2
Daniel froze at her words. A Patriot? A spy? One of those could be refuted. He’d been sent to deliver a message, not size up the enemy’s positions. Despite his surprise at her turn of questioning, he held his stoic expression—though perhaps his eyes narrowed a little before he managed a laugh. “Is that the usual occupation of strangers to Georgetown?”
The young woman relaxed back a step, the pain of her leg evident in the motion. “It is not so easy to ascertain.”
He again allowed a throaty chuckle. “I would think a town serving as a British stronghold would ward off traitors to the crown, and spies…” He looked about, taking in the patchwork of light and shadow cast upon the streets. “I’m sure talk of such is unsafe, even for a girl of the town.”
Her chin rose at the use of the term “girl”, much like Fannie or Nora’s did when he teased them. Susanna and Rose on the other hand, only seemed to enjoy his playful harassment. The image of his sisters pinched in his chest. More than three years since he’d been home. Three years since he’d ridden away from the Mohawk Valley and his family to join the Continental Army. Three years and, instead of returning as he ought, he’d only distanced himself more.
“Now you insinuate that I might be disloyal?” Fine lace cuffs hung like banners from the maiden’s elbows as she folded her arms.
Daniel peered at her all the harder, not sure how to interpret the underlying tone of her words. Perhaps she was a Patriot as well. Perhaps she’d be able to help him.
But, in the middle of Georgetown, with British sentinels within a block of where they stood, the risk was too great until he could be certain. He shook his head. “Of course not. You have given me no reason to doubt your devotion to our King.” With a smile, he gestured ahead of them. “But ‘tis late, and I’ve come a long way. Let me assist you onto my horse and deliver you safely home.”
Light from the nearest lamp flickered in her eyes. He couldn’t make out the color but they were pale. Very different from his sisters’, or even Rachel’s—he chastised his thoughts for their betrayal. The young woman’s hair appeared as dark as his own. Too bad the sun wasn’t bright overhead. He would have liked to see her in the light of day. As it was, the shadows lay across the delicate features of her face, leaving much to his imagination.
After a moment of deliberation, she sighed. “Very well. Since you are responsible for my predicament.”
Daniel stepped around her, leading the mare to her side.
She winced as she lifted her foot to the stirrup.
The mare nudged his arm with her nose as though also placing blame on him. More likely Madam only wished for him to speed things along. It had been a long day for them both. Quick enough to not give the woman time to protest, Daniel set his hands to her waist and boosted her atop.
She gasped and worked to tug her full skirts over her legs.
Turning to grant her some privacy, Daniel waited a minute and then clicked his tongue to encourage Madam to follow. “Which way?”
“Right at the next corner, and then go straight.”
He answered with a nod, though his legs protested against moving. He almost needed the cane strapped to his saddle for more than his deception, but he decided against the effort of utilizing it. There were not many King’s soldiers out tonight, and a bit of a limp came naturally with his muscles so stiff. He needed a walk after endless miles astride a horse. Hopefully, another day and he’d complete his mission.
But then what?
Daniel frowned. He was officially discharged from the army. Would he enlist again for possibly another three years? He’d be nearing thirty by then, with no land, wife, or children of his own. He had nothing. But what other option was there? Return to the Mohawk Valley and join the local militia? He could help on his parents’ farm, and do his best to stay clear of Rachel and her husband. Not so easy with Fannie now married to Rachel’s brother and them having a young’un.
“So what does bring you to Georgetown?”
Daniel blew out his breath, wishing it were as easy to empty his mind as his lungs. “Land.” He’d rehearsed his story well. “I’m tired of harsh winters and short summers.”
“You want to buy a farm?”
He glanced back. “Is that so surprising to you?”
She settled into the saddle and shrugged. “I suppose not. The area has been in such upheaval the last few years, but I suppose you cannot put aside your life forever.” Sorrow tugged at her last few words.
Daniel paused to look up.
She stared at her hands resting over the pummel, the tie of a fancy pouch woven between her fingers.
“I just realized I don’t know your name. But I would like to.”
Her gaze dropped to his. Hesitation. She shifted in the saddle. “Such an introduction would hardly be considered proper.” She tugged her hood to better hide her face as she glanced left and right. “Lydia Reynolds.”
He inclined his head in a nod. “Miss Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
Daniel couldn’t help a smile from easing onto his lips, though her marital status should mean nothing to him. “’Tis a pleasure.” He turned and started walking again.
They didn’t go far before she spoke. “And what of your name, or do you purposefully desire it to remain a mystery. I must admit to not being fond of secrets.”
“Daniel Reid.”
“And you were a farmer up north?”
“I was.”
“But the winters are too cold and summers too short?”
“That they are.”
“It is a strange time of year to be seeking land, is it not?”
His smile stretched into a grin. This was almost as much fun as bantering with one of his sisters. “I don’t think so. I finished harvest at home in time for winter, sold my crops, and now here I am. If all goes well, I’ll be ready to plant by spring.”
“I suppose so.” The old saddle squeaked as she shifted.
