The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution

by Adair, Suzanne

  Sutlers spilled over from Market Square into the town square: entrepreneurs taking advantage of soldiers ready to part with their coin. Tom ogled a bosomy chicken vendor. When the young woman pulled a feather off the mound of one breast where sweat had pasted it and blew it after him, a grinning Joshua brushed Betsy's sleeve. "I wager he doesn't remember later that she sells chickens." Betsy chuckled. Tom's bright hair would, no doubt, attract the attention of many ladies.

  They turned north, away from the portion of city enclosed in a palisade by the redcoats, onto Broad Street. Betsy and Joshua rode side by side, the Creek followed, and Tom brought up the rear. Joshua bent over to her. "You think you'll be all right here with your cousin?"

  "Oh, yes. You're headed west on the morrow, then?" His nod of confirmation brought a wave of ambivalence to her. In the realm of the Creek, she wondered whether she'd ever feel sure of herself. Tracking down her husband was more important than locating her parents. "Does my father resemble you?"

  "We both look like Mother, but I'm half a head taller and have more meat on my bones." A rakish grin ate his expression. "And I'm more handsome."

  "With half a head more room to absorb flattery." She mirrored his smile. "When you find them, both of them, tell them where I am. Tell my mother I love her. And when you go back through Augusta, give my love to Sarah and Lucas."

  "I shall do that."

  Tom trotted his gelding ahead to them. "You cannot miss the Leaping Stag in this town. Look yonder."

  In retrospect, Betsy realized she'd set her expectations too low. What greeted them was a two-story brick hybrid inn and tavern the size of several townhouses. From the look of it, the place could sleep two-dozen guests. At least as many horses stood hitched out front, and it wasn't yet four o'clock.

  Joshua craned back his neck. "Jove's arse, Betsy. All of Alton would fit inside that place. I wonder what one week's worth of rum costs."

  "More than any of us make in a year." Tom seemed just as impressed as Joshua did.

  "Excellent location. Well-to-do district, and there's the courthouse yonder —"

  "Out of the way, you rabble, out of the way!"

  The five coaxed their horses to the side of the street. A gaudy carriage rolled up to the Leaping Stag, accompanied by ten redcoats on horseback. After it squeaked to a stop, an attendant leaped down to yank open the door for a stout colonel who waddled to the entrance of the tavern with bodyguards marching behind. The entourage made no effort to remove themselves from the road.

  After the colonel and his men disappeared indoors, Betsy caught the whiff of a fragrance even Widow Abby Fuller couldn't have afforded, though whether it came from the colonel or the tavern she couldn't tell. "Cousin Emma's done quite well."

  Joshua gestured for the door. "Well, don't just stand there catching flies on your tongue. Go inside and find her. We'll secure the horses and join you in a moment."

  Tom assisted her in dismounting, and she did what she could to straighten her homespun petticoat and short jacket, even though four days of travel had creased in the dust and grime. Just inside the warm, cavernous common room smelling of tobacco, yeast, and human musk, a tall, ropy man in linen and silk blocked her way. "May I help you?"

  Betsy looked up his nose. "I'm here to see Emma Branwell."

  "I don't think so."

  "I do think so."

  "She doesn't have an appointment scheduled with you for this afternoon. There's the door. Good day."

  What an obnoxious cur. "I'm her cousin Betsy, just arrived from Augusta."

  "Hrumph!" He eyed her from head to foot. "I shall convey word of your arrival." He turned to leave. "And don't move from that spot while I'm gone."

  Afraid she'd pickpocket the clientele, eh? Betsy blew out a sigh of exasperation.

  An ensign from a nearby table swaggered up and strolled his gaze over her in a way she didn't find comfortable. "I heard you ask old Todd for Mrs. Branwell. You new in town?"

  "I just arrived from Augusta."

  "Ooh, an exotic lady from faraway Georgia colony." He made a bow straight out of court. "Terrance Halsey, Ensign, at your service, madam. I'm off duty until the morrow at eight and would consider myself the most fortunate man alive to be able to show you a bit of Camden." He extended his hand in expectation that she'd give him hers.

  What a rude bore. How dared he fancy her a slattern in so fine an establishment? She turned back in the direction the other obnoxious fellow had taken. "No, thank you."

