"If my business were more robust, I'd offer this arrangement to other women, for they come to me every day, begging for help." Emma shook her head. "Most of them have been cast away from a church, where they sought protection and charity. Imagine that, having a congregation that preaches love and giving turn its nose up at you because you suddenly have no money and no husband.
"You and I are the lucky ones, Betsy. We've husbands to provide for us. Let us not judge what other women must do to survive and help innocent loved ones survive in a war not of their making. A war that drags on and on, simply because men won't listen to each other."
***
Betsy spent most of the morning sweeping, airing, and dusting guestrooms that reeked of various forms of gentlemen's diversions. Mostly British officers' diversions, if Emma was accurate about her clientele. Though Clark had been her only lover, she concluded that it didn't matter whether a man was a colonel or carpenter, rebel or redcoat. They all smelled the same when they wallowed in carnal bliss. In the moment they gave themselves to le petit mort, they were each vulnerable, each very human, despite the rebels' insistence on demonizing the redcoats.
Each room was furnished with a sturdy bed, handsome chair, and wardrobe with drawers. To verify that no patron had left personal articles behind, Betsy opened a drawer in the first room and discovered an education in silk, leather, wood, and lubricant devices. As she found out, the other rooms were similarly equipped.
Mid-morning, she paused to glance out the window toward the kitchen, where Sally stirred stew in a cauldron for the patrons that night. She remembered a night Sophie had fallen asleep telling her a bedtime story while stretched out next to her in bed. Betsy, eight years old, leaned over, stroked her mother's cheek, and pulled the blanket over her shoulder. "Always so tired, Mama. You sleep now." In retrospect, she wondered whether those circles of fatigue beneath Sophie's eyes were less from weariness than from worry.
Her lip curled when she recollected the imperious attitude of Ruth Glenn. "It's time for you to move on," Ruth had said. She envisioned pastors from churches in Camden saying the same thing to widows knocking on their doors: Begone. Beg elsewhere. Cease bothering us. There, but for good fortune, might any widowed mother with hungry children walk. Had circumstances been otherwise, Sophie might have walked that route, too.
Betsy finished the rooms just before eleven and carried a basket of soiled linens, mostly towels, downstairs in time to accept a delivery of wine. Neither Emma nor Abel was to be found to remit payment to the vendor, so she shoved the invoice in her pocket and promised the vendor she'd give it to Abel. Henry and Philip, the lads cleaning the common room, carried the crates of bottles down to the Leaping Stag's wine cellar and left Betsy with a lantern to sort things out in the cool dampness of the cellar.
With the lantern held high and her eyes wide in awe, Betsy wandered aisles of wine bottles, more wine than she'd ever seen in one spot, and took the time to decode the floor-to-ceiling storage plan. She found places for all the new bottles in the system and stood back to survey the cellar again, wondering how often Emma ordered wine. She'd cleaned at least five empty wine bottles from each guestroom.
Back upstairs in the dining room, she delivered the soiled linens to the washerwoman, who had just arrived. When Hattie informed her that Abel was in his office with a client, Betsy groped in her pocket for the invoice and headed for the closed office door. She raised her hand to knock, the invoice in the other hand, but hesitated, hearing Abel's voice: "I cannot give you anything today. Next week I should be able to work it into the books."
"Next week will be too late." Betsy's eyes bugged at the heavy Spanish accent of Abel's visitor. Why, it sounded just like Basilio's voice! "Señor Carter wants storage fees up front."
"See here. I find it exceedingly poor planning on your part to move all that rubbish this morning, in such a rush. Poor planning on your part does not constitute an excuse to squeeze my pockets. You shall just have to make do in whatever other way you can."
She heard menace in the Spaniard's voice. "Ambrose will not like this."
Her jaw dangled open in shock. Ambrose.
"Ambrose may bugger himself for all I care. Tell him I said so. And next time, you'd bloody well better use the back door, and come after midnight."
