"I witnessed a Spaniard leaving the Givens home right after their murder. He tracked us on the road today."
Clark gaped. "You said nothing of this earlier."
"When have we had the chance to talk? I blundered from cover into that bandit because the Spaniard was skulking in the woods, recognized me from Alton, and came after me."
"Why didn't you tell Fairfax?"
"Fairfax." She snorted. "At the time, I was far too terrified and just thankful to be alive. Something about the attack of those bandits tells me we weren't random targets. Perhaps the Spaniard hired them and planned it. So who is he?"
"I don't know." He flicked his gaze away. "I've no word of another Spaniard in the ring."
Clark was lying to protect her. "What if he isn't in the ring?"
Moroseness and stubbornness set his jaw. She wouldn't get further with him that night.
"Very well, then. I shall turn in for the night." Her jaw also defiant, she scooted to the far side of the bed. "Blow out the candle when you've undressed."
He rose, unbuttoned his waistcoat, then patted the inner pocket with a frown. "Almost forgot about this letter."
She lay on her side watching him. "The one Ephraim gave you this afternoon? Who's it from?"
"Isaac Sheridan, King Street, in Camden, South Carolina."
"Sheridan?" Her eyebrows rose. "A relation?"
Without answering, he broke the seal and brought the paper close to the light. Expression faded from his face when he skimmed the letter. Then he warmed the paper over the flame.
Betsy, seeing his face empty of emotion, realized the letter contained a ciphered message, and she sat up again, her chest tight with omen. He turned the paper to her, where pale blue numbers faded, sandwiched between a spidery scrawl of dark ink:
9 July 1780, Town of Camden
My dear nephew John Clark:
It has been half a Year since last I heard from you. I hope All is well with you and your new Wife. How much a Blessing it is to have the Wife for Helpmate in the Shop. I do so miss your Aunt Catherine.
There are Soldiers aplenty in Camden these Days since the Capture of Charles Town, and All of them needing Boots, it seems. My Business flourishes, as does all Business in Camden.
Alas but that I could say the same for the Health of my Hands and Heart. How my Hands pain me with Rheumatism! The Surgeon tells me he does not believe my old Heart can survive another Year. I must rest and give up operating my Business. The very Thought of letting an Outsider direct the Apprentices and manage the Books pains me almost as much, so I shall make you an Offer.
Move to Camden with your Wife and assume the Operation of my Business for the next Year. I shall give you sixty percent Profit off old Business and ninety percent Profit off new Business. I shall also establish you in a decent Dwelling near me. All I ask, beyond my small share of Profit, is the comfort of your nearness in my final Days.
Think on it, dear Nephew, but do not think too long. My Days grow short, and I would go to my Maker knowing my Friends and Family are with me and my Business is well-tended.
I am Sir
Your devoted Uncle
Isaac Sheridan
Her chest still tight, Betsy reread the letter before handing it back. "I take it you don't have an Uncle Isaac," she whispered, "but this fellow is posing as such. The spies want you in Camden. What's in Camden?" She thought of the number 402 again. "Surely not Cornwallis."
"He's in Charles Town. Lord Rawdon now holds Camden." Clark set the letter afire and watched it blacken to ash in a pewter dish at the bedside. "Camden's a central location for Crown patrols that report from the backcountry. Much by way of rumor and strategy flows through Camden these days."
"You're to keep watch for the rebels in Camden." Intuition brushed her but faded before she could grasp it.
He dragged his gaze off the cinders. "Yes. I realize you hate this, but I beg you to stay with me. I need your loyalty."
"What about the rebel cause has earned your loyalty?"
He regarded darkness in a corner. "Their passion, their fever, their love of life. They want all men to live out their dreams in this huge land of opportunity. No land restrictions. No taxes. No one telling you to worship a certain god or bow to a certain ruler. No limit to life except what your own two hands can produce." His eyes grew fervent. "If the Patriots win, all men will be free and equal."
She kept her voice low. "Even the Negroes?"
"Soon enough, yes."
He couldn't have thought that part through. The agricultural economy of the southern colonies was quite enmeshed with slavery, and she didn't see anyone freeing slaves anytime soon. "You said no taxes? The Congress taxes colonies even now."
