SCARLET RIBBONS
JUDITH E. FRENCH
Copyright 2011 by Judith E. French
All Rights Reserved
Originally Published by
Avon Books
New York, NY
Smashwords Edition
This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the author.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
In memory of Joyce A. Flaherty,
my agent, my mentor, and my friend
Nothing is too hard
For him who lives.
-Cicero
Table of Contents
Chap. 1 Sarah’s Tavern
Chap. 2 Sarah’s Trust is Hard Won
Chap. 3 The New Hired Man
Chap. 4 A Familiar Menace
Chap. 5 Temptation & Regret
Chap. 6 The British Invasion
Chap. 7 A Woman’s Vulnerability
Chap. 8 War Comes to Sarah’s Tavern
Chap. 9 Flesh Calls to Flesh
Chap. 10 A Spy Unmasked
Chap. 11 Massacre at Black Bear Swamp
Chap. 12 A Letter from a Dead Man
Chap. 13 Obediah’s Threat
Chap. 14 Black Water Peril
Chap. 15 Scarlet Ribbons on Her Pillow
Chap. 16 Blood in the Snow
Chap. 17 Changing Allegiance
Chap. 18 Blackmail
Chap. 19 A Dangerous Journey
Chap. 20 A Woman’s Courage
Chap. 21 Confronting the Hessians
Chap. 22 Valley Forge
Chap. 23 True Lover of Mine
Chap. 24 Secrets and a Sad Parting
Chap. 25 East of the Mason-Dixon Line
Chap. 26 Broadmoor’s Mistress
A Note from the Author
Books by Judith E. French
Contact Judith
Judith’s Bio
Firehawk’s Bride Prologue The Golden Child
Firehawk’s Bride Chapter 1 Two Worlds Collide
Chapter One
Sarah’s Tavern
King's Landing, Maryland
August 6th, 1777
Sarah Turner knelt on the brick hearth and pushed a heavy braid of dark hair away from her face as she heaped glowing coals over the cast-iron Dutch oven. It was hot for August, and hotter still for so early in the morning. Earlier, when she went out to milk the cow, not a hint of a breeze had stirred over the sparkling surface of the river, and the inn's broken sign had dangled motionless from its L-shaped wooden post.
Rising to her feet, Sarah wiped her hands on her leather apron and took a bucket from the rough-hewn kitchen table. She would need water, and lots of it if she were to give the public room the scrubbing it deserved today. Last night's guests had left the floor and tables a disgrace.
A slight sound caught Sarah's attention. She turned toward the open doorway and stared into the muzzle of a double-barreled flintlock pistol. Above it leered the unshaven face of a man wearing the tattered uniform of Hazlet's Delaware Blues.
"What do you want here?" Sarah demanded.
"Outside!" he ordered.
Sarah lunged for the iron poker leaning against the hearth, but the soldier was too quick for her. His hand closed roughly around her arm, and he dragged her, struggling, across the brick floor and out into the back courtyard.
Three horses stood by the hitching rail. Squawks from the chicken house proclaimed the second man before he stepped into the yard holding three of Sarah's hens by the legs. The third man tugged at the rope holding the cow.
"Dirty thieves!" Sarah accused. "Continental scum!" She aimed a sharp kick at her assailant's shin.
The soldier winced at the blow and shoved her to the ground. "Move one inch and we'll burn the tavern to the ground with you in it!"
"You've no right to steal what's mine! Is this what your blasted independence means—that you're free to take from helpless women?"
"Tory inn—Tory woman," he answered harshly. "You're lucky we don't tar and feather you."
"Leave the cow," she bargained. Take the chickens, and I'll give you my last barrel of ale. But you can't take my cow. I've got a child to—"
"What do we care for Tory brats?" He lowered the pistol to within inches of Sarah's face and laughed. "That's a patriot cow now, and I reckon she'll taste just fine with a little of that ale to wash her down."
The soldier with the chickens leaned his musket against the hitching rail and began to stuff the squawking birds into a sack. The younger man, hardly old enough to shave, mounted his horse and tied the cow's rope to his saddle.
"Want we should search the house, Sergeant?" the chicken thief asked.
"Aye." The man holding Sarah at bay nodded his head. "Turn it upside down and inside out. Like as not she's hidin' supplies for that band of Loyalist outlaws."
"The only outlaws here are you!" Sarah cried. "We'd see how brave you were if you were on the other side of that pistol."
Suddenly, a musket roared and the sergeant's gilt leather cap went spinning across the yard. The cow bawled and kicked the horse, sending him into a wild-eyed, bucking frenzy. Before the soldier on the ground could get out of the way, the cow slammed into him and trampled him underfoot. The private in the saddle lost his musket on the first jump and fell sideways over his mount's neck. Clinging to the horse's mane, he let out a yell and grabbed frantically for the dangling reins. Still bawling, the cow snapped her rope and headed for the river at a rolling gallop.
"Drop yer weapons or meet yer maker!" a man's voice shouted above the commotion.
