The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  While the servant slipped from the room, the captain pivoted to his guests, dust clinging to his uniform, dulling the scarlet. "John Sheffield at your service." Clark introduced them. The captain wrung his extended hand, and Betsy hid her amusement over Clark's wince of pain. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for coming." He directed a cordial smile at Betsy and bowed. "After tea, your aunt awaits your arrival in your mother's home."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Sheffield assumed his seat and measured leaves from the canister into the pot. Finnegan entered with a kettle of steaming water, added water to the pot, and left to reheat the kettle. Small talk ensued while the captain passed around cups of steeped tea and offered sugar and milk. All Betsy wanted at first was to inhale the bouquet of the beverage. She noticed Clark doing the same. They'd made do for so long with coffee and hot chocolate for afternoon "tea." Rebels in several colonies had been out of their minds to dump such nectar into the ocean.

  She balanced her cup and saucer in her lap. "Captain, I'd not met your predecessor, Major Hunt. I understand the Creek Indians injured him. How does he?"

  "He took a ball in the leg. A surgeon in Cow Ford removed it cleanly. It's a matter of waiting for the infection to clear. Kind of you to ask. Your mother and uncle were captured by those same Indians. You must be ill with concern."

  Betsy dropped her gaze to hide her knowledge otherwise. "Yes, I can hardly sleep. What news do you have of them?"

  "A delegate from Cow Ford met the Creek's mico — their leader — to ask the terms for their release. The mico refused to talk. Negotiations are at a standstill this moment, and I'm sorry for it, but those Indians can be capricious. They decide daily whether they'll honor treaties and alliances."

  Betsy let out a slow breath of relief. Thank the heavens the redcoats didn't know Sophie and David had escaped.

  Sheffield cleared his throat. "I expect Major Hunt's account of the events culminating in Havana within a week. We've interviewed residents from Alton. Everyone we've spoken with insists that neither your mother nor uncle were rebels. Frankly I'm puzzled as to their motive for taking up with the rebels."

  She considered the rationale David had implied the day before. "Perhaps, sir, they didn't take up with the rebels but were simply concerned for my grandfather's well-being. They followed him to Cuba and became entangled in his schemes."

  Sheffield scratched his chin. "Your aunt advanced a similar theory, but she's known for supporting rebel viewpoints."

  Betsy smiled. "Aunt Susana talks a great deal, but I doubt she'd throw herself wholeheartedly into the rebel cause."

  "Why is that?"

  "Promise you won't repeat this."

  "You have my word."

  "She has a dramatic flair that obscures a lack of backbone."

  "Ah. But your mother and uncle do possess backbone?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Sheffield nodded. "Mr. Sheridan's support of His Majesty is known in Augusta. But tell me, madam, where are your loyalties?"

  She held his gaze. "I won't take sides. Parliament and the Congress are doing a poor job of listening to each other."

  Annoyance squeezed from Sheffield's lips. "Neutrals. The townsfolk claim your mother and uncle are neutrals."

  "I've heard them remark on the pig-headedness of both sides, yes." She maintained a cool eye on the captain. "In my mother's recent letters to me, she mentioned that Major Hunt had begun spending time with her."

  Shrewdness twitched Sheffield's eyebrows. "Gossip says they were courting. Hardly the actions of a woman dedicated to the rebel cause." He studied her reaction.

  At first she expected him to explain away Major Hunt's actions with a statement such as, "Your mother must have been a spy who set out to dazzle and deceive him." But he remained quiet. If he felt the major's reputation tarnished by the liaison, he didn't hasten to polish away the smudge. He must have concluded that Sophie Barton was a decent woman and Edward Hunt was in full command of his faculties. She respected Sheffield for that.

  After a moment, he stirred. "Neutrality is a difficult and often dangerous position to maintain."

  "There are plenty of neutrals out there, sir."

  "Yes, I'm aware of it. So is Parliament. A grievously untapped resource for His Majesty." He inspected their teacups. "More tea?" Betsy and Clark extended cups at the same time, their eager expressions eliciting a chuckle from the captain. "Could I win over a neutral simply by serving tea, I'd give my next month's pay for a crate of the stuff."

