He had read the reports coming out of Valley Forge, heard of the staggering losses to cold, privation, and disease. Influenza, typhus, and dysentery had run wild through the camp. Every intelligence the British had received painted a picture of a rebellion on the brink of collapse.
Tremayne saw no evidence of that now. Admittedly, his was not the best vantage point for making accurate tactical observations, slung as he was over the side of his beast and mildly concussed. But what he could see—row upon row of rude log huts—was neatly laid out and solidly built. There was the sound of a military drill, crisp and precise, somewhere in the distance, and he recalled a bit of gossip he’d heard from Ewald over the winter: that the Americans had acquired a mountebank Prussian who styled himself “Baron von Steuben” and had undertaken to teach them proper warfare. From the sound of that drill, the Prussian’s military training, if not his pedigree, was genuine.
His captors cut his bonds and deposited him in one of the log huts, a little removed from the rest. They barred the door from without. It was a more comfortable prison than the powder magazine at Mercer, but a prison all the same. Dirt floor, brick chimney, plank bunks. There was no fuel, no light, no tinder. No mattress or even a blanket. The day had been pleasantly warm, but the May evenings were still cool, and in only his shirt and breeches, the night would be chill indeed.
He lay down on his side on one of the bunks, nursing a sore head and bruised ribs, and curled up to contain his bodily warmth. He did not want to die, but he could not regret the step he had taken today. Provided the Americans did not try him as a spy and hang him, as they very well might, he knew that he and Kate could build a life together, wherever fortune dictated. The passion they felt now might one day be tempered by time, but the joy they took in each other’s company, the life of ideas they might share, would not fade with the passing years. He had only to win through the next few days.
When the bar was lifted and the door opened a few hours later, he knew it would be more difficult than that. Arthur Grey stood silhouetted in the torchlight, his face a grim and forbidding mask. Of course it was. No doubt he’d seen the state in which Tremayne had returned his only daughter.
“Kate?” It was the first word out of his mouth. Everything else could wait.
“My daughter will live,” said Arthur Grey. “You, sir, are another matter entirely.”
Nineteen
It was a kitchen. She knew that before she knew anything else because she knew the sounds of kitchens. The low ring of the spoon in the pot, the clink of stacked plates, the pat of shoes on hearth tiles.
It was warm, and there were quiet voices, but she wasn’t ready to make sense of them yet. It was so very good to feel warm. She wanted to stretch and turn over on her back, but then she remembered. Everything.
And because she had not been waking up in good circumstances lately, she schooled herself to remain still, to breathe evenly as in sleep, and to listen.
“Isn’t there anything else you can do for her?” A voice, female, low, cultured, mature. Not a girl, a woman. Who spoke with the drawling cadences of the Southern states.
“Someone’s already cleaned her stripes as well as I could have.” A man’s voice. Smug.
“Something for the pain, then. You must have opium.” The woman again, firm, patient.
“Madame.” He didn’t mean madame. He meant woman. And he said it like bitch. “Madame, I have two hundred men dying of fever and infection in my infirmary. I can’t spare opium for some lobsterback’s whipping whore.”
Silence, during which Kate could hear only the snap of the fire and a third person moving about the kitchen. A servant, then, because they did not have the leisure to stop or the status to take part in the conversation.
At length the woman said, “You are misinformed, sir.”
He snorted. “The whole camp knows she came in half naked on the horse of a Redcoat. And it’s plain she went willingly under the lash. I’ve treated men who weren’t whipped half as badly and their wrists were bloody from the ropes. Hers are as fine and unmarked as swan’s down.”
“Nevertheless. If you cannot spare some opium, then we can broach the general’s supply.”
Kate had heard enough. She was home, she was safe, and no one had lied to her about how hard it would be. She no longer had the Widow to turn to, but she did have her example. “Opium,” she said, clutching the sheet to her breasts and rising from the cot, “will not be necessary. But a glass of watered rum would not go amiss.”
