"Indentured? Levi North?" Malaton's expression of disbelief altered quickly to a sly grin. "How very telling." Jensen pretended not to understand his statement, but her hand trembled as she brought the glass to her lips.
"Was this Mr. North a kind man?" Aunt Charmaine asked.
"Kind enough, I suppose," Jensen said, clearing her throat. She could feel Malaton's eyes boring into the side of her flushed face. She quickly placed her glass on the table, fearful of spilling it. Sensing that her aunt was bewildered by her nervous response, she felt an urgent desire to end the conversation.
"Would anyone like fresh strawberries and cream?" she said pushing herself away from the table. She picked up the willow basket brimming with freshly picked berries.
"Jensen, you can change the direction of a discussion faster than anyone I know," Malaton snickered, his shining black eyes narrowed in mirth. "I'll skip the dessert, I couldn't eat another bite." He patted the solid muscles of his rippling stomach. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll grab my bedroll and head out under the stars." He bowed with the grace of a gentleman. "Thank you, lovely ladies, for the appetizing food and pleasant company."
Aunt Charmaine retrieved her crochet bag and settled in her chair while Jensen and Rosy began gathering the dishes. Pietro, still lounging at the table, delivered a slap to Rosy's bottom. "Off with you, mon chérie, I have something I need to tell the little one here."
Strategically shifting the stew pot over Pietro's head, Rosy asked, "What, already makin' eyes at someone else?"
Pietro anxiously eyed the pot. "Now, Rosy sweetpie, you know I'm loyal only to you. Just have a bit of business to talk over."
"Loyalty--ha--you wouldn't know it if it bit you in the bum," she replied saucily, but she sashayed off nonetheless.
Jensen was surprised to find Pietro taking a gentle but firm hold of her wrist. His voice dropped to a soft pitch. "As you may know, your aunt entrusted me with a rather sensitive matter. Ah--I see by your expression you weren't expecting me." She couldn't help noticing how improved his diction was. "I'm the liaison between your aunt and the French reconnaissance scouts. I'm very sorry I was not able to help your uncle." He gave a Gallic shrug. "War can be ruthless. Have you the papers still, chérie fille?"
Jensen looked to her aunt, but she was absorbed in her crocheting, and her expression was so content, Jensen did not have the heart to disturb her.
"They are quite useless now." Jensen cursed herself for not destroying them.
"Let me take them off your hands."
"My uncle is dead. What use are the papers now?"
His grip tightened, and she bit back a cry. "You need not fear me, I am not a ruthless man. But others may pay you a visit, and I will not vouch for their honor, do you understand?" His eyes drifted to where her aunt sat, still oblivious to their conversation. "Madame Hawthorne, she is not a well woman, certainly she does not need more heartache."
Jensen yanked her hand free and moved to open the sideboard, removing the silver casket. She slid open the secret compartment and tossed the papers in front of him. He snatched them up, quickly perusing them before tossing them back to her in the same manner.
"A month ago, Commander de Beaujeu would have paid with his soul for this information. But, as it turned out, it was unnecessary. His men led a massacre. The French and their native allies barely left a man standing. Even General Braddock was not spared."
"This massacre, was it recent, then?" She tried to sound nonchalant as she tucked the secrets back into the box.
"Oui, several weeks ago at Fort Duquesne." He pulled a chair out from the table. "Perhaps you should sit down mademoiselle, you do not look well."
Her head spinning, she slumped into the chair.
"Can I get you something?"
Aye, she thought wistfully, that man with the long black hair, silver-gray eyes, and the heart-melting smile. She swallowed back the bitter bile. "'Tis just the wine. I'll be fine in a moment. Please, go visit with Rosy."
She waited until she heard him close the backdoor before burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shuddered with silent sobs.
"What's troubling you child?" Aunt Charmaine's weak voice shook Jensen from her self-pity.
She stood up and clumsily stacked the crockery plates, carrying them to the wash bucket. "A little homesickness, is all," she said with forced calm.
