“And we have a spiderweb of spies right here. These men who call themselves the Sons of Liberty are in open rebellion against the King. It’s time we treated them like the traitors they are.”
The Sons of Liberty notoriously stole cannons and destroyed taxable cargo. Marcus fixed roofs for impoverished widows.
While he freely admitted he was a rebel for the sake of a better government, Henrietta wondered if that was such a terrible thing. To think otherwise meant believing men like her uncle, Sargent Shrupp, and the King, for that matter, were better men. She was not convinced.
Henrietta pinched the bridge of her nose to combat the growing headache behind her eyes. “Based on what I’ve read in the broadsheets, the Sons of Liberty act on their rebellious impulses. They don’t sit around, concocting ways to improve a house they don’t own, knowing they’ll never be compensated for their work.”
Uncle Caldwell tilted his head like a suspicious dog. “Does he never leave the house?”
Now that she was aware a spy kept watch, her confidence waned. There were days she left the house for the greater portion of it, like today. Who knew what he did in that time? “He isn’t altogether mobile. For him to drive a cart would be nearly impossible.” Though that didn’t say much about one of his friends driving him about. The pain behind her eyes became almost blinding.
“But not entirely impossible.”
He’d cornered her. What had Marcus done? Henrietta unclenched her fists. She hadn’t realized she’d been squeezing them. “What is your point, Uncle? He took a trip to the market, bought a bag of candied violets, ergo he must be a spy?”
Caldwell sniffed. “Did you know, last week, his one-handed bitch showed up here, at this house, spent a couple of hours with him, then they rode together toward Turtle Creek in an expensive black carriage?”
Who?
No. This was one of his manipulations, she needed to remind herself. She had to stay focused on what mattered. “You still haven’t said what he was arrested for.”
“Pray, do you know what else the Sons of Liberty are known for, gel?”
No, she did not. But if she said more, she’d probably implicate Marcus in her ignorance.
Caldwell didn’t wait for her answer.
“They are smugglers. He and his friends use the inlets of Turtle Creek to offload their ill-gotten wares. One day we’ll catch them in the act. For now, we have him. It shouldn’t be too difficult to impress upon him the necessity of giving up the others.”
Henrietta tried for a steadying breath. It stuttered through her chest. “He won’t.” Marcus Hardwicke was many things, some she was learning for the first time, but he wasn’t disloyal.
Caldwell offered a dismissive shrug. “Such as it is. We need to talk about your next assignment.” Reaching into his coat, he retrieved a packet of letters.
She wanted nothing to do with them. A fury burned through her with a constant supply of fuel. It would never burn out if the situation never changed. She was made helpless by her dependence on this man. After all, this was his house, and she was at his mercy.
Looking away, she forced herself to subdue her emotions, gather the last threads of her dignity, and muster a mitigating response.
Henrietta brought herself to face Caldwell as acid slid down the back of her throat. “I appreciate your kindness in allowing me to remain in your home.” Her hands shook as she spoke the lies she needed to. She clasped them to hold them steady. “When I say this, it is with the utmost respect, Uncle. I cannot code more letters for you. I haven’t the skill for it, and it takes too much time away from my chores.”
Caldwell shifted in his seat, the crisp of his coat crinkling as he did. “When a country is at war, sacrifices must be made. We all forfeit pleasure a little here, a little there.”
Was he suggesting her chores were for pleasure? That she enjoyed the burns on her hands from the hearth, the ache in her knees and her back from scrubbing his moldy house with lye and vinegar? Did he think she sat around all day reading novels and eating snow drops? That his odious letters took time away from purchasing dresses and hats she couldn’t afford, or to have to turn down invitations to balls and banquets?
Caldwell patted the packet the way one did a treasured pet. “These are from Tryon’s man. You’ll decipher them, using the Bible I gave you. Don’t view it as military work. Think of it as a puzzle. One that gel of yours would have enjoyed.”
