India looked around, uncomfortably. It was too much like the night in Ireland long ago, and she wanted to leave.
The woman continued, “She will wield the sword of the Banshee but in the end, she will be consumed by fire.”
India shook her head and sighed.
There was no reaction from the woman. She merely looked at India.
India stood up and said, “I was exposed to this nonsense years ago. Thank you but I am not interested.”
She took Phineas by the hand and left the tent.
When they arrived back at the inn, it was much later than India had planned. They were both exhausted. Phineas fell asleep immediately, but she had trouble unwinding. Too much had happened that day, and there was a great deal to consider. When she finally drifted off to sleep, it was fitful. Dreams of death by drowning and by fire haunted her. Visions of pagan women by the dolmen plagued her, but by far her most profound dream was when she was in her deepest sleep. She dreamed she was in the tent once more at Pegg’s Run in front of the fire. Across from her was a figure in a dark robe but when the specter lowered its hood, it was not the spiritualist at all, it was Quinn Calleigh.
Chapter 23
India threw herself into her work. She was busy obtaining material for Mr. Parnell for British uniforms, finding someone to forge documents for the spies and setting in place a clearinghouse for the information as it began to pour in.
All this time, Quinn Calleigh was nowhere to be found. He disgusted India. She knew he was off winning new recruits with his so-called wit and charm. She was certain that he was spreading his bravado on thick with promises of adventure and daring deeds to the men and flirting with rich widows for hefty donations. She knew he would flash his broad smile, and they would all fall into line behind him like faithful canines while she toiled over reports and details back at the house.
“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 re
minded 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 bo
y. 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.
The Sword of the Banshee Page 19