The Sword of the Banshee (26 page)

“Happy Christmas to you, Lady Allen,” said Mrs. Schumacher, the elderly housekeeper, as she set breakfast down in front of India one morning.

India was surprised. “Is today Christmas?”

“Tomorrow milady. Tonight is Christmas Eve.”

“Oh dear,” she murmured. “I had better attend church tonight.”

India had been successfully dodging Reverend Archer for over a month, shaking his hand after the Sunday service with promises of luncheon or tea. He was a large, good humored man who was hard to avoid but she had graciously put him off so far. She knew that she should receive him soon, before the townspeople became suspicious about her presence in the Valley.

That evening, she had the driver take her in the sleigh to attend church. It had been snowing all day, and by the time the service was over, the snow covered her boots. Pleading a hasty departure because of the storm, once again, India avoided Reverend Archer and returned home vowing to have him over before Twelfth Night.

She dismissed the help for the holiday early, leaving her home alone with only Phineas. The tranquility suited her completely. When she checked on him in the stables, he seemed content. He was happily brushing Quinn’s favorite gelding, so she walked up to the house for a quiet evening by the fire.

India threw her cloak on the chair and looked down at her gown. She knew she should change into something more practical, but dismissed the idea. It was one of her favorite gowns. It was a sand colored print covered in copper and sage green leaves with a lace petticoat, long lace sleeves and lace stomacher.

Although there was much to be done, she was tired of working and decided to read. She looked at the shelves of books flanking the fireplace. Tonight, she would read for pleasure, and she scanned the volumes.

Just as she opened a book, the bookcase moved. India’s heart leaped into her throat and she froze, watching the entire wall swing toward her. She thought she had lost her mind.

Like in bizarre dream, Quinn stepped out into the room from behind the door, yawning and running his fingers through his hair. “Oh hello,” he said.

India stared at him, speechless.

He blinked and said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you about the hidden room.”

“What?” India gasped, with her heart pounding. She felt light headed and backed up, lowering herself onto a chair, panting. She was laced too tightly. 

“Oh, sorry,” Quinn exclaimed, scanning the room. He took a decanter of brandy and poured India a drink, bending over her anxiously.

She clutched her stomacher as she drank the liquor. Gradually, her heart slowed and her breathing returned to normal. “Would you care to tell me what this is all about?
”
she snapped.

Quinn slid onto a chair across from her. “When I had the house built I knew the Revolution was imminent. I had a small bedroom constructed in the center of the house for protection.”

India noticed his tousled hair. “Were you sleeping in there?”

“Yes, come and see it.”

He grabbed a candle, slid a latch at the back of the bookcase and the door swung open once more. It was a small room with only one chair, a bed, a wash stand, and a fireplace. There were no windows but there was a door on the far wall. Quinn opened it and held up the candle, revealing wooden steps descending into darkness. “These go to the cellar.”

“Can you get outside that way?’

He nodded.

She said irritably, “Well, this
is
a good idea. I just wish you had informed me.”

“Sorry, my girl.”

When they returned to the sitting room, Quinn said, “I could use some breakfast.”

“Breakfast? It's dark out. Have you been back there sleeping all day?”

“I have. I cannot be out during daylight hours, so I sleep.”

“How many nights have you been sleeping back there?”

Quinn rubbed his chin. “For about a week.”

“A week! India exclaimed, but he didn’t hear her. He had gone back into the room to shave.

“I just remembered that it’s Christmas!” he called to her. “Where’s the boy?”

“In the stables. The servants are all gone.” India sighed and put her book back. “I will see what there is to eat.”

Moments later, Quinn appeared in the kitchen, clean shaven, and dressed to go outside. India had brought up the fire, and it cast a warm glow on the hearthstones and the copper pots and pans hanging over the table.

She emerged from the larder and announced, “Mrs. Schumacher left a ham, a chicken pudding, and several--”

“Never mind,” he interrupted. “I am going to find the boy, and we’ll go down to the river to catch dinner.”

“Very well.”

Quinn found Phineas sitting on a stool in the stable polishing horse brasses. The boy looked up and smiled. “I know you!”

“Aye lad,” said Quinn recalling the last time he had seen Phineas; it had been when he kidnapped them on the road. He smiled. “Just don’t be telling anyone how we met.”