  "I was just paid this noon," the ensign whispered.

  She scowled and faced him. "I said no. Which are you: deaf or half-witted?"

  One of the leering soldiers from Halsey's table imitated to perfection the sound of chair legs collapsing to deposit someone's arse on the floor. Halsey flashed Betsy a mirthless smile. "Perhaps another time, madam." He bowed and slipped back to the jeers of his tablemates.

  "Betsy? Oh, it is you, dear!"

  Betsy beheld a pretty, plump brunette in her early twenties bustling through the common room for her. "Hello, Emma." She smiled and hugged her cousin. "You're looking quite well." Not just well, but wealthy. The material for Emma's polonaise gown cost more than all of Betsy's petticoats together.

  "And you're looking — er — happy to be at the end of your travels. Oh, you poor dear. Everything gone in the fire, and now you and your husband have come here to start anew."

  A gust of wind signaled the entrance of Joshua and Tom. Before the man in silk and linen could evict them, Betsy waved at him. "Those two gentlemen are with me." Joshua reached her side first. "Emma, this is my uncle, Joshua Hale."

  "Pleased to meet you, madam." Joshua kissed Emma's hand.

  "Likewise, Mr. Hale. Oh, and you must be Betsy's husband." Emma rushed past in a cloud of lilac perfume, caught Tom by the elbow, and dragged him into their little circle. "My, such a handsome fellow. You two make the perfect couple." She turned on Betsy. "Forgive me if I seem a bit distracted, dear. I wasn't expecting all of you so soon, and I was hoping you might arrive a few days later, after the criminal for that horrific murder had been caught."

  "Murder?" said Betsy, Tom, and Joshua at the same time.

  "Oh, it was ghastly. They found a Spaniard flayed alive in town square last night after first being shot in the knee."

  Joshua coughed. "Excuse me, did you say a Spaniard was flayed alive?"

  "Horrid, isn't it?" Emma lifted white fingertips to her pearl choker.

  Hair polarized on the back of Betsy's neck. Something about the murder sounded familiar.

  Joshua licked his lips. "Mrs. Branwell, might I inquire whether the Seventeenth Light has been through Camden recently?"

  "Why, now, Mr. Hale, I do attempt to keep abreast of the units in town." She indicated the common room, inhabited by nearly thirty redcoats, including the Colonel, who drummed his fingers on a tabletop with impatience. "As you can see, soldiers are important clientele. I shall inquire of Margaret to be certain, but I believe she entertained an officer from the Seventeenth late last night."

  Shock emptied Joshua's face of color. Betsy rushed to his side. "Are you all right, Uncle? You look ill."

  His gaze passed between Tom and her. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "The coincidence is too great. Watch yourselves. Lieutenant Fairfax has been in town, I'm certain of it."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EMMA PEERED OVER Betsy's shoulder. "Shall I fetch you some spirits, Mr. Hale? Of a sudden, you look rather pallid."

  He shook his head. "I'm well now, madam."

  She clasped her hands. "Well. I still haven't been introduced to Betsy's husband."

  Tom opened his mouth to clear up the misunderstanding, and Joshua slapped him on the back. "Where are your manners, lad? Mister Thomas Sheridan. Mrs. Emma Branwell."

  Tom covered up astonishment by kissing Emma's hand. In the next second, Betsy understood her uncle's rationale for using Tom's name. Searching for a rebel spy in a town of British soldiers was risky enough. If Fairfa
x heard that John Clark Sheridan was in Camden, he'd look for them and make good on his threats to her.

  Emma fluttered her eyelashes at Tom. "Betsy was stingy with details in her letter, but at least she told me your trade, if not your name. I've a client list for you if that uncle of yours can spare you."

  "Thank you, madam."

  Jitters in her stomach, Betsy eyed Tom. With each passing second, the lie deepened. Tom, her friend and an apprentice, had become her husband and a master shoemaker. For the moment, he rolled with the deception, a good sign since Emma had offered ready customers for a cordwainer. However, Tom would have to acquire a set of tools. Betsy cleared her throat. "Ah, speaking of Tom's uncle, his name is Isaac Sheridan. Do you know where we might find his shop?"

  "Isaac Sheridan?" Emma frowned. "And he's a cordwainer? I'm not familiar with the name."

