Scowling, he nodded. “They most certainly would not. But that was and still is the right thing for you to do. And it is what my superiors would expect to happen. By staying with you, I am opening myself up to a charge of desertion, which at the very least would result in my being cashiered out of the army.”
“What does that mean? Cashiered out?”
“In Britain, most commissioned officers purchase their ranks. I bought in as a lieutenant and reached my current rank through promotions over the years. When I am ready to retire, I can sell my current commissioned rank for a substantial sum, which will allow me to comfortably live out the rest of my life. If I were convicted of desertion, however, I would lose my right to sell my rank.”
Laura could not help shaking her head in disbelief. British officers bought their ranks? What a bizarre and irrational way to choose military leaders. It was a wonder, really, that they won any wars at all! Or that they had any officers. Why on earth would anyone buy such a career? Yet Mr. Langston had obviously done so and had been encouraged to do so from the time he was a small child.
But one thing was certain: she could not hold him to his promise to help with the harvest.
“Then we had best drop you at Fort Moreau on the way home,” she said. “I did not realize what I was asking of you when I suggested you stay until the harvest ends.”
“No, I promised you I would help if you brought me here today, and I mean to keep that promise. After that, I will turn myself over. Unless there is a treaty before the end of October, that will be soon enough.”
And if it is not? she wanted to ask, but Daniel whistled again, louder and even more emphatically. Laura knew she could not keep her son waiting any longer. They had already wasted almost half of a Saturday.
She watched as Mr. Langston took several long strides away from her and toward the wagon. Even though he was clad in her son’s somewhat baggy castoffs, she could make out the defined musculature of his thighs and back. She remembered the sensation of his biceps beneath her palm, hard and sinewy yet pulsing with life.
Of all the men in the world that she could have found attractive enough to want to take to her bed, why did it have to be one she couldn’t have?
Chapter Eight
The meeting house, a plain wood-frame building on the outskirts of town that served as an assembly hall for other functions during a typical week, was less than half full that Sunday morning. Laura scanned the sparsely occupied pews, noting that the majority in attendance were her country neighbors rather than townsfolk, which suggested a fair number of those who had fled Plattsburgh proper in advance of the British attack had still not returned. In addition, about a half-dozen men in U.S. Army dress uniforms stood at the back of the room, near the doors, perhaps waiting for the civilians to seat themselves before choosing their own places for the sermon. Although she recognized none of them, the silver stars on the epaulettes of one of uniforms marked its wearer—a curly-haired man with a slightly too prominent chin but otherwise quite attractive features who appeared to be about thirty—as a brigadier general. As it was unlikely there would be more than one brigadier general in Plattsburgh at once, he could be no one other than Alexander Macomb, the man considered so inept that, in the days leading up to the battle, nearly the entire population of the city had decamped.
And now, he was a hero.
Macomb gave her a polite nod and half bow as she passed him, and she dipped her head in return. A sliver of guilt jabbed her chest at the small courtesy.
Selecting a row about halfway down the aisle on the left, directly behind her dearest friend Emma Walton and her husband James, with their three adolescent children, Laura settled onto the hard wooden pew and folded her hands in her lap to patiently await the beginning of the service. Daniel slid in beside her, Joseph and Abigail to his right.
As Reverend Shackleford made his way to the pulpit, a rustle of movement behind her signaled the military contingent was finally taking their seats as well. Laura resisted the urge to look behind her, but the back of her neck felt hot.
But why should she feel guilty for saving a man’s life? Did the Bible not enjoin her to love even her enemy as herself?
The preacher’s face was pinched as he looked out over his paltry congregation, in the manner of a man who knew the collection plate would be short yet again. Shackleford was the second minister to lead the Plattsburgh Congregational Church in as many years, and certainly not the best of the lot, but Laura decided to add a shilling to her offering nonetheless. She had, after all, failed to attend last week, and one extra coin was a small price to pay for that transgression.
She doubted she could afford the price for the others…
* * *
The sermon ran a good deal longer than usual, thanks to Shackleford’s copious praise of both God and the army, as commanded by Brigadier General Macomb, for soundly defeating the British against such odds. He rambled at length, comparing Macomb first to Joshua and then, bizarrely, to both Moses and Daniel before finally closing with the parable of the wheat and tares.
When at last the service ended, the worshipers filed out onto the lawn to visit with one another before embarking on the walk home. For those who lived outside of town, the hour or so following church marked one of the few opportunities people had to catch up with one another and discuss the latest news.
Laura soon found herself surrounded by Emma Walton and two other women with whom she was friendly, Susanna Gilchrist and Martha Robbins. The four of them were of an age and had all given birth to their eldest children within a few years of one another. This had become a natural point of connection between them, especially since all of them lived several miles from town and only Emma had female relatives nearby to provide guidance and support.
“He’s quite an eye-trap, inn’t he?” Susanna asked, a tinge of her Scottish homeland creeping into her voice as she gestured ever so slightly in Macomb’s direction, who stood near the doors holding an animated conversation with Shackleford. Or at least, Laura presumed Susanna meant Macomb. No one would call the narrow-faced, sallow-skinned, balding preacher an “eye-trap” except as an unkind jest.
