It was going to be very hard to get any sleep that night.
Chapter Sixteen
Several nights later, Clara was sure the captain regretted ever wanting to kiss her, for at that moment, red-faced and pacing before the fire in his quarters, he looked like he wanted to throttle her.
“The ‘divine right of kings,’ madam?” he bellowed, waving his arms in disbelief. “You have got to be joking!”
She looked up from her darning. She was repairing a hole in his stockings, a far too intimate chore which she initially balked at, but relented when the womenfolk all agreed her handwork was by far the best. “I assure you captain, I am not. Why else would our King George be monarch?”
“Yes,” snickered Lieutenant Hamilton. “Rumor has it that he is certainly not qualified for the task.”
Behind the captain’s back, Clara winked at the lieutenant who returned a smile. Earlier that evening, they had conspired to tease the easily aroused Captain Taylor.
“And what gives your leaders their right, captain?” she goaded.
“They are elected by the people, madam.”
“Except for Ben Franklin,” the lieutenant quipped. “I do believe God himself gave Mr. Franklin some sort of divine right.”
Clara tried to hide a laugh. “And what, pray tell, gives the American people the right to elect their leaders, sir?”
Outside someone clomped noisily up the wooden stairs, yelled to Corporal Bowman, then ran back down to the yard.
The corporal banged on the door. “Captain!”
Captain Taylor went to the door and threw it open.
Bowman stood at the threshold, his face sober and pale. “Captain, they found him, sir. They found Bridgers. He’s dead, sir.”
“No,” Clara gasped. It can’t be Paul.
Captain Taylor bolted out and down the stairs. The lieutenant grabbed Clara’s arm. “You’re coming with me,” he said.
“Yes, of course.” She stood up, dazed. The lieutenant had to practically drag her down the stairs.
The fort’s residents milled about in the yard, some with torches, some gathered near a wooden cart that looked as if it had seen battle action. The captain questioned a bedraggled soldier, cuts and bruises still fresh from a recent skirmish.
“What happened?” Captain Taylor was gentle but firm.
Clara stopped cold in her tracks. The soldier was none other than Ethan Pitt, Paul’s boy-of-all-work.
She looked frantically for Paul. Surely he would appear and all would be well. Maybe he was outside, or in the hospital, or…
“You’re not going anywhere, my lady,” Lieutenant Hamilton murmured in her ear. “Corporal Holmes!”
The corporal approached instantly and saluted.
“Hold on to Lady Strathmore. She appears to want to escape again.”
“Yes, lieutenant.”
The corporal’s grip was cruel. Clara acquiesced. Surely Paul would be there at any moment and explain everything.
* * * * *
“After the brothel was burned—”
“The brothel was burned?” Sam was incredulous.
Pat approached and stood at his side. “What about the women? Ethan, what happened to the women?” he asked, barely masking his fears.
“They had been sent away well before then.” Ethan looked at the two officers. “Mr. Bridgers never told you any of this?” he asked under his breath.
“No.” Sam tried to remain calm. “I’m sure he had his reasons. Go on.”
“Well, we joined up with the band that Redmond Moncrief had formed, you know, to dig at Strathmore’s incursions. He had sent a handful of soldiers—”
“Up this far?” Sam snapped. “Why would he do that?”
“Sam,” Ethan said in a very low voice. “I thought you knew. You have her here. don’t you?”
“‘Her’?”
“Lady Strathmore, Sam.”
Sam cast a glance behind him. Corporal Holmes looked like he was holding on to her for dear life. “Yes, Ethan, she’s here. Please go on.”
“Mr. Bridgers kidnapped her so he could get the money the general owed him.” Ethan spoke in hushed tones. “And because of what he did to Constance.”
“Constance?” Pat yelped. “What’s wrong with Constance?”
