Paper Woman: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  He withdrew his hand looking insulted. "At our age, we need no chaperone, belle Sophie."

  "You know what I mean. You and my brother are scheming."

  His face crinkled with a leer, and he listened to David's second song for a moment. "He has an excellent singing voice, non?"

  "It's gone quite far enough, thank you. Step inside to the hallway. You and I must talk."

  He kissed the widow's hand in apology. "I will return soon, mon fleur." Mrs. Woodhouse sighed and fanned her face with her apron. Sophie flounced from the kitchen.

  While David commanded patrons' attention through more ribaldry, she motioned Jacques down the hallway. They paused before a window, and through waning daylight she glanced at the forge out back, where a blacksmith's hammer bent scarlet metal with a rhythmic plunk and thud. She propped her musket against the wall and turned on the Frenchman. "El Serpiente passed through here two hours ago."

  "Mon dieu, such incredible news! How did you come by it?"

  She packed ice into her tone. "By not having my hand up Widow Woodhouse's petticoat like some slimy old satyr."

  He grinned. "You would be amazed at the volume of secrets petticoats conceal."

  "Mrs. Woodhouse divulges useful secrets in response to other stimuli."

  "We must tell the others immediately. Fetch your brother and the warriors, and I shall fetch Mathias —"

  "I shall fetch the others." She grabbed his upper arm. "You fetch David. The matchmaking game you and he are playing is neither just nor kind."

  "Belle Sophie, how much longer are you going to fight it?"

  "Fight what? There's nothing there, Uncle Jacques. Otherwise Mathias would have shown me by now."

  "That all depends on what you are looking for from him."

  She released him. "Untangle the sleeping arrangements."

  "But it gives me such delight to be your father-in-law."

  "Don't ruin my friendship with him."

  His lower lip jammed into his upper lip. "It must be your monthly time."

  "Uncle Jacques."

  "Very well." Expression long, he headed for the door to the common room, where he paused with his back to her. "Let us discuss your news outside. No interruptions, no eavesdropping."

  "Five minutes. We'll meet you and David behind the forge."

  Chapter Fourteen

  DARKNESS DULLED SOPHIE'S view of the Woodhouse's yard from the tiny window of her room. Washed of trail grime, she'd earned sleep in preparation for resuming the trek at four in the morning. Yet when she stretched out on the bed, sleep evaded her.

  Far to the north, her sister grumbled over the printing press. Not so far away, Edward swatted mosquitoes and pined for mosquito-free, thunderstorm-free Hampshire. Miles to the south, the serpent pressed on to St. Augustine: El Serpiente, the blackguard who figured somehow into the murder of her father. And Zack MacVie's damning, beseeching eyes chased her.

  Visualizing Will's face almost released her tears, but again they dried up. In the final months of his life, as the silence and awkwardness swelled between them, there'd been too much they hadn't said to each other. Now they'd never have the chance for those conversations. Memory of the dream wolf taunted her: no daughter of mine. When had he stopped loving her, and why?

  The anguish in her soul drilled down to an ancient depth, and a seventeen-year-old memory trickled into her mind from the day after she returned to Alton with infant Betsy. Although she hadn't yet mentioned it to a soul, Richard Barton had proposed marriage to her two nights before, in Augusta. "I'll consider it," she'd told him.

  "What's to consider?" He'd studied her, astonishment rolling across his handsome face. "Don't you love me?"

  That exchange seemed hauntingly familiar to her now.

  But seventeen years ago, she'd forestalled giving him her answer for a few days. She had unfinished business in Alton.

  ***

  The thud of a hammer shaping hot metal came from the shop behind her. She settled Betsy in the sling and smiled up at her father in the sunlight. "A quarter hour."

  Will studied her from the driver's seat of the wagon, his gray eyes discerning and shrewd. "A quarter hour." He lifted the reins and paused. "Sophie, you look lovely."

  Oh, gods, she hoped so. "Thank you." She waved him off. Betsy cooed from the sling. "Soon, my love," she whispered.

