“Dunno.”
“Right.” He thrust another tuppence into the boy’s hand and started back toward the wharf. No hope of following Graham—and he’d get no more help from Strant.
A mangy dog came slinking toward him. He kicked it away, feeling helpless. There had been other losses, recruits killed or taken prisoner. He had learned to accept them and move on, but losing Nate cut deep.
As for Mrs. Colborne, he must take the blame for not giving her better protection. For not being able to find her. Help her. What would happen now? In a few days her British friends would realize that she had disappeared. There would be a search with no results— or end when her body was found in a remote wood or floating in the river.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
October 23, 1778
Jamieson’s hand was tight on her arm as they left the room, allowing no chance to escape. She forced her feet to take one step and then another. There would be pain as she died, but she mustn’t scream or beg for mercy. She must fix her mind on James. Think of being with Charles again.
He opened a door. She stared and almost fell. This was no place of execution where her blood would not stain. This was a large dining room with a pleasant view of the river. Three places were set at the long mahogany table.
“Sit here,” Jamieson said “We dine at odd hours, and John isn’t used to serving guests, so I had to give him careful instructions.”
She put her hands under the table to hide the shaking. A reprieve, but for how long? Somehow she must hide her terror and keep up the mindless chatter.
There were several dishes of food on the table. Jamieson picked up a spoon. “John has done his best. Will you have some boiled chicken?”
“A—a small portion.”
“No appetite? Perhaps some greens?”
“Just the chicken, if you please.” She picked up a fork and looked around. “What grim portraits on the wall. The men in the family must have been very stern. Who are they?”
“The name was Dunn. Loyalists who went to England. The place has been sadly neglected, but that will change. I plan to buy it and live here after the war.”
“Oh, the war, war, war. It will never end. Still, we had good times last winter in Philadelphia. The plays, the skating, the Thursday night balls.”
“What about New York? Now that Andre is an aide and De Lancey has an outpost near the city, you can’t lack for entertainment.”
“How true. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m still in mourning.” She swallowed a bit of chicken. He seemed to know a great deal about New York. Who told him when she would be leaving to visit Lady Eden?”
“That will pass.” He put down his napkin and went to the sideboard. “You’ve hardly touched your chicken. Another glass of Mr. Dunn’s Madeira will whet that little appetite.” The solicitous host.
“Delicious, but just a little or my head will be spinning.” The appreciative guest.
The door opened and the manservant appeared again. He spoke to his master in a low voice.
Jamieson put the decanter down with a thump. “Both of them drunk? Get Landers to bed to sleep it off. He’ll be useless until morning. Then bring the other down.”
“Bring him here? Now?”
“Yes, now.” He filled the glasses and came back to the table. “My apologies for the interruption. I have a little surprise for you. A pleasant one, I hope.”
“A surprise?”
“An old friend of yours is going to join us.”
A moment later voices sounded outside the door. It opened. Josiah Trent stumbled in. His neckcloth was stained with wine, his face was unshaven and bloated. He lurched toward the table and fell into a chair.
Sarah half rose from her seat. Jamieson sighed. “Where are your manners, Trent? Smile, make a bow, and greet your former dancing partner.”
Josiah raised his head and looked at her. He plucked at his neckcloth as if it were a noose. “You? You?” His eyes rolled as if he had seen a ghost. He lunged for the door, overturning the chair.
In seconds Jamieson was beside him. “The dogs, you fool. John!” he shouted. “Take the wretch away before he spoils our meal.”
John appeared. He took Josiah’s arm and the door closed behind them. Jamieson returned to his seat. “Trent once kicked the dogs, and they don’t forget. Vicious animals. If they ever catch him alone, they’ll tear him to pieces.”
She swallowed again. “How—how long has he been here?”
