by Henke, Shirl
“That would be real kind of you, Ethan. I'd take it as an extra kindness if 'n you could bring the young mother here an extra bit of sugar for her coffee.”
When they were alone, Polly stirred her coffee and spoke quietly. ”I never told no one this, dearie, but after all you been through, I guess you got the right. You know about Quint and old Robert...”
“That my husband isn't Robert's son. Yes, he told me—but he said he'd never told another living soul. He only blurted it out to me in a fit of fury on our wedding morning.”
“He don't know he told me. He was drunk outta his head. Only sixteen years old 'n hurtin' real bad.” Polly shook her head and paused to compose herself. “That old man is pure vicious, damned if he ain't. Quint talked—rambled really—all about growin' up alone in that big plantation house.”
“With only Robert Blackthorne's bitterness surrounding him,” Madelyne said.
“You can't imagine the half of it. I want you to understand why Quint can't trust you—can't trust any woman, least of all one who's got under his skin the way you have. Robert used to grieve really fierce for his English lady, but her playing him false with his brother made him near crazy. He wouldn't let Quint even speak her name aloud or ask anyone about his mum. He had all her things locked away, but he couldn't bring hisself to get rid of them.”
“Why, Polly? Why did she do such a horrible thing?”
Polly wrung her work-reddened hands helplessly. ”I don't know, dearie. I only know she left her child to bear the punishment for her sins—and punish him old Robert did. Caught the boy up in the attic where he kept her things when Quint was only seven years old. You know how children get curious, specially when they're forbidden to do something? Well, he beat the young master with a whip—one of them whips overseers use on field slaves.”
Madelyne shivered in revulsion. “How could he be such a monster? Did Quint resemble her? Remind him of her?”
“No, near as I can tell, the Lady Anne looked like your friend Lady Barbara, her niece—all blonde and blue-eyed and fair skinned. Quint would've stood the beatings. Even then he was a tough 'un. No, it was what Robert said that really cut deepest. Called Quint's mother a bitch in heat 'n her son a filthy mongrel, not worthy of the Blackthorne name even if he was Alastair's get.”
“He said that to a seven-year-old child!”
“Explained everything about barnyard facts of life so there'd be no mistakin' either. That's when Quint run away to his uncle Alastair. By that time Alastair 'n his Indian wife had left their plantation. He followed them into Creek territory. Quint never said what Alastair told him. Maybe he never got up the courage to ask if he was his pa. I dunno. He lived with them for near a year 'n then Robert's men found him and hog-tied him to get him back to Blackthorne Hill. Robert locked the boy up in one of them big rooms on the third floor—attic rooms where the mistress's things was stored. Fed him bread 'n water, waitin' fer the boy to beg his forgiveness ta get free.”
“But Quint refused,” Madelyne said, tears choking her throat as she saw a small, raven-haired boy, alone and frightened, starved and whipped, but never defeated.
“Yep. Finally when he was near dead, the old man give up 'n fetched a doctor. When the boy recovered his health, Robert told him he was his only heir. He'd inherit Blackthorne Hill 'n everything Robert had built, but if he ever spoke about his bastardy to anyone, he'd give it all to Alastair's older boy, Andrew.”
“And Quint never did. I can imagine how he must've grown to hate his mother, blaming her for what Robert did to him. Then he let Robert's hate for all women pervade his own beliefs.”
“Every chance the old man got as Quint was growing up, Robert tried to break him, to shame him, almost as if he wanted Quint to give up and admit he wasn't good enough to inherit the Hill.”
“No wonder he's so jealous of Andrew. If he'd broken under Robert's cruelties, he would've suffered everything in vain and all his birthright would've gone to his cousin.”
“But he never broke 'n he never got mean like old Robert neither. He's a good man, Madelyne. Scared and lonely, afraid to trust—especially to trust you. I watched it ever since he first brought you here. No woman ever got to him like you.”
“Serena Fallowfield seemed to be giving an excellent imitation of rousing his passions when I caught them together at the Governor's ball,” Madelyne said tightly.
Polly scoffed. “He knows her for what she is—and she's been stalking him, that's for sure. Maybe he used her to put a wall between you. Ever think of that?”
