"Ah, sweetheart." He embraced her from behind and nuzzled her neck through her tucker. "I'd have been up early, too, if my kin were prisoners of the Indians. I'm surprised you slept at all last night."
Some of Betsy's tension diffused, and she turned to face him. Thank the heavens her husband wasn't an insensitive lout. A tremble not entirely feigned caught her lower lip.
"Hush, now, let's have none of that." He gathered her in his arms, and they cuddled, the fine, navy wool of his coat warm on her cheek. Never mind that his nose was crooked and his face too narrow. To her, that twinkle in Clark's blue eyes made him handsome. Besides, few were impervious to his boyish charm. She slid her hands beneath his coat to his breeches, tan wool like that of his waistcoat.
"Madam, know that if you don't stop squeezing my arse, those biscuits will harden."
Biscuits, right. She kept her hands on his buttocks and indulged in his good morning kiss, letting the citrusy scent of his soap on his skin drain more tension from her. Some women lost interest in their husbands after becoming pregnant, but she'd never felt more lustful.
"I hope you baked enough biscuits for the boys."
"Boys? In case you hadn't noticed, Tom is my age."
"Yes, I had noticed. And speaking of Tom —" They heard shoes scrape the front porch. Clark released her with a wink, grabbed a biscuit, and headed for the front door. She followed with the entire basket of biscuits.
When Clark opened the door, she smiled at the entrance of tall, gangly Tom Alexander, forever one size larger than the coat, waistcoat, and breeches he wore, no matter how quickly his mother sewed. "Good morning! Bless me if you aren't the only one who's always here a little early. Have a biscuit?" But sandy-haired Tom didn't lunge for several biscuits. Nor did he flush and shyly return her smile as usual. He didn't even gawk at all that Cordovan leather, set aflame by a beam of sunlight.
Instead, he fidgeted his cocked hat in his hands, a crease of concern between his gray eyes. "You folks haven't been out front yet this morning, have you? Better come take a look."
The three walked out and turned to face the front of the house. Daylight illuminated the message TORY SCUM painted red across the gray wood siding on the first floor.
Shock rammed through Betsy. Augusta was full of Whigs, but she never believed they'd vandalize a neighbor's home. Clark wasn't outspoken in his political beliefs.
The dogs trotted from around back, and Tom patted Hamlet's side. "Clark, did you hear any suspicious noises last night?"
"No."
"Dogs bark?"
"No."
Betsy's jaw slackened with distress. The vandal was someone familiar to the hounds. Otherwise they'd have bayed an alarm. Her uncle wouldn't deface the home of kin. Plus a man on the run had no time to dally with paint. A more likely culprit was Sooty. But why would he do that to a client?
Clark touched the lettering. "Dry."
Tom stripped off his coat. "I'll help clean it off."
"Thanks, Tom."
Betsy recovered her mettle and cleared her throat. "Since the paint's already dry, gentlemen, removing it can wait fifteen minutes. I've a pot of coffee inside, and I don't make biscuits every day."
***
Neighbors and their children pitched in with scrubbing, even the Sweeneys and the Cochranes, Whigs. Sarah and Lucas O'Neal, first cousins to Betsy's mother, lent a hand. Sarah removed a second batch of biscuits, burned, from the beehive oven out back before guiding a fretting Betsy inside. "Off your feet. I shall manage." When Betsy protested, her foster-mother shushed her with a St. James expression she'd seen her mother wear. "The day will only get longer, and you want the baby's cooperation."
Clark's friend, Lieutenant Adam Neville, who'd arrived to investigate the crime, popped inside wearing a smile and his Loyalist Rangers' hunting shirt and trousers. Twenty-five years old, like Clark, Adam removed his hat and bowed to Betsy and Sarah, manners impeccable despite having fought rebels in the East Florida swamps beside Colonel Thomas Brown. "Morning, ladies." He assessed Sarah's competence at replenishing biscuits, ale, and molasses switchel, and nodded his approval to Betsy, his brown eyes warm. "Listen to Mrs. O'Neal, now, and stay off your feet. That's a hot sun out there."
"Yes, sir." With humor, Betsy saluted him from her chair.
Several off-duty soldiers and Rangers — friends with whom Clark shared ale at the White Swan — arrived with brushes and buckets. Shoulder to shoulder they worked: Whig and Loyalist, soldier and civilian. They discussed the weather, crops, midsummer fair, and new babies. Nobody talked politics.