Abel yanked the office door open and caught Betsy in a perfect pose of surprise: mouth open, one hand raised to knock, invoice in the other hand. For the second that she darted her gaze from Abel to Basilio — yes, it was indeed a tired looking Basilio — then back again, she felt her heart stop beating and her ears buzz with faint. But Basilio showed no sign of recognition, and she realized with a tremendous surge of relief that he wouldn't have recognized her from his visits to Augusta anyway because she been upstairs in bed each time he'd come. She drew a deep breath. "Oh, Mr. Branwell —"
"What the devil do you want?"
She thrust the invoice at him. "Wine shipment this morning, sir. I told the vendor you'd send him your payment."
Abel snatched the invoice from her, and his expression relaxed but little, even if some of the harshness seeped from his voice. "Where's the wine?"
"In the cellar sorted and stored properly."
"Good." He squinted disapproval at the total on the invoice. "That will be all."
With a curtsy, she turned and strode away, her legs somehow managing to not convey that her insides felt like jelly, for she recognized the symbolism of the bloody beef skewered on Abel's knife the night before at supper. Abel had an excellent reason for not wanting her help with the accounting for the Leaping Stag. He was siphoning money off his business with British soldiers into the ravenous maw of a rebel spy ring.
Chapter Twenty-Five
BENEATH THE SHADE of an oak in the garden, Tom ate bread, yellow cheese, and fried squash, then applied himself to a mug of beer. Much had changed in the past two weeks, but not his appetite. Betsy smiled. "When are you due back?"
"One o'clock." He lowered his voice. "I reckon Clark won't be needing his tools anytime soon, so I took them."
Her eyes widened. "How? Surely you didn't go into the house after that man's threats? He'd arrest you for burglary."
He shook his head. "I'd planned to sneak in before work, so I took a sack. But when I got there, your furniture was loaded on the wagon. Clark's workbench was easy to reach." He drained off his beer. "The German was talking with two Spaniards who'd stolen your furniture from Augusta. I couldn't get near the wagon without them seeing me.
"The Spaniards left with the wagon. The German went back inside the house. I ran behind and jumped up on the rear. I unloaded Clark's tools into the sack and jumped back down with the Spaniards none the wiser."
Betsy regarded him with admiration. "You amaze me, Tom Alexander. Did you see where they took my furniture?"
"It's in a barn about a mile east of town."
"Hmm. Clark's plans to set up business in Camden with Uncle Isaac went quite awry. Now we've made the Ambrose ring nervous." She cocked an eyebrow. "Weren't you late for work?"
"Yes. I ran all the way back. But Mr. Gamble had overslept and wasn't angry about me being tardy because I helped the apprentices and him open the shop in no time."
"Let's visit that barn tonight after supper and inquire after my property." She yawned. "But then return at a reasonable hour. I need sleep."
He studied her. "If it's all there, you won't confront anyone about it, will you?"
"I will, indeed. It was stolen from me, and I want it back."
"Betsy, I realize all that furniture is difficult to replace, but the spies have already threatened you once over it. Perhaps you believe there's a way to find Clark from the furniture?"
"Of course! Of course there's a connection." She heard herself falter, then took a deep breath. "I'm not ruling any clues out at this point."
"The spies will be even more nervous after tonight. Their primary business isn't moving furniture. We're costing them valuable time. Were I them, I'd
hide it in several locations. It's less difficult to conceal on short notice."
"Less costly, too. That explains why Abel Branwell doesn't want me helping him with the books." Curiosity sparked in Tom's eyes, and she plunged on. "From a portion of conversation I overheard between Basilio san Gabriel and him late this morning in his office, it would seem my cousin's husband is supporting the Ambrose spy ring with funds embezzled from his business."
"Zounds, what irony!" Tom rubbed his jaw. "The British army supporting rebel spies. Assuming you could access his books without endangering yourself, how would you recognize such a falsification to confirm it?"
"Well, he might break up a large sum and lodge it under loans or charitable donations to false entities." Her lip curled. "More likely he's creating donations. They're a charitable lot here, especially the four talented ladies lodged on the upper floor."
Tom studied her the duration of several heartbeats before his eyebrows raised with understanding. "This is a bawdy house?"
"Officially it's a tavern, but the Branwells discovered earlier this year how lucrative such a side business could be."
"I should think so." He leered at the house. "And you've met the ladies? Are they very lovely?"
