The Colonel's Lady (13 page)

The colonel was standing in front of Abby now, and she barely came up to his thigh. Her head was tipped back and her lips parted as if in a sort of wonder. Around them all had stilled, even the music, every eye on the commander and the child. Roxanna watched as he made a small bow. Though no expression crossed her face, Abby put one foot behind the other and gave a surprising curtsey.

A ripple of amusement passed through the gathering. Cass held out his hand and Roxanna held her breath. Would he even charm a mute child? Pensive, Abby studied him before extending her own small hand. He took it, and the music began again, but not before he’d stood her little feet atop his polished boots.

Around and around he danced with her, holding on to her hands, her feet firmly planted atop his own. And she was . . .
smiling
. Still mute yet smiling. Even Olympia seemed a bit awed, standing with Dovie and Captain Stewart in the shadows. It seemed something of a miracle. Roxanna swallowed past the tightness in her throat and returned to her dulcimer, trying to sound the right notes, the picture of Abby and the colonel lingering.

The dark log walls and press of perspiring men receded as her thoughts winged across a continent to Ireland and an Irish beauty named Cecily and a twin called Liam McLinn.
Lucifer
McLinn. She regretted that their trouble went deep, pitting brother against brother. Family rifts were common enough with a war on, but one involving an enemy twin seemed extraordinary somehow—and doubly dangerous.

An hour passed in a sort of haze. Suddenly weary, she waited for the right time to bid the musicians goodbye, then slipped into the empty kitchen unnoticed and hastened out the small side door that led to the springhouse and parade ground. But before she’d pulled it shut, she heard a heavy footfall. Cold moonlight cast the colonel in a long black silhouette directly in her path.

“Miss Rowan, I believe you’re in need of an escort.”

In the silence, his voice was deep and clear and lilting, and her soft response was lost as the music started up again. He held out his arm, and she had little choice but to take it, startled when he brought his other hand to bear on hers as it rested on his wool sleeve, its warm width covering her cold fingers like a glove. She was acutely conscious of his height and how, unlike the diminutive Dovie, she was eye level with his epaulets. There was something different about him tonight, and it struck her as hard as the cold. He was gallant . . . charming . . . almost mellow. Perhaps on account of Bella’s fine cherry bounce.

He said quietly, “I wanted to thank you for the evening’s entertainment.”

She nearly slipped on an icy patch, but he caught her and she stammered, “Th-thank you for allowing it.” Hugging her dulcimer tight with her free arm, she noticed he walked the long way to her cabin, along the north barracks, as opposed to simply crossing the parade ground.

He looked down at her. “You’re leaving early.” She opened her mouth to mumble an excuse, but he went on easily, “But then, so am I.”

She looked over the far pickets and up the hill where warm light beckoned in every window of the stone house.
Home.
She wanted to keep walking right out the fort’s gates and up the rise and over the threshold into a warm paneled room where she just knew a wingback chair waited before a crackling hearth.

The ache in her chest expanded till she could barely breathe. “What will you do when you get there?” The wistful question was uttered before she realized what she’d asked, and there was no wishing it back.

She could hear the smile in his voice in the darkness. “Read. Smoke. Badger Hank into going to that dance.”

She hadn’t noticed Hank was missing. Only Bella had been there.

He stopped abruptly and turned to her. “What will you do when you get here?”

They’d come to her cabin door, and she hadn’t expected him to echo her question. It took all the poise she possessed to simply say, “Read. Have a cup of tea.”
Cry.

He released her arm. “Are you in need of some books, Miss Rowan?
Tristram Shandy
, perhaps? Some Samuel Johnson?”

She nearly raised an eyebrow at his recommendations.
A touch scandalous
, she thought. For a moment she sensed he might invite her to the stone house. Bella had said he had a fine library. “I have the good book, Colonel. ’Tis enough for now.”

“The offer stands should you have need of anything else—or want to move to another cabin.” He hesitated and she thought he might say more, but he simply finished with a disappointingly curt, “Good night, Miss Rowan.”

He opened the cabin door, and she went inside and set her instrument down. Still breathless, she cracked open the shutter to watch his retreating back and heard the crisp crunch of snow under his boots. An extravagant moon illuminated every nuance of the scene unfolding before her. The sentries at both gates saluted as he passed, the saber tips of their muskets a flash of silver in the deep darkness.

He was moving toward the little sally port along the north wall of the fort. Bella had pointed it out to her, and she’d been struck that it was barely big enough for a man’s girth. A secret escape, if you will. Two regulars fell in behind him without a word, and the trio disappeared behind the high north wall, only to emerge on the moonlit hill leading to
Sithean
.

