Grateful for his waned interest, Sophie sat out a dance. Committee scribe Donald Fairbourne plopped down on the sheaf next to her. "Evening, Mrs. Barton." He jammed a piece of straw in his mouth and gnawed it, watching the dancers.
"Evening, Mr. Fairbourne." She regarded his damp hair and mud-caked shoes. "Were you caught in rain on the way over?"
He glanced at his shoes, the straw dropping from his mouth. "I was gardening and lost track of time. Would you care to dance?"
"No, thank you. What were you planting?"
"Perhaps the next dance then." He shoved himself up.
She watched him stride to Susana, intuiting that he'd hastened off to avoid discussing his muddy shoes. Charley Osborn, another rebel, claimed her for the next tune, his hair damp, his shoes muddy, his response to her queries just as evasive as Fairbourne's had been. The hair of rebels Measure Travis and Peter Whitney was dry and their shoes clean, thus dashing her theory that her father and his associates were competing with two Spanish fortune hunters to recover lost treasure from the swamps. But she'd have wagered six loaves of her molasses bread that those Spaniards figured into the Safety Committee's intrigue.
During the following dance, MacVie stepped on her left foot twice, as if penalizing her for curiosity. She doubted her father had anything in common with the odious hog farmer beside the rebel cause. At the end of the tune, she hobbled to the sidelines, sweaty, irritable, needing a good night's sleep, but certain she had everything in perspective. A pox on rebels and redcoats and everyone else whose small minds played at secret missions. Regardless of who eventually won the war, the sun would continue shining, and the Georgia colony would continue to resemble hell. Unfortunate that the men with the small minds weren't the primary casualties of war.
When the mayor announced the final number, she didn't check for Edward Hunt. She didn't care whether he'd returned. Over the course of the evening, her interest in him had waned. He belonged to the group of people who thought themselves clever that night by being dishonest with her. Eccentric, overly independent widows couldn't be bothered with such games.
"Don't tell me you're going to sit out the waltz."
She tilted her head and cocked an eyebrow at Mathias Hale, having concluded that it must have been him outside talking with the four warriors. When she, David, and Susana were children, they'd run hoops through the dirt streets with the three Hale brothers. Now Jonah, tangled in rebel intrigue, never jested with them anymore. And Mathias had his own little game going with the Creek. "My feet were stepped on too often tonight."
"Have I ever stepped on your feet?"
Feeling obstinate, she looked away. "I'm tired."
He leaned over and whispered, "You're sulking."
Her gaze swiveled back around to challenge his. "You should have invited your four Creek friends to dance."
Eyes hardening, he stared at her several heartbeats before he whispered, "They don't like European dances."
After a night of subterfuge and lies, she'd given up expecting anyone to admit to anything, let alone trust her with secrets. She mused why Mathias, of those at the dance that night with clandestine dealings, had trusted her. Clearly his stakes were on a different plane. "How unfortunate."
The guard in his expression retreated. Straightening, he extended his hand. Up on the platform, the fiddlers meandered into "Give Me Your Hand," a tune by the Irish harpist Rory Dall O'Cahan. Sophie took Mathias's hand.
They danced without conversation. Taller than his uncle by several inches but just as wiry, the blacksmith led her around without stepping on her feet or colliding with anyone. When the fiddlers finished, thunder boomed closer. A cool downdraft fluttered torches and stirred a murmur through the applause. Rather than lingering and socializing, people hurried off the grounds, eager to return home ahead of the storm.
Sophie spotted Susana and John herding their six children for the horses and wagons. "Pardon me, but I must help my sister. Good night." After a curtsy for Mathias, she retrieved her kerchief and fan and bustled after the Greeleys.
The major caught up with her at the family's wagon just after she lifted Susana's little girl inside to Mary, the St. James's servant. "A moment, please!" Lightning illuminated the contrition on his face and the distaste of the Greeleys.
Vexation pressed Sophie's lips together. "Visit me at home on the morrow. We're off. We've no desire to get drenched tonight."
"I shall make sure you're home ahead of the storm."
