Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (17 page)

Devon found the main room cozy and
surprisingly well furnished. The cherry drop-leaf table and
matching chairs were as fine as she had ever seen, while the oak
cupboard boasted rows of hand-painted china. The windows were
glass, and a large Oriental rug covered the brick floor. There was
a long sofa, upholstered in green brocade, and two threadbare wing
chairs.

"Why, this is lovely!" Devon exclaimed.

"Captain Raveneau brought us every piece of
furniture you see in this room, except for the wing chairs," Mrs.
Minter replied. "He's the finest man..."

"Where's Pa?" her son broke in. "And
Azalea?"

"Your pa's outside, having a look at the
tobacco curing in the barn. Azalea's getting dressed." She turned
to Devon. "You'll sleep upstairs with her."

"Fine. I would like that."

"I think I'll go and greet Pa," Minter said.
"Do you mind, Devon?"

"No, please go ahead. I'll be fine."

Mrs. Minter crossed to the huge brick
fireplace which formed the east wall. There was a baking oven on
one side, and a kettle of water boiled over the low flames in the
hearth. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like a cup?"
she asked.

"Yes. That would be very nice." Devon was so
tired that her own voice sounded flat and unfamiliar.

Footsteps tapped down the narrow stairway and
Devon looked up to see an attractive, deep-rose gown appear, and
finally a face. Azalea Minter was a lush, beautiful girl with
curves in all the right places. Her thick chestnut hair, dark doe
eyes, and pink cheeks shone with good health.

"Hello! I must confess that I've been
listening to this conversation!" she said, reaching the bottom step
and hurrying over to clasp Devon's hands. "I am so happy to meet
you! My name's Azalea Minter and I just know you and I will be good
friends!"

"You’re very kind. I’m Devon Lindsay, and I
would like nothing better than to be your friend. I'm so glad you
don't mind my intrusion—"

"Good heavens, no! Why, we all have to help
each other during this war. Besides, I've been aching for a
friend!" She looked around to find her mother pouring the hot water
into a Queensware teapot. "Mama, please do keep our tea hot. I'll
take Devon upstairs so she can start to get settled."

Devon picked up the tiny cowhide trunk Minter
had packed for her and cheerfully followed Azalea upstairs.

The roof came to a point over the long,
slanted bedroom. It was cheerfully furnished with an unmade
low-post bed, a slant-top desk, an armoire, and two Windsor chairs.
A worn Turkish rug covered the floor, and the bedspread and
curtains were made of the same blue and white fabric. There was a
small washstand next to the bed, with a miniature painting of a
young man balanced on its far corner.

"This must be your fiancé!" Devon
exclaimed.

"Yes. It is." Azalea smiled adoringly at the
likeness of a blond, rather heavy set man with a florid
complexion.

Devon noticed a sword hanging on the wall. It
was a rakish-looking weapon, highly polished, with a length of
pearl-gray satin tied around the handle. "I suppose this is his?"
she asked. "I'm sorry, but Minter—that is, Halsey—didn't mention
his name."

"It is Isaac. Isaac Smith. But, to answer
your other question, the sword isn't his. It was a gift from
Andre."

Devon nearly choked. "Andre?"

"Yes. Andre Raveneau. You've met him, haven't
you? I assumed that he must have told Halsey to bring you
here."

"Why, yes... I know him. I came here from
Connecticut on the
Black Eagle
after the British attacked my
town and my mother died."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. But if one must escape, I
can't imagine a more exciting way!" Azalea turned away to lift
Devon's small trunk onto the bed. "Are you Andre's mistress?"

Stunned, Devon put a hand on the washstand
for balance. "Of course not! No!"

Azalea looked back, smiling archly. "That's a
shame. I'm so sorry."

Blushing furiously, Devon opened the trunk.
She pulled out an extra shirt and pair of breeches, and as she
reached for the folded sea-green dress, Azalea exclaimed, "For
goodness' sakes! That's my gown! I'll own I never thought I'd lay
eyes on
it
again!"

***~~~***

Late September, 1781

Devon adapted quickly to life on the farm
after Halsey Minter returned to the
Black Eagle.