Her heart gave a lonesome leap as they reached their destination. Before he’d taken the first of three steps to the front door, it opened wide in welcome and Hank’s voice rang out. Cass disappeared inside and then Hank took his leave, coming back down the frozen hill with the two regulars and entering through the sally port.

A knowing smile touched Roxanna’s lips. Colonel McLinn hadn’t had to do much badgering. Hank made a beeline for the blockhouse and Bella’s cherry bounce.

The Sabbath yawned gray and quiet. Since the army chaplain had died in the fall, no services were held, Bella told her. If they had been, Roxanna wondered how many would attend. She smelled strong coffee brewing all the way across the parade ground, but not a soul came for breakfast save little Abby, wandering across the cold common in her fancy quilted petticoat, clutching the doll Roxanna had made her.

I must fashion a day dress for her from one of my own
, she decided. And so she set to work, assembling her sewing supplies, knowing Bella would feed Abby once she slipped into the kitchen. Truly, Bella seemed fond of the little girl.

It wasn’t till dinner that anyone stirred save the sentries. When Colonel McLinn appeared through the sally port at dusk, Roxanna wondered what the commander of the entire western frontier did on an idle Sabbath day. She kept busy helping Bella in the kitchen while the Redstone women prepared to serve. It had become their habit to eat in the confines of the kitchen before the men crowded into the dining room.

Bella stood watch over a venison roast turning on a spit while Nancy mashed the potatoes. “These need a mite more salt, just like the gravy,” Nancy said, reaching for a salt gourd.

“Careful,” Bella cautioned. “Our salt’s runnin’ low—same as everything else around here.”

“I thought the colonel sent out a salt-makin’ party over a fortnight ago,” Mariah said.

“He did, but they ain’t back yet. Makin’ salt’s a bad business even in the dead o’ winter. We’ll have to stretch what we have another week or better till they get back.”

Roxanna set the trestle table for their own meal, thinking they were becoming woefully short of many things, even cornmeal. Fort Endeavor grew mostly corn, the now fallow fields barely visible under a skiff of snow. Bella bragged that some stalks were so tall they seemed to touch the Kentucke sky. But plowing and planting were months away. She’d be gone before anything was harvested—or so she hoped.

They sat down together, all six women and Abby. Joining hands, they said a prayer, then passed bowls and made small talk, all the while waiting for the men. Roxanna noticed each woman seemed to be listening for a certain voice in particular. She’d often done the same with Ambrose, waiting for his warm baritone to fill the long hallway of her house back home. Beside her, Olympia kept an eye on the door adjoining the dining room. She still claimed an officer, Captain Stewart, while the others had settled on the less refined regulars.

“That was some frolic, Miz Roxanna,” Mariah said between bites of bread. “But it’s a shame you didn’t dance.”

“She’s mournin’ her pa, remember,” Olympia reminded her.

“Oh, it’s more than that, really,” Roxanna confessed, filling Abby’s mug with milk. “I’m a bit lame in one leg.”

“Lame? How?” Dovie asked.

“I fell out of a tree as a child and had a bad break that didn’t mend properly. I’d like to dance but don’t manage the steps well.”

“I noticed you limpin’, ” Nancy murmured. “Though you hide it right well.”

Olympia grew sly. “Now, say you were to dance with someone who knew what he was doin’. I’ll wager you wouldn’t feel lame at all.”

The women tittered around the table, and Roxanna felt heat inching up her neck. Beside her, Bella drew up like an injured hen. “No matchmakin’ is goin’ to go on in my kitchen, you hear? You’d best hoe your own row.”

“Now listen here,” Olympia snarled, rebellion in her eyes. “Miz Roxanna shouldn’t have to sit and watch the rest of us make merry, is all I’m sayin’. ”

“Well, you is always sayin’ too much.”

“Ladies, please,” Roxanna intervened.

A strained silence settled round the table so that only the snap of the fire was heard. This was Bella’s domain, but Olympia, strong willed as she was, liked to overstep her bounds, even in the most trivial ways. The ill feeling between them seemed to simmer and set the rest of them on edge. Roxanna wondered if she’d been wise asking for them to stay on. Yet where would they be otherwise? And there was Abby to consider.

Roxanna finished her meal, eyes trailing to Dovie’s untouched plate beside her. As the others got up and prepared to serve in the dining room, she said quietly, “Abby, will you take round the bread?” The child stopped chewing and slid off her stool. When she’d disappeared, Roxanna continued in hushed tones, “Dovie, are you ill?”

The girl averted her eyes and picked up her fork halfheartedly. “I ain’t got much appetite here lately.”