  "How about Samuel Taylor?"

  "I'm afraid his name isn't familiar to me, either."

  Both names must be code names. Without "Uncle" Isaac or Samuel Taylor, she wasn't sure how to find Clark, and there was also the matter of tools for Tom. "Perhaps both gentlemen are members of a multi-partner business."

  "Perhaps. There are several here. I shall write the names and directions for you under the condition that the three of you return and dine with Abel and me tonight for supper."

  Betsy cast a skeptical look at Tom. "Your uncle will want us to dine with him tonight, too."

  "Don't worry. I'll manage Uncle Isaac. Dining with your cousin will provide far better company." Tom kissed Emma's hand again. She flushed with appraisal and flattery.

  ***

  In the street with their horses and the Creek, Tom shucked the confidence he'd mustered indoors. "Joshua, why did you mislead Mrs. Branwell into thinking I'm Betsy's husband?"

  "You two don't need the name of John Clark Sheridan following you around. I suspect Fairfax murdered the Spaniard last night. You want that species of varmint tracking you? Even if he never returns, Neville has figured out by now that we've duped him. He won't waste time riding here to search for Clark."

  Tom sighed. "I see your point. But it isn't ethical. And I'm not even a journeyman yet."

  Irritation gripped Joshua's face. "Lad, look around you. Do you think you'll find a rebel spy in this town using ethical means? You aren't in Augusta anymore. Play the part."

  "But —" The two Creek were giving Tom knowing grins. A blush crawled up his neck. "But Betsy's your niece."

  "See here." Joshua clapped a hand to Tom's shoulder, and Betsy heard sarcasm in her uncle's tone. "This is rough business, but you have to do it. Betsy won't find a better friend anywhere than you. Settle up with Clark down the road if you feel you have to." He gave the street a baleful glance. "If you can find him, that is."

  Betsy peered at Joshua. "You don't think we'll find him? If the murdered Spaniard was the assassin who chased Clark, perhaps Clark is somewhere nearby."

  "I wager the Spaniard was the assassin tracking Clark. Very few Spaniards in these parts. Suppose Fairfax captured him and tortured him to death, obtaining what information he could about the Ambrose ring. Suppose Fairfax also found out Clark is in town. Can Clark afford to surface right now? No. He's gone deep into hiding."

  Betsy scowled. "But I'm his wife."

  "And if Fairfax gets hold of you, he won't waste time adding what you know to what he knows. The Ambrose ring isn't going to let you and Clark within a mile of each other until some of this blows over. Sure, we'll see if we can find Isaac Sheridan this afternoon, but I'm doubtful he'll show. My advice is to sit tight with your heads down, ears open, and mouths shut."

  Tom nodded, looking none too happy. "I'll need a complete set of tools. I brought what I have, but it isn't enough."

  "Well, then, we'll shop around for tools."

  "I haven't much money."

  "Show the shoemakers on this list Mrs. Branwell gave us how talented you are. I cannot imagine any of them hurting for business in a town hosting the British Army."

  Betsy sensed Tom was still weighing his worth. Clark really should have given him journeyman status months earlier. "Tom, forget being an apprentice anymore. You're a journeyman now."

  She watched him grow an inch taller. "Very well."

  "That's it. Play the part, both of you. After awhile, perhaps you'll be able to extricate Clark from this web he's woven for himself." Joshua unfolded Emma's list. "Now, let's see whose name is first."

  ***

  Shadows lengthened across Camden's dusty streets. A block over from the courthouse, Tom received yet another invitation to return on the morrow for employment at a handsome rate of pay. Alas, he informed his traveling companions, shoemakers Gamble and Wade hadn't heard of Isaac Sheridan or Samuel Taylor, either.

  Joshua glanced at his watch. "Six o'clock. We're due at the Leaping Stag soon." He assisted Betsy into the saddle.

  "I wish we'd had just one clue. I feel so useless."

  "Clark cannot hide forever. But since we didn't find Uncle Isaac, we need to consider where to spend the night. I've little money for the return journey and must be frugal with it."

  "Emma might house us tonight and suggest a place to live."

  "Her tastes are more expensive than what you and Tom can afford. By the by, he's a fine fellow. Part of me's hoping you won't find Clark." He grinned. "Whoa, there, do I detect a blush?"