His hand tapped out his thoughts against his leg. Maybe he would be able to ask her for more help, after all. “Are you familiar with a Lawrence Wilsby? I am told he might know of some land for sale in the area.”
“I am acquainted with Mister Wilsby. Though, I was unaware he had any dealings with the buying or selling of farms.”
One step closer to finding Colonel Marion. Daniel kept his eagerness contained, his tone casual interest. “Then perhaps you would be willing to introduce me to him tomorrow? I’d be indebted to you.”
“Hold up here.”
Not quite the answer he expected. He surveyed the stable to their right. “I find it hard to believe you reside in a livery.”
Without waiting for his assistance, she slid from the saddle with only a short groan when her feet met the ground. “I do not. You might find one useful, though, and there is an inn across the way.” She brushed past him with a definite favoring of her left leg. Maybe he needed to offer her the use of his cane.
“But what about you? And of Mister Wilsby tomorrow?”
She didn’t look back. “If I can get away, I will meet you here at noon.”
Then, like a phantom of the night, she vanished between two buildings. Gone. Still, his smile remained.
~*~
“Say nothing of this to Master Selby.” Lydia winced as the heavy binding tightened around the bruised scrape on her leg and Molly tied off the bandage, her dark fingers nimble. If Charles did ask, Lydia would make up some excuse like walking into… She glanced around her bedchamber. The stool at her dressing table seemed the only likely object she might have cracked her shin against.
The girl stood and folded layers of petticoats down over the bandage. Though she attended Lydia, Molly, like all the slaves attached to the estate and shipping company, now belonged to Charles. Except Eli. She hadn’t known it until last night, but the aged Negro had remained her grandparents’ property even though they had sent him to America with Lydia’s mother upon her marriage. And now, with the passing of her
grandparents, and she the only heir, the slave belonged to her. As did the cottage near Brighton.
Lydia scooted to the edge of her bed and smoothed the pale blue fabric of her gown. “Thank you, Molly.” She stole one last glance to the pillow concealing the letter Mr. Hilliard had received from the officiators of her grandparents’ modest estate. She’d read it over and over last night after she’d sneaked back into her room, and then again this morning. She could not hesitate. Now was the time for action—before anyone thought to question her tardiness for breakfast.
She opened the door to infectious giggling coming from the nursery. The baby’s chortle drew her across the hall. It was all too easy to picture little Margaret with her wispy curls and full cheeks. Lydia forced herself to turn away. No attachments. Especially when she would be leaving so very soon. Her leg felt much better than last night, and she made a quick retreat, descending the stairs and pushing into the dining parlor.
Charles already sat at the head of the table, the place that had been Father’s before the Magellan was sunk by Continental Navy’s frigates. Even three and a half years had not made her brother-in-law’s place as the head of the family and sole owner of the shipping company any more acceptable to her. Especially now that her sister, poor Margaret, rested in the cemetery with Mother and the boys. Lydia sat in her chair, her enthusiasm draining away. Only she remained of the South Carolina Reynolds. Her family had helped build this town, this colony, and soon she would also abandon it. Just as well. Neither Georgetown nor South Carolina held anything for her now.
“Good morning, my dear,” Charles crooned, his blue gaze following her to the table. “I do hope you feel better this morning.”
“Yes. Quite.” She glanced around. No other place settings were present. “Where is Major Layton this morning? He is not joining us?”
Charles sipped his wine, waiting to answer. “Colonel Tarleton asked for him to take his regiment north toward Camden, if I heard correctly. It appears that rascal Marion has been playing a sly fox again and giving the colonel quite the hunt.”
Over the past year, Francis Marion had become quite the nuisance to the British and Loyalists, and she hoped Tarleton found him—though she didn’t care for the man’s manners. Thankfully, the officer who billeted with them did not let his eyes wander quite so freely.
“You look far too relieved by Major Layton’s absence.” Charles set his fork beside his plate and touched the napkin to the corners of his mouth.
“I am merely glad for a moment to speak to you of something.” She paused as her plate was set before her.
“What would that be, my dear?”
Lydia steeled herself against the urge to cringe. He’d taken to titles of endearment the last little while, and it made her skin crawl. Her sister had passed away only eleven months earlier. Had he no respect for her? Or patience? “I want to go to England.”
His golden eyebrows shot high while the corners of his mouth twisted downwards. A broken laugh issued from his throat. “Really, Lydia, now is not the time to indulge your appetite for society, with French ships and privateers making such a trip treacherous.”
“I care not for society, or the French.”
His frown deepened. “It would be very different for you in England. Here you have wealth and prestige. There you have neither name nor title. You would be nothing to them.”
“I do not care.” She slid her napkin onto her lap and measured her breath. “I received news that my maternal grandfather left my mother the cottage near Brighton. There is no other heir, so it is mine.” Unlike everything her Father left. This grand house, the ships—all included with the company—had become Charles’s, as partner in the company and the husband of the eldest daughter. “I want to live there. I am finished with this place.”
“You cannot be serious.” He pushed up from his chair and circled around the table toward her. “I will not allow it.”
“And pray tell, how will you disallow it?” She surged to her feet. “You do not own me.”
