“And he’s highly educated. Classics at Harvard. He won’t tell you that part,” grinned Pat.
“Harvard! That’s impressive,” Lady Strathmore said as if she truly meant it. She picked up a shirt and resumed her mending.
“A veritable hotbed of sedition,” Pat sneered. His lips formed an O as he blew smoke rings.
“And Patrick won’t tell you he is just as educated,” Sam smirked. “William and Mary. He’s an honorary member of that treasonous secret society Phi Beta Kappa—”
“It’s a debating club, Sam,” Pat said with annoyance.
“Debate in the king’s colonies, my friend, is treason,” Sam retorted.
Pat chuckled. “And you, Lady Strathmore, how is it you are so well-read?”
“I was allowed to be tutored with my brother,” she said. “Except for Greek. I had to learn how to sing and play instruments so I would be more attractive to suitors.”
“I’d rather you had learned Greek,” Sam muttered as he buttoned up his old jacket.
“Well, I am hardly worthy of being amidst such scholars,” she said, this time with a cutting edge. “I really should be back downstairs with the women.”
“So you can escape again?” countered Sam. “Clearly, it’s far too easy to break out of the dormitory at night.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she said, suppressing a grin.
Pat laughed heartily. “No, he does not! My lady, you are quite correct in that regard. Our abstemious captain does not avail himself of the pleasures of the women’s dormitory.” He winked at Sam.
“Presumably you do, lieutenant?” Lady Strathmore raised a brow in his direction.
“It is not beneath me.” Pat continued blowing smoke rings.
“Really? Who?” She bit her lip and leaned forward.
“He won’t tell you, my lady. Patrick has an honorable streak.”
“Well, then,” she said as she threaded a needle, “I will just have to keep my eye on you at the dance tomorrow night, lieutenant, and see which of the colonial beauties captures your attention.”
What? Sam stared at her. “Dance? There’s to be a dance tomorrow night?”
“The womenfolk have arranged a small affair, yes,” she said smoothly.
“Need I remind you, Lady Strathmore, we are in the middle of a war?”
“We’ve already discussed that, captain. Did we finally decide it was a colonial war?” She cocked her head demurely.
“I do not find this amusing.” Sam gripped the edge of his desk. “We don’t have time for such nonsense.”
She rested her sewing in her lap, and looked him directly in the eye. “Captain Taylor, with all due respect, sir, after seeing the wounded soldiers the other night, your men are restless. They are tired of drills and scouting, of counting and distributing supplies. The chatter amongst them is that they are impatient for a chance to fight for what they believe in. The women thought it would be a good idea for the men of the fort to relax with the wounded soldiers, get them talking, remind your company that what they are doing is valued and needed. The women feel this might prevent some desertions, so it’s in the best interest of everyone. You wouldn’t want good men deserting you, even if it is to fight the war, and the women don’t want their menfolk to leave.” She lowered her gaze to her sewing.
Sam slumped in his chair. Lady Strathmore was right, of course. He had noticed a greater level of frustration at the fort. Discipline in the ranks was getting more difficult to maintain. Maybe a little dancing and merriment wouldn’t be so bad. He might even make a speech commending his men for their good service.
She looked up at him once again. “And it would be well-received, I’m sure, if you said a few words of praise to your men, captain.”
A chill crept up his spine. She had read his thoughts. Like a wife might do. “Yes, yes. Thank you. That is an excellent idea.”
A twinge of regret chased after the chill. General Strathmore most definitely did not deserve this woman. And Sam was sending her right back into his clutches.
* * * * *
Sam’s chest swelled with pride as he watched the fort’s residents gather in the yard for their first ever social event. Lady Strathmore had been correct in her assessment of the positive effect it would have. He gave a brief speech, then, under the viscountess’s direction, the women made introductions among the wounded soldiers and the garrison men, and all the men began to talk, to exchange stories, to explain duties. The logistics of war and each man’s place became clear to all involved. And once the women felt some amount of success had been achieved, they gathered the musicians together and encouraged them to play. The first dances were spontaneous reels, somewhat disorganized, but enjoyable to watch.