Aunt Charmaine wadded up the yarn and plopped it into her lap. "Jensen, I may not see too well, but my other senses are as sharp as a cat's claws." Aunt Charmaine picked up the green wool again and began deftly curling, looping, and hooking it. "Your English home? Or," she continued after a significant pause, "is it Mr. North's home you miss?"
The only sounds that could be heard in the cozy kitchen area was the sputter of the dying fire and the clang of dishes as Jensen scraped food from the plates. She was amazed at her aunt's intuitiveness.
"Do you love him?" Aunt Charmaine asked, as casually as if she were asking for tea.
Jensen stared wide-eyed at her aunt who continued to whirl her fingers and wrist so quickly they seemed to blur. "Who?"
Aunt Charmaine paused to gather up some slack on the yarn. "Mr. North, of course."
Jensen swallowed hard. "Matthias, the man who brought me here? He is just a friend. I am certainly not in love with him." She continued to busy herself with her cleanup chores.
"Jensen!" Aunt Charmaine raised her voice in obvious exasperation. "You know exactly who I mean!"
Jensen dropped a glass, shattering it on the hard wood floor and spraying the wall with droplets of red wine. As she stooped to pick up the sharp fragments, she felt her throat tighten, choking back new tears. She dropped the pieces she held in her hand and ran to her aunt. Plopping down on her knees, she buried her face in her aunt's lap, spilling tears onto the unfinished shawl. Aunt Charmaine rested a hand in Jensen's sun-streaked curls without saying a word.
"Oh Auntie, he is the most arrogant, incorrigible . . . handsome, intelligent, courageous man I have ever met. I cannot stop thinking of him." Jensen sat back on her heels. "I cannot release the grip he has on me." Her words came in stuttering hiccups. "And the worst is, he went off to fight the French. Pietro tells me there were few survivors at the French fort. I fear he's dead."
Chapter 22
Within ten miles of Fort Duquesne, they could already hear the sound of musket fire, it emanated from the wilderness. The gentle rustle of the underbrush signaled the approach of surefooted warriors. Almost immediately, sounds of pain and anguish could be heard from the British troops as they were ambushed from the sides. They found themselves trapped on the narrow path, unable to defend themselves. The bright red of their uniform was a jarring contrast to the brown and green of nature. For the French and Indians, it was like shooting fish in a barrel. The invisible enemy, dressed mostly in leathers, fired at random into the British columns.
They could fight their gentleman's war without him, Levi thought, as he traded his heavy black militia boots for his buckskin ones. Discarding his backpack, he took up his tomahawk, shoving the long wooden handle into his waistband. He grabbed his musket and ducked his head to avoid the pine branches hanging in his path as he made his way through the dense forest. He could feel the ground through the thin layer of soft hide as he tread soundlessly on the leaves and brambles. About twenty other militiamen chose to follow his lead, ignoring the British command, in hopes of circling the enemy and fighting him on his own terms.
The renegade fighters hunkered down behind boulders and trees, firing shots in the direction of intermittent flashes of gunpowder. They could hear the sound of the regular army trudging through the bracken and straight into the arms of the enemy. They glimpsed the red uniforms through the forest and watched as the musket fire cut them to ribbons.
Smathers, a neighboring plantation owner, crouched beside Levi. "Good shot," Smathers mouthed, as Levi hit an approaching Frenchman squarely between the eyes.
There was chaos as the British so
ldiers panicked and broke rank. "Damned cowards," a bellowing voice called after them, as some of the infantry scattered hopelessly into the forest. Even amid the trees, the British uniform made an excellent target. "Get back to your stations, or you will be summarily executed," the officer's voice was taking on a hysterical edge.
Some, more fearful of their commanders than the enemy, returned to their lines, but others continued through the forest. Very few had the wherewithal to fire their weapons.
Levi, spotting the two Indians slithering on their bellies through the brushwood, pulled his long hunting knife from its leather sheath and raced headlong for them. He dispatched one quickly, plunging his knife past the ribs, through the heart. The other leveled a pistol at Levi's head. Levi slashed his blade savagely at the man's wrist. The man howled in pain, the gun falling to the dirt. Dropping to a crouch Levi rammed his head into the man's stomach, flattening him to the ground. The Indian struggled for the knife, and without blinking, Levi drove his blade into the man's pulse point. He rolled off, breathing heavily.
