by Cat Lindler
Richard mentioned during one of his visits in February that Brendan Ford had returned to his farm in Virginia. As if Willa cared. She knew it would happen one day. He would leave and go back to his old life, the life he had before she gave him her innocence and he left her with two babies. She told herself she was relieved he had left now instead of waiting for the war’s end. He had saved her many months of hopeless longing and pointless expectations. Though the British House of Commons advised King George to end the war, the fighting continued. Peace was in sight, but none could predict when it would come.
She also learned that Francis Marion, after meeting with the State Assembly in Jacksonboro, had resumed command of his militia brigade. That Brendan failed to rejoin his former commander, more than anything else, convinced her of his intent to leave for good and never return. ‘Twas quite liberating, actually, and the tears she occasionally shed were tears of joy.
She had persistently held this ridiculous fantasy of Brendan showing up unannounced on her doorstep one day, a wide grin on his face. Every time a visitor pulled up into the drive, she had run to the window, hoping. Now she could put that foolishness aside and concentrate on making a comfortable home for her family. And someday, when she forgot the taste of Brendan’s kisses and the scent of his body, she would look for a quiet, stable husband and father for her children. One who did not turn her insides to boiling tea and her brains to pudding.
Winter howled down on the state, making the nights bitter. A jacket of ice coated the trees and caked the frail yellowed grasses. Blue jays puffed up their feathers as insulation against the biting wind, and chickadees sought refuge in hollow tree crevices where they stacked their little bodies on top of each other like cordwood. Ice covered the creek in a slippery sheet and slowed its flow to a trickle.
Willa’s breath fogged the window glass as she wondered about the winters in Virginia, which lay much farther north. When she grew conscious of the direction of her thoughts, she drove them back into that dark hole she had hollowed out inside her heart and turned away from the wintry scene.
She went to her bedchamber after checking on the children, stripped off her day dress, and swathed her body in a heavy wool night rail and her feet in thick wool socks. She threw new logs on the fire, taking delight in the earthy scents of pine and maple. Pine sap snapped, tossing sparks against the fender and firedogs.
Jwana had passed a bed warmer filled with hot coals beneath her sheets, and when Willa climbed into bed, cozy warmth surrounded her. Despite her fatigue, she was unable to sleep and lay awake to reflect on recent events.
When Cornwallis surrendered to General Washington at Yorktown, Willa felt only relief that the killing would soon end. The event and its ultimate implications did not overset her as much as she once believed they would. ‘Twas now a certainty. America would win the war. Britain would withdraw. The redcoats would sail their ships back to England. Once she would have abhorred even the mention of a rebel victory. Now she welcomed it. Americans such as Francis Marion, Jwana, Plato, Brendan, and her dear friends, the Richardsons, had changed her outlook.
She now sounded like a rebel in heated discussions with Loyalist acquaintances. “Should people desire the freedom to dictate their own affairs without interference from a country, no matter how well meaning, thousands of miles away,” she would say, “they should be listened to and afforded that option. ‘Tis their right.” A radical idea in a country such as England, where one’s station in life dictated how high he or she dared reach. Where Society determined even to whom one spoke.
Freedom and equality for all men, regardless of birth or wealth. The principle had overwhelmed her, and in a moment of egalitarianism, she freed all her father’s slaves. Many elected to remain and work for wages, but no longer were any constrained to labor for merely the roof over their heads and the food in their bellies. Another radical concept and one garnering a great deal of criticism from her neighbors. Nonetheless, she steadfastly clung to her decision.
Digby and Marlene. There lay another riddle. Gwen MacGovern informed Willa that Marlene had taken her ten thousand a year and gone off to Europe. Some said she was living with a French count; others reported that she had made her way to Italy to pursue an Austrian prince in exile. No one knew for certain.
Digby remained behind, seemingly content with his lover’s desertion. Willa had seen him only a few times since his departure from Willowbend. Those meetings occurred while she visited Georgetown on business. Invariably he approached her and, with an obsequious smile, inquired about her health and the welfare of her children. Her skin still crawled when he drew near, but his solicitousness made her feel perhaps she judged him too harshly.
