"Oh, Mother," Devon sighed, twisting her calico skirt. "I wish I were a boy—then I could go with Master Hale to Boston!"
"Don't be foolish," Deborah returned sharply. "You are full of silly dreams. You have no idea of the real world. This war will be a curse to New London. There will be privateers everywhere, the West Indies trade will be smothered, we'll lose all our best men and ships, and Lord only knows how I'll keep this shop going—"
"Privateers!" Devon breathed, thinking again of the dashing Captain Andre Raveneau.
"Don't look so spellbound. They will be our own ships, manned by Connecticut boys who will be as full of romantic dreams as you are. Adventure!" Deborah said venomously. "More likely hardship—and death."
Devon barely heard her mother's words. The meeting Nick had gone to... it must have been to plan New London's sea strategy. She could scarcely wait to speak to him and learn all the details.
"I want you indoors," Deborah said tiredly. "I have tasks for you, left from this afternoon. We shall be forced to work harder than ever, Devon, now that the war is begun."
"Yes, Mother. I'll be along in a moment."
Devon listened to her mother's footsteps retreating to the rear of the shop before she stood up. Distant voices that grew clearer caused her to linger on the stoop. A shadowy quartet approached and Devon could soon distinguish Nathaniel Shaw, Jr., New London's most prominent citizen, flanked by his friends Gurdon Saltonstall and Zedidiah Nicholson. The fourth member of the group was the much younger Nathan Hale.
The men were engaged in a spirited discussion, but Nick glanced up as they neared the Linen and Pewter Shop and smiled at Devon's straight little form. Despite the darkness, he was not surprised to see her outside.
She needed no further encouragement. Dashing into the street, she blurted, "Gentlemen, please excuse me! May I please bid farewell to Master Hale?"
She looked up at her clear-eyed teacher, piercingly conscious of the impact he had had on her life. Plainly dressed, he wore no wig, and his hair was drawn back into a simple queue under a tricorn hat.
"Thank you, Miss Lindsay," he said. "I hope you will continue to study. You have an excellent mind, and I expect you to have made great progress by the time I return to New London."
"Oh, I will, I will. I promise! And, sir... I wish you good fortune in Boston."
"I am grateful for your concern," said Hale, smiling slightly at her fervent face.
"Devon!" Deborah called impatiently from an upstairs window.
The four men murmured, "Good evening," and Devon backed away until she had reached the doorstep. Her hand found the latch, but she continued to gaze after the group until Nathan Hale's shape was swallowed by the night.
Chapter 2
***~~~***
October 20, 1780
New London glowed with autumn's deepest colors. Leaves of crimson, gold, rust, and saffron blanketed the stone walls that bordered every road; pumpkins lay fat and orange on their vines; bright red apples dripped from orchard branches.
Devon, at eighteen, seemed an additional gift of the season. Her cloud of strawberry-blond curls and her soft creamy skin were more beautiful than ever against the fiery leaves, and the sight of her on the street lightened the hearts of the war-weary citizens.
On this October afternoon she strolled toward the Beach, a faded hatbox swinging on her arm. Deborah had labored for hours over the bonnet that Nick had ordered for his wife's birthday, a perfect copy of a European original. Devon had stern instructions to deliver it directly to the Nicholson home, yet she could not resist the urge to make a detour along the waterfront. Pausing in the shadow of a Shaw warehouse, she surveyed the activity on the docks. True to her mother's prediction, war had changed New London. The past five years seemed like a dark eternity.
The town itself harbored nearly sixty successful privateers, and the anchorage was used by vessels from all over America, even Europe. Many New London men had chosen to join the army, and ships had been built for the State and Continental navies, but privateering was supreme. Privately owned vessels had been armed and fitted out at their owners' expense for the purpose of capturing enemy craft, and everyone—owners, crew, and the government—divided the booty. Five years ago it had all seemed a great romantic adventure.
Devon thought sadly of the night she had said goodbye to Nathan Hale. Eighteen months later the young captain she had so admired had disguised himself as a Dutch schoolmaster to spy on the British who occupied Long Island. He was discovered and hanged on September 22, 1776. Too many men, men she had known since birth, were now dead like Mr. Hale, or imprisoned.
