Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  Eager to embrace a caregiver role, she re-poulticed and re-bandaged David's wound before seeing to their horses. The others made a fire and boiled water, and she prepared a mug of willow bark tea to ease David's pain. To the rest of the pot, Jacques threw in a soup square, dried vegetables, and the two dressed rabbits caught before the party abandoned the first campsite. The aroma soon had the five men milling about in anticipation.

  Her appetite gone, Sophie trudged to a creek fifty feet from the campfire. Screened in the long grass, she stripped and sponged off sweat, horse, grime, and crusted menstrual blood. But neither caring for David nor wearing clean clothing improved her spirits. She felt empty inside and not quite real, as if she weren't awake — sleepwalking, indeed, like Lady MacBeth, now with two men's blood on her hands.

  While she pounded away at soiled rags and clothing, Mathias ambled out, making himself heard in advance, and crouched near her. "Plenty of stew left."

  "I'm not hungry." She wrung out her shirt.

  "You haven't been eating enough."

  "Yes, I know. I'm so skinny that even bandits debate whether I'm worth ravishing."

  A growl burst from his throat. He snatched the wet shirt, flung it on the ground, and shook her once. "Quit blaming yourself! We agreed to stop back there. Mistakes happen. You were tired, your attention wandered —"

  "My brother got shot, I nearly got..." Her voice squeaked out of a throat tightened with tears, and she attempted to twist away from him, humiliated because her tears wouldn't be dammed this time. "It is my fault! I should have listened to David, and we should have stayed at an inn in Savannah." Her voice went shrill. "You were right! I should never have come! I don't know what I'm doing out here." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I've killed two men, bungling my way through it!"

  "Sophie, each one of us here has killed at least two men."

  "But how can you and the Indians kill and be done with it? You don't like to kill. I saw it in your face Tuesday."

  His shoulders slumped, and his voice thickened with remorse. "None of us enjoys killing."

  "Yet you leave it behind you like ashes at a campsite."

  "What would be the point of dragging it with us? We carry too much in this life as it is. We — Indians — thank Creator that we were the survivors of a deadly encounter, and we move on. If you expect to complete this journey, Sophie, you must find your own road past killing MacVie and that bandit. At your life's end, you will stand before Creator and the lake of spirits and speak to all, not only of your sorrow but of the wisdom you learned on this journey."

  She stared at him, his ideology stark, meaningful, piercing. Then her remaining composure crumbled into sobs, and he tucked her against his shoulder.

  Had it been merely a week ago, Friday night, that she lay in her bedroom, listening while rebels printed broadsides? Those horrid broadsides popped up everywhere, poisonous toadstools of the press, fertilized by bloodlust and rage.

  Colonists were falling upon themselves in a frenzy of bloodlust, forging a nation founded on insanity. They might demonize the likes of British such as Banastre Tarleton, but it was only to thwart themselves from looking in the mirror and seeing the Demon Ultime reflected back at them.

  Why had she thrust herself into such a morbid quest? For family honor? For sweet Betsy and her unborn child? For herself, because she was bored with life in Alton? If so, surely she was just as crazy as every rebel in the Congress was.

  "I want to go home." Tears congested her voice.

  "We all want to go home." He pressed his cheek to her tears and wrapped his arms about her waist, folding her into the hearth of his body, his touch communicating that it made even less sense to turn around and go home than to keep pushing forward. They'd already traveled more than halfway to St. Augustine.

  He held her through the search she made of her soul for a corner in which she could bind desolation, terror, and hopelessness. Somehow, she had to keep pushing forward and not allow any of it to bind her, not even when she'd had to kill two men. She didn't have to like any of it, but she did have to move forward. Mathias was right. She carried far too much with her.

  Moonlight silvered the marsh. Frogs throated night, and crickets chirped. An ancient memory stirred in her brain. Earth, salt, musk — a man's flesh and fire forgotten for eighteen years. Clay to clay, the curves and angles of their bodies sought each other, shifting and sedimenting together until a scarce-remembered fit emerged. She breathed in cadence with Mathias and the nocturne of the marsh.

