She studied him and felt nothing inside, even though she suspected she'd feel a monstrous something later. "I doubt you can make this up to me. You've voluntarily placed yourself in a position where you're unable to protect me or the baby. Since I'm forced to take measures to do so myself, I shall leave Camden in a few weeks for a sanctuary in another colony. At this point, I'm not making plans beyond that day."
"But you'll tell me where you're going?" Incredulity exploded across his face at her silence. He drew himself up to his full height and hissed, "You will tell me, dammit! You're my wife!"
"Am I?"
His expression returned to the guardedness it had held at the beginning of their conversation. "You know, I didn't want to believe it Abel when he told me. Now I see it's true. My wife and my apprentice, sharing a bed."
"How dare you question my fidelity when you won't be a husband to me? And how dare you trust the word of Abel Branwell over me?"
He balled his fists. "Well? Is it true?"
She mirrored his posture. "I've not been unfaithful to you, though at this point, few would blame me if I were. And frankly, Clark, I'm weary of standing here defending my character. It suggests that you and I never trusted each other. I shan't waste more of my time with you when I'm needed over there among the wounded. You know where to find me. If you want to talk with me over the next few weeks, send word. I shall attempt to meet you. But I'm through with chasing you."
Chapter Twenty-Nine
FROM THE CLUTTER in the print shop on Littleton Street that afternoon, Betsy wondered whether her Aunt Susana had lent a hand at its management, too. She stepped around a bucket of lampblack, over a pile of ragpaper, and marched to the front counter.
The skinny, balding man behind the counter stood. "May I help you, madam?"
"I'm here to talk with the owner."
"His name is Frank Harker, but he's behind schedule arranging next week's paper."
"I thought so. I'm here to help him."
The man chuckled and wagged his forefinger at her. "Now, what does a young lady like you know about printing newspapers?"
"Column arrangement, for one thing." She spread Wednesday's paper on the counter. "This is all wasted space. Drop the point size on the columns, and you could get four columns to the front of the page with no wasted space." She flipped over the paper. "You could block in woodcuts and advertisements better."
The skinny man's jaw dangled open.
"You also could stand another pair of eyes editing the articles. This sentence fragment belongs at the beginning of the paragraph up here, while over on this article, you've double occurrences of the word 'the.' And you need to overhaul your type trays. A capital E looks like an F, and what is this letter over here? An r?"
The man cleared his throat. "Frank, come here a moment."
The owner, a big, stocky fellow in his late thirties, shuffled out wiping hands stained with lampblack and varnish and swept a gaze over her before addressing his associate. "What's the problem?"
"No problem. This lady knows how to arrange columns."
"You do?" Harker focused on her, and sarcasm stretched his lips over his teeth. "I suppose you've helped pull a printing press before?"
"Not since I was nine or ten, sir, but I haven't forgotten how it was done."
Harker's humor vanished. "And where might you have learned the printing business?"
"From my family's business in Alton, Georgia."
"Bust my buttons. You must be a St. James."
She frowned. "How do you know the St. Jameses?"
Harker belly-laughed. "Every printer knows Will St. James." He unrolled one of her grandfather's captioned "Tarleton's Quarter" broadsides with relish. "This here's a work of art."
Art? Alarm shot through Betsy. "I'd nothing to do with the printing of that broadside. I wasn't even in the same town when it happened."
Harker sniggered. "You needn't offer me any excuses."
"It's not you I'm worried about."
"Oh. Pshaw." Harker rolled up the broadside and returned it beneath the counter. "Colonel Tarleton was in here several weeks ago laughing over it, asking if we'd seen new ones circulating. He's flattered by what it's done for his reputation." The printer emerged from behind the counter with his hand extended. "Frank Harker, madam."
She shook his hand. "Betsy Sheridan."
He grimaced at the copy of Wednesday's paper. "My — er — assistant skipped town two weeks ago with the contents of the till. So you're interested in helping me?"
"Yes, but I require compensation."
"He didn't take all my money." Harker's jollity wilted. "See here, I'm in a pinch arranging next week's paper. If you've the talent and help me get the paper out on time, I'll pay you. Well, what exactly do you want to be paid?"
