Angel's Flight

by Juliet Waldron

  How good it smelled! Wonderful scents mingled, sizzling pork and gravy, hot cornbread and beans!

  On his way through, Jack lifted a couple of pieces of steaming cornpone and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Outside they found Hal saddled but unattended, tied next to a stump that served as a mounting block. Jack loosened his horse and then got up.

  “Here, put your foot on my boot and I’ll get you up,” he said.

  Angelica amazed herself, getting up as if she’d been doing this all her life. Quickly, and apparently unobserved, they left the courtyard and trotted into an alley.

  “I think if we go this way—” Angelica said, pointing over his shoulder. “—we’ll find a cow path that comes out in a pasture.” She nearly dropped the stays, but caught them again, elbow tight to her side. As soon as they were out of the village, she’d roll them up and then stuff them into a rear saddlebag.

  ***

  Jack slowed the horse to a walk. He took one of the pieces of cornpone out of his pocket and passed it back to her.

  Angelica studied the slab of cornpone—a heavy, yellow slab dotted with back-eye beans—disapprovingly. It was distinctly overcooked.

  Certainly not the way I make it!

  She soon decided, however, that in this situation, dry and hard was best. Although Jack doubtless had a pocket full of crumbs, there wouldn’t be mushy bean ooze.

  “I believe,” Jack said, chewing, “we’re extremely fortunate Miss Grace possesses a romantic nature.”

  “Unlucky, though, that we had to run like that,” Angelica observed with a sigh. “A cup of tea would’ve been lovely. Not to mention breakfast.”

  “A few more moments in bed with you would’ve been lovely, too,” he observed, flashing a grin back at her.

  “A gentleman would not mention that again.” She enhanced the reproof with a smart, sisterly cuff to his shoulder.

  Jack responded by chuckling. “Dear Miss TenBroeck, you are quite right. Another few minutes of kissing that sweet mouth of yours, and I fear that I wouldn’t have been in a responsible frame of mind at all.”

  “Shouldn’t we be going faster?” Angelica was cross, with herself, and with him, too.

  “Well, I’m taking a chance, but the best thing is not to go off at a gallop. We should look as if we have no particular reason to hurry.”

  Now, dressed and riding together again, the episode in the bedroom was swiftly taking on the fading tingle of a naughty dream. And what was that she had seen shining from Jack’s translucent eyes?

  Danger? Or is it, she thought with a sudden shiver, a—promise?

  How sweet his kisses, how disarming his flirtatious wiles! But, oh! What might have happened if they had been left undisturbed?

  How easy it would’ve been, she thought, letting a delicious wicked thrill run through her, to just let him go on, to lie back in those strong arms and let his knowing caresses carry me...

  “Are you cold, Miss TenBroeck?” Jack’s question had to be a response to her shifting and shivering. “It is a great deal colder than yesterday.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, sternly putting away the fantasy. “But see over there?” She pointed west to a blue line appearing on the other side of the sullen, choppy Tappan Zee. “The clouds are breaking. With luck, the sun will come and we shall soon be warmer.”

  Jack wasn’t so optimistic. “Then it will blow up a brisk wind and freeze us again,” he said. “Well, lean against me, miss. That should help a bit.”

  This morning there were more lines at the corners of his clear, gray eyes. His uncombed fair hair blew in a tangle.

  As they trotted along, her arms around his waist, her cheek against his broad back, Angelica felt a heady, perilous glow. Here, six long years after losing ‘Bram, was that incredible feeling again!

  Her heart ached and soared, a response she’d believed had died forever, along with her first sweetheart. Another shiver shook her from head to toe as she realized that since their escape, less than twenty-four hours ago, she was falling—madly, imprudently, unaccountably—in love.

  Chapter Six

  “The major can’t just be chasing me, could he?” she finally asked.

  They were cresting a hill. Below them lay Tarrytown, another neat, steep gabled cluster of Dutch houses. The place had only lately been affected with English sprawl. The streets bustled with market day. Soon they were ambling in the wake of drovers whose sheep filled the road.

