Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

The unreality of the situation descended on Betsy. She felt as though cotton stuffed her head. "A redcoat from our garrison came by last night to relate the news. You and Mother had been arrested as rebel spies after chasing Grandpapa to Havana. Then you were captured by Indians north of St. Augustine while the redcoats were escorting you back to Georgia. You and Mother, rebel spies? Hah. Perchance if men bore children, yes. Why don't you tell me what really happened."

  David ejected a soft laugh. "Well, we did go after the old man, but it was for his own good. We aren't rebel spies, and it's a great misunderstanding that would take me too long to explain. Rest assured, though, that your mother is safe for now."

  Betsy frowned. Of course it was a misunderstanding, and no one could dance a reel around the truth like her uncle. "When shall I have the full story?"

  "When someone has the time to explain it."

  Ah, no. He wasn't going to escape without explaining the greatest mystery of all. "Surely you can tarry long enough to clarify one detail. Wait here while I fetch what arrived by post yesterday and show it to you."

  "Very well, but hurry."

  She bustled up the path, flung open the back door, seized the package from within a cupboard, and trotted back out to David. "See here, this was addressed as follows: 'To Mrs. Betsy Sheridan in Augusta, Georgia.' Well, go ahead and see what's inside."

  Stupefaction and recognition flooded his voice when he examined the parasol and lace veil within. "I don't believe it."

  She set the box and its contents down next to the basket of eggs David had collected. "There's a brief letter here somewhere. Who is Miguel de Arriaga, author of the letter?"

  "Captain of a Portuguese merchant brig, the Gloria Maria."

  "So you and Mother had quite an adventure!" Awed and envious, Betsy straightened and handed him the letter. Then she leaned inside the henhouse, unhooked the lantern, and held it to illuminate Captain Arriaga's script on the page.

  David skimmed the letter, and she followed the path his eyes took over it, having already memorized the contents:

  MADAM:

  Your Uncle and Parents were Passengers aboard my Ship, the Gloria Maria. I gave this Parasol and Veil to your Mother, a remarkable Woman, and she lost them in Havana when British Soldiers captured her. If you see her again, please give them to her and tell her I tried to help.

  I am Madam

  Your humble Servant

  Miguel de Arriaga

  "How did Captain Arriaga find me?"

  "Your mother told him about you." Her uncle folded the letter with haste and handed it back to her. "Here you go. Now I must away."

  She'd once seen a large-mouthed bass wiggle off a hook with greater finesse. "Oh, no you don't." After tossing the letter into the box, she seized her uncle's arm. "You tell me what the captain meant by my 'parents.' No more pretense. Look at me. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin. And these cheekbones! Both my mother's husbands had blond hair and blue eyes. I couldn't be the daughter of either of them. So who was — is — my father?"

  David squirmed, trying his best to get off that hook. "Your mother's the one who must have this conversation with you."

  "But she's on her way to South Carolina, and you're here." Betsy released him and set the lantern down. "She's with my father, isn't she? I shall go looking for both of them so I may have a proper explanation."

  "Come now, you've more sense than to travel into a war-torn colony."

  She jutted her chin forward. "You tell me, then."

  He sighed. "Your father is Mathias Hale, a blacksmith from Alton."

  Astonishment shot through her. "Hale?" She had a vague recollection of the Hale family as respectable blacksmiths in her hometown of Alton, south of Augusta. The wonder of discovery began arranging perplexing pieces of her past into a logical picture. "That's why Mother sent me here to be fostered with Lucas and Sarah seven years ago. I must resemble my father or someone in his family, and she wanted me out of Alton." Confusion trailed off her words. She blinked at her uncle "Why didn't Mother marry Mr. Hale? Was shame or hardship involved?"

  David held up his hands. "Another long story which I've no place or leisure to explain. Forgive me, but I must begone." He strode to the back of the henhouse and unhitched his horse.

  She tracked him, her thirst unquenched. "Is he a good man?"

  "Yes, a very good man."

  "Well, then, I truly don't understand why she didn't —"

  "Betsy." He turned to her and seized her shoulders. "You must leave it for now."

  "But can you not imagine what it's been like for me, Uncle David, to never have had a father? In all my seventeen years, I've had uncles, a stepfather, and grandfathers, but they haven't been my father."

  "You shall meet him someday, I know it. He's that kind of man. But now isn't the time to look for him." David pressed a kiss to her forehead, released her, and climbed into the saddle with his fowler. "Don't go to South Carolina."

  Betsy stepped back, certain she exuded defiance in her stance. "Why not?"

  He wagged his finger at her. "I mean it, Betsy. Don't go to South Carolina. And, for that matter, stay clear of Alton for awhile, especially a lieutenant by the name of Fairfax."

  Oh, faugh. Her uncle's "enemies" were all cuckolded courtiers of wealthy widows. She sweetened her smile. "Not to worry."

  The paling sky outlined perplexity in her uncle's posture. As much as he enjoyed women, he'd never figured out what to do with those who were headstrong. "I cannot command you to anything, can I?"

  "Good luck in Williamsburg, Uncle David." She blew a kiss.

  He shook his head, reined his horse around, and trotted it from the yard with a final wave. Betsy watched until the gloom of dawn swallowed him before retrieving the lantern, eggs, and box. Then she ambled back to the house escorted by the aria of a mockingbird.

  So. Her kinfolk had evaded the Crown's "justice" upon the gallows and torture at the hands of Indians and were en route to sanctuaries in other colonies. And for the first time in her life, she had a father: a blacksmith, a "very good man." At the back step, she paused to address the sky, her shoulders back, her face aglow. "Mathias Hale," she whispered, "expect me soon."

  End of Chapter One

  Purchase The Blacksmith's Daughter at Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003WH8Q36).

  About Suzanne Adair

  Award-winning novelist Suzanne Adair is a Florida native who lives in a two hundred-year-old city at the edge of the North Carolina Piedmont, named for an English explorer who was beheaded. Her suspense and thrillers transport readers to the Southern theater of the Revolutionary War, where she brings historic towns, battles, and people to life. She fuels her creativity with Revolutionary War reenacting and visits to historic sites. When she’s not writing, she enjoys cooking, dancing, hiking, and spending time with her family.

  Visit her blog (http://www.suzanneadair.typepad.com/) and web site (http://www.suzanneadair.com/) for more information.

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