"No, I haven't met them. They were all asleep in their quarters when I cleaned the guestrooms earlier." She crossed her arms in a huff at the look on his face, feeling her own expression sour. Men. "But you may as well save your coin. Their clientele is almost exclusively officers."
He turned back to her, his leer diffused into a smile of friendship. "Are you jealous?"
"Why should I be? Your business is your own."
He pried one of her hands from its defensive position and held it in his. "I've no urgent desire to get myself poxed."
"Yes, I suppose every profession has its hazards. Consider, though, how the employment of four such ladies might place Abel in a situation of learning sensitive military information."
"Indeed. But the redcoats aren't stupid. If they discover what he's about, they won't waste any time widowing Emma and closing down the tavern."
And Emma had considered herself lucky that morning. Betsy wondered how much her cousin knew of Abel's activities with the spy ring. But that wasn't the most pressing of her concerns. "Tom, if Abel's involved, the spies know where to find us."
He sighed. "I shan't sleep easier for that."
"But Abel may know where to find Clark."
He firmed his grip on her hand and captured her gaze in his. "Walk carefully around him. We don't know what he'll tell Clark about Betsy and Tom Sheridan, lodged together beneath his roof."
***
She sent him back to work and carried his dishes from the garden, trailing despondency. Not even the aroma of stew perked her spirits. Clark, wherever he was hiding, was her husband, and Tom was their friend. And so she and Tom hadn't acted on the growing attraction they felt for each other. But what reward would virtue deliver if Abel told Clark his wife was sharing a bed with his friend? She doubted things could get much worse.
Sally waylaid her from the side yard, her hands soapy from a washtub. In exchange for dirty dishes, Betsy carried a tray of clean tankards inside. As she entered the dining room, Emma flagged her down from the common room. "In here with those tankards."
Betsy spotted a brunette seated at the dining room table, a coffee cup before her. She smiled. "Good afternoon."
Her rosy lips perfect and full, her dark eyes sultry, the woman returned the smile. "Good afternoon." Janet, Dolly, Maria, or Margaret? Whoever she was, she was quite fetching. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, and her silk bedgown advertised luscious curves.
In a common room swept and tidied by Henry and Philip, Betsy helped Hattie and Emma stack tankards in preparation for the night. Through a thin haze of pipe and cheroot smoke, Emma's early-shift tavern maid ambled between three tables of soldiers playing cards and dice and filled their tankards.
Betsy followed Emma and Hattie back to the dining room, where two women had joined the brunette at the table. Emma ushered her forward. "Ladies, this is my cousin Betsy from Augusta. Betsy and her husband, Tom, are living with us until he's established in business." She introduced a thin blonde with a crooked nose as Janet, a chunky brunette with bouncy curls as Dolly, and the sultry, gorgeous brunette as Margaret. Janet and Dolly, also adorned in bedgowns, were about Margaret's age.
"How do you do." Betsy bobbed a stiff curtsy and wondered what flavor of small talk one pursued with high-class harlots.
"Pleased to meet you, Betsy," murmured each of the women, just as skeptical.
Sally brought in a tray of damp, clean tankards, and Hattie whisked it away to the common room. Emma beamed at the three ladies, not indifferent to the awkwardness. "Betsy's helping me with the cleaning. Have you seen the rooms upstairs yet?"
The apathy on Janet's face transformed into pleasant surprise. "You did that, Betsy? Why, you did a wonderful job. Thank you." Despite her crooked nose, Janet was pretty when she smiled.
Margaret smiled, too. "Emma's needed reliable help."
"That girl Lotty just couldn't keep herself out of the bottle." Dolly's curls bounced. "Welcome, Betsy."
When Emma mentioned that Betsy and Tom were expecting, the ladies murmured congratulations, and Betsy followed their thinking. What a wretched time to be bringing a child into the world. She said to Dolly, "Emma tells me you've a son. Where is he?"
"With Mr. Fitzgerald two streets over, learning his letters and arithmetic. Emma has such a big heart." Dolly's dark eyes sparkled. "She's arranged for Maria's daughter to receive schooling, and she's found someone to look after my grandmama."