That girl. Clubbing her hands into fists held them still but didn’t relieve the rage jaggedly tearing through her. He’d forgotten Willow’s name. Her daughter didn’t matter at all to him—his own niece.
Seething, she didn’t notice him pass the packet of letters. They landed in her lap. There had to be at least five bundled together with black ribbon, pulsing with a heart of its own. Gnarly secrets twisted inside for its guts. Its breath came out in lies. Its ink, poison to any who touched it.
The rancor she held inside unfurled like a snap of a sheet in the wind.
“That girl of mine had a name. Her name was Willow Amy Caldwell. She was good and kind. She was funny and smart. She had a temper—the famous Caldwell temper, if you must know. She hated turnips and loved a pig named Esmerelda, who looked dashing in ribbons. Puzzles didn’t interest her, and they don’t interest me.”
Caldwell rose haltingly from his chair as if she’d wounded him with her words. Not bloody likely.
“Hardwicke had you fooled. You think he’s a carpenter scraping together a livelihood, living a respectable life, only lacking for a wife and a gaggle of brats. Is that right?”
She blinked rapidly, trying to keep up.
“You’d like to think you’d fit that picture, wouldn’t you? Here’s the real picture: it’s the middle of the night, a window breaks, equipment smashed beyond repair, and they torch the shop. They drag the owner from his bed, hot tar burns his skin, and they parade him through town at dawn covered in feathers. Still think your carpenter is respectable?”
He was pointing at her, jabbing his finger. Spittle flew from his mouth.
“Did he ever tell you about how, when he’s not terrorizing print shop owners, he and his friends capture and board our ships like pirates? They take off with prizes worth thousands, and if they can’t, they’d rather see the ship burn than allow it to reach its destination. I don’t know when he has time to run his shop, or why he needs to. That lot live like lords.”
Henrietta knew there was probably enough truth in those accusations to be inarguable. It bound her, frustrated her, made her powerlessness. The Sons of Liberty were known for all those things. She could neither deny nor defend him. His wasn’t her life to live. But what did that have to do with her?
Henrietta dug deep. Not like a rabbit hiding from a fox, but like the woman she was before this man’s nephew beat it out of her. Someone who read, and read, and read the way other women excelled at needlepoint or singing. Not that she faulted them for it. Those skills didn’t come as easily to her as reading did.
Her memory sifted aside letters and books, the scent of leather and vellum, cologne, and mustiness unexpectedly pungent in the air. She saw L’Art de la Guerre in gold lettering on the spine of a small book. Though she wasn’t fluent in French, she’d sat with a dictionary in hand and read the ancient text translated from its original Chinese from cover to cover when her chores allowed.
Sam read the book for military purposes. He may have received it from his uncle. She read it thinking it might give her ideas to deal with a difficult marriage. It hadn’t, but it was worth every excruciating word because she knew how to respond today.
Henrietta leveled her gaze on him, confidence cooling her emotions. “Even the Art of War recommends privateering.”
His nostrils flared. His eyes darkened to black dots. “They are not privateers because we do not rec
ognize America as a nation. The paper their letters of marque are written on is as useless as American dollars. If we capture them, we shall treat them like pirates.”
Pirates were treated better than the prisoners on Bedloe’s Island. They were hanged within days of their arrest, not made to suffer malnutrition and disease that led to a slow, torturous death.
“To which prison did you send Mr. Hardwicke?”
“He is no longer your concern.”
Henrietta drew a hot, angry breath through her nose, furious at her uncle, furious with herself, and a little furious with Marcus. She palmed the packet of letters and tossed it at the chair he’d vacated. “I refuse to do your bidding.”
Red like the cochineal marbled endpapers of the Art of War suffused Caldwell’s face. “Remember yourself, Henrietta!”