Hard leather army boots kicked him in the ribs. "Get the hell up, North."
Levi looked up to find Brant Mansfield glowering down at him. He got to his feet, the blood dripped from his knife and hand.
"I could shoot you for treason. You abandoned your post," Brant sneered, aiming the musket at him.
Levi winged his tomahawk, clearing Brant's head and shoulders by a whisker, effectively stopping the fast approaching Chippewa. Brant turned just as the body slumped to the ground. The man lay face down in the dirt, blood from his skull oozing over the tattoos that ringed his arm, a lethal blade clutched in his lifeless grip.
Mansfield picked up Levi's hatchet, wiped the blood off on the Indian's hide vest, and returned it to him with a grudging nod of thanks.
"In the future, Mansfield, stay the hell out of my way."
***
Levi sorted through the heap of mail littering his massive oak desk. He took comfort in the familiarity of his office. His crystal ashtray sat just where he had always left it, on the right side of his leather desk blotter. The matching brandy decanter stood half-filled on the left corner, just within his long reach. He could hear Ginger's loud snores from the floor in front of the desk.
He'd been home a mere month and had spent much of that time off his feet, in an attempt to heal the deep sword gash under his rib cage. It seemed every time he moved too abruptly, the wound would reopen, and the blood would flow again, a painful reminder of the army's cruel and quick defeat at the hands of the French and Indians.
Returning to camp, weary in mind and body after burying several friends near the bloodied battlefield, he had been attacked by a small mob of drunken French soldiers. Wielding his saber, he had managed to wound at least three of them before one of their wildly flailing blades hit home. He spotted it's silver glint just seconds before he felt it rip open his flesh.
After leaving him for dead, the marauders retreated, taking his horse with them. Levi had stumbled in the dark for what seemed an eternity, until coming upon the well-hidden militia camp. A good dousing of the wound with whiskey, followed by a few good swigs of the same, enabled him to survive the night. After several days rest on a flea-ridden bedroll, he had struggled into the saddle and headed back to Moss Rose.
Looking out now over the verdant lawns toward the stables, Levi felt a sudden stabbing pain he knew was not attributable to his wound. Absently, he rubbed his side.
Only a fool would have taken Jensen's promise seriously. The girl had probably enjoyed a good laugh at his expense. Chances were, his tracks had still been fresh when she rode out of Moss Rose. And, to make matters even more hellish, Regina had all but moved in as mistress of the house. Plagued by regret for having started the fistfight with Matthias, Levi had decided not to complain about Regina's constant presence.
He had almost finished with the mail, when he took a second glance at one letter he had thrown aside. The name Hawthorne suddenly impacted his thoughts. He sat upright and lifted the tattered, white envelope to the candlelight. Matthias's neat and impeccable handwriting adorned the front of the otherwise stained, crumpled envelope. 'J. M. / care of Mrs. Charmaine Hawthorne, Culpeper, Virginia,' it read. Scribbled in ominous black letters in the corner were the words 'deceased--return to Moss Rose Plantation, Virginia'.
Levi's fist slammed the desktop, startling Ginger from a deep sleep. "So there was something going on between them," he muttered to himself through gritted teeth. Angrily, he strode toward the fire, intending to hurl the love letter into the flames, but something made him hesitate. He stared at the envelope for a long time before slicing the top with his letter opener.
It was a brief letter, only one page long, but he decided to take two generous swallows of brandy before actually unfolding the parchment to read what his philandering brother had written. He was surprised to find it contained only a few lines.
Dearest Jens,
He has returned. Shed a bit of blood, but he's on the mend. Tough as nails, you know. Hope all is well.
Your devoted friend,
Matthias
A knock at the office door was followed by Matthias's energetic figure. "Well, look who's finally up and about. I thought I was going to have to run this bloody tobacco farm forever . . . ," his words trailed off as he noticed the stricken look on Levi's face. "Brother, are you well? Maybe you shouldn't push yourself," he said with concern.