  Dusting off his hands, a leather-aproned Jacob Hale limped from the forge into the shop at the jangle of the bell, while the sounds of smithing continued from the forge. Arthritis had already claimed his left hip, but his stern Presbyterian visage relaxed at the sight of her. "Mrs. Neely, how good to see you! What's it been, a year since you left? You shouldn't have stayed away so long. It's almost as though you were hiding in Augusta. Now, who's this?" He helped her extricate Betsy from the sling and held the baby. "A beautiful child. Look at all that dark hair. Hmm." He glanced back and forth between Sophie and Betsy, and she held her breath. "I believe she's going to look exactly like you when she grows up. I don't see a speck of Jim Neely in her, God rest his soul."

  She exhaled and grinned. "Everyone says that."

  He handed Betsy back to her and jiggled the baby's fist, curled around his forefinger. "Wa-wa-goo-goo. How strong that grip is, little one. If you were a boy, I'd say that fist was meant to swing a blacksmith's hammer."

  Sophie forced her jaw to relax. "Now really, can you imagine Betsy a journeyman?"

  "No, no, no. Wa-wa-wa-goo-goo-goo."

  She cleared her throat. "Um, who else is here? I'd like to show off my pride and joy before my father returns."

  Formality drew over his face. He straightened and jutted his chin toward the forge. "Mathias."

  "Well, then, I shall just walk on back —"

  "Don't take up much of his time. He has a substantial amount of work to finish."

  "All right." She turned away to hide her irritation. He always had a substantial amount of work to finish, twice as much as Jacob, Jonah, and Joshua. When he returned from visiting his Creek family, he had three times as much work. Yet somehow he managed to get it all done.

  She hesitated in the doorway of the forge, the heat intense, the dusty smell of red-hot metal drenching the air. Faced away from the doorway, Mathias probed the living glow of the forge with tongs, sweat seeping through his shirt and waistcoat. Her gaze strayed to his left shoulder. Outrage scored her soul again. Scars should never have been on his shoulder that summer afternoon the year before.

  He pivoted to the vise, a glowing spear of metal captured between the tongs, and spotted her in the doorway. "Sophie?" he whispered.

  She smiled. "Hello."

  Metal abandoned on the vise, he seized a towel and rushed forward, mopping his face, mirroring her grin. "How wonderful to see you again! You look marvelous. Say, is this Betsy?"

  "Would you like to hold her?" Oh, please say yes.

  "May I?" He brushed soot off his leather apron.

  Ecstatic, she handed Betsy over. "Ba-ba-ba." Betsy gazed up at Mathias. "Da-da-da."

  "She's beautiful, just like her mother."

  Hunger in his eyes spiraled across the distance between them and coiled around her heart. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "Ironic. She doesn't look a bit like Jim. Just like you."

  Now was the time to speak. She parted her lips.

  Movement snagged her eye, someone entering the forge from the outer door. A gangly, young Creek woman waddled forward in the beautiful, clumsy way of pregnant women and stood beside Mathias.

  At Sophie's blank look, he said, "My wife, Teekin Keyta. Did no one tell you?"

  Teekin Keyta — Stands Tall. "No." Sophie produced an even voice and bobbed a curtsy. "How do you do."

  "This is Sophie Neely. She's a childhood friend who has been living in Augusta. She stopped in to introduce us to Betsy."

  Stands Tall glanced between Betsy, Sophie, and Mathias. "Betsy looks like her mother."

  Understanding shone in Stands Tall's eyes. Oh, gods, she
knew. Change the subject, quickly. "And when is your baby due?"

  "Two months." Mathias handed Betsy back.

  "Congratulations. I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

  Will waited in the wagon in the shade across the street when she emerged from the shop. He helped her aboard with Betsy, climbed back up, and twitched the reins. The wagon swayed. "Something bothering you, Sophie?"

  "Why didn't anyone tell me Mathias Hale had gotten married?"

  "Obviously it must have been an oversight. Sorry."

  ***

  She stared at the ceiling. It wavered and blurred while the storm built inside her. Then she rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in the pillow, and yielded to grief in racking sobs. That was it, the moment when spirit departed the communication between father and daughter. Why hadn't she seen it before? All those years her father had known about Mathias, and likely her mother had, too, but they'd never lectured her about her choices. Alas, by now the smile she'd worn for her husbands fit her face too well. She might even produce it for Edward Hunt and perpetuate her own masquerade.

