by Henke, Shirl
Madelyne felt his hatred lash her like a hurricane wind. “If you despise him so much, why haven't you disowned him and made Andrew your heir? Quint's certainly given you excuse enough now, although he was a model son before his allegiance was exposed.”
His face seemed to collapse, just as his body, half-risen from the chair, crumpled back onto the cushioned seat. “To disown him would mean admitting publicly what she did to me. Never. Never...” He quickly composed himself and again glared down the table at her. “Just give me an heir for my empire. I don't give a damn if it's that misbegotten bastard's get or not—just an heir I can call a Blackthorne!”
* * * *
After a sleepless night and a restless morning, Madelyne dressed in one of her most elegant gowns, a rust-colored brocade frock with the skirts bunched in the polonaise style, revealing rustling black brocade petticoats beneath. As she placed a black silk calash on her head and tied the ribbons beneath her chin, she felt it added an appropriately somber note. The weather outdoors fit her mood. Cold, steady drizzle had turned the streets into such a quagmire that Madelyne resigned herself to wearing cumbersome pattens to elevate her silk slippers so they would not touch the muddy ground or flooded curbs.
“Soon I’ll not be able to navigate in these clumsy things. What will I do then? Muck about like a brood sow?” She knew, of course, the proper ladylike answer, which was to stay indoors, confined from public view until her child was delivered.
It was best to be out and about now while circumstances still permitted. Madelyne needed to talk with a sympathetic friend. She had only one in all Savannah, Lady Barbara Caruthers.
When she was ushered into the Caruthers’ parlor, Madelyne found Barbara seated at a small Chippendale table with a deck of playing cards spread before her, a troubled expression on her face. The look of pensive pique immediately changed to one of delight when she saw her guest. Barbara tossed down her cards, stood up, and brushed her aqua silk skirts aside as she rushed across the large room to welcome Madelyne.
“Madelyne, it's been ages. Are you feeling quite the thing now? I do so hope whatever is ailing surly old Robert isn't contagious.”
Madelyne returned her friend's hug and laughed in spite of herself. ”I assure you, Barbara, what is ailing me has been in no way contracted from my father-in-law. I am with child.”
Barbara held Madelyne at arm's length and studied the blue smudges beneath her eyes. “Are you well now? When is the babe due?”
“I feel a bit queasy and tire easily, but otherwise...” She shrugged as she seated herself on the cabriole sofa beside Barbara. Her face warmed with a flush when she answered Barbara's second question. “The babe is due the end of June.” As if to forestall her friend's mental calculations, she added hastily, “Quint visited me several days after he helped his rebel friend escape from the prison boat. We had one last night. Perhaps the last we'll ever have.”
“Well, he certainly left behind a significant souvenir,” Barbara replied tartly as she rang for the maid to bring refreshments. ”Tis tea time, and you look to need some meat on those little bird bones, my dear.”
Madelyne laughed in spite of herself. “We Deveauxs may be small, but we're squirrel-tough. I'll be fine, Barbara. Dr. Witherspoon assures me my appetite will return soon enough.”
“Twaddle. What do men know! I want you to drink some hot tea, very sweet,” she said as she sliced from the sugar loaf the maid had set before her. The tea tray was filled with all sorts of pastries, puddings, and cakes. “Eat!” She heaped a plate with sweets and waited like an indulgent mother until Madelyne took several bites.
They munched in companionable silence for a moment; then Barbara asked, “Do you want Quintin Blackthorne's baby, Madelyne?”
Madelyne's amber eyes stared down into her cup, as if looking for some sort of answer there. “Tis odd, but in spite of all his cruelties, the betrayal of our cause, everything—yes, I want his child quite desperately. It may be all I have left of him when this hellish war is done.”
“You love the bounder, don't you? No, don't protest. I understand better than you might think, how tis people worlds apart can fall in love.” A haunting sadness came over her face as she thought of Devon.
“Then you've been in love?” This was a subject the forthright and fun-loving Lady Barbara had never spoken of with Madelyne.
