Rapture's Betrayal

by McCarthy, Candace

  And why not? she thought. We could live for today and hang the consequences!

  She had moved from the window and was now flipping through the clothes stored in the kast. The next time she went to see him she wanted to be beautiful for him. She frowned at the meager selection of simple homespun apparel. Kirsten thought of the dresses that had been brought over from Europe, those belonging to her grandmother, others that were her mother’s. The fancy garments were too grand for daywear, and Kirsten wondered if she’d ever have an occasion when she could wear one.

  There is my Sunday best, she thought. The outfit consisted of a red and gold waistcoat, a scarlet petticoat, and a lace cornet head cap. She dismissed the idea. She’d never get out of the house wearing it, and if she did, her mother would be furious if she smudged or marred the fine ruffled hem.

  She slammed shut the kast door, scolding herself for indulging in girlish fantasies. Richard wouldn’t notice or care what she wore! She was kidding herself to think otherwise. She recalled the harsh way he’d left when she’d seen him last—two nights ago—and she decided that she was playing a fool’s game in believing that he might care for her.

  The best thing for both of us, would be to return to the mill and find him gone. She rejected the thought instantly. She wanted—needed—to see him at least one more time.

  “Kirsten!” her father called from downstairs. “The rain is slowing. Are you coming? Your moeder and I are ready to go.”

  “Yes, Vader, I’ll be right down!” She brightened. She’d forgotten that today they were going to Peremus Kerk. The church not only served as a place of worship for the Hoppertown and Paramus communities but as a town meeting place and, on occasion, a hospital for Patriot soldiers. Today was not a day of worship but a time when members of the community were gathering to discuss how to handle the British when they returned. It would be a serious occasion for the adults, for the young a visit with friends.

  Kirsten checked her gown and was satisfied with her appearance. She thought of Richard and longed to go to him, but her parents would get suspicious if she asked to stay home. The only thing to do, she decided as she peered into the looking glass and straightened her cap, would be to visit Richard later.

  Peremus Kerk was an octagonal building located about a mile out of Hoppertown. The Van Attas’ wagon pulled onto the dirt-packed turnpike, joining the procession of carts and buggies that meandered down the road. Some of the locals came on horseback; others had hitched a ride with friends.

  Kirsten was enjoying the sights and sounds about her when suddenly she heard someone call her name. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw Rachel Banta in a buggy two vehicles behind, waving vigorously. The Ackermans, directly in back, also hailed her heartily. Smiling, Kirsten returned their hellos.

  No one would have known by the travelers’ festive air that their mission was other than just a social gathering. Spirits were high with the temperature down, and with the Briton’s leavetaking, there was something to celebrate.

  As the Van Attas neared their destination, Kirsten saw the weathercock on the kerk spire. She was suddenly aware of the fact that the adults had become quiet. Only the children continued to babble with excitement. Soon, the youngsters were silent, too, noting the change in their parents’ mood.

  The vehicles pulled into the churchyard one by one, and the taciturn passengers alighted.

  “Kirsten!” The hoarse whisper came from behind a cluster of trees that grew near the church entrance as she jumped down from the wagon.

  Frowning, she glanced about and saw nothing.

  “Kirsten! Over here.” The last word rose with a croak.

  She searched again and was startled to see her cousin Miles. She waved to him, before she turned to her father. “Vader? There is someone I need to speak with. I’ll be inside in a moment.”

  James nodded as he helped his wife from the wagon, and Kirsten rushed over to see Miles.

  “I thought you’d never hear me,” he croaked, and she couldn’t help chuckling as his voice broke.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, amused that her young cousin was finally experiencing the change that most boys of his age had already been through.

  “Don’t laugh.” Miles glared at her.

  “Oh, Miles. You so wanted to sound like a man, but you forgot you must be a frog first.” She stifled a giggle.

  “Kirsten, please!”

  She apologized and then pressed him for a reason for his presence at the meeting.

  His lips tightened. “My mother insisted we come.”