“Since early July.” He pulled out a cigar from his pocket, lit it, and leaned back. “It’s not a pretty story. He deserted his regiment and was found in a New York gutter, drunk and raving. Now he’s drinking himself to death on my brandy. One could wish it was rum, but there are compensations.”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled a circle of smoke. “Yes, there are compensations. When I left the regiment, Trent owed me twelve thousand pounds. He had to find the money or be known as a man who played but couldn’t pay. A dilemma. He was counting on getting his inheritance before he had to leave, which is why he hit on the idea of putting small doses of poison in your aunt’s snuff box. In the end, she only left him shares in a company, and he couldn’t find her gold.”
“No.” She pressed her hands to the side of the chair, choking as bile rose in her throat.
“Not an effective way to kill, as it turns out, but I now own his shares of Sage and Trent. One day I’ll be one of the richest merchants in the country. A pillar of respectability.”
She bent over as if he had struck her. Those daily calls . . . the snuff box that always lay on the table in the withdrawing room . . . his words as he stood by Aunt’s bed that night . . . “You took too long to die.”
Jamieson laid his cigar down on a plate. “My dear Mrs. Colborne. I’m afraid this news has upset you.” He pushed back his chair. “You’ve gone very white. You must come upstairs and lie down.”
She didn’t move.
“Here. Let me help you.” He took her shoulders and ran his hands slowly down her arms. “Yes, there’s a long night ahead of us.” His voice changed. He lifted her to her feet.
Her legs had no strength as he half carried her up the long flight of stairs. There was no mistaking what was in his mind. It had come, the ultimate humiliation. The final blow to break her spirit. He would thrust himself into her again and again. When he tired of her, and as soon as the man with the knife was sober, she would die.
The bedroom faced the drive. It was large with a low ceiling. He took her to the large four-poster bed, laid her down on the quilt coverlet and stood there, smiling.
“You can stop pretending to be an empty-headed little chatterbox. I know you better. Do you remember the first ball at Mr. Smith’s? We stood there watching you dance. I said you were the prize. Then Colborne took you away. Now you’re mine for as long as I want you.” He shrugged off his coat. “There’s no hurry, and you’re no stiff little virgin. I’ll give you pleasure, far more than your fine husband ever did.” His voice was low, caressing.
She lay still. If she hid her loathing, he might keep her alive a little longer. He could do what he liked with her body, but he could never destroy her soul.
He dropped the coat and stretched out beside her. Slowly, he began to unbutton the front of her dress. “I’m going to hold you gently, as gently as a little bird.” He touched her breast. “A kiss— here—and here.” His lips were soft and warm on her bare skin. “Ah, yes. He touched her breast again. “I’ve been too long without a woman.” His breathing quickened. He began to pull down his breeches, then raised his head. “What the devil?”
Horses had come down the drive. Hooves crunched on the gravel in front of the house. From below, the dogs began to howl.
“Don’t move.” He got up and went to the open window. “Who’s there?” he called. “Identify yourselves or I’ll have the dogs on you.”
“Is that you, Dunn?” a man shouted. “For God’s sake keep your dogs inside. The signal has come from Agam
emnon. I have a horse for Landers. Send him out.”
“Landers can’t ride tonight. He’s drunk in his bed.”
“What? Drunk in his bed? Christ, Dunn, we’re expected at a safe house near Washington’s headquarters. We can’t wait for him to sober up. Is there a vehicle on the place?”
“There’s a horse and a chaise.”
“Get it hitched up. You’ll have to come with us and look after him.”
“Not necessary. He’ll be all right by morning.”
“I can’t take that chance, not when the operation hangs on Landers.”
“You should have given me more warning. You’ll have to wait.”
“Well, hurry, man, hurry.”
She sat straight up on the bed. He was going with Landers, and he couldn’t leave her here alive. Landers did his killing. This time he’d have to do it himself. She reached for her dress.
He came back, buttoning his breeches. For a few seconds he stood beside the bed, flexing his hands. “Not what I planned,” he muttered. “Lie still. It won’t take long.” He leaned down.
The primal will to survive overcame fear. She ripped off the silver pin that fastened the lace collar of her dress and wrapped her fingers around it. “God help me,” she whispered and struck the sharp point into his left eye.
“Christ!” He jumped back and began to stagger in circles. “Christ!” he screamed. “Christ, oh, Christ!”