New London lived under a cloud of fear; even now Devon could see a great British ship anchored to the south in Long Island Sound. The townspeople expected to be attacked at any moment and there had been countless false alarms, leading to the evacuation of all women, children, the ill, and the elderly. Devon's heart tightened at the remembered nightmares: screaming, sobbing, praying all around her as wagons rumbled out of town in the middle of the night.
Less than a month ago General Benedict Arnold had conspired to surrender West Point to the British. Though his plot had been discovered, he had escaped, and New London continued to reel under the shocking blow, for Arnold had grown up just ten miles north, in Norwich. Until now, his exploits had been a source of deep pride to everyone from the area. Disillusionment and mistrust abounded. Neighbors and lifelong friends suspected one another of being Tories; several had actually admitted their loyalties and left for British-occupied New York town, including the local Anglican minister.
Despite the dark days and harsh realities that had been thrust on Devon, she still passionately wished that she were a boy so that she might sail off to fight for America's independence. No one cheered more loudly than Devon when Fort Griswold's cannon fired the three-shot signal to greet the latest privateer returning with its prize. Her heart would swell with joy and pride at the sight of the rakish craft sailing up the Thames, laden with cargo from British ships. Devon knew that New London was truly hurting the British, and she was convinced that the hardships of the past five years had not been suffered in vain.
A chilly breeze swept off the Thames and Devon stepped into the sunlight. Approaching the docks, she scanned the sleek, lightweight vessels at anchor and strove to appear nonchalant in her search for the Black Eagle.
She saw him first, shouting orders on the deck of his ship.
Many of the captains and officers who sailed privateers had achieved glamorous reputations, but none could match Andre Raveneau, who at thirty-two had become a legend. Men thought him the most daring, successful, and charmed of captains; women knew only that they went weak in his devastatingly handsome presence. Raveneau had given his time, his expertise, and his beautiful privateer Black Eagle to the American cause for reasons he chose not to discuss. Of course, averaging a dozen prizes a year, he had become abundantly wealthy, but there were plenty of less hazardous ways to pursue riches. Because of Raveneau's fearlessness and his ability to succeed in the face of seemingly impossible odds, townspeople whispered that he was allied with the devil.
Devon watched as he jumped lightly to the wharf, her heart racing and palms icy. Raveneau had fascinated her for five years, though he was dangerous-looking, his dark face chiseled and unsmiling. He strode past Devon, but she might as well have been a barrel of molasses for all the notice he paid her.
As he disappeared around the corner, Devon wondered why he didn't look at her the way other men did. In the past two years strangers had begun to stare openly at her blossoming figure and exquisite face. However, since most healthy eligible males had gone to war, most of these admirers were either old men or adolescent boys...
"Good day to you, miss!" a husky voice called. Startled, Devon spun around to face a stocky, genial-looking young man whose sandy hair was queued neatly at his neck. "Have you business on the Black Eagle? Perhaps I might help?" A square hand reached out, but Devon eluded it. She was beginn
ing to regret coming down here, for no decent girl would wander the docks alone.
"No... I—"
"Devon!"
She gasped with relief at the sound of Morgan's voice, and took his arm enthusiastically. "I'm so glad to see you! You can walk me to Nick's. I have this hat to deliver to Temperance, and Mother will thrash me if I'm not back soon." As they started off, she nodded to the sandy-haired privateersman, who shrugged good-naturedly.
Morgan was delighted by Devon's attention, for he still adored her. The years had added a few inches to his height, but he fell far short of six feet, and his shoulders remained narrow. To his chagrin, Devon continued to treat him as an affectionate friend.
"I heard today that we won a great victory at King's Mountain," Morgan said, conscious of her arm linked through his.
"Oh, that's splendid news," Devon said awkwardly.
Morgan's face burned, for he knew what was on her mind. For two years she had been urging him to sign on with a privateer or even join the army and had been confused and disappointed by his refusal. His excuse was that his father needed him, for both his brothers were gone, one at sea, the other a soldier. Morgan could never admit that he was simply afraid. The thought of battle made him nauseous; he even had nightmares about it.
