“And now you’re here, in Florida.” She strained to sound matter-of-fact.
“Aye. Ye peeled layers from me with yer bravery and spirit, Rowena. I could not forget ye, no matter how I tried.”
She nearly snorted. “I’d be insulted, but I tried to forget you with great effort, to no avail.”
He chuckled. “We’re at an impasse, aye?”
She shifted on the blanket, then picked up an eel pie. She could dance around, too. “I prepared these myself. They are quite flavorful.”
Derec peeled more from the orange. “Without the outer covering, the fruit is vulnerable.”
Rowena smiled, despite herself. “You do yourself a disservice. You can be poetic. The fruit is exposed, but does what it’s meant, supplying sustenance.”
“Clever an’ brave. What else could a man need?” He put the orange in his lap and snatched up a pie. He took a bite, his face a picture of satisfaction. “Ah, an’ she cooks savory dishes as well.”
She sucked in a deep breath and picked the crust from her pie; the fishy scent of eel rose, and her fingers were soon greasy. The dance should end, but which final steps to take? “What happens now?”
He met her gaze, all humor gone from his expression. He reached over and pressed her hand. “In good time for us, I promise.” He raised her hand and kissed it. “First, there is a secret service we must attend to.”
Fingers shaking at the warmth of his lips, she set the crumbled pie on the blanket. She pulled her hand away, unsure what had just transpired. Confusion crashed through her like the waves that slapped the sand. Could she trust his promises?
A chance at duty? She choked back her teetering emotions like bitter parsley and swept her loose hair behind her shoulder. “I’m ready to be of service to the crown.”
* * *
Two days later, Rowena strolled the ramparts of Fort St. Mark, the air cooler in the wind off the bay. She wore a light shawl around her shoulders, over her pretty muslin gown with the pink roses. The bodice was too tight now, the skirt short as she’d noticed before, on this gown she’d outgrown.
For disguise, she’d greased her hair back with pomade and powdered it white. She’d also applied Mrs. Torres-Novarro’s powder to hide her few freckles and lighten her skin.
Derec said they suspected the clerk in the army’s purser’s office of being a rebel spy. A man embedded here for at least the past year. She must find proof to expose him, though part of her feared it was too late to aid the British cause.
She leaned against the stone wall. The breeze rippled the pink ribbon on her straw hat. Had Derec only contacted her for this duty? His words and touches had intimated more. Irritation, that hid something more profound and painful, bubbled up. He might be using her for his own devices.
She blew out a breath and concentrated on her assignment. The weight of her muff pistol in the pockets tied around her shift gave her courage. Despite her disillusion, a spark of excitement at this role re-kindled inside her.
As she hoped for, a soldier in red coat approached her. She smiled at him.
He tipped his cocked hat. “Are you here alone, miss?”
“Sadly, sir, I am. My maid became ill at the last moment.” She turned to fully face him. “I’m here to seek a relative. You see, I’ve been told a cousin of mine works here. His name is Ewan Fergus. I’ve recently traveled to this colony and am anxious for word on family members who have reportedly gone to Nova Scotia.”
“We have many men working here, soldiers and civilians.” The soldier in his snug tunic wasn’t handsome with his long nose and receding chin; but he had the confident air of someone who believed he was. “Can you be more specific, pray?”
“He is supposedly a clerk in the purser’s office.” She shrugged one shoulder as if at a loss; a lady in dire need. Inside, she cringed at these puerile feminine wiles. “But how do I find such an office in this huge fort?”
The young man put his hand over his heart. “Well, I would be happy to escort you there.”
“How kind you are.” She grinned and plucked at the end of her hat ribbon. “What is your name?”
He bowed. “Sergeant Randolph, your servant, miss.”
“And I’m Miss Sally Babbit.” She curtsied. Derec had given her this name for her cover. He was supposedly watching through a telescope from an undisclosed location.
“Come with me then, Miss Babbit.” Randolph offered his arm, which she took. “Whom did you travel to East Florida with?”