  Will had never stopped loving her. He'd grown frustrated with her choice of men, for his approval had gone to Mathias. But she'd been blind to it. Futility and irony forced out another onslaught of tears. Well meaning but naïve, her father hadn't recognized that Mathias was only interested in being her friend. Surely she would have noticed by then if he'd wanted more — wouldn't she have noticed? Her sobs dwindled, and she pondered.

  A generation had passed in eighteen years, enough time for two people to diverge in interests and beliefs, to shake off childhood fascination and release into the past one afternoon of intimacy. After all that time, she and Mathias still kept each other's confidences, enjoyed each other's company. Was that all he'd ever wanted from her?

  What did she want from him? Her fingers lifted to her cheek, recreating the sensation of his hands on her face from the day before, the touch that conveyed a feeling so unique that she'd no name for it yet, no kin in the repository of her experiences.

  She shivered. Whatever the touch had awakened, it wasn't worth ruining a friendship.

  Weariness ripped a yawn from her, and she rolled onto her side. As she slid into sleep, the certainty sneaked over her that the afternoon at the forge had also been the moment when two giddy youths had become duty-bound adults.

  ***

  Standing Wolf's hushed voice penetrated her peculiar dream about sharing the bed with Jim, Richard, and Edward: "Nagchoguh Hogdee. We talk. Quickly." She rolled up, groped her way to the door, and cracked it open to the bear-greased shadow outside. "Ten redcoats on horses with one extra horse headed south on the road, five miles north of here."

  She gaped. "This moment?" From her estimation of how long she'd slept, surely it wasn't past three in the morning. Edward must have driven the patrol much of the night to have covered such ground. That meant ten exhausted soldiers and eleven exhausted horses were less than an hour from the tavern. "Thank you. Wake the others, starting with my brother. We leave in fifteen minutes."

  After she'd stubbed her toe twice on the bed, she lit the candle to finish dressing. With luck, they'd have at least a quarter-hour lead on the British. From the taste of her own fatigue, she knew Edward and his party would have to rest before resuming pursuit.

  Only after she'd pulled on her stockings did the significance of the eleventh horse in Edward's group strike her. The horse must be Sam Fielding's, without Sam Fielding. The soldiers, deeming him useless at tracking their fugitives, must have decided he was more trouble than he was worth. She shuddered.

  A yawning Mrs. Woodhouse met them out in the stables ten minutes later, lantern held high, two bundles beneath her arm. "I wish you folks could stay another hour and a half. Porridge with raisins and cinnamon for breakfast, starting at four."

  Edward loved porridge with raisins and cinnamon and would be most appreciative. Sophie smiled. "You've been so kind, but we're running behind schedule."

  The widow extended wrapped trail bread to a sleepy-eyed David, then motioned Sophie closer to hand her the second bundle. "I figure you could use some extra rags. Cannot say I blame you for running off your husband last night. I never wanted mine in the bed when my monthly time was upon me."

  Sophie glanced around to Mathias, who leaned half-asleep against his saddle, and almost hoped the widow would spin a tale for Edward Hunt of a menstruating, musket-toting martinet. After all, why should General George Washington be the primary source of legends during the war? "Thank you, Mrs. Woodhouse."

  With the extra horses roped behind, the travelers walked their mounts from the barn into the frog song of the yard. Mrs. Woodhouse's cur padded circles around them, tail wagging in adieu. A waxing quarter-moon silvered the swamp and showed the southbound road deserted. The widow waved. "Visit us again, especially you, Monsieur."

  "Au revoir, cherie." Jacques blew a kiss.

  "Vive le Montcalm," David said under his breath, eliciting a grin from Sophie.

  At the road, Sophie, who rode MacVie's mare for a day to give Samson a break, surveyed the five men. "Anyone see why we shouldn't put as many miles as possible between us and the redcoats by taking the road until dawn?"

  David sounded awake at last. "No arguments here."

  Sophie's heels tapped the mare in the ribs, and she felt the horse leap forward, eager for the canter she paced her in. Overhead, Vega, Deneb, and Altair steered the Summer Triangle and the heavens full of stars westward. And a shooting star curved southward through the cosmos, blue-white beacon to East Florida.

  Chapter Fifteen

  DAVID SETTLED HIS hat on his head. "Surely we've lost the redcoats in the swamp. And I dreamed last night that Fairfax was eaten by an alligator."

  Jacques paced near Runs With Horses and Standing Wolf. "After that English pig is court-martialed and sentenced for ignoring movement orders, he may wish he had been eaten by an alligator. But the palates of alligators are more discriminating."