From the fringes of the assembly, Sam exhaled a sigh. He would have to deal with a few transfer requests to join the fighting army and even deserters to the militias, but that was to be expected when eager young men came in contact with battle veterans. He glanced around the crowd. The women looked especially fine that night, with scrubbed faces and combed hair. One woman in particular caught his eye.
Pat sidled up alongside. “She’s enchanting in her aristocratic finery, don’t you think, captain?” he said in a hushed voice.
Lady Strathmore seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself with her new friends and watching the couples swing and skip. She was dressed in the blue-gray silk gown she had been wearing the day they found her. It was tailored to fit her perfectly, accentuating the swell of her breasts, the neckline revealing just a touch of cleavage. The outer skirt was covered with embroidered vines in a green to match her eyes. Simply enthralling.
“Don’t be cruel, Pat,” Sam murmured. “You know I can only admire from afar.”
“Ah. Of course. Unless you dance with her.”
Sam flashed him a perturbed look. “I leave that task up to you, lieutenant.”
“As you wish.” Pat smiled and was off to join the fray.
Pat took his position as dancing master over the confusion of twirling bodies, organizing couples, calling out steps, and enticing wallflowers. It was a task Patrick enjoyed immensely, and Sam could not help laughing out loud at the sight.
“I think your men would enjoy seeing you lead the dance, Captain Taylor.”
Sam hadn’t noticed Lady Strathmore’s presence at his side, then had to wrestle against a pang of bashfulness as he considered his response. He was acutely aware that they were at a social event, an event where men and women conversed and danced, flirted and courted. “I don’t dance, Lady Strathmore,” he said, turning back to face the assembly.
“No? Not at all?” She seemed genuinely disappointed. “Even your General Washington dances, captain. Or so I hear.”
He flushed. “It’s just that I haven’t done so in many years.” Her closeness was distracting, but he did his best to keep his focus on the merriment in the fort’s yard. “And yourself? I noticed you have not yet joined in.”
“It’s a bit different from what I’m used to, I’m afraid. However, I think I have figured out that this is quite like what we do back home called ‘Sir Roger de Coverley’.” She stepped a little in front of him as if to get his attention. “I was hoping that you would join me as top couple.”
Sam grinned. “Is this the latest English custom? Women ask men to dance?”
She blushed delightfully. “The women resolved to encourage all able-bodied men to participate in the evening’s activities.” Her voice was firm, but not without a tremor of shyness. “We decided that as I am a married woman and, as you always remind me, merely a passing guest, it would not be improper for me to ask you.” She looked him in the eye. “It was either me or Mrs. Scott, captain. I’m not asking you to perform a gavotte, sir. I’m just requesting you join your men in a little fun.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to blush. She was right. Her marital status along with her social rank made her the proper partner demanded by etiquette. He offered his arm. “As you wish. I will do
my duty, my lady. One dance.”
And when she wrapped her arm around his, his thoughts turned perfectly improper.
* * * * *
Clara could barely suppress a squeal of glee at her triumph as the captain led her to the now organized sets of dancers. It had been over a year since she had danced, and never in such an uncivilized way. The boisterous familiarity of the Americans was so refreshingly unlike balls back home. She grasped ungloved hands, was turned about most indecorously, and yet had never had so much fun in her life. The captain danced two sets with her, his elegant turns in utter contrast with the almost savage swings performed by the fort’s soldiers. They led the first dance and let Lieutenant Hamilton and his pretty blond partner lead the second. The lieutenant was a terrible flirt with the garrison’s women folk, but the captain kept a polite distance. After he felt he had done his duty, he gracefully stepped back to the fringes of the party. Clara followed him a moment later.
He angled toward her. “I do thank you for coaxing me, madam.”