  His cheek caressed hers. Lips parted, she tilted her face toward his until the corners of their mouths brushed. An elemental ember of forge-fire fanned back to life and swelled between them. In wonder and delight, she tilted her head further. Lips hunted for each other, and she tasted the moistness of his mouth.

  He pulled back from her, his hands fumbling for hers, covering them with his own. Through resonance pulsing between them, he shook his head, denying his thirst.

  "No?" she whispered, baffled. Every nerve in her body vibrated to close a circle left ajar for eighteen years. Why did he push her away?

  "All the handsome men you've chosen, with blond hair and blue eyes."

  She gripped his hands, trying to shut out a flood of memories — images of handsome blond-haired, blue-eyed Jim Neely, Richard Barton, and Edward Hunt. "I haven't chosen Edward Hunt."

  "Ah, but he's chosen you, and he's everything Alton is not. How can any woman turn her back on a protector in Parliament? I know what he offered you. David told me. I can give you nothing like that, Sophie." Moonlight starkened torment on his face after he pulled free of her. "At least I know you consider me your confidant and comforter." Pain and confusion knotted his voice, her heart. "That's more than will ever be said for any of them." He strode back to the campfire as if he couldn't escape quickly enough.

  ***

  Sophie lay on her bedroll, her gaze following meteor trails, a list of attributes grinding through her brain. Edward: intelligent, handsome, wealthy, enchanted by her. Mathias: intelligent, successful, confidant, friend. The analysis allowed her scant sleep, and when she did sleep, she dreamed of men's faces floating on the surface of a lake of spirits, their eyes damning and beseeching her. The party broke camp predawn Saturday with Sophie feeling every sore muscle in her body.

  Did Edward imagine Lady Beatrice stupid, just because she was fifteen? Why, if Sophie were Lady Hunt, she'd hire someone to follow Edward and get to the bottom of any frequent visits to London. A lifestyle of silk gowns and theater visits must be exquisite. But if she became Edward's mistress, contention with a noblewoman the age of her daughter was inevitable, and not an experience for which she was eager to cross the Atlantic.

  As for Mathias, she didn't understand the reasoning by which he'd arrived at the conclusion that he could only be her friend. It seemed obvious that if she'd "chosen" Edward Hunt, she'd have stayed with the victorious redcoats at the bandits' campsite instead of escaping. Mathias surely hadn't factored much logic into his decision-making.

  Damned if she understood men.

  No such perplexity saddled David's mind. The willow bark tea had allowed him to awaken well-rested and eager to move on. By late morning enough of his personality returned for him to canter his horse up beside hers and give her a wink of sarcasm. "You look like the cat dragged you home and left you on the doorstep."

  "Thank you."

  "I'd like to think it was fresh air and exercise doing you so much good." Swiveling, he glanced at Jacques, who rode ahead, and Standing Wolf at the rear. Mathias and Runs With Horses were out scouting. "I really think it's a certain nothing we discussed on Monday, before starting our journey."

  She stared ahead, her brain exhausted. "You're right. It's nothing. I won't waste my breath talking about nothing."

  "Maybe I'll discuss it with Mathias, then, because I couldn't help but notice after you two returned from your stroll last night that nothing was clearly wrong."

  She glared. "Keep out
of it, or I'll punch your arm."

  He cringed. "Ooh. I was just trying to help."

  "Help someone else. You're about to ruin a friendship."

  "There are ways aplenty to encourage such a friendship —"

  He broke off to the sound of a horse galloping in from the south. With no time to seek cover, they pulled to the roadside and readied weapons. Mathias thundered into view and reined back his mount. "Quickly! There's a man left for dead about a mile down the road!"

  They kicked their horses into a gallop and followed. Minutes later, they arrived on the scene — grass trampled and torn, a dead saddled mare, and a raven-haired young man sprawled supine near the horse in the humid shade of a lone pine, blood darkening the right side of his well-tailored waistcoat.

  At their arrival and dismount, the man's eyes flickered open. He lifted his head, dark eyes full of pain and determination, hand closing about the handle of a pistol holstered at his hip. Robbery hadn't motivated the attack. Bandits would have stripped him and taken his weapons.

