The Courier of Caswell Hall (American tapestries)

by Dobson, Melanie

  It might be weeks before he found out whether their operation had been a success.

  Grayson hovered over Sarah as she rested in the army tent, studying with wonder the beautiful woman who had saved his life. No other women he knew would have marched onto a British prison ship and rescued five prisoners.

  The camp physician hadn’t wanted to hinder his or her recovery by discussing the details of their rescue, but somehow she had done the impossible and succeeded.

  Sarah Hammond had stolen his heart that day in the smokehouse, but she had intrigued him for even longer, back when she was just Seth’s little sister, the girl who liked to pretend she was Madam Knight as she read about faraway places. Unlike the members of Grayson’s family, she understood his desire to explore.

  As a younger man, he’d tried to control his growing love for her, but it poured out now. He had thought he was protecting her, that his work would contradict her loyalty to the Crown—a loyalty he didn’t agree with but would never condemn.

  Yet as he gazed at her in the coming daylight, at her fair hair tangled around her face, he didn’t want to live another moment of his life without her. He was still weak, but the remedies the camp physician prescribed had breathed life back into him.

  The morning light seeped through the flap in the tent, and Grayson heard soldiers bustling outside. They had met with a regiment from Maine on their way to join Washington’s army. The soldiers had stalled here these past five days, but now they were preparing to march south.

  After Sarah rescued Grayson, Benjamin, and the crew, Elisha guided them west to the protection of this army, and Zadock met them here. One of the men from his crew succumbed to the grave, but the others survived and were nearly healthy enough to return to work.

  Elisha’s forgiveness was balm to Grayson’s soul, as Sarah’s gentle care was a balm to his body. Even as she recovered from her own long journey, she had rubbed a salve that smelled of lemon and honey onto his wounds and cooled his face with a cloth as he drifted in and out of sleep. Now as she slept, he wished he could care for her as well, as a husband would a wife.

  He dared to lean forward and kiss her forehead, and her eyes fluttered open. “Hello, Porter.”

  He reached for her hand, weaving his fingers through hers. “You may call me Grayson.”

  She scanned the narrow tent. “You are not supposed to be in here.”

  He grinned. “I had to make sure you did not run away.”

  “Oh, Grayson, I am not the one who runs.”

  He gently squeezed her hand. “I never ran away from you.”

  Her smile warmed his core.

  “May I have some water?” she asked.

  He slowly stood beside the cot, his body still weak. “Of course.”

  He dipped a tin cup into a pail and brought it back to her. She sat up, pulling the sheet over her shift as she drank.

  He reached for her hand again. “How did you get into the British camp?”

  “The doctor said we mustn’t discuss it.”

  “I am well enough to know.”

  She pondered his words as she studied him, as though searching for any sign of lingering illness. “I told them I was looking for the man who was to be my husband.” Her words seemed to dangle in the air, a light flush coloring her face.

  He leaned closer to her, whispering, “It was the truth, then.”

  The color rushed across her cheeks. “Perhaps.”

  He sat back, the reality of this blasted conflict rushing back to him. “If only we were not on opposing sides—”

  This time she laced her fingers through his. “We are not opponents, Grayson. My brother convinced me long ago that we must choose for ourselves whether we desired independence or British rule.”

  His mind slowly processed her words. “You chose independence?”

  “Indeed.”

  He kissed her hand. For so long, he had thought the barrier of their beliefs would keep them apart until after the war, but it seemed there was no longer any barrier. If she supported freedom, they could marry. Perhaps she could even assist him.

  He held her hand tightly between both of his. “Would you be willing to work with me for the cause of the Patriots?”

  Her laughter sounded musical. “Oh, Grayson, I have been working for the cause of the Patriots for years.”

  His eyes grew wide. “You have?”

  She laughed again, and then he listened in awe as she told him about delivering the letters in secret for General Washington. Sarah was no longer dreaming about adventure. She was living what she had dreamed.

  “I have desperately missed the work since I left Virginia.”

  “Perhaps we could remedy that,” he said. “Do you think there is a minister nearby?”

  She returned his smile. “I believe we could locate one.”

  “Then I would be honored, Sarah Hammond, if you would become my wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Nathan studied the overgrown gardens on the Caswell plantation and then the outline of the grand brick house. The slate rooftop glowed a dusty yellow, and a pale hue of red settled over the fields in the distance. No red uniforms clashed against the warm colors of the setting sun, but he would wait a bit longer to make sure the British officers had taken their leave.

  This was the same place he’d watched Lydia rush away from Elisha’s room back in February, when he’d felt every bit like a wounded soldier. As he traveled through the colony, the seasons had blended together, the cool of winter melting into spring, spring giving way to summer’s blistering heat.

  Autumn would be upon them soon, and as he glanced past the house, toward the fields, he wondered if Lord Caswell had been able to harvest his tobacco. He knew the crop well after helping his uncle plant it years ago. Tobacco was a demanding crop on a planter’s land, and an unforgiving one as well. If one didn’t harvest the leaves immediately after they matured, the loss of income could be catastrophic.