  “Aunt Catherine is here?” Kirsten was astonished. William Randolph, Catherine’s husband and Agnes Van Atta’s brother, was a Loyalist, and everyone knew it.

  “I told her it was foolish,” her cousin said. “If my father finds out—”

  “I know,” Kirsten breathed. Her uncle was a cruel man when he was angry. By coming here, Aunt Catherine was placing herself at great risk. “Where is she?” She looked for her aunt.

  “She’s inside.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Kirsten, please. You’ve got to help me. Somehow, we have to convince her to go home.”

  “But Miles if she truly wants to be here . . .”

  “I love my mother. I don’t want her hurt.” There was a fierce light burning in her cousin’s dark eyes.

  The young woman sighed. “All right. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe, after a time, one of us could pretend to be sick.”

  “Not me. Knowing how I feel, she’ll never believe I’m not faking.”

  “Okay, me then.” Kirsten grinned. “Come on. They’re going to be starting shortly. Let’s hope we can find seats together.”

  Miles looked worried. “Are you sure you want to sit with us?” he said. “Your father . . .”

  The girl glared, halting his words. “You are not a Loyalist. And my vader is not the problem—yours is.”

  “I say it’s time the people of Hoppertown do something to help the revolutionists!” John DeVore, a young lad of about eighteen, stood up from his seat across the room. “Or shall we wait until George’s horned beasts return and rape our women!”

  The boy’s audience was a vast one. Several rows of benches lined each of the eight walls, and each bench was filled to capacity.

  “I agree!” Frederick Terhune chimed in from the front row. “We can’t wait. Isn’t it bad enough that the swine have threatened my poor Anna?” He was a portly man dressed in a green coat with silver buttons. His matching waistcoat and knee breeches along with his white stockings were made of silk. On his head he wore a gray goat’s wig, powdered and in the latest style; the hairpiece looked ready to topple.

  Murmurs filled the church as the villagers digested Terhune’s remark. It was the first that Kirsten had heard of the incident. Curious, she glanced at the pale girl who suddenly become the cynosure of all eyes.

  “What of the threat that’s still present? What of the Tories?” The one who spoke was a gentleman Kirsten didn’t recognize. “The enemy are among us, and we do little to crush them!”

  “But they are our own flesh and blood!” a woman cried. “We have made our displeasure known. What would you have us do—commit murder?”

  The comment caused an uproar. Kirsten glanced at her aunt and saw her stiffen. Things are getting out of hand, she thought.

  It took several attempts by the voorlezer, rapping his fist against the pulpit, to regain peace. The man wasn’t altogether successful, for an eerie disquiet had come over the group. Tempers simmered below the surface, and Kirsten heard the heated exchanges of neighbors and friends. She grew concerned.

  Next, they would turn on her aunt. Catherine Randolph didn’t deserve to suffer for her husband’s loyalties. Kirsten’s gaze went to her parents, who sat in the section across from them. She saw by her mother’s expression that Agnes understood. Encouraged by that silent approval, Kirsten turned to her aunt.

  She bent over, pretending to be sick. “Oh-h-h,
” she groaned, clutching her stomach. In the confusion about them, she hoped that no one but her aunt and cousin would witness her performance. “Aunt Catherine . . . I . . . don’t . . . feel well. I . . . oh-h-h . . . !”

  “What is it, dear?” Catherine eyed her niece with concern.

  “I don’t know!” Kirsten gasped. “It must be something I ate.” She cupped her mouth as if she were about to be sick.

  “Oh, dear!” Catherine exclaimed. “We’d best get you outside—now. Miles!” The woman rose, and with her son’s help, ushered her niece from the crowded church.

  Once outside, however, Kirsten didn’t know what to do. She was saved by Miles’s quick thinking.

  “Mother, is she all right?” he said. Kirsten secretly applauded her cousin’s acting abilities.

  “I’m afraid not,” Catherine replied. “She seems quite ill.”

  Kirsten groaned for effect while holding her stomach. She must have overacted, she realized when she saw her aunt’s eyes light up with suspicion.