His hand flew blindly to the mantel, reaching for the nearest object to channel his anger. Her mother’s porcelain clock sailed in an arc, smashing on the floor. Ceramic nymphs and satyrs careened under furniture and into corners. Copper parts sprang free. Henrietta’s heart stopped at half four of the afternoon.
“You shall do what I ask,” he huffed. “Or you shall be gone from my house.” He smoothed the front of his waistcoat and settled his stock under his sinewy throat. “And if I find you’ve shared the contents of these letters with anyone, I shall personally hang you from St. Paul’s steeple. Do we understand each other?”
Henrietta toughened her jaw and nodded.
“Sergeant Shrupp is leaving on a mission. When he returns in a week, you shall hand over your work.” His nose twitched. “Clean this mess.”
~ ~ ~
The trembling started in her fingertips and moved up her arms, invading her chest, squeezing her lungs, and twisting her stomach into a knot. She wanted to rage and shout. A strangled croak came out instead. The clock was one of the last keepsakes she had from her mother.
Dumping her sewing from its basket onto the settee, she gathered up the porcelain pieces. Though it couldn’t be saved, she couldn’t bring herself to throw it away either. Not the round curve of a cheek or the hank of horsetail, nor the springs or wheels. The shards she couldn’t name also went into the basket.
The preposterous clock, noisy but accurate, had been a gift from her poor father to her mother upon their marriage. Her father quoted one of his Greek philosophers to her, justifying the extravagance anytime she considered pawning it to pay the bills.
Time is the most valuable thing a man can spend.
And he spent it on her.
Sam had spent through her meager dowry and left her indebted to his uncle.
A shard punctured her finger. Balancing the basket on her thigh, she squeezed the tip and watched the blood pearl into a droplet. It dripped onto the rug. Henrietta stood, the floor tilting. Something inside her shifted, then gave way.
She was truly alone in the world.
When Willow died, she had Sam to take up her days. When Sam died, she could finally grieve for her daughter. The clock was the last tether she had to family, and now it too, was gone.
Henrietta could walk away. She could pack a trunk, load up her cart, hitch her horse to it, and ride all the way to Canada. She could stop at a trading post in the mountains, or go all the way to Quebec City. However, she still had no money, and no means to acquire it. None appetizing, anyway.
But the truth remained. She couldn’t turn her back on Marcus, friend or whatever he was to her. She vowed to do whatever it took to get him released from prison. In the meantime, she recognized the bind she was in. She had to decipher the letters.
“Bloody, buggering hell.” Oh, how cursing made her feel slightly better.
Throwing the letters across the room might do more. She picked them up and hurled them. The packet knocked the silver candelabra off its table. Thankfully, it was not lit as it was still bright enough in the parlor to forgo the extra expense. Though, if it weren’t for Willow’s room, watching the house burn to the ground would hold a certain appeal.
Brandy. That was next on her list.
Henrietta Smith poured an unhealthy quantity and renounced Colonel Joseph Caldwell. She would never refer to him as ‘uncle’ again. This must be what divorce was like, not that she knew anyone to ask. Could one obtain a divorce after one’s spouse was dead? She wanted a divorce from his family. She could argue with the Church about how the afterlife meant she was still married, and as she no longer wished to be, might they sever the bond created when they married? That would be a kindness. The world was lacking in kindness.
She took a choking swallow of brandy that should have put her off. It didn’t.
After she broke the wax seal on the packet, six letters tumbled out. Why would she bother to hope for less? She swallowed another slug of the magical elixir. It scorched all the way to her belly. Her shivers ceased. The ooze of lightheadedness blended into a comfortable warmth, coating her mind with cottony gauze.
Maybe the brandy wasn’t the best choice of beverage. At least, not without a helpful measure of tea. Was that right? Maybe it was tea with a measure of brandy?
She sat in her chair at her desk and laid the letters out. Her vision blurred from fatigue and drink. There was a lot of garbled nonsense to weed through. If Marcus were there to look over her shoulder, he’d tell her what it said. Maybe he’d rub her shoulders while he was at it.
