The Sword of the Banshee

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The Sword of the Banshee Page 31

by Amanda Hughes


  Why this woman? Out of all the women I have known, why must I love someone who does not love me? What a cruel joke life had played on me.

  As he tore down the road, the rain started to splatter the path and turn it to mud. He slowed his pace, water running down his face and soaking his shirt. He remembered his first wife. He had not cared two pence about her, and she cared not for him. His second marriage was of convenience, nothing more, nothing less; he was the highwayman, she was a fence. Yet there were others after that that he had treated unfairly. Quinn wondered if retribution was being visited upon him at last.

  Suddenly, his horse shied and began to sidestep. “Whoa, what is it? Steady now,” he murmured, struggling to control her. Quinn spied a burlap bag on the riverbank not far from the path. It was moving.

  He frowned, looked at the mare and said, “No wonder you were spooked.”

  Dismounting, Quinn approached the bag. It was quiet, so he nudged the lump with his boot. It squirmed about again and started to whimper. The mare snorted and jerked on the reigns. Quinn reached down and pulled the corner of the burlap bag and out tumbled a puppy not three weeks old.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Quinn said. “They must have forgotten you when they drowned your siblings.”

  It was small brown puppy with large floppy ears. It started crying and sniffing around for its mother. “There, there,” Quinn said tenderly. He reached down, picked the little creature up and tucked it in his coat.

  The horse rolled her eyes nervously at Quinn. “You’ll live,” he said to the mare, getting back in the saddle.

  * * *

  India sat for a long time on the edge of a chair in her bed chamber, her back rigid and staring straight ahead. She searched herself, looking for some shred of emotion. Years of cold objectivity had taken its toll. The very quality that set me apart as a leader has destroyed me as a woman. But am I that cold? Did I not rage, then grieve silently for my babies? Have I not worried and protected Phineas like a mother with a child? Why, yesterday, I even laughed.

  Thunder cracked, breaking the spell. India looked around the room as if coming out of a trance and stood up. Back to business, she said to herself tucking her introspection into a box and locking it away. I will no longer think of Calleigh and his schoolboy games.

  India dressed and went downstairs to start her day. She gathered papers, books, maps, notes and returned to her room where she wouldn’t be disturbed. Prudence and Penelope were visiting their cousin in town, so the likely hood of interruption was slim. The rain stopped by afternoon, followed by bright sun. India rose from her desk and opened the French doors. She worked for hours undisturbed until she heard shouting outside. It was Quinn’s voice.

  “Phineas! Damn it lad, where have you been,” he called. “Come here!”

  India could hear Phineas reply, but it was indistinct. She sighed, annoyed and went back to her work. Just as she started to write, Quinn bellowed again. “No, don’t bother with that come over here!”

  Sighing, India raised her quill in an exaggerated fashion and dropped it on the desk. She pushed herself up from the desk, scowling and went to close the French doors. Just as she put her hand on the doors, she stopped. She spied Phineas running up to Quinn who was standing on the lawn. Quinn was grinning. She could not hear what they were saying, but Quinn appeared to be playing a guessing game with Phineas. He would ask him something, the boy would answer, and Quinn would shake his head, laughing.

  At last, Quinn opened his jacket, pulling out a little brown puppy. She could hear Phineas squeal with delight. The boy cooed, “Oh!”

  Ever so gently, Quinn handed the little creature to Phineas, speaking in low instructional tones. Phineas nodded his head.

  India stepped forward, her eyes wide.

  Quinn reached out with two fingers, and gently stroked the head of the puppy, as it sniffed and squirmed next to Phineas’ shirt. He continued to instruct the boy, as he cradled the puppy.

  So taken with them, India did not realize, she was walking to the railing.

  Phineas looked up at Quinn with the eyes of one who adores a parent and smiled. India could see him mouth the word, “Thanks.”

  Quinn nodded his head, returning the same expression of sincere affection.