Mariah turned around, arms full of pewter plates, and hissed, “You might as well tell her. She’ll see for herself soon enough.”

At once Roxanna knew. She’d had too many friends shunning their supper plates on account of this condition—all of them wed. But Dovie seemed reluctant to share her secret, simply whispering, “I’m scared Colonel McLinn will turn me out if he knows.”

Roxanna’s mind raced as she scrambled for the name of the young soldier she’d last seen her with. “Is Private Dayton the father, Dovie?”

She gave a little shrug. “I ain’t sure.”

Swallowing her dismay, Roxanna asked, “Would you like him to be?”

“I like him the best of them all. And he says he’s goin’ to ask the colonel if he can marry me. But his enlistment ain’t up till after the baby comes.”

“When will that be?”

She furrowed her brow, and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose turned her touchingly childlike. “September or so, by my count.”

Disbelief coursed through Roxanna. So soon? They’d been at the fort less than two months.

Bella ceased stirring the gravy and eyed Dovie sternly. “You’d best ’fess up right quick and call for the preacher. The colonel don’t have no tolerance for loose women.”

Dovie turned watery eyes on Roxanna. “Will you speak to him, Miz Rox—”

Bella’s spoon clanged against the side of the kettle. “Don’t you go beggin’ a lady to air your dirty laundry with McLinn—”

“Now, Bella . . .” Roxanna dug in her pocket for a handkerchief and turned back to Dovie. “If Johnny’s willing to ask the colonel for your hand, I think he must care for you and want to make things right.”

But Bella shook her head dolefully. “Johnny’s likely to get fifty lashes and a court-martial for his trouble. Now, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Old Granny Sykes over at Smitty’s Fort can fix you up a tonic—”

“Bella! No!” Roxanna stood, plate and mug balanced precariously in one hand, the other on Dovie’s shoulder. “Babies are a gift, not . . . garbage.”

Bella had the grace to look sheepish, eyes averted. “I’d sooner take a tonic than face McLinn.” With that, she went out, the door slapping shut in her wake.

Roxanna sat back down. “Despite Bella’s rather vocal opinions, Colonel McLinn is an honorable man. And I’m sure he’ll listen to Johnny’s proposal. Besides, a wedding and a baby are some of the finest things this life offers. I’ve often wished for both myself.” The admission made her own eyes water, and Dovie passed her back the handkerchief.

“I’m still prayin’ you’ll find your man, Miz Roxanna,” she said, squeezing her hand. “And I promise not to send for Granny Sykes.”

13

Reveille sounded at daybreak, followed by roll call and drill, rousing Roxanna as she lay on her corn-husk tick. She’d overslept this morning simply because she had stayed awake most of the night imagining, among other things, what the interior of the stone house must be like. In drowsy dreams that both delighted and disturbed her, she had crossed the threshold of that house looking for Colonel McLinn but had come awake before she’d found him. Now the ache of it lingered and made no sense.

Beyond her shuttered window, the breathtaking day held a hint of spring. She crossed the sunny parade ground without a cape, holding her skirt hem out of the muck and melting snow. Soldiers stood in formation around her, and sentries removed the huge cross timbers of the front gates, which slowly groaned open. She’d no sooner touched the handle of the blockhouse door than the colonel opened it, his sturdy frame filling the rough-hewn space like an impenetrable wall.

“Miss Rowan.”

“Colonel McLinn.” This morning the name seemed a mouthful, and she was reminded of her nocturnal musings. Flushing, she felt almost relieved to find him here—hale and hearty—when she’d missed him so mournfully in her dream.

“I’ve left some things on my desk for you,” he said, fastening the gold braid of his collar. She took in his rich camlet cloak to avoid meeting his eyes, startled to see Abby just behind him. Had she come in of her own accord? He didn’t have time for a child, mute or no . . .

Seeing her surprise, he said wryly, “Miss Abigail has just provided me with half an hour’s entertainment.”

“Oh?” was all Roxanna could think to say.

“I’m teaching her to play chess.”

“Chess?”

“’Tis not our first game, ye ken.”

At this, her eyes widened and she looked again at Abby, who peeked out from behind her opponent’s cloak with a winsome smile. Her expression was so merry, so full of mischief, Roxanna nearly laughed.

“She seems determined to take my king and might well do so in future. Don’t be fooled. Beneath that tangle of red hair is a formidable mind. She even demands her prize before we play.”

Abby held up her treasure, a tiny cone of loaf sugar, as proudly as if it were gold. And gold it nearly was, Roxanna thought, thinking of their depleted stores. Abby was wearing the dress she’d made her, and the green wool was a nice counterpoint to her unusual eyes and ruby hair. But it was her smile that struck Roxanna nearly speechless. She seemed so relaxed, so at ease with her giant guardian, Roxanna was amazed.