“La, dozens of times, but no one so suitable as to warrant a marriage contract,” she replied, glossing over her deeply buried pain. Madelyne had enough to contend with now. She did not need another burden. “I imagine old Robert is fair turning handsprings,” she added, wanting to change the subject.
Madelyne's face grew stony. ”I may have fallen in love with a man who doesn't return my tender feelings, but I still resent being a brood mare for the glorious Blackthorne name. That's all Robert cares about. His grandson.”
“Spite him. Have a granddaughter,” Barbara said, wiping a dollop of whipped cream from the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
Madelyne smiled. “Yes, that would put him even more out of fettle. A difficult feat these days. He's been in a state of snarling anger ever since Quint left with a price on his head. Even Andrew hasn't been able to cheer him.”
“Small wonder there,” Barbara murmured beneath her breath.
Madelyne heard the comment and felt constrained to defend him. ”I don't understand why you're in such a taking every time Andrew's name is mentioned. You've been positively rude to him when he calls. He is Monty's best friend, after all.”
“Yes, Andrew Blackthorne is such a paragon. I'm surprised that old Robert didn't name him his heir when Quint deserted to the rebels. Monty has mentioned that more than once. You've often agonized over who might have betrayed your husband, Madelyne. Who had more to gain than dear Cousin Andrew?”
“Barbara! That's monstrous.” Madelyne set down her teacup with a clatter.
“Is it?”
“Yes,” Madelyne replied crossly. “And besides, how could he possibly have done it? He knew nothing of the plot to rescue Solomon Torres. He was nowhere near our city house for days before the trap was sprung.”
Barbara chewed her lip in vexation. “We know for a certainty you didn't do it.”
”I knew about the plot the night of Governor Wright's ball.” Madelyne's level amber eyes met Barbara's blue ones steadily.
“You knew all along he was a rebel spy and said nothing? Lud, you are in love with the rotter.”
“Quite hopeless, am I not? A traitor by proxy, if you will.”
“You're just a woman in love, and love knows no politics.”
“Robert lives and breathes politics. Oh, Barbara, he's eaten up with his hate. I share your wonder that he hasn't disinherited Quint.”
Barbara shivered. “I can't imagine living with that old blackguard. How do you endure him?”
“At times it isn't easy, but news of the child has eased things a bit.”
Just then the parlor door opened and Monty, resplendent in his scarlet uniform, entered. “Ah, the lovely Mistress Blackthorne. I wanted to pay my respects before I was off for the evening.” He saluted Madelyne's hand with a flourish, then kissed his sister on the cheek. “Don't wait up, Puss. I'll be late. Quite a game at Major Southby's tonight.”
“Do be a bit more careful about your gambling, Monty,” Barbara said softly.
He chuckled indulgently. “Now look at the kettle calling the pot black. I seem to remember our dear mother writing me, something about you and a few gaming hells in London...”
The two siblings exchanged a measured look, then Montgomery Caruthers, Seventh Baron Rushcroft, bowed formally to both ladies and quit the room.
“His debts quite put mine in the shade—and I had dear mothers purse to dip into. Here of late our family estates seem to have fallen on hard times.”
“Has he been after you regarding Colonel Weymouth since last we talked?” Madelyne knew Barbara's brother was pushing her in the direction of the most eligible
bachelor in Savannah.
“The Viscount of Leicester has his praises sung like matins every morning. Lud, I scarce need ever hear Morning Prayer in church again,” Barbara replied with resignation. “I suppose, from the practical point of view, we would suit. He's rich, soon to sell out his commission and return to London, where a hundred girls of good family will doubtless fall all over themselves pursuing him. He actually finds me enthralling.”
“And if you wed him, Monty's gambling debts would be taken care of?” Madelyne saw the answer in Barbara's proud, beautiful face. How her brother's weakness must pain her.
”I shan't do it, of course. I saw what our parents' arrangement came to—oh-so-suitable a match, it was. Made for every political, economic, and social reason. They hated each other.”
Madelyne felt her heart break with the pain. She knew only too well that a forced marriage could cause hatred and sow heartbreak. She patted Barbara's clenched white fists. “You needn't marry Weymouth, Barbara.”
