The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries)

by Dobson, Melanie

  “But you must care about something.”

  Her gaze rested again on the tombstone of her grandfather. “I care about my family. And about our home.”

  “When this war is over, the king might very well take away your family and your home.”

  “He would never—”

  “He does what pleases him, and if we do not stop his men, they will do to Williamsburg what they did to Richmond and the Hammond plantation. Not even Caswell Hall will be safe.”

  She looked at him, her eyes wide. “But my father remains loyal . . . and there are still Loyalists in Williamsburg.”

  “Not as many as you think.”

  She rubbed her hands together. “I do not want our colony to change.”

  “I fear change is inevitable for all of us.”

  An idea flashed into his mind, and he considered it for a moment. Some might think it risky to trust Lydia with his secret, but she had cared well for him even after she discovered he was a Patriot. And even if she wouldn’t help him, he felt certain that she would not do anything to harm him or his work if he asked.

  He swallowed hard. “I need your assistance.”

  She looked up at him again. “What can I do?”

  “There are certain—there are messages that must be delivered to people in Williamsburg.”

  She hesitated. “What sorts of messages?”

  “Messages that will stop the destruction of our colonies.”

  She scooted away from him. “Why would you want me to do this?”

  “No one would suspect you,” he said, drumming his cane against his hand.

  “But it would be dangerous.”

  He nodded. “It would.” It was his job to protect the colonists—including Lydia Caswell—and he would do everything he could to prevent her from getting hurt.

  She stood up and straightened her petticoat. “I am not certain.”

  “Consider it,” he said. “I must go away for a while, but I will obtain your answer upon my return.”

  A piece of hair slipped over her shoulder, and he almost reached out to push it back over her ear. Instead, he dug his hand into the pocket of his coat.

  She twisted the strand of hair. “How will I find you?”

  “Do not worry.” He stood and then stepped away from her. “I will find you.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Smoke lingered in the air as the Caswell coach passed by the Hammonds’ land. Lydia hadn’t wanted to leave Sarah in Williamsburg, but Mrs. Pendell promised to help her find transport to her aunt’s home in Philadelphia. Lydia had no choice but to return home.

  Mother looked out at the fields beside them. “I should have invited Sarah to come to Williamsburg with us yesterday morning.”

  “We had no idea this would happen.”

  Mother shuddered. “I am tired of this war.”

  “Me too.” She paused. “Do you think the officers at our house started the fire?”

  Mother’s response was swift. “We cannot allow ourselves to think it. We must stay in the good graces of the king.”

  Lydia wished she could be like Mother, focusing more on what she knew than on what she suspected. Nathan was right. Change might be inevitable, but she did not even know who she wanted to win this war.

  Even if she did choose the Patriot cause, even if she did agree to deliver messages for Nathan, how much of an asset would she be? It was too dangerous for her to leave the plantation, and the house was swimming with British officers who might harm her family if she did as Nathan asked.

  And if the officers didn’t guess about her involvement, Mother would.

  The coach turned onto their long drive, and when the coach slowed, she looked up at the beautiful home her father and grandfather had built. If she chose the wrong side, it could all be gone in an afternoon, like the Hammonds’ house. But if Nathan was correct, their remaining in the king’s good graces might not save Caswell Hall anyway.

  No wonder so many had rebelled.

  Father and Hannah rushed outside as the coach drew near to the house, but none of their guests greeted them. Father rushed forward to open the coach door.

  “We were so worried.” He wrapped his arms around both of them. “Where were you?”

  Mother glanced toward the coach house. “Did Elisha not tell you?”

  Father looked up at the man driving the carriage and then back down at Mother. “Where is Elisha?”

  “He was supposed to return home—”

  “He is grieving, Mother,” Lydia said. “We cannot expect him to come right away.”

  Father’s eyes grew wide. “What is he grieving?”

  “The loss of his family.”

  “What happened to his family?” Father asked.

  Instead of answering, Mother eyed the house. “Where are the officers?”

  “They left yesterday and have not returned.”

  Lydia clenched her father’s arm. “Perhaps they are gone for good.”

  Father shook his head. “They will be back.”

  Lydia released his arm, but Mother leaned on him as they walked toward the house. Mother sniffed. “It was ghastly.”

  Hannah stepped close to her. “What happened?”

  Lydia didn’t want her sister to know what had happened, afraid she might gloat in some way, but as Mother explained the story, even Hannah seemed sad at the loss. Father didn’t seem sad as much as he seemed—

  Afraid.

  Father was cautious, but she never thought he would be afraid of anything.

  Lydia was finishing her dinner when she heard the laughter of the officers in the hall. Their joviality infuriated her.

  She glanced at her parents and then stood, intending to rush toward the servants’ staircase. She must escape before she saw Major Reed, before she said something that would hurt her family much more than it would him.

  When she heard her father’s voice, she stopped beside the staircase.

  “Where have you been?” Father asked.

  “We have been fighting,” Major Reed replied.

  “Did you know the Hammonds’ house was destroyed?” Father continued.

  “The home of Lydia’s rebel?”