  Something moved inside of India as she watched the tenderness in Quinn. A breeze blew her hair and suddenly a wave of emotion flooded her. Her face flushed, and her eyes filled with tears. A current rushed through her like a river washing over its banks after a hard rain. It followed long forgotten paths, giving movement and vitality to channels which had long since dried up.

  Sensing something, Quinn looked up. He drew his eyebrows together, confused. He saw India, standing at the railing, staring at him with tears running down her face. She locked eyes with him, and her lips parted.

  At that moment, he knew.

  Quinn moved toward the gallery stairs, still looking up at her. Then his pace quickened, and he began to run. Taking the steps, two at a time, he bounded up to her, gathering her into his arms. He looked down into her face, streaked with tears.

  India nodded. “Yes, I love you,” she whispered.

  Chapter 34

  Sheer curtains on the French doors were blowing gently in the late afternoon breeze as Quinn and India lay in the large mahogany bed. Light netting to shelter them from mosquitoes was hanging from the bed posts, draping around them like a veil.

  With his back resting on the headboard, Quinn was stroking India’s hair as she dozed in his arms. The house was silent, and he listened to her breathing. He loved watching her sleep. When she lived in the Brandywine Valley, he would go to her window at night and watch her slumber. It was intimate and strangely erotic to be near her when she was most vulnerable. When she was awake, Lady Allen was capable and independent, even fierce, but when she slept, she was defenseless, and he could protect her.

  He moved a bit.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?” she murmured.

  “Because I am invigorated after our lusty interlude.”

  “Lusty interlude,” she mumbled. “Is that what it’s called?”

  “I need to get up,” Quinn said, squirming under her and sliding toward the edge of the bed. “I’m hungry.”

  He eased her down onto the pillow and stood up, pulling on his britches and shirt. “I am going to see Odette. You and I are taking supper in bed tonight.”

  India fell back to sleep, and when Quinn returned, he had a loaf of bread, a basket stuffed with fruit, cheese and chicken legs with a bottle of wine under his arm. India rubbed her eyes and sat up as he snapped a tablecloth over the bed and climbed on top of the coverlet, crossing his legs.

  “Wine?” he asked, opening a bottle and pouring India a glass. She took it, smiling, waiting for what was coming next. He opened a napkin and reached toward her breast, as if to tuck it in an imaginary bodice and said, “Oh, my word, no clothes.”

  India pulled the sheet up to cover herself, with another smile.

  “Chicken?” he said, handing her a drumstick.

  “Thank you.”

  Licking his fingers, Quinn cut a chunk of cheese, eating it off the knife.

  “What did Odette say when you told her about our indoor picnic?

  “She wasn’t there,” he said, chewing. “I helped myself.”

  India’s brows shot up. “Well, there will be hell to pay for that.”

  “Aye.”

  They stayed in the room all evening. India had never known such delight. Quinn was not only a competent and experienced lover, but he was fun. He laughed and clowned at unexpected moments, surprising her repeatedly with his quick wit and keen sense of humor. Then, without warning, he would turn serious and take her with an intensity that almost scared her.

  Most important of all, India was in love. For the first time in her life, she felt fully alive. No longer was her world a dull gray, punctuated with melancholy yellow. Now it was splashed with color, brilliant as the emerald and sapphire co
lors of a gypsy’s scarf, or soft and soothing as the rose and saffron of a watercolor.

  In spite of it all, India tried to return to the familiar. On several occasions, she rose to attend to things at her desk, but Quinn would pull her back to bed saying, “None of that now.”

  Later that night, they dressed and went out to the lake. After taking a walk, they sat down under the arbor on the stone bench, near the water. India was leaning against Quinn, looking up at the stars. Their brilliance was softened by the humidity of the South Carolina sky.

  “There is an irony to all of this, you know,” Quinn said.

  “What?”

  “Now that I have you, I am miserable.”

  India sat up and looked at him.

  “We are at war, darlin’,” he said. “Not only do I worry about you and Phineas, I worry about how I will perform in the field. At last, I have a reason to live. Will I lose my nerve?”

