He hadn’t expected to see Lydia Caswell. Even though she’d been mostly hidden by the coach, she’d looked even more beautiful than he remembered. She had seen him, and he had seen the surprise on her face.
Ah well, it couldn’t be helped. She would keep his secret, he was sure of it, but suddenly he wished for a more dignified occupation for his disguise—a physician, perhaps, or a shipbuilder. But a barber required only minimal supplies easily obtained by Patriot sympathizers, and all the British soldiers needed barbering services.
Smoke clung to the air as he turned toward the Hammond plantation. Sarah’s men must be burning debris before the next rain. Tonight he would sleep in one of the Hammonds’ flank buildings and then retrieve any return messages in the morning. He already had two messages to deliver to his uncle. Once he checked the dovecote, he would acquire some sort of transport north.
Another carriage rumbled up the lane, and he crept to the edge of the trees to make room for it. A Negro he didn’t recognize drove the horses, and when the driver stopped at the intersection, Nathan saw the profile of Lydia’s face and two other women through the window. Then he saw Lydia’s tears.
Instead of turning toward Caswell Hall, the driver turned back toward town.
Why were they still traveling after dark? And what had happened that made Lydia cry?
With his cane, it would take him another fifteen minutes to walk to the Hammond house, and then he would search for Lydia in town.
Chapter Sixteen
A blaze roared upstairs in the Pendells’ guest chamber. From her bed, Sarah watched the lashing and twisting of the flames in the fireplace. Once, she’d sought comfort and warmth in fire, but now all she saw was destruction, the black bones of her home left for dead.
Everything happened so quickly—the terrible stomping of feet as the British drew close to her hiding place. The heat and the ashes. Birds flapping against her in the dovecote before they escaped through the roof.
If only she could have flown away with them.
Morah had been right. Those soldiers probably wouldn’t have respected her role, and no matter what she said, they might have decided to make a spectacle of her. Still, she wished there had been something she could have done to stop them.
Kneeling in the dovecote, struggling for breath, she’d wanted the smoke to take her life. But then it was as if she heard Grayson whispering to her, telling her to fight. So she fought with every breath until she heard Lydia calling her name.
The British had killed Thomas and destroyed all that he’d helped her and her father build. And then they’d stolen away dear Morah and Alden and the others.
She should have given the few Negroes who remained some sort of instruction before she left for Williamsburg, but there had been no strength left within her. Perhaps they could live off the land until Seth returned. Her brother might love the plantation, but she would never go back. Everything she cherished had been devoured by the flames—her treasured books, her mother’s furniture, her father’s papers, her letters to Grayson.
She hated the British for making her hide in the tiny dovecote while they plundered her house and property, hated herself for cowering before those soldiers and her servants.
Never again would she cower.
Her father and brother would be devastated by the loss of their home and Negroes. If Father had been there, he would likely have made her hide, but neither he nor Seth would have cowered. Surely they would have respected Father’s position in their navy.
On the table lay the letter Lydia had given to her from Mrs. Pendell. Seth had asked her to deliver the messages for Washington, but how was she supposed to do that now? The next courier would realize the moment he arrived that this link in their network was broken. How would they deliver the messages? The courier couldn’t call on Mrs. Pendell directly. It would give away everything they’d work so hard to keep secret, and it would jeopardize Mrs. Pendell and her family.
A light tap on the door forced her thoughts away. After the door opened, Lydia moved quietly across the small room and placed a glass bottle and a spoon on the nightstand. Sarah closed her eyes, glad for the company but much too tired to entertain.
Lydia sat on a chair beside the bed and leaned forward. “Are you well?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Of course you are not.” Lydia reached out, but Sarah couldn’t grasp her friend’s hand. How could Lydia continue to support those who had burned her home and killed Thomas?
Sarah’s voice trembled when she spoke. “How can you be on the side of those—of those tyrants?”
Lydia placed her hand on Sarah’s arm. “I do not condone what those men did to your home or servants.”
Sarah could no longer pretend to be loyal. “But destruction is what they want—what the king wants. Destruction of our freedom and our property and our very lives.”
“The rebels have also destroyed things.”
“But they do not burn our homes.”
Lydia took her hand away, folding her arms over her chest. “Perhaps not, but they’ve taken innocent lives.”
Sarah stared at the blaze. How could she forget those dark days after the death of the senior Lord Caswell, the days after Grayson disappeared? “I am sorry, Lydia. My mind is not right.”
Her friend dabbed at her eyes. “I love people who have remained loyal, yet I hate all that the British have destroyed. How am I supposed to choose a side?”
Sarah studied her friend’s tears. Lydia reminded her so much of Grayson. He had pleaded for peace instead of destruction.
Lydia held up a glass tincture. “Mother said the laudanum will help you rest.”
“I do not wish to rest.” Part of her wanted to numb her pain, but another part wasn’t ready to let go of it. The men who burned the plantation, they deserved her hatred. Thomas and the other slaves deserved her grief.