"Only until the war is over."
"Do you really believe all that?"
"The Ambrose ring is like my family."
He might mouth rebel dogma, but his true motive for sticking with the spies was the camaraderie and bond he'd found with them. In dismay, she realized the depths to which his insecurity from being orphaned had dug. How important were she and the baby in his life? Unwilling to drag from him an answer she wasn't ready to hear, she decided to confront him with the obvious. "Fairfax will be in South Carolina. He'll consider it significant when we, already suspects in his mind as spies, turn up in Camden."
"South Carolina is a big colony. I trust the lads in Camden to take care of us, make our cover plausible. Should our paths cross with Fairfax's again, he may fret and pace with suspicion all he wants, but he won't be able to pierce our cover."
She recognized the prod to her consciousness. "Our furniture. Will we find it in the 'decent dwelling' near your Uncle Isaac?"
"Ah, yes, now I see why they burned the house. They're relocating me to Camden."
Monstrous! "At the Sweeneys', Fairfax took inventory of what was stolen from our house. Suppose he gains access to our home in Camden and assesses what's there — the exact pieces of furniture that went missing, down to the clothing and quilts. Even I'd consider the coincidence to be too great."
Clark seized her hands in his, his determination intense. "Trust me. We know what we're doing. We shall make it work."
She shook her head. "I don't want to leave family and friends here, and I have a bad feeling about Camden. Stay, rebuild your business, continue spying if you must, but write 'Uncle Isaac' and tell him you aren't coming."
"That isn't an option." His grasp of her hands grew almost painful. "Trust me, dear heart."
Gazing into his eyes, she felt desperate. In the past ten minutes, he'd let her see a man she didn't know. She resisted the urge to pull away from his touch. After all, he was her husband, and she'd exchanged wedding vows to stay at his side. But the fiery determination she saw in his eyes reminded her too much of the angelic radiance in Fairfax's face just before he killed or interrogated. Surely, if she pondered it long enough, she could find the argument to dissuade her husband from his association with the rebels. "Heaven help us," she murmured.
Chapter Twelve
DAWN ON FRIDAY, July 14, found Betsy plodding along to the home of the Alexanders, a loaf of Sarah's molasses bread in her basket. Lack of sleep muddied her thoughts. She'd lain awake most of the night listening to Clark's snores.
Two days earlier, she'd wished for a plausible reason to go to South Carolina so she could search for her parents. Now, her house was gone. Her husband perpetrated treason against the government. Not that she could muster exuberant praise for that government, but still, it was lawful. And she must move to the most war-torn colony in British North America so Clark could continue spying. The world had turned upside down. She had to be more careful what she wished for.
Augustans opening shop for the day called out sympathy over the loss of her house. A lump formed in her throat at their goodwill, kind-hearted people she'd known most of her life. Leaving such a solid community disturbed her even more than the knowledge of Clark's role in her distress.
Scant community aw
aited her in Camden, home of a third cousin, Emma, who'd married the owner of the Leaping Stag, Camden's most prosperous tavern. Betsy hadn't seen Emma in almost eight years and wondered if she and her family would ever feel like community or Camden would ever feel like home.
She detoured to the stationer's shop, where the plump proprietress behind the counter offered coffee. "We're so sorry about your house. But I'm making a blanket for that baby of yours, and Matthew, you know how fancy he gets with carpentry, he's hard at work on a couple of stools for you."
"Thank you, Molly."
"How can I help you this morning?"
Betsy set down her coffee cup, withdrew from her basket the letters she'd written before leaving the house, and handed them to Molly. "Please see them posted today."
"Gladly." Molly examined one address. "Joshua Hale, Hale and Sons Smithy, Alton, Georgia. It should reach him later today. I'm expecting a southbound rider presently. And, hmm, Emma Branwell, the Leaping Stag Tavern, Camden, South Carolina. That letter may take a few days."
"I understand. Thank you." Betsy had debated breaking Clark's confidence because she so needed someone to talk with. She'd finally settled for brief, scant-detail letters to her uncle and cousin about their burned house and relocation. She hoped Joshua would accompany her to Camden.
Molly waved away Betsy's postage money. "It's on us, dear. It's the least we can do for you right now."
