The Colonel's Lady (12 page)

Roxana lay her quill down and stared at the bold signature looking like black lightning on the page with its forceful zigzag pattern.
Colonel Cassius C. McLinn.
Major Hale had gone out after him, though he’d looked like he wanted to stay on with her.
Better to obey than a court-martial
, she thought. Bella had told her that two regulars had been caught stealing rum—and since the men didn’t take kindly to having their allotment of the stuff swiped, the resulting punishment was expected to be severe. Not only that, the men had been forbidden to “make water” against the pickets, and a cat-o’-nine-tails would mete out a reminder.

Sighing, she wondered how she’d last till spring. ’Twas but January. All the thankfulness she’d felt upon arriving here safely was now nearly snuffed out in this dark, forbidding place. Yet what could she do? If couriers couldn’t make it out of Kentucke, what hope would she have of leaving? To combat the dreadful thought, she tried turning it into a prayerful plea.

Lord, deliver me . . . You’re the only one who can. And please deliver the colonel from whatever demons are driving him.

She opened the lap desk, trying to dispel the image of his fiercely handsome face that followed on the heels of her prayer. Across the room the orderly worked, oblivious to her presence. Pressing the tiny spring that released the hidden drawer, she removed the journal and opened it for the second time. Should she read . . . or shouldn’t she? The question had tormented her since she’d first discovered it. Giving in, her eyes fell to her father’s fine hand. The ominous entry she’d previously read led to a second equally cryptic one on the next page.

J
une 19, 1779.
T
oday
C
ass announced his intention of a winter campaign into
O
hio’s middle ground.
R
einforcements from
V
irginia supposed to arrive any day.
A
nother courier gone.

J
uly 4.
C
elebrated our separation from
M
other
E
ngland with bonfires and a shooting match.
N
o sign of reinforcements yet.
F
eel there is one loyalist spy among us . . . but who?

A spy.
She steeled herself against a shiver and sought solace in a new thought. ’Twas old news, all of it. Last July seemed so distant. Surely they’d have found out the spy by now. She’d not raise an alarm by making foolish accusations.

Quickly she returned the journal to its secret drawer. Her eyes roamed over the colonel’s huge desk cluttered with maps and documents, a small cannon ball, compass, and spyglass, yet all still seemed to retain some semblance of order. He knew where everything was instantly. Not once had she seen him rummage for anything. And he trusted her enough to leave her alone in this room with only one orderly present.

That she was in a man’s domain there could be no doubt. Crowded into the cold space was an abundance of crude puncheon benches and tables. Tin lanterns and grease lamps hung from dark beams overhead. Shadowy corners were decorated with maps and powder horns, bullet bags and dispatch cases. A massive buffalo hide was pegged to one wall beside a sagging shelf stuffed with drill books. She wanted to sink her fingers into the thick fur, it looked so lush.

At the creak of the door, she nearly jumped. Captain Stewart entered, as disheveled as Major Hale had been tidy. Olympia never seemed to mind the captain’s disarray, she’d noticed, and had declared herself his paramour. He drew up a bit stiffly and gave a little bow.

“Miss Rowan, I wanted to thank you for speaking on behalf of the Redstone women. Olympia tells me they’re to stay on. For the winter, anyway.”

“’Twas the colonel’s doing, actually. And Bella could use the help.”

“Ah, yes. She’s already put them to work in the laundry and kitchen. I expect everything will run a bit more smoothly and we can look forward to a fine frolic at week’s end.”

“Yes, a fine frolic,” she echoed. He looked so gleeful she almost felt sorry for him. “Do you like to dance, Captain?”

“I’m a bit of a toe stepper,” he confessed. “But a few of the officers have graced some of the finest ballrooms in the colonies. I trust you’ll be there—with your dulcimer?” At her surprise, he added quickly, “I’ve heard you playing nights—not enough to disturb anyone, mind you, when I’ve been up and around myself.”

Up and around with Olympia, she gathered. With Colonel McLinn sleeping at the stone house, more than a little nocturnal mischief was being made within Fort Endeavor’s walls. Thinking of Abby, Roxanna held back a sigh.

“Till Saturday, then, Captain,” she said with a slight smile, wondering if McLinn would keep his promise . . . and the Redstone women would behave.

12

Despite dressing in the somber little cabin with all its secrets and shadows, Roxanna felt an unexpected spark of excitement as she pulled on her stockings, securing them to her garters and smoothing her petticoats into place. Bella had insisted she dress her hair in long spirals once again with the curling tongs, weaving in a bit of silver ribbon among all that glossy black to match the fine Irish lace fichu about her shoulders. It dressed up the sedate lines of her dove-gray gown and made her look less mournful.

“Now, I know yo’ missin’ yo’ pa, but he’d want you to look mighty fine while you’re playin’ that there music box he made you.” She pulled a stray string from Roxanna’s skirt and sighed. “Law, but I hope all them men behave when you womenfolk walk in. With the colonel there, they won’t make too much mischief. And then there’s the child.”

At that mention, Abby peeked out from behind Roxanna’s full skirts. A smile pulled at Bella’s dour mouth as she surveyed the dress she’d made Abby. ’Twas a lustrous yellow satin with a quilted petticoat, gotten from her secret stores in the stone house.