From the desperation in his posture, he wasn't in a position to bargain on wages. Betsy never believed she'd be able to name her price. Perhaps she could grow to appreciate the filthy, grueling business of printing after all.
***
In the sticky twilight of Friday night, she trudged back to the Leaping Stag embracing the exhaustion brought on by hours of work. She hoped to collapse in bed and be spared dreams of linen bandage strips, feverish soldiers, amputated limbs, and husbands abandoning wives. When she entered the dining room at the rear of the tavern, Hattie guided her to the table. "Child, just look at them hands of yours."
Betsy sat and regarded ink on her fingers. "Yes, I'm back in the printing business." Her stomach growled over the cozy scents in the dining room. She yawned.
"No food and no sleep ain't doing that baby of yours no good. I got the remedy for your belly, but then you got to get on upstairs and rest." A plate piled with string beans, turnip greens, ham, and buttered cornbread appeared on the table, and Betsy's mouth watered. She picked up her fork and dug in. "Lord, you and yo' man eat like you got hold of the last food on earth."
Betsy glanced around the dining room. "Did Tom come back yet?"
"'Bout half an hour ago. He eat three plates like yours 'fore heading up. Bless me if I know where he puts it all."
Three plates. "That's Tom for you."
Twenty minutes later, the cheer in the common room ramping up, Betsy climbed the stairs in time to encounter Dolly fumbling with the latch for the fourth guestroom while a portly captain slobbered on her neck. Betsy hurried past them: he smelling of brandy and tobacco, she of roses. The prostitute winked at her and kissed the captain's ear. "Oh, darling, has it been so long?"
"Grrrughmpugh." His meaty hand groped Dolly's breast.
Her cheeks aflame, Betsy opened the door to her own room, slipped inside, and exhaled. Just a little over a week since she'd made love, but the ladies made it feel like years.
A candle on the nightstand illuminated Tom's open bedroll spread between the bed and the door. Sprawled snoring on one side of the bed, Tom still wore his shirt, breeches, and one stocking. Betsy managed a tired smile. "I don't blame you after three plates of Hattie's cooking."
A huge yawn ran its course. She stripped to her shift and cleaned her teeth. By the time she completed a quick bath and combed out her hair, she felt as though she was falling asleep standing up. Moving Tom from bed to bedroll would be sure to sprain her back or jolt him awake. She pulled off his garter, stocking, and breeches. Then she snuffed the candle and crawled into bed beside him.
He never showed any inclination to wake up, for which she wasn't sure whether she felt relieved or annoyed. She stared at the ceiling, tears salting her eyes, movement from the child in her belly by then definite. Now I see it's true. My wife and my apprentice, sharing a bed. Tears rolled down the side of her face into her ears. She blotted them away. "Play hero, Clark. Enjoy yourself," she whispered to the night. And the night responded from the hallway with Dolly's laughter.
***
A cock crowed predawn, awakening her from a sound sleep. The bed sagged in the middle, plastering Tom's sweaty frontside to her sweaty backside. However, the
bed wasn't to blame for Tom's right arm and leg draped over her body. "Good morning," he murmured. "I meant to sleep on the floor last night." His tone lacked guilt.
She matched the tone. "After Hattie told me how much food you'd eaten, I figured you weighed enough to break my back, so I just left you in bed."
His hand reached for hers, and his thumb caressed her palm. She felt his face in her hair and his breath on her neck. "You didn't braid your hair."
Her nipples tightened. "You weren't the only one who was exhausted."
"We both needed sleep." His fingertips trailed up her wrist to her forearm, brushed her sleeve, and stroked her neck. "Your skin is so soft."
Pressed between her buttocks, his erection burned and pulsed, summoning a slippery echo from her cleft. How little she'd have to do to tumble both of them over the edge of the precipice. Tilt her pelvis backward to provide the perfect angle. Roll onto her back and offer her lips to his. Guide his fingers to her aching nipple. In a town reeking of death and deception, why shouldn't she choose the affirmation of life and trust encoded in the essence of humanity? "Tom," she whispered.