Stumping along beneath her cloud of preoccupation after she left Molly, Betsy passed through town center, where some of the wealthier Augustans resided. Realizing her name had been called several times, she turned about in the street to spot widow Abby Fuller approaching her with a bundle, a timorous smile on her sensuous lips. "Good morning, Mrs. Fuller." She bobbed a curtsy, wondering at Abby's business with her. Abby's business had been mostly with her Uncle David.
"Good morning, Mrs. Sheridan." Abby dropped a curtsy, dainty blonde curls peeking from beneath her lace mobcap, a wave of expensive floral scent greeting Betsy at the movement. "I-I brought you this." She extended the bundle. "It — It's a ham."
"Thank you, Mrs. Fuller." Betsy, transferring the ham to her basket, wondered at the socialite's stammer, trembling hands, and haunted, red-rimmed eyes. Maybe she was concerned after their well-being. "Mr. Sheridan and I are both all right, you know. We weren't at home during the fire."
"I know it, but — but —" Abby darted a furtive glance about the street before lowering her voice. "Take care of yourselves, please, dear?" Fresh tears crested her eyes. "I'm sorry, so sorry." Her voice withered to a whisper. "Tell your Uncle David that, and may he forgive me someday." She burst into tears, caught up her silk petticoat, and rushed off.
Baffled, Betsy regarded her retreating figure a moment while her mind replayed David's predawn visit Tuesday morning to her back yard. Obviously he'd sneaked into Augusta late Monday to spend the night with Abby before heading to Williamsburg. Risky business, but if anyone knew how to sneak around, it was David St. James. However, he wasn't Abby's only suitor. Maybe they'd argued over her other gentlemen. Being a wealthy widow in no way guaranteed liberty from possessive beaus.
She'd all but dismissed Abby's peculiar behavior by the time she reached the Alexanders' little house. From out back, she heard the rhythmic strike of an axe. One of the Alexander brothers was chopping wood. Diana knelt in the scrawny garden out front, trying to coax weeds from around herbs. A year younger than Betsy and sandy-haired like her mother and brothers, she rose with delight at the sight of Betsy, wiped her hands on her threadbare apron, and rushed over for a hug. "It's so good to see you safe!" She grasped Betsy's hand. "Come inside. Mama will make you herbal tea."
Herbal tea grown from Rose's garden. Betsy resisted the urge to wince at Alexander hospitality when they had so little. Diana, in particular, was looking rather thin. "I don't have much time. I brought food for all of you." She extended the basket. They could use Abby's ham more than the Sheridans could.
"An entire ham." Diana swallowed, her mouth watering.
"And Sarah's bread." Betsy wondered when the girl had last eaten red meat. The potluck she'd given Tom hadn't been much.
"I love her bread. Thank you. Mama? Mama, Betsy's here, and look what she brought us!"
Betsy trailed Diana inside the tiny but tidy house, where Rose straightened from before the hearth and came forward to hug Betsy. Her eyes misted at the gift of food, and Betsy declined the offer of tea again after glancing out the back window, where Tom chopped wood in his shirtsleeves. "It's good to see him up and about. Looks like he's feeling better."
Rose pursed her lips. "Doctor Norton says he should rest another day. I don't know any young men with harder heads." She plucked at Betsy's sleeve. "Go out and have a word with him. He listens to you."
She laughed. "Me? Since when?"
"About once a week he comes home from the shop, and it's 'Betsy says this' or "Betsy says that.'"
Betsy saw Diana's shy smile and looked away to hide a flush of astonishment and bewilderment. "Surely I don't talk all that much. I just manage the books." She glanced away. "That is, I managed the books when there were books to manage."
"Oh, my poor dear, here you are, helping us with food when you've lost your home. I'm so sorry."
Rose tucked her into a sound, mama's embrace. It felt like Sarah's embrace, like Sophie's embrace, and Betsy bit her tongue hard to keep from bursting into tears. She ached for her mother's soothing touch, her sensible advice. How she needed a mother that moment, someone to stroke her head, kiss her, and tell her everything would be all right. Here she was, going to be a mother herself in a few months, but she figured most folks never stop needing a mother.
