Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Chapter Four

  That brogue of a voice. The dark stranger held a knife to her tender flesh. Rowena stopped struggling, though inside she shuddered. She must react as a young man, not a girl, to preserve her guise—and possibly her life.

  “James is my cousin,” spewed out of her mouth before she could stop it. She’d managed to keep her voice rough. Her assailant’s chest hard with muscle, he smelled of the woods, as if he rarely dwelt indoors.

  “Master Rowland? Are you unharmed?” Sam hovered closer, his mouth gaping, hands clenched into fists. “Release my master, sir.”

  “It’s all right.” She waved him back and prayed it would be.

  “Don’t know of any of his ‘cousins’ in this area except a young woman,” the man said in his foreign burr. His grip around her grew tighter, painful. Whose side was he on?

  “Please, lower your knife.” Rowena shouldn’t have said ‘please.’ She was supposed to be a scrappy male. She arched her head away from the blade and huffed out sharp breaths. Her excuses spun, twisting around her fear. “I’m a by-blow.”

  The creak of door hinges, voices and laughter, flowed from the entrance as men left the tavern.

  James’s towering frame now stood on the portico, silhouetted in the lantern-light above the lintel.

  “Aye? A base-born cousin, is it?” Her attacker aimed his chin toward the portico. “I’ll haul ye before him and see what he says.”

  No! James would reveal her for the imposter she was. And she didn’t trust her cousin’s loyalty. “Nay, sir,” she scrambled for an explanation, “he will scold me for my interference with his actions. He insists I’m too young.”

  “Ye sound far too young.” The dark stranger prodded the knife at the side of her jaw. “Which side do ye support, bachgen?”

  Sam stepped forward again, brows lowered. “Don’t hurt he—him.”

  Again, she motioned Sam back, to protect him. She struggled not to flinch at the cold press of steel. Would the stranger really cut her throat?

  “Why would you ask whom I support, sir?” She had to fish around, test the man’s allegiance after the ambivalence of James.

  Two men clattered down the steps, untied their horses, mounted, and rode off.

  Hidden from their sight in the gloom, her knees trembled. She crossed her arms over her chest, in case her captor’s hand shifted. He’d know for certain she wasn’t a boy—though it would hardly matter if he sliced off her head.

  “Yer spying on Atherton. And in this town, you take no one for their word.”

  “Then you won’t believe me when I reply.” She glanced at the tavern portico. James was gone.

  “Ah, ye have a wit about ye.” He chuckled, but it was dry. His grip loosened.

  “James was talking with Mr. Long, a known rebel.” She attempted to wriggle away, but he held her firm.

  “Not everyone is who they seem to be.” He lowered the knife, though his other hand remained tight on her shoulder, his muscled arm still around her. “For instance, yer boy there could have run for help in the tavern, to the soldiers, or called out to those men who just rode away. But since he didn’t, and ye haven’t shouted, I’d say ye were Loyalists.”

  Rowena eased out her breath. She shut her eyes for a second, desperate to figure him out. He’d appeared a Loyalist in the forest. “And who do you fight for? You sound foreign. And what is a bachgen?”

  “That rabble-rouser Washington has the French to aid him, damn the man. So ‘foreigners’ are everywhere.” He snorted. “I’m a Welshman. I go by, sometimes, Black Devil. Bachgen means ‘boy’ in Welsh.”

  “I’m Rowland.” She tried to stir up saliva. “Then do you fight for the king?”

  “We Welsh have no great love for the English given our history, but, aye. ’Tis what— Never ye mind.” He turned her around to face him, a great shadow looming inches from her and at least a foot above her. “But can I trust ye?”

  Rowena stiffened her legs, so she didn’t sway. “Let me go, since we’re on the same side. If I can take your word.” She pushed her hat firmer on her head. If it slipped, her thick hair might fall out.

  Peering over at them, Sam stood by Lily, who shook her head and snuffled, as if tired of waiting. Old Trent had his eyes closed.

  “And why should I let ye go? This interference could cause difficulties.” The Welshman seemed to taunt her now. He quickly tucked his knife in his belt, then dug his fingers into both her arms. “I’m a man who trusts few, and I do not take well to betrayal. And ye look like a child playing the grownup. Or yer not who or what ye seem.”