Suddenly Barbara knew what Madelyne was saying and realized her own monstrous selfishness. “Please forgive me, my very dear friend. I go on about things so long dead in my past and cause you pain now. Let us vow to forget all this unhappiness for this afternoon and have a little game of whist.”
Her eyes took on a gleam as she led Madelyne to the card table across the room. “We'll play for hairpins—and even in the unlikely event that you have a rebel scruple troubling you, let me assure you, these cards came direct from England with not a pence of tax paid on them!”
They played for a while, laughing and talking of frivolous things as Barbara scored a dozen points to Madelyne's one, for Madelyne was a novice at the game.
Finally Madelyne worked up her courage and said, ”I would dearly wish to get a message to my husband, Barbara. I've tried what few contacts I have among his rebel friends. No one trusts me.”
“You want him to know about the babe?” Barbara asked sympathetically.
“Yes...but even more, I want word that he is alive and well. Only that.”
Barbara pondered as Madelyne finally won a hand. “Monty entertains officers and officials here regularly. I overhear a great deal. Let me see if I can put together any information that might secure you a message to Quintin Blackthorne, wherever he is.”
* * * *
April, 1781, The Georgia Back Country
Devon Blackthorne was sick of war. Sick of the stench and carnage. Sick of the senseless waste as a people rent itself like a frenzied beast in such a coil of anguish that it tore out its own entrails. He kicked the cold ashes of the cabin and cursed.
McGilvey had been here. Lying in the burned-out debris of what was once a neat and prosperous farm were the mutilated bodies of a man, his wife, and their three children. They had been murdered for their livestock and a few bushels of dried corn. Of course, McGilvey and his men had taken their obscene pleasures with the woman and her two daughters before the mercy of death claimed them.
He thought of how McGilvey had tried to do this to Barbara, and his blood ran cold. “And now the bastard is raiding right outside Savannah.” He had to run the renegade aground before McGilvey found out Devon's yellow-haired woman was living in the city. God only knew what the brute would do to her if he got his hands on her again!
The marauder was known to frequent the Savannah waterfront. Perhaps this temporary reassignment to the city was not such a bad thing after all. In spite of the pain of encountering Barbara, Devon might well be able to save her life.
Of course, the way the war was turning now, mayhap she would soon return to England with her brother. Lord Germain's southern strategy was not going well. Loyalists eager to fight the rebels did not swell the ranks of the occupying British army. Many colonists stayed neutral, while others fought fiercely for their independence from British rule.
The forests, swamps, and rivers that crisscrossed the South were custom-made for partisans, who could raid overextended British supply lines and vanish back into the wilderness, burning bridges and ferries as they went. Men like Pickins and Clarke had become the scourge of Georgia, while Marion and his new comrade in arms, Lighthorse Harry Lee, chipped away one British foothold after another in the Carolinas. The little Huguenot's tactical genius combined brilliantly with Lee's daring cavalry sweeps. Even such a master of carnage as Banastre Tarleton, who had dubbed Marion “The Swamp Fox,” was unable to catch him in his deadly lair.
“If we lose this bloody war, I still won't lose McGilvey. He'll pay for his crimes,” Devon swore as he signaled to his men to remount and continue on their way. Sooner or later, he would kill George McGilvey.
* * * *
The bell clanged noisily from the center of Ellis Square, signaling the opening of the public market for the day. Madelyne surveyed the bustling prosperity before her, amazed at how little touched the place seemed in the midst of a war. Ships from London still unloaded their cargoes downriver, bringing every luxury to the city encircled by marauding rebel bands. Those partisans somewhat restricted the flow of raw materials and foodstuffs into Savannah, yet there were plenty of farmers and tradesmen who were far more interested in profits than politics. They brought fresh vegetables and livestock on the hoof as well as cured hides and warm furs to be traded for every import item from iron cook pots to pickled herrings.