“Why, you look bright as a sunbeam,” Roxanna whispered as Abby fingered the lacy bows of her bodice.

Despite the compliment, no answering smile graced the small face, and her blue-gray eyes seemed huge in the shadows. Earlier, Olympia had finally given her over to their care, intent on beautifying herself for the dance without the child underfoot. Taking advantage of the moment, Roxanna asked if she might teach Abby her letters.

“Letters?” Olympia paused in affixing a beauty mark to her cheek. “What for?”

“I think Abby would like to read . . . write her name.”

Olympia tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear and made a face. “No sense in makin’ a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“But I thought you wanted a better life for Abby,” Roxanna said quietly, as stung by her callous comment as by the sudden sadness in Abby’s eyes.

“Who’d teach her?”

“I would. Before coming here, I was a tutor to children just Abby’s age. I have a hornbook in my belongings, some story cards.”

“I’ll study on it,” Olympia said, fussing with her powdered hair, clearly bored with the subject.

Pondering it now, Roxanna took Abby’s hand and crossed the snow-dusted common with her dulcimer in arm. They entered the large blockhouse dining room that served as a makeshift dance hall and marveled at the change. Dovie and Nancy were putting fresh tapers in all the candelabras, and a fire crackled in the river rock hearth. Benches lined the log walls, and there was even a small platform where the musicians would sit.

She found Bella leaning over a barrel in the kitchen, a rapturous look on her bony face. “Bella, are you imbibing?” Roxanna couldn’t help tease.

“I sure is,” she said, waving a ladle. “Would you like a little sip?” Roxanna stepped up as she made another pass over the shiny liquid. “None o’ that flip or mulled wine for McLinn, but genuine cherry bounce.”

Roxanna’s delight faded as grief crowded in. Papa had dearly loved cherry bounce. She and Mama had made many a gallon from their own orchard in days past.
Here’s to old times
, she mused, in a sort of silent toast. She took a generous gulp and her eyes widened. “Why, Bella, that’s the best bounce I’ve ever tasted!”

A rare smile softened Bella’s countenance. “Let’s hope the colonel says the same. I was nearly scalped pickin’ all them cherries downriver at Smitty’s Fort. Hank helped me. He and the colonel planted a fine orchard back of the stone house here on the hill, but the trees are young yet, and what little we get the birds gobble up.”

Roxanna longed to learn all she could about the colonel’s private retreat but stayed busy helping set out an assortment of cheese, bread, and tarts alongside cider and the coveted bounce. As the soldiers began assembling, she kept a close eye on Abby, easily spied in her yellow dress. Soon Micajah Hale was beside her, a fiddle tucked under one arm.

“The evening improves already,” he said, eyeing her dulcimer appreciatively. He removed his uniform coat to better play his instrument, revealing a pristine linen shirt and brocade weskit, his sandy hair tied back with silk string. Small pockmarks pitted his cheeks and chin, evidence of the scourge so common to soldiers. She thought how waifish he was when compared to his commanding officer.

Around them the air seemed to crackle with excitement. Bella had wisely left the blockhouse door ajar, and the room was filling with every conceivable soldier but Colonel McLinn. Micajah gestured to a seat and Roxanna took it, glad to be off her feet. Two more fiddlers gathered round and Hale made polite introductions, all the while looking at her, she noticed. Slightly ill at ease from the attention, she listened to their small talk but found her eyes trailing to the blockhouse door again and again.

Would the colonel not come? Were the comforts of the stone house so great?

She’d seen smoke rising from the twin chimneys just as the sun had set and the stately walls had flamed with warm crimson and gold light. She imagined him sitting feet to the fire in a deep wingback chair, perhaps smoking a pipe, far removed from the filth and cramped quarters of Fort Endeavor. She felt curiously let down, though the Redstone women were a blessed distraction, making a grand entrance in dresses she’d never before seen.

Each preened like a colorful songbird—Olympia bright as a cardinal in red wool, Mariah in canary yellow, Nancy a bluebird in rich indigo. Dovie brought up the rear. Clothed in pink linen, she looked even younger than her fifteen years. Tonight they were the belles of the ball, though Roxanna wondered how they would hold up with such an abundance of partners. Then, remembering the impromptu dance aboard the flatboat, she sensed the night might be long indeed.

Micajah began tuning his fiddle—fine maple from the sheen of it—and she dared to ask, “Shouldn’t we wait for Colonel McLinn?”

He stopped his adjustments and gave her a smug smile. “If we wait, we might not have a frolic at all.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “The colonel rarely partakes of any sort of amusement. I wager he feels it beneath him. A cramped blockhouse hardly compares with a Williamsburg ballroom.”

With that, he struck a spritely tune, and the twang of the fiddles nearly drowned out the dulcimer. Roxanna soon lost herself in the merry music and rhythm of the reel, looking down at her hands as she played, almost able to forget where she was and her uncertain future. Less than an arm’s length away sat Abby on a stool, watching her pluck the strings as if transfixed, her riotous curls alight in the fire’s backdrop.

