Her son blinked at her, aghast. “But who will cook our meals?” He cast a longing glance at Abigail as she carried the last two dishes—mashed potatoes and tureen of gravy—into the dining room.
“A man can go quite a long time between hot meals, if need be,” Mr. Langston said.
The entire assemblage, including Laura herself, turned to stare at him in surprise.
At their combined expressions, his lips twisted in a wry smile. “Surely, you do not imagine an army on the march eats anything as grand as even the humblest meal I have consumed from your kitchen, Mrs. Farnsworth. This—” he gestured toward the plates and bowls spread out on the table before him, “—is a veritable feast by comparison to my typical daily rations. If I had not lost so much weight, I would be a trifle concerned for my waistline.”
Laura remembered the hard musculature of his abdomen pressed against hers and knew he would be in little danger of running to fat for quite some time. Her cheeks warmed, but she gave him an appreciative nod before turning her attention back to her son. “Indeed, we will have to get by on quick breads, cheese, sausages, boiled eggs, and whatever apples we pick that are too bruised to sell or press, but we won’t go hungry. I know it’s not what you and Joseph are used to during the harvest, but we have to do what we must. Which is all the more reason to enjoy tonight’s repast, as it may be the last such meal we have in some time.”
And enjoy it they did. Laura snuck occasional glances at Mr. Langston and noted with satisfaction that he cleared his plate not once, but twice—far more than she had seen him eat in one sitting thus far.
As the meal wound down, she decided it was time to broach the subject. “Mr. Langston,” she began, willing her voice to remain steady and unconcerned, as though his answer was not of great importance, “we will all be going to church tomorrow morning. I hope you will join us.”
Her heart thudded loudly against her breastbone as she waited for his response. She could not force him to do this.
Mr. Langston glanced around the table, obviously taken aback. “I haven’t been… That is, I don’t suppose you are Anglicans?”
Laura shook her head, her heart sinking. “Congregationalists. There is an Anglican church in town if you would prefer to attend services there.”
His brow creased with a frown, and then a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “No, no. I would be pleased to accompany you to your church, Mrs. Farnsworth. Though if my brother ever finds out, he will never let me hear the end of it.”
“You have a brother?” This was the first time he had mentioned having any family at all.
At her question, Langston smiled, his face lighting with such obvious affection and longing that Laura feared her heart might split in two. “Two brothers and a sister, in fact,” he said genially. “But the one I was thinking of, Walter, is a vicar. And he will tease me unmercifully if he discovers I willingly set foot in any church.” He shook his head, chuckling. “The fact that it isn’t even an Anglican church will give him even more fodder.”
“You must miss them dreadfully,” she observed in a soft voice. She remembered now that when she’d found him, when she’d thought him dead, she had mourned for the family who might never know what had become of him. But once she had known he would recover, she had not given that family a second thought. And now that she knew they existed, she was mortified by her heartlessness.
His expression sobered a bit, but he shrugged. “I’ve been away from them for the better part of twenty-five years. That is what it means to be a soldier.”
Laura wished she could reach across the table and take his hand in hers and assure him he would see his brothers and sister again. Because no matter how matter-of-fact of his tone, she heard the regret that he would not—or perhaps could not—admit to. He had been parted from his siblings for most of two decades, but he wished he hadn’t been.
But even if she dared to behave so familiarly with him in front of Daniel, Abigail, and Joseph, it was a promise she could not keep. There was a very real possibility that he might not ever be able to go home. Or that if he did, it would mean his death.
Tomorrow, she hoped she would have a better idea of what dangers he faced.
She wished she was certain she really wanted to know.
Chapter Eleven
Geoffrey could not help measuring the minister of the Farnworths' church against Walter. Alas, the Reverend Shackleford suffered in the comparison. Not only did his sermon drag on interminably, circling the scriptural point without ever quite coming to it, but the man also demonstrated none of the charisma or compassion that made Geoffrey’s brother such an effective vicar. Glancing around the congregation, Geoffrey concluded he was not alone in his assessment of the preacher’s shortcomings. Most of the parishioners he could see wore expressions ranging from boredom to outright impatience.
Even Mrs. Farnsworth seemed to be merely marking time, her lovely features composed into a careful mask of serenity that betrayed neither censure nor enthusiasm. She really did look like an angel, especially with that expression of perfect repose on her face. Even with the laugh lines. Hell, maybe especially with the laugh lines.
Why, then, did he want to do the most carnal, profane things with her? His imagination had been indecent and rampant enough before that disastrous, wondrous kiss. Since then, his fantasies had become positively lecherous.
And here he was, sitting in a church, debauching her in his mind. He needed to turn his thoughts to godlier—or barring that, at least somewhat less depraved—matters.