Quinn looked around his stable with pride. It was a large stone structure, lined with many stalls and filled with thoroughbreds, quarter horses, and several drafts. Two rooms in back were for the trainer and hands. It smelled of fresh hay and well-groomed horses. Horse trading would continue as income for the estate and provide for Lady Allen.

“You like it here, boy?”

Phineas nodded. 

Quinn ran his hand over the rump of one of the mares and said, “I do too. I’m Irish. It’s in my blood.”

“I’m learning to be a groom,” Phineas announced, hanging the brasses back up carefully.

“Are ya now? Well that’s fine, lad but how would you like to learn to fish too?”

“Fish? But the river is frozen, sir” Phineas argued.

“We will chip a hole in it and drop a line.”

“Right now?” said Phineas eagerly, his eyes growing large.

“Right now,” said Quinn, handing him a creel.

“What’s your name, sir?”

Quinn was taken aback. He had not yet thought of an alias. Shaking the boy’s hand he was reminded suddenly of the Irish symbol of friendship and said, “My name is Mr. Claddagh.”

Satisfied, Phineas grabbed his coat and hat. With a spring in his step the boy followed Quinn down to the riverbank where they broke through a thin patch of ice to fish. Calleigh handed him a split willow pole and a bone hook, showing him how to bait properly.

“I’m guessing it will be shad we catch,” Quinn mused.

They dropped their lines and waited as the snow drifted down and dusted their shoulders. After a while, Calleigh looked at Phineas out of the corner of his eye and said, “So, do you like your mistress?”

“Yes.”

“What is she like?”

Phineas shrugged. “She is always the same.”

They were silent a moment, then the boy added, “Except one time she scared me.”

Quinn looked sharply at him. “What happened?”

“It was in Philadelphia, when the soldiers were stepping on me in the street. She pulled out a gun to shoot them.”

Quinn stared at Phineas a moment and then looked away. So, he thought, her hatred for the British ran deeper than he had realized.

Suddenly, Phineas’ pole arched and Quinn reached over to help. A large fish flopped about on the end of the line. “Look!” the boy exclaimed. “I caught a fish!”

“Ha, ha lad! That you have!”

Their luck continued for another hour, and by the time they returned to the house they had caught five shad. Phineas was completely taken with Quinn. He chattered excitedly telling India everything about their fishing expedition, but his eyes kept returning to Calleigh.

India smiled indulgently, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Her hands were covered with flour, and she was holding a rolling pin. Quinn ran his eyes over her body. It was long and graceful, and he wondered what it would be like to run his hands over her smooth round breasts. When she bent over to roll the dough, he stole a look down her bodice and spied several jagged red scars running down her bosom. He stared at them stunned. When she started to speak, he looked away.

“I found a crock of mincemeat, so now we can have pie,” she announced. “After all it is Christmas Eve.”

“We will feast!” Quinn boomed, as he rolled up his sleeves, ready to clean the fish.

The supper was indeed a feast, and like clockwork, Phineas fell asleep in his chair after bolting his food. Quinn carried him up to one of the bedchambers. Tonight, the boy would sleep in the main house.

Calleigh came downstairs and found India cleaning up in the kitchen. Her back was stiff and she did not look at him as she scrubbed a plate.

“Come into the sitting room and have a brandy. Call you ever relax, Lady Allen?” he teased.

“Things have to be attended to, Mr. Calleigh,” she replied without looking at him. She had an edge to her voice. “Not everything is about amusing oneself.”

With a twinkle in his eye, he said. “I find it hard to believe you are Irish. You have little love of life.”

Drying her hands, she faced him. “Love of life is it? While I was working on the rebellion the last week, you were out ‘loving life’ or sleeping it away.”

He put his hands up mock self-defense. “I apologize for goading you. You know, Lady Allen I am like a small boy who acts up to get your attention. So, can you spare time for a brandy?”

“Very well, one brandy.”

India reached back to pull her apron string and yanked it into a tight knot. She struggled with it until Quinn stepped over behind her and murmured, “Allow me.”

His hands felt hot on her back as he deliberately took his time pulling the strings apart. India did not move, feeling the touch of his fingers travel through her like fire. He leaned near her to breathe the scent of her hair. He could feel the heat from her skin and her closeness warmed his passion. He fought the urge to put his lips on her neck.