  The same fear had been nagging India. She had at last lowered her guard and opened the flood gates of emotion only to find a deep apprehension accompanying this new found love. “Now, at last, we have something to lose,” she said.

  “I worry about the boy,” Quinn agreed, lighting his tobacco. He blew out the smoke. “Every day that passes brings him closer to joining the patriots. This damned war just drags on and on.”

  India pressed her eyes shut, and opened them again, saying nothing.

  “Tomorrow we must return to work,” Quinn said apologetically. “I have some important information to share with you. It will not be to your liking, but that is for tomorrow,” and he pulled her back under his arm.

  * * *

  The next morning before they could speak, Quinn was called immediately to the Colony of Georgia. He promised to return before the first of the year, but there was no word. The winter months of 1780 were grueling for India, and she grew more anxious day by day.

  Lucretia and Emilee were gone as well. Lucretia was roving the countryside delivering and receiving partisan information, and Emilee was residing in Savannah gathering intelligence. Finally in late January, there was a brief note from Quinn brought by one of the pigeons, saying he was well but could divulge no further information about his activities and whereabouts.

  The war was not going well for the patriots and morale was low. Most of Georgia was in the hands of the Crown, and by February, the British had moved up the coast toward Charleston.

  In response to the growing enemy presence, the Hennessey twins expanded their network, and India was busier than ever training new partisans. Several days a week she met with local leaders to discuss sabotage and resistance strategies. The distraction was of great help to her.

  As the threat of a siege grew, so too did Phineas’ desire to play a role in the fight for freedom. One spring morning, he stood at India’s bedchamber door, dressed in a threadbare linen shirt and breeches with a rifle in his hand. He had just returned from bird hunting. “Jeb Hitchcock joined the militia yesterday,” he blurted out. “His aunt is letting him go fight, and he is even younger than me.”

  “I am tired of this nagging, Phineas,” India stated, pushing clothes into a bag. She was late for a meeting in Beaufort. They had had the conversations several times before.

  “Then take me with you to Beaufort. If I cannot be in the militia, start me with the organization. I have been practicing my shooting every day.”

  India sighed. “Phineas, you are fifteen years old. When you are sixteen, we will talk about this seriously, but for now, it is out of the question.”

  She shut her bag and walked downstairs with him behind her. “Now I am entrusting you to take care of the twins,” she said on the landing. “They need your help packing. They want to leave in the morning. They have orders to move inland.”

  “I will,” he said, with a pout.

  “I will be back in two days’ time,” she said, searching his face. At a loss for words, India turned and walked out the door.

  It was dusk by the time India met up with her two escorts. It was a relief to leave the Ashley River region and travel overland away from town. The tension in Charleston was unbearable as patriots prepared for evacuation. It was difficult to admit the British could win Charleston, but it seemed inevitable.

  Two partisans familiar with the Carolina back country escorted India to Beaufort that night under cover of darkness. She was carrying valuable information about British troop movements obtained that afternoon from Tobias, the elderly servant at the Hennessey plantation. It was an arduous journey at a grueling pace. They traveled all night and well into the morning, taking few breaks.

  They arrived at last in Beaufort, a sleepy little town, surrounded by tidewater and indigo plantations. India spoke with her contacts then slept at an inn for several hours before going to see Emilee and her husband to give them the information as well. The McLanes had a residence on the outskirts of Beaufort in a secluded area where patriots and partisans could come and go undetected. The couple was there for only a few more days. They frequently moved between residences to preserve their anonymity and their safety.

  India freshened up, dressed her hair, and put on a green stripe gown edged in white lace. She donned a straw hat and tied the pale green ribbons at the back of her neck. When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised to see that she did not have dark rings under her eyes after so little sleep.

  One of the men took her out to the McLane home that evening as the sun set. They traveled down a lonely road bordered by cypress and oaks, thick with underbrush. India draped a veil over her hat. The bugs were thick and aggressive.

