Mood Indigo

by Parris Afton Bonds

  He crossed the room to stand before her. “Business is going excellently,” he said in a harsh tone.

  “Marvelous,” she prattled, growing more nervous by the moment. “I was afraid that buying Polly’s papers would put a strain on finances. You know, Polly is marvelously happy here. Even now she’s doing all the marketing, and you know how badly I was at doing the mar—”

  He dropped a knotted rope on the desk. She looked down at it blankly. Her name was written on a small scrap of paper tied with string through the rope’s knot. “It’s a hangman’s noose,” he said flatly. “I found it draped outside on the doorknob.”

  She swallowed and looked up at him. “I don’t understand.”

  “I think thee does,” he growled. “ ’Tis a warning— from our friend, Uriah Wainwright, no doubt. Has thee been meddling in Tory politics?”

  Obstinately her chin shot up. “I have attended parties given by loyal British subjects.”

  “ ’Tis time we went back to Mood Hill,” he said, and turned to leave.

  “I won’t.” She sprang to her feet, toppling her chair. “I won’t go back.”

  He whipped around and grabbed her arm. His free hand swept up the rope, and, before she knew what he was about, he looped it over her head, drawing the noose so tight she was forced to stand on her toes. He looked down at her with eyes that scorched. “If thee doesn’t go with me, thee will not be received here by the patriot families. And if thee can find a Tory family to take thee in—ultimately this is what thee can expect.”

  With that he pulled the noose upward until, straining against the bite of the rope, her mouth touched his.

  Something happened. Something intangible—a current of devastating intensity—passed between them. Her lashes fluttered closed. Her lips parted. The rope burned at her neck, but she would suffer the pain—if only he would kiss her. And then his mouth was crushing her lips. His breath flowed into her, filling her, so that she was a part of him. Her hands clutched at his shoulder blades, pressing her breasts against the steel plate that was his chest until they hurt, and moving her hips against his hard groin in a wanton manner.

  But, oh, she wanted him.

  “Ethan . . .” she rasped, when he pushed down her gossamer sleeve and kissed the inside of her arm just below her shoulder. The kiss was a blow in the belly. Her body flooded with shattering rapture.

  “Jane, honey, thy skin, it’s like cream—soft, tasty.” And he wouldn’t stop kissing her. His mouth returned to claim hers with a hot, exultant pleasure. He backed her against the desk and buried his face in her cloud of hair. “Sweet Jane”—his hands romped along her curves—“I can’t get thee out of my mind.” Her breast filled one large hand. “At night—” His other hand entangled in the rope’s noose. Abruptly he released her, and she had to grab for the desk’s edge to keep from losing her balance.

  For a long moment he looked down at the rope he held, then he passed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Thy—charms make me forget the danger.” She watched with a sick heart as he turned from her. “Pack,” he ordered, and left.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  He could hear her in her bedroom, opening and closing drawers resoundingly as she went about packing. He sat at the edge of the bed and rubbed at his tired eyes. Trying to understand his wife was like trying to understand ciphered codes. He knew she was in love with Terence MacKenzie, so why the amorous flirtations with Daniel?

  And why was he jealous of her flirtations? He had wanted a demure wife, a gentle woman to make the house he had built into a home—the home he had not known as a child. And through his own folly, he was married to a hoyden who could neither cook nor sew but who could entice every man within miles. His knuckles stood out in ridges when he thought of Jane’s lips bestowing her coquettish smiles, her vivacious laughter, on other men, but not on her own husband.

  He had gained very little information at the piquet table the evening of the ball because of his preoccupation with his spirited wife. Still, he doubted if old man Peyton was that involved with the loyalists. Margaret, fortunately, was too free of tongue, and he could not let such a useful intimacy cool. And the Widow Grundy—he suspected she was a minor agent in the Tory movement. And she certainly was not as daft as people seemed to think.