  “Well, I’d say Armistead is probably on his way—officially, anyhow—to collect supplies. Unofficially, he can look for you. And we learned from the girl that he’s got a fine story made up. It appears I’m the one who carried you off.”

  “I only hope my cousins are all right...that the boys didn’t catch cold from the water.”

  “Boys that age are tough. What bothers me is those blackguards didn’t know whether they could swim or not when they tossed them in.”

  “I know. It’s too horrible to think about.”

  After a time, Jack said, “We’ll find something to eat, then we’ll head for the quays and look for a ship. There is no other way with Armistead on our heels.”

  An hour later, they were roaming through the cookshops and shanties that lined the quays, eating chops off the bone. Hal, reins looped over his neck, followed his master like an enormous dog. Jack talked to the sailors at likely looking ships dockside.

  He told Angelica they had to be careful. He didn’t intend to get them robbed and thrown overboard in the middle of the Tappan Zee.

  Angelica racked her brains to remember the names of men who dealt with her uncle. The names with which Jack returned were either unfamiliar or those of notorious Tories.

  She and Jack had agreed to call themselves Livingston. Angelica had chosen the alias knowing that, in this large and widely scattered Hudson River family, there were equal numbers of rebels and Tories.

  Every time they saw the flash of redcoats, they drifted the other way. Once, when three soldiers came close, Angelica squeezed Jack’s hand hard. Over and over she thanked heaven for their plain clothes, and for the modest cap that hid her golden head.

  “And so, mistress, what is your pleasure?” The rag picker’s place, backed against a half-fallen stone wall, was redolent with ancient smells, the essence of loss and poverty, and of being cast off as unworthy or useless. The rag picker herself seemed an extension of her wares piled around her on the cobblestones.

  “What do you seek? Cloths for swaddling a babe? Or just for your monthlies?” This last was said with a leer, one blackened tooth winking from her lower jaw, a coated tongue wiping across cracked lips.

  Angelica, gingerly poking through the top layer in the first pile, looked sideways at the woman, trying to hide her distaste.

  Why am I even looking at this awful stuff?

  Told to wait here by Jack, out of the way, she’d soon experienced an uneasy boredom. After all, loitering invited unwanted attention.

  Looking around at the nearby stalls, she’d been attracted by the rag picker. There was a notion she might find a strip of something suitable for the quilt. Now, just looking at the ratty stuff, she wished she’d never started.

  “Have you nothing quite so—used?” Angelica asked.

  The rag picker looked back with undisguised dislike. “Well, now, mistress, what would it be that you are looking to use it for, this not quite so used rag?” Animosity shone around her like a halo.

  And her mimicry was too accurate for Angelica not to instinctively draw back, the verbal arrow hitting its mark.

  “I collect small patches,” she said, stung. “And although they may be small, they must be fairly clean and not ragged,” she continued.

  “Well, I have this one piece,” the rag picker answered, “but it will be costly, as it is fine as frog hair...” She hesitated, not knowing how far she could go before she had lost the sale.

  “Show me,” Angelica replied curtly.

  The rag picker dug into the bo
ttom of a coarsely woven burlap bag that had probably held feed for some cattle long gone to market. She pulled out a packet of dingy homespun, crushing it in her claw-like hand.

  “Here, m’lady, fit for a queen.”

  Angelica gingerly unwrapped the folds of filthy cloth. As she turned back the last flap, she gasped, astounded. There was a small square of folded brilliant cobalt blue silk, spun through with threads of gold and silver.

  The exact color of the bluebirds—and the gold and silver threads could have been drawn from his head...

  “Well...”

  She had to have it, but she didn’t want to seem too eager. It was all part of the barter, and the rag-picker certainly knew the game—and the rules—far better than she did!

  “Well...I don’t know...”

  “It’s small, but you canna say there’s a finer piece of Chin-ee anywhere,” the woman wheedled. “And so soft and fair!”

  “How much?”

  “Well, mistress, as its such a fine piece and all...”

  Angelica matched the rag picker’s stare, waiting for the next move.

