by Henke, Shirl
Monty frowned at the aspersions cast on his friend's good name and quickly ushered Barbara ahead in the line, leaving the two older women to gossip. Once they were outside on Johnson Square, Barbara looked about at all the conveyances, searching for Madelyne Blackthorne. She was being helped into an open carriage by Andrew as Serena looked on with a sour expression on her haughty face.
”I admire her courage,” Barbara said to her brother.
“What's that?” Monty asked, drawing his attention from the flirtatious winks and titters of several young women who were obviously entranced by his scarlet uniform.
“Your friend Andrew's cousin—Madelyne. She faced down the whole parish as regally as Queen Charlotte. That took some courage after what her husband did.”
“Blighter ought to be shot. Will be if I have anything to say about it. I wasn't too pleased to have him escape from me the first time. He won't get another chance. Andrew was devastated over his cousin's perfidy.”
So was Dev. “She shouldn't be cut for Quintin Blackthorne's crimes.”
“Quite so, yes. I met her before they were married. A lot of spunk and a real charmer. Even then Blackthorne treated her abominably.”
“Then those gossips were telling the truth. It was a forced marriage.”
Monty's eyes crinkled as he looked at his baby sister with amused tolerance. “All marriages between people of consequence are arranged, Barbara.”
Barbara bit back a retort about their parents' disastrous arrangement and shifted the subject to Madelyne again. “I'd like to meet her.She seems...different from the rest of these simpering females I've been forced to endure.”
He chuckled as he helped her into his chair. ”I imagine we could arrange that, but it'll take some doing. You see, old Robert has held quite a dislike for our father's family. His dead wife, Anne, was father's elder sister. That blackguard Quintin is unfortunately our cousin. Aunt Anne and Robert were wed long before you were born. The family was scandalized, what with Blackthorne being a colonial upstart with only marginal wealth back then. Odd thing was, he grew rich but the marriage, which was supposedly a love match, went sour somehow. It was all hushed up at home. Andrew was rather vague about it as well when I broached the subject back in London.”
“Could Andrew act as an intermediary between us and Madelyne?” Somehow the idea of Andrew Blackthorne paired with the quiet, sad Madelyne seemed monstrously wrong to Barbara, but she said nothing of her aversion to her brother's friend.
Monty considered as he slapped the reins and the horse took off briskly. “He is rather fond of the gel. I'll speak with him.”
* * * *
Madelyne sat in the front parlor, her hands holding the Caruthers' card. In the weeks since Quintin's defection, she had received precious few visitors or invitations. All of Savannah was slyly curious about the scandal. People eyed her suspiciously, looking for signs of her complicity in her husband's spying. At first she had refused to rise to the bait and went about the city marketing, shopping, and attending church as if nothing were amiss, but the long lonely strain was beginning to wear on her.
Now she had received a card from Major Caruthers and his sister, newly arrived from England. She had liked the witty and gallant young major. Perhaps he and Lady Barbara would not be like the rest.
As she sat considering what to reply, Robert entered the room. Still thin and pale, he had rallied remarkably from his last bout of fever. The shock of his son's betrayal had made him furious. Madelyne supposed she should have been grateful that he had come to the city to help her face down the scandal. She was not.
Smiling at his scowling face, she said, “We've just received an invitation to tea with Major Caruthers and his sister, Lady Barbara.”
“So Andrew tells me. I forbid you to go, Madelyne.”
“Why ever?” she asked, baffled and affronted at his high-handed manner.
”Tis long buried in the past, but our families have not been on good terms—”
“But Andrew and the major are fast friends,” she protested.
“That is Andrew's business,” he replied coldly, considering the matter closed.
“I am afraid you will have to give me a more specific reason for refusing.”
Robert turned from the window and skewered her with his cold blue eyes. The willful chit had altogether too much impertinence. Theo had neglected her proper training. Usually when he gave anyone that withering look, they immediately gave over, but not Madelyne. Her eyes met his saucily, waiting for an answer. He cursed Andrew for ever striking up an acquaintance with that damned Caruthers whelp.