“Well, it worked. I flew into a hateful rage and accused him of all sorts of awful things that night. The next day he became a hunted outlaw, and he blames me.”
“You read what he's got to say about livin' through a war 'n then you write 'n tell him he's gonna be a papa come spring. I'll find some way in hell to get word to the young fool or my name ain't Polly Bloor!”
* * * *
Madelyne read the letter her husband had sent to Polly. It was long but hastily scrawled on odd scraps of paper and much blurred by dust and dampness during its arduous journey from the Carolina swamps. The desperate and dangerous conditions under which the men lived and fought frightened her, especially since she was certain he was downplaying their adversity to ease Polly's fears.
Quintin served under the infamous rebel partisan Francis Marion, the Swamp Fox, whom all Southern loyalists cursed for his ruthless and successful raiding tactics. He described the most recent victory Marion had achieved, at an obscure place called Ft. Watson, when a Major Hezekiah Maham built a high log tower from which daring rebels could fire into the British stockade. Quintin braved fire and gunpowder explosives to ascend the tower and use his marksman's skills until the fort surrendered.
“He could have died in a fiery inferno, or been blown to bits!” She paled, but read further. Other than a few scratches, he had come through all their skirmishes and frontal assaults unscathed. But for how long? When she read that some of the Georgia partisans occasionally slipped home now that the back country was no longer firmly under British control, she made a decision.
“Quint's baby should be born at Blackthorne Hill after all he's done to hold it. I'm going home to the plantation. Let the Liberty Boys do their worst. I'm the wife of one of their patriots.”
Would Quintin return home to see his newborn child? She prayed that he would.
Chapter Eighteen
June, 1781, The Commons, Savannah
The sun, which had shone brilliantly when the gala outing began, had now vanished beneath a billowing gray cloud that promised a thunderstorm. But the weather did not deter the avid spectators any more than it did the participants. Georgians, like their English cousins, dearly loved a good horse race, and the dozen riders competing that afternoon promised to put on quite a contest.
The flat terrain of the Georgia coast lent itself admirably to racing, even if the sandy soil did slow the track a bit. Gentlemen dressed in fine satin waistcoats and brocade jackets sat with their ladies in the shade of magnolia and sweet bay trees. The women arranged their wide panniers artfully as they seated themselves on footstools brought by servants, who waved fans overhead in the still afternoon heat and served them cool lemonade and picnic delicacies.
The rougher element, always present at such races, did not mix with the gentry, but held their raucous gathering at the opposite end of the large oval racetrack, nearer to where the riders readied their mounts. Tradesmen in rough buckram pants and rivermen in buckskins mingled with an assortment of enlisted soldiers and their Indian allies.
”I say, Barbara, you've scarcely touched that sinfully rich cream cake,” Colonel Weymouth said solicitously. “Are you feeling unwell in the heat?” His round blue eyes were a bit protuberant and his jaw slightly receding, giving him the appearance of a quizzical fish.
“I’m quite fine, thank you, Alfred, just looking forward to the rain.”
“Oh pooh! The rain will quite ruin the race, not to men
tion my gown,” Serena Fallowfield said petulantly as she smoothed her pale hands over the deep rose satin of her elegant creation.
Barbara thought she looked ridiculously overdressed for a sultry summer afternoon, but said nothing, hoping the black-haired witch would catch Alfred Weymouth's attention, which would please both women. Barbara certainly did not want it, and Serena had dragged her cousin Andrew, who detested racing, to the event simply to stalk the viscount.
”I think the rain will hold off long enough for the race. We have covered coaches to see you ladies safely home,” Weymouth said, looking from Serena to Barbara.
“I say, Alfred, isn't that the blood bay everyone's been talking about? Big brute. You suppose he can run?” Monty's eyes squinted as he studied the horses across the track, worried about the large bet he had placed on a dun horse owned by a lieutenant under his command.
Weymouth studied the big, dark-red stallion prancing nervously amid the crowd of ruffians and savages. Several mongrel dogs barked and chased each other. A fat man in a fine wool hat was taking a bet from a giant Muskogee Indian. “Demned savages do like to wager, don't they? The bay looks to be too high strung for a real competitor.”