"Sweet Betsy."
While she shifted onto her back, he pushed up on one elbow, took her face in his other hand, and leaned over to kiss her — stopped at the last moment by her fingers against his lips. Gods, how she wanted that kiss, how she longed to cast off her shift and his shirt and feel skin sliding together on a lusty film. She swallowed the fountain of saliva in her mouth. "I spoke with Clark yesterday."
After several heartbeats, she removed her fingers and heard him swallow, too. "Where?"
"Log Town. He'd received minor injury in the skirmish near Hanging Rock."
The cock crowed again. "I presume your talk went poorly."
"It's as you said two nights ago. His head is so filled with rubbish that he cannot save himself."
"Are you through with him, then?"
"I told him I'd leave Camden in a few weeks to protect myself and the baby. He expects me to wait for him, tell him where I'm going. We quarreled without resolution. I told him to send word if he wished to discuss it further before I left town."
"You still love him?"
When a woman was done with a man, she was done with him. "No. I'd fancied reconciliation before meeting him yesterday, but love for him is destructive. I won't wait around to be destroyed."
The bed creaked with the transfer of his weight. He lay back, and she could just discern him staring at the ceiling. "So the plans we made the other night stand. Make money as quickly as possible. And leave Camden to find your mother."
"Yes. I've afternoon work helping the town printer. I'm paid well. He was desperate."
"Splendid. Mr. Wade will grant me as much overtime as I desire." He paused. "It does sound like you don't love Clark anymore. But if I were him, I'd want to know it."
"I need to tell him and be done with it before we leave."
"Yet you mentioned being open to discussion with him. Isn't it better for both of you to sever contact?"
Disquiet and frustration pricked her soul. The fluid nature of the immediate future might mean she was gone from Camden if Clark tried to meet her. She could lose track of him after that, never know whether he cared to be a part of his child's life. On the other hand, his actions weren't her responsibility. While she'd make a reasonable attempt to meet him before she left Camden, she'd forgo such a meeting if it meant being held accountable for him. "Although I'll have no part in being his wife anymore, I'm carrying his baby. He may want some say in the child's upbringing. If I can I'll ask him." Tom stayed silent, and she gulped. "I'm groping through a dark room without a candle, Tom. I know none of this is fair to you."
He remained quiet so long that she wondered whether he'd fallen asleep again. Then he groaned. "Emma was waiting for me last night. Hattie excused herself from the dining room while I was on my second helping of everything. Emma sat next to me, smelling of lilac, her hands soft, her breasts two damp, luscious mounds begging to be freed from her bodice."
Betsy could almost feel his hands aching and, in an arc of jealousy, understood why her cousin hadn't protested her plan to work afternoons. Few warm-blooded fellows Tom's age would refuse release offered in such a blithe and relentless fashion.
Irony stung his voice. "I was tired and hungry. Alas for Emma, too tired and hungry." Somberness replaced the irony. "I don't want her, Betsy."
Was Emma's desire for Tom Alexander's intelligence and courage, or was it for the physical delights of a strapping young fellow? Indignation smoldered within her, for she suspected Emma's motivation was the latter, and she reconsidered all those incriminatory invoices in Abel's study. "Do what you must." Indeed, they were all at war, and people did what they must in war. But her cousin had best not wound Tom.
"There you are being noble again. I've never wanted anyone but you. I shall wait for you."
She pushed up on her elbow. "Tom Alexander, that's the first stupid thing I've ever heard you say. What if I'm never available? Are you being fair to yourself?"
He stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. "I reckon it's as fair as it gets. The universe isn't accountable to dealing justly with any of us."
Chapter Thirty
REVELRY CALLED NO day of the week special, so Betsy readied the guestrooms for business on Sunday, the twenty-third of July. After dinner, she and Tom set off to explore Camden and walked the perimeter of the large palisade erected by the redcoats. The soldiers had also fortified redoubts and powder magazines.
So much done in so little time. Cornwallis realized it didn't build morale to let several thousand troops sit idle while 125 miles northeast, General de Kalb awaited the arrival of General Horatio Gates, granted independent command of the Southern Continental Army. Hence the flurry of palisade building.