Late morning, amid children playing Thread the Needle and Prisoner's Base, potluck appeared on blankets in the front yard — ham, squash cooked with apples, fruit pastries, molasses bread — along with grandmothers who shooed away inquisitive dogs and flies. By mid-afternoon, the Sheridans sported the cleanest house north of town center. Everyone shook hands and congratulated themselves on an event no less festive than a barn raising — one that had, as a bonus, worn excess energy out of several dozen little boys and girls.
In the dining room, Betsy pondered what to do with the leftover food, when she heard Hamlet and Horatio baying in the front yard. Strangers.
From the window, she spied Clark striding around front with his axe. After grabbing his fowler and cartridge box, she headed for the front door and peered out the window.
Their coats blazed scarlet by patchy afternoon sunlight, their muskets resting across their thighs, six unfamiliar soldiers sat on horseback in the yard gazing down at the hounds. Dust and sweat lined the men's faces. Betsy watched Clark round the corner of the house and heard him whistle. The dogs quieted and meandered to him. "Afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you?"
A young lieutenant with dark hair removed his cocked hat. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Lieutenant Michael Stoddard, sent out of Alton by Captain John Sheffield. I've business with Elizabeth Sheridan. They've told me this is her home. Do you know where I may find her?"
"Ah." Clark gestured for the soldiers to dismount, propped his axe against the side of the house, and shook the lieutenant's hand. "How do you do. I'm John Clark Sheridan, her husband. Betsy? Hallo, Betsy! You've visitors."
A diminutive chill drifted up her spine. What did the soldiers want with her when they should be tracking her wily, old Grandpapa Will St. James, the rebel who dared collaborate with enemy Spaniards? Had they sniffed her mother or uncle's escape? She set down the fowler and ammunition, walked out to Stoddard, and curtsied. "Good afternoon. I'm Betsy Sheridan."
Reins in his hand, the officer stood at attention and inclined his head. Her first impression, that he was but twenty years old, arose when she spotted a few pimples on his chin, but she realized from the responsibility in his dark eyes that he was probably three or four years older — of average height and build, not at all an uncomely fellow. "Lieutenant Stoddard out of Alton." From inside his coat he removed a sealed letter, which he presented to her.
She broke the seal, opened the letter and read:
10 July 1780, Town of Alton
MADAM:
For the Purposes of Formality, I am desirous of tying up a few loose Threads regarding this disturbing Business of your Grandfather, Mother, and Uncle. Therefore I beg leave that you grant me an Audience. You and Mr Sheridan are welcome to join me for afternoon Tea on Wednesday 12 July. Please accept Lieut Stoddard and his Soldiers as Escort. I shall see that you are given a suitable Escort for your Return to Augusta following our Audience.
I am Madam
Your obedient Servant
Captn John Sheffield
Mrs Elizabeth Sheridan nee Neely
Betsy reread the letter, noting Sheffield's wording. She wasn't under arrest or being commanded. This was a social event, and her husband was invited. Except for the presence of the soldiers, she sensed no pressure in the arrangement. Considering that highwaymen often roamed postal roads, the soldiers represented a generous gesture from Captain Sheffield. She'd wanted an excuse to go
to Alton and begin her search for Mathias Hale. Here was that excuse.
So why the twinge of foreboding?
She folded the letter. "Clark, shall we have afternoon tea on the morrow with Captain Sheffield?"
"Must we stay overnight with your Aunt Susana?"
"It's just for one night. Come now. For that time, you can nod your head at her gabbing and bite your tongue."
"Oh, very well. I shall make arrangements with the neighbors to look after the animals while we're gone."
Betsy smiled at Stoddard, who relaxed for the first time in her presence. "I shall be delighted to take tea with Captain Sheffield. What time shall we away in the morning, Lieutenant?"
"Look for our escort at seven o'clock. Thank you, madam, sir." Stoddard signaled his men to remount and climbed into his horse's saddle.
Clark's smile was all charm. "You're a man after my heart, Mr. Stoddard. Nothing like an early start to escape the heat, eh? And matters must be blessedly slow for you fellows in Alton if Captain Sheffield could afford to send his lieutenant."