She struggled into the dress, picked up her shoes, and ran. Below in the front hall, the dogs were howling, but in seconds the manservant would hear the screams and come.
Clutching her shoes, she turned and flew down a hall toward the back of the house. It ended in a narrow flight of stairs leading down to a door. It was locked. She fought with the heavy bolt, her heart pounding in her chest. Finally it gave way. She stumbled out and fell flat on her face.
CHAPTER
FORTY
October 23, 1778
For a moment she lay there, stunned; then she scrambled to her feet and looked around. This must be the stable yard—her chaise stood in a corner. Those screams—the dogs—in a moment they’d be coming for her.
There were woods behind the yard. She ran toward them and plunged into the heavy undergrowth. As she pushed her way into them, a tangle of briars caught at her hair and tore her skirt. It was dark. Inch by inch, she went forward. Thorns scratched her face and arms. Thick branches seemed to reach out to hold her. This was an isolated part of the countryside. She might never find her way out of the woods.
She lowered her head and crept on. At last the bushes were thinning. Light showed through the tangles. She made one last push, tripped on a vine and stumbled into a dirt lane. Stood there, gasping for breath. Her skirt was in shreds, her hair was falling down, but she was alive.
After a moment, she straightened and listened. No sound of baying dogs or galloping horses. The riders must have decided to keep on to the safe house. Dear God, it was happening again, a plot to kill General Washington. Somehow she must get herself back to the city and warn Captain Warren.
She looked around. To her left, in the distance, she could see water flecked with silver, the river that was close to the house. She must go in the opposite direction. Picking up her skirts, she hurried down the lane. At the end it turned sharply and emerged onto what had to be the wide Bowery Road. The chaise had turned right, so she went left.
Still no sound of a chase. She gritted her teeth and walked faster. The light was beginning to fade, and it would be dark long before she reached the city. She was coming to a farmhouse set on the road. She must stop and ask for help. A motherly woman might come to the door. “Good heavens, child, what on earth has happened to you? That dress, those scratches—you’d best come in.”
A narrow dirt path led to the small white house. She hesitated, then knocked on the front door and waited. A window opened. An elderly woman leaned out.
“Go away, girl. Go away.” A voice as sharp as her nose.
Sarah tried to adjust her torn dress. “Ma’am, I beg pardon for disturbing you, but I’m in trouble. I need to hire a horse to ride or a gig. I’ll pay whatever you ask when I get back to the city.”
“What’s this foolery? No respectable girl is out on the road at this hour. You might be in league with those highwaymen. Open the door and they’ll be pushing in behind you.”
“Ma’am, there are no highwaymen. My father is a parson. I’m staying at Mrs. de la Montaigne’s inn. I was on my way to visit Lady Eden when I was abducted and taken to a house near the river. I escaped through the woods. I must get to the city and I need your help.”
“Pah! A likely story. My husband is laid up with rheumatics, but I have a gun, and I know how to use it. Be off with you or I’ll count to ten and shoot.” The long muzzle of a musket showed at the window.
Fighting panic, Sarah turned and ran back to the road. A bad-tempered old woman, but it showed that people in the area were afraid to open their doors—and never to a stranger with wild hair and torn clothes.
Birds were twittering as they flew about before settling for the night. Rustlings in the woods sounded like animals that would come out after dark. Once again, she started down the endless road. Stones were cutting through the soft leather of her slippers, there was a painful blister on one heel. Her only hope now was to stop someone and beg for a ride.
A carriage passed, going the wrong way, raising a cloud of dust. A rider galloped by, followed by a small troop of British soldiers; Captain De Lancey commanded an outpost nearby. She crouched down in the ditch until they were out of sight and then hobbled forward, keeping to the side of the road. Tears were coming, tears of sheer helplessness. On Christmas Eve she had braved a storm and delivered word of an attack on the general. This was going to be far more of an ordeal, but she must keep on, step by step, and rise above the pain.