  Even as Nathan had little sympathy for those in the Loyalist party, he didn’t want harm to come to Lydia. Her brother was a hero, and so was she. In spite of the war, in spite of the loss of their labor, he hoped the Caswell family would succeed.

  Perhaps when the war ended, Porter would come home to help his father.

  Five days had passed since Nathan fled from York, but he had received no word that Porter and the others had made it. He couldn’t yet tell Lydia anything about her brother or Sarah or Elisha, but when the time came, he prayed the news he delivered would be good.

  The supplies were almost in place for the approaching Continental Army. If all went well, their men would be assembled by mid-September, but they needed Lydia and other spies like her to help.

  After the sky darkened, he checked the loose brick in the orangery. He reached his hand far back, pressing on each side in hopes of some word from her. Inside was a letter, and he secured it in his cloak. Slowly he wove through the trellises and hanging vines in the formal garden until he could see the lines of the gazebo in front of him.

  Lydia sat on the bench.

  He crept closer, the silver moonlight reflecting the white in her dress. He stopped under the grape arbor and admired her beauty for a moment. If only he could rush forward and take her into his arms . . . There was so much he wished he could tell her.

  He ducked behind the bushes. He didn’t want to startle her, and yet there was no better way.

  “Lydia,” he whispered.

  Through the leaves, he watched her jump and then scan the garden before her. “You have returned.”

  He smiled at the welcome in her voice. “I have.”

  “I thought you had left for good.”

  “Unfortunately, I was detained.”

  “Until this war is over, it seems we are all detained from going where we please,” she said. “The letter I left for you is quite old.”

  “Have the officers moved on?”

  “Aye,” she replied. “But they will probably return. They se
em to think that Caswell Hall is their home.”

  “One day they will be gone for good.”

  “I pray so.”

  He remained still for a moment. He was inches from her, close enough to reach out and take her hand. He wished he could tell her where he’d been and offer news of her brother. He didn’t have trouble keeping secrets, but he hated keeping them from those he loved.

  He cleared his throat. “We need something of you.”

  She turned her head ever so slightly, her profile stunning in the moonlight. Why couldn’t he have found a courier who was elderly or plain or already married? Instead, he’d found the loveliest woman in all the colonies.

  He closed his eyes. He couldn’t do this anymore. The next time he saw General Washington, he would insist they find someone else to courier messages out to Caswell Hall.

  “What is it that you require?” she asked.

  “We need information passed along to the men who have been staying in your house.”

  “What type of information?”

  He leaned closer to the gazebo. “There is a rumor that General Washington and his men are preparing to take New York.”

  She inhaled sharply. “New York?”

  “That is the rumor.”

  “Ah,” she said, as if realizing his intent. “And so the British must send troops north.”

  “In earnest,” he replied. “You must be subtle about this information but very clear.”

  “I know not when our guests will return.”

  “The timing will be perfect when they do.”

  She straightened her skirt. “What if they do not return?”

  “They shall,” he said. “Much of their army is preparing to winter at York, though the officers would probably prefer to winter here. I have heard your family has been quite hospitable to them.”

  She sighed. “My father still believes our family will be given special treatment when the British win.”

  “He will be most disappointed at the outcome of this war.”

  “I fear we will all be disappointed in some way.”

  “Perhaps.” He paused. “Will you do this?”

  “When is the rumored date of this attack?”

  He watched a light blink on the river and wondered if the officers would return here this night. “You have heard that Washington is preparing to attack New York immediately, before the armies in the South can help defend the city. A fleet of French ships will be joining the Americans in their fight.”

  She leaned back against the bench. “Where would I have received such news?”

  “You must say that you heard it from Dr. Cooper.”

  “Dr. Cooper?” she asked, startled.

  “Aye.”

  “Is our doctor a Patriot or a Loyalist?”

  “I am afraid I cannot say, but you must use his name.”

  “No matter.” She took a deep breath. “The doctor would never discuss such a thing with me.”

  “What would he discuss?”

  “I do not know—”

  “Perhaps he is inquiring about Seth Hammond, to see if you have heard from him.”

  She turned slightly, speaking over her shoulder. “I have heard nothing from Seth.”

  “Then you may tell them that as well.”

  “I will do as you ask.” She looked back toward the river and stood. “I am glad you have returned.”

  “And I as well.” He balled his hands together, wishing he hadn’t replied. “I will check the orangery for your news.”

  “And I will continue my evening strolls.”

  From his hiding place, he watched her slip into the night.

  Thomas Paine wrote about the high price people were willing to pay for what they valued, and the British paid dearly for their information. Dr. Cooper had worked hard to develop a reputation among their top ranks as a man knowledgeable about the workings of Virginia’s government and her defense. A few British officers believed Dr. Cooper to be a Loyalist willing to secretly sell information he learned from his patients—minor intelligence that proved to be reliable but not detrimental for Patriots.