"Er, no, sir. We've some cattle thieves about." Stoddard paused, and his voice flattened with discretion. "The lieutenant formerly stationed in Alton is there through this Thursday, so Captain Sheffield felt he could spare me to assure you of his good intentions."
Stay clear of Alton for awhile, especially a lieutenant by the name of Fairfax David had said. Was the officer to whom Stoddard referred Lieutenant Fairfax? From Stoddard's reserve, she assumed the two of them had had a tiff. After all, one too many lieutenants in a garrison of only forty was bound to generate some epaulet crowding, and officers rubbing each other the wrong way was nothing new in the British Army. But as she watched the redcoats ride away, foreboding prodded her that she shouldn't have accepted Sheffield's invitation. Alas, with the recent actions of her family, she couldn't back out of the trip without generating suspicion.
***
She awakened deep in the sticky summer night and found the bed empty of Clark except for the scent of his soap. Recognizing the faint sounds of her husband tinkering around in the shop, she wondered why he couldn't sleep. Her stomach growled. Maybe they could both use a snack. She climbed from bed and eased open the door.
A conversation in the shop halted her descent. What business had anyone with Clark so late at night? Had Sooty Johns returned? Clark said something indistinguishable. Then she discerned a man's voice, Spanish-accented: "To Camden?"
"Yes, Basilio." That was Clark's voice.
Wide-awake, Betsy sneaked down a few steps where she could remain in shadow but observe. Her eyes bulged at the sight of two Spaniards headed for the front door, one carrying the cowhide boots. "Luck to you, Clark."
Clark ushered them out. "And to you."
Baffled and disquieted by the visit, Betsy retreated upstairs and crept into the tiny front room, soon to become the nursery. The window overlooked the yard and let her observe the Spaniards mounting horses while the dogs circled, their tails wagging in recognition. After the Spaniards headed their steeds to the road, the dogs trotted back to the porch.
Clark shut the door, and she sneaked back to bed. In another minute, he shuffled in, shucked his clothing, and sank into bed with a sigh of exhaustion.
She considered what question to ask him first. Did Sooty vandalize the house? How many times had the Spaniards visited? Did they give Sooty the Cordovan leather? Where were they taking the boots? Why was a Loyalist secretly meeting men from a country at war with Britain? And to whom was he sending secret messages in the heels of boots?
While she debated, he fell asleep. She lay awake staring at the ceiling, instincts screaming that her husband had plunged into something very ugly. She wouldn't be able to address it with him on the morrow, not surrounded as they'd be all day by British soldiers. But she must confront him soon afterward and find out what was going on. She laid her right palm on her belly, where she'd imagined flutters in the past few days. No venture was just about Clark and Betsy Sheridan anymore.
Chapter Three
IN THE COOL of a morning mist, apprentice Tom Alexander showed up to ready the horses. When Betsy unloaded potluck on him for his family, he gazed at her, astonished, and blushed. Clark never seemed to notice how he got clumsy or blushed when she was around, maybe because Tom wasn't offensive about it. She'd considered fixing him up with a good wife, but alas, there just didn't seem to be any suitable candidates in town.
The soldiers arrived at seven, and the hounds howled and dashed about, frustrating Clark's attempts to control them. Tom chased down one scampering, barking dog with rope and lassoed him. The redcoats guffawed and applauded. Tom bowed. Entertainment at its finest on the Georgia frontier.
Before Clark mounted his gelding and received his fowler from Tom, he assisted Betsy onto her mare, Lady May. He'd strapped the package sent by Miguel de Arriaga behind her saddle, not at all curious about the contents. The night before, she'd removed identification from the box, hidden the letter in her pocket along with the cipher, and told him, "Just some of my mother's things. I'll drop them off at the house in Alton."
They walked their horses out to the street behind the soldiers, and the party of eight headed south at an easy pace on the sandy postal road. Nevertheless, Betsy noticed tautness in the shoulders of Stoddard and the privates. Mid-morning, just north of the Indian settlement of New Savannah, Stoddard rode back and paced his horse beside those of the Sheridans. Tension creased the corners of his mouth. "We aren't far north of New Savannah. We shall pause for dinner around noon."
"Is something amiss this morning?" said Clark.
"No cause for your concern. Our party skirmished with some bandits yesterday near here and sent them running."
"Ah, so I need keep my fowler ready?"
"As you wish, Mr. Sheridan, however, it appears they've not the stomachs for further challenge."