For a fleeting second, Betsy fancied changing professions because Emma had made the benefits so attractive. Then Hattie returned to the dining room, her expression stoic. "Captain Robert Harding's arrived."
Emma drew a watch from her pocket. "One-fifteen." She snapped the watch shut.
Surliness puckered Dolly's lips. "He's early again."
"Well, then, keep him waiting again. I must check on the stew, ladies." Emma tucked the watch back in her pocket and reached for the back door. "But don't keep the captain waiting too long, Dolly."
Margaret and Janet snickered. Hattie poured two cups of coffee and set them before Janet and Dolly. "Have yo'self a cup of coffee before you rush off, Miz Dolly."
"Fetch her some ham, too, Hattie. She shall need the sustenance after Bouncing Bob takes command." Janet grinned, and Betsy spotted the gap where her husband had knocked out her back teeth. Pity shot through her before she could get a grip on it and dismantle it. The women didn't want her pity, and she sure didn't want their life, regardless of Emma's generosity.
Hattie set to work unwrapping and slicing a ham on the sideboard, and Margaret addressed Betsy. "You're from Augusta? How far is Alton from Augusta?"
Betsy regarded Margaret with surprise. "Alton's about thirteen miles south, but I'm amazed you've heard of it. It's such a small town."
Janet waved away Betsy's words. "Oh, we've heard of Alton, to be sure. Alton, Alton, Alton for the past two days."
Dolly smirked. "Indeed, you'd think it was Jesus Christ himself who came from Alton."
That sultry look captured Margaret's face. "You're all jealous because he took his time with me."
Janet laughed. "Bouncing Bob takes his time with Dolly, but no one's jealous of her for it."
Dolly's lips pinched again. "He'd take his time with any woman. That man's forge is so cold that even the bellows seldom revives it." For emphasis, she thrust her cupped hand several times toward her open, rounded lips, a familiar gesture that earned a flush from Betsy and merry peals of laughter from the other two ladies. When they'd subsided, Dolly winked at Betsy. "Take our advice. Give your Tom a little of it every now and then. It's one way to keep him from straying. All men are the same, even husbands."
Betsy flushed again. As for what Tom wanted, she'd best not consider it.
"Not all men are the
same."
"That fellow from Alton again? Pshaw, Margaret, let it go."
"He called me his priestess."
Dolly wiggled her eyebrows. "One fellow last week called me Queen Charlotte."
"And a few have called me Venus." Janet frowned. "But a man never called me a priestess before. That's right peculiar."
"You weren't pretending to be a virgin led to a sacrifice, were you?" Dolly sipped coffee.
"Not with him, no."
"Maybe Margaret's fellow wasn't a man. With that red hair of his, he might have been Mars in disguise." Dolly slapped her thigh and laughed.
"You saw him?" Janet picked at ham Hattie set before her.
"Mmmm. Tight bum on that handsome young lieutenant. I sure wouldn't have minded spending four hours with him." Dolly shoveled ham into her mouth.
The pieces condensed in Betsy's reasoning, and she felt her skin crawl. Alton. Red hair. Lieutenant. Oh, no, surely it wasn't so. But hadn't Emma said something the day before about Margaret entertaining an officer from the Seventeenth Light?
Janet shook a piece of ham at Margaret. "You'd best take hold of yourself. The delectable ones don't often come back."
Mystical conviction curved the corners of Margaret's mouth. "He'll be back. He said so."
Emma entered through the back door, a bottle of wine in one hand, a lit lantern in the other. "Dolly, is this the red Captain Harding so admires?"
Dolly squinted at the bottle. "Yes, it is."
"What luck. More bottles arrived with this morning's delivery." She motioned Betsy over and handed her the lantern. "Dear, please run down to the cellar, fetch another bottle of this vintage, and set the two bottles up in room number four with a couple of glasses." She grinned at Dolly. "While we ensure the good captain is made merry."
Betsy grasped the lantern and headed for the cellar, a scream simmering just below her throat, jumpy for release. The second or third step down, she tripped and just managed to catch herself from falling. The lantern banging the wall, she clung to the railing, steadied her breathing, and announced to her audience of wine bottles, "I'm a fool, an utter and complete fool."
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 18