Could she truly blame him for attempting to trap the Swamp Fox and capturing Brendan instead? He had only followed orders. Had she still been a loyal British subject, her position for so many years, she would have accepted that fact earlier. And Brendan’s treatment at the garrison? Was Digby or the garrison commander responsible? In regard to her father’s death, Willa still entertained doubts as to whether Marlene acted alone or with Digby’s complicity. And the authorities blamed the attack on Willowbend on a Tory deserter named Daggert. They suspected kidnapping for ransom.
Willa’s hatred of Digby gradually lessened, but she still had no inclination for him to court her again. And his attentions seemed to be leading in that direction. She remained cordial but careful, holding out some hope that someday they might even become friends.
A noise came from the twins’ room, and she sat up in bed to listen intently. The cold night kept her from jumping out of bed every time the babies rolled over or kicked the sides of their cradles. Jwana occupied a room adjoining the nursery, closer than Willa, and slept lighter than a dove.
Hearing naught other than tinkling sleet striking the windows, Willa snuggled back down under the comforter and rolled up in a ball to keep warm.
Digby winced and cursed under his breath when he struck his shin on the cradle’s sharp corner. He peered over at Jwana, lying on the floor in the opening between the nursery and the connecting room. She’d not moved.
Turning back to the cradles, he glanced from one sleeping child to the other. His hands flexed into fists as he studied the children’s features and recalled Daggert’s botched attempt.
Digby waited in a fishing shack beside the Sampit River for Daggert and his riders. Only two horses materialized from the darkness, and Digby sneered as they thundered toward him. The children were not with them. “You could not even fight your way past a gaggle of weak women to steal two babies?” he accused as they drew near.
“That damn woman’s crazy!” Daggert sawed on his lathered mount’s mouth and brought the animal to an exhausted stop. “I lost four men.” Daggert’s mouth twisted bitterly. “The Bellingham woman shot Weams with a long rifle and took out Sam and Henry with knives. Knives! She gutted ole Henry like a buck deer. A black woman killed Greasy George. Blew a musket shot right through his belly. And you was wrong. There was two men, though all they did was loose the horses from the barn. I winged the Negro. We fired the barn but couldn’t get near the house. You want that bitch killed you’ll have to do it yourself. I ain’t goin’ near that place again.” He leaned over and spat on the ground.
“Excuses are unacceptable.”
Daggert sputtered. “I done tole you, that Bellingham woman’s a witch or a savage. I never seen anyone ‘cept a Cherokee throw a knife that way.” He spun his horse about. “You want her, you go get her. I’m out of it.” He dug his spurs into the horse’s sides and pounded away and back up the road. The other man took off in another direction. Digby found it easy to track down Daggert later and end his miserable existence. He dumped the body beside the Georgetown Road.
Both infants slept soundly, one on its stomach with its buttocks hitched up in the air. The other lay on its side with a thumb in its slack mouth. The boy would work best, but Digby could not tell which was which. One was larger, so he chose th
at one. Settling a hand over the sleeping baby’s mouth, Digby lifted him from the cradle.
Lancelot awoke and screamed his protest at the rough treatment and unfamiliar hands. The palm covering his mouth softened his scream to a whimper.
A baby’s muffled cry filtered through Willa’s uneasy sleep. She opened her eyes and heard it again—Lancelot. She knew all his cries. This was not hunger. Neither was he wet and uncomfortable, nor cold. He sounded frightened and cross. Why did Jwana not hear the child? She listened for the comforting sound of the maid bustling through the room to the cradle.
Instead, a heavy boot thudded on the wooden floor. Her heart crashed against her ribs. She leapt from bed, stopping only to belt her knife sheath around her waist under the loose gown, pick up a pistol, and load it swiftly. Then she tiptoed to her door and eased it open.
After moving into the hallway, she slid down the wall to the nursery and peered in through the opening of the half-closed door. Agonizing pain cramped her stomach, and she struggled to comprehend this unexpected turn of events. Digby was holding Lancelot against his chest with his palm over the child’s mouth and nose. He would suffocate her baby!