Wheels sounded behind her. She turned and saw a young boy driving a wagon full of hay. He was whistling and letting the reins go slack. She limped to the center of the road and waved. The wagon stopped.
She wiped her eyes with the hem of her dress. “Please, sir,” she whimpered, “Please pick me up. I’ve run away from home and I have to get to my aunt in the city.”
The whistling stopped. He shook his head. “No rides, miss. I have me orders. Besides, you need a pass for the sentries.” He picked up the reins.
She hobbled forward, seized his arm, and let out a loud wail. “You have to save me. My old pa’s into the rum. He’s going to beat me and lock me up. If I hide in the hay, the sentries won’t see me. Look.” She pulled off the signet ring Charles had given her, a talisman until they were together in New York. “Real gold. It’s yours, if you’ll take me.”
He whistled. “Gold, is it? Get in and keep down.”
“Thank you,” she stammered. Climbed in, made a nest in the hay, and collapsed. The wagon moved forward. She lay there, inert. She had reached the limit of her strength, but her mind kept going back over the last few hours. Nate must be dead . . . Josiah had poisoned Aunt . . . if she hadn’t stabbed Jamieson with the pin he’d have strangled her . . . that man John would have been told to get rid of the body. . . . “Terrible about Mrs. Colborne,” people at Sir Henry’s would say when they heard she was missing. “She must have been attacked by highwaymen on the way to Lady Eden’s. Robbed and killed.”
The horse plodded along, far too slowly. The hay was thick and dusty. She coughed and closed her eyes. Exhaustion pulled her eyelids down like a giant hand.
“Miss, miss.” The sound of the boy’s voice jolted her awake. “Sentries ahead. Cover yourself and don’t move. If they see you, it’ll be the worse for both of us.”
She burrowed deeper, pulled more hay over her head, and tried not to cough. She had survived too much to be caught by a British sentry.
The wagon slowed and stopped. “Your pass, boy,” a sentry said. “You’re late with the forage tonight.”
“Wheel come off down the road. Had to find a bla
cksmith.”
“Where’s the delivery?”
“Number One Broadway. Officer’s horses.”
“Go on.”
The wagon moved again. She waited, choking from the dust in her lungs. After a while she raised her head cautiously, looked around, and saw glinting water ahead. They must be near the harbor. She sat up and touched the boy’s shoulder. Motioned him to stop. He pulled to the side of the street. She climbed out, took off the ring and handed it to him. “You’ve done a good thing,” she whispered and slipped into the shadows.
The heat was still heavy in the city. It was dark, and curfew had started. She set out in the direction of the inn, wincing at every step. A dog snarled at her as she stepped around a stinking pile of garbage. Two young boys who should be at home stared, nudged each other, and began to follow her. “Leave me alone,” she snapped.
At last, the Common. There was no light in Mrs. M’s parlor. She limped up the steps and pounded on the door. Finally it opened. Mrs. de la Montaigne stood there with several maids huddled behind her.
“Banging at the door after curfew—be off with you.” A shrill voice. The lamp wavered. “Merciful heavens, is it—sweet Jesus, yes, it’s Mrs. Colborne.”
“Highwaymen on the way to Lady Eden’s,” she whispered. “They—they killed my driver. I hid in the bushes. A boy bringing hay brought me back.”
Abigail pushed forward. “Oh, ma’am—”
Mrs. de la Montaigne raised her hands. “Her dress torn, covered with hay—I never saw such a sight. You maids, quick now. Get hot bottles. Heat up the broth from last night’s chicken.” In her excitement, the genteel accent was giving way to her native brogue.
Helped by a dozen hands, Sarah was laid down on her bed. There were cries as Abigail took off her shoes. No, it’s only blisters, she whispered. No, she didn’t need a doctor. All she wanted now was to sleep.
At last she was alone with Abigail. She pushed off the quilt. “Quick. I need to reach Captain Warren. It wasn’t highwaymen, it was that man Jamieson. His man jumped into the chaise. I think he killed Nate, and then he took me to the house where Jamieson was hiding. Riders came up. They’re on their way to kill General Washington.”
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