  Yet he was. He was daft for wanting Jane Lennox like he did. Nay, Jane Gordon. And he was afraid for her. She was courting danger. Consorting as she was with the enemy, he was powerless to protect her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Ahmad stared at the list of names that lengthened daily— names of Washington’s military family, mostly the officers who made up the headquarters personnel and ate at the general’s table.

  Joseph Reed and Thomas Mifflin—two young Philadelphians who act as secretary and aide, respectively. Both experienced men of the world.

  Charles Lee—adventurer with a new major general’s commission in the American Army. Already unpopular and difficult, the man is being touchy about his rank and privileges.

  Schuyler—landowner and Indian War veteran like Washington.

  Knox—former Boston bookseller whose hobbies are military history and engineering.

  Gates—recommended by his past military experience with Braddock.

  Billy—Washington’s faithful black body servant.

  The staff officers: Robert Hanson Harrison—the writing aide; Colonel Baylor—carries out trivial military duties.

  While the spy waited for word from Parliament declaring Wychwood and Manor House his with the completion of his assignment, he mingled with the American soldiers who patrolled Cambridge, Washington’s headquarters. Since there were no uniforms, it was easy enough to pass among them undetected, gleaning information pertinent to his forthcoming operation.

  He knew that in the absence of uniforms to identify the American officers, a system of colored ribbons, worn diagonally across the breast between the coat and waistcoat, had been worked out: light blue for the commander-in-chief, the brigadiers wore pink ribbons, the major generals purple, and the staff green. The field and company officers had colored cockades and shoulder knots.

  He also knew that simply waiting for Washington to appear on one of Cambridge’s streets involved both the problem of a shot going wild and escaping an entire army afterward. No, the assassination would have to take place in close quarters and with only a few bodyguards to contend with. Washington wisely surrounded himself with a number of bodyguards, whom he rotated on an irregular basis.

  Ahmad learned from one of the former guards, who was only too willing to drink to George Washington’s health a goodly number of times, that the general had been headquartered in the home of Harvard’s president. But that had been inconvenient for everybody and embarrassing to Washington, as Dr. Langley was allowed to retain only one room for his private use.

  Surreptitiously Ahmad had scouted out the new headquarters, a house belonging to a loyalist named Vassall who left it with its furniture intact when the Colonial Army first appeared. The general’s own washwoman, a middle-aged mother who had been abandoned by her husband, revealed after subtle prompting during a pleasurable night of lovemaking the headquarter interior. A handsome dwelling, she said, with paneled rooms on either side of a central hall and space enough for the aides and secretaries to work.

  Specifically, which rooms did they use? And was there an established routine? With cunning and patience Ahmad eventually ascertained that Harrison, the writing aide, spent his life at a cluttered table in a room behind the general’s study. But much more detailed information was needed.

  Ahmad pulled from the sheets of scribbled notes the house’s floor plan he had sketched from the miscellaneous information he had accumulated. The general’s bedroom was on the second floor—accessible only by the one stairway inside the house and a window. Both inside and out, the house was heavily guarded. He wadded up the map, ruling out the possibility of assassinating Washington from within.

  He rose from the desk and went
to the narrow window of the room he rented above the Lion’s Head Tavern. February’s snow swirled by, obliterating Cambridge’s streets. In the reflection off the windowpanes he saw in his mind’s eye the man Washington. Tall, large, raw-boned. Unpolished, but charismatic.

  The washwoman had related the general’s personal habits—that Washington had a passion for black walnuts; that his toilet, plain and simple, was quickly made. A single servant prepared his clothes and laid them out at night for use in the morning. The servant always combed and tied his master’s hair, but Washington preferred to dress and shave himself.

  Ahmad called up the man’s daily routine, when the general left and returned to the house. But there was no uniform schedule. Only in the evening was the man reliable, as he took his stroll through the gardens at the rear of the house to seek the privy. And only then was the general without guards.

  That seemed to be the one viable option; still, there remained the fact that when Washington did not return within the half hour, the alarm would go up. And there was too much rebel countryside to negotiate between Cambridge and Boston Harbor. His chances of living weren’t worth a tuppence until he was safely aboard ship, bound for England. He needed more than a half-hour start.

