained undeterred. She pulled the ribbon out of her hair and handed it to him. “Well, here then. It will do me no good to have only one. Take this one and see if you have another. I’ll pay double if you do.”
Morgan reluctantly took the ribbon, a questioning look in his eyes that seemed to turn to vexation in an instant.
“If your business is finished here, I’ll show you out.” The aide, who had apparently been listening to the entire conversation, began to walk toward the door.
Morgan nodded his head as his eyes drilled into Sophia. “My business is done here.”
Sophia took a step toward him and put her hand on his arm, blinking in surprise when she felt the solid muscle beneath his sleeve. “You will look for another just like that one, won’t you?” She nodded toward the ribbon. “It’s very special to me.”
Morgan looked from the ribbon to her face, and started to remove her hand with a firm, powerful grasp. It appeared he would not tolerate another second’s delay, but he surprised her by pausing a moment, still clasping her hand in his strong hold. “I told you, miss. I got no more ribbons.” His touch felt as gentle as his voice sounded harsh, as if he were trying to communicate without words. Perhaps it was only her imagination. A moment later, he dropped her hand and stomped toward the door as if angry at the entire encounter.
Sophia turned her back and listened to his footsteps. She heard a short pause, as if he had turned to look at her, or perhaps had something else to say, but then the door clicked shut and his footsteps melted away. Sophia did not move, even as she heard voices floating in through the window, and then the sound of a horse trotting down the lane.
Chapter 8
An army of principles can penetrate where an army of soldiers cannot.
— Thomas Paine
Colonel Morgan paced the length of his headquarters with the piece of blue ribbon in his hand, muttering under his breath. At last he sat and pounded its surface with a fist. “What were you thinking, Sophia Adair?”
He had known instantly the ribbon contained something significant, but why had she taken such a chance? The note he had discovered between the linings of the fabric had been comprised of just seven words, obviously hurriedly scribbled: Supplies arriving by River Rd in morning.
Morgan knew the road well and comprehended at once how easy it would be to ambush a supply train. Paralleled by sloping hills and forests, large numbers of troops could be easily blocked in a small area.
The advance notice was all he had needed to position his men in such a way that the wagons were cut off from reinforcements behind. He had not lost a man, and the resulting victory could justly be considered one of the most successful of the war.
But the hands holding the ribbon began to tremble when he thought about what would have happened if the British had caught her writing the note—or had checked the ribbon after she had given it to him. Her task had required calmness, courage, and resolve—but it had also required a recklessness that could have placed her neck in a noose. In doing what she regarded as her duty she seemed to have no fear—or sense.
Thoughts of Sophia Adair had crossed Morgan’s mind often, but meeting her like that, face-to-face in the home where she resided, had enlightened him to traits in her character he had never suspected. When with the British she acted like one who moves only in refined circles, all grace and sophistication, giving the illusion she did not like to dwell on serious matters or concern herself with thoughts that did not involve her own gratification. Her observant eyes never seemed to be looking at anything, and she had even been able to demolish Colonel Tyndale’s defenses with a mere smile.
Morgan understood now how completely fooled the British really were by her supposed loyalty and her lack of wit or will. She relied heavily on the importance of being underestimated—and she played the part well. Despite the tremendous obstacles she faced and the weight of responsibility that clouded her eyes, she showed no signs of slowing down or giving up.
Putting down the ribbon and standing, Morgan began to pace when he thought of the new danger she now faced. His scouts had reported that the British were pulling out of the region, moving closer to the coast where they could be more easily sup
plied. Staff officers, quartermasters and commissaries, together with clerks, aides and soldiers, were on the move with their baggage to the small coastal town of Duncannon. One person was responsible for their move, and that person was Sophia Adair.
That alone would be good news, but this was war, and there could never be an action without a reaction. Now that the British were leaving or gone, families like the Spanglers—and others who had helped the British—were in great danger. There were those in the neighborhood, and even members of his militia, making threats of violence against the Tories. It would be almost impossible for Morgan to stop a marauding band of patriots or deserters from taking vengeance on those who had aided and abetted the enemy.