It was smaller than her kitchen at Grey Farm, and the clutter told her it was serving a larger household than intended. Her champion was a woman decidedly past forty, sensibly and expensively dressed, but without style. There was a black serving woman as well. Kate noted that she didn’t pause for a second about her tasks but took quiet note of every spoken word. A slave, then.
The man was middle-aged, overdressed for the country in gray silk, and no friend of Kate’s. She was acutely aware of the way he looked at her in her state of undress, in a bedsheet, wrapped togalike, and she stood to put distance between herself and this man, who had, she realized with revulsion, touched her while she slept.
He failed to take the hint. He slapped her rump and laughed. “See. The slut will be on her back again in no time.”
She knotted the sheet and lowered her hand, because she did not want to appear to cringe in front of this creature. “I think it only fair to inform you that the last man who touched me without leave is wearing his brains on the side of a cast-iron kettle.”
“Have a care, then, Doctor. This is an exceedingly well-equipped kitchen.” A new voice, from the top of the stairs leading into the house.
Hamilton.
She’d met him only once, months ago, but they’d corresponded all winter, their words masked, ciphered, and sometimes written in invisible inks.
He bowed to her. “My lady.”
The old coot snorted again. “She’s no lady. And if she’s well enough to be on her feet, then you should send her on her way. I’ve enough men sick, and she’ll only spread disease.”
For the first time since she’d woken Kate heard the serving woman stop in her tracks and listen as her mistress drew a breath to speak. Hamilton beat her to it. “That will be all, Doctor. Your services are no longer required.”
“About time. I’ve better things to do than treat whores.”
“You misunderstand me.” Hamilton’s voice was icy. “Your services are no longer required at Valley Forge. Collect your pay and depart, immediately.”
“You jest, sir.”
“I am indeed known for my sense of humor. Alas, the Life Guard are not. They will escort you to the perimeter.”
When the doctor—outraged but outfaced—had gone, Kate asked Hamilton the question that had been on her lips since she woke. “Where is Peter?”
“You’ll see him soon. First, if you are well enough, the general would like a word.”
“We could not rescue your petticoat, but your stays might be salvaged if you dye them. They’re too fine to give up on entirely,” the middle-aged woman said. Kate realized at last who the lady of the house must be. Washington’s wife.
Hamilton eyed the bloody heap of clothing lying in the washtub. “There is a trunk outside as well. It belonged to Angela Ferrers. She left instructions that it should be yours. I’ll have it brought in. There might be things you can use.”
The trunk turned out to contain Angela Ferrers’ Quaker ensemble from Orchard Valley, a sack gown in cherry floral stripes fit for strolling the gardens of Versailles, and an extraordinary sum in gold coins. Because the trunk had belonged to the Widow, Kate looked for, and found, a false bottom. In that she discovered a pouch of uncut gems, a pair of pistols, a set of lock picks, and a silk roll of throwing knives. There was also a packet of letters, some coded, others not, in every language spoken in Europe and several not.
The clothes and weapons might have belonged to any of the personas the Widow had ad
opted, but the cloak Kate found lining the bottom of the trunk, she suspected could only be the Widow’s own. A genuine relic, perhaps the only one, of the real Angela Ferrers. The hood was wide and edged with snowy foxtails. The felted wool was soft as a sheep’s belly, dyed midnight blue, and fastened with a silver brooch of delicate Celtic knot work.
Kate considered the plain Quaker dress. It was comforting, familiar. And no longer for her. If she was going to be branded a harlot, she might as well play the part.
She ate a bowl of thin oatmeal with sugar and salt, and it was the very best thing she had ever tasted. Then she washed and dressed in the striped gown. The general’s wife lent her an iron to curl her hair, and she found tortoise combs and a box of cosmetics in the trunk.
Then she wrapped herself in the Widow’s dark blue mantle and went outside.
* * *
You own a château on the Loire,” Washington said, reading from the report on the desk before him. “A fine house in Paris, and significant lands in Burgundy.”