  Finnegan reappeared with hot water, and Sheffield replenished their tea. Conversation turned apolitical. Betsy watched Clark manipulate anecdotes from the captain about his boyhood in Yorkshire. Sheffield's hearty laugh filled the room. Not in his wildest dreams did the captain suspect her husband stuck secret messages in boots or dealt with enemy Spaniards. No, indeed, there were two John Clark Sheridans, and Betsy, with growing unease, wondered which she'd married.

  At the conclusion of tea, Sheffield crushed Clark's hand in another handshake, kissed Betsy's hand with a gentleness that surprised her, and held up his forefinger. "Before I forget. You want to know about your escort back to Augusta on the morrow."

  "Stoddard heading it up again?" Clark grinned. "An excellent officer, and good company on the road."

  "Er, no. The lieutenant serving beneath Major Hunt has been concluding business in Alton since his return from Havana. He leaves on the morrow for an assignment in South Carolina."

  The diplomatic mask on Sheffield's face said that he disliked Major Hunt's lieutenant every bit as much as Stoddard did. Betsy's foreboding escalated. If she wanted to keep David's visit secret, she saw no way she could discuss her misgivings, even with her husband.

  The captain broadened his smile. "And since you're traveling in the same direction, it's sensible for him to head your escort. I assure you he's quite capable of handling any problems that might arise on the road. In fact, I have him out investigating livestock theft this afternoon because I know he'll get to the bottom of it, if anyone can." He turned to Clark. "Shall I send him over to the house tonight to meet you?"

  Clark shook his head. "I'll likely run into him in the Red Rock this evening."

  "Very well. I shall have your escort at the house on the morrow at seven to return you to Augusta."

  "Thank you, sir. But we didn't catch his name."

  "Oh, of course. Fairfax is the name. Dunstan Fairfax."

  Chapter Four

  BETSY PLOPPED HER tote on the counter beside Arriaga's package and surveyed the shop. Upstairs, her aunt hollered, "I'll be right down!" Betsy sneezed, dismayed at clutter neither Sophie nor Will would have permitted in the print shop. Susana may have kept the newspaper going, but in what state was the ledger?

  The back door whammed open, and a flame-haired girl trudged in. She bobbed a curtsy at Betsy, the sullen tug to her mouth vanishing. "I'll tell Mrs. Greeley you're here, Miss —?"

  "I'm Betsy Sheridan, Sophie Barton's daughter."

  Her scrutiny of Betsy deepened. "Ain't I met you before?"

  And so it started, recognition of Betsy's features. "I don't think so. I've not been to Alton in a number of years."

  Susana hollered again: "Mary, get up here this instant!" The servant hurried upstairs.

  Betsy picked her way around a shop smelling of dust and mildew. Within a minute, Susana clomped downstairs, a harried twenty-nine-year-old mother of six, dark-haired and gray-eyed like her two older siblings. Delight softened her scowl, and she blazed a trail through stacks of newspaper for an embrace. "Betsy, what a pleasure to have you here! You've been away much too long. Let me have a look at you. My goodness, not showing at all. How far along are you?"

  "Just over four months."

  "How do you stay so tiny? Just like your mama, heaven help her." Susana sighed, pulled a handkerchief from her pocket, and dabbed her eyes. "Your poor mama and uncle, captured by those Indians. I'm so worried, I can scarcely eat or sleep." She blew her nose and c
rammed the handkerchief back in her pocket. "I hope this nightmare ends soon and everyone comes home. I've kept the press going, but I'm not the business manager your mama is."

  Betsy leaned forward for a closer look at Susana's earlobes. "Aren't those my mother's garnet earrings?"

  Susana snaked lampblack-and-varnish stained fingers to her ears and flushed. "Oh, my. I was dusting her room this morning and tried them on. I was just fancying that I was somewhere else, somewhere exciting. No harm done, eh?" She tittered, removed the earrings, stuck them in her pocket, and craned her neck about the shop. "Where's Clark?"

  "Visiting the tanner on business. He'll come for supper."

  "Good." Susana seized her hand and towed her toward the pressroom. "I've had such trouble with the newspaper."