“A bit of fun is great for morale.” She smiled up at him. “I do think seeing you enjoy yourself humanizes you amongst your troops. It helps create loyalty.”
He merely nodded as he rocked on his heels, his hands behind his back, grinning at the scene before them.
A social affair was a good time to bring up thoughts that weighed heavily on her mind. “Captain, the nurse Jenny says you have family back in England, in a village called Cirencester. Is this true?”
“Why, yes,” he said in astonishment. “My grandmother and grandfather live there.”
“Have you ever been?” Clara tried to hide her excitement. The captain having a connection with the place might afford her the opportunity to travel back home.
He chuckled. “No, my lady. I am American, born and bred. I have not been outside my homeland.” He regarded her curiously. “How is it that you know of this place? I understand it is rather small.”
“Yes, yes it is, quite. My family home is just outside the village, in the countryside.”
“Strathmore?” He stood in thought for a moment. “I don’t recall my grandmother ever mentioning the name, and as she is from a lesser aristocratic family, she’s rather obsessed with the doings of the nobility.”
Clara cleared her throat. “No, not Strathmore. My husband’s family is from elsewhere in Gloucestershire. My family. Hastings.”
His forehead crinkled in astonishment. “Hastings? You are Lady Clara Hastings?”
She smiled as expectation spiked her heart. “Well, I was, before I married. But most likely you have heard of my great aunt, my grandfather’s sister. She never married so she shares my name.” Clara turned a little away from the activity in the yard, hoping to draw the captain’s attention with her. “If you have never been out of the colonies, how do you know of my great aunt?”
He offered his arm and motioned with the other that they should take a turn around the yard. She nodded and slipped her hand around his elbow, her fingers tingling at the point of contact, shooting a little thrill through her. She glanced to the side in hopes he would not see the flush on her cheeks.
“My grandfather was sent to America as a colonial administrator,” he began as they strolled. “During his service my father was born, in fact he was born here in New York. At the end of my grandfather’s tour of duty the family returned to England. My grandmother much prefers it there. But my father always held some romantic sentiment for the place where he was born. He emigrated here as a young man and married a girl from an old established family.”
“Your mother is American, then?” The noises of merriment and music dimmed as their tête-à-tête grew increasingly intimate.
“Yes, and like me a native of New York. My grandparents spent a few summers here after I was born. My grandmother loved to tell me stories of England, and felt compelled to send me letters keeping me up to date with the goings on of the fashionable families near Cirencester.” He leaned in. “Including yours, it appears.” He chuckled. “I suppose she felt I would return, but she doesn’t fully realize that, for me, there’s nothing to return to. I belong here.”
“Ah,” Clara said softly. The sting of defeat for her plan to return home was overcome by a strong curiosity toward the captain’s story. Their aimless sauntering had led them to the darkened passage under the second floor gallery, reminding Clara of the last time she had wandered away from the crowd at a dance. But being alone with Jeremy Strathmore in a dark garden was far different from being alone with Samuel Taylor. The captain lacked the seductive artifice of the general and, for that very reason, her burgeoning desire was genuinely felt and not a contrived reaction.
She released her hold on his arm and leaned back against a supporting post. “How is it that you can fight against the British when you still have familial connections?” she asked, absently biting her lip, gazing up at him for an answer.
He turned to her in the darkness, cutting off her view of the crowd, standing just a little too close for propriety’s sake, the warmth of his body penetrating the tight space, wrapping around her, reeling her in. His breathing quickened imperceptibly, but noticeably, no longer the captain in control of a garrison, but a man struggling with control of his desires.
No, there was no artifice. It was all very real.
* * * * *
Sam could not take his eyes off her. She was posed provocatively, her chest thrust forward ever so slightly as her hands grasped the post behind her. The light of now-distant torches and lamps illuminated her face—still glowing from dancing—and her hair—coyly disheveled. His arm still tingled where she had touched it, the heat of her body radiated into his, coiling in his crotch.