Expelling annoyance, she motioned Susana to go on without her. Her sister glared from Sophie's earrings to the pendant at her throat, and acid stung her voice. "Wearing Mama's garnets. Such airs you give yourself lately. Must be the company you keep." Then she turned her back on Sophie to settle down children scampering over each other like squirrels hitting upon a cache of acorns.
Damp wind smelling of swamp, sand, and Piedmont red clay whipped Sophie's petticoat. Edward Hunt seized her hand. When they reached his horse, he vaulted into the saddle, and he and a private hoisted her up behind him. A tepid raindrop splashed her cheek as she wrapped her arms around him. They trotted for the road, passing wagons. When she glanced at the four accompanying soldiers, lightning illuminated a sheet of rain sweeping over Zeb's barn. The major spurred the horse into a gallop.
A quarter-hour later, ahead of the rain but followed by thunder, they arrived at the St. James house and print shop. The town stank of livestock, rotten fruit, and wood smoke. From the direction of the Red Rock Tavern, south of Town Square, came avian screeches and human cheers from a cockfight in progress. Two soldiers saluted their commander and rode south on the dusty main street lined by most of Alton's two-dozen wooden buildings — businesses on the ground floor, residences upstairs. The other two dismounted with their commander and Sophie.
Will's hounds, Achilles and Perseus, crawled from beneath the porch, shook off, and ambled over. She and Edward Hunt petted them before he escorted her to the porch, where she turned to him. "Thank you for bringing me home ahead of the rain."
"You're most welcome. May I come in for a moment? I've a matter to discuss."
"My sister and her husband will arrive before long."
"I don't need much time."
She nodded. He instructed his men to wait on the covered porch, removed his hat, and opened the door. They entered the stuffy darkness of the shop, where the St. Jameses also had a small post office and sold Will's almanacs, magazines, books, and maps. Thunder rattled the house. She closed the door and reached for the shelf beside it. The absence of the expected candle made her recall that she'd given the holder to Mary to clean. Scowling at the servant's laziness, she groped her way to the pressroom. "I've a candle in here."
Sharp and musty, the odors of ink and lye hung in the air. With the lantern lit, she faced Edward, who'd followed her in. His gaze ranged over the clutter of ragpaper and the half-opened drawers of type before he set his hat atop a cabinet. "Are you assembling the galleys for Wednesday's paper?"
More thunder crackled, and the front window shook. "Yes."
"What will you print about the military incident on May twenty-ninth in the Waxhaws?"
The formality in his carriage indicated the all-business nature of the visit. "What's being called Buford's Massacre? I shall state facts — an engagement between regulars and militia from Virginia commanded by Buford, and His Majesty's provincials commanded by Tarleton — with the provincials victorious."
His nod was curt. "That's all that need be said about it."
"They're calling the engagement a massacre because Buford's men were supposedly cut down after they'd surrendered. Why did that happen?"
"I wasn't there. Without details, I cannot presume to know what invokes specific decisions of my superior officers."
"Could something like that happen here?"
"I've no comment."
"But would you cut down men who had surrendered?"
His smile was meant to be reassuring. "You're speculating, making
yourself uncomfortable. We protect our colonies. We don't slay the King's friends."
Yes, it made her uncomfortable, but it made Major Edward Hunt uncomfortable, too. Buford's Massacre could happen anywhere. Were conditions right, it could happen in Alton, under his command. He was, after all, a soldier, and soldiers did what they were told. Her responsive smile felt wooden. "You're right, of course. It's foolish for me to alarm myself."
From the way his shoulders relaxed, she knew she'd said what he wanted to hear. He approached her, his expression agreeable. "I've never told you before, but the hue of your eyes reminds me of dawn in Hampshire."
A flush tingled her cheeks. No one ever said things to her like that. Most of the men from Georgia were so ordinary.
"Perhaps even the luster of silver."
How charming, especially when her father had once told her that all his children had eyes the color of common slate and hair like coal. "You flatter me, sir."