“I’ll not discuss such a personal matter with you. Do as you like, but I will not tolerate either Caruthers or his sister beneath my roof. Is that clear?” Without waiting for an answer, he stormed out of the parlor.
* * * *
Madelyne dressed with great care that afternoon, choosing a soft yellow gown of calimanco with darker russet petticoats. As Nell arranged her hair, the older woman was in a fine taking, still furious about the death of the downstairs maid, Phoebe.
“I tell you, that lazy baggage should've been left working at the dairy on the Hill.”
“She was scarcely good at caring for the animals,” Madelyne said, remembering Phoebe's cruelty with the Jersey.
“Better animals than people. She's left us short-handed belowstairs. 'N her no smarter 'n ta go shakin' her petticoats at that scum down on the wharfs. Got what she deserved, she did.”
“No one, not even Phoebe Barsham, deserves to be murdered that way,” Madelyne said with a shudder.
“Little Lottie Barnes was ta come work downstairs until that hateful Mistress Ogilve set up her niece. Now look where we are. That old harridan won't send Lottie.”
”I shall speak with Mistress Ogilve, Nell.”
Nell's big hands paused in their deft ministrations, and a troubled look came over her round plain face. ”I don't want to cause you any more grief, Mistress. You been through enough sorrow already.”
Madelyne smiled reassuringly. ”I need something to take my mind from my husband, Nell. Perhaps a good set-to with Mistress Ogilve will be just the thing.” Something I've been meaning to do for a good long while.
When Nell had finished helping with her toilette, Madelyne inspected herself one final time and decided the woolen bonnet with its saucy feathers was quite flattering to her face. “If only I had some color in my cheeks,” she murmured to herself. The past weeks had been hellish for her, and she knew her appearance betrayed it.
Andrew watched her descend the stairs with resolution in every step. He smiled and saluted her hand with a chaste kiss when she reached the bottom of the steps. “You look enchanting, my dear.”
“I look quite wan and pale, but I do hope Lady Barbara and the major won't mind. It was awfully kind of you to arrange this outing for me with your friends, Andrew.”
“They'll think you quite as charming as I do. I'm always delighted to do anything to bring a smile to your lovely face.”
“You're too kind, sir,” she said, smiling as they departed from the city house.
On the ride across York Street, Madelyne considered asking Andrew about Robert's angry denouncement of the Caruthers family, but decided against it. They chatted of inconsequential things, never broaching the topic of Quintin's betrayal and flight to join the rebel army. Some things were simply too painful to discuss.
”I am so grateful to have your friendship, Cousin. Without it I would be quite lost.”
“No, my dear, it is I who should be grateful.” He coughed discreetly, then let the topic drop as the carriage pulled up in front of the Caruthers' house.
They were ushered inside by a stoic black servant, who led them to an elegantly appointed sitting room. The rebel sympathizers who had owned this house had supurb taste in furnishings. Madelyne's musings were interrupted by the entrance of a tall, striking woman with silvergilt hair fashioned in an elaborately curled pompadour. Her gown was of pale
lavender brocade, a difficult shade for most women, but splendidly carried off by the beautiful blonde.
Barbara smiled warmly at Madelyne and even managed to carry it over to Andrew. ”I am ever so glad you could come to tea.”
“And so am I—provided you've left your watchdog at home. I should hate to suffer Lieutenant Goodly's fate,” Monty said with a twinkle of amusement as he stepped beside his sister.
Madelyne noted Andrew's flush of embarrassment at the mention of her pet. “Gulliver is sleeping on the rug in front of my bedroom hearth, Major. You're quite safe, I can assure you.”
As they exchanged laughs, Andrew's face creased with annoyance, which he hid behind a benign smile. Monty quickly explained about his abortive rescue of Madelyne and her servants from the Creeks.
“I grew up with two hounds that I positively adored and was heartbroken when they finally died of old age,” Barbara said. I’d love to meet Gulliver. Is he terribly fierce?”