Jud Minter was tall and lanky like his son,
but his skin was brown and weather-beaten. Unlike Constance Minter,
who complained of every ache, her husband never talked about
himself, yet his fatigue and pain showed in his eyes and every
labored movement.

Azalea was as young and vital as her parents
were old and bitter. She worked on the farm with the endurance of a
man, and Devon was caught up in her whirlwind of energy. At night,
when the younger girl lay utterly exhausted on her side of the bed,
Azalea would talk on in the darkness.

Azalea's connection with Andre Raveneau had
been explained the first night. Years ago, she’d recounted, before
her betrothal to Isaac, she had been restless and quarrelsome
during the long, dull winter of 1775. Just before the war erupted,
she had run away from home, searching for adventure.

"I know it was foolish, but many good things
came from that escapade," she said, smiling. "I was kidnapped by a
horrible British seaman who used me badly and took me aboard his
ship. Once we were at sea, the
Black Eagle
swooped in like a
bird of prey, captured the British ship, and Andre stole me away.
What an adventure! I lived and breathed for that man all that
spring."

Remembering the first time she had seen
Raveneau—in April of 1775—and the female companion who had clutched
his arm while they strolled along the Beach, Devon smiled feebly.
"Were you in New London?"

"Goodness, I think so! I paid little mind to
anything but Andre. We were
very
close, if you take my
meaning."

Devon, sick at heart, imagined Azalea's wink
in the darkness. "What happened?" she asked. "Did you quarrel? Was
this before you knew Isaac?"

"Oh, I knew Isaac and I was quite certain I'd
marry him one day! As for Andre, there was no quarrel. He simply
brought me home when the war began in earnest and he was ready to
sail south." Azalea managed a stiff laugh. "I was prepared. I'm no
fool! Opportunities like Andre come as seldom as falling stars, and
they are as impossible to grasp. I knew he would never marry me,
but I couldn't refuse him. I have always loved Isaac—I've waited
years for him! But Andre is special. He's magic." There was a heavy
pause. "Didn't you feel it? Didn't it make you tingle just being
near him?"

"No! And it's not a subject we should be
discussing."

"Hmmm. You say no so loudly, I think you
might mean yes." Azalea rushed to soothe Devon's temper by
finishing the story. It seemed that Raveneau had met her brother,
Halsey, when he brought Azalea home. The boy had signed on as the
captain's steward and had been there ever since. The Frenchman's
friendship with the entire Minter family had endured.

* * *

Days passed. Devon helped Mrs. Minter in the
house and listened patiently to her complaints. She also went with
Azalea to the tobacco barn, where the meager crop had been hung to
cure, watching as the older girl inspected its progress. Then they
would walk through the fields and trees or ride the two aging
horses.

Their friendship prospered. Eventually Devon
told Azalea about the British attack on New London and Groton Bank,
shakily describing the soldiers who had burst into the Linen and
Pewter Shop and the nightmarish events which had followed. Azalea
listened in horrified fascination, but in the end she threw her
arms around Devon and hugged her until it hurt. Devon wept to the
point of feeling sick, then laughed nervously and drew away. They
smiled into each other's eyes and their friendship was sealed.

Azalea never tired of discussing Isaac, her
thirst for romance, or the men in her past. She had no qualms about
telling all, but Devon, though she spoke freely about Morgan, never
mentioned any aspect of their physical relationship, and she froze
whenever Azalea mentioned Andre Raveneau.

One evening Azalea left the house for a walk.
Devon watched her through the window as she headed toward the dock,
and thought she seemed oddly furtive.

Constance Minter came up behind Devon,
smelling of herbs and potatoes.

"She's up to mischief," she declared, and
crossed the room to poke her husband, who was dozing on the sofa.
"Azalea's up to mischief!" she shouted in his ear.

Jud Minter made an unsuccessful attempt to
revive himself, then propped his chin on the opposite shoulder and
began to snore.

"Do you see?" Mrs. Minter asked Devon
harshly. "I'm as helpless as a kitten! My husband cannot help me
deal with that child. She's always been headstrong, uncontrollable.
You follow her, Devon, make sure she stays out of trouble."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," soothed a somewhat
confused Devon. "What sort of trouble could she get into around
here? Aren't all the eligible young men at war?"