“My parents and younger siblings. We might stay here or move on to more distant environs.” She was thankful Randolph smelled pleasantly of sandalwood.
“How do you know if Fergus has the information you seek?” The sergeant walked her down a set of precipitous stone steps to the inner courtyard. A group of soldiers drilled past them, following an officer’s calls.
The fragrant aroma of baking bread drifted from somewhere.
“We stayed with an aunt in Georgia. She insisted that he might.” Rowena leaned close. “I will confide to you that we are hoping to connect with a rich uncle, to aid in our plight.”
“Were you displaced by rebels?” His voice gruffer, he guided her across the yard on a dirt path, and they entered a door.
“Mercy me, we were. Our home burned to the ground, along with all of our possessions.” In spite of her actually losing her beloved home, she couldn’t deny the thrill this acting gave her; she’d missed the spying game.
More so, she’d missed the Welshman. Ice slid up her spine. What were his ultimate plans? She’d demand to know.
Randolph showed her down a dim hall. He stopped in front of another door. “Here is the purser’s office, Miss Babbit.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Sergeant.” She clasped her hands together and dearly hoped he wouldn’t offer to introduce her to Fergus.
Randolph tipped his hat once more. “Perhaps we could meet someday, in town?”
“I am sorry, sir.” She pouted. “I neglected to tell you that I’m betrothed. My intended is a captain who serves with Lord Cornwallis.”
“I see.” Randolph’s chin receded further, his mouth tight. “I give you good day, then.”
“But if things change, I will keep you in mind.” She fluttered her eyelashes and hated herself for it.
He scoffed, gave a wan-smile, about-faced and strode back down the hall.
Shame washed over her. Sadly, using people was part of the ruse. She knocked on the purser’s door.
A man with the reddest of hair, his face a mass of freckles, opened it. “Good day, Miss. May I assist you?”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Fergus. Might you be him?” Again, she gave what she hoped was a beguiling smile. She resisted scratching her itchy, powdered scalp.
“I am he.” His fat lips did not smile. “And who might you be?”
“I’m Miss Babbit.” She stepped in without being invited. The office was cramped but orderly, a desk to the right, shelves of ledgers, and a smaller writing table to the left. Her nerves skittered. “Is the purser here?”
“Not at the moment.” Fergus watched her closely, his words officious. “How may I help you, Miss Babbit?”
Rowena brushed her hand over her rumbling heart. She must manage this man. “Are we alone then?”
“State your business here, please.” His tone remained polite though brusque. He shifted in his buckled shoes as if a man with much on his agenda.
“That depends. I might have a message to pass on.” She plucked at her pink ribbon. “And I was told you are the person I can trust.”
“What sort of message? I’m confused.” His words grew impatient and his fingers curled. “And who told you this?”
“I cannot divulge my sources.” She turned, swirling her skirt.
“What does the message concern?” He tipped back his head of fiery hair, barely contained in a queue. “Who sent you?”
If they were wrong about Fergus being a rebel spy, she could be the one arrested. Der
ec had warned her of the dangers, which she’d been well aware, but she insisted she was up to the task. “Mr. Fergus, you know very well that people must remain unnamed.”
He shut the door. “Don’t play with me, Miss Babbit. What do you want?” His anxious behavior seemed to paint him as guilty.
Her mouth dry, she forced herself to meet his pale eyes. “The message comes from someone high up. Someone in charge in South Carolina, in Willtown.”
“Willtown is a rebel stronghold. Why would anyone send me a message from there?” His pointed question and slow perusal of her encouraged her.
“I think you should know.” She had to remain vague so as not to tip her hand.
He stuck his freckled face close to hers. “Should I? What are you implying?” His breath smelled foul.
She felt sweat at her neckline. “Please don’t dissemble. They need your help.”
“What sort of help?” Now he sounded curious, a good sign.
Here was the moment; she stirred up saliva. “A list for the fort. Number of men, cannon, ammunition in the magazine.”
He snatched out a hand and grabbed her arm. “I’ve already sent that information north. I have a copy in my locked… What is your game, Miss Babbit?”