“I suppose we’re back to the civil war-colonial war debate, eh?”
She laughed softly.
“It’s a fair question, Lady Strathmore. I was born and raised in Brooklyn, on the western edge of Long Island here in New York. My father is a lawyer for the colonial administration. He wanted the same path for me, so he sent me to Harvard College for my education, thinking it the only alternative to his own Oxford.”
The unabashed giggling and tussling of soldiers and their women echoed around them. Sam placed a hand on the post above Lady Strathmore’s head to carve their own private space. She did not flinch at the hint of intimacy, yet his own heart skipped a beat at the closeness.
“He set me up as a law clerk with a colleague in Boston,” he continued. “So, I was in Boston when British soldiers massacred five innocent men, and there when we dumped crates of tea into the harbor. The taverns were filled with talk of separation and rebellion. Pamphlets and treatises arguing independence and freedom littered the streets. My friends and I were convinced of our cause so we joined the militia in Boston.”
“With Lieutenant Hamilton?” She subtly adjusted her position, moving closer.
“No, no. I met Patrick later.” He drew in a breath, gathering his thoughts, calming his pulse. “Eventually the militia became our Continental Army. I served under General Washington and we were sent to defend New York. When the British attacked Long Island last year the rebellion was suddenly real, not just some fantastical ideal. Unfortunately, my father has found it necessary to remain loyal to the king and, as a rebel, I was unable to return to my family. I’d have been arrested. During the fighting, we heard the Hessians had burned farms to the ground and slaughtered anyone in their way.” He stared out into the shadows. “Our retreat in the middle of the night was so close to where my parents live, but I simply could not desert to see how they fared. I felt angry and frustrated. That’s when I realized I needed to defend my home to the death, and I enlisted with the New York regiment.”
Lady Strathmore’s quiet gasp brought him back to the present. “That’s where I met Pat,” he said.
“And your family? Do you know anything?” Her voice held a tremor of despair.
“As my father is connected officially with the British government, they were spared. They o
nly suffered property damage. Some of our patriot friends, however, were killed.”
“Captain,” she began, her voice quivering with emotion, “I know it means nothing, but I apologize for the vicious actions of my countrymen. And, although it is little comfort, please know that my husband was not involved in the matter. We arrived some time later.”
Sam looked down at her. “I do know that, my lady.”
She blinked up at him, the pale light reflected off the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The sounds of lovers in the dark grew stronger, emboldening him. He lowered his head. She remained as she was, her décolletage rising and falling infinitesimally more rapidly. He could make her his if only for one moment, and, in the distracted darkness, no one would know. He brushed aside a tear as it coursed down her cheek, his thumb lingering on her face as his fingers cupped the back of her head. She relaxed against his palm in acquiescence, and licked her lips in invitation. He moved toward her until his lips hovered above hers, her breath hot and moist as it mingled with his. She closed her eyes.
And then Sam remembered that the young, beautiful, seemingly willing woman within his grasp was the wife of the enemy. She could never be his. To think otherwise would be foolhardy. He pulled away, dropping his hand. “Please, forgive me, my lady,” he murmured.
“No, don’t apologize,” she said softly. Her fingers threaded through his, firing every nerve in his body. She squeezed gently before letting him go.
Sam stepped back, his head still spinning from their almost-union. “I think I should have Corporal Bowman escort you upstairs, my lady.” His voice was husky, unwittingly revealing his unfulfilled desires.
“As you wish,” she replied.
“Unless you feel you would like to continue dancing.” Sam was finding it very difficult to tear himself away.
He followed her gaze to the yard. Very little dancing was still going on. Couples had paired off into the dark recesses of the fort. It would be unseemly for Lady Strathmore to spend any more private time with him.
“No, thank you. I think I will retire for the evening, captain.” She righted herself from leaning against the pole. “Please take me to Corporal Bowman, sir.”
The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale Page 17