“Don't be too certain of that, your lordship. I happen to recognize the beast. It belongs to Andrew's half-brother, Devon. He rides like one of those accursed savages,” Serena said sweetly, noting the angry color rise in Andrew's face. ”I would never wager against a half-caste rider. Some say he's as good as his wild relatives.”
At the mention of Devon's name, Barbara froze. What was he doing in Savannah? He'd left her and ridden off for Florida nearly a year ago. She scanned the crowd and immediately picked out his golden head among the men and animals milling around the track.
Wearing a royal ranger's green jacket with crimson collar and cuffs, he looked so handsome and splendid that her breath caught in her throat. As Andrew, Monty, and Alfred argued about the merits of Dev's horse and horsemanship, Barbara felt everything around her blurring. She traveled back in time to the Muskogee village where they had been lovers.
Serena watched her infuriating rival, then followed her gaze to Devon Blackthorne. “La, gentlemen, I do believe an English lady has had her fancy taken by a roguish half-caste. Do warn her, Andrew, that in spite of his dazzling looks, he's nothing but a Creek savage disguised in white man's clothing.”
“Will that horse win, Andrew?” Barbara ignored Serena's taunts.
Andrew felt sweat dampening his brow and wanted to kill his taunting cousin. How he hated to be reminded of his father's disgraceful second marriage, as if the Blackthornes did not already have enough scandal to contend with because of Quintin.
He forced a smile for Lady Barbara and replied, “I know little of horses and care less. As to my half-brother's skills, I plead equal ignorance. I doubt he can compete with the several excellent British officers who are riding today.”
“Yes, I see Armbruster. Now that dun of his—”
”I want to place a wager on Devon Blackthorne's bay.” Barbara interrupted Monty, who turned to her incredulously.
Bloody hell! Monty knew his spoiled sister disliked his matchmaking with Weymouth, but this was too much to be endured. “Nonsense, m' dear. You'll only lose. Sorry I even mentioned it and piqued your interest.”
“I'm afraid that in this colonial backwater, Lady Barbara, women of quality are not even allowed the fun of a harmless wager without jeopardizing their reputations,” Serena said, noting with satisfaction that the Viscount of Leicester was growing rather agitated, but when he spoke, her mood quickly darkened.
“We Londoners are a rowdy lot. Please pardon our small vices, dear Mrs. Fallowfield.” Then he turned to Barbara and winked rakishly. “I shall be happy to place your wager for you, Lady Barbara. Say ten pounds?”
“La, Colonel,” Barbara rejoined, ”I would have this be a worthy bet. Let it be fifty pounds!”
Monty paled. Already the butcher, the cobbler, and his tailor were dunning him. Soon he would have no credit left even if his horse swept the field. “Are you quite certain, little sister, that such a large wager is appropriate?”
Before Barbara could reply, Serena interrupted petulantly. “Well, I shall wager, too, then. Won't you bet against that hateful savage, Andrew? I'm certain some of the ruffians over there would take our markers.” She watched as Andrew's complexion turned a near shade to crimson, while Monty looked positively green as he stood silently beside his sister.
Gritting his teeth, Andrew nodded to Serena, his eyes cold and dark with a fury that bespoke later retribution. “I shall place the wagers,” he replied glacially.
Caught up in the spirit of the gaining, Weymouth, too, decided he would bet on the bay in spite of encouraging Monty to place a tidy sum on Lieutenant Armbruster's dun. “I must stand with the Lady Barbara against all the rest of you. I'll back the bay as well—stoutly, with fifty pounds—if a taker can be found in that camp of Indians and rivermen.”
“What an adventure,” Barbara said, encouraging the viscount. They set out, with Monty and Andrew following reluctantly behind. Serena waited alone, furious at her desertion, yet unwilling to go near the riffraff across the track.