Tremayne was surprised at the breadth and depth of information Washington possessed. The American general was, if nothing else, exceedingly well informed. Tremayne found him inscrutable. But whatever reversals of fortune and political trials the general had weathered over the winter, he was very much in command now. The parlor of the little stone house from which he directed his new-minted army was well appointed and pin neat. And from what Peter Tremayne could see, the camp ran like clockwork.
Arthur Grey eyed Tremayne with the same wary detachment he’d affected since rescuing the younger man from imprisonment that morning. Tremayne had passed the whole night in that comfortless log hut, wondering if he was to be tried as a spy. Washington, it turned out, was indeed determined to hang the next British agent fool enough to be caught behind American lines. But Arthur Grey had been able to convince the general that Tremayne’s intention had not been espionage—approaching the Rebel encampment with the Grey Fox’s bloodied and beaten daughter across his saddle hardly facilitated spying or covert reconnaissance.
No doubt the question of Kate’s future had entered into their deliberations. They had not yet allowed him to see her.
Tremayne was also acutely aware of the fact that he was wearing Arthur Grey’s second-best suit. Black velvet with silver buttons and a coat cut wide enough for a corsair. And that he had failed the man. He’d rescued Kate too late, proven himself a poor protector for the Grey Fox’s daughter.
“And you have been received at the late King Louis’ court,” continued Washington with the same bland cordiality. They’d offered Tremayne brandy, and been gruffly approving when he’d asked for whisky instead. His saber, his pistols, the pass, and the marriage license he’d procured all lay on the sideboard beside the decanter. But he couldn’t believe that all this talk of France was leading toward a marriage settlement, though God knew he’d have nothing of his English fortune to offer Kate shortly enough.
“My holdings in France come through my mother.” Who would suffer for what he had done. He did not regret rescuing Kate. He knew now that he could not live without her. He would not regret losing Sancreed. He would regret that his mother might become an outcast, that she would be forced upon the charity of her relatives if Sancreed reverted to the Crown—as it surely would when he was tried for treason in absentia.
Washington turned a page of the closely written report and went on. “You have served with the cavalry since you were fourteen but made a particular study of artillery and small arms and were detached repeatedly to the Royal Corps of Engineers. It is plain you intended to marry Miss Grey, but you are not a man likely to beat his sword into a plowshare. And you could not, with honor, serve me against the men you lately fought beside.”
Arthur Grey eyed him with unconcealed skepticism. “That is, if you still intend to marry my daughter.”
“I do, sir. If you will allow it.”
Washington stood up and paced to the window. “You may put your proposal to Miss Grey, under the following conditions. I have been forced to send glum lawyers and mercurial eccentrics to Paris to beg arms from the king of France. Like most of us ‘Colonists,’ they drive excellent bargains but do not know a mortar from a howitzer. I can send them instructions, but they are an ocean away and lack a professional’s understanding of the materials of war. I require a man in Paris who can advise them.”
It was a tempting offer: an opportunity to use the skills of his calling in the service of Kate’s cause, without bearing arms against his countrymen. It should not have surprised him. Tremayne knew the Americans were woefully short on professional military expertise. Most of their commanders, like Washington, had not seen service for twenty years. Career soldiers were in such short supply that the Americans had been forced to import foreigners like Von Steuben, who did not, Tremayne had discovered just that morning, even speak English, to teach them the basics of drill. He did not doubt that Washington could use him. What remained unclear was why Washington thought he could trust him. “And your conditions?” Tremayne asked.
“You may not take your new wife, should she accept you, to France. And you must leave tomorrow.”
* * *
The air was soft with spring. Hamilton stood leaning against the house and holding the reins of an enormous draft horse. “He’s gen-tle and slow,” explained the young man. “And I thought you might not be up for climbing the hill quite yet.”
“When can I see Peter?”
“After you’ve spoken with the general.”