“You need your strength,” Lydia said. “Tomorrow you must leave Williamsburg.”
Sarah’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t begun to think about where she would go next. But what if the British were looking for her? What if they discovered that she hadn’t died in the blaze?
Finally she took Lydia’s offer of medicine and, after her friend left, pulled the covers over her and closed her eyes.
Lydia was right; she must leave as soon as possible. She wouldn’t cower if the enemy found her again, but she had promised her father that she would do everything she could to survive this war.
Perhaps tomorrow she would finally sail away.
Lydia rushed across the grassy plaza in front of the Pendells’ house. The laudanum had coaxed both Mother and Sarah to sleep, but she couldn’t rest. She needed a place to calm the racing in her mind. Some people might find it odd, but the only place in town where she would find some sort of comfort was at her grandfather’s side.
The houses along the plaza were dark, the residents unaware of what had happened three miles from them. What would happen if the British did take Williamsburg? She prayed they wouldn’t burn it as they had Sarah’s home.
Had the British burned the house because Hannah inferred the Hammonds were Patriots? Father had defended Commodore Hammond and his daughter, but Lydia had not joined him to defend her friends—nor had she denied her betrothal to Seth.
A thought came to her, and she shuddered. Would Major Reed retaliate because she had refused him in the kitchen? She had thought her engagement to Seth might deter the major, but instead, it seemed her deception had pushed him to destroy.
How could she tell Seth that she’d compromised his family’s loyalties and the British had retaliated by burning down his home?
She opened the iron gate behind the church and hurried under a brick arch. The steeple loomed above her, and in front of her stood dozens of headstones, some tucked back among the trees. Grandfather’s tombstone was beside the brick wall. His epitaph said he was resting in peace, but how could he be at peace when the world seemed to be falling apart?
She stared at the epitaph of Lord Henry Caswell. “What shall I do?” she whispered.
Answers swirled in her mind, warring with each other.
If only King George would visit the colonies and see that most colonists were reasonable people. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to negotiate a compromise. They could stop all of this death and destruction before any more homes were burned or lives lost. Until then, how was she supposed to support the king while his men ravaged the colonies?
A twig cracked, and she turned. Had the soldiers come for her next? She was too numb to feel even fear.
“Who is there?” she demanded.
There was a long pause before she heard an answer. “It is Nathan.”
Her heart lifted. It had been him walking on the roadside. “How did you know I was here?”
“I saw your carriage in town.”
Now she could see his face in the moonlight, his steady smile. He leaned against his cane, but he appeared much healthier. And stronger.
“So you followed me here?” she asked.
“I fear I am guilty on that account.”
She gave him a slight smile. “I am glad you are well. After you left—I was worried.”
“I was pleased to be your servant.” He held up his satchel. “Just as I am pleased to serve the British as a barber.”
“You are not really a barber?”
He shook his head. “I am dreadful at it.”
She laughed and then felt guilty for her laughter.
His voice grew serious. “You played your part well, Miss Caswell.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, grateful that she had been able to help him escape. “Nathan . . .”
He tipped his head slightly. “What is it?”
She hesitated before she spoke again. “Why won’t you tell me your last name?”
“Someday I would like to tell you, when the war is over.”
Her heart warmed. It seemed as if he was trying to protect her, but even more than that, he wanted to see her again. Nathan had become a friend, and friends could ease their formalities.
“If I am to continue calling you by your first name,” she said, “then I would like it very much if you would call me Lydia.”
He smiled. “I would like that.”
She smiled in return. Except for Seth and the members of her family—and Major Reed, in his presumptive liberty—no other man called her Lydia.
He looked down at the tombstone in front of her. “Who is this?”
“My grandfather.”
“Was he on the wrong side of this war?”
“He was at the time.” She glanced back up at him. “But the tides keep changing.”
He traced through the grass with his cane. “A man must stand for what he believes, no matter what.”
She had been angry with the rebels who killed her grandfather, but until the British swarmed their house, she hadn’t thought much about supporting the Loyalists or Patriots. Her faith had been in God, her father, and Caswell Hall. And not always in that order.
“What if—what if one is not certain of what one believes?” she asked.
“Oh, Lydia.” He motioned to a stone bench. “Shall we sit?”
She nodded and sat beside him. Father had always kept her safe. Even if the two men were on the opposite sides of this war, Nathan reminded her a bit of Father.
She felt him turn toward her, but she didn’t move. “Did something happen?”
She hesitated before she spoke. “My friend—” Tears began to rise again. She wanted to confide in him, but he was supposed to be the enemy. Yet Nathan knew where her family’s loyalties lay, and he had done nothing to harm her. Even if others failed her, she desperately wanted to be able to trust him. “The British soldiers burned down her home.”
“Who is your friend?”
“Sarah Hammond,” she answered.