“Susanna, you are too wicked! And on the Lord’s day, no less,” Martha scolded, but her lips twitched.
“Pish, I am only stating the obvious.” Susanna waved her hand in airy dismissal. “Besides, he’s far too young for the likes of us. But he would be quite perfect for my Constance.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “Constance is but fourteen. For all his youthful appearance, the general must be more than twice her age.”
Susanna shrugged. “I was just turned fifteen when I married my Angus, and he was thirty-four. ‘Tis better for a girl to snap up an older man who’s well established when she’s young than to spend a few years on the shelf and wind up marrying a man closer to her own age with uncertain prospects. And that one has a grander future ahead of him than most, I think.”
Despite Laura’s inclination to agree that Constance was far too young for her parents to consider a match for her, she could see some sense in Susanna’s reasoning. Although Laura had never regretted marrying Samuel, the first few years had been spent in near-constant financial jeopardy, and that struggle had been a direct result of Samuel’s—and, to be fair, her own—lack of experience. Both having grown up on farms, they’d assumed they knew what they were doing. They wed, purchased a plot of land, and made a go of it without the faintest notion of the difficulties they would encounter. In retrospect, they’d been lucky to have survived at all. How much easier would those early days have been if Samuel had been in his thirties and successfully running his own farm for a decade first? Of course, if that had been the case, she would never have married him, never have had Daniel, never have become the woman she was today.
No, she would never wish for that.
“Indeed,” Martha said. “Handsome and a hero. And headed this way.”
Laura flicked her gaze in the direction of the meeting house
and saw that Martha was right. The brigadier general and Reverend Shackleford were striding purposefully toward the small group of women. Emma and Susanna each took a few steps backward, leaving a gap in the circle for the two gentlemen to fill upon their arrival.
The minister began by making introductions, and then excused himself to visit with other parishioners, leaving all four women to gaze expectantly at Macomb in anticipation of an explanation for his interest in them. He wasted no time in relieving them of their curiosity.
“Mrs. Farnsworth,” he began, nodding at Laura to indicate he was addressing her, “I could not help but notice the strapping young man who accompanied you into the service this morning. I thought myself acquainted with all the members of the militia in this area, but I do not recognize him. I wondered if you might tell me his name and which militia he serves with.”
Laura’s stomach fluttered with a hollow sensation. Macomb was, politely and obliquely, accusing Daniel of shirking his militia service because he hadn’t reported to Macomb before the battle. She supposed the allegation should not surprise her. The difference in appearance between a seventeen-year-old boy, who was under no obligation to serve, and an eighteen-year-old man wasn’t substantial. She could hardly fault Macomb for assuming her tall and broad-shouldered son must be well past the age of majority. But the charge stung, nonetheless.
Her tone might, therefore, have been a bit tart when she responded. “His name is Daniel Farnsworth, sir, and you may rest assured that when he reaches the age of eighteen, he will join the Plattsburgh militia, as all able-bodied men do.”
Macomb’s eyebrows scaled his forehead. “You are telling me your son is not yet of age?”
“Indeed I am. As I was there for his birth, I can assure you the event occurred less than eighteen years ago.” Laura did not exactly snap her retort, but it was a near thing.
From the time he had been a young boy—because he had never been a particularly small one—people had expected more of Daniel than was fair given his age. When they knew full well he was four, they expected him to sit still and mind his manners as if he were six or seven. When he was seven, they treated him as if he were ten and remarked that he seemed a trifle “slow” in his schoolwork, but that it was probably nothing to worry about. Of course, it was nothing to worry about, she had wanted to shout. In fact, she had ached to point out, for a seven-year-old, he was remarkably precocious, given that he was routinely tasked with reading primers and doing sums intended for children several years his senior.
Perhaps she should be more forgiving of the general who was, after all, a stranger to town and therefore could rely only on appearances for his judgments, but she was nevertheless offended. It was bad enough that she had to accept the very real possibility that her son could soon be called upon to risk his life by going to war—and here, she could not help but think of Langston, who must have begun his military service when he hadn’t been much older than Daniel and who had come perilously close to paying the ultimate price for doing so—but it was far worse to have her son’s, and by extension her own, integrity questioned by a complete stranger.
Emma must have seen the storm brewing in Laura’s expression, for she emitted an airy laugh in an obvious attempt to ease the tension. “I attended his birth, too, and I assure you, General Macomb, he is just turned seventeen. If you had seen him as a babe, you would not be so surprised. He was actually a bit small when he was born, but from that moment on, he has grown like the good Lord’s mustard seed. In fact, I believe he has put on another inch or more just this summer.”
This was all true, of course. Emma’s mother had acted as midwife to the women of Plattsburgh and the surrounding countryside, and by the time of Laura’s pregnancy, Emma—having already produced two daughters and a son herself—had begun accompanying her mother to consultations and births in anticipation of one day taking on her role. These visits were, in fact, the route by which Emma and Laura had become such fast friends, each recognizing in the other the same wry sense of humor and no-nonsense practicality.