Sarah snapped her head around to see a fourth man step from the barn, a smoking squirrel rifle in his hands. The sergeant whirled toward the newcomer and leveled his pistol at him.
"I wouldn't if I was you," the red-bearded stranger called. "They's six more of us in the trees, jest itchin' to blow you Blues to kingdom come." Keeping his back to the wall, the buckskinned man moved cautiously from the shadows of the building, and Sarah saw that one eye was covered with an ominous black patch.
The sergeant wavered. "You're bluffin'," he said.
"Try me."
The soldier glanced at his two men. The one who had been run over by the cow was sitting up, rubbing his head in an obvious daze. The private had his horse under control, but his musket lay on the ground halfway between Sarah and the man with the squirrel gun.
"What do you want?" the sergeant asked grudgingly.
"Set yer piece down easylike." The bearded man raised one hand over his head as though to signal to an unseen accomplice, and the soldier dropped his pistol into the dust. "Good." The bearded man grinned lazily. "You pick her up, miss."
Sarah pounced on the gun and aimed it at the sergeant.
"Now, gather up yer toy soldiers and get off the lady's property. Ye can take yer horses, jest leave the guns."
"And my chickens!" Sarah declared. Her hand was trembling so hard that she could hardly hold the heavy pistol. She didn't have any idea who this disreputable backwoodsman was, but he had saved her cow and given her a gun. She'd take her chances with him over these rascally Delaware Patriots.
"You he
ard the lady," the bearded man said. "Let go of them chickens."
Grumbling, the man who had been run over by the cow opened the bag, and the black-and-white speckled hens scooted for the chicken house as fast as they could go.
"We can't go back to our cap'n wi'out our muskets," the boy protested. "He'll have the hide offen our backs."
"Hide or hair, it don't matter to me," Redbeard said. "Git!"
Sarah kept her pistol aimed at the sergeant's back until he was out of range. Then she gave a sigh of relief and lowered the flintlock. "Thanks," she said. "I would have hated to lose Bessie."
The man grinned. "Cows is scarce in these parts and that's certain."
Sarah watched intently as he began to reload the squirrel gun in the manner of a man who knew what he was about. She glanced warily toward the trees. "Are your friends comin' in?"
"Nope." He grinned again, and Sarah noticed even white teeth and a single brilliant blue eye in the dirty face.
"You're alone?"
"Glad yer smarter than them Continentals, miss . . . miss . . ."
"Mistress Turner. Sarah Turner. This is King's Landing. My husband owns the inn and ferry here."
"Figured as much. You don't talk like no servant."
Sarah's gray eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What were you doing in my barn?"
"Sleepin'. Didn't have no coin fer a bed. Didn't figure I'd do much harm in the hay."
"Do you smoke?"
"No, ma'am. Nasty habit. 'Sides . . . tobaccy costs money. I'm what ye'd call a little short right now."
"It's a good thing. My husband would shoot anyone he caught smoking around our barn."
"Sounds like a sensible man to me. A pilgrim dumb enough to chance fire in a man's barn is too stupid to live anyway, I figure."
Sarah looked him up and down shrewdly. The stranger wasn't much to look at, with all that hair on his face. His homespun shirt had been white or near white at one time, but it was clear that the shirt and the man wearing it hadn't seen water in weeks. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around one knee, and his boots were older than Moses. The single blue eye regarded her with good humor.
"Why did you come to my rescue?" she asked. "If you'd stayed hidden in the barn, no one would have known you were there. If your ruse hadn't worked, you could have been killed."
He ran a hand through his tangled hair and looked pleased. "Reckon so," he admitted. "But my mam, God rest her soul, taught me to have respect for womenfolk. T'warn't fair, what they was doin'."
"You did me a good turn," Sarah said, "and I'm grateful to you. You're welcome to breakfast."
"Thank you, ma'am, but I was hopin' fer a little more."
Sarah's fingers tightened on the pistol grip, and she tried to keep her voice level. "What did you have in mind?"
"I was hopin' maybe you could use a good man around the place. I was 'prenticed to a carpenter when I was a tadpole, but I kin turn my hand to jest about anythin'. Noticed last night that sign of yern is broken. I could start by fixin' thet."
"What's your name?" Sarah asked uncertainly. She could use help, that was certain. Both of her bond servants had run off, and the cook had gone to work for a merchant in Oxford. Running the inn with only her son Joshua's help was nigh impossible.
"Abe Forest. But folks usually call me jest Forest."
"Are you a deserter from the army?" The man was of an age to be in one army or another, and he looked hale, despite the bandaged knee and the one eye. She'd heard that the only thing the Continental army was turning men down for was having no front teeth. It slowed them down in loading their muskets.
Forest shrugged. "King George never done me no harm. Never done me no good, neither. I say, let 'im as wants this war fight it."
"What's wrong with your leg? If you're hurt bad, you won't be much use to me as a hired man."
"Leg's nearly mended, Miss Turner—and thet's a fact. Can't say as I could dance on 'er, but can't say I ever was much of a stamper."
"Where are you from?"