  Composing sticks full of type and galleys full of composing sticks cluttered the workbenches in the pressroom, dominated by Will's big, hand-pulled press. Betsy smelled lampblack and varnish, ink for the type. She stepped around a bucket of filthy rags and pushed drawers of type into their cabinets so she could squeeze past.

  "Your mama arranged so much copy on just one page and squeezed in advertisements, too. I'm not that talented. Do you think I should add a second page?"

  Betsy blinked at her. "It's been seven years since I helped with a print run." And she hadn't missed it at all. Printing was filthy, grueling work. "A few calculations should show whether the increase in your expenses is worth adding a second page." Her back to the window, she glanced at the workbench near her elbow, where Susana had composed an article, letters arranged backwards. Her brain inverted type. Someone named Reverend Gunn had authored the article.

  "I'm not good at numbers. Might you help me after supper?" At Betsy's gesture of acquiescence, Susana smiled and squeezed her hand. In her peripheral vision, Betsy saw a flash of scarlet uniform on the porch. The relief on her aunt's face converted to a snarl, and she lowered her voice at the sound of the shop bell jingling. "Wait here while I get rid of that ghoul."

  After she huffed from the pressroom, Betsy read a line from the preacher's article: Only then shall man be at peace with his god.

  In the shop, Susana snapped, "We're closed for the day."

  The soldier responded, "I think not, else you'd have changed the sign in the front window. I shall have a look around. You're acting culpable, as if you've something to hide."

  Susana's voice rose to a whine. "I have family visiting. That's why I've closed early today. I've nothing to hide. Very well, look around. I lost a scissors in that rat's clutter last week. Do let me know if you find them."

  With the soldier and Susana occupied in the shop, an impish smile seized Betsy's lips. She inverted a "g" and "d" on the stick and inspected Reverend Gunn's revised message: Only then shall man be at peace with his dog. Animal worship. Now Alton was the exciting "somewhere" Susana longed to be.

  While wiping ink off her fingers, Betsy heard anxiety rise in Susana's voice: "Begone! You've no right to snoop about."

  "To the contrary, madam, I've heard you express seditious sympathies. My superiors are loath to imagine women acting as spies, but I'm not handicapped by such views. In light of your family's recent activities, you'd make a perfect rebel courier."

  Well, he certainly was yanking Susana around. Not that her pretentious aunt didn't deserve a little yanking around. Betsy meandered to the doorway of the pressroom, crossed arms over her chest, and leaned against the doorjamb to watch the show.

  The soldier scoured shelves, piles, and boxes with his gaze, aware that Susana fidgeted behind him when he'd poke in a shelf or box. He'd laid his cocked hat on the counter next to the package. A plait of russet hair extended over his collar, and he sported a tan on his hands and face. Approximately Stoddard's age and height, he moved with the confidence and solid musculature of a man at home in his body, not like the striplings she knew in Augusta. And not at all like Stoddard, either.

  "How rude of you to come in just to heckle me!"

  "Just to heckle you? Hardly. I've a letter to post." He whipped it from his waistcoat pocket. Betsy's gaze snagged on braid ornamenting his left shoulder. Lieutenant. So this was Fairfax, so disliked by his peers and her uncle. Maybe it was his arrogance. Her gaze roved his profile, and she recalled the pimples on Stoddard's chin. Not a pimple in sight on Fairfax.

  "We're closed. Return at nine on the morrow for the post."

  "My dear Mrs. Greeley, I'm charmed. You've enjoyed my company enough to detain me in Alton another day."

  Betsy could almost hear her aunt's teeth grinding. She stifled a snort while Susana rose to the bait again and snatched his letter. "Then I shall post it for you." She marched around the counter, dragged the ledger out from the shelf, and slapped it down before her, pluming a cloud of dust into the air.

  While she readied quill and inkwell and flipped open the ledger, Fairfax laid coins on the counter. His gaze strayed to the package. He opened it, reached in, and seized a fistful of the veil. Betsy watched his eyes widen with an emotion she couldn't quite fathom. His lips parted, and his fingers fondled the lace like it was an old friend, or at least an ally. Cold slithered through her stomach.