Levi held up the letter. "Did she ask you to write this?"
Matthias snatched it from him in an attempt to refresh his memory. His eyes drifted to the envelope on Levi's desk. "What a shame, Aunt Charmaine seemed like a wonderful lady. I'm sure it was hard on Jensen."
"Matt!" Levi said impatiently. "Why would you have written her about my return?"
Matthias made himself comfortable in the leather armchair and favored his brother with a foolish grin, which set Levi's teeth on edge. "Why did I write her?" Matthias asked with feigned innocence, casually brushing non-existent lint from his jacket.
"Yes, damn it. Matthias, stop playing with me," Levi said, his voice gruff with frustration.
"She wanted me to. She was concerned you might not survive the war." Matthias nonchalantly inspected his well-manicured fingernails.
"That's ridiculous. Why would she care whether I made it home or not? I think it was just an excuse for you to stay in contact with her." Levi pushed himself forcibly away from his desk and with heavy steps, crossed to the window. "Don't deny it brother, you lusted after her."
"Levi, you're my brother, and I love you, but sometimes you can be an absolute jackass." Matthias got up to leave. Hesitating in the doorway, he turned to his brother. Levi stared vacantly out the window, his fists clenched at his side. "You don't fool me, Levi, if you don't settle this with her, it's going to eat you up."
"I settled it. Asked her to marry me. Seems she couldn't get off my land fast enough."
"You asked her to marry you?" Matthias's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline. "And pray, what words did you use."
"Told her to stay on and wait for me."
"And that constitutes a marriage proposal?"
"She knows that's what I intended."
"Damn, but you are a silver-tongued bastard."
Levi turned a surly expression on him. "Speaking of marriage, have you set a date?"
Matthias stared at him, his nostrils flaring. "You are ruthless when you're in love," he said with a harsh laugh before slamming the door behind him.
The following week, Levi was too busy arranging a business trip to London to give much thought to his brother's reproachful words.
One of the letters on his desk had been from his London broker, Maylord Fenton, informing him that the last shipment of Moss Rose tobacco had never arrived at the docks. Although Fenton wasn't certain what had happened, he surmised that French privateers had confiscated the cargo enroute to Britain.
The loss of profit to Moss Rose would be substantial,
and Levi was determined to track down every last leaf of his tobacco or see that the responsible party paid dearly for it. He worried about leaving Matthias and his irritating bride-to-be in charge of the plantation again, but he knew if he let too much time lapse, it would become impossible to trace the shipment. It was vital he leave Virginia on the next vessel bound for Britain. Before embarking, though, he would pay a visit to Culpeper.
***
London was just as he had remembered, sooty and squalid, with an eclectic mishmash of building styles. People milled along the narrow, congested streets and alleyways. Hackney cabs sped dangerously through the crowds, barely pausing for pedestrians. Wren's baroque dome of St. Paul's Cathedral loomed majestically on the horizon of the congested city. And the bells of Westminster penetrated the din, chiming on the hour.
Levi headed down the boulevard, still trying to shake his sea legs. The voyage was far from a relaxing one. Because the schooner had been short crewmembers, he'd given the overworked sailors a hand on deck.
Levi turned down Fleet Street. He knew that his appearance must be startling to the well-heeled citizenry sauntering by the shops. His hair was even longer than usual, and he combed his fingers through it several times in hopes of taming it. It had been awhile since he'd looked in a mirror, but he knew that his skin had darkened considerably, making him stand out amongst the pale-faced Londoners. He laughed to himself, as people parted to let him walk by, mouths agape, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Maylord Fenton's office, in a prestigious building overlooking the business district, was several doors down from the Lord Mayor's residence. Fenton was a high-placed businessman with ties to Britain's rich and powerful. He had been a close friend of Levi's father and had been the North's agent in London for over two decades. He was in charge of distributing the North's high quality tobacco to European merchants. Maylord Fenton's shrewd dealings had served him and the North family well.
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