"Virginnie . . . Jersey. You name it, reckon Forest's been there. Fought Injuns up 'round the big lakes. Course that was in the last war."
Sarah couldn't contain a smile. "If you fought in the French and Indian War, you must have been awfully young when you did it."
"I was a smart nipper and thet's a fact, missus. Kilt my first bear when I was knee-high to a duck."
"Well, I've got no bears to be killed. What I do have is work, and lots of it. Sunup until sundown every day but Sunday—half a day on Sunday. You sleep in the barn and I'll give you your meals, some decent clothes, and a penny for every paying passenger you take across on the ferry."
"Two pennies and we've got a deal."
"One penny or you can have your breakfast and keep walkin'. I've no coin to waste."
"Yes, ma'am. I guess I kin see thet."
"And one more thing," she added. "You'll take a bath, or you'll not set foot in my kitchen. You smell worse than a pigpen."
"You do put me in mind of my mam, Mistress Turner. She was big on two things—the Bible an' washin'."
Sarah picked up the private's musket. "What do you think I should do with this?"
"I'd keep it over yer kitchen door, ma'am—and keep it loaded. They's skunks of all colors crawlin' around these woods."
"Master Turner keeps a loaded musket in the public room," she said. There was no need to tell this Abe Forest that she was alone here at King's Landing with Joshua—at least not yet. It was better for him to believe Obediah was expected back momentarily.
"And where is Master Turner?" Forest lowered his head respectfully. "What I mean is, mistress . . . will he object to yer hirin' me on? Some gentlemen is awful—"
"I have full say about the inn. My husband concerns himself with . . . with larger matters. If you suit me, you'll have no problems with the master. Of that I can guarantee you." Giving Forest a firm nod, Sarah started for the house, paused and glanced back at him. "Catch Bessie before you wash. You'll find another rope in the barn. Stake her just beyond the orchard there."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sarah hurried toward the kitchen. This talk of Obediah was unnerving. She kept her eyes on the ground ahead of her, not letting them stray to the riverbank. No, Abe Forest would have no trouble with her husband, and neither would anyone else.
~~~
Sarah sipped her tea and watched as Forest devoured a third biscuit and the remainder of the corn mush. He had already eaten three eggs, two large sausages, and a dish of applesauce. She had offered him ale with his meal, but he'd refused, saying he never drank anything stronger than sweet cider before sunset. It was another piece of the puzzle that didn't fit.
"Your table manners are a credit to your mother," Sarah said, setting her mug on the table. The man not only knew the use of a fork and a napkin, but he ate like a gentleman, instead of a field hand.
"Thank-ee, ma'am. She had airs, Mam did. She'd be pleased to have ye notice. And yer cookin' is a credit to yer own sainted mother. If I've et better, I don't know where." He wiped his mouth daintily with the napkin and pushed back from the table. "I'll get to fixin' thet sign now—lessen you got more pressin' chores."
"First I want to show you the ferry and how it operates. Have you ever poled a ferry?" Sarah rose and led him through the public room of the tavern, dominated by a huge stone fireplace.
"No, ma'am, but I've rid on 'em. Reckon I can learn quick enough." Forest paused to gaze around the spacious chamber. Along one wall was a plank table with benches. A massive Welsh dresser and three smaller tables with stools took up the rest of the space. The floor was made of wide planks, the walls of brick, plastered and whitewashed. Heavy, open beams crossed the ceiling.
"Our common customers are served here," Sarah explained. "Meals according to the time of day—no choice, they get what I'm cookin' that day. Across the entrance hall is a smaller room for private parties. We serve the gentlemen there and those with ladies. Upstairs we've one side for the gen
try, and the other side is two common rooms for any others to sleep. If we've several ladies, they must sleep together on the gentry side. No women in the common, not even if they claim to be nuns. This is a decent inn with God-fearin' rules."
Forest scanned the hand-lettered wooden board over the fireplace:
KING'S LANDING
"God bless King George"
BED—one penny
EAT—one penny
LADIES & CHILDREN—less
GENTLEMEN—more
"That's rates for the inn," Sarah said. "I collect all the money for meals and rooms. You've only to worry about the ferry passengers. It's three pence for a man and horse, ten for a wagon, a penny for anyone on foot. Children are free, and you have to use your own sense about livestock. You get the money first, before you take them across the river. If they use the ferry and spend the night, breakfast is free."
"If I take across one man, I get to keep the penny?"
"So I told you," Sarah reminded him. "Few come on foot. If you carry more than one on foot at the same trip, I expect part of the fee." She fixed her gray eyes on him. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"No, ma'am."
"Good." She led the way out the front door and across the yard toward the river landing. "This is the Misakaak," she said. "Follow it that way and it leads to the Chesapeake. Inland, you'll come to swamp if you go far enough. The Misakaak's deep and the current is swift at times. Watch the river and learn her moods. Respect them, and you'll live to be an old man."
Forest scrutinized the log raft with its single railing. A rope ran from one bank of the river to the other, and the ferry was fastened to the rope by a wide leather loop. Two long poles rested on the deck.
Scarlet RIbbons Page 1