  “The house is pink,” India said with surprise when she saw Emilee’s home. It was a square Georgian style home with two white columns and a pink facade.

  “It is indeed, Lady Allen,” said John Simon. Her escort was a balding middle aged blacksmith from Walterboro. He had grown up in Beaufort. “The previous owners tried to paint over the red bricks with whitewash, and the color kept bleeding through as pink.”

  India slipped from her side saddle, and John took her horse to the barn. Picking up her skirts, she walked up the steps and knocked on the front door. A servant answered, inviting her into the hall.

  Lifting her veil, India and looked around the central hall. It had a highly polished wood floor, a large chandelier and a wide flight of stairs up to a second story. Several rooms opened up off the hall on the main floor.

  “Welcome, mon amie. I am delighted you are here,” exclaimed Emilee, sweeping up and kissing India on the cheek. “It has been so very long. How is it you are here in Beaufort?”

  “I have news about troop movements,” India said.

  “Of course,” Emilee said, with her usual French shrug.

  “Come,” she said taking India’s hand. “At last you will meet my husband. He just arrived this morning. He is here in the library consulting with Lieutenant Colonel Frances Marion.”

  “Oh yes, I have heard of this Marion,” said India, pulling her gloves off and following Emilee. “I have been hoping to meet him too.”

  Emilee was dressed, as always, in the latest fashion. India noticed her light blue gown trailing luxuriously out behind her on the floor. She surmised this extended train must be the latest trend in Paris. Emilee threw open the double doors and a man looked up from a desk. The room was lined with books, and the desk was littered with papers and maps.

  “Lady Allen, may I introduce Lieutenant Colonel Frances Marion,” Emilee said.

  Marion smiled and moved around the desk taking India’s hand and kissing it. Short in stature and in his middle years, Marion was not at all an imposing figure, but he had an air of confidence and vitality which gave him presence.

  “I have been waiting for the opportunity to meet you, Lady Allen,” he said smiling. “I am honored.”

  A side door in the library opened and in stepped Mr. McLane. “Oh, there you are, Devlin,” Emilee said. “Lady Allen, may I introduce my husband, Devlin McLane.”

 
India turned to greet Emilee’s husband, and the smile dropped from her face. There standing before her was Quinn Calleigh.

  She stared at him, her lips parted, unable to speak.

  Quinn stared back at her, swallowed hard and said, “How do you do, Lady Allen.”

  Mechanically, India murmured, “How do you do.”

  Emilee looked from one to the other. It was obvious that something was wrong. She said haltingly, “Lady—Lady Allen brings news.”

  Confusion, betrayal, and pain flooded India. Her heart hammered in her chest, and her breath caught in her throat. Why was he here? Was he married to Emilee? How could he have lied to her?

  Instantly, the cast iron door of India’s reserve slammed shut, and her demeanor turned frosty. Pulling her chin into the air, she said, “I do indeed have news. I will share what I know about British troop movements and be on my way. As you know Charleston is in grave danger, and I must get home to my family.” She looked at Quinn, her eyes a bright green.

  India took off her hat and stepped over to the desk unrolling a map. They gathered around to examine the parchment. Quinn burned a look into her as she talked, but she refused to acknowledge him. He watched her hands move across the paper, graceful and at ease, pointing and gesturing to roads and bridges while his hands were in hard fists at his sides.

  How can she carry on with such aplomb and self-assurance? Did she not want to know why he was here with Emilee? Was she not shaken to the core like him? He wanted to scream, “Are you even of flesh and blood!”

  Quinn’s jaw tightened. He wanted to shake her and explain everything to her, but she had pulled back into her shell like a tortoise. He wanted to make her understand that he had just arrived this morning and was on his way to be with her at the Hennessey plantation. Long before she had come over from Ireland, Emilee Dubonnet had been providing a cover for him while he operated in the Southern Colonies. It was imperative she know that this French woman was nothing to him.

 

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