"My brother Tyler's company may have been engaged in the battle," he said hastily, thinking to absorb a bit of family glory. "Last we heard, they were nearby."
"I am certain he was the hero of the hour." Devon couldn't help the accusing note that crept into her voice.
They walked in silence for several minutes. Morgan wished that he could calm the fever in his body. It seemed to intensify each time he was near Devon, and he feared that only she could cure it. Other boys his age—the few who remained in town—had found relief with the easy women who haunted the docks. One evening, after hours spent lying innocently in the grass with Devon, he had taken his aching groin down to the Beach and had stood and watched the painted harlots. One had actually approached him, but her brazen manner had scared him to death.
I want Devon and only Devon, he thought now, and the words seemed to sear his brain. She still talked of their future together... surely she would not reject the advances of her husband-to-be? If not for the chaos of the war, they probably would have been married already! Impulsively, he put an arm around her slender waist. She glanced up in surprise, then smiled. Morgan's heart began to pound.
Devon was feeling sorry that she had spoken to him so impatiently. She must not press him to do her will, she thought. Morgan was Morgan, and she of all people should be able to accept the fact that he was not a warrior at heart. Still...
Unbidden, the dark image of Andre Raveneau filled Devon's mind and a chill ran down her spine. She could not understand the madness that swept her at the mere thought of him! Still painfully innocent, Devon was curious, yet fearful, about these feelings she had. The fact that they were confined to a rakish privateer captain who did not know she existed was bewildering.
Feeling her shiver, Morgan tightened his hold. Devon, guilty, leaned against him. Her face flushed self-consciously. Morgan took that as a good sign. She's shy but willing! he thought. His fingers fanned out from her waist to touch the soft curving hip. He felt a hot pressure spread down his belly.
"Devon..." he gulped. "Look at those apple trees! I am famished. Have you have time to stop?"
"Well..." she murmured doubtfully.
"Come on!"
Morgan led her past dozens of beckoning branches to the tree farthest from the road. Plucking an apple for each of them, he persuaded her to sit down.
"Captain Clark made it back safely from the West Indies today," Devon commented. "I heard his tales of Jamaica in the shop today, and I simply ached to see what he has seen. Such adventures! When we sail, Morgan, the West Indies must be our first stop. I want to run barefoot on the white beaches, and—"
"Devon!" Morgan rasped. He suddenly lunged forward and enfolded her in a clumsy embrace. Shocked at first, Devon soon allowed her curiosity to take hold. So this was to be her first kiss! Rather excited, she relaxed and waited for Morgan to proceed.
Briefly he froze, then Devon felt wet, trembling lips press against hers. Revolted, she started to pull away, but Morgan shoved her backward into the grass and fell on top of her. His tongue invaded her mouth; he rubbed his body against hers, flattening her breasts. A bulge under his breeches pressed into her belly, edged lower. Devon reacted violently. She pushed at him with all her might and yanked the hair fastened at his neck until he screeched and rolled away from her.
"Morgan Gadwin, have you gone mad? Are you possessed? What lunacy was that?" Devon scrambled to her feet, rearranging her faded blue gown, eyes blazing at the mortified Morgan. "You scared me half to death!"
He sat with knees drawn up to hide his shame. "I thought you loved me!" he mumbled at last, looking up with stricken eyes. "I'm... sorry. I didn't mean to... I just need you so much!"
Softening, she knelt on the grass and reached to smooth his hair. "I do love you, Morgan, but that attack scared the wits out of me!"
"I'm sorry," he repeated woefully, encouraged when her hand moved to pat his shoulder. "I won't be so rough—next time. I love you, Devon!"
"I love you, too." She kissed his brow with bittersweet affection.
"Wasn't it even a little exciting for you?" Morgan demanded anxiously, watching her face.
Forcing a smile, Devon managed, "Well... of course. It was my first kiss, after all."
They stood up, brushing brittle leaves off their clothing.
"Morgan. I really must go. No, I'll go alone. I have to hurry, or Mother will be furious."
He started to reach for her, but Devon slipped away and ran out onto the road. Tears of disillusionment blurred her eyes as she turned west toward Nick's house.