  David caught Mathias by the upper arm. "Watch yourself. He thinks we've come to finish him off."

  Jacques knelt beside the mare. The man's gaze wandered back and forth between Standing Wolf and Mathias. "Indians. At least not redcoats." He sank back, hand still clutching the pistol.

  Redcoats. Interesting. Sophie wondered how old he was. He reminded her of her son-in-law, Clark. So young.

  David spread his hands. "Let us help you."

  The man dropped his hand away from the pistol and nodded. David and Mathias approached with caution. Jacques whispered, "Belle Sophie," and directed her attention to the man's saddle. "Made in Boston, the excellent work of a patriot saddle maker named Herman Stone. I recognize it."

  Her attention sprang to the wounded man. "A friend of John Adams?" The Frenchman nodded. She looked from the empty road north to where Mathias knelt beside the man in the grass, David standing behind him. "How Fairfax would love to get his hands on him."

  "We need not let that happen."

  They agreed silently before she approached the pine. Mathias had opened the man's waistcoat to blood soaking the right side of his fine shirt. He groaned while Mathias pulled the shirt from his breeches. Blood rimmed a shot hole below his ribcage. The blacksmith poked his finger through a rip in the front of the shirt and one in the back. "The ball passed straight through you, front to back."

  "He killed my horse and left me for dead."

  Mathias studied him. "Who attacked you?"

  The young man looked away. "A highwayman, of course."

  Of course? Mathias and Sophie regarded each other a moment, and she read his acknowledgement that the man had lied. This wasn't the work of highwaymen. Why would a wounded man protect the identity of his attacker? A chill teased her neck.

  Mathias offered a curt nod. "We've no way to tell what the ball nicked inside you. How long ago did this happen?"

  "Mid-morning. My two companions and I had just taken a break."

  Two companions. The puzzle grew more complex. MacVie had said El Serpiente was traveling with two Bostonians, but by Mrs. Woodhouse's account, El Serpiente had been traveling alone. And hadn't the widow also commented on a party of three men who'd passed through before the Spaniard and left her a decent tip? "So you were wounded no more than two hours ago." Sophie sank in the grass near the man's left shoulder.

  Hearing her voice, he regarded her with perplexity. "A woman?"

  "And you're a friend of John Adams."

  His eyes widened in astonishment. "Who are you?"

  "Good Samaritans."

  David leaned over, his right hand braced on his knee. "We're on the trail of a man known as El Serpiente. We want to question him about a murder. What's your name?"

  Expression closed from his face, but not before they'd seen a flash of panic in his eyes. He rotated his head back to stare at pine branches above, lips clamped shut. A frown dragged from Sophie's brow to her lips. "Suit yourself. We've redcoats tracking us no more than four hours behind. Cooperate with us, and we'll get you to safety. Don't cooperate, and we'll let them have you." The man's cheeks paled further. "And by the by, the British lieutenant's disposition doesn't portend any displays of leniency from him toward wounded spies."

  "My name is Stephen Hawthorne," whispered the wounded spy.

  She doubted he gave his real name. "A pleasure to meet you, sir. Given the urgency of the situation, I think it prudent to bandage you and see whether you can ride one of our spare horses."

  Caution edged Hawthorne's expression. "I shall try."

  "Good. While we're tending your wounds, it only seems fair if you tell us some information about El Serpiente, since from your expression you obviously know him." She smiled. "We've come almost literally through hell and high water to find him."

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHILE JACQUES KNELT to inspect the saddle of the dead mare, Mathias pressed a doubled cloth to Hawthorne's injured side. His face blanching with pain, Hawthorne leaned back on his left hand to hold the wadded cloth in place so Mathias could bandage his midsection. "I was traveling to St. Augustine with companions. That's all you need to know."

  Sophie's eyebrows shot upward. "And their names?"

  "I'm not at liberty to tell you."