“She’s fine now, Pat,” Ethan assured him. “The general beat her pretty bad and she had to recover at one of the houses up the Hudson. That’s where the other girls were sent, too.” He looked from one officer to the other. “The truth is that the situation became somewhat personal for Mr. Bridgers.” He glanced around again. “He sort of fell in love with Lady Strathmore,” he said quietly. “And she returned his affection, if you understand my meaning.”
Sam’s chest tightened, but he remained stoic as he nodded.
Ethan continued in his clandestine manner. “And Redmond had it out for the general, too, what with his raping his girl. They acted together. I helped. They just didn’t account on the general taking things into his own hands. They figured he would act like a proper English commander. We’ve been fighting his men for weeks now.”
Confusion and despair roiled Sam’s gut. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, which only served to drag up an uncomfortable emotion. “Where is Bridgers’s body now?”
“There.” Ethan pointed to a plain wooden cart.
“Oh, God!” Lady Strathmore ripped herself away from the corporal. She ran to the cart, leaning in to examine the face, touching the body gingerly, murmuring her disbelief.
Her wail cracked the solemn silence of the small crowd gathered in the yard. One of the women went to her, embracing her in their mutual grief. More of the women began to cry.
Sam’s gut twisted at the scene. Jealousy. He hated being jealous. He turned to Ethan. “What’s the state of your militia?”
“We’re only about five men now, but with the native tactics, we’re able to seem like more.”
Sam motioned to Pat. “Lieutenant, round up your riflemen.”
“Yes, captain,” he said, and took off to do as ordered.
“Pat’s the best marksman we have, Ethan,” Sam explained. “With his aim and the addition of a few of our men, you’ll be free of the British just after dawn.” Pat was trained in the use of the fast-loading Kentucky rifle and could probably take on the redcoats himself, but it was best to be cautious.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Now go get cleaned up and attend to your wounded.” Sam patted Ethan on the back as the boy hurried away. He looked over at the cart containing Bridgers’s body. Questions buzzed in his head as he approached the mourning women. “Lady Strathmore?” he began.
She wrenched around and reached for him, her hands sinking into the shoulders of his jacket, desperately clinging for solace.
Sam stroked her back warily, fearing for his own emotions. She pressed into him more closely, her sobbing body shaking against his. He had no choice but to hold her a little more firmly. Between sobs she repeated Paul’s name like a litany.
Bridgers and Lady Strathmore? Paul Bridgers? It was incomprehensible. Lady Clara Strathmore was refined and educated. Paul might have been a handsome, friendly chap, but he was … well, a whoremaster to put it bluntly. It was the most unlikely pairing Sam could think of. But, then again, Paul was masterful when it came to women, and Lady Strathmore, with her beauty and beguiling innocence, was quite a prize. For a brief moment, Sam imagined Bridgers and the viscountess together. Then, finding it possibly the most inappropriate thought to have while consoling the grieving girl over her lover’s lifeless body, he shook away the reverie.
Ethan approached the pair. “My lady, please accept my sympathies.”
“Thank you, Ethan,” she said, wiping her tear-stained cheeks. She grabbed his arm in entreaty. “Ethan, the day of the fire, when Paul left me in the woods, what was the shot I heard?”
Ethan pursed his lips. “The British soldiers dragged me from the house and chained me to the hitching post. Mr
. Bridgers had to shoot the chain in order for me to move.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. “There was fire all around and he had to shoot though two chains because of the iron ball at the end of one of them. The shots caught the attention of the soldiers and we had to hide.” He searched her face with apologetic eyes. “Please believe me that we looked for you, but it was too late.”
“I understand, Ethan,” she said gently.
“I have something for you, my lady, a letter from Mr. Bridgers. He said I should give it to you in case he didn’t make it back to the fort.” Ethan handed her a tightly folded piece of paper.
“Thank you,” she said, with fresh tears. She looked at the letter and, with a tremulous hand, put it in her pocket.
“And one for you too, Sam.” Ethan held out a note.