"Azalea can always find a man when she wants
to. You follow her."

It was easy to follow Azalea, for she had
left a wide ribbon of broken, crushed grass along the water. Devon
unsuccessfully fought feelings of anger and resentment. She was
tired, and here she was plowing through a swamp. Her feet and skirt
were wet, she was perspiring, and there was no sign of Azalea. What
if she were simply out for a walk? What if she
was
breaking
the monotony of her existence by meeting a neighboring farm boy?
What was Devon supposed to do about it?

Then Devon heard a stealthy rustle in the
grass. A snake? It would be the perfect end to a terrible afternoon
if a snake were to bite me, she thought. She took a few more
cautious steps, then froze as a groan broke the quiet. It reminded
her of the sound Azalea often made in her sleep...

"Azalea?" Devon kept her voice low, just in
case.

There was another, louder groan. Devon went
toward the sound and discovered her friend lying in the tall, heavy
grass.

"Oh, thank God you’ve come," Azalea gasped,
her face contorted with pain. "I must have stepped into a hole...
Oh, my ankle!"

Devon dropped to her knees, lifted Azalea's
head, and rested it on her lap. "What on earth were you doing?"

"You will have to go now. It's so important!
Please... you must take the message in my place. Worry about me
later. There will be hell to pay if someone is not there when he
arrives—"

"Who? Where? What are you talking about?"

"Just a little way... where the water forks.
He'll be there at sunset. Any minute! He will give you a message.
If he doesn't trust you, tell him that you have come in my place to
get the Blue Jay's message. Don't forget! Afterward, you have to
come back this way, the way you came from the farm. You'll find a
giant oak..." Azalea paused, wincing in pain, and licked her lips.
"It has yellow leaves and a foot-tall A carved in the trunk. Wait
there as long as you have to. A man wearing a cape and a black silk
mask over his eyes will come in a boat from the James. Give him the
message."

"The Blue Jay?" Devon inquired
skeptically.

Azalea managed a weak smile. "Jay. He calls
himself Jay. The redcoats call him Blue Jay because he appears and
disappears the way the blue jay dives and then swoops back up to
the trees to laugh."

"But what about you? How shall we get you
home? I feel terrible leaving you here this way! It is cruel,
Azalea! Besides, how important can this message be?"

"Very important," Azalea said urgently.
"There isn't much time. All I can tell you is that the first man is
from the American armies marching on Yorktown. The Blue Jay is from
the French fleet anchored in Chesapeake Bay. This farm is where
communications are exchanged between the army and the navy."

"This farm?" Devon repeated doubtfully.

"Both men have traveled with great speed to
meet here tonight. They know I can be trusted." Azalea put her head
back, and Devon could see how pale her usually blooming cheeks
were.

"I suppose that Captain Raveneau vouched for
your character. I'm not certain that he would do the same for me!"
Her friend narrowed her eyes warningly. "All right, I'll go, but I
hope this doesn't take long. I am so worried about you!"

"Devon, I'll be fine. But do hurry. If he has
to wait, he may grow suspicious and leave."

Devon kissed Azalea's cheek and spread her
shawl over the injured girl before starting off.

It took less than a half hour to reach the
fork in the creek, but by that time the twilight was deep and rosy.
Devon waited, wondering and worrying. The entire situation was
beyond belief. To think that two weeks ago she was safely living in
New London.

A sharp, scolding bird cry pierced the quiet
dusk and Devon looked around nervously. Should she say something?
Was that some sort of question from the messenger? "I've come in
Azalea's place," she offered quietly. "She's been hurt."

A man stepped out of the trees, only a few
feet away. He was small, swarthy, and sharp-eyed. His uniform was a
far cry from the neat garb of New London's militia—soiled buff
breeches, a blue coat which looked much-mended, and a sword.

"Why have you come?" His eyes were like
daggers.

"I have come to receive a message."

"For whom?"

They stared at each other suspiciously.

"How do I know that you are the right
person?" Devon demanded.

"How do I know that
you
are?"

"Where are you bound? If you tell me that,"
she said, "I will tell you the name of the recipient of the
message."