He leaned over, extinguished the lantern, and captured her hands in his, brushing his lips over her fingers. "Edward," he whispered. Then he kissed her palms and wrists. His lips delivered intriguing moisture and softness between her forefinger and thumb, the sensation contrasting with memories of two husbands' clumsiness.
A thunderclap faded, and a horse nickered. He murmured, "My darling, you have enslaved me."
She swallowed, uneasy at his departure from their intellectual relationship, her stomach fluttering again, and withdrew her hands to fumble for the lantern. "I must make sure the windows are —"
"I'm sorry about tonight." He recaptured her hands and reeled her to him, just the outline of his face visible. "I wanted to dance with you."
"You had your priorities." Her unease deepened. Where was this leading?
"I shall make it up to you. My temporary assignment in Alton is over. I'm returning to England. Come with me. Let me take you away from all this barbarism."
She gaped at him in the darkness. Disbelief and instinct almost caused her to recoil. "This comes as quite a surprise."
"Have you misunderstood my attentions?" He grasped her shoulders. "I'm in love with you." He slid his hands down her arms and around her waist. After brushing his lips over her collarbone, he trailed them down where her shift peeked from the neckline of her jacket, and his hands guided her hips against his. "Kiss me."
Her lips opened for his, and from the way his loins performed with hers, she fancied he knew far more of the act than porcine grunting atop a woman. Mechanical response stirred within her body, too long asleep, and her initial shock ebbed, but her brain nagged that his charm obscured something. She turned her face aside. "You're going home?"
His lips pursued her throat. "When my replacement arrives."
"But this war is far from over."
"My elder brother died. I've inherited the family estates."
The slow percussion of raindrops pattered the roof while kisses traveled to her temple. She frowned. He must be feigning his fondness, hoping she'd tell him about rebel printing runs. "Surely the Crown can ill afford to lose your military expertise. And I really must close all the windows."
He pressed her hips to his again. "The Hunts are well-regarded in Parliament." Translation: He, like other officers weary of a war with no end in sight, had used wealth and Parliamentary connections to buy his way out of the American conflict. "Let me show you what civilization is. Come with me."
One little detail hadn't yet been discussed. "As your wife." She made it a statement, not a question.
"Ah." The tempo of his kisses slowed, even as the rhythm of raindrops quickened. "Well, there's a financial empire at stake with my fifteen-year-old cousin, Beatrice, having come of marriageable age, and —"
"Wait a moment." She wiggled out of his embrace. "You're saying you want me with you as your mistress." Certainly not a slight to a woman's worth, and a more desirable arrangement than matrimony when the man was grateful to be in the company of his mistress, having come from a shrewish wife and whining offspring. But Sophie's thoughts spun. How in the world could she have so misread him? Worse, had she misread herself?
"Not to worry. I shall arrange a fashionable townhouse in London for you." He nibbled the knuckles of her right hand. "My duties in Parliament will take me there at least twice a month. We can be together during those nights."
Edward did indeed sound as though he belonged among the "grateful." Plus, two mediocre marriages, eight years of widowhood, and a measure of financial independence had made Sophie indifferent toward matrimony.
But anxiety lurched around in her stomach. In the American colonies, where a woman could manage a plantation or operate a printing press, weren't she and Edward sharing an illusion of equality created by their intellectual relationship?
And there was the matter of that age difference between Edward and Beatrice. "How happy will you be married to a girl who's younger than my daughter? You've almost a quarter-century more life experiences than she. Believe me, I know. My first marriage was at fifteen."
"That's why I need you. You and I discuss Plato and Euclid and Shakespeare." He kissed her left palm. "You understand what operating a business is about. Operating estates is like that, but on a grander scale. Beatrice and I have little in common."
"Except consummating a financial empire and placating friends in Parliament."
"Sophie, would you stay here running the press for the rest of your life? Between the Creek, Spaniards, French, and roving outlaws, Alton could be a pile of rubble within five years."
"Within five years, your cousin will have borne you children, and you'll have that bond with her. Where will I be?"