Suddenly, sorrow overwhelmed Sam. He choked back the sobs that threatened to burst forth. He was the captain, after all. He motioned for one of his soldiers to come forward. “Have him buried as quickly as possible,” he said, trying to steady the shaking in his voice. “You might have to wait until dawn.” He put an arm around Lady Strathmore’s shoulders. “Come. Upstairs.”
Only once inside his quarters did Sam allow himself to cry. He would never have known Paul if it hadn’t been for the war—their backgrounds, their social circles, everything about them was too dissimilar. Yet Paul had become not just a trusted ally, but like family, sometimes a nagging father, more often an advice-giving older brother. Most of all, Paul had been a confidant and a good friend.
It seemed it was the same for Lady Strathmore.
She lay on his bed and sobbed into the pillow. Sam stared at her wretched form as he sank into his desk chair, then opened his note from Paul and stared at the words by the light of a flickering candle. It was written on the back of a page from one of Paul’s ledger books. Those he kept in the kitchen building, to ward off suspicion from his various enterprises. The brick and stone structure must have burned last.
In his letter, Paul briefly explained the kidnapping and that he had given instructions for “Clara” to go to Sam. He had only recently heard she had arrived at the fort safely.
I know you’ll see her person as a military opportunity, but Sam, you must reconsider. She is perfect for you. I’m sure you know that by now. After I realized she and I could never be together, I knew she could be—she would be—happy with you.
Jealousy faded into envy. Paul had been a lucky man.
Sam returned his attention to the woman lying on his bed. She had exhausted herself and was sleeping, albeit somewhat fitfully. Paul was right. She was perfect for him. Except for the fact that she was already married to a loathsome monster. A monster Sam had just sent a dispatch to requesting negotiations for her return. His fingers pressed and massaged his temples. What the hell have I done?
He went to the bed and folded her in his quilt. He then took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, grabbed the woolen blanket and pillow from her cot, and laid down on the other side of the bed next to her, staring at the ceiling and wondering what he was going to do next.
Chapter Seventeen
Clara did not know how long she had been sleeping, but it was the most comfortable night she had spent in a long time. She stretched against the feather mattress. The familiar feather mattress…
She sat bolt upright and saw the captain sitting at his desk, disheveled from slumber, holding what looked like a page from a ledger book. Then she remembered. It hadn’t been a dream. Her beloved Paul, her Mr. Bridgers, was dead.
“Did I sleep here all night?” she asked, not really sure what else to say.
“Yes,” was his glum answer.
To her left she saw her own pillow and woolen blanket in a crumpled heap on the mattress. Startled by the implication, she looked at the captain.
“Lady Strathmore,” he said gently, “why did you not tell me of your connection to Paul Bridgers?”
His tone was not angry. No, instead he seemed sad. Very sad. Sorrow for the loss of Paul, or for the revelation of her relationship with him? Clara flushed at the thought. Why would Captain Taylor care about her and Paul?
“For very much the same reasons you never believed I was Lady Strathmore even when I insisted. There was really no reason for either of us to trust the other. This is war and anything and everything can happen.”
He stood and paced behind his desk. “He told you to come here, to find me. You should have explained all that to me.”
“And you would have believed my story?” She swallowed a sob. “Captain, I am the wife of an enemy officer, and you did not believe that until a patriot soldier you did not even know confirmed my identity. And why would you ever believe that I, a viscountess, would have a relationship with a brothel owner?”
“Touché, my lady,” he snapped. “You win. You are correct. I did not trust you, and I apologize now.” He raked his fingers through his hair, inhaling deeply, exhaling deliberately. He looked at her across the room, holding her gaze with his own. “I am so sorry, my lady,” he said with genuine feeling. “Please, believe me.”
“I accept your apology, captain.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And I am sorry, too.”
He stood motionless for a moment, studying her. “How long has your affair with Bridgers been going on?” he asked tentatively. “I mean, he only mentioned you once to me, that he met you in the village of Chesterton sometimes. And that your husband did not deserve you.”