  “And, as you say, you be needin’ the finest cloth...” The rag picker’s gaze held steady.

  “How much?” Suddenly, Angelica’s patience was at an end. The rag picker knew this was her last move. “Tuppence.”

  Angelica turned on her heel in one smooth motion and started away from the stall. There was exactly one shilling and a half penny inside her pocket.

  “Wait, mistress!” There was desperation in that voice, the kind of desperation that says no supper. “Wait! I can do better.”

  Angelica turned. The rag picker’s tongue worked wildly back and forth across her lips.

  “Then, do so.”

  “One penny.”

  Spending so much in this way is foolish, she schooled herself— but—she had to have it!

  “A hard bargain, m’lady. A hard bargain...”

  ***

  Walking arm in arm with Jack among enormous hogsheads of salted fish and flour, Angelica recognized the sloop at the last quay.

  “Look!” she exclaimed. “The Judik! The captain has but one leg. His name is...ah...Vanderzee! Every year he takes corn and whiskey to the city for my Uncle Jacob.”

  “At his ease down here, it’s a good bet he’s gone to the king’s side,” Jack observed. “But it’s worth a try. Otherwise we’ll have to ride north, and from the tales I’ve been hearing down on the quay, that sounds like a risk with your skin I’m not about to take.”

  Squeezing her fingers warmly, he added, “I intend to get you home safe.”

  A portly man in clothes of an ancient style stood at the head of the quay watching the loading and smoking a long- stemmed clay pipe.

  Clad in a skirted jacket, full, patched pantaloons, and with a sword tucked into a wide belt, he was the perfect image of a Dutch sailor of a generation earlier. The wood of the peg leg was elaborately carved.

  “It’s Vanderzee,” Angelica whispered. “Perhaps, even if he has changed sides, he’ll help us.”

  She started forward so confidently Jack was forced to follow. As Angelica approached, the captain’s bulldog face acquired a look of surprise. He even made a bow.

  “Good day, Captain Vanderzee.” Angelica spoke in Dutch.

  “It is, young ma’am,” he replied, his watery blue eyes traveling from Angelica to Jack and back again. “And how may I help you?” “My—my—cousin and I are seeking passage north. As far as you can go.”

  “Hmm.” He regarded them from beneath a jutting tangle of grayish eyebrows. “Perhaps.”

  Taking Jack’s measure in one swift glance, he switched to English. “Will you be taking yo ur n horse?”

  “Yes, captain,” said Jack. To Angelica’s surprise, he ignored the English and made his reply in Dutch. “We’ll need him later.”

  “Crossing the lines, are you?”

  “Yes, I have a pass. I am just out from England and have some property up by Kingston.”

  “That’s rebel territory—Mister—what was it?”

  “Livingston. Jack Livingston, sir.” Jack bowed. “And this is my cousin, Miss Schuyler.”

  Vanderzee inclined his shaggy head. “The Albany Schuylers?” he inquired.

  “My father’s farm is on Schohaire Creek.”

  “A damned dangerous place,” the old man said thoughtfully. His grizzled head nodded slowly, as if what she’d just said confirmed his thoughts about her. “Your father must shoot straight and sleep light.” Angelica nodded. That was how it had been there.

  “A man ought to have his feet on his property during a war, don’t you think?” Jack continued.

  “A brave course, sir. Or a foolhardy one. But suit yourself,” the old Dutchman replied. “‘Tis for certain, if you’ve got those damned Scots or Irish among your tenants, you’re nourishing a nest of rebel vipers. Maybe, though—” He squinted at Jack. “—you’re lucky enough to have Dutch or Germans, or some commonsensical ex-military men.” “A few of each kind, captain,” Angelica put in. What he’d described was the situation on her Uncle Ten B b roeck’s land. “We shall put our faith in God.”

  “All we can do, ma’am.”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Well—” Vanderzee turned brusque. “—have ye passage money?”

  Jack pressed a coin into his hand.

  “Hmm.” The captain gave Jack another measuring look. “British silver. That will do for starters, sir, if I’ve caught your drift aright.”