To further complicate matters, a contingency of Continentals had finally been sent down to help defend the region and were expected any day. Morgan would have no control over those soldiers, and he was the only person alive who knew that one member of the Spangler household was not only a patriot, but was also the sole reason for his recent victories.
Morgan glanced out the window at the afternoon sun. Despite the danger, he had to go warn her of the growing peril and insist she leave. If he left now he could be there before nightfall.
Without hesitation he rejected the luxury he knew nothing of anyway—an evening of rest and leisure—and donned his old trader’s coat in case he needed to act the part again. Throwing the ribbon in his pocket for good luck, he strode into the hallway and informed the sentry he’d return by daybreak, before exiting out the back door.
“Scouting alone again, Colonel?”
Morgan paused and glanced around at the soldier who stood on the porch right outside the door, casually leaning his shoulder into the side of the building. Morgan did not stop walking, but continued toward his horse. “Make sure the men are ready for the Continentals if they get here before I return, Captain Tate.”
The gorgeous pageantry of the west was fading, making the silhouettes of the dark trees appear as sentinels of the night. Colonel Morgan tied his horse in a stand of pines and walked to the twin gateposts that marked the boundary of the Spangler property. The twilight air was mild, with a stillness so profound he could hear the barking of a dog more than a mile away.
Morgan stayed in the shadows of the house, searching for any movement or sign that the British had left anyone behind. It was just about dark when he was drawn to the back of the stately home by the soft melodious sound of bubbling laughter.
Peering from behind a tree, he saw Sophia sitting on the ground, playing with a wolfhound pup. Her innocent playfulness and mirth made him realize how very young she was, creating yet another contradiction to her character. Young yet wise, serious yet lighthearted, feminine yet bold—opposing traits that combined to create an intriguing allure. He could not recall ever having seen her smile so naturally, let alone laugh, and the sound of it triggered a stirring in his heart.
Remembering his duty, Morgan drew closer and whispered her name. She must have recognized his voice because for a moment she remained frozen in place as if she thought she had imagined that she’d heard a voice at all. Then she slowly turned her head and looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze.
“Are you alone?” he whispered.
Sophia did not speak, but raised one finger into the air as if asking him to wait. Clicking her fingers to call the dog, she walked into the house, and returned a few moments later with a wrap around her shoulders. Without speaking, she turned toward a little-used trail that led deep into the garden.
Sophia walked down a series of trails to her favorite spot in the garden—a small, secluded clearing far from the house. Stopping by a fountain with a bench, she turned and watched Colonel Morgan advance cautiously from the shadows, his formidable figure exuding physical strength and power even in the darkness.
“We are alone now, I believe,” she said when he reached her.
Morgan nodded, and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, his jaw set sternly as he stared at her, as if waiting for the ruling of his will. Then, without warning, he grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
“You little fool! What made you give me the message about the supply train?”
Sophia blinked in surprise. His voice had trembled ever so slightly, as had his hands, but his blue-gray eyes burned into hers with a piercing directness. “Was it not there? Did I cause trouble?”
“Oh yes, it was there! But what made you write it down at all? Were you not aware that they are seeking my informant?” He let her go and began to pace in and out of the shadows. “If they would have caught you, they would have hanged you! Did you think of that?”
Stopping in front of her again, he did not give her time to answer. “Well I thought of it. And I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since!” If he had planned to speak calmly, he failed in that endeavor.
“I did not intend to make you worry,” Sophia said softly.
“For not intending, you did a commendable job of it.” He turned away and stared into the darkness for a moment, and then spoke over his shoulder, as if in that instant his control had been reestablished. “I’m sorry.” He turned toward her more fully and paused. “I apologize. That is not why I came.”
Sophia lifted her gaze and stared up at him, trying to keep her voice from quivering. “Then why?” she whispered. “It is dangerous.”
