Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution (34 page)

"Sold."
 
She could have wrangled out more, but she
had no desire to encourage his leap from admiration to adoration.
 
If he started courting her, her credibility
for the assignment would slide right into the vault — foretold by the raised
eyebrows she received from the wives while Tarleton counted out payment for the
pocket.

Besides, she
realized as he tromped up the stairs, he'd done her a favor, made her aware of
a market for her embroidery.
 
Sutlers
didn't carry much merchandise to delight ladies.

Not long after
he jingled back downstairs, Margaret glided into the parlor with a smile of
satisfaction.
 
She sat across from Helen
and read a book plucked from the pocket displayed on her hip: a pocket
embroidered with a stunning cardinal.
 
Ah, domestic peace.

So engrossed
was Helen on the daisies a few minutes later that she squeaked out surprise
when Fairfax peered over her shoulder at the embroidery.
 
"Oh, how crass of me to startle
you.
 
I presumed you'd heard my
arrival."

A chill
rocketed across that side of her body.
 
For the sake of appearance, she held her tongue, tempered the
snappishness common on the first day of her menses.
 
To her dismay, he knelt on one knee before her.
 
Her skin felt too tight again.

"I've
missed you, darling," he whispered.

The embroidery
needle slipped, jabbed her thumb.
 
She
grunted.
 
Oh, gods, he
did
expect
another visit to his marquee.

"And I've
something for you."
 
He reached
inside his coat.

Her first
thought was of the handkerchief that he'd twisted around her wrists.
 
Then she wondered whether he'd purchased a
gift for her.
 
She glanced at Margaret.
 
The courtesan studied their interaction.

"These
arrived late yesterday."
 
He handed
over two letters.

One for
Jonathan, and the other for Roger.
 
The
seal had been broken on both.
 
Jonathan,
in particular, wouldn't be pleased that Fairfax had helped himself to his
business correspondence — but wait!
 
Panic thrashed her, and she shuffled the letters.
 
Only two.

"Was there
nothing for me?"
 
She let
inflexibility trickle into her stare.
 
"I expect a bank draft from Badley."

"It hasn't
arrived."
 
A softening in his lips
didn't reach his eyes.
 
He kept his
voice to a whisper.
 
"Do you need a
loan?"

Divine sister,
sibyl of the gods, vision-priestess.

Thank goodness
for Tarleton's seven shillings.
 
"No."

"You
believe I'm withholding the draft and lying to you.
 
I said it on the Santee Road, but it bears repeating.
 
Badley wants you dead.
 
He's broken your contract and stranded you
out here."

"Thank you
for delivering the letters.
 
I've
embroidery to finish.
 
You're blocking
my light."

He leaned over
to kiss her cheek.
 
"The middle of
December, and you taste of April strawberries."

A flush
stampeded up her neck.
 
Fairfax
swaggered out.
 
Across the parlor,
Margaret feigned interest in her book, but Helen knew she'd observed the whole
exchange.

***

Jonathan handed
Helen's desk out of her tent.
 
She set
it atop a folded blanket.
 
A respite in
the rain permitted everyone to prepare for the morrow's move.
 
Civilians and soldiers were about on errands
in the twilight.
 
While Hannah and Roger
prepared supper in the camp kitchen, Helen consulted Jonathan.

He emerged from
her tent again and brushed hands on his breeches.
 
"All straightened out in there, Lady Helen."

"Thank
you.
 
I'm concerned.
 
Badley's draft hasn't been forwarded."

"Everyone
talks about the post, my dear, but no one does anything about it.
 
It's seldom on time in Britain.
 
Why should you expect improvement in His
Majesty's colonies?"

He had a point
there.
 
She sighed, exasperated.

Jonathan
sobered.
 
"We know who the villain
is here.
 
Stop making excuses for
him.
 
Trust your instincts."

"My
instincts tell me to trust neither Badley nor Fairfax."

He stepped over
beside her, his expression kind.
 
"Your eyes look tired, Helen.
 
How stressful this is for you.
 
Might you rest easier if I loaned you money while you're waiting on
Phineas's draft?"
 
When she opened
her mouth, he held up his hand.
 
"A
loan, not a gift.
 
If you insist, I
shall charge you interest."

"If I
insist
?"
 
They laughed, and their gazes found that
interlocked sanctuary born of enduring friendship.
 
The clicking and twitching shimmied up Helen's skin again, and
she let it happen, certain she was infatuated with Jonathan, but glad for his
kindness.
 
How little of his
companionship she received.
 
She missed
him.
 
"Thank you for your offer,
and hmm, I'm not sure I shall ever insist upon interest, but yes, after the
move, I shall discuss a loan with you."

"Splendid!
 
Let me arrange everything inside your tent
for the night and light a few lanterns."

"Evening,
folks."
 
On horseback, Adam Neville
rode out of the gathering dusk, reined back his mount near Helen's tent, and
touched his hat in greeting.

"Mr.
Neville."
 
Helen curtsied.
 
"We've not seen you since
Wednesday.
 
How have you been keeping
yourself?"

"Busy,
madam."
 
He assessed their
campsite.
 
"A soldier is never
idle."
 
He sounded weary, and night
seemed to have taken up residence in his face.
 
"Has Mr. Fairfax apprised you of the morrow's procedure?"
 
He glanced at Jonathan.

"Not
yet.
 
He's busy.
 
Do us the honors so we aren't left behind in
this bog due to noncompliance with Army regulations."

"Have your
horses saddled and wagon loaded before seven.
 