Speaking of godliness, though, he wondered why she had wanted him to accompany them to church this morning. He doubted the request had stemmed from a desire to save his soul, since nothing about her—least of all her eager response to that kiss (and curse it, there he went down that mental path again!)—suggested she suffered from an excess of piety. And if that had been her aim, she would surely have known it was destined to failure. She was far too clever and too observant to suppose that Reverend Shackleford’s oratorical skills could induce anyone into a sudden religious conversion. That meant there must be some other reason she had desired his presence, but given that she had seated herself as far as possible from him—with her son, then Abigail, and then Joseph between them—it certainly had not been for the pleasure of his company. But what other purpose she might have had for dragging him along quite eluded him. He had been tempted to ask the night before, but somehow, questioning her motives had seemed churlish at the time.
Lost in these musings, he only realized the interminable sermon had, in fact, reached its terminus when the congregation rose to their feet around him. The minister raised his hand as Geoffrey scrambled to his feet and bowed his hand just in time to receive the blessing that appeared to mark the end of the service.
Once the preacher stepped away from his lectern, the parishioners made for the door, clearly as keen as Geoffrey to escape the rather dreary confines of the meeting house—which, like the Reverend Shackleford himself, suffered by comparison to his brother’s lovely church with its soaring ceilings and intricate stained-glass windows—and out into the bright autumn sunshine.
The weather had been exceptionally fine for several days, dry and crisp, perfect for picking apples. Geoffrey would not have known the last fact, of course, if Joseph had not seen fit to inform him earlier in the week when a series of clouds had formed on the horizon but then failed to coalesce into a rainstorm. Apparently, apples that were picked when wet were more likely to bruise, and bruised apples could not be sold either as fresh fruit or used for cider. Geoffrey could understand why bruising would spoil the apples as fruit, but Joseph had had to explain that apples used for cider were not immediately mashed to extract the juice, but rather allowed to dry for a week or more first. Bruised apples did not dry, however; they simply rotted, and often ruined the apples around them. Hence the expression about one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch, he supposed.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, La
ura—no, he must think of her as Mrs. Farnsworth—was waiting for him. “There is someone I would like to introduce you to.”
That seemed reasonable. He nodded his assent. “Certainly.”
“This way,” she said and gestured toward a group of uniformed American soldiers.
He glanced from the soldiers to her and back again, instantly suspicious. “Them? Why?”
Her eyes wouldn’t meet his, but when she asked, low and urgent, if he would trust her, he found he could not say no. She had saved his life once. Why would she seek to harm him now?
When they got a few feet closer, however, he nearly took an involuntary step backward, for the man upon whom the rapt attention of every other member of the group was focused wore the rank insignia of a brigadier general. Though the officer appeared to be rather young to hold such a lofty rank, he could only be Alexander Macomb, commander of the Right Wing of the Northern Army and thus the architect of the American victory—against tremendous numerical odds—in the Battle of Plattsburgh. A battle Geoffrey himself may or may not have fought in.
What on earth was Mrs. Farnsworth up to? She could not mean to betray him to Macomb as an enemy officer, but she certainly seemed bent upon engaging that gentleman’s attention, so he must be the person to whom she intended to introduce Geoffrey. Under what pretext she meant to do so, he could not conceive. And that she had not even seen fit to warn him. What could she possibly be up to, and why had she been so determined to keep him in the dark?
“I beg your pardon, General Macomb,” she said when there was an obvious pause in the conversation, “but I would like to introduce you to Mr. Geoffrey Langston. Mr. Langston, this is Brigadier General Alexander Macomb.”
For just a moment, Geoffrey stood there like a statue, waiting for the ax to fall. And then it became apparent that she didn’t intend to offer any pretext at all.
Despite appearing as baffled as Geoffrey felt, Macomb politely stuck out his hand in greeting, and Geoffrey shook it, conscious as he did so that Mrs. Farnsworth was watching the two of them the way a cat watched the hole into which its prey had escaped.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Langston,” Macomb said, as if this were a perfectly common occurrence. Perhaps it was. The man was now a bona fide hero in the eyes of the local populace, and soon would be in the eyes of all Americans. Anyone who managed to hold off a force of ten thousand soldiers with just fifteen hundred men deserved the label, friend or foe.
“The feeling is mutual, sir,” Geoffrey responded, discovering as he spoke the words that he meant them.
The general tilted his head to one side, his eyebrows raising. “You are English?”
Geoffrey hazarded a glance at Mrs. Farnsworth. Her answering nod was so infinitesimal, he was sure he was the only one who noticed it. Apparently, she thought there was no danger in his admitting the truth. Given the number of British emigrants to the United States every year—to say nothing of the number of British soldiers who had deserted while the army had been on American soil—she was probably right. “Yes. From the Lancashire region.”
Macomb nodded, his expression shrewd. “And you have spent time in the military.”
It wasn’t a question or a guess. Soldiers always recognized one another. There was something in the eyes and in the posture of a man that gave it away. Denying it would be pointless.
“I was injured,” Geoffrey responded, “and unable to rejoin my regiment.” He didn’t have to say how recently this had occurred for this to be a completely truthful answer.
“Well,” Macomb said, “if you are well enough and decide to become a citizen, I’m sure the local militia would welcome someone with your experience.”
