The Colonel's Lady

by Laura Frantz

  Such suffering pushed her to the very edges of her endurance, made her nearly writhe with him. Hair askew, she dropped to her knees by the bed, too worn to pray, and just listened. Beyond the birdsong and steady ring of the blacksmith’s hammer at the fort came an unmistakable impression. The study. Resting her damp cheek against the tousled linen of the bed, she waited as the impression pierced her fear and exhaustion once again. Then, against her will, she got up and went downstairs.

  The room behind the finely paneled door held a stubborn memory. Of all the rooms in the stone house, this was his—it held his beloved scent, bore his rough yet refined mark, was the most broken in.

  Going to a writing desk, she looked down and caught her breath. A Bible lay open to Psalms. Oh, Cass . . . Her heart, so sore, seemed rent in two at the poignant sight. Had he been reading, seeking? Realizing he wasn’t forsaken?

  Opening the polished mahogany top revealed further surprises. Pencil and ink drawings abounded. Mostly of her, done with such exquisite detail tears filled her eyes. The feeling with which he’d worked was palpable, springing from each page with depth and life.

  Beneath her likeness were other faces. Abby. Bella. Hank. Cass himself—or Liam? And . . . Cecily? She knew so little about the woman, but this portrait, in vivid Bordeaux ink, told her so much. Cecily was breathtakingly beautiful . . .

  Gripping the desk lid, she took in the writing implements and every rich, inky hue—turquoise, tobacco, verde, auburn, indigo. Six turned wood and brass seals. Blue and silver sealing wax. Feeling like a trespasser, she shut it away and faced the bookcases.

  Oh, Lord, please show me why I’m here.

  There were so many books, the spines of some visibly worn. Tom Jones. Dodd’s Sermons to Young Men. The classic French Dance of Death. Several volumes of Irish poetry. A giant tome of black leather with gold lettering demanded closer inspection, but she had to stand on a small ladder to reach it. ’Twas an encyclopedia of remedies, and it hung heavy in her hands.

  The big book opened easily, having been marked by a black ribbon. Malarial fever. Chills. Joint pain. Vomiting. Convulsions. Death. A court physician had once cured Louis XIV’s son with a decoction of rose leaves, lemon juice, cinchona, and wine. Cinchona bark is most effective in wine. Was this her answer, then?

  Returning to the kitchen, she measured out the despised cinchona before descending the cellar steps for wine. Six drams of rose leaves were easy enough, for Bella had recently stripped two bushes clean. The drying trays were in the keeping room behind the hearth, full of petals and leaves. Bella had talked of making a sachet. But lemon? Lemons were a luxury. Rummaging through every cupboard produced little till she came to Bella’s makings for preserves. A packet of dried lemon rind would have to do. Gripping the handle of a steaming kettle, she poured hot water over the rind as a substitute, letting it steep till it turned a deep yellow.

  Just what, she wondered, was she resurrecting him for? Battle? The death he claimed would come? A future without him?

  She opened a window, heedless of the danger, eyes on the wide river dappled a greenish-gold in the sunlight. A light breeze caressed her face and hair, making her want to lean upon the sill and succumb to sleep, not return upstairs and force Cass to drink.

  But the wine went down far better than the water, and he even came to his senses for a few breathtakingly lucid moments. “I ne’er believed you’d be feeding me spirits.”

  “I have no choice. ’Tis a divine directive.”

  His smile was more shadow. “The old water-into-wine trick?”

  “You do know Scripture.”

  “I’m not the heathen you think I am, Roxie.”

  “I know,” she said, the poignancy of his and Abby’s prayer engraved upon her heart. “I stopped believing you were a heathen the moment you taught your daughter to pray.”

  His eyes, so clouded by illness, turned to blue ice. “Abby’s not mine.”

  She leaned back against a bedpost, wishing she had some wine herself. “She snuck in here and called you Papa. And Dovie told me everything.”

  “Everything?”

  She swallowed hard, the sordid story bitter to the taste. “How you and a surveying party came to the Redstone tavern . . . and you met Bethann.”

  “Is that her mother’s name?”

  She rolled damp eyes and looked away. “You’d do well to remember such a liaison.”