Clara smiled. It was somehow satisfying to know Paul had mentioned her in conversation with his friends. “I found Paul rather appealing since the first time I met him. He was always so pleasant to me and Annabella, my maid. We saw him in the village one day, and Annabella told him I was with child.”
The captain gaped at her, his eyes wide.
“When Annabella and I were sent away for my confinement, Paul and Redmond—and Ethan too,” she reminded herself, “kidnapped us and took us to his property. We were kept apart, and Annabella was never told what it was all about. My husband owed Paul a considerable sum. That, and,” she drew in a fortifying breath, “his abhorrent treatment of Constance just pushed Paul over the edge. He knew my husband did not care a fig for me, but he did care about his unborn child. So Paul’s plan only came together when he discovered my condition.”
She tossed aside the quilt and sat on the edge of the bed.
“While I was with Paul, I lost the child. He took such good care of me. And then we—” She gulped air before letting loose a deluge of emotion. Her hands flew to her face, to hide the pain that twisted there. “Oh, Sam!” She slumped against the mattress.
Immediately he went to her, sat beside her, held her against him. “Shh, Clara.” He rocked her in his arms as he pressed his lips against her hair.
His warmth, his nearness calmed her. It was easy to slip her arms around his waist. She sniffled against his chest. “It was only then we started our affair. My husband’s troops set fire to the brothel while we slept in the kitchen outbuilding.” She looked up at him. “I presume you know the property?” she teased.
He chuckled, the deep sonorous tone reverberating through her. “Yes, my lady, I know the property.”
“We were able to escape, except that the soldiers had done that awful thing to Ethan, and Paul felt compelled to go to him. He left me in the woods, told me to count to three hundred, and, if he wasn’t back by then, to come here, to find you.” She nuzzled into him. “Sam, I was so frightened.”
He smoothed a hand slowly down her back. “Clara,” he began haltingly, “I saw the bodies of the two British officers you killed.”
She pulled back, terror-stricken. “Sam, no. Don’t use that against me, don’t. You cannot tell General Strathmore. He’ll have me hanged.”
“Shh, shh,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “I would never.” He stared at her, his eyes asking questions left silent on his tongue.
“They did not succeed in their molestation of my person, captain.” The memory broke the dam of fresh tea
rs.
He clasped her close. “Thank God.” His hands spread against her back, warm and comforting. “I had feared the worst. Don’t worry. No one will ever know. This is war, anything could have happened.”
Clara drew in a long, deep breath. “Sam, my husband does not know I lost the baby, and I don’t know what he will do to me when he finds out.”
“Hmm. We’ll figure something out.” He lifted her chin with one finger until their lips hovered apart by a hair’s breadth. “We’ll get some breakfast first, then we can discuss strategy with Pat.” He remained tantalizingly close for a moment, before releasing her.
“Right,” she smiled. “I must look a fright. Let me wash up.”
The cold water felt good on Clara’s eyes and cheeks, still burning with the salt of her tears. She didn’t want to cry anymore. She would have to dredge up the necessary detachment with which every proper English lady was instilled since childhood. She loved Paul, but she would have to put the grief behind her. She was still alive, and Paul would have wanted her to live her life. As she washed her face, she even felt grateful for the crude brown soap and, when she dried herself, for the worn linen towel. Suddenly, she wanted her whole body to be immersed in water, to cleanse herself of all pain and sorrow, and she wondered when bath day would come around again.
“If you are quite finished with the basin, my lady, I would like my turn.”
Sam’s voice was like a soft, warm blanket after being out in the rain on a cold afternoon. Sam. It was so wonderful to think of him as Sam. She looked up at him, smiled, and stepped aside.
He dunked his face in the water, then came up for air, one wet hand searching for the cake of soap he usually kept on the corner of the table.
“Are you looking for this, captain?”
Sam grabbed a towel from the shelf below and wiped his eyes. She stood before him waving the piece of soap.
“Yes, my lady.”
He reached for it and she pulled it away and behind her back.
The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale Page 18