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

by Adair, Suzanne

  That morning, she'd fancied elaborate scenarios for capturing Tom's attention. Oh, how she'd wanted to be seduced by him. Yet he'd responded to simple tickle and play. As for seduction, well, she concluded it was a myth. Either a woman wanted a man or she didn't want him, and the response of her body would follow the predilections of her heart and soul.

  Tom rose to his elbows. "You didn't eat tonight. Your stomach's growling."

  "That's your stomach growling."

  "In sympathy. Come on, up you go, and let's get you fed."

  After dressing, they wandered down to the dining room, where Hattie fussed over Betsy because it was well past nine and put a heaping plate in front of her at the table. When Tom sniffed at the plate like a starving dog, the slave set food before him, too.

  Each time Hattie's errands took her from the dining room for a few seconds, Betsy and Tom sneaked kisses and gropes. For once, Betsy was able to tune out the revelry in the common room and soar above her worries. She didn't need rescue. All she needed was Tom's friendship.

  While they were finishing dessert, Sally entered from the common room, a wooden box about a foot cubed in her arms. "Hattie, you seen Mistuh Abel?"

  Hattie eyed the box. "I seen him in his office 'bout half an hour ago. What's in dat box?"

  Sally grimaced. "I dunno. Mistuh Todd say an old man bring it fo' Mistuh Abel just now. I sure don't like the smell of it, so I's ready to turn it over to th' master." She disappeared down the hallway, and about a minute later strolled through the dining room, headed for the back yard. "Yessum, he's in his office."

  A howl of human terror rocketed down the hallway from Abel's office. Tom bolted to his feet, toppling over his chair. Abel howled again. Hair stood out on Betsy's neck and arms. Tom dashed out into the hallway, followed by Betsy, the slaves, and three redcoats who were standing near enough in the common room to hear. By the time Tom opened the office door, Abel had howled twice more. They found him babbling, cowered on the floor, expression contorted in horror. Tom bounded over, peered in the opened box on his desk, and recoiled. "Oh, my god!"

  Abel howled a final time and fainted. While the slaves pulled the accountant out from underfoot, the soldiers surged forward to look in the box, recoiling much as Tom had done. One headed for the doorway. "I shall return with the captain straight away."

  One of the others pulled on Betsy's arm when she inched forward. "Madam, you really don't want to see what's in there."

  She really didn't want to smell what was in there, either — something in the early stages of putrefaction — but morbid curiosity and a thumping heart drew her onward until she glimpsed over the edge. The ebony walking stick of Jan van Duser lay inside, hacked into about eight pieces as if by an axe. Nestled atop the remains of the walking stick was the Dutchman's gold ring, except that it was still attached to his forefinger, and the forefinger was still attached to his hand, severed at the wrist, and turgid with decay.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  BETSY STUDIED HER hands. They'd ceased shaking, but the dread that clamped upon her earlier had deepened, and her attention kept straying from her discussion with Tom.

  "So van Duser has met his demise." Candlelight imbued Tom with the appearance of a scholar. "I think Abel knows that whoever severed van Duser's hand will come for him next."

  Betsy grimaced. What had she unleashed Tuesday night?

  "Perhaps a blackmail victim has vindicated himself."

  She remembered Carter's words: tempted to acts most nefarious. She could envision him murdering van Duser and Branwell but not chopping them up with an axe. No, he'd use a firearm, put a ball through those wicked hearts or heads.

  His expression thoughtful, Tom paced their room. "I don't know. If Branwell and van Duser bilked me of my fortune, I'd shoot them. I'd shoot the bodyguards, too. But slitting someone's throat or hacking him up — Jesus, you have to touch the person you're killing." His face screwed up. "Maybe even enjoy your victim's agony. That's twisted."

  I shall grant you a thirty-second lead before I hunt you down. Betsy gulped, drawing Tom's attention. "Josiah Carter has a packhorse to sell us at a reduced rate."

  "A packhorse?" Tension on his face smoothing, Tom sat and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Wonderful news. We'll inspect it —"

  "This weekend. I already made an appointment."

  He seemed surprised but gratified. "Well, then, we may be able to get out of here in a couple of weeks."