  “You don’t think the British send surveying parties downriver dressed as Bluecoats?”

  Her gaze swiveled back to him. “I . . . what?”

  “Abby is Liam’s child, not mine. Once again you judge me too hastily.”

  She stared at him, suspended between disbelief and the knot of hurt and confusion festering inside her. Would he explain away her locket so easily?

  He went on, carefully and deliberately, his gaze never wavering. “Olympia tried to blackmail me into claiming Abby as my own when she first came here. But I was nowhere near Redstone when she was conceived. I was still in the east serving under Washington while Liam was populating the middle ground.”

  Heat touched Roxanna’s face as she thought of others besides Bethann and Abby. “But Olympia didn’t believe you,” she murmured.

  “Why would she?” His terse tone revealed his disgust. “She didn’t know about Liam. She only believed what he told her—that he was Colonel Cassius McLinn.”

  Shame pinched her. But I know of Liam and I still blamed you. All that Micajah had told her returned to her in a sickening rush. Liam—Lucifer—had caused untold trouble for Cass in the east, and was doing so still. How would it be to have an enemy twin masquerading as yourself, doing duplicitous things in your name, perpetuating untold damage?

  She sat down on the end of the bed. “Was Liam always so base?”

  “Nay, once he—like Lucifer himself—was good. But the war . . . divided loyalties . . .” He was already slipping away from her, wracked by the severe chills that followed the fever, so violent his teeth nearly chattered. “Please . . . build a fire to take the chill away . . .”

  A fire in June.

  She drew the bedclothes up around him, went to the hearth, and kindled a small fire with unsteady hands, if only to solace him. Having him out of his head rattled her beyond all reasoning. She felt vulnerable and defenseless in this imposing house with this imposing man who seemed naught but a beacon for the enemy.

  Her eyes roamed the room, but all its lovely details seemed to blur before her gaze finally settled on the dog irons—twin soldiers—and a balled-up clump of paper in the ashes. She snatched it up and smoothed out its once fine vellum, looking at the longhand so much like Cass’s own.

  Beloved brother, ’tis time we meet again.

  Crumpling it up, the feel of it like poison, she flung it into the fire. Liam was coming. Soon. But for the moment she was almost too tired to care. Another hour passed, and she felt nearly ill from lack of sleep. With a last glance at Cass—eyes closed and still shaking—she passed into the blue bedchamber, leaving the adjoining door open in case he needed her. The room’s elegance reached out to her, an inviting cocoon of blue brocade and wainscoting and sunny corners. Climbing up onto the high bed with as little grace as Abby, she collapsed atop the feather tick, half asleep before her head touched one of the pillows.

  The bed curtains around Cass were blowing in rich profusion like the sails of a ship. For a moment he thought he was at sea on the vessel Liberty that had brought him to America from Ireland. Throwing back the sweat-stained sheet, he found his feet, every muscle protesting from being abed so long. A fire had smoldered out in the grate, and a window was cracked to emit a honeysuckle-scented wind. ’Twas dawn, he guessed, not dusk.

  Standing up proved a remarkable feat. He swayed, his aching head adance. Going to the washbasin, he leaned both head and bare shoulders over the porcelain bowl and poured the entire pitcher of tepid water over his upper body. Despite being sick to his stomach from the wine Roxanna had given him, the makeshift
bath seemed to ground him. Sluicing off the water with his hands, he pushed back his hair before tying it carelessly with a string and moving through the twilight shadows.

  Though he’d not spoken or opened his eyes much of the time, he’d been acutely aware of when Roxanna was or wasn’t with him. And she’d left his side hours ago. The clock over the door told him so, as did the ache in his chest. Unable to find the locket, he felt adrift, groping about the bed linens, afraid she’d vanished as mysteriously.

  Roxie, my love, where are you?

  The blue bedchamber beckoned. He made it to the door and leaned against its sturdy frame, taking in one slender, stocking-clad foot below a petticoat atop the bed’s rumpled counterpane. In the semidarkness, turned on her side, all the hills and valleys of her beneath her dress took his breath. She seemed as finely sculpted as a lush landscape he’d once come across at sunset on a march into the middle ground. The same almost holy awe took hold of him, and he wanted to reach up and still the ticking of the clock and stop time, overcome by the brevity and beauty of that fleeting moment.