Overheard conversations bespoke the concern of Camden's citizens. "Rawdon cannot stand up to Gates with half his men sick in Log Town." "Cornwallis sits in Charles Town and isn't lifting a finger to help." "Redcoats are always making promises they don't keep." Not a good esprit de corps for a major backcountry base.
She and Tom strolled north on Market Street. It would be three weeks before they could afford a packhorse. They both realized General Gates wouldn't dally around after he met up with de Kalb. She said, "How long do you suppose we have until the Continental Army rides into town?"
"Three weeks, maybe less."
"We're shaving it quite close."
"I don't want to run out of supplies while we're searching for your mother." He gave her hand a squeeze of reassurance. "I'm worried, too. But we'll get out. We'll find her."
With the afternoon shadows grown long, they headed north on Campbell Street. Halfway to King Street, Tom gaped ahead among pedestrians, riders, and carriages. Then he ducked into an alley between two shops, yanking Betsy with him. He motioned for her silence, peeked around the edge of a baker's shop, and withdrew again. "That's Adam Neville up there with six Rangers!"
They peered back around to spy a road-grimed Neville and grungy Rangers dismounted before a shop. No one at the shop answered their knocks. The seven Rangers remounted, rode north on Campbell, and turned east onto King.
Betsy tugged Tom out of cover. "Let's see who they were calling upon."
Keeping a sharp lookout, they proceeded over and studied the storefront, expressions souring. "Messers. van Duser and der Waal, Surveyors." She cocked an eyebrow. "No surprise."
"I've the feeling the rebels' spy ring days are numbered in Camden. Let's go."
She gnawed her lower lip. "I don't like this."
"If Neville intends to haul you back to Augusta and throw you in jail, he'll track you down no matter where you are. But if he must go through the trouble of hauling someone back to Augusta jail, his priority will be Clark, not you. And we cannot stay here and debate it. I'm hungry."
"One thing we absolutely cannot hide from is your appetite."
He laughed. "Just so."
&nb
sp; ***
"What you lookin' at in the common room, Mistuh Tom?"
He faced Hattie from the doorway, amazement flooding his expression. "For a Sunday evening, the Leaping Stag sure does a brisk business."
"Well, now, what you expect wit' all them dry soldiers camped a mile north o' here? Hrumph." She turned her back on them to butter fresh cornbread.
Tom winked at Betsy and mouthed, "No Neville."
She exhaled relief and accepted the chair he pulled out. He sank into the chair beside hers. When Hattie set plates before them, they had nothing to say for several minutes. They capped off the meal with blackberry cobbler, and in a drowse brought on by the afternoon of walking and the supper of good food, Betsy felt Hattie pat her shoulder. "That's right, child, you go ahead and eat fo' dat baby of yours. Bless me if you wasn't just skin and bones when you arrive here last Wednesday."
"Mrs. Sheridan." Betsy blinked at Abel, who stood in the doorway, and Tom turned his head to regard the dour-faced accountant. "I would speak with you in my office." Tom rose, and Abel sniffed. "Alone." He vanished down the hallway.
Too sleepy to conjure resistance, she followed Abel. Only when she reached his office door did she suspect he might have figured out she'd snooped in his office Friday morning. But by the time her reasoning caught up with her groggy senses, the accountant was already beckoning her inside. She came fully awake when he shut the door behind her and Adam Neville rose from a chair in the corner shadows. "Mrs. Sheridan, what a pleasure to see you again."
She glanced from Abel, whose face betrayed no sentiment, and who had assumed position near the room's only lamp, to the floor, where she bit her tongue to stop herself from screeching, "Branwell, you stinking, miserable excuse for a double agent!" Then she looked back at Neville, whose lip was still swollen from the encounter with her riding crop a week earlier. She grafted on her tea-party smile. "Lieutenant, what brings you to Camden?"
He laughed and crossed the rug between her and Abel. "You're quite good at this, you know, sending my men and me on to Ninety Six. I even fancy you chewed your way out of your bonds last Monday morning while we were all sleeping."
The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution Page 21