  What the British didn’t know was that the good doctor also sold them occasional—and critical—misinformation. If Lydia played her part the officers would act quickly, and the doctor was prepared to verify her story to the British—for a fee. Information like this would not be valuable to them unless they were required to pay a hefty price.

  If it worked—and he prayed it did—the British occupying Virginia would march north to defend their hold. If not, he didn’t know how much longer the Continental Army would survive. It would be a terribly hard winter for all of them.

  Chapter Thirty

  Grayson pounded on the narrow door of the parsonage, and Sarah’s heart fluttered at his urgency. This man loved her just as she loved him. One day they could celebrate their marriage with her father and brother as well as the entire Caswell family. None of them would approve their marriage now, but she knew, more than anything she’d known before, that she and Grayson were to become husband and wife before the end of the war.

  The Continental Army had departed this morning, leaving her and Grayson behind with a sympathetic family who had but one small room for them to share. They said he could sleep outside in the barn, but Grayson didn’t want to leave her alone. And she didn’t want to be left alone.

  There were no candles lighting the windows at this late hour, but he persisted in his pounding.

  “The hour is too late,” Sarah said, resting against the cradle of his arm.

  “I know, my dear, but they will wake.”

  She had waited for years to be his wife. If they must wait for a few more hours, it would be all right. “We could be married at first light.”

  He glanced over at her and then pounded again.

  Seconds later, the door cracked open. A sprightly man stood on the other side, the flame from a candle lighting his knobby nose and balding head. He wore a long nightdress, and his feet were bare. He examined them for a moment. “What is it that you need?”

  “You must marry us,” Grayson said.

  The slightest of smiles tugged at his lips. “I see. Perhaps we can discuss it on the morrow?”

  “That is not possible,” Grayson insisted. “I fear the temptation is too great.”

  Sarah almost laughed. A man as strong as Grayson could conquer any temptation—but the man she loved was in earnest.

  The minister examined them both. “Where do you come from?”

  “Williamsburg,” Grayson said. “We have known each other since we were children.”

  “And yet you chose this very night to marry.”

  “She has rescued me, you see, and I cannot let her go again.”

  “What of your family?”

  Sarah spoke. “My father is a commodore with the British army, and my brother is fighting alongside the Patriots.”

  “And my father is a staunch Loyalist,” Grayson added.

  The elderly man stroked his chin. “Ah, I see the conflict. What is your name?”

  “Porter.” He hesitated. “Grayson Porter.”

  The minister looked at Sarah. “And you desire this marriage as much as Mr. Porter?”

  She smiled. “Perhaps more.”

  The minister sighed. “Then I suppose I cannot put asunder what God has brought together.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Grayson reached out and shook the man’s hand profusely.

  “I must wake my wife as well.”

  A shadow moved behind him, a soft but sharp voice speaking clearly. “I am already awakened.”

  The minister turned to her. “Do you approve?”

  Her silence was deafening, and Sarah feared for a moment that the minister might defer to his wife’s opposition.

  Then she finally spoke. “I believe I do.”

  Sarah sighed with relief.

  The minister opened the door wide, and Sarah accompanied Grayson inside to become his wife.

&n
bsp; Major Reed and two of his officers entered Caswell Hall just as the family was preparing to eat breakfast. Father welcomed them to their table, but Mother didn’t acknowledge their presence at all. It had become strangely routine to have these men come and go as they pleased. They no longer even knocked upon their arrival.

  Hannah smiled at the major. “Welcome.”

  He nodded toward her but didn’t return the smile.

  Lydia sat at her place at the table. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap, from anger at their audacity and from anxiety about what she must do. She hated the division these men caused in her family, but at least this time their presence might serve some good purpose. She would pass along Nathan’s message and be done.

  The men scooted out chairs and sat with the family at the table. Before them were runny poached eggs and bread toasted too black. The huckleberry jam, Lydia had learned, hid much of the burnt taste. There was no butter, as they had no one to churn it.

  The major eyed the food on the table. “Is there nothing else to eat?”

  Mother bristled. “Not unless you care to utilize the kitchen.”

  The major looked toward the doorway. “Where are your slaves?”

  Father pressed his fork into a poached egg. He had already been working in the fields for several hours this morning. “Our cook and most of our other Negroes seem to have found refuge with your army.” He pointed at the remaining food with his fork. “This was prepared by a lady’s maid and our washwoman.”

  “I see.” Major Reed reached for a piece of toast and began to slather it with jam. “There is nothing I can do to bring back your freed Negroes, but perhaps I could arrange for you to purchase new slaves.”

  Lydia bit her lip, and it felt as if her skin might boil. How dare this man try to negotiate a sale with Father when he and his fellow officers had already taken so much from them?

  Mother’s face turned a light shade of red. “Perhaps you gentlemen could discuss business after our meal.”

  Major Reed gave a slight bow of his head. “Of course.”

  The scent of fried bacon preceded Deborah, and the men looked toward the doorway as she entered. She set the platter of steaming meat on the table, and the men confiscated most of it.