  She swallowed hard, head low. “My father will search furiously if I go missing. Then he’ll beat me if he finds out I was here.” That last was a possibility, and she wasn’t sure why she’d said it; but now she expressed what lodged deep in her heart. She touched her throat, feeling the thump of her pulse. “However, I swear I only want to be of help to the King.”

  * * *

  Late morning light brightened the curtain edges. Rowena squinted, sat up and rubbed her aching arms, bruised from the night’s altercation. She dragged herself from bed and slipped on her dressing gown. Anne had already knocked twice on her door. Reluctantly, Rowena invited the maid to enter with a pitcher and she poured water into the basin.

  Rowena splashed her face from the bowl and stared at her weary eyes in the looking-glass. She smelled like smoke. Her fingertips brushed her throat, where a slight pink mark lined beneath her jaw. A man had pressed a knife there; he could have killed her. Had she gone too far, or not far enough, to ferret out James’ true purpose? Ice filled her veins, but she must discover the truth.

  “Bad night, Miss?” Anne’s plump face remained impassive, though her gaze followed her as if she knew what she’d done.

  “You have no idea.” Rowena stretched her shoulders as Anne slid the stays over Rowena’s shift and laced them up. She fought a grunt. “I had many strange dreams that disturbed me.”

  Of course, they hadn’t been dreams. The dark stranger’s burred tones pierced her thoughts. He’d finally released her and followed her and Sam out of town. Rowena still didn’t know his face, just a faint glimpse of sharp angles, as he’d kept to the shadows. Would the Black Devil, how appropriate, tell James of her presence? She’d asked him not to, but why would he comply? She was just relieved he’d let her and Sam go, unscathed.

  Anne tied on the panniers, fastened linen petticoats to drape over those then slipped the blue sack dress with short back pleats over Rowena’s head. Men had it so much easier in their attire!

  “Some women don’t wear these hoops anymore,” Rowena said of the panniers. Aunt Elizabeth would not approve if Rowena gave them up, though she might anyway. “Such a silly affectation, like bird wings.” She flapped her hands, trying to lighten the moment.

  Anne, a girl of quiet disposition, looked to fight a smile.

  Rowena’s dress a dull powder blue, she was fresh out of second mourning—a year in black that had matched her grief for her mother; another year in subdued hues—but she still didn’t care for bright colors. How had the time passed so quickly? The loss still a deep hole.

  She sat at her dressing table while the maid ran a brush through Rowena’s thick brown curls that resisted being tamed, like wild weeds. Her hair fell below her shoulder blades from a previous trim, but she’d tucked most of it into the frock coat collar and hat the previous night to show a reasonable queue. Perhaps she should cut it even shorter—if she continued her charade.

  “I’ll sprinkle some lavender into your hair, Miss.” Anne must have noticed the smoky aroma. “’Tis very tangled today, more than usual.”

  Rowena squirmed in the chair, anxious to be downstairs, to speak with James. Was he even here? He couldn’t desert the Loyalist side. The dark stranger said no one was who they seemed. Had he suspected she was a girl?

  “’Tis everything all right, Miss?” Anne watched her in the mirror, brows raised slightly. She rolled Rowena’s hair
into a simple bun with extra pins to hold it.

  Rowena forced a smile and patted the young woman’s hand. They were about the same age. “Yes. And I appreciate all the help you’ve been since my personal maid left for Boston with her family. But I can do most of this for myself. I know you have far too much work as it is.”

  “Aye, Miss. I’ll manage, I will.” Anne smoothed down the white cap and held it above Rowena’s head.

  “I’ll ask my father if we can increase your salary.” Rowena retrieved and pinned on her small cap before Anne could assist. She eschewed any lace or frills on her headwear. She glanced again at her maid. Anne’s family probably needed the income. “I promise.”

  Out in the hall, Rowena caught a waft of attar of roses, which heralded the approach of Aunt Elizabeth. Rowena had hoped to hurry to the parlor without delay.

  Her aunt’s pretty face, framed by her lace-trimmed cap, looked pasty and drawn.