Willa forced her racing heart to slow and threw a quick look around the rest of the nursery. Jwana lay prone and motionless between the nursery and her own bedchamber. By the fire’s light, Willa picked out blood on the maid’s scalp.
She raised the pistol and slipped into the room when Digby turned to the other cradle. The door creaked as it swung on its hinges. He came about, a pistol in his free hand. As he cocked back the hammer, he pressed the barrel against Lancelot’s little skull.
Willa froze.
“Well, hello,” he said with a faint, surprised smile. “I hoped not to disturb your sleep. But now that I have, I must ask you to rid yourself of that pistol.”
She pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling, crouched down, and laid the pistol on the floor. “Why are you here?” she asked as she came upright.
He motioned with a twitch of his head for her to step away from the gun. She did so and moved to one side.
“How many others are in the house? And be truthful, Wilhelmina; this little tyke’s life depends upon your honesty.”
She sucked in a painful breath. “Quinn is in his room off the kitchen. Other than him, only the Richardson women and my maid.” She directed her gaze to Jwana and fought to quell her shaking limbs. “But I see she is in no condition to render aid. Did you kill her?”
He shook his head. “Of course not.” His tone became brisk. “The house servants?”
“Please, your hand,” she begged with a small motion of her own hand as her shoulders quaked. “You will suffocate him.”
Digby looked down at the baby and shifted his hold so it no longer covered the child’s nostrils. “The servants?” he demanded again.
Lancelot appeared to be unconscious … or already dead. Willa swallowed through her constricting throat to answer him. “As you know, they have their own cabins near the slave quarters.”
He peered at her like a turkey vulture eyeing a bloody rabbit, his predatory blue eyes luminous in the firelight. “And Plato?”
She wavered. Plato had bedded down in the kitchen. Since the incident with the armed men, he insisted on staying closer than the slave quarters. Could she risk lying?
“The truth,” Digby said as if he read her mind. “Remember your darling child and picture his brains spewed across the room.”
Tears beaded on her lashes. “Plato is sleeping in the kitchen.”
He nodded. “Now this is what you will do, my dear. Fetch me the youngest Richardson child, Rebecca, if I recollect. Wake her very carefully and tell her nothing other than to dress warmly. Then bring her to the nursery. Should anyone else enter that door, or I hear voices, your child will die. Do you understand?”
Light-headed, Willa swayed on her feet. She gathered her courage and bade her head to dip. After backing out the door, she dashed to Rebecca’s room and shook her. Willa placed a hand over the girl’s mouth when she started to speak. “Remain silent,” Willa whispered. “Dress quickly and come with me. Ask no questions. And when I tell you to drop, fall like a stone.”
Puzzlement covered Rebecca’s young face, yet she rose silently and donned her clothes and shoes.
“A coat and scarf, too,” Willa said. “And your hat and gloves.”
Rebecca retrieved the items and followed Willa into the hall. The young girl uttered a strangled gasp when they entered the nursery.
“Tell her to come here,” Digby said.
Willa gave Rebecca a little push to get her moving. The girl walked over to Digby. “Turn around,” he said. “Back up to me, and do not move.”
When Rebecca complied, he transferred the gun barrel from Lancelot’s head to hers, leaned over her shoulder, and handed her the baby. Once she had the infant in her arms, he cinched his arm around her waist and drew her up tight against him. She lifted Lancelot until his partially opened mouth rested against her throat. The look she gave Willa told her the child was breathing.
A weight lifted from Willa’s chest. Her child still had a chance. She focused her attention on Digby and waited for an opening, a split second of inattention. “This is what will happen,” Digby said as he kept the gun steady on Rebecca’s temple. “I shall take your child and Miss Rebecca to a safe place where a loving couple will care for them until after our wedding.”
Her mind veered from her intentions to his words. “Wedding?”
He grinned at her incredulous look. “Now that Marlene is gone, surely you did not entertain the notion I would simply give up on acquiring your father’s estate, did you?” He chuckled. “I once asked you to marry me. Now I’m telling you. You will marry me and be a good little wife. I’ll not expect much, perhaps your presence in my bed once or twice. We shall see how that goes. And I’ll not harm your children unless you force me to. Your son will return once I secure your wealth.”