Collecting himself, he stepped away, dropping the apron ties. “Done,” he said, starting for the sitting room.

They talked for an hour about nothing at all, sipping brandy in the firelight, avoiding intimacy. Quinn struggled with himself. Ordinarily, he was impulsive with women, accustomed to quenching his thirst hastily, and he found it difficult to restrain himself. He knew that he must not try to charm Lady Allen into a dalliance right away. This woman was different; she was a challenge. In the end, it would be the same; he would have his way.

At last he asked, “Why did you marry Colm Fitzpatrick?”

India shrugged and said, “I was young. I was alone, and I was taken with the cause of freedom.”

“But he was not who you thought he was,” Calleigh added. “Some of us knew, even over here. Not at first, of course, but over time we realized that
you
were the heart and soul of the rebellion, not Fitzpatrick.”

They were silent, and Quinn asked finally. “Lady Allen, any ordinary person would have asked me by now if I was married.”

“Oh,” India responded, still not asking.

Quinn laughed and said, “Yes, Lady Allen, thank you for asking, I have been married twice.”

“Twice?”

“Indeed, my first wife was beautiful and engaging, but unfortunately had the morals of a cat. She ran off with an actor. My second wife was a fence for the goods I procured as a road agent in Ireland.”

“And--what happened to her?” India asked.

“She hanged.”

India frowned. “You state that in a very matter-of-fact way.”

Calleigh shrugged, “She was--enjoyable.”

“Enjoyable!” India snapped. “Is that what women are to you? Enjoyable?”

“Yes,” he nodded, sitting up straight. “I do enjoy women. Most aren’t good for much more than that.”

India set her drink down and stood up, her eyes blazing. “I have always suspected that you were nothing more than Irish scum, and now my suspicions are confirmed.”

“Because I said women were enjoyable?” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

“You know nothing of what it is like to be a woman!”

Growing angry, Quinn said, “I know nothing of what it is like to be a woman? Well, isn’t that a coincidence? You don’t either.”

*           *            *

Calleigh was furious. He took long strides through the snow, muttering to himself, “That woman masquerades as the people’s patriot, but deep down, she is nothing more than an arrogant aristocrat.” 

Quinn had always guessed India scoffed at his tenant upbringing, but tonight’s outburst confirmed his suspicions. The old hatred surfaced in him once more, a age old hatred bred into the Irish Catholic for the Protestant landholder. Calleigh had repeatedly endured snubs at the hands of the Irish aristocracy in business ventures, but never had it stung like this remark tonight. The barb struck deep inside him, and his confidence bled.

“I’ll not try to thaw that frigid wench again,” he mumbled.

Back at the house, India stood in front of the mirror staring at her reflection. She touched her cheek then ran her hand down her neck. She knew Calleigh had lashed out at her in anger, but a small part of her knew that he was right; she had forgotten how it was to be a woman.

Since the death of her babies, she had locked away her grief and her capacity to love. When the rebellion came, she firmly walled off the horrors of bloodshed and war and locked away the memories of the violence she had committed. Along the way, she had lost her womanhood.

India put her hands on the mantel and dropped her head.
How can I reconcile being an objective, dispassionate leader with being a woman?
It was a question she pondered for some moments then at last she straightened up and squared her shoulders, dismissing the thought.
Calleigh is nothing more than a hot-headed peasant lashing out at her femininity. I have survived this far and been highly successful. I do not need to change for him.

India banked the fire, took a candle, and climbed the stairs to bed. Before retiring, she stopped in the bed chamber where Phineas slept. She held the candle high to check on the boy. He was curled up on his side, hugging a pillow.

Slowly as if driven by an unseen force, India reached out to touch the child then withdrew her hand. Yet something urged her on, telling her to move forward. Slowly she reached out again and allowed her fingertips to brush the boy’s hair.

Chapter 24

By spring, India had been introduced to the gentry of the Brandywine Valley thanks to the Reverend and Mrs. Archer. The first person she met was Mr. Duncan Durham, the elderly gentleman with whom she had visited in the coach when she arrived in the Valley months ago. Luckily, he did not recognize her as the Irish peasant girl, Lorna Calleigh, who sat next to him in the coach six months earlier. 