  Father shook his head. “The home of John Hammond, a commodore in the Royal Navy.”

  Silence followed Father’s words, and Lydia peeked out from behind the door. Two men flanked the major, seeming to wait until he spoke. “Miss Hannah said Lydia is promised to a rebel.”

  “Hundreds of families in Virginia are divided in their loyalties,” Father replied.

  The major looked toward the doorway and Lydia scrambled up the steps, all the way to the third floor. She hadn’t been in the attic since she was a girl, but she knew exactly where to hide.

  The doors to the servants’ chambers were closed, and she rushed past them until she reached a storage room. Inside, she pushed a trunk in front of the door and slipped to the floor beside it. The sunshine from a rounded window above her lit the small room, and she looked at her surroundings. A wooden horse from her childhood. Old paintings. Trunks filled with clothes and her family’s heirlooms.

  Tears burned her cheeks.

  She had once thought that the British would stop the rebels, restoring peace to their colonies. But perhaps the colonies had to be rid of the British before their peace was completely destroyed.

  PART TWO

  The necessity of procuring good intelligence is

  apparent and need not be further urged—

  all that remains for me to add is, that you keep

  the whole matter as secret as possible.

  For upon secrecy, success depends.

  GEORGE WASHINGTON, 1777

  Chapter Eighteen

  May 1781

  The fragrance of cherry blossoms stole through the gazebo, and the vines shading the walkways shuddered in the wind. Hollyhocks, daffodils, and Mother’s prized English roses had begun to bloom in the meticulous formal gardens around the arbors, and the sweet ar
oma of the flowers blended with the cherry blossoms.

  As she leaned against the gazebo’s seat, Lydia glanced back at the coach house. Elisha had never returned to their plantation, and Sarah’s remaining Negroes had walked away. Father was furious about Elisha’s desertion, but surely her father would do the same thing if his own family had been taken by the British.

  Breathing in the fragrant evening air, she watched a schooner slip down the river. In her visits to the gazebo in the past few months, she’d prayed for wisdom. Their guests had left, but when her family attended church last Sunday, she’d heard rumors that General Cornwallis and thousands of his men were on their way to complete their occupation of Virginia. The British officers had left in April to meet Cornwallis, but their presence lingered in Caswell Hall.

  Father was counting on the protection of Major Reed and his men. He was confident that the British would soon retake the colonies. If the British won this war, then he thought their plantation would be safe. But if the Patriots won . . . perhaps they would still be safe.

  Lydia looked over at the willows along the bank, and her heart stirred. Almost every night she wandered outside to the gazebo, waiting and hoping that Nathan would return.

  Three months ago, she had found him down by the river. Now she wished he would find her.

  In the past months, she had tried to avoid the officers when they stayed, entertaining herself instead with her stitching and frequent walks in the garden. As she walked, she often prayed for her friends—Sarah, Grayson, Elisha, Morah. And she prayed for Nathan too.

  She longed to do something to end the war. Back in Williamsburg, she shouldn’t have told Nathan she would consider his request.

  She should have told him she would deliver his messages.

  As she rocked back and forth on the seat, the breeze moved through the gazebo again, this time smelling of mint, dill, and the ripened fruit from the plum trees.

  Something shifted behind her.

  “A lovely night, is it not?”

  At the sound of Nathan’s voice, her heart felt as if it flipped. She glanced over her shoulder at the rhododendron bushes behind her and tried to calm her voice. “It is indeed.”

  “You must pretend I am not here.”

  She turned back toward the river. “The servants think nothing of me talking to myself.”

  He laughed quietly. “Do you have long conversations?”

  “Sometimes. There is no one else to talk with.”

  “Your guests are gone?” he asked.

  “They left three weeks ago to meet Cornwallis.”

  He paused. “Very good, Lydia.”

  “Is it?”

  “You have a keen ear.” The bushes shifted again behind her. “The last time I saw you, you were considering my request.”

  She took a deep breath. “I have decided.”

  “What is your decision?” he asked, hope lacing through his words.

  “Will you truly protect my family?”

  “There is no way I can promise, but if the Patriots win this war, I will do everything I can to make sure your family is safe.”

  It was a gamble to trust him, she knew. But the idea of freedom had begun to stir in her heart, the hope of escaping the men who brought destruction with them.

  “Lydia?” he prompted

  “I shall help you on one condition.” Her gaze roamed over her mother’s flowers on one side of her and the extensive kitchen gardens to the right. “If the British win the war, I want it to be known that I acted of my own accord. My family does not know what I am doing.”

  “The British are not going to win.”

  She contemplated another moment, wishing he could promise her and her family protection, but she knew neither he nor anyone else could make that promise. She must decide for herself what was right and then pray she made the correct choice. “How do I help you?”

  The bushes moved again, and she knew he was close to her. It was good that she couldn’t turn around. He might be able to read what was stirring in her mind, her heart, and he couldn’t guess that her heart was wandering. She had told him she was betrothed, and that information would keep her focused on her work. There would be no question of personal intentions.