  “Good morning, dear. My megrims have subsided; a vinegar rub worked wonders for my melancholy.” She walked beside Rowena to the head of the stairs. “Although I must tell Robert I hear strange noises at night.”

  Rowena halted. “What sort of noises?” She kept her voice even.

  “Well, you’ll think me daft.” Aunt Elizabeth glanced around them. “Footsteps, it seems, sometimes very late. But last night…”

  “It’s only the servants, performing extra work. Our staff is so depleted,” Rowena said quickly, too brusque perhaps. “I’m pleased you’re feeling better, Auntie. Do you know if James is home?”

  “I don’t, dear. He is away far too often, and the reasons I know not.” She sighed heavily.

  They descended the stairs. Father sipped tea in the front parlor. Since losing his wife, for the breakfast meal he preferred this less formal setting rather than the enclosed dining room. Sun lit up the parlor, the cream-colored walls and chintz curtains with rosebuds.

  “Ah, two sleepy heads have arisen.” He stood, motioning them to the sofa. His smile belied the worry ever-present in his visage.

  “Good morning, Father.” Rowena kissed his cheek, spread her skirts and sat. Aunt Elizabeth joined her. Something expectant in her smile put Rowena on edge.

  “Have you seen James, Father?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  The kitchen maid, Cook’s granddaughter Sarah, served pewter cups of tea. Again, her mother’s broken china pricked Rowena’s thoughts, leading to areas she hated to revisit. Mother had gone to help one of the tenants with her ill children. This selflessness had cost her loving parent her life. Rowena winced at the pang of sadness.

  “I’m not certain where James is. He comes and goes as he wishes.” Father’s words dismissive, he picked up a slice of toast. “How are you this morning, Elizabeth?”

  While her father conversed with his sister, Rowena drank from her cup, the tea bitter without sugar, which was scarce in town. Soldiers, and rum making taking precedence.

  She prayed her aunt would not mention any ‘footsteps.’ Father’s room was on the opposite side of the house, so hopefully he’d heard nothing.

  Rowena took one bite of toast, dry in her mouth, and tapped a fingernail on her cup. Her arms began to ache again. How long must she sit here to be polite? “Father, if I may interrupt, can we pay Anne a little extra? She works hard.” She wouldn’t dare ask if they could ‘afford’ to hire more staff.

  “I…I will take it under consideration.” Father nodded but didn’t look enthusiastic.

  Rowena shifted on the triple-backed sofa. Money was scarcer than before, but he wouldn’t discuss that with her. Women had to be coddled, protected from the adversities of life, ha! She glanced at the empty corner where a spinet once sat, the item sold weeks ago.

  “Stop fidgeting, dear.” Aunt Elizabeth looked her over like a prize heifer. “You are nearly eighteen. A budding young lady, you must behave as such and need to change your boisterous ways. Despite the circumstances, you require a ‘debut,’ and we must find a beau for you.”

  “Elizabeth, those matters can wait a little longer,” Father said, his voice gruff. He studied Rowena as if he hadn’t noticed she’d grown up.

  “All the decent men are busy fighting in the war. I need no beau.” Rowena finished her toast and clattered her cup on the low table in front of her. Eggs were also available in a large crockery dish, but she had little appetite. She made ready to rise, away from this uncomfortable discourse.

  “I was thinking,” her aunt’s smile shone saccharine sweet, “there are so few choices as you say, and first cousins do marry, that perhaps James, who also needs direction, would do.”

  Father sat up straighter, eyes wide in surprise. Rowena almost fell off the sofa. Her heart lurched. Marry her off to James, her cousin, a man she had no interest in—and a possible traitor?

  Chapter Five

  “The marriage would settle both of you down,” Aunt Elizabeth continued as if Rowena’s horrified expression meant nothing. “When the war is won, James will farm the land. I hope we will have our property returned, then we’ll gift you several acres. You’d do well enough together.”

  Rowena unwound her tongue. She’d never consent to this. Her aunt must be sipping laudanum. “No, no. I think that would—”

  “Sister. I must object.” Father leaned forward, his face vexed. “That is a, do forgive me, very inappropriate suggestion. On such an important topic, you should have spoken to me in private first. I hesitate at such a match.”