He was a staunch Loyalist who eagerly and loudly expressed his views to her about the American Revolution. From him, India was able to obtain her first glimpse into the character and views of a Delaware Tory. Others who called on her were a wealthy widow and her spinster daughter from a neighboring hamlet, several couples from church, the local magistrate, and two or three wealthy farmers from the community. India felt satisfied that at last, she had gained the trust of the Loyalists in the area. Like any other group of people, India found some of them distasteful and rude and others well-mannered and genteel.

One afternoon, when she was having tea with Reverend Archer, the housekeeper announced a Mr. Alden Quincy had come to call. India recognized the name but could not place the man even when he entered the room. The Reverend Archer knew Quincy and pushed himself up out of the chair to greet the gentleman, introducing him to India as a staunch Loyalist and Quaker who had lived in the valley for thirty years.

When Quincy spoke, India’s eyebrows shot up. At last, she remembered him. He was the leader with the gravelly voice who questioned her at her first meeting with the patriots last October. She studied the middle aged, soberly dressed gentleman leaning on a cane.
So, I am not the only one leading a double life here in the Valley. It is apparent now that not all Quakers practice pacifism.

The three had a pleasant visit then as he left, Quincy slipped a note into India’s hand requesting her presence at the cloister for a meeting that night.

*           *            *

As soon as everyone was assembled at the cloister church, Calleigh announced, “I have just received news that the first engagement with the British has occurred in the Colony of Massachusetts at Lexington. Eight minutemen were killed.”

No one moved. “The British were to seize a stockpile of arms in Concord, but thanks to successful intelligence, the rebels were able to move the guns and ammunition to safety. Numbers are unclear, but so far, we know that forty minutemen are dead from a later engagement at Concord.”

Calleigh paused. “It has begun.”

There were no cheers, no loud huzzahs, just stony silence.

“Lady Allen,” he said quietly. “Report please.”

Calleigh sat down with his eyes never leaving India as she walked to the table, but once she started to speak, he stared at the floor.

India shared news from her contacts, Parnell’s progress on uniforms and the forgery of papers and placement of moles in the British military. She outlined her recommendations for future raids and maneuvers, proposed strategies and long range plans, but Calleigh was too preoccupied to hear what she was saying. He hated her. He hated women born to wealth and entitlement, well educated in every way but that of survival and a hard scrabble existence. He hated women like her who used men and threw them away.

Then he stopped himself. He knew that she was far from a helpless female. 
Her hands were white and smooth, her hair silken, and her manner feminine and graceful, but strip away the soft exterior, and you would find she was made of cold steel. She was a woman more capable of taking care of herself than most men.

Calleigh rubbed his forehead.
If this was all true then why do I long to yank her into my arms, pull the pins from her hair and run my lips along her warm skin?
He realized now that the restlessness he had felt over the past year had foretold her coming. He clenched his teeth feeling anger rise. Indeed, the Gods had played a cruel trick on this carefree Irishman.

India finished her report and sat back down to listen to Quinn’s instructions for strikes. She found it uncomfortable to watch him. He moved across the room with such confidence and authority that it both hypnotized her and disgusted her.
How
dare someone of such low birth hold himself in such high regard? He is not only arrogant but deluded.

She was confused and puzzled by her reaction to Calleigh.
If
I despise him so much then why does my heart race when he looks into my eyes? Why does heat flush my skin when he stands near me, and why do images creep into my mind of his arms crushing me to him? It must be some unusual reaction of my hatred and distaste for the man.
Phineas had even noticed India’s response to Calleigh, commenting on her blush whenever he was around. This observation mortified her.

When she returned home after the meeting that night, she lingered on the window seat in her bedroom looking out at the full moon. It was the first warm night in April and moonbeams drenched the dew-soaked lawn, glistening like shards of glass. She could just see the dark river sparkling in the distance. As a breeze moved the curtains gently, she remembered the canary-colored bed chamber on the estate in Kilcommon where the windows soared two stories high. Although she had fond memories of that room, she did not long for those days again. At last, her life was her own, and she felt more alive than ever.

India unpinned her hair, tossed her dressing gown onto a chair and slid into bed drifting off into a deep sleep. She did not hear the man approach the open window. She was unaware of the sound of his boots on the cobblestones and his shadow dropping over her body. Leaning onto the frame of the window, Quinn Calleigh smoked his tobacco and watched India breathe, and he watched India dream.