  “Perhaps we should get your mother—”

  “No, no! I’ll be all right in a moment. But please stay here with me for a while.”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps Miles and I should see you home.”

  “Oh, yes!” Kirsten said a bit too hastily. “I should feel much better resting in my room.”

  There was a tense moment of silence.

  Finally, Aunt Catherine chuckled. “You’re a clever girl, Kirsten,” she said. “I’ll eat my cap if you’re truly sick.”

  “I . . . ah . . .” The younger woman flushed guiltily.

  “Mother!” Miles said. “How can you say such a thing!”

  “Miles Randolph,” his mother said sternly. “Don’t you dare tell me that this has nothing to do with me and your father!”

  “But, Aunt Catherine, if Uncle William learns that you came today—”

  “Don’t fret, niece,” Catherine said. “Do you think I’d have come if there was a chance he’d learn of this?” She stared at the two young people reproachfully. Then her expression softened. “So you decided to act on my behalf . . .”

  Kirsten blushed. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what, child? For caring?”

  Miles was impatient. “Mother, will you go home now or not?” he squeaked.

  Catherine sighed. “After all the trouble you two have taken to convince me to leave, I suppose I had better go.”

  A short while later, Miles thanked his cousin for her help. He stood on the Van Attas’ stoop, his eyes bright, his expression filled with warmth and respect for his older cousin. “You did it!” he exclaimed. “But then somehow you always manage to accomplish what you set out to do.”

  Kirsten smiled. “Not always, but usually,” she teased. “You had best hurry and get your mother home before your father arrives there.” During the ride to the Van Attas’, Miles had confided that William Randolph had gone to visit a Loyalist friend.

  The boy flashed a brief glance toward the waiting wagon. “Can you make it tonight?” he whispered. His voice splintered on the word “tonight,” and he cursed.

  Smiling, Kirsten shook her head. “I can’t. Not tonight.” She immediately sobered. “But soon. I’ll let you know.” Her only desire this night was to see Richard.

  “Let me know then,” Miles told her, and she assured him that she would.

  Suddenly, Miles hugged her tightly. “I hope you’re not in any trouble.”

  Not because of either of you, she thought, her mind consumed with the image of Richard Maddox. She returned his hug and shook her head as they pulled apart. “I’m not,” she said. “Don’t worry. Now, get!” Kirsten waved at her aunt in the cart.

  Miles returned to the cart, and the Randolphs left.

  “I tell you, Randolph, it’s the only way.” Bernard Godwin inhaled a bit of snuff through his right nostril, before repeating the procedure with the left. “They’re banding together. I’ve heard talk of a militia.”

  “It’s true, William,” said Edmund Dunley. “They’re meeting in Peremus this very day.”

  “Do we have anyone on the inside?” William Randolph sat back in his chair and began picking his teeth with the edge of his thumbnail.

  Dunley raised a pewter tankard to his lips. “Dwight Van Graaf,” he replied before taking a healthy swig.

  “Van Graaf,” William murmured. “Good man?” When the other two gentlemen nodded, he said, “Then, what are you so concerned about? With Van Graaf as our spy, we can certainly handle a few cocksure Dutch.”

  The three men sat in Randolph’s study, avid supporters of the English king, George. English by heritage, they were satisfied with the way things had stood before the uprising, unable to understand what all the fuss was about. They’d paid their share of taxes to the King and yet had retained enough for a hefty profit. The land had been good to them, and so, too, they believed, had their mother country.

  Randolph was a prosperous farmer, who gave gladly to the British troops. He was not only baffled by his neighbors’ choice of sides, but his anger bordered on vengefulness.

  Godwin and Dunely, his two cohorts, hailed from the Ramapo region to the north. Their motives were more clearly defined; they wanted to line their pockets with coin.

  “You may be right,” Godwin said. “But what of the forces coming from the south?”

  “That’s where Biv comes in, gentlemen,” William replied with a wicked smile. “Now that the ‘Mad Ox’ is out of the picture, we have nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you sure the job was done? The man is dead?”