  "Amazing what you'll eat when you're hungry." A turkey buzzard landed on a limb of the pine above David and regarded humans and horses with dispassion. He flicked his hand at the bird. "Begone. We aren't ripe enough for you yet."

  Sophie pushed up from where she'd been studying the map. "Have you gentlemen considered who the soldiers are pursuing?"

  Jacques shrugged. "Us. So we remain in the swamp."

  Mathias stood with the unfolded map. "They may also be chasing El Serpiente. But it's getting swampier, and I don't enjoy sharing a route with so many hungry water moccasins. My cousins and I are unfamiliar with this terrain. Unless we return to the road, we'll still be picking our way through swamp two weeks from now, too late to stop any meeting in St. Augustine."

  David rubbed his hands. "I cast my vote for the road."

  Jacques's expression clouded. "Do not say I did not warn you. This part of the road is far from deserted."

  Sophie winked at Mathias. "Well put, Ambassador Hale."

  "Thank you, General Barton."

  She studied their location on the map, peered through tree branches at the sun, then folded up the map. "We've enough daylight to find a campsite south of the Canoochee River."

  "Better still, an inn in Savannah — Huzzah!" David reached for his horse's reins, a jig in his step. "Savannah, Savannah, on a Friday night. Savannah, oh, Savannah on a Friday night."

  She cocked her eyebrow at him while handing the map back to Mathias. "Surely we announced our whereabouts to the redcoats back at Woodhouse's Tavern. Would you do so again in Savannah?"

  "Dear sister, do you know how many inns there are in Savannah?"

  "Dear brother, do you know how many redcoats there are in Savannah?" In response to Mathias's tug on her hand, she glanced to where he held her hand palm up. "Is something wrong?"

  Amusement enlivened his dark eyes. "I couldn't help but notice. The lampblack and varnish are disappearing."

  She studied both palms, amused by the thought that Lady B
eatrice's hands, in contrast, would be soft and white, the nails trimmed and polished. "Why, so they are. I suppose that means Paper Woman has retired. What sort of name shall I take now? Wolf Woman? Musket Woman?" She chuckled. "Swamp Woman?"

  Mathias tucked the map beneath his arm and took her other hand in his. "All Women," he whispered.

  The warmth and gentleness in his expression quieted the restlessness in her mind and the words on her tongue. She followed the luminous guide of his dark eyes into a realm where the quest and all her irritations and terrors receded. Imagining again the feeling of his hands on her face, her soul resonated with understanding. Then she heard Jacques's voice: "Now we know why the swamp steams," and she spied David and Jacques leering.

  Infusing her expression with what she hoped was silly charm, she withdrew her hands and prodded the map beneath Mathias's arm. "Don't lose our location on the map, Ambassador."

  His eyes twinkled. "No, General, I don't believe I shall." David and Jacques whooped with satisfaction.

  Late afternoon found the party south of the Canoochee River and Savannah and north of the town of Sunbury. Westering sunlight glinted on the sweaty black shoulders of slaves trudging through rice fields, and on musket barrels of white overseers astride horses. Everyone Sophie saw — slaves, redcoats, Indians, colonists — wore a forbidding expression. Every tree they passed bore a broadside denouncing the acts of renegade bands of Whigs or Loyalists. She kept her head bowed and averted her gaze from other travelers. The subdued posture they adopted blended well with that of area inhabitants.

  Early in 1779, the redcoats had overpowered two hundred Continentals holding the small, earthen Fort Morris, which protected Sunbury town and port. They'd then dismantled the fort and wharf, destroying what supplies and equipment they couldn't carry off. Their actions incensed local plantation owners, who were forced to haul their produce twenty-five miles or more to the port of Savannah.

  David had related tales of Savannah's Committee of Safety plotting in back rooms of taverns, burning effigies of King George, rioting in the streets, and dressing like Indians to dump British imports into the harbor. The miasma of fear, desperation, and hostility hovered in the air — palatable, clammy, fetid — made concrete when David, in the lead, brought their party to a halt at the top of a rise. Beside the road a hundred feet south, a group of two-dozen civilians had clustered around the trunk of a tree. Nailed to the tree was one of Will's "Tarleton's Quarter" broadsides.