  Desperate to find sense in the madness, her brain tacked together a story. Fairfax's superior officers had granted him special dispensation to hunt the Ambrose ring, unaware that he was spying for the Continentals. Then the Ambrose ring had double-crossed Fairfax.

  No, that didn't feel right. She couldn't believe that Fairfax was spying for the Continentals, but she knew he was hunting the spies. And even if van Duser had lost consciousness before divulging details of her residence at the Leaping Stag, Fairfax would uncover all that when he went to work on Abel. She knew nothing to aid his hunt, but he might not be convinced until he'd mutilated her. Her shoulders sagged. "I want to be gone before an attempt is made on Abel," she whispered.

  "I do, too. But if your mother's detained meeting you at Mulberry Creek, you mustn't go without food. You have that baby to think about."

  "It's too dangerous for us to stay here."

  He grasped her shoulders. "Sweet Betsy, I want to give us the best odds possible."

  Knots of fear lodged in her stomach — not just fear for herself, but for Tom. For the first time since coming to Camden, she couldn't see the two of them as separate. They were a unit, exquisitely vulnerable for having become a much larger target than two individuals. Tom's emotions played into her decisions, and her emotions played into his, and she was no longer certain that two heads were thinking better than one.

  The intimacy that evening had skewed their ability to think. In retrospect, she realized the timing couldn't have been worse for initiating the physical relationship. But how could she have known, never having experienced with her husband the tenderness and connection she'd found with Tom? For his safety and hers, she must disentangle her emotions and return to a state where she could reason again.

  He frowned. "Why do I get the feeling you know more?"

  She shook her head. "I'm just as stunned as you are."

  "But you're acting as though van Duser's murderer is coming for you next, not Abel." Shock slapped his expression. He leaped up. "It wasn't a blackmail victim who got van Duser. It was Lieutenant Fairfax! I don't know why I didn't see it before." He stared at her and lowered his voice in horror. "Betsy, tell me you didn't let him know about van Duser Tuesday night. Oh, no. Oh, heavens, no." Tom began pacing the room again.

  Her lower lip quivered. "The Ambrose ring ruined my life!"

  "You've made an avenging angel of a fiend. Oh, gods, I don't know why he didn't torture and kill you."

  "He never saw me. I slipped him a note that informed him of the connection between van Duser and the stolen furniture."

  "Lovely. Now he has a sample of your handwriting."

  She stood and squared her shoulders. "No. He's no idea who sent the note, for I printed it on Mr. Harker's press."

  Tom stomped back over to her, gripped her wrist, and waved her fingers in her face. "Ink on your hands! You're a St. James, for god's sake. Printing runs in your blood. All Fairfax has to do is ask Harker who helps him with the printing!"

  "But do you think he'll care who informed him if he can destroy the Ambrose spy ring?"

  "He won't leave the sack untied. Sooner or later, he'll come for you."

  She bit her lip. "We'll be gone by then."

  "What's to stop him from tracking us? You've put your mother at risk, too." He released her. "What luck the Fates have handed Fairfax. The blackmail scam will yield easy motives and suspects for murder. Two armies are squaring off north of Camden, so it might be months before all suspects are cleared and the investigation probes elsewhere. Fairfa
x will have moved on, transferred out so he can seek new victims. That's what happened after he murdered the Spaniard in Alton back in June."

  "The British will notice the trail of bodies after him." In attempt to console herself, Betsy envisioned Stoddard's raptor eyes. But the thought failed to comfort her.

  "He's murdered enemies of the king. He's doing Britain a favor. They may pretend it isn't happening. But we don't know what threshold of suspicion confirms us as enemies in his mind. And we dare not let him know we suspect him of any murders."

  She wrung her apron between her hands, wondering why she hadn't considered all that before Tuesday night. "I'm so sorry."

  "Save your apologies for Clark if you ever see him again. If he's fortunate, he'll die on his next assignment, and Fairfax won't be able to torture out his confession of treason."

  He flopped on the edge of the bed, propped elbows on knees, and put his head in his hands. She remained standing. "If letting Fairfax know about van Duser was a mistake, our making love this afternoon magnified the mistake tenfold."