Rowena shuddered, her mind a tumble. Flesh pinched, she resisted jerking away.
Chapter Thirty
Rowena gulped then glared at Mr. Fergus, her cover story cramming into place in her brain. “Unhand me, sir. I mean more current numbers are needed on the state of the fort, and the other forts in the area, such as Fort Matanzas.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, “An attack is planned, and your information vital.” She swept her arm from his grip.
He averted his gaze, seemed to gather his wits, as he raked both hands through his blaze of hair. “Forgive me. I’m over-vexed. It’s been a day of arduous decisions. And now you arrive. I used to be so careful.”
“We all have our woeful days. This war has changed many of us.” She made a show of rubbing her bruised arm and giving him an indignant look. “My family was happy in Philadelphia before the British siege of that city. Thank goodness the Patriots are in charge again.”
He paced away from her, then threw up his hands. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
Rowena hardened her tone. “You are far too nervous. Just do the job you were given. You say you kept a copy of your previous correspondence?” She needed to find written proof of his activity. How could she get him to admit where it was? He said ‘locked’ so perhaps in his desk. “You could compare figures to see how much the buildup is.”
Fergus turned back to her, his eyes sharp once more. “Why did they send a young woman to inform me? What happened to my previous contact?”
Her pulse picked up for a second time. “I have no knowledge of that. You have your instructions.” She’d rush from here and inform Derec they’d caught their spy. He could ransack the office for further proof.
Fergus hurried forward. “What is the password, Miss Babbit?”
Rowena winced and had to think. She moved closer to the door. How had such an agitated man ever performed as a reliable spy? “I do apologize. There was a last-minute change of plans. No one had time to brief me properly.” She reached for the latch.
Fergus slid around her and blocked the door with his stocky form. His middle showed the start of a paunch. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?” He lowered his thick orange brows.
She strained to keep steady. “Please calm yourself. You are far too rattled, sir.” Despite her brave words, her stomach clenched. “I was asked to tell you that they need this information as soon as possible. Don’t fail. Now step aside and do start behaving like a gentleman.”
“I used to be a man of great cunning, but now I’m... Who asks this of me in Willtown?” Eyes narrowed, he spread his arms across the door.
“I told you, I cannot divulge that. You know whom to contact.” She tipped up her chin. Could he hear the thump of her heart? “I insist you open that door.”
“Miss Babbitt, I was warned to never take orders or give out information without the password.” His face flushed scarlet; his hairline was limed with sweat.
“I explained the reason. I cannot be caught here. Let me leave.” She had to get away from this man who had so little control over his emotions. Breath in spurts, she hated to try the fainting ruse again.
“I have too much at stake. It could all go wrong, my family in jeopardy. I regret to do this, but…” Fergus reached into his frock coat pocket and snatched out a small knife. “Now, if you’ll be so kind, tell me the truth.”
She jolted. How could she talk her way out of this? She slid a step back. “You are far too disturbed. Think about what you’re doing. I will cry for help.”
Fergus grabbed her shoulder, pulled her close, and touched the side of the blade to her throat. His stink of breath gushed over her, the blade cold. “Not if I slash your gullet.” He blinked. “Trust me, I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“You’ve lost your senses, sir. I swear I’m only a messenger from…” She shoved at his arm, like Daphne had done when the brigands attacked, and swung away from him, across the tiny office. Her hip bumped into the smaller desk. She plucked her muff pistol from the inside pocket and aimed it at him. “Step away from the door.”
Fergus shook all over, then lunged at her. She released the trigger and jerked it. A bang reverberated, the acrid smoke stung her eyes. The man bellowed. Blood seeped from his right arm.
He charged her, growling like a bear, knife flashing.
She reached for an unlit lantern on the larger desk and hurled it at his head. He ducked; the lantern grazed his wounded arm, then crashed onto the floor.
Fergus yelped, swiped out with the knife, his eyes wild. She staggered backwards, picking up a stool. He lunged again, his blade cutting into her wrist as she hefted up the heavy piece. She struck him in the chest with a stool leg. He stumbled.