  “Of course. It shall double when we arrive.”

  “Well, then, get on board. Up that plank and look quick.” His eyes were focused on something over Jack’s shoulder. “And, miss, get you straight to the forward cabin and tell the boy I said you was to stay there.”

  Jack, taking the hint, turned his head casually. His hand tightened upon Angelica’s. Her eyes followed. With a chill, she saw, on the next quay, a flurry of redcoats.

  “Thank you, captain,” Jack said. “My cousin and I are in your debt.”

  The plank was steep and swaying. Hal, who’d been nervously pricking his ears and taking everything in, snorted and balked.

  “None of that, old fellow,” Jack coaxed. “I think he’s had enough of boats,” he explained, soothing the horse’s neck. “Go up directly,” he instructed Angelica. “Do as the captain says. I’ll be there soon.”

  They were off quickly, sails swelling and slapping as they moved into the fresh northwest wind. Sitting in the cabin to which she’d been shown, Angelica peeped out a window and watched as the shore slipped away.

  The captain stood on deck, shouting orders, while sails strained against a sky clotted with white clouds.

  As soon as the bustle on the deck had died down, Angelica thought she might now safely leave the stuffy, little cabin. Vanderzee was on deck and seemed busy enough, but his eagle’s eye took her in almost before she’d taken a few careful steps across the jouncing deck.

  Keeping to Dutch, he stretched out a burly hand and called, “Miss Schuyler! The honor of your company!”

  Angelica went to him, though she was nervous. She decided to take the initiative with small talk. Dutch, which she hadn’t used since leaving home six months ago, felt stiff on her tongue.

  “It seems we got to you at exactly the right moment.”

  “Just in the nick, miss,” he said, shooting a glance at the sails. “Hey, Matty!” he called, bringing a wiry mate to his side. “Handle the ship.”

  With rusty dignity, he offered Angelica his arm. Around them, the sailors called. Wind roared in the sheets.

  After they’d taken a few balancing steps, he asked, “Do you sicken in rough weather, miss? ‘Twill be bad today.”

  “Never before, captain. Even during quite a big storm.”

  “Good.” Then, fixing her with his fierce, blue eyes, he added, “Now, tell me true, miss. Are you in trouble with that Englishman? And, before you tarnish verity again, if my eyes serve me a- right, you are
Miss TenBroeck, not any kind of Miss Schuyler.”

  There was nothing else to do but wave her hands helplessly.

  “You know,” the captain continued, “I knew your Papa before you were born. A finer gentleman never lived.”

  “I thank you for that kindness, sir.”

  “It isn’t at all like they’ve said, is it? You don’t act like a woman who is bein’ carried off. Are you elopin’ with that gentleman, Miss TenBroeck?”

  “No, Captain Vanderzee. This gentleman is my rescuer. The truth is I was carried off while I was boating with my cousins—my Uncle William Livingston’s children, sir.”

  The captain nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I knew Mr. William right well.”

  “Some English ruffians came alongside and threw the boys overboard. Thank God they swim like otters! The English officer who’d planned the business wishes to marry me—though I do not wish to marry him, and have frankly told him so.”

  The captain’s rough paw tightened upon her arm. “You were not injured, miss?” he asked. Gruffly as the question was put, his concern was obvious.

  “No, captain,” Angelica replied. “Although the officer threatened me if I did not quickly agree to his proposition. Not five minutes after he left me—locked up, as he supposed—Mr. Livingston slipped in and got me safe away. I asked him to take me home to my Uncle Jacob.”

  “And the name of the fellow that carried you off, miss?”

  “Major George Armistead.”

  The old man shook his tangled locks. “Wild doings! Wild doings! Why, a few years ago, British officer or not, a man daring to lay a hand on a TenBroeck girl would’ve ended floating in the bay. But tell me true, do you trust this here fellow? He looks like a soldier to me.”

  “Yes, but I trust him.” Mad, perhaps, but true. “He has had opportunity, but has offered me no insult.” Angelica thought of the embrace, the kisses, that had begun this very day. She hoped she wouldn’t blush.