The curse that slipped from his lips surprised her. And endeared him to her. He felt her pain—Sarah’s pain. Perhaps he could help her understand why men would do this, why they would hate so much.
“Is your friend safe?”
“She is alive, but they killed her overseer and took away most of the slaves.” She leaned closer to him, imploring him. “Why would they burn an innocent person’s home?”
He was slow to answer. “In war, Lydia, many innocent people die.”
“They die, and no one seems to care.”
His voice was tender. “That is not true.”
“The Hammonds did not do anything to deserve this.”
It was her words, hers and Hannah’s, that had indicted them. With their words, she and Hannah strung the noose. The British just finished the hanging.
Nathan wanted to kick something, but the gravestone of Lydia’s grandfather—or any gravestone, for that matter—would hardly be an appropriate target for his wrath.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the British avenging Seth’s position—and perhaps Sarah’s role as a courier—by burning down the Hammond house. How would they have known about Sarah, though? He had taken every precaution to ensure secrecy, but the network sometimes failed. Money, promises—there were plenty of ways to coax a seemingly loyal person to talk. He hadn’t actually met Sarah—Seth was the connection between them—but Seth swore they could trust his sister, and Nathan trusted Seth implicitly.
Perhaps someone else suspected.
Thank God, they hadn’t killed Sarah in the process, but she must be devastated. And Seth would be as well.
Hammond Plantation had been a key link for their intelligence since last summer. The river allowed them easy access to bring the messages, and then Sarah delivered the messages inconspicuously.
What was he going to do without her help?
He could not visit the homes of their connections in town. In his barber’s disguise, he would stand out like a blot of ink on parchment. And without Sarah, Mrs. Pendell would have no way to return her messages to Nathan’s uncle. Delivering messages was a risk they all knew, but still this loss would be a major blow.
“It was my fault they burned Sarah’s house,” Lydia said.
He leaned toward the beautiful woman next to him. “It could not possibly be your fault.”
“My sister told them I am betrothed to Seth Hammond, a soldier in the Continental Army. They retaliated.”
His mind raced in the silence. Lydia was betrothed to Seth? Why had his friend never said he was engaged to marry?
He cleared his throat. “They already know who is loyal to the Crown and who is not.”
“But the rest of the Hammond family is loyal.”
Shadows from the branches danced over the gravestones as Lydia breathed softly beside him. He wondered what he should say to comfort her, but the words eluded him.
Not only had they lost a vital link in the network, but the woman next to him—the woman who had saved his own life—was betrothed to one of his best friends. Nathan couldn’t even hate the man she planned to marry.
Seth had spent the previous summer at Colonel Fielder’s plantation in Maryland, and he’d spent much of the past year talking about the beauty and wit of the colonel’s daughter. Nathan never confirmed a marriage proposal, but he had assumed that Seth would marry Fielder’s daughter after the war.
How had the detail of Seth’s engagement to Lydia escaped him? For a scout, he had done a rather lousy job of obtaining that important bit of information.
More than anything, he wanted to draw Lydia into his arms and tell her that everything was going to be fine . . . but no one could guarantee that, especially not him. And he would never intrude upon the woman Seth would marry. Instead of holding her, he sat quietly beside her in the darkness, wishing he could say something more to ease her pain.
/> The breeze fluttered the ruffles on her gown, and she shivered. “Do you believe in this war?”
“We have no choice but to fight if we want freedom and peace.”
Her gaze fell to the tombstone. “Grandfather thought the best way to maintain peace was to remain loyal to the king.”
“The colonists have been trying to do that for a long time. Unfortunately, it has not worked well.”
“We should pay the taxes to prevent the loss of more lives.”
He tapped his cane on the ground. “It is not only about the taxation, Lydia. It is about being taxed even though no one from the colonies represents our interests. It is about a king four thousand miles away being able to mandate whatever he wants on a place he’s never visited.”
“And that is worth a war?”
He understood her question. He’d wrestled with the same one for years. While some had pushed for war, many had attempted a peaceful pact with Britain—and failed. It seemed the colonists had no other recourse.
“When we declared our independence, we hoped King George would relinquish in a reasonable way. If we surrender now, they will crush us—and any hope of our being free.”
“Freedom sounds so appealing.” She paused. “And utterly impossible.”
He examined her face for a moment before he spoke again. “It is not impossible. Not if we continue to band together. They can hire thousands upon thousands of Hessians and send them over to fight against us, but none of those soldiers care about freedom. The Patriot soldiers are fighting with their hearts.”
He leaned closer to hear her soft reply. “What would it be like to be free?”
He rubbed his hands together. “We would no longer be forced to answer to the whims of a stubborn king, and any taxes we’d pay would fortify our own country rather than the most powerful empire in the world. We would live in peace, create our own laws to protect the colonies, and speak freely about what we believe.”
She shook her head. “I do not care much about any of that.”
The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries) Page 13