The door flew open. Derec, dressed in a green militia coat, pulled out a dagger. He knocked the knife from Fergus’ hand with his blade, cutting the man’s fingers. Derec slammed Fergus to the wall, weapon tip prodding the Scotsman’s Adam’s apple. “Ye dare attack a woman, scoundrel of a coward.”
Two more soldiers barged in behind Derec. “What goes on here?” one asked.
“Are ye harmed, Rowena?” Derec’s eyes shone with worry. “Yer injured, I see.”
“I’m fine. I think. I had the-the situation in hand.” Relieved to see Derec, she still refused to let him sense her vulnerability. Rowena set down the stool, pulled the kerchief from her neck and wrapped it around her wrist, which now stung and bled in a trickle. The cut didn’t look deep. Light-headed, she went to the small desk and saw a drawer with a keyhole. “Ask him for the key to this drawer.”
An officer burst in. “What the holy hell—oh, excuse me, young miss.” He removed his hat then crushed it back on. “Could someone explain what’s happened?”
“In a moment, sir.” Derec poked the dagger tip further into pink flesh. Fergus gasped. “Give her the key afore I skewer ye.”
Fergus trembled; more sweat dampened his shirt collar. With bloody fingers, he finally removed a tiny key from his pocket and tossed it on the desk.
Rowena picked it up and turned the lock with a click. She opened the drawer and rummaged through papers. At last, she found one, written in Latin—which she had some knowledge of—that listed troop numbers, cannon, ammunition and more. She slumped on the stool, actually feeling faint. “Here is a copy of what Mr. Fergus sent to Willtown; to a Gen. F. M.”
“Aye? General Francis Marion, the notorious Swamp Fox. This man is a rebel spy. Arrest an’ question him further.” Derec shoved Fergus toward the soldiers, then thrust his dagger into its scabbard. “I will explain everything, sir,” he said to the officer.
Rowena tightened the kerchief around her wrist and leaned both elbows on the desk, head and arm throbbing.
Derec moved behind her, pressin
g a firm, warm hand on her shoulder. “I should not of sent ye in here.” He leaned close to her ear. “I’m glad ye are safe, cariad.”
Chapter Thirty-one
From her knees on the rough stone, Rowena helped Sam fit the second row of cypress planks onto their cottage floor. She paused and rewrapped the bandage on her arm. Six days had passed since the altercation with Mr. Fergus. The fort’s officers had imprisoned the spy. Derec wrote his report on the incident and sent it by courier to his contact in New York.
“The planks won’t lay even,” she said to Sam. “This surface isn’t entirely level.”
The original floor was a “tabby”, made of lime, shells and sand. But Aunt Elizabeth wanted wood, and at first, Rowena agreed with her. “And the nails to attach the planks? Will they be long, and strong enough to penetrate the tabby and hold the cypress down?”
Sam sat back on his haunches. “Aye, I was about to try that with the first row. Might be better to use another slab of timber beneath. I think we need a carpenter.”
Could they afford such a person? Father was being careful with the coins they’d brought. The hipped roof still needed missing shingles replaced. She’d wanted to do much of this refurbishment. The landlord said if they required the place at a cheap rental price, they must perform any improvements.
She surveyed their new domain. The place smelled of the pungent whitewash they’d slathered over the plaster walls. A huge limestone fireplace took up one wall. They’d scrubbed the stone, blackened by years of cooking. Daphne now polished the lugpole, oiling the hooks and pots with coconut oil, her little form deep in the hearth. They continued to sleep at the guest house but needed to move in here soon to save money.
Knees aching from her position, Rowena stood, wiped dirty hands on her stained apron, and nudged the plank with her toe until it butted against the others. “There are still gaps. This looks terrible. We’ve much to learn.”
Derec once told her he’d done carpentry work. He’d promised to rejoin her here, yet she still waited, trying not to think too hard about his ultimate intentions. Despite the twinge in her chest, she’d learned not to count on anyone but herself.
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