When at last Roxanna looked up again, it was the colonel she saw straight across from her, broad shoulders filling the width of the door frame, fiery head ducking beneath the lintel. The fiddlers began a new tune, and she fell in a bit behind, thoughts askew.

Ah . . . one simple look . . . but what a memory it made.

He was in full dress uniform and clean shaven, his hair pulled back in still-damp strands and caught with the usual black silk ribbon. She saw a flash of white teeth as he laughed and joked with his officers, and she felt a deep gnawing to know what it was he found so amusing. In blockhouse headquarters, he was often tense and solemn, his smiles tight, as if her company somehow grieved him. This was a side of him she’d not seen.

Across the way, Bella was bringing out the cherry bounce for him to sample, and his satisfaction was so apparent her own dark face creased with a smile. The lively strains of the gavotte filled the large space, and she looked up again to see the colonel escorting Mariah into the middle of the melee. Mariah smiled up at him as he placed one hand upon her waist and led her out with the other. How gallant—and surprising—Roxanna mused, given his reservations about the Redstone women.

Truly, Captain Stewart had not lied. Colonel McLinn had indeed graced some of the finest ballrooms in the colonies. Partnered with him, even Mariah seemed to shine. Roxanna wondered how it felt to be held so, to be turned about like one was light as thistledown. Her best shoe with its extra-tall heel seemed almost to ache as she watched them, and when she looked back down, the polished wood of her dulcimer was a watery brown.

She shouldn’t have come—her emotions were too raw. Every poignant note seemed to prick her, though she played as stalwartly as she could. She was more than ready to stop when the musicians took a short rest and Micajah brought her some cider. Abby had slipped away to the food-laden table, eyeing the apple tarts. A hundred or more voices hummed inside the timbered room now six people deep. There was precious little room for dancing, yet the men showed little inclination to quit—perhaps not till the clock struck twelve and turned into the Sabbath.

“You don’t have to play all night,” Micajah told her. “Though you play very well.” He tucked his bow under one arm and sat beside her, fiddle in one hand and cherry bounce in the other. “’Twas a brilliant idea you had suggesting this. I’ve gotten more work out of the men this week than most. And aside from that court-martial, there’s not been one breach of behavior.”

“Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves,” she said, letting her eyes roam over the crowd again. “Even Colonel McLinn.”

Surprise crossed his face. “I wasn’t sure he’d come—or stay. Once he leaves fort walls for the day, he doesn’t often come back. Likes to shut himself away in the stone house.”

“’Tis a beautiful place.”

“A bit grand for Kentucke, some say. He calls it
Sithean
—that’s Gaelic for ‘fairy hill.’ The only way he could abide coming to the frontier was to build a bit of home here.”

“He must miss Ireland, then.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. He rarely speaks of it. He does have ties there—some relatives and an Irish beauty by the name of Cecily O’Day. I suppose Bella has told you about that. No doubt you’ve heard of Liam McLinn.”

Roxanna brushed a speck of dust off her dulcimer. “Bella mentioned he has a twin.”

“Aye, so he does—one who just happens to be an officer in the British army. When Cass joined the Americans, it caused a bit of a fracas. As heir, he lost the family holdings when the British learned of his betrayal. But it hardly mattered. Liam was already wreaking havoc making free with their inheritance. He spent some time in Dublin’s Marshalsea Prison for debt, but slippery as he is, he escaped and came here.” The relaxed lines of his face tightened. “General Washington calls him Lucifer McLinn—on account of all the trouble he’s caused.” Seeing her blank expression, he added, “Don’t you read the papers, Miss Rowan?”

“Just the
Virginia Gazette
. . . occasionally.”

He grimaced. “Liam McLinn is a staunch loyalist and spy. And one of the greatest threats to the Continental cause there is. He’s done untold damage masquerading as his Patriot brother in the colonies. Once he nearly had Cass hung for treason.”

A chill touched her spine. “What?”

“A group of New York Tories led by Liam formed a secret organization to assassinate General Washington. Fortunately, the plot was uncovered, and forty or more conspirators were arrested, including one of Washington’s beloved Life Guards.”

“Colonel McLinn was also a Life Guard, wasn’t he?”

“Aye. Liam tried to implicate him, but there wasn’t enough evidence to send him to the gallows. Fortunately, Washington never believed ill of him. A close friend of the colonel’s, Captain Thomas Hickey, wasn’t so lucky. He was hanged. After that Washington sent Cass west.”

“To remove him from the danger and speculation, you mean? So no one can confuse him with his brother?” The prospect was so stunning—and intriguing—she cast aside her self-imposed rule to mind her own business.

He nodded and downed the last of his bounce. “Now Washington merely has to point west when an ugly rumor arises. Having Cass here makes it that much easier for Continental forces to catch the real loyalist McLinn.”

Cass.
She found herself lingering on the name, liking its softness, so at odds with the man himself. Behind them the fiddling commenced again, and Micajah left her side to resume playing. She found her heart racing inexplicably, her pulse keeping time to the music. Her thoughts were in such a troubled jumble she decided to sit this tune out, searching through the crowd till she located the object of their discussion.