The men will have spread straw toward the road north.
 
Frankly, I don't know how much the straw
will help us heave the wagons out, but there you have it."

Helen
nodded.
 
"Will you join us for
supper?"
 
Perhaps she could coax a
story about Thomas Brown out of Neville.

"Thank
you, madam, but I've too many duties to tend tonight."
 
He touched his hat again and groped at the
rein — far too clumsily, she thought, for a ranger accustomed to the saddle.

The horse
danced sideways, a rear hoof clipping Helen's desk.
 
The fatal sound of splintered wood preceded her gasp of
disbelief.

Neville stared
at the ground below his horse, dismounted, and met Helen as she picked up what
remained of her desk.
 
Through the
bashed-in top, she saw ink squirted over papers.
 
"My — my desk."
 
Her voice retreated, and she gaped.
 
The desk was kindling.

"Oh, Mrs.
Chiswell, I'm so very sorry."

She dropped
what was left of the desk and turned to him.
 
"How am I to finish this assignment without a desk, paper, pen, and
ink?"

Neville stood
staunchly.
 
"Why, I shall replace
it for you."

"How?
 
My husband purchased it in
England
twelve years ago.
 
You cannot find
another out here in the hinterland."
 
She closed her eyes.
 
The loss
started to sink in.
 
No money plus no
desk equaled no feature.

"Actually,
I saw one this afternoon, in the tent of a merchant.
 
I realize it won't have the sentimental value of the desk from
your husband, but I thought it rather handsome, with intricate carvings along
the side.
 
At the very least, it will
permit you to finish your assignment."
 
He grasped her upper arm.
 
"The merchant may still be open.
 
Please allow me to make amends for my inelegance."

A prickle of
queerness crawled through Helen's loss, and she looked from the hand on her arm
up into the ranger's face.
 
From what
she'd observed of Neville, it was so unlike him to
touch
another
person.
 
He was a fortress closed and
siege-ready.
 
Perhaps the incident had
jolted him out of his defenses.
 
"Very well."
 
She
squared her shoulders, and his hand slid away.
 
"But do hurry."

"Yes,
madam."
 
He bowed.

She and
Jonathan watched Neville canter south for the merchants.
 
"What do you make of him,
Jonathan?
 
Contrite?"

"Perhaps.
 
An odd bird, to be sure.
 
And if ever a man didn't fit in the skin he
was wearing, it's Mr. Neville."

Chapter Thirty-Four

BY THE TIME
camp was pitched at Daniel's plantation the next afternoon, the overcast had
broken.
 
The site soon stank of mildewed
canvas.
 
Smoke rose from wet wood tossed
on fires.
 
Like creeper vines in a
forest, lines of clean, wet stockings, underclothes, and towels popped up
across camp.

Heavy traffic
on the trail churned up more mud.
 
Tempers flared.
 
Accompanied by
bodyguards and a brace of sleek foxhounds, Tarleton rode through camp and
reminded hundreds of muddy men, women, and children that they were privileged,
part of the elite.
 
Grumbles and scowls
subsided.
 
Above the plunk of hammer on
tent peg and the rumble of carts to and fro, laughter emerged, and music from
pennywhistles and fiddles rose in the cool afternoon.

Boots and
buttons shined to perfection, the colonel called upon Helen, too.
 
He flirted, informed her of a Yule dance for
officers and their ladies, and kissed her hand.
 
Riding with him was Tobias Treadaway, who demonstrated no
recognition of Helen, other than as Fairfax's sister.
 
She took care to not draw more attention to herself while they
visited her camp, but she wondered what had motivated him to ride out in
inhospitable weather and attend the regiment's move.
 
He could have sent a messenger to report on their location.

When Tarleton
headed off for the next campsite, she sent Roger after the purchasing agent to
query him.
 
Roger reported that
Treadaway bragged of knowing where everyone was in the Southern colonies and
was proud of his ability to respond to the needs of the Legion and Lord
Cornwallis.

Another yappy
lap dog in camp.
 
Just what the colonel
needed.

Shawl draped
round her shoulders, she sat outside and sketched the camp before she settled
in to write the day's journal entry and a special letter to Badley querying him
about the overdue bank draft.
 
Every so
often, she paused to stroke the splendid workmanship of the desk Neville had
given her, or sniff the oil finish, or admire grain patterns in the wood.
 
Whorls of flowers and leaves were carved
into the dark mahogany along the sides.
 
She felt like a princess every time she opened it.
 
Of Spanish origin, certainly, and at least
twice the value of the desk Silas had purchased for her.
 
Which made her curious how such a work of
art just happened to be available from a backcountry merchant at the precise
moment she needed it, and how Neville had afforded it on the pay of a
provincial lieutenant.

Not only had he
purchased the desk for her and replaced writing implements destroyed in the
accident, he'd agreed to join her for supper that night.
 
At last, here was her opportunity to learn
about Thomas Brown, paint for London readers a mini-portrait of another of the
king's heroes in the American War — one not so well known, a provincial commander
who hadn't received acclaim due him.

Late afternoon,
Hannah returned from a foray into market to report that Roger was cooking
beefsteaks for supper, but all the spirits in market were bought up.
 
The blonde's mouth made a moue, and she
nodded her head toward the lower camp.
 
"They're going to be one happy people tonight, now that the rain's
stopped."
 
Helen sent Hannah and
Jonathan out to the wagon to pull wine from their stash and reflected that
drunkenness and riotousness were punishable offenses.
 
No doubt a certain sub-readership in London would revel in
profuse detail of that facet of military life.