“Yes, that is precisely why I am here,” he said, his tone still severe. “You and your family are in great danger.”
Sophia nodded and looked down so that he could not read her expression. “The patriots this time, I suppose.”
“Yes.” Morgan put his hands on her shoulders again but at least the touch was gentle, even if his words were not. “Here’s what I came to tell you. You’re leaving this house.”
Sophia took a step back at his tone, and was seized by a wild impulse to laugh aloud. “Whatever do you mean?”
“You’re going to go to Duncannon. The British can protect you there. Do you understand?”
“But you cannot just order it,” she said defiantly. “Surely you do not think I have the power or the authority to make Uncle Charles pack up and leave this place.”
“I have no doubt you can do it,” he said, his eyes seeming to burn into hers even in the darkness. “I’ve come to have great confidence in your ability to get a man to see your particular point of view.”
Sophia took another step back and inhaled deeply before she was able to gain control again. “I do not like the insinuation.”
Morgan seemed to understand that he had pushed too far, and was yet reluctant to back down on his stance. “I apologize for the insinuation,” he said. “Yet still you must go.”
Unable to slow her racing thoughts, Sophia turned her back to him and stared into the night sky. If the warning were real—and she had no reason to believe it was not—she and her family would be better off with the British. This house was indeed isolated and would be vulnerable to attacks by patriots or marauders. What good would it do to waste away here far from the action of war anyway?
She sighed deeply and crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. On the other hand, she did not like being told what to do—even by someone she respected as much as Colonel Morgan. She was a civilian, after all, and not under his control.
“I prefer to form my own opinion without the aid of yours,” she said defiantly. “And you are meddling in that which concerns you little.”
“As to the latter, you are wrong, Miss Adair,” he said, sounding serious and solemn.
Sophia turned and raised her eyes up to his, but could see he was not going to elaborate on why it concerned him. Still, she resisted the impulse to simply give into his urgings. “What if I wish to remain here? And send the rest to Duncannon for safety? I could keep my servant Mash to protect me.”
“That would not change things,” he said, looking deep into her eyes, “only complicate them.” His tone was unusually soft and husky, and caused her heart to twitch unexpectedly in
an almost painful way. He turned away abruptly, as if he feared his penetrating gaze might reveal too much.
Sophia shook her head in exasperation and began to pace as she thought about how she would carry out such a plan. “I know Uncle Charles has a business acquaintance who resides in Duncannon.” She stopped beside Colonel Morgan, somewhat annoyed with herself for accepting his mandate so easily, and angry with him for making it in the first place. Yet this man seemed able to discern things by instinct in a way that no one else could analyze or understand. Perhaps she should listen to him.
“I’m sure if he understands the danger, that is where he will go.”
“It needs to be tomorrow.” Morgan’s voice sounded low and intimidating as the moon unexpectedly sent a shaft of light to surround him, making him appear like something other than flesh and blood. “You must stress to him the urgency.”
“Tomorrow?” Sophia frowned. “Then you know something you have not told me.”
She watched a nerve throb in his cheek.
“I know you are in danger.”
She threw up her hands. “However will I accomplish it?” She walked over to the bench and sat, staring into the darkness as she pondered her dilemma.
“That is for you to decide.” Morgan was unyielding. “But it must be done.”
Feeling helpless and rejected, Sophia suppressed the urge to break into tears only by tremendous effort of will. “Very well. I will try.”
Morgan crossed his arms and looked down at her. “Do or do not. There is no try.”
Sophia stood in one movement, angry at how he challenged and pushed her so. “I will do it”—she paused and took a deep breath—“though I don’t know how.”
Morgan sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders, then turned toward the fountain and stared at the shimmering reflection of the stars on the water. The air was soft, and the weather pleasant with the gentle caress of a southern breeze behind them.
Sophia wondered what it would be like to converse with this man when neither the pressure of his command or the strain of war bore down upon him.
Liberty and Destiny Page 7