She wobbled out a smile when they parted. Rose squeezed her hand, echoed the smile, and gestured toward the window. "So would you have a word with that hard-headed son of mine, tell him to come in here and get some sustenance?"
"Very well."
Tom pivoted from the woodpile, spied Betsy's approach, and set down his axe to take up a towel. "Morning!" He swabbed off his face, leaving a smile behind. "Don't tell me. Mama sent you out here to get me to quit working."
"No, indeed. I brought a ham and some of Sarah's bread."
"Food!" Tom cupped his mouth with his hand and hollered, "I'll be right in, Mama!" With a grin, he reached for the axe again. "I can get a few more logs split before she has it on the table. You sticking around to eat with us?"
"No, I have too much to do today."
Crack! A log split in two with a clean stroke from the axe. "Such as?"
Her tired brain refused to concoct an answer. What did one do while waiting to move hundreds of miles with nothing to pack? She fingered corn silk on a four-foot stalk. The Alexander's vegetable garden looked healthy. "Such as talking with people."
"I'll be there to help at the house-raising. I know you and Clark are eager for your own home again." Crack!
She wasn't at all eager for that house in Camden. What a lie everything was. "Yes."
"Diana says the ladies scheduled a quilting next week. She and Mama have some of the most even stitching in town and cannot wait to help." Crack!
"Yes."
Not hearing the crack of more wood, Betsy glanced over to find him studying her, hands on hips, the axe resting against his thigh. "You know, I've seen more enthusiasm from men being marched to the gallows."
"I didn't sleep very well last night."
"I don't blame you." He rubbed the back of his head. "I didn't sleep very well, either." His voice lowered. "Shall we continue the chatter, or are you going to tell me all about it?"
She felt her lower lip quiver and bit it to no avail. Tears stung her eyes. Her nose ran, and she sniffled. "It's far worse than I imagined. I don't want to get you in trouble."
He set down the axe and gestured over the corn patch. "Would you take a look at my beans? You have a magical touch with vegetables, and the beans aren't doing too well. Maybe not enough sunlight?"
She trudg
ed around the corn to the bean plot, squatted, and inspected the beans. "Put a little more potash on them." She dragged the back of her hand beneath her nose.
"Thanks. I'll do that." He sat down next to her, so they were hidden from the house by corn, and he grew quiet.
Birds twittered while Betsy tested out preambles in her head, thinking to ease Tom into the unreality of the situation. She finally realized he wasn't the sort of fellow who liked to be eased into anything. "Clark's a spy for a ring of rebels. I don't know how many of them are in the ring, and he only knows a few, but I get the impression there are at least a dozen. You saw several of them yesterday morning before they knocked you out. Two Spaniards are named Basilio and Francisco.
"The rebels want him in Camden. They packed our furniture and burned our house. We'll find the furniture waiting for us in Camden, along with Clark's next assignment. A rebel in Camden is posing as his aging uncle who needs him to assume his shoemaking business. 'Uncle Isaac' will have our house set up for us by the time we arrive." She trailed off. The mission sounded even more insane spoken aloud.
Tom plucked a piece of straw off the ground and shredded it. "What are you going to do?"
"Keep quiet and go with him." She emitted a dry laugh. "I'm his wife."
"Will you help him spy?"
"Oh, gods no. I might find a way to talk him out of such madness, and perhaps my presence will give him solace."
"Who takes care of you?"
She shook her head, unable to speak.
"Have you no family in Camden you can call on for help?"
"A cousin."
Tom muttered phrases that sounded like, "Preposterous," and "Endangering the baby," before he said, "When do you leave?"
"As soon as we find an escort." She coughed out a laugh. "One that doesn't include Lieutenant Fairfax, that is."
"I shall go with you."
"No."
"I'm his apprentice. He'll need help with business."
"I shall manage the books."
"See here, a rebel spy purports to operate the façade of a shoemaking business in a town full of soldiers who need boots. Even with Clark at the last eighteen hours a day, I doubt he'll be able to fill all his orders in a timely manner. I shall go along as his apprentice. I don't agree with what he's doing, but I owe a great deal to him, and so I shall help him maintain his deception. No one has to know that I know."
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 9