  His voice emerged dull. "How so?"

  "We've forgotten how to reason together."

  He looked up at her, his expression plaintive, then reached for her hand. "I apologize for saying that about Clark just now. It's just that I'm so concerned for you. Good god, I've never been so concerned for anyone before."

  "Don't you see? Lovemaking clouded our judgment. We were thinking more clearly before."

  His shoulders drooped. "You're right. We were."

  Fresh in her memory, she tasted his kiss, felt his tongue encircle her breasts, and saw the glisten of sweat on his skin. The corners of her mouth tugged downward in mourning. "We must put it aside until we're safely away from here."

  Irony speared his expression. "An excellent way of coercing me to leave sooner." He managed a lopsided grin. "I might have known I wouldn't be so lucky as to not sleep on the floor again."

  ***

  Nothing else of van Duser was found. Investigators hunting for a motive questioned anyone with a connection to him or the Branwells. Abel remained closed in his room babbling. His doctor convinced the redcoats that he'd been driven mad and might never relate to humans again.

  From her cousin's haggard appearance, Betsy deduced she knew little of the Ambrose spy ring. Four days of interrogation persuaded Emma to spill the truth of her affair with Josiah Carter. The plantation owner's alibi was solid, and he named other victims. As Tom predicted, the investigation exploded with suspects and nary a whisper of Fairfax's name. The blackmail scam provided Lieutenant Fairfax with the perfect cover for his activities.

  The redcoats pulled resources off the murder investigation after reports filtered in on the seventh of August that the Continental Army had entered South Carolina. Cornwallis remained in Charles Town, so a resigned and courageous Lord Rawdon headed out to intercept Gates's multitude with fewer than a thousand men. By Tuesday August eighth, the exodus of residents down Broad Street was commonplace. Even Frank Harker lost his ebullience. Although he insisted they'd print the paper, he wasn't eager to stand up to a mob invading the town.

  That evening while eating supper, Betsy realized five days had passed since the severed hand. No move had been made on Abel. Another week more, and she and Tom could slip from Camden.

  With no direct route to Ninety Six, they'd parallel the Wateree River on a northwest road through territory of the friendly Catawba Indians, thus giving pursuit the impression they were headed for Charlotte Town, North Carolina. The route entailed backtracking, hence Tom's adamancy that they build up provisions. Betsy appreciated his sense. Joshua had been right weeks ago about Tom: a good ally and friend, a man with a head for clear thinking.

  For a moment, she recalled her final night with Clark in the O'Neals' house. Memory of it had haunted her weeks before, made her question if she'd contributed to his decisions. But the meeting in Log Town brought her a reckoning with her own insecurity. Deep inside, she'd never trusted him, never believed he'd come through for her. Insecurity had motivated her to follow him to Camden, as if by sheer proximity she could force him to assume responsibility.

  But she understood that she couldn't change Clark and from the closed door in her heart knew she'd also passed beyond holding a grudge against him. Perhaps the Fates would extricate him from the mire they'd both created, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to settle with him before she left Camden.

  Daughter, I sense a great restlessness in you, a fear. Beyond getting acquainted with your father, what is your reason for seeking him? Laughing Eyes had comprehended Betsy's desire to find a blood father. For unless Betsy did so, a crisis might prevent her from providing for her child through her skill with the printing press. With blood kin to support her, she had a chance of raising her child to respectable adulthood. Will St. James had helped Sophie in just such a way. Was half-Creek Mathias Hale such a father?

  Boots scuffed in the doorway to the common room. "Where may a good sholdier phiss?"

  Betsy started at the doorway, where a besotted soldier fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. Hattie marched over waving her apron and scowling. "You goes out th' door on the other side of th' tavern, sir, and the house o' easement is just outside." The soldier staggered back into the common room, and Hattie crossed her arms in annoyance. "Been like dat all night. Had t' chase one officer off these here stairs 'bout an hour ago. Turn my back for a second, an' in they wanders. Hrumph."

  Emma burst into the dining room, her pampered and glamorous appearance spoiled by five days of investigators' questions and tavern maintenance. "Betsy, there's a wine spill across the bed in number two. We must have clean sheets."