“He rescued me and was beaten senseless for it.”
“It is unfortunate, but appearances were against him. And the major is an enemy officer. No matter what he did for you, even now his status here is not quite that of a guest.”
Which was not something Kate could argue with. She was hardly up for climbing onto the horse, but she managed it with the aid of a mounting block. Hamilton led them up a steeply wooded slope, past row after row of rude wooden huts.
“The men sleep mostly under canvas now that the ground has thawed, but I assure you, a six-man log hut was a great luxury in December.”
“Did you sleep in one?” It was odd to think of him living like that while they were writing to one another.
“I confess I did not, although General Knox did, just for the principle of the thing.” And seeming to read her thoughts, he continued, “I enjoyed our correspondence very much, Miss Grey. Mind you, it was hair-raising sometimes, having Washington standing over my shoulder while I tried to puzzle out your inventions. Alluding to the Three Graces in your surface letter, indicating that I should cut a new mask in such a shape was exceedingly clever, once I figured it out. And got the proportions right. But until then I looked like an utter fool.”
She took a surprising amount of pleasure in having challenged him. “I enjoyed my return letters from ‘Cousin Sally’ enormously. And it took me no time at all to determine that your search for the correct quantity of green ribbon for your bonnet meant Jaeger green and an approximation of their numbers.”
They teased one another like brother and sister as he led her horse into a clearing where Washington waited. He was seated on a spirited white charger that looked exceedingly put out to be standing still for any length of time, and she realized that Hamilton had taken great care in coddling her on the ascent. She’d hardly noticed, which meant she’d needed it.
The general doffed his hat. “Miss Grey. I am glad to see you well.”
“Well enough, sir,” she said carefully. She’d met Washington only once, months ago, but something had changed. Perhaps it was her.
“I am sorry to drag you out of the warm, but there is something I would like to show you.”
They left Hamilton behind in the clearing and rode side by side on a narrow path through the trees. She was grateful for the even ground. She could hear fife and drum music ahead.
“It was a winter of sacrifices,” he said after they had proceeded in silence for a few minutes. “Yours
…and others. I am in your debt.”
“Many sacrificed more.” Elizabeth and Joshua Loring, and the Widow, whose cloak was resting on her scarred shoulders. The soldiers fallen to hunger and disease in this camp. “And it was all for nothing. We lost Forts Mercer and Mifflin and control of the river. Howe kept Philadelphia and his army. It was all for nothing.”
“Not for nothing.” The music grew louder and became distinct: a martial tune. “You will want a favor of me today, which I cannot grant.”
They broke out of the trees on a vast plain, green as only the Jerseys were green in May, buzzing with locusts, lush and sweet-smelling like an herb garden in the sun. As far as Kate’s eye could see stretched lines and lines of blue coats and bright steel bayonets, men drilling in formation, advancing and wheeling in the bright morning light. “But anything else in my power is yours for the asking. Because your sacrifice, alongside that of Mrs. Ferrers’ and others’, was not in vain. It bought me an army.”
* * *
Hamilton waited for her in the clearing. He took his stewardship of her very seriously, so she allowed him to lead her horse and they descended in an easy and amiable silence. Somehow, through their letters, and a few brief conversations since, they’d arrived at a comfortable camaraderie.
Until he broached an uncomfortable subject. “What will you do now, Miss Grey?”
She had no idea.
The silence stretched. He broke it. “I am sensitive to the difficulties in which women find themselves. Things would doubtless have been easier for my mother and me had she a husband.”
“Oh.” Oblique though it was, it was the third proposal she had received in her life, and this from a man she scarcely knew.
“His Lordship will make you an offer, but I wished you to know it was not the only choice.”
They’d reached the bottom of the hill, and were standing once more beside the narrow stone house. “Thank you.” She sifted through her mind until she found the right words for the occasion, because this man was not offering her passion, but a shield, and it was breathtakingly generous. “You are uncommonly kind.”
The Turncoat Page 29