Her glass was empty. She poured herself more. She ought to placate Caldwell. Her home meant everything to her: shelter, security, society, and Willow. Preservation became her singular concern. No, that wasn’t right. Nothing made sense anymore. Her life had been a quiet existence of getting by until she had the brilliant idea to fix the roof.
Her stomach soured. She should have eaten something. If she tried to eat now, her stomach would riot. Best to leave it be.
Henrietta pushed aside her glass.
Blearily, she opened the first letter. The sooner started, the sooner done, right? It took a while to decipher and then longer to read because it was hard to remember what all the words meant by the time she got to the end of a sentence. But there it was. A secret order from the Continental Congress to arrest Loyalists stockpiling weapons, for fear they might form their own militias.
Henrietta sat back and lifted her empty glass, tilting it for the last drop.
Did the Continental Congress really think they could beat the might of the British? If they could, what were her odds against Caldwell?
She set the very empty glass on the desk and stared at it with doubling vision.
Sam had a set of dueling pistols that had been in his family for generations. Were they hers now, or Caldwell’s?
They were hers, she decided. If her gold wedding band given to her by Sam was hers, so too were his other possessions. The house, unfortunately, had never been his.
Chapter 19
Archibald Shrupp entered the Caldwell house where not a single lamp burned to guide his way. He was tired and hungry and annoyed that supper wasn’t waiting for him. Where was that useless chit? He should have insisted upon a proper house with servants.
By moonlight alone, he navigated to the mantel in the parlor where Mrs. Caldwell kept a tinderbox beside the goddamn clock.
The clock wasn’t there.
Was he in the right house? He felt a moment’s hesitation, and then he was sure. Goddamn lavender bouquets. His mother kept them. Made him miserable, brought him back to being a weak little boy crying for her. The whore. He hated this goddamn house.
He lit a candle and set the glass lamp over it. A shuffling sound came from the hall. Annoyance prickled his skin as the dark outline of Mrs. Caldwell swayed in the doorway.
He cleared his throat. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m sure you are.” Her gaze didn’t meet his, though that wasn’t unusual. Fear did
that to people. As did respect. It didn’t matter to him which end of the baton she chose, so long as he received the deference he was due.
“Prepare my meal or—”
Her tinkling laugh cut him off. “Or what?” Her sway disappeared as she advanced on him. “You’ll beat me? Ruin me by spreading lies in taverns I’ve never stepped foot in? You’ll tell my uncle you have evidence I’m a traitor? He likes his evidence, but we both know he doesn’t need it. He mentions wanting to hang me so often, he’s probably woven the ropes himself. Tell me, Sergeant, what energy are you willing to expend on me for a meal you won’t even enjoy?”
The scent of lavender grew stronger as she drew closer. His nose ran like a sniveling brat’s. Reaching for his kerchief, he wanted to blot the boy from his memory forever. “There are many ways I can hurt you, Mrs. Caldwell. All of which I’d enjoy.”
His mother surrendered him to a man he’d never seen before—a man who claimed to be his father while barely claiming him at all. Over the next thirteen years, Lord Banbury whipped and beat any signs of weakness out of him. Now, Archibald was proficient in pain and found he had an appetite for it.
His eyes itched, blurring his vision. Forcing himself to cough did little to clear the sudden catarrh from his throat. A noise, like fingers tapping angrily on a desk, clicked up the hallway.
“You are not getting a meal tonight. The Colonel saw to that when he gave me a stack of letters to decipher. Take it up with him. And while you’re at it, release Mr. Hardwicke.”
His rage should have cleared his head. Instead, the sickness built. “I shall do no such thing.” He stepped back from her. His legs buckled against a chair, forcing him to sit. “I arrested him for insulting a member of the British forces.”
She hiccupped, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Was it you?”
A Widow's Guide to Scandal (The Sons of Neptune Book 1) Page 17