“Thank you, sir. I will keep that in mind.” He would, too. It would be ridiculously easy for a British soldier to infiltrate the ranks of the American military if they were this careless about whom they allowed into local militias. If this war continued to drag on as the war with the French had, this information could be useful to his commanders.
“Yes, thank you very much, General Macomb,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “I apologize for the intrusion, and Mr. Langston and I won’t keep you any longer.”
* * *
“What was that all about?” Geoffrey asked, unable to keep the anger out of his voice.
They were walking back to the farm from church. Geoffrey had managed to put enough distance between himself and Mrs. Farnsworth and the remainder of the party so they could speak privately. Daniel had cast a few suspicious glances over his shoulder when the two of them had dropped behind, but Mrs. Farnsworth had eventually fixed her son with an expression that had put an end to the practice.
“I had to test a theory about why you were attacked.”
Geoffrey frowned. “What possible light could introducing me to Macomb shed upon that? I’ve never met the man before today.”
“You don’t remember meeting him before today,” she corrected. “But he might have remembered meeting you.”
With an unpleasant jolt of comprehension, he saw what she was thinking. He’d lost nearly a day’s worth of memories and was no closer to recovering them now than when he’d first regained consciousness. How could he say with certainty whom he had or had not met in that period of time? But he would have had absolutely no reason whatsoever to come into contact with the commander of the American army during that missing day. They were enemies, encamped on different sides of the Saranac. Geoffrey did not hold a high enough rank even to exchange messages with the commander of the opposing forces, much less meet with the man.
He said as much.
“And the idea would not have crossed my mind but for a conversation I chanced to have with Macomb last Sunday. He said, in passing, that he owed some of the success of his strategy for winning the battle to the fact that he had a British informant. One who shared with him the timing of the British attack.” She paused and watched his face, waiting for her words to sink in.
Hell and damnation! Had one of their own men betrayed them to the Americans? Geoffrey hated to consider the possibility, but even as he tried to deny it, he knew had to be true. Alexander Macomb would have no reason to invent such a claim. In fact, he had better reasons to keep the information to himself. After all, no one had held out much hope that the American forces would be able to prevail. The local populace had had so little faith in the young brigadier general that most of them had vacated Plattsburgh ahead of the British advance. Macomb’s stunning victory would be all that much more impressive if he did not admit to having insider knowledge of the enemy’s plans.
Not only that, but there was no denying that British morale had recently reached a nadir. There were always a few desertions from the ranks, but the number had been increasing as this war—so far from British soil—dragged into its third year. But deserting made going home difficult; men who deserted faced a very real threat of arrest, trial, and imprisonment or, in some cases, even execution. Would one of those soldiers who just wanted this bloody war over have betrayed his brothers-in-arms if it might mean getting back to Mother England that much sooner? The answer, dishearteningly, was clearly yes. Even worse, Geoffrey could not have vouched for the loyalty of all the men under his direct command. There were a few who would have sold out their literal brothers to get home…
Oh, bloody hell.
Indignation swelled in his chest. He stared in shock at the lovely woman who had been protecting him for weeks. “You thought I was Macomb’s informant.” It wasn’t a question.
She gave him a pained smile. “It occurred to me that it could have been you.”
“You should have asked me.”
“In case you have forgotten, there are some gaps in your memory.”
He growled, because of course he hadn’t forgotten there were events he couldn’t remember. It was the one thing he couldn’t forget. “I would never betray my men. Under any circumstances.”
An expression of chagrin crossed Mrs. Farnsworth’s features, and he felt guilty f
or having upset her. Though why he should feel like the villain when she was the one all but accusing him of treachery, he did not know.
But then, from her perspective, perhaps it didn’t seem like treachery at all. Whoever Macomb’s informant had been, he’d been on her side of the conflict. Geoffrey was still on the enemy’s side. And despite what he had told her yesterday—that he had no particular desire to return to fighting this war against her country—he hadn’t been able to stop himself from thinking like a soldier. That was why, when Macomb had extended his casual invitation for Geoffrey to join the local militia, he’d immediately recognized the military value of the information.
This realization didn’t sit easily with him.
“I never believed it was you,” she said, her tone apologetic. “But I also could not shake the suspicion that the attack on you was not a coincidence. Now, I am all but certain of it.” Her palm closed around his biceps, and her eyes, wide and solemn, met his. “I believe the person who tried to kill you was Macomb’s informant.”
Even though he followed her line of reasoning, Geoffrey’s first impulse was to reject her conclusion as fanciful. And too convenient. Coincidences happened, after all. There was nothing at all to connect the two events except timing.
But he had to admit, it would explain several perplexing facts, starting with why he remembered nothing about the day of the battle. If she was right, then he had never made it into the fight. Instead, he had been attacked the night before to prevent him from revealing the traitor’s perfidy.
It might also explain why the Farnsworths had found him several miles from the battlefield. Perhaps his body had been moved well away from the front lines in the hopes of making it appear he, like so many enlisted men, had deserted. Or, even more ominously, to make it look as though Geoffrey had deserted because he was the traitor.
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 8