Passing stalls piled high with rich fox and otter pelts, bins of fresh turnips and peas, and haunches of venison hanging in the cool morning air, Madelyne strolled through the market, looking for Polly's familiar rawboned figure in her bright red petticoats and crisp white apron. They had been meeting at the market, as it was a convenient place where Polly regularly purchased supplies for her tavern. The first time, last November, when Madelyne had accidentally bumped into the older woman, Polly had been decidedly cool, but when Madelyne risked Robert's wrath by riding to the Swan to assure her friend that she was innocent of Quint's betrayal, Polly had believed her.
Then through Barbara, Madelyne had learned of Polly's connections with the rebels. She sought to warn Polly that the British were watching her tavern, only to learn that Polly Bloor already knew that and was indeed an avowed patriot. Now that the back country partisans were scoring so many victories, Polly no longer hid her allegiance, baldly admitting regret that she could no longer hide fugitive rebels. She added puckishly, however, that since it was becoming increasingly risky for British patrols to venture so far from Savannah, her services were far less essential in that regard.
Polly's feelings made sense to Madelyne—as much sense as anything in this brutal civil war. Both women had prayed for word that Quintin was alive and well. Until now, none had come. But yesterday Polly sent a cryptic message saying she had received information about him. Madelyne was to meet her at their usual place, the butcher stall of a Salzberger colonist, where Polly bought excellent smoked sausage for her tavern.
“There you are! And lookin' in the bloom of motherhood, too.” Polly reached out and gave Madelyne a hearty hug, then inspected her well-rounded middle. ”I see my herbal tea and pound cake have done their job.”
“If you mean ended my stomach upsets and put a lot of weight on me, that's the truth,” Madelyne replied ruefully, ”I feel like a great wallowing sow,” she whispered. A finely dressed British officer's wife with her retinue of servants passed by, looking disdainfully at a pregnant woman who dared appear in public.
“You look splendid 'n healthy. Keep to your exercise. Don't let no fool man tell you to take to your bed.”
“Dr. Witherspoon is no fool, and he agrees with you. Now Polly, tell me what you've learned about my child's father.” Madelyne held her breath for a moment as Polly fished in her apron pocket.
The older woman's face was grave, but her words immediately soothed Madelyne. “That young rascal's alive 'n well. Well's can be in them cursed swamps. He finally got a letter through to me. Seems like Solomon Torres is back in the mail business, real quiet nowadays,” she said beneath her breath as Madelyne c
lutched the letter.
Madelyne felt the tears sting her eyes. He had written Polly but not her. Not the wife he believed had betrayed him to a hangman's noose. She clutched the letter, half afraid to read it lest some disparagement of her be contained in its pages.
Sensing her fears, Polly patted her hand. “He don't say much personal, just tells me about how us patriots are whipping the sass from you loyalists. But since old Corny's took such losses at Guilford's Courthouse that he had to retreat clean back to Virginia, I reckon you know enough about that already.”
Madelyne managed a wobbly smile. “Yes, for all I care any longer. All Barbara's brother and his friends can speak of is what General Cornwallis plans next.”
Polly gave her a hug and a wink. “If you find out, you be sure 'n let me know! Now, be off with you 'n read about your man.”
Madelyne hesitated for a moment, then said, “You mentioned Mr. Torres... Do you think he might carry a letter from me to Quint? I want him to know about the baby.”
Polly rubbed her fleshy chin in consideration. “Don't know if he could get anything through. This ain't the first letter Quint wrote—just the first that got to me. But you write your letter 'n I'll see what I can do.”
“Oh, Polly, do you think he’ll ever believe in me again?” Will he ever love me?
“Once a mans holding his own flesh 'n blood—well, he usually comes around.”
“If he even believes that this is his child,” Madelyne said bitterly.
Polly seized Madelyne by the arm and began to lead her through the maze of stalls and milling throngs of people. “We need to set down and have us a talk. I know a place.”
The place was a small chandler's shop just off Ellis Square. A Mr. Brewster was the owner, a long-time customer of Polly's establishment. He ushered them into a small sitting room, spartanly furnished with a six-legged wooden settee and two worn slat-backed chairs. The spicy tang of bayberries hung heavy in the air as he asked if they would like refreshment.