  “So Phelps said. And you know Phelps.” The man chuckled. “He so loves his work!”

  A door slammed on the back side of the house. William rose from his chair behind a polished oak desk. “Gentlemen, I believe our meeting is over. Until next Thursday then?” He extended a hand to first one, then the other.

  Voices could be heard in the corridor outside the study door. William frowned when he heard Catherine’s laughter, followed by his son’s shrill tone.

  He threw open the door, surprising the both of them. Miles gaped in open-mouthed horror, while Catherine blinked and then smiled in docile acceptance.

  “Where have you been?” Randolph demanded.

  “Why, William, whatever is wrong? I thought you were going to visit the Prevosts, so Miles and I decided to go for a ride.”

  The smooth way in which his wife offered an explanation took the wind out of Randolph’s sails. “It was raining,” he muttered gruffly.

  “Good day, gentlemen.” Catherine smiled at her husband’s departing guests as she encircled his arm with a slim, white hand. “As you can see, dear, the rain let up, and I was feeling restless.”

  William was lost in his wife’s guileless blue gaze, and one corner of his mouth curved upward. “Did the horses give you any trouble, sweetheart?”

  His father’s endearment brought a frown to Miles’s face. He didn’t hear his mother’s response; he was watching William with the intensity of a hawk. His father’s good humor was often followed by fits of uncontrollable rage.

  Had his father learned of the church visit? Had someone informed William of his wife’s betrayal?

  Miles knew he’d have to watch his father closely—and guard his mother with an even closer eye. There was no telling what the old man would do when his temper finally erupted. The last time he himself had sustained a broken arm and his mother . . .

  Closing his eyes, Miles swallowed thickly.

  It won’t happen again! he vowed silently. Never again would he allow his father to strike her . . . never again would his mother suffer!

  Chapter Seven

  Richard sprang up from beside the fire, his stance defensive as he grabbed for a log.

  “Richard?”

  “Kirsten!” He relaxed and dropped the chunk of wood. “You shouldn’t sneak upon a body that way! You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

  Angered by his tone, Kirsten c
ame into the firelight, her blue eyes blazing. He was in a wide clearing by the stream, a prime target for anyone. “You’re the foolish one, Richard Maddox, having a fire. And here in this clearing! I’m surprised, mynheer, that you could be so ignorant! What if I’d been a British soldier? Do you think so highly of your skills that you can afford to leave your back unprotected!”

  She was right, Richard knew, but it galled him to admit it. Twice now—no, three times counting the last when he’d been bathing openly—he’d been careless enough to lower his guard. A soldier—a spy—couldn’t afford to lose track of the risks he was taking. To do so was placing oneself at death’s door. It was a mistake, he silently vowed, that he wouldn’t repeat.

  He averted his glance. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “I know,” she admitted.

  At the husky resonance of her voice, Richard closed his eyes. He could see her clearly in his mind’s eye . . . her shining platinum tresses that were silky to his touch . . . her luminous eyes that were the color of the sky on a sunny day.

  The tension between them thickened as Richard threw a piece of kindling onto the fire, watching in fascination as the flames leapt and popped and crackled. His gaze met hers where she stood unmoving. He frowned. “Then, why did you come?” he asked.

  Detecting no warmth or welcome, Kirsten swallowed against a painful lump. He was a beautiful man both in face and form. His light hair glowed golden in the firelight. He wore only his breeches, and her gaze riveted on his bare chest. His muscles rippled and moved with each breath. She blinked, and tore her gaze away as her heart began hammering within her breast. Her lungs felt tight with the need to draw air.

  “Why?” she echoed. Kirsten looked up at him through long, thick lashes. “Because I had to . . . because I wanted to.”

  His mouth firmed. “Well, you can turn around and head home. I don’t need to see you right now.”

  Richard took several steps toward her, his movements a testament of how disturbed he was by her presence. He seemed to stalk her as an animal would its prey. “Go, Kirsten. Leave!” A muscle pulsed near his temple. “Can’t you understand that I don’t want you here!”