"I know you aren't happy here." He grasped her shoulders again. "You've never tasted fine wine or felt silk against your skin. You've never been to the Drury Lane theater or heard a symphony. I'm offering you a way to experience all that."
She considered treasures beyond her economic reach: fine wine, silk, symphonies, the theater. She also thought of the times she'd collapsed into bed, bone-tired from a printing run. Edward's offer provided splendid passage out of Alton, a dream women in her position would lunge for with no reservations. It was just the opportunity she'd been waiting for, wasn't it?
What would happen if her intellectual parity with him didn't survive crossing the Atlantic? She sighed, still disoriented, confused. "I shall consider it."
"What's to consider? Ah, you don't love me, do you?" He paused, reflecting. "It's hard to love in circumstances where you're preoccupied with survival. If you freed yourself from those fears, you might grow to love me. And with that thought —" He kissed her left hand again. "I shall bid you good night."
The rain had slackened, so Edward retrieved his hat, and she walked him out the front door. Halfway back to the pressroom, she paused, sniffed, and frowned at the faint redolence of squashed strawberries. When she groped her way into the dining room, her shoe skidded on something slippery. She fumbled a lantern lit and held it up to view the bowl of strawberries she'd put on the table earlier and at least a dozen berries on the floor. With the lantern held high, she headed for the stairs. At the foot of the stairs she spotted a man's boot print: a man who had stepped in strawberries.
Her stomach tensed, and her gaze leaped up the staircase. "Father? Are you there?" Receiving no answer, she returned to the dining room and noticed another boot print. An explanation spiked a chill through her. Burglary! During the dance, the thief had entered through the back door, bumped into the table, spilled strawberries, and proceeded to the stairs, leaving two strawberry boot prints behind.
And for all she knew, he might still be in the house with her that moment.
Chapter Four
SOPHIE RUSHED TO the front door and flung it open, but the soldiers had already ridden off into the steamy night sprinkle. After shutting the door, she braced herself against it until her knees stopped knocking. Then, anger coating her fear, she squared her shoulders, marched into the pressroom, and flung open the cabinet w
here Will kept one of two sets of pistols in the house. No thief was going to steal her family's property.
At the foot of the stairs, she reexamined the print, made by a man with larger feet than her father's, so the culprit had probably been taller. The lantern held aloft, she crept to the landing, loaded pistol ready, her breath sucked in soft gasps.
For a dozen heartbeats, she listened to the sough of wind, creaking boards, and raindrops spattering the roof from branches of fruit trees. Then she nudged bedroom doors open, one by one.
No one jumped at her from the four bedrooms. However, someone had searched her room and her father's room — drawers left ajar with their contents jumbled, furniture repositioned, beds mussed.
Loath to verify the plunder of her mother's jewelry in her own room, she found it untouched, as were Spanish doubloons and two century-old horse pistols in her father's room. Baffled, she lit Will's bedroom lantern. What was he searching for, the stranger who violated their privacy earlier that night?
Instinct wailed that something was missing, something small but not insignificant. She glanced over the nightstand and retraced steps she'd made earlier, when she'd shut her father's window before leaving for the dance. Her gaze returned to the nightstand. Had a peculiar book been sitting there? Confessions by St. Augustine, a gift her father mentioned receiving that afternoon from his friends in Philadelphia.
She searched the floor around the bed to no avail, still wondering whether she remembered seeing Confessions there at all. When she straightened, fear and anger ebbed, replaced by a muddle of emotions. Why would an intruder steal a book? More perplexing, why would Will tolerate such a book when he didn't even keep the family Bible in his bedroom? With titles such as Common Sense by Thomas Paine and On Secular Authority by Martin Luther dominating his library of revolutionary thought, a book about self-denial looked mighty odd.
The major question of the night resurrected itself. Where was Will St. James?
Voices out front drew her to her bedroom window. John trundled down from the driver's seat of the Greeleys' wagon, parked in the muddy street. Leaving the loaded pistol behind, she trotted downstairs and opened the front door. In slogged Mary the servant, bronze hair plastered over her jacket and down her back. "Got caught in the rain, Mrs. Barton."
Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 3