Madelyne returned Barbara's winsome smile and replied, “Only when he's defending me,but I know he'd take to you immediately.” Just as I have. At last, Madelyne had made a female friend in Savannah.
* * * *
December, 1780, Snow's Island, South Carolina
The place was low and marshy, making the icy frost crunch underfoot as ragged men moved with spare economy around smoldering campfires, sheltered from the gray winter skies by clusters of scrub pines and crude brush arbors hastily erected for protection. Some of the partisans cleaned muskets and rifles; others patched their worn boots and jackets as best they could with strips of greasy buckskin. They were bearded and filthy, their shaggy hair and unwashed bodies home to all manner of vermin.
The smell of roasting sweet potatoes, a staple of their diet, filled the air with sickly persistence. Quint looked around the quiet camp, observing the men he had fought beside for the past months as they prepared for yet another foray against Colonel Tarleton's dragoons that morning. If only they could have something more substantial to fill the gnawing hunger in their bellies than potatoes. They had little ammunition to spare for the luxury of hunting game here of late, and the rivers were mostly too frozen for successful fishing.
Standing up, Quint rubbed his grizzled·chin whiskers and stretched the stiffness from a body now grown used to sleeping on the wet, icy earth. He looked across the camp to where a small figure sat huddled over a crude wooden table, his dark head bent in concentration as he sipped from a battered wooden canteen. Blackthorne strolled past the men, bidding good morning to some, silently receiving acknowledgment from others too battle-weary to speak.
When he reached the larger brush shelter that served as Francis Marion's quarters, he paused and cleared his throat, then said, “Good morning, Francis. How does it feel to be a general—after sleeping on the news of your long overdue promotion?”
Looking up from his maps and papers, Marion let a fleeting smile touch his lips. ”A brigadier general, Captain,” he corrected, then added, “and it's only a state militia appointment. I'm still a lieutenant colonel in the Continental Line. I'd gladly be a plain lieutenant again if we could only drive Tarleton from the Carolinas.” He took another sip from his canteen, then continued reading the map. ”I think our old friend Banastre the Butcher is here.” He pointed to the map, indicating a swampy area on the shores of the Pee Dee River.
Quint sat across from his commander and looked at the map. “Could be. Cornwallis sent the right man after us. That bastard never sleeps and drives his men like an overseer.”
Marion raised an eyebrow in amusement. ‘I've been accused of the same tactics.” He offered Quintin his canteen. “Something for sustenance?”
Quint shuddered. “No, thank you, sir. You're made of sterner stuff than I, to drink vinegar water.”
“Owing to my Huguenot ancestry, no doubt,” Marion replied, then paused, seeing the brief flash of pain in Quintin's eyes. “Still thinking of your wife?”
Quint managed a smile. “Occasionally, since we've wintered here where it's quiet, but please don't think I equate all Huguenots with treachery just because of my little Tory wife.”
Marion rubbed his jaw consideringly. ”I knew her mother's family. The Ravenals were fine people. Marie and Isolde are both dead now...” He looked over at his troubled young officer. “Your wife must have been alone before she married you. I also met Theo Deveaux and his sister Claud on a few occasions.” He shuddered in distaste. “They couldn't have offered her much comfort.”
Remembering the sour old woman and pompous royal militia officer, Quint replied, ”I offered her a convenient means of escape. She found comfort for her loneliness elsewhere.”
Marion knew when it was best to drop a subject with his brooding young officer. Quintin was one of his best men, cold and lethal under fire. Marion knew he had been a spy for several years before he had been betrayed to the British. Betrayed by his own wife. How many such tragedies must this war of sundered allegiance have spawned? He returned to consideration of the map.
“I've read Greene's dispatch,” Quintin said as he looked across the camp. The scrubby land and moss-draped cypress trees looked menacing, especially in the icy cold of winter.
“What do you think of our new southern commander?” Marion asked.
Quint scratched his ribs through his greasy buckskin shirt. God, what he wouldn't give for a bath. “Old Nate Greene at least has better intelligence information than that idiot Gates was given.”