  Then the spy’s eye fell on the day-old newspaper lying on the bed. Twice he had read the article about Washington. Long ago he had learned that every detail could serve its purpose—yet . . . impossible! In his preoccupation with the man, he had forgotten the woman. He grabbed up the Pennsylvania Gazette and once more read the article.

  Yesterday the Lady of His Excellency General Washington arrived here, on her way to New England. She was met at the Lower Ferry by the officers of the different battalions, the troop of the Light Horse, and the Light Infantry of the 2nd Battalion, who escorted her into the city.

  The spy tried to recall where the general’s home was. Mount Vernon, that was it. The odds were good that at some point the general would pay a hurried visit to his home and wife—and certainly not with his entire army. A few personal bodyguards, maybe a troop. But these, Ahmad knew, he could deal with. Better yet, Mount Vernon was located on the Potomac River where a British warship already plied.

  And if Washington did not journey to Mount Vernon in the near future . . . well, there was the general’s lady.

  There was also Jane. His sources in Virginia reported she had married a colonist and was acquainted with Martha Washington. Ahmad swung away from the window, balling the list he held and flinging it against the cracked plastered wall. That she was sharing her bed with another man shouldn’t sting. But it did. And he would yet have her, even if it meant killing her clod of a husband in order to take her back to England when he was ready to escape.

  He retrieved the wadded paper from the knot-holed floor. One by one he held it and the other sheets to the candle flame. His homework was done.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A “Valentine’s party!” Polly sighed and fastened the powdering gown around Jane’s shoulders. “To be sure, yew’ll be the finest lady there, mistress.”

  Jane covered her face with the mask, muffling her voice. “For all the good it will do, Polly.”

  “Now wot makes yew say a thing like that?” The girl sifted the powder dredger over Jane’s coiffure of elaborately arranged curls, and slowly the ebony sheen whitened. “The master ’as ’is eye on yew. Last time we ’ad visitors—New Years ’tis was—I seen ’im looking at yew with that look, if yew get my meaning.”

  “Aye,” Jane muttered. “Only because he was afraid I would flirt again with Daniel Franks.”

  “The man ’as the sweets for yew, he does.”

  “Daniel came to Mood Hill with Mr. Lee on business.” She laid the mask on the dressing table and, smiling wryly, looked in the mirror at her maid. “Besides, I think ’tis Peter who has the sweets for someone.”

  Polly’s ruddy color actually deepened. “Peter’s a fine bloke, ’e is, mistress.” Rapidly the chambermaid changed the subject. “Speaking of fine blokes, I ’ear tell that Lizzie ’as a gentleman caller—Mr. Critcham, the butcher. Wants to buy ’er papers from the Widow Grundy, ’e does.” She held up the Spanish wool that was saturated with carmine. “Yew want the rouge fer yer cheeks?”

  Critically Jane studied her image in the looking glass. As a young girl, she had stood in the shade of her mother’s brilliant beauty and despaired over her own awkward height, her nondescript hair coloring, her thin, bony face. She thought her mouth was still too wide, her face too sharply angled. But, still, a vibrantly lovely woman stared back at her. “I think not, Polly.” Her finest asset was her eyes, and the rouge would only detract from her eyes’ color.

  “Is thee ready?” Ethan asked from the doorway.

  Jane’s gaze met his in the looking glass. He was dressed in a dark-brown frockcoat with white facings cut into the standard wide, stiff skirts reaching midthigh. His clothing was trimmed with simple pewter buttons and knee buckles, and he carried buckskin gloves. The buff-colored nankeen breeches, a trifle too tight, and white, ribbed cotton stockings showed the muscular turn of his thighs and calves. No padded rolls needed there. Too easily she recalled her thighs pressed against the solidity of his and wondered what it would be like to lay crushed beneath. . . .

  “Almost,” she replied with that distant politeness toward her husband that she knew Polly found quite confusing.