Whether it was Emma's speech or Laura's that had convinced him, Macomb had the grace to appear sheepish, a wash of color suffusing his cheeks. "I beg you will forgive me, Mrs. Farnsworth. I would like to tell you that I did not mean to imply the young man had shirked his military service, but alas, I did. What I did not know was that he is your son. Had I asked the good reverend for that information before I had him introduce me, I would, perhaps, have been more delicate in my inquiries. It is a sad fact that a man in my position seldom has the opportunity to get to know the local people before having to leave again, though I hope I will be here for another week or two, at least, so that I may make up for my transgression." He gave her a somewhat lopsided, regretful smile that managed to make him look both world-weary and impossibly young. "You must understand, however, that so many of Plattsburgh's able-bodied men fled in the days before the battle, we had only a few militia men in addition to the regular army troops who accompanied me, and we were desperately outmanned. Had the battle occurred even a day sooner, we might’ve been as severely routed as most of the townspeople feared. We triumphed in large part because we had an informant who told us when and how the British attack would begin. That knowledge allowed us to build additional fortifications in the right locations. And I will be honest, ma'am, we could have used a lad as big and strong as your son in that effort, if not in the battle itself."
Although not entirely comforted by the general’s explanation, Laura decided there would be no profit in continuing to take offense. And given the reprehensible behavior of the militia men who had left town rather than protect their homes and families, she could hardly blame Macomb for being a bit shrewish. Besides, there was a kernel of information in his speech that nagged at her. “An informant? Do you mean a spy?”
Macomb chuckled and shook his head. “I wish I could be credited with the ability to successfully spy on Prévost’s forces, but it was nothing as dashing as that. It turns out morale among the British regulars is not precisely high. The majority of those men have no particular stake in fighting a war on soil an ocean away from their homes. A good many of them would like nothing better than for this skirmish to come to an end so they can get back to the battles that really mean something to them and their families.”
“You mean one of the British soldiers is a traitor,” Martha, who had never been one to couch her observations diplomatically, said.
The general shrugged. “One country’s traitor is another country’s hero.”
Laura’s heart stuttered with trepidation as a possible explanation for Lieutenant-Colonel Langston’s injuries occurred to her. If he had been Macomb’s source and someone had found out…
But if that was the case, how had he wound up on the American side of the Saranac? And she couldn’t quite square the man who had so spoken with such sincerity about his responsibility to his soldiers with one who would put those soldiers’ lives at risk by betraying them.
Then another explanation manifested itself in her mind. What if Langston had discovered the traitor? That, she decided, made a bit more sense. The traitor, knowing he would be court-martialed and likely executed for his crime, would have very good reason to attack and leave for dead anyone who might reveal the truth. And he would likely have both the means and a good reason to ensure that Langston’s body wasn’t found on the British side of the river.
Or…it could all be a complete coincidence and Langston’s injury could have occurred for some other reason entirely.
Laura didn’t believe coincidence was the way to bet, though. Whichever was the truth—whether he was a traitor or the unmasker of a traitor—she was surer than ever that if Langston returned to his battalion before he remembered what had happened to him and why, he would be in grave danger.
He had to be warned. The only question was how.
She could simply tell him what she had learned from Macomb. Together with the bloodied branch Langston had found yesterday
, the most logical conclusion was that the existence of a traitor and the attack were related. The problem was that this approach would not answer the most important and immediate question: was it possible Langston himself had been Macomb’s informant? Because if he had, surrendering himself to the U.S. army could be suicide. Once the war was over, he would be returned to Great Britain, and once he got there, his crime might well be revealed.
The possibility that he had been the traitor seemed unlikely to her, but she didn’t believe it could be ruled out. Not without additional information, at any rate, and Langston could not provide that information, because he clearly didn’t have it. No man who remembered turning traitor would be so determined to return to the company he had betrayed.
If only she could ask General Macomb the name of his informant. Surely he must know the man, by sight if not by name.
And then the answer came to her. She hated herself a little for it, because she could not see how to apprise Mr. Langston of what she meant to do without contaminating the test. But if she could bring the two of them together, unannounced and unprepared, she could gauge both men’s reactions.
The results would not be conclusive, of course. The general might be able to hide his surprise at seeing his informant, even in an unexpected setting, and Langston would likely only react if seeing Macomb brought back his memory of what he had done. That last would be particularly cruel, but she didn’t see how it could be helped. And if it saved Langston from execution for a treasonous act he didn’t even recall committing, she thought the benefit would be worth the cost.
Except, perhaps, the cost of destroying the trust and affection developing between them. She was not sure he would—or should—forgive her for this betrayal, however noble the cause.
Chapter Nine
On Tuesday morning, Geoffrey moved out of Mrs. Farnsworth’s bedroom and into the bunkhouse. He was well enough to see to his own needs and could hardly justify occupying her bed any longer. Especially not when he wished he were occupying it for more pleasurable reasons.
Sleeping with the Enemy: Lords of Lancashire, Book 4 Page 6