Devon saw her the moment she and Weymouth stepped away from the crowd. Her glorious silver-gilt hair shone from beneath a rakish little hat and her face was as hauntingly beautiful as his nightly dreams envisioned it. She looked every inch the English lady, dressed in a delicate lime-green India-cotton gown, simple and cool for a warm day. He felt his chest squeeze with pain and forced himself to concentrate on taking bets. What madness had made him agree to race Firebrand? I might have known she'd be here. Perhaps that was why he had come, just to see her again after all the hellish lonely months.
Barbara and her retinue approached Nicholas Dundee, a keen-witted shipping merchant who was taking bets on the race. Grimly, with a bitter twist to his lips, Devon wondered if his brother would acknowledge him. He decided to see, just for the hell of it, and to hear Barbara's voice one more time.
Leading Firebrand by his reins, he strolled over and stood directly in front of Andrew. “Good day for a race. Even better if it rains before we begin. Are you betting for or against me, dear brother?”
Andrew turned to his half-brother, his eyes darkened with fury barely held in check. The damned savage was laughing at him! “Against you, of course, Devon.”
“Never fear, my dear fellow, for you have the lovely lady here and myself wagering for you,” Weymouth said with a flourish. He eyed Devon keenly, noting his startling handsomeness in the natty ranger green. The chap didn't look like a savage at all, except for his swarthy skin and dark eyes.
Devon gave the viscount a mock salute with his riding crop, then made the same gesture with a more rakish flourish for Barbara, who stood with her eyes glued on him. “In olden times, a lady gave her champion some token to carry into a contest. Might you favor me so, beautiful lady?” He gave her a measuring look, wondering what she would respond, and noting with satisfaction that Weymouth's condescending smile had evaporated.
Barbara fought to breathe, wanting against all reason to throw herself into Dev's arms and sob out how much she loved him. Instead, she assumed the flirtatious facade she had practiced since childhood and replied, “How could I not honor such a gallant request?” She took a small green feather from her hat and boldly fastened it in the scarlet lapel of his jacket.
“I'm honored, your ladyship,” he said, all traces of humor erased from his face.
Just then Nicholas Dundee called for the contestants to mount up and move to their positions at the starting line. Devon forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand, sizing up his competition. He had listened to the gossip among the soldiers since arriving in the city and knew that the man favored to win the race was a royal militia officer named Armbruster, a wiry New Jersey farmer. His dun was reportedly unbeaten. Devon studied the horse, noting the nervous rider who pulled harshly on the reins as he wheeled
the dun into position.
Likely a fast starter, but did he have the stamina to stay the course, which consisted of two laps around the mile-long oval track? He glanced up at the threatening skies and prayed for rain. The track was sandy, as most of the coastal lowlands were, but he had ridden it, and one stretch was hard-packed clay, which would turn to churning mud with a good soaking.
As the starting gun sent the riders off in a storm of flying sand, Barbara thought frantically about how to get a message to Dev. She scoured the crowd and noted several boys who might be persuaded to relay a few words to him for a couple of coins. One stood not far from their coach. When the riders vanished around the curve of the track behind a low-lying copse of myrtle, she felt a fat raindrop plop on her nose.
Almost immediately, Serena let out a squeak and ran for her coach. On the same pretext, Barbara did likewise. Once certain the men were all occupied, she extracted several coppers from her pocket and held them up for the waif to see. Thin and grimy looking, he had a certain feral cleverness in his expression as he cautiously neared the grandly dressed lady.
Quickly Barbara relayed her message for Dev and paid him, then reached inside the coach for her shawl. Draping it about her shoulders, she returned to her vantage point. She was not going to miss the outcome of the race just because of a simple wetting!
By the time the riders had made the first lap, nearly half of them were clearly out of the race. Dev's big bay was still near the front. She cheered him on lustily.
Dev leaned low on Firebrand's neck, holding him back as he gauged the last half of the race. Several of the strong starters had lost out but a gray and Armbruster's dun were holding strong. Rain began to pelt them in earnest now, and the crowd thinned as satin- and lace-clad ladies and gentlemen fled for the dry comfort of their covered conveyances. He saw Barbara near the edge of the track, yelling him on with ferocity, utterly oblivious of being soaking wet. Grinning, he passed her by in a flurry of flying sand and mud.