  Rising from the padded stool, she brushed off some of the powder grains flecking the charcoal-colored crepe gown. A narrow lace ruffle trimmed the high neckline. The dress was tight across the bosom, and from beneath the black tangle of lashes she saw the way her husband’s fierce gaze locked on the evidence of her femininity. She repressed a curiously pleasant shiver. “Polly, get my pelisse, will you.”

  “Thee will need the greatcoat, also,” Ethan drawled. “The spirits in Fahrenheit’s thermometer are dropping.”

  The late afternoon was growing colder, and the horizon was layered by giant gray puffs of clouds portending snow. Riding pillion, Jane sorely missed the rented carriages of Williamsburg. She huddled against the lee of Ethan’s broad back, seeking the warmth it afforded. Her fingers locked in front about the hard wall of his stomach, and her palms picked up the knotting of the stomach’s muscles as he shifted in rhythm with the dun’s movements.

  As the dun picked its way in the direction of the Fairmonts’ house, soft snow flurries dappled the silent forest on either side of the traveled road. She couldn’t help thinking that were she in love with her husband, this delightfully romantic mode of traveling would rival the warmer comfort of the coach. In a coach there would be no excuse to cuddle so close to her husband.

  Evening had settled in by the time they reached the Fairmont house. A smaller-scale model of the great Georgian plantation mansions along the James River, it stood at the end of a long avenue of gnarled and denuded paper mulberries that were flanked by cultivated fields lying fallow in the winter months. The crushed-oyster-shell drive crunched beneath the dun’s prancing hooves. At the end of the drive welcoming lights illuminated the many windows beneath the snow-capped roof.

  Before the ringed hitching post, Ethan held up his mammoth hands to help her dismount. In the light of the porch lanterns, her eyes met his, and she saw the snowflakes that dusted his thick lashes—and the lust that burned in his dark eyes. It shook her all the way down to her Moroccan pumps. Whatever he might still feel for Susan, Jane recognized with a frightening clarity that she was no longer safe from him. He wanted her.

  Worse, she knew she was no longer capable of denying him.

  She slid into his waiting grasp and quickly stepped back, avoiding his questioning gaze. He turned the dun over to the old Negro groom, who shifted from one foot to the other in the cold, and led her up the expanse of stairs. Laughter and good-natured shouts greeted Ethan and Jane when a little black boy admitted them inside. He took their greatcoats before ushering them into the large drawing room warmed by the marble fireplace’s leaping f
lames. It was a pleasant room, with cream-colored walls and pewter-blue woodwork.

  A game of charades was in progress, the men grouped on one side of the room in competition with the women on the other. Susan, spotting the newly arrived couple, left her place on the needlepoint-covered settee to hurry to them. “Jane, Ethan—I’m so happy you could come. I was afraid the weather would keep you away.”

  “You know nothing would keep us away, Susan,” Ethan said. Jane heard that tender warmth his voice lacked when he addressed her. Anger boiled in her—anger at her husband for loving Susan and anger at herself for being angry. What should Ethan’s feelings matter to her as long as they were not directed at her?

  Bram detached himself from the males to offer a hot cider toddy to the couple. Soon she and Ethan were separated and towed over to reinforce the opposing sides as a new game of charades got underway. In the merriment she forgot that the guests were rebels and she was a Tory. Startled, she realized that there was a gradual shifting in her loyalties.

  When the dandy, Harry Gramble, humped his padded shoulders and brandished an imaginary sword, Ethan was the first to accurately guess Goldsmith’s popular She Stoops to Conquer.

  Jane could not have been more surprised at this indication of Ethan’s literary knowledge. She herself had a more difficult time trying to discern the pantomime performed by the pug-nosed Ida Mayhill. Ethan’s deep laughter goaded her to try harder. Only when the wall-eyed matron, Lucy Knowles, guessed that it was a gate and not a door that Ida pretended to open did Jane come up with the correct answer of Newgate Prison.

  Pleased at her success, she turned a triumphant gaze on Ethan but saw only the bleak look in his eyes. She instantly guessed the reason for it. Someday she would like to ask him about that period of his life at Kilmainham Prison.