  Jacques's hand sneaked to one of Hawthorne's saddlebags. What was that wily old Frenchman up to? She said, "It's useless for you to dodge our questions. We know you expected to meet Don Alejandro de Gálvez in St. Augustine."

  David sucked a gasp, and Sophie stared at a pistol suddenly grasped in Hawthorne's hand, leveled at Jacques. Pain clipped the spy's voice. "I thank you to keep your hands off my property. I appreciate your assistance, but it is discourteous of you to take advantage of my incapacitation and snoop."

  Diplomacy stretched Jacques's lips over his teeth. "My apologies." He stood, keeping his hands in view, and when the pistol motioned, stepped away from the horse carcass to where Standing Wolf stood out on the road.

  Sophie eyed the saddlebags. What was Hawthorne protecting?

  He holstered his pistol and glanced at her. "Very well, yes, a meeting with Don Alejandro was arranged for us in St. Augustine."

  "Will Don Alejandro then plead the cause of the Continental Congress to King Carlos?" She studied Hawthorne's noncommittal expression. "Spain has yet to ally herself formally with the Congress, but it's clear from the way she's intrigued with France for half a year that she's determined to thrash Britain."

  Hawthorne granted her the ghost of a smile. "Spain will divide with France the spoils from this war."

  "Spoils?" Sophie echoed the smile, even while intuition prodded her. He wasn't what he seemed. Something in his accent, perhaps. "Spain would dearly love to have East Florida back. She was the first European nation to claim the territory." She listened to his response.

  "The Congress shall return East Florida to Spain, who has, of late, seen the value of intensifying military activities against Britain. One of my companions bears intelligence from the Continental Army. He will meet with Don Alejandro to discuss how Spain's strategies might be synchronized with ours."

  "With yours?" Cynicism brushed Mathias's tone. "What is left of the Continental Army after the fall of Charles Town?"

  The young man looked south. "We shall fight to free this country from King George's tyranny until the last of us falls."

  Hawthorne might be from the North, but his mindset matched that of rebels from Darien, Georgia to Williamsburg, Virginia. Ironic that those who strove to oust the government, rather than defend or reform it, envisioned themselves the "patriots."

  David's tone was quiet and firm. "Sir, we're in the position of protecting you. You owe us an explanation of who we're protecting you from and what's in your saddlebags."

  His chin lifted. "I've told you all you need to know."

  "Not quite." Sophie pulled the second cipher from her haversack and showed him the numerical sequence. "This cipher was intended for Will St. James
, except that it arrived the day after he was murdered in Alton — we suspect by the serpent."

  Hawthorne's sulk intensified. "You expect me to decode it?"

  "No. I've already done so. It instructs him to meet in Havana, as St. Augustine has become too dangerous. The serpent knows about it." Hawthorne's lips compressed. "El Serpiente." She returned the cipher to her haversack. "Who is El Serpiente?"

  The young man studied her, obstinate, and made a faint gesture of dismissal with his head. "As you've deduced, La Habana is our alternate meeting location. We've no idea whether El Serpiente knows it's the secondary site."

  La Habana. How interesting that he gave Havana its Spanish name. And it was obvious he didn't want to tell them more about the Spaniard. Sophie glared at him. "El Serpiente. Who is he?"

  He sighed. "He's a trained assassin from a Spanish faction called Casa de la Sangre Legítima."

  David's expression soured. "'House of the Rightful Blood.' What is it they think is so rightful about themselves?"

  "They resent the influence of French Bourbons on Spain and believe that Spain, allied with France in the Old War, has lost enough to Britain in North America. They commissioned master assassins last year to infiltrate the coalition between Spain and France. Five came to America to assassinate Spanish and French representatives and anyone who gets in the way."

  David expelled a hard breath. "Jolly. That's ever so damned jolly. Here we've wandered into the midst of it all."

  "Their signature execution is to slit the throat of a victim from ear to ear."

  Mathias's eyes bulged for a second. Then emotion slid from his face.

  Hawthorne said, "Two assassins were killed in the northern colonies last year. Three continue the mission."

  Jacques ambled over. "Au contraire, Alton claimed a third just last week. He was flayed alive."