  Susana completed the ledger entry and scooped the coins into a pouch. "Your letter is posted. Now begone." She spied the veil in Fairfax's hands and reached for the box. "And I shall thank you to keep your hands off more of my property."

  He flung down the lace, all expression gone from his face, and seized her wrist so hard she gasped. "You've exhausted my patience with your rebel games. Shall I arrest you for treason?"

  "T-treason? What have I done but record the post for your blasted letter? How is that treason?"

  He squeezed her wrist, and she winced. "The items in that box belong to your sister. She left them in Havana. How did you obtain her property from the Spaniards?"

  "I-I've never seen that package before in my life!"

  "I want the names, code names, and nationalities of agents who made the transfer. When and where is your next meeting? What did they send with the parasol and veil? Maps? Ciphers? Quickly, or I shall haul you to jail and clap you in irons."

  Choking noises issued from Susana's throat. Betsy frowned. Fairfax might be a handsome enough fellow, but he was overbearing and obnoxious. She uncrossed her arms and straightened in the doorway. "I'm the one who can tell you about the package. My aunt knows nothing of it."

  He released Susana and swung around to meet her gaze with eyes the temperature of gray-green rime on the shore of the North Sea during the Midwinter Solstice. Betsy had to restrain herself from gulping and cowering as he advanced on her. Ugh. The sentiments of Stoddard, Sheffield, and her aunt and uncle weren't a mystery anymore. Over his shoulder, she saw that Susana had collapsed on a stool and begun fanning herself. Betsy lifted her chin. "You must be Lieutenant Fairfax."

  "And you must be Betsy."

  What impudence. She flared her nostrils. "Mrs. John Clark Sheridan."

  "Mrs. John Clark Sheridan." No emotion touched his voice. "Well? The package."

  "It arrived Monday, sent by someone named Arriaga. His letter said that he'd given the items to my mother, and she'd lost them in Havana, so he was sending them to me. I didn't know what to do with the items, and since my mother's property is upstairs, I brought them along when I came for my interview."

  "What did Captain Sheffield think of the package and letter?"

  "I didn't show them to him."

  "Why not?"

  "Why should I have?"

  "Don't trifle with me. Your mother, a rebel spy, sent you communication. That warrants a full investigation."

  Betsy felt she should have laughed at his insinuation, but she was unable to retrieve any humor with those icy eyes on her. "For goodness sakes, it's just a parasol and a veil."

  "The letter must be examined for hidden messages. I hold you responsible for delivering it and the package to Captain Sheffield, and I shall alert him to expect all of it from you."

  Her
lips tightened. Arriaga's letter, stored in her pocket, burned against her thigh. Fairfax wasn't a person in whom she wanted to confide the secrets of her paternity, and he might ask after reading Arriaga's reference to her "parents." "There were no 'hidden messages' in the letter. I've given you accurate account of its straightforward content."

  "Rebels write between the lines of innocuous sounding missives using a combination of cobalt chloride, glycerin, and water. When the ink dries, it becomes invisible. Exposure to heat then reveals the message."

  Great thunder, that cipher she'd found in the heel of the boot the previous morning — both sides in the war might employ such ink. She felt her face pale, and in the next second realized that Fairfax had read her expression. His hand shot out. "Give it to me."

  "It's at my house in Augusta."

  He withdrew his hand. "Perhaps you prefer to be searched."

  Did he presume to perform such a search himself? Ye gods. Clark's cipher was also in her pocket. Betsy thrashed down panic and steadied her gaze on him, polluted as it made her feel. "I shall turn it over to you on the morrow, if you so desire."

  He said nothing, drilling his stare through her brain, watching her the way a panther observes a deer. No doubt about it, he knew she lied. After too many seconds of silence, he took a step closer. "We've met before."

  For a moment, she resisted her body's flight response. Damned if he was going to intimidate her like Susana. Above the smells of horse and leather on him she detected the scents of his skin and hair — dark, humid, savage — a combination her sense of smell routed out and found fascinating. Reasoning and senses collided, and she retreated a step at last. For no reason on earth should a ghoul with a glacier for a soul look and smell so superlative. "No, we've not met."