  "He's my friend."

  "I'm mighty glad to hear it. The two of you put your heads together. You'll do some fancy thinking." He mounted his gelding and craned his neck. "Where's the lad got off to? Ho, there he is down King Street with his horse." Joshua nudged his gelding in Tom's direction, Betsy coaxed Lady May into a walk, and the Creek followed. "What have you got into, Tom?"

  Afoot, one hand holding the reins to his horse, Tom examined the sideboard of a large wagon parked before a two-story wood house. As Betsy caught up, he ran his fingers along a wheel. Then he pivoted to them, discovery lighting his expression. "This is it! The wagon!" Seeing blank gazes, he hopped from one foot to the other. "Remember? The wagon your furniture was hauled away in!"

  Betsy clicked her tongue and sent the mare up ahead. "How can you be sure? You said you only saw it for a second or two."

  "I lied." Tom helped her down. "I was actually standing there watching the men load the wagon with your belongings for about three minutes before somebody hit me."

  "Tom, wagons all look alike."

  "Not really. See how the left rear wheel is newer than the others? I remember that. And look at that big knot in the wood just above the axle. It rather looks like — er — um —"

  "Like a woman's bum." Joshua joined them beside the wagon. "I wouldn't have forgotten such a detail, either."

  Betsy grinned and gazed the length of the street. "This is King Street, where Sheridan and Taylor supposedly reside. Perhaps my furniture is in one of these houses."

  Tom passed his reins to Joshua and rubbed his hands together. "Let's peek in some windows."

  Leaving Joshua and the Creek with the horses, Betsy and Tom headed for a first-floor window of the nearest house. He stared inside. "Clark's workbench!"

  Her breath fogging the glass, she peered in, too. "Zounds, it is his workbench, at least a part of it. And there's the wardrobe from the bedroom. I wager my extra clothing is still in the top drawer. I see two of our dining chairs, too. Nothing's in order. Looks like they just unloaded the wagon and didn't sort furniture." She backed away, unsure of whether to feel jubilant or angry. Had Clark planned to set up house there?

  Joshua waved them on. "Don't just stand there. See if anyone's in. We shall watch the horses."

  They climbed the steps, and Betsy knocked at the door. No one answered. Tom knocked loudly. Still with no response from within. They found the door unlocked and entered.

  A lack of dust inside implied the house hadn't gone long unoccupied. She plunged forward around furniture. "Clark? Clark, are you in here? It's Betsy and Tom!"

  Tom slid ope
n a drawer in the workbench. "His tools. They must plan for him to occupy the house."

  "Looks that way. Hello? Hello, is anyone home?" She opened a drawer from the wardrobe and heaved a sigh of relief. "My shifts, petticoats, jackets, stockings." After a pause, she began lifting out each piece. "I don't know when Clark's coming back, but I need clean clothing now."

  "Take it." He shook out a canvas sack and handed it to her. As soon as she'd stuffed in all her clothing and her extra pair of shoes, he walked the sack out to Joshua.

  The bottom drawer still held Clark's shirts, breeches, and waistcoats. She ran her fingers over them and fancied she smelled the faint citrus of his soap. With each breath, longing for their life in Augusta ached through her ribs.

  "May I help you, madam?"

  With a jump, she turned to the foot of the stairs. A heavyset, blond man in his thirties regarded her, a huge gold ring emblazoned with a family crest gleaming upon his right forefinger. Lace at his throat and wrists failed to soften the chill in his pale blue eyes. She swallowed, shut the drawer, and straightened her shoulders. "Where did you get this furniture?"

  "Perhaps I should be the one asking the questions. You have, after all, entered my house unbidden." Somewhere in that perfect English of his lurked the trace of an accent.

  "We knocked. Several times. No one came to the door."

  "Common courtesy dictates that you return at another time when the occupant is receiving guests." He twirled a silver-handled ebony walking stick and pointed it toward the door.

  She lifted her chin, aware that Tom had returned and hovered in the doorway. "I hardly need the courtesy. This furniture is mine, stolen from my home in Augusta, Georgia a week ago."

  An aristocratic gust of entitlement escaped him on a frosty smile. "I purchased it from an estate sale in Charles Town back in June."