  “Thank you, Father.” Rowena turned to her aunt. “I’m sorry, Auntie, but I have no desire to marry James, or to marry at all for the time-being.” She stood, her cheeks burning. The toast she’d eaten churned in her stomach.

  “Rowena, please stay.” Aunt Elizabeth fingered the chatelaine that hung from her waist, the piece where keys and other items jingled—now they had no housekeeper—then she gripped her hands in her lap, glancing at her brother. “Robert, I was only… You’re right, I should have consulted you. How remiss of me.” She sighed, eyes lowered. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I heard noises that interrupted my slumber.”

  Rowena started. “Dear Aunt, I’ve explained. I had Anne doing extra duties. That’s why I mention the pay increase. If we can manage that, Father.” She knew she rambled and twice smoothed her skirt. “Now, I must—check on my pony. The poor thing has been neglected. No more marriage talk, please. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Yes, my dear. We’ll speak later.” Father nodded, his gaze troubled, as he sipped his tea.

  She prayed that he would remain steadfast. Eligible men were difficult to come by these days, but—never James! She’d no attraction to him and couldn’t think of him in that way. He was like a third older brother, the most annoying of them. And now she didn’t trust him.

  Besides, she refused to marry until she was older, much older. The war would be done, her world no longer entrenched in uncertainty.

  Picking up her skirts, Rowena hustled out the rear parlor, and down the corridor toward the front door.

  Out in the fresh air, she sucked in breaths. Then she worried she’d left her father and aunt alone to decide her fate, and Father might dither. Why had she so little control over her own life?

  Women were considered weak, flighty, and needing the stalwart guidance of men. But who made these assertions? Who started the war? She gritted her teeth. Stubborn, pompous men.

  Other females demanded rights men wanted to deny to them. Rowena recalled the book The Medley by Englishwoman Jane Gomeldon. The author had fled her cruel husband around 1740, lived life as a man for a time, then championed women’s education, their rights to dress as men, and choose lovers. Mrs. Gomeldon had died the previous year, 1779.

  The book was given to Rowena by her governess, a strong-minded woman she still missed since she’d retired three years past. She’d told Rowena she was too quick-witted, too outspoken—she’d said it as a compliment—but to remember that intelligent women were seldom appreciated and must use other m
eans to get their way.

  Father had little idea Rowena read such books, though her mother had encouraged her.

  With a huff of resolve, Rowena rounded the house and crept through the rear door, up the bare, narrow servants’ stairs, and into her room. From under her bed she dragged out the shirt and breeches she’d worn the previous night. Snatching her sewing box from her dresser, she returned outside the same way, glanced over her shoulder, then headed for the stable.

  She glanced at the burnt building nearby, the dairy where she’d once helped with their small cheese production, when they had cows. Rebels had stolen the cows and set fire to the structure last year.

  The fields around the farm lay fallow, where once they’d grown oats as feed; but the laborers had deserted them. And Andrew and William’s absence added to their struggle and her worries.

  She entered the stable. The redolent scent of hay enveloped her. The empty stalls where their confiscated horses had once resided increased her muddle.

  She set down the items she’d carried in. Lily and Trent snorted at her. She stroked both their silky noses. And patted the bony nag that pulled their cart; the animal’s hot breath caressed her hand. “Sam, are you here?”

  A moment later footsteps from the back. “Aye.” He came out, a pitchfork in his hand, blond hair loose. “Hope we’re not goin’ to town this night. Not after that blackguard almost cut your throat, Miss.”

  She tried not to quiver, reliving that. “But he must be a Loyalist, or he wouldn’t have let us go.” She sat on a stool and opened her sewing box. Her mind needed activity to calm it. Was the dark stranger also leery of James, and that’s why he’d lurked outside the tavern? “I will speak to James as soon as I see him. He can’t be the traitor I worry he might…” She met Sam’s scrutiny. “I also thank you for traveling with me.”

  Sam forked hay into the animals’ stalls. “I couldn’t let you go alone. Didn’t believe you’d go inside the tavern. But your roamin’ gets me out an’ about.”