  “Did you know there was a loose brick on the river side of your orangery?”

  She took another breath. She must reveal nothing with her words. “I did not.”

  “It is the fifth row from the bottom. The eighth brick over.” The bushes rustled again. “There is a letter behind it for you to deliver.”

  “I will retrieve it tonight.”

  “When I leave a message, I’ll tie a white ribbon beside this bench. If you have a message to give me, hide it behind the brick, and I will retrieve it when I return.”

  “What shall I do with the letters?”

  “You must take them to Mrs. Pendell in Williamsburg.”

  She swiveled around. Mrs. Pendell was supposed to be as loyal to the king as Lydia’s parents.

  “Lydia—”

  She sighed as she turned away from him again. It seemed the shapes of the people around her kept shifting. But she supposed it made good sense. Mrs. Pendell supplied Mother with her tea, and Lydia had long wondered how the woman managed to obtain tea when no one else could. With her secret stash, the Loyalists who remained in and near Williamsburg trusted Mrs. Pendell and perhaps told her things of keen interest to American ears.

  A memory returned to her—Sarah had asked her to deliver a letter to Mrs. Pendell, and Mrs. Pendell had sent one in return. Had her friend been supporting the Patriot cause as a courier as well, before her home was destroyed?

  Was no one who they seemed to be?

  Lydia tapped her toes on the floor of the gazebo. “Is my friend safe?”

  He paused. “Which friend?”

  “I do not believe you want me to say her name.”

  “Yes, she is safe in Philadelphia.”

  She sighed with relief. At least Sarah was with her aunt now. “Before she left, she had a letter from . . . from the woman you just named.”

  “She delivered it to me.”

  “I am glad of it.” Lydia tapped her toes again. “Has my friend found her Negroes?”

  “There is no word.”

  Her gaze roamed over to the pink blossoms that bubbled atop the cherry trees. Could Elisha have found Morah and his son by now? She prayed so. No family, black or white, should be torn apart.

  “How will I deliver the—”

  He stopped her. “She exchanged the messages in books.”

  Sarah had an entire library of books, but Lord Caswell’s library didn’t contain nearly as many, and he would miss any she borrowed. Perhaps she could think of another way to take them to Mrs. Pendell.

  His voice grew serious. “You must be careful, Lydia. They may search your person.”

  She thought of the British officers that had detained their coach in March. “I shall not let them—”

  “You may have no choice.”

  She pressed her hands together. “Nathan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for watching over my family.”

  “Without you, Lydia, I would not be alive.”

  “I am glad you survived.”

  She wished they could linger here for hours, but Mother called her name from the portico. When she turned back, Nathan had disappeared.

  In the last moments—in the last weeks, really—she hadn’t thought much about Seth. What would he think if he knew what she was going to do?

  It didn’t matter, she supposed. She wasn’t doing it for him.

  When Mother called her name again, she shouted back, “I am coming!”

  “Good-bye, Nathan,” she whispered, hoping he heard.

  Nathan snuck back through the trees beside the river to his waiting boat, almost finished with the cane that had been his companion for three months. But he didn’t row away yet. By the starlight, he watched Lydia walk back to her house. She was a
beautiful young woman with a penchant to heal what had been destroyed and to help those who had been wounded. He admired her greatly for it.

  As he climbed into the boat, his heart twisted within him. He hated having to ask her to risk her life. She’d already risked so much when she rescued him. In another time, if she wasn’t promised to another man, he would request to court her. A decade ago it wouldn’t have mattered if her father was a Tory. A decade ago they all respected the king.

  He should avoid her and this place, but his uncle needed him to do this job. He must focus on his task and be grateful for someone who could take his messages into Williamsburg. Lydia Caswell might be beautiful, but what mattered was that he trusted her to do this job.

  He stayed a moment longer and then paddled into the night. He would sleep near the shipyards tonight and travel north tomorrow by horseback to await his next assignment.

  A carriage driver shouted at Sarah, and she hopped back onto the sidewalk. Her heart pounded as a horse rushed by her. It seemed a lifetime ago that she would step out of her house and hear the sounds of crickets. There were no crickets in Philadelphia, but it seemed as if everyone here was a Patriot.

  Her aunt’s three-story brick home was inviting and immaculate. With the exception of English tea, they lacked no other comforts. Even so, Sarah couldn’t stay inside the narrow house for long, especially on a beautiful spring day like this. While she missed the promise of the James River to take her far away, here in Philadelphia she felt safe, and she loved the busyness of the city. Everyone seemed to have an important occupation, and she was intrigued by it all.

  Aunt Emeline didn’t have many books in her small library, but this new adventure had calmed Sarah’s need to escape. The British had taken much from her, but she’d shackled the hope of freedom to her heart. No matter what happened, they couldn’t take that from her. This spring, she had stitched coats for the soldiers alongside dozens of other Daughters of Liberty, but she longed to do something more than make coats.

  Aunt Emeline reminded her regularly that they were doing an invaluable service for their soldiers—and she knew her aunt was right—but when she had delivered her letters, she was impacting the outcome of the war.