  Oh, Roxie, what will become of you—and Abby—when I’m gone?

  Coming nearer, he cast a long shadow over her as she slept. He stood enthralled, hands clasped behind his back. Her hair was all atumble, much like the night he’d claimed his kiss, not returned to its sooty knot but taken down all the way. Did it reach her waist? He hated that he didn’t know.

  With a soft sigh like Abby might have made, she turned over, eyes still closed, and curled into a ball, her knees almost to her chin beneath her disheveled dress. Before she’d settled again, he leaned closer to brush his lips against her temple in a sort of farewell before going down the hill.

  35

  Still no Hank. Still a headache and residue of fever. Still dissension among his officers. But the scouts brought some astonishing news anyway. Reinforcements from Virginia were but two days away. And Abby was nearly chewing his ears off with her gabbiness. Having eluded Bella, she stood beside him now, sucking on a sugar lump beneath the flagpole and squinting up at him as if he, not the sun, were the center of her universe. He’d been within fort walls just a few hours, but his mind—and his eye—kept returning to the stone house.

  “Where’s Mith Roxanna?”

  He nearly smiled at her lisp, like she had too much sugar in her mouth. “Still abed,” he said.

  “’Tis not bedtime, but noon,” she piped. With a winsome smile, she held up her sugar cone, licked down to the size of a guinea. “Want some?”

  He stared down at her, distracted. “Nay, sugar is bad for soldiers. I ken the quartermaster spoils you.”

  She dashed a look about, suddenly solemn. “Where is my pony?”

  “Having his supper like you should be.”

  Her face dimpled into a merry laugh. “But I don’t eat hay.”

  Stuffing the remaining sugar in her mouth, she raised her arms and he picked her up, thinking how light she felt, no heavier than a sack of flour. Once in the empty dining room, he pushed open the kitchen door and found a dour Bella piling corn cakes on a platter. Thoughts of Hank sprang to mind, but he pushed them aside. The fierce odor of an unappetizing stew filled the air between them and made his stomach roil.

  Bella blinked like she was seeing things as he set Abby down. “Law, but I never expected to see you so soon, sir.”

  “Miss Rowan may put old Clary out of work.”

  “Well, I reckon. Where is she?”

  “Still abed,” Abby said.

  “Nay, no longer,” came a reply from the back door. Roxanna entered, looking as fresh as he felt stale, her cheeks flushed from sleep. Abby latched on to her skirt like a burr, small face alight.

  “I mithed you, Mith Roxanna. There’s been nobody to play with save Sukey. But the smithy’s dog had pups. He said I could have one if I asked you. I like the brown one. He looks like a sugar lump.”

  “My, but I’ve missed a great deal being gone,” Roxanna said, hugging her and looking around as if to get her bearings. “But I’m back now to—”

  “To get Gab—I mean Abby,” Cass said.

  Roxanna looked at him, her sudden smile chasing every shadow from the room. “Yes, to get Abby,” she echoed.

  “Gabby’s more like it,” Bella said, sour mood lifting. “Now let’s get ready for supper.”

  “I’ll help serve,” Roxanna told her, donning an apron. “’Tis almost time for the officers.”

  “Past time.” Bella glowered. “Major Hale’s forgot to call the men—again.”

  But even as she said it, the summons sounded. With a smirk, Bella passed the platter of corn cakes to Abby and hefted two pitchers of cider herself. “Come along and help old Bella, Abby-gail. Maybe that sweet voice of yours will make my possum stew go down a bit better.”

  With a wink, she and Abby went into the dining room, leaving Cass and Roxanna alone in the kitchen. This was what he’d hoped for—only he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. But simply standing up when he should still be flat on his back and having the woman he loved within arm’s reach was enough.

  She smoothed her apron, her wary eyes meeting his reluctantly. “You seem to have risen from the dead.”

  “Aye, ’twas your wine that cured me.”

  “Nay, ’twas my prayers.”

  He nodded. “I’m grateful for both.”

  Her face clouded. “You’re still not well.”

  “Well enough.”

  “Well enough to . . . ?”