*           *            *

Lexington and Concord was the catalyst for which the rebels had been waiting. Things were happening at last.  Within a month, India was visited by Hiram Pickles, the man who was to translate intelligence information composed in Yiddish from the Singers, India’s merchant contacts in Philadelphia. He was a chubby, studious looking little man with thick spectacles. They sat side by side at her desk in the sitting room, while he translated letters from Yiddish into English.

These letters contained information gathered by the Singers about British supply orders and troop escalations. They also had surprising news as well about a group called The Green Mountain Boys who had seized Fort Ticonderoga in the north. India was very interested in these men since their style of warfare was similar to her own. Another letter was from the Diviner, Lucretia Dupuis, requesting a meeting with India. She had pertinent information for her and would like to meet as soon as possible.

“Thank you, Mr. Pickles. This has been most helpful.”

India paused and studied the man for a moment. “Excuse me for asking, but you appear to be a highly educated man.”

He removed his spectacles, wiped them with his handkerchief and shrugged. “I was a pedagogue in Germany for many years, but in the New World there is no work for me. They want gentiles to teach their children, not a Jews. They want someone who will teach them the Old
and
the New Testament.” He shrugged. “So now I am a clerk in Wilmington instead.”

“Mr. Pickles, would you consider taking on a student?”

“What kind of a student?” he asked, putting on his glasses once more.

“I have a boy who has had no formal education whatsoever or any instruction in social graces. Much work is needed, but he is bright and extremely likeable. I will pay you handsomely.”

He bowed slightly and said, “I am at your disposal, Lady Allen.”

That evening, India lifted her skirts and started for the stable to find Phineas. The horses rolled their eyes at her nervously as she called for him. He was not there. She found him down by the river sitting in a tree.

She could barely see him through the leaves. “Phineas, come down here. I must speak with you. I have just engaged someone to teach you to read and to write.”

There was no response.

“Phineas, I can see your feet dangling. Come down here immediately.”

She saw branches bend as the boy reluctantly climbed down from his perch.

“I don’t want no schooling,” he mumbled. “That’s for candy asses.”

“There,” India exclaimed. “That is the manner of speech I want eliminated. This is not open for discussion. You will attend.”

“Mr. Claddagh teaches me the important things,” he grumbled.

“Who?”

“The man who owns the horses.”

India pursed her lips. She realized that Phineas was referring to Calleigh. “He comes here often?”

“Sometimes,” the boy stated, shrugging. “He is teaching me how to ride, how to fish and even to shoot so I can hunt.”

India sighed. She decided to drop the argument for now. “Speaking of hunting, I would like you and the other stable boys to go hunting for me.”

“Hunting for what, miss?”

“Mice.”

“Mice?” Phineas asked with surprise.

“Mice, but don’t kill them,” she stated. “Catch as many as you can over the next few days. I will pay you per mouse. Bag them up and keep them alive.”

Phineas stared at India with his mouth open then ran off, ready to begin his quest.

*           *            *

Several days later, India and Phineas arrived in Philadelphia with seven bags of mice. It was late afternoon by the time they set out for the docks with the rodents hidden in a valise. India held a note in her gloved hand with an address on it.

British soldiers swarmed everywhere. A ship had arrived that afternoon full of supplies for the army which the regulars were unloading and warehousing. The air smelled of stagnant fish and decaying fruit. Gulls were screeching, men were shouting and vendors were hawking their wares as India and Phineas wound their way through the chaos.

“That’s the last of it,” an officer called as a crate was lowered onto a wagon. India watched as the soldiers wheeled it down an alley and up a ramp into a warehouse filled with rations and supplies. A sentry stood near the open door.

India looked at Phineas from under her plumed hat, “It is time. These mice will destroy the army’s foodstuff. Work quickly. Let no one see you. ”

She picked up the skirt of her royal blue traveling gown and walked down the alley toward the sentry. Phineas followed, dressed in his livery carrying the leather valise.

“Good Sir,” she called, holding out the note in her gloved hand. “I am hopelessly lost. Would you be so kind as to direct a lady to her destination?”

The sentry was a sandy-haired young man, reserved and respectful. Tipping his hat he said, “Of course, madam.”