  Betsy swallowed ale and nodded. "As soon as I —"

  "Are you deaf? Do it now!"

  Betsy lounged back in her chair and took a deliberate swallow of ale. "As I was saying before you interrupted me, when I finish here, I shall take care of it."

  Emma stalked over, yanked away the tankard, and handed it to Hattie. "How dare you ignore my orders, you ungrateful wretch?"

  Betsy leveled a cold stare on her cousin. Five days ago, Emma had abandoned pretense of affection toward them, making them wonder how they could last another week in the company of such a termagant. Betsy had spotted Emma sneaking up to Abel's suite with the ledger and day's invoices. Abel, she suspected, wasn't as infirm as reported. The two were scheming something. "You're confusing your cousin with a servant."

  "Room two. Now."

  Betsy wiped her mouth on her napkin, obtained the keys, climbed the service stairs, and retrieved a clean sheet for the bed in number two. Back downstairs a few minutes later, she dumped the wine-covered sheet in a basket for the washerwoman and returned the keys to Hattie. Above the din in the common room, soldiers from several units were belting out a verse of "The British Grenadiers." Waving aside Hattie's offer of more food, she trudged back up the stairs. What she needed more than food was something she hadn't had since leaving Augusta: solid rest.

  At the door to her room, she stretched. In response to the baby's movement, she rested her hand on her belly. Baby, sweet baby. Her expression softened. She swept her thumb across the base of her ribcage. A tiny elbow or knee pressed her thumb before relaxing back into the protection of the womb. Dreaminess born of exhaustion and maternal glory brushed Betsy's lips. She envisioned a newborn boy with dark hair, held high and proud in the arms of his Creek grandfather beneath winter sunshine. Regret misted her eyes. Would Clark ever see the child he'd fathered? Did he even care?

  Hand still on her belly, she opened the door and took two steps into the room before halting. Like iron filings caught in a magnetic field, all the little hairs on the back of her neck stood straight out, but she wasn't sure why. Light from the opened door allowed her to see that no one lurked in the room. All their belongings appeared safe and untouched, even the supplies for their journey. Still, her instincts vibrated. She seized Lucas's musket, swept it under the bed, and poked it along the o
ther side of the bed in the shadows. She flung open the wardrobe, but no one was hiding.

  After scratching her temple, she set the musket down, lit candles, and closed the door. She surveyed the room again before inspecting their supplies and assuring herself that nothing had been stolen. She peeked beneath the mattress where the key to the cipher and other papers lay just as she'd left them. She also rummaged through her clothes and Tom's, not sure what she was looking for, and not satisfied to find nothing amiss.

  The entire time, intuition shot such peculiar, crossed signals through her, poising her on the edge of flight while causing her mouth to water. In exasperation, she pushed aside the puzzle and yielded to her exhaustion. Undressed in minutes, she crawled into bed and fell asleep.

  A small portion of her brain allowed her to register the arrival of Tom half an hour later before plunging her back into sleep. But her dreams didn't offer her the rest she craved. Blood and lust they gave her, and peril scented dark, humid, savage. She jerked awake before the first cockcrow, Tom's soft snores on the floor beside her, her nose buried in her pillow, her mouth full of a dark, humid, savage taste. The taste was all over her pillow and the sheets. When she bolted upright in bed, she smelled it, faint, throughout the room, as though whatever had deposited it there was still in the room with them. But she and Tom were alone.

  "Go back to sleep, Betsy," she muttered. "It's just your imagination," yet after she lay down, sleep didn't come. Crazy as it seemed, she knew that what her instincts had picked up on when she first entered the room the night before had been a scent that had no business being in there and delivered dreams drenched in blood and lust.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  ON SUNDAY AUGUST thirteenth, churchgoing citizens united and bent their heads in prayers for deliverance, along with folks who hadn't considered themselves religious. General Gates had camped thirteen miles due north of Camden, while the multitude that had followed him from North Carolina filled in the surrounding terrain. Although Lord Rawdon ordered garrisons from Rocky Mount and Hanging Rock drawn in, along with four companies from Ninety Six, the redcoats were outnumbered. Even if Lord Cornwallis arrived with all his men, the Crown forces would still be outnumbered.