“I cannot allow you to do this.” Willa shook her head. “You cannot keep my child from me. Why not keep him here? You can obtain a special license. We can wed in a day or two without the banns.”
His grin was evil personified. “Do not presume to confuse me with a dimwit, my dear. I know you would kill me were you to have access to your child. I have no inclination to sleep with a pistol beneath my pillow. We shall curb your bloodthirsty tendencies for some time. When the war ends, I’ll move you into town, sell Willowbend, and clean out the other accounts. After I ship out to England and remove myself far beyond your reach, I’ll inform you by missive of the child’s location.” He slanted a look at her. “And have no illusions you can murder me sooner and simply find your child through your own means. The couple I engaged agreed, for a rather large sum, to kill the tyke and Rebecca should you show up without a letter from me. I’ll place that letter in your hands when I board ship and not a moment sooner.”
Willa’s spine stiffened, along with her resolve. She recalled the earlier kidnapping attempt and now knew Digby was responsible. Should Digby leave the house alive, she would never see Lancelot or Rebecca again. He would kill them as soon as he rode away. Her muscles tensed. The knife burned against her hip. Her mind became as clear and sharp as a cold winter day.
Jwana began to stir. Digby threw a look at her. “Now, before she wakes up, we leave, silently,” he said and gripped Rebecca tighter. “Wilhelmina, you lead. Should anyone attempt to stop us, I’ll shoot Rebecca first, then bash out your brat’s brains on the wall. And I have another pistol, as well. Rebecca can attest to that. She can surely feel it digging into her side.”
Rebecca nodded.
They left the room, Willa in front, Digby with his arm around Rebecca. The gun never wavered an inch from her head. As they descended the stairs to the front door, Willa silently praised Rebecca’s bravery. Not once did she cry or flinch but calmly followed orders as though she trusted Willa to extricate them by some magical means. If only she could. D
igby would not relax his guard despite her wishes.
At the bottom of the stairs, as Digby shuffled toward the door, Killer came out of nowhere, darted into Rebecca’s path, and twined around the girl’s ankles. She stumbled. Killer shrieked and took off like a boot had trod on his tail. For the blink of an eye, startled by the cat, Digby relaxed his hold on Rebecca. ‘Twas enough. Willa whipped her hand beneath her gown. “Drop!” she shouted.
Digby looked up in confusion at her command and sudden movement. Rebecca shielded the baby in her arms and fell through his slack arms. A knife whirled through the air with the speed of a bullet, moving almost too fast for the eye to see. Digby fired the pistol in reflex. But Rebecca was no longer there, and the ball dug into the wood door frame. Disbelief flooded his face when the ten-inch blade tore into his throat, driving him back and pinning him to the wall. His mouth worked, opening and closing. A geyser of blood sprayed out instead of the words on his tongue. A glassy sheen crept over his blue eyes, and his chest heaved once, once again, then remained still.
Plato pounded down the hall from the kitchen, pulling his suspenders onto his shoulders as he ran. Doors opened upstairs and voices called out. Willa knelt beside Rebecca and helped her to sit. Then she took Lancelot into her arms. While he squalled at the top of his lungs, she hugged him tightly.
Killer sidled around the corner from the parlor and rubbed his head against the door frame. Willa glanced up. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Meow,” Killer replied, whipped his tail back and forth, and strutted back into the parlor to curl up in front of the banked coals of the fire.
Chapter 38
With Cornwallis defeated, events moved swiftly. Francis Marion, who granted Major Ford permission to go to England with the proviso that he return at his earliest convenience, longed to get out into the field again. He rode from Jacksonboro to discover that Major John Doyle had attacked his men at the Durant Plantation and forced their retreat, causing his brigade to scatter throughout the swamps and countryside to tend their wounds and humiliation. When the rebels heard Marion was in command once again, they began creeping back, bloodied and battered from their humiliating defeat.