* * *
The Nicholson home was located on Union Street, not far from the schoolhouse, and its cobalt-blue exterior was a symbol of warm, happy times to Devon.
She loved to visit here, having shamelessly invented excuses over the years. Now, as she lifted the brass knocker, Morgan's kisses began to fade from her thoughts.
Rebecca, the buxom, white-haired housekeeper, opened the door. She smelled of cinnamon, tea, and freshly baked bread.
"Miss Devon! It's good to see you! You get prettier every day."
"Thank you, Rebecca. I'm glad to see you, too! I brought this for your mistress—a birthday gift Nick ordered."
"Shhh! It's supposed to be a surprise. Miss Temperance is abed again today, but you know that she has keen hearing! Why don't you just take that into the library? Oh, no! Wait—there's a visitor. Let me ask the master."
Rebecca lumbered off, leaving Devon to gaze around the cozy, cream-colored stairhall. Temperance Nicholson, though sweet and gentle, was forever imagining herself stricken by some terrible illness. Devon was of the opinion that she simply enjoyed a life of leisure, tucked into bed with a novel and a tray of imported sweetmeats. Somehow she always managed a recovery in time for Sunday church, only to develop a new malady on Monday.
Rebecca returned, and said, "You can go in, lass. You're just in time for tea."
Devon grinned, picked up the hatbox, and sauntered down the hall to the library, only to stand paralyzed on the threshold. Two men stood up, and Nick came forward to take her hand, which had gone cold as ice.
"Devon! Do get hold of yourself," he whispered, chuckling. With a flourish, he turned back to his guest and pulled Devon to the center of the room. "My dear, I would like you to meet Captain Andre Raveneau. Andre, this is Devon Lindsay, my goddaughter. She is fascinated by the sea, so I knew she would enjoy a chance to converse with you!"
"How do you do, mademoiselle?" Raveneau said, his voice deep, charmingly accented, and faintly amused.
When Nick pinched her, Devon blurted, "Oh, I am fine! And you?"
"I am also... fine." A fleeting grin revealed teeth which seemed startlingly white against his tanned fa
ce.
Rebecca arrived with the “tea” tray, which held three glasses, a decanter of brandy, and a small goblet of red wine. Devon always had wine at Nick's, one delightfully forbidden glassful. The distraction enabled her to find a chair and sit down. Nick returned to his desk, Raveneau to the red leather wing chair, and the tray was passed.
"How is your mother?" Nick inquired, adding to the visitor, "Devon's father, my good friend, was lost at sea some years ago. Tragically, her brother was on board as well."
Raveneau turned steel-gray eyes on Devon and she felt her heart thud alarmingly. "I am sorry," he said.
"Oh... I appreciate..." Flustered, she looked at Nick. "Mother is worse than ever, I think. She's totally absorbed in the shop, working every minute. There must be two dozen quilts and as many net canopies, all unsold, and still she makes more. She never mentions Papa or Jamie any more and hardly speaks to me. Doesn't even bother to nag about my behavior..." Devon broke off, blushing.
Raveneau had been watching her with detached interest. She was the prettiest girl he had seen in months, though sadly in need of grooming. Her cloud of burnished-rose hair was loose and windblown, boasting a dried leaf on one side. The plain blue dress she wore was too small, though it did outline the high curve of her breasts well. But her face was simply enchanting. It had been a while since he had observed such fresh beauty: sparkling blue eyes, dusky cheeks, and a mouth that enjoyed laughter. Ah, innocence! he thought, and allowed himself a lazy, cynical grin.
His expression deepened Devon's blush. She retreated into the safety of her wing chair, listening to the conversation. Apparently, whatever business was between the two men had already been discussed, for now they only exchanged news of the war.
Raveneau had been at sea until two days ago, and was interested in the details of Benedict Arnold's treason and the execution of the British officer who had acted as go-between. Devon found the Frenchman's cool attitude toward Arnold quite surprising. It had been nearly a month since General Arnold had scurried down the Hudson to New York town, leaving the popular British Major Andre to be hanged as a spy, but everyone in the area continued to talk of the traitor daily. Anger, shame, and bewilderment were emotions that ran high, yet here sat this nonchalant Frenchman, asking questions as though he were discussing the price of rum.
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