A smile played across Marion's lips. “God did not see fit to gift Horatio Gates with overmuch intelligence, military or otherwise. Every pitched battle exacted too dear a price in casualties from him. Even when he won, his victories were pyrrhic. The British have more trained soldiers in the Southern theater and we, alas, have not enough. General Greene understands that what he can least afford right now is this sort of victory.”
“He does appear cautious. God knows he can't stand to lose more men when he has so few. But I do wish he'd come to realize how important the back country partisans are to his strategy. He can't win without us.”
“Never fear, Captain. He won't,” Marion replied dryly.
Chapter Seventeen
December, 1780, Savannah
Madelyne sat ashen-faced in front of the fire, her skin sheened with a film of perspiration in spite of the damp day. Nell daubed at her mistress's forehead with a damp cloth, clucking as one of the kitchen maids carried the basin and its noisome contents from the dining room.
“There, there. T'will be all right. See if it won't. Just something a touch high in the breakfast you ate.”
Madelyne scoffed as she took the cloth from Nell. ”I had plain tea and two dry scones, scarce anything to spoil in that! I think we all know what ails me, don't we, Nell?”
“Are you happy about it...or no?” The maid's homely face was softened by the love and concern that shone from her dark eyes.
”I don't know, really. I—”
“So the rumors are true. You're breeding.” Robert interrupted her as he stalked into the dining room. He studied her with more interest than he had shown in months.
Madelyne dismissed Nell, but did not rise to greet her father-in-law. She remained seated at one end of the enormous dining room table, well away from the sideboard laden with fried meats, oatmeal and heavy cream, pastries and eggs. She watched as he walked stiffly to the table and took his seat at its head. A houseboy began to fill a plate for him, even though they both knew he was capable of holding down little more than she could. His strong, once handsome face was ravaged by the wasting illness, the skin hanging in sallow pockets beneath his eyes and jawline. He stared at her with fever-bright eyes.
The boy placed the heaping plate before him, poured tea, and quit the room at Robert's curt dismissal. “You didn't answer Nell. Are you pleased to be carrying the heir to Blackthorne Hill?” He waited like a hawk perched atop an oak, studying her as if she were a succulent rabbit caught in an open field.
“That's
all you care about—your precious heir for all this.” Her hand swept the opulent room with its crystal chandeliers, French silk wallpaper, and Turkish carpets. She clutched a Spode cup in her hand, wanting desperately to throw the delicate porcelain at the hateful man sitting so imperiously at the opposite end of the table.
His face darkened. “If Quintin Blackthorne had a shred of conscience or sense of duty, he'd be here, attending to business, not off fighting king and country as a treasonous rebel! But at least he's performed one duty properly in his whole miserable, misbegotten life.” He paused then, his harsh blue eyes skewering her. “Or did he? I wonder if I might dare hope the Blackthorne luck with wives extends so far.”
“What are you insinuating?”
His laugh was ugly and grating. “Why, only that this child might be Andrew's, not Quintin's.”
She fought the urge to be sick again. “You sound just like Quint with your vile accusations. Tis an obscenity even to speak of such a thing. The child I carry is my husband's. None other.”
He shrugged and took a bite of roast partridge. ”A pity. I would far sooner it were Andrew's get.”
“Because he's a staunch royalist—or because Quint's not your son?” She stared him down boldly, glad to have it out in the open between them.
“So, he's told you, has he?” Robert said, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. His eyes turned so dark a blue they looked black, making his pale face glow like a death mask. “That bastard has never spoken of this to a living soul. I made it clear to him when he was seven years old what the consequences would be if he let slip the family disgrace. If you do, you'll have great cause to regret it as well.”
“I've already been threatened by your son, Robert.” She couldn't resist emphasizing the words your son just to spite him.
His face turned from pallor to the fiery ruddiness of apoplexy. “That traitor is no son of mine and never was. At last he's shown his true colors—he's trash, fighting with other trash in a stupid, lost cause. I'll see him shot before he sets foot on Blackthorne Hill again.”