  “Lead a campaign.” He looked down at her, his voice low and soft yet steel-edged. “But before I go, there’s one thing I need to know.” She stopped fussing with her apron and returned her full attention to him. “Do you have my locket, Roxie?”

  Surprise burst from her blue eyes. “My locket, you mean.”

  He smiled a bit guiltily at the fire he’d kindled in her. “I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

  Yes, about a great many things, her expression seemed to say. He could hear his officers filling the adjoining room and wished he was back in the stone house alone with her. If they were, he’d ask for her forgiveness again, gamble for her hand a second time . . .

  “Colonel McLinn, sir.”

  Joram Herkimer stood behind him. Never before had an interruption been so unwelcome. He felt all the expectancy seep out of him. Likewise, the lovely lines of her face were touched with regret. She rued the interruption just as much, he realized with a sharp stab of hope. For now, ’twas enough.

  Roxanna waited till the officers were mid-meal before disappearing to her cabin. She felt so overcome that Cass was on his feet again, her emotions so raw, that she sought the privacy of her own quiet place. Drawing in the latchstring and closing the shutter, she knelt by her bed, feeling childlike, so tossed about by her emotions her prayer of thanks seemed almost incoherent. But God alone understood the depths of her heart.

  Oh, Lord, forgive me for my lack of forgiveness.

  Her earthly father, incapable of holding a grudge, would have been shamed to see her struggle so. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them back. She needed to tell Cass what was uppermost in her head and heart while there was still time. She hated farewells of any kind, and this one, while so very necessary, would be more than she could bear.

  She slowly got to her feet, her eyes roaming the shadows and coming to rest on a torn-up floorboard in the far corner. Startled, she drew closer to Cass’s hiding place. There, just below, was the tooled leather chest—looking the same as she’d left it, or so it seemed. With unsteady hands, she lifted it out and set it on the table. Her fingers fumbled with the buckles and straps, dread ticking inside her, wondering what she’d find.

  Holding her breath, she eased back the lid to . . . emptiness. Shock coursed through her in icy trickles. What? How? Only a few days ago, the trunk had been full, nearly overflowing with cash and gold coin. While she’d been nursing Cass on the hill, someone had stolen it! Who?

  Setting it down, she hu
rried to the door, hoping to catch Cass before he went up the hill. Abby was just outside, new freckles spattering her delicate skin from the summer sun, eyes more blue than gray today. She clutched her rag doll in the crook of her arm, her small face mirroring Roxanna’s own alarm.

  “Oh, Abby, I’m missing something. Will you take a note to Colonel McLinn?”

  She simply nodded, and for a moment Roxanna feared she’d slip back into muteness. Framing Abby’s face with trembling hands, Roxanna said, “Forget the note. Just whisper in his ear. Tell him I need him. Once he’s finished his supper, of course.”

  As if sensing the urgency of her mission, Abby started off at a near run across the parade ground. Little dust devils erupted beneath her bare feet, and her calico dress was a flash of blue. She was running to her daddy, Roxanna mused. Only her daddy was in the middle ground.

  Cass’s gaze swung to the open door the moment Abby filled it. Pushing aside his pewter plate, he felt warmth suffuse his chest. She might have been mine . . . she should have been mine. Same copper curls. Same stubborn set of features. A hearty dose of Irish freckles. Then and there he prayed that Liam’s meanness hadn’t touched her fresh spirit. Mayhap her mother had been amiable. No matter. Roxie would see that she was raised right.

  He looked down the long table, leaned back in his chair, and inclined his head to invite her in. At his notice, her oval face bloomed like a fragile flower in the sunlight. She stepped warily into the shadowed room, where lamplight struck pewter and the clink of utensils and drone of masculine voices made a discordant melody. But on she came with her rag doll, climbing onto his knee to the amusement of his men.

  She eyed his nearly untouched stew and half-eaten corn cake, and he said drily, “Go ahead, Abby-girl, have a bite.”

  But she made such a face his officers burst out laughing and looked askance at their own unappetizing plates.

  Placing a soft hand on the ginger stubble of his cheek, she brought his head down till her mouth was against his ear. “Mith Roxanna is sad. She’s mithing something.”