She could see him thinking, frustration lighting sparks in his eyes. Then he pointed a finger. “The allowance you receive now is not required of me to give.”
Lydia forced her lungs to take breath despite the heat burning within and the snugness of her stays. She couldn’t risk making an enemy of him. “Charles, please. Have I asked for anything? A small living has been left me. Enough to get by comfortably. When I am gone, you can find a new mistress for this house. I know you have plans to remarry someday and—”
“And there is nothing wrong with the present mistress.” His voice mellowed as he reached for her hand. “Your father would not want you to leave. Margaret would not have wanted it.” He raised her knuckles to his mouth and pressed a kiss. “There is no reason for it.”
“I cannot marry you, Charles.”
His spine stiffened. “I have not asked you…” He shook his head. “What I mean to say is, yes, I had intended to ask you to be my wife…soon. Maggie needs a mother and it is only right that—”
“I will not replace my sister. I cannot.” Lydia pulled away from him. She didn’t want to be a mother. Not to little Margaret or any child. Ever. She wouldn’t risk it. There was so little of her heart left that if broken again, she might not survive. “Please, let me go. All I ask is passage on one of my own father’s ships.”
Charles released her. “I am sorry, Lydia. But I cannot allow it.”
3
Daniel leaned into the wall of the inn, cane in hand. Despite a shave and wash making him more presentable to the public eye, his presence garnered many a curious gaze from the locals. The British soldiers passing also gave him long looks, but he merely nodded to them. Sometimes he saluted. Usually, one glimpse of his cane and the apprehension or mistrust slipped from their faces. Still, he hoped Miss Reynolds stayed true to her word. Already past noon, the sooner he left Georgetown and its English proprietors, the better.
A carriage hesitated in front of the inn, and its door swung open. “Hurry and come aboard, sir.” Lydia appeared, waved him forward, and then dropped back into her seat.
Daniel utilized his cane to step onto the street and climbed inside. As soon as he sat across from her, the coach lurched forward. “I didn’t expect quite this much courtesy,” he said, laying the cane across his knees. Looking at her now, he wondered why she had seen fit to offer him assistance. The quality and fashion of her gown, the perfect ringlets gracing her slender neck, the way her gloved hands rested demurely on her lap—everything about her bespoke a lady in the fullest meaning of the word. He’d found pomposity another common trait among such women.
“The least I could do to repay you for the ride you provided me last evening.” She gave the smallest smile. “And I wish to speak to you at greater length.”
He returned her smile, but with more ease than she had managed. “I’m glad to hear you arrived home all right. How is your leg?”
“Much improved, thank you.” Her bluish eyes glinted. “I remember seeing that cane fastened to your saddle, but you seemed to fare well enough without it last night. You do not really require it, do you?”
Daniel kept his smile in place, not sure what game she played. “On the contrary.”
She matched his expression. “But not for walking.”
He fought the urge to raise the thick velvet curtain from the window. For all he knew she was hauling him to the British to turn him over as a spy. Would they shoot him right away, or interrogate him first? Fortunately, no matter what they did to him, he could give little to assist them against the rebellion’s efforts in South Carolina.
“Tell me who you really are.” She inclined toward him. “Why are you in Georgetown?”
Daniel folded his arms and attempted the nonchalance that often drove his sisters mad. “I already told you who I am.”
“But you are not a farmer.”
“But I am.”
She set her jaw. Her eyes, hints of green mingling with the blue towar
d the centers, narrowed. “You do not have to play games with me. I want to help you.”
He raised a brow. “You’re already helping me by introducing me to Mister Wilsby. Or are you also aware of land for sale in the area?”
~*~
Lydia huffed and settled back into her seat. The New Englander sat there looking all too confident and sure of himself. Nothing she hated more than an arrogant man. Except perhaps an arrogant rebel—so certain breaking with England was the only way. They were instead destroying the colonies with this war and murdering good men. Like her father.
She lifted a corner of the thick velvet curtains. Only two and a half blocks to go. She’d suspected Wilsby of his inclinations toward the rebels for a while now. The arrival of Daniel Reid seemed only to solidify both their guilt, and if she was wise, she could use them to her advantage. “We’ll be there soon.” Lydia dropped the folds of crimson curtain.
“Regretful.”
She met his gaze. “Why do you say that?”
He shook his head and looked to his cane. “No reason.”
“I do wish you would be more forthright, Mr. Reid, before our journey comes to an end. I can help you.”
“How, exactly?”
She gave him a knowing smile. “Before I incriminate myself, tell me truthfully that you are a Patriot.”
He studied her for a full minute or more, the methodical plod of hooves and the squeak of the axels marking the passage of time. He sighed and raised his hand. “All right. Now tell me how you plan to assist me?”
I knew it. She grinned and slid to the edge of her seat. “We have a British major billeted with us. And my sister’s husband is very loyal to the crown—an outspoken man. You would be surprised how often our table is laden with talk of military strategy and plans.” She tipped her head slightly to one side, feigning the look of innocence. The bait was laid for him. The question remained as to whether he would bite.
The Patriot and the Loyalist Page 2