He touched the brim of his hat in courtesy and rode forward, but Betsy sensed he wasn't convinced of the bandits' cowardice. Not a one of the soldiers discarded his road wariness.
Between New Savannah and Alton, they stopped to eat. The privates took turns standing guard during the meal. Heat rippled the rolling hills, cicadas buzzed in the brush, and the raucous calls of crows punctuated the noon air. Betsy sweated in the shade of an oak, thankful to have a broad-brimmed straw hat and linen tucker to keep off the sun.
She noted the soldiers' less-than-appetizing rations and shared ham and pastries with them, after which Stoddard pointed out a red-tailed hawk circling a thousand feet high. The Sheridans observed the hawk's glorious, parabolic dive toward the earth. When the gleam-eyed raptor soared away with a field rat, Stoddard's preoccupation with bandits thawed long enough for him to exclaim, "Got it!"
At Clark's prodding, the lieutenant admitted that the benefactor in Yorkshire who'd helped purchase his ensign's commission raised peregrines, and he'd often swept out the mews and cared for the raptors. Soon Clark had him and the men chatting about hunting and fishing. By the time they resumed the journey, Stoddard, while still keeping an eye on the surrounding terrain, had lowered his reserve enough to offer to buy Clark ale that night in the Red Rock Tavern.
Betsy had seen her husband's sociability at work so often she'd almost ceased thinking about it. But this time her instincts vibrated. Perhaps because he'd been orphaned and hadn't many friends from youth, he made friends everywhere and could charm the gab out of just about anyone. At the Red Rock that night, he'd buy enough spirits to cheer his new friends. A good listener, he'd be treated to a great deal of information from the soldiers, not all of it bluster. She wondered again who was privy to the cipher written with invisible ink.
They arrived in Alton just after two and walked the horses down the street lined with a couple dozen drab wooden buildings — businesses on the ground floor, residences upstairs — past Will St. James's print shop and post office at the north end of town. Heat pulsated from the ground. Limp-leafed oak and fruit trees shaded the buildings.
From the concentrated smell of dust, wood smoke, dung, and rotting fruit, she surmised that rain hadn't fallen in Alton for several weeks. Chickens, goats, and hogs ranging free scuttled out of the way of the horses. The residents they passed paused to regard them with curiosity.
About a hundred yards to the east of the street wound the Savannah River. Across it, Alton's garrison had pitched their tents amidst the haze of campfires. But Captain Sheffield occupied a house south of town center. In June, its former occupant, Major Hunt, had set off in pursuit of Will, Sophie, and David with eleven soldiers from Alton's garrison. Stoddard, Betsy, and Clark dismounted, secured their horses in the shade, and entered the house.
Inside, Betsy's eyes adjusted to the gloom of the entranceway, and her gaze wandered up the staircase. A servant in his fifties emerged from the rear of the house, gray frosting his bronze-colored hair. "Ah, Finnegan." Stoddard gestured to the Sheridans. "The captain's guests have arrived. Where is he?"
"In the study, sir." The man nodded toward a closed door opposite the front parlor.
"Very good. See that the Sheridans have the opportunity to refresh themselves. I shall fetch him." The lieutenant bowed to Betsy and Clark before knocking on the study door.
Finnegan ushered the guests into the parlor and seated them in ladder-backed chairs around a circular tea table. Over the clink of china as he set up the tea service, Betsy heard the study door open, and Stoddard's voice, low and urgent: "I was the target, sir. Had the men not performed commendably, I'd have been murdered yesterday. You must do something about him!"
Clark raised his eyebrows at her, having also overheard. Betsy rubbed clammy palms on her apron and swallowed. "The devil," Clark muttered. The devil, indeed. Small wonder Stoddard had been nervous all day. No random target of "bandits," he'd been singled out by an assassin.
The front door creaked open, and a deep, hushed voice consoled Stoddard. The thump of the lieutenant's boots down the front steps preceded Betsy's view of him striding out to his horse and the five privates, who'd remained mounted. Then the swarthy commander of Alton's garrison stomped into the parlor. Betsy doubted he could have tiptoed anywhere — taller than her uncle and outweighing him by forty pounds. Omitting a shave for several days, he'd be mistaken for Blackbeard. Fifteen years earlier, Captain Sheffield must have been the terror of everyone's china collection, but in his early thirties, he and some semblance of poise had made peace with each other.
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 2