A sudden voice from behind made her turn. Micajah Hale stood watching them, bemused as well. As the colonel moved past her onto the parade ground, his second-in-command took her arm. “It’s not quite eight o’clock, Miss Rowan. Perhaps you’d like to join us for a bit of shooting practice. I’m in charge of an elite rifle company, and we put on quite a show.”

Taking Abby’s hand, she stepped away from him. “Thank you, Major Hale, but the noise of the guns . . .” She softened her refusal with a smile and escaped inside, relieved to find the room empty. A fierce fire blazed in the huge hearth, and she moved toward the colonel’s desk, stifling a sigh. He’d posted her orders on a handbill of sorts, only she found his handwriting a puzzle. Like the man himself. Little wonder he needed a scrivener.

Perplexed, she took up a magnifying glass and studied the jumble of bold letters till they made sense, then sat down to do her work. Abby sat beside her, sucking on her sugar lump, in dire need of a bath. Roxanna studied her a few moments later as she looked up from her work, seeing so much potential, even if Olympia didn’t. If the child could manage a game of chess . . .

With sudden resolve, she decided to go ahead with Abby’s schooling. She would deal with Olympia later. Hurrying back across the parade ground, she retrieved her hornbook, a slate, and stylus. Within an hour, Abby was making a painstaking row of As and Bs.

Pleased, Roxanna kissed her cheek. “Oh, Abby, your aunt will be . . .” She paused, nearly wincing at the sudden thunder of guns. Knowing Olympia probably wouldn’t care, she amended, “I’m so proud of you. Colonel McLinn would be proud too, as he likes fine penmanship. Your letters are straight as soldiers.”

Abby’s face lit up and then darkened as she looked warily toward the window.

“All those men make quite a commotion,” Roxanna lamented. “To your tender ears, especially.”

She cracked open the shutter to find the air full of smoke, the acrid smell stinging her senses. It seemed Fort Endeavor was low on everything but powder and lead. Companies of men were now moving beyond fort walls to the broad level leading to the river.

“Colonel McLinn is drilling again. You’d best stay inside, Abby, and keep making your letters. If not here, the kitchen, perhaps. I’m going to see what all the fuss is about.”

Abby nodded dutifully and returned to her letters. Though reluctant to leave her alone, Roxanna went out and shut the door. She met Bella in a warm puddle of sunlight near the front gate.

Shivering in her tattered cape, Bella flashed Roxanna a wide, gap-toothed smile. “Law, but that gate ain’t been open in months. The scoutin’ parties must have brought back a good report.”

“No Indian sign, you mean?”

She nodded. “No Redcoats neither.” Looking down, she dug in her pocket and handed Roxanna some tow linen. “Best put it in your ears, same as me.”

They moved beyond the shadow of the long front wall, ears plugged, enjoying the expansive view. The river wound in a serpentine shimmer of ice beyond far banks. On their side of the Ohio, all was clear and level, the trees trimmed back to allow for orchards and fields of corn. Crowning the rise at their backs was the stone house, a golden nugget on the sun-drenched hill.

Giving in to a wild reverie, Roxanna saw not the fetid fort, but the grand house with a long porch . . . a summer kitchen . . . a smokehouse . . . full-grown fruit trees . . . a scattering of giant oaks and elms for shade. Just as it had been in her dream. But the sudden storm of a hundred guns stole away her musings, and she turned back in time to see the two Indian prisoners being led through the gates, unchained but under heavy guard.

How proud they looked—and how wary.

The feathers in their dark hair fluttered in the wind, as did the long fringe of their buckskin tunics and leggings. Each wore calf-high, fur-lined shoepacks, and a blue trade blanket was draped around their shoulders. The younger of the two was looking everywhere at once and then, hawk-like, directly at Roxanna. Feeling a twist of pity and then fear, she shivered and moved into Bella’s shadow.

Bella murmured, “They’ve been brought out here to be impressed with all the noise and fuss. And if there’s any more like ’em over on that side o’ the river, they’re welcome to watch as well.”

Fortunately, the far bank was well out of musket range a mile or more away. This morning, at least, the surrounding brush and trees simply held an icy sheen, harboring no enemies. Or so they hoped.

“My, ain’t the colonel in fine form today.” For once Bella’s voice wasn’t sharp with sarcasm but touched with respect. Reluctantly, Roxanna turned in his direction, the music of fife and drums in her ears.

For a few disorienting seconds she felt she’d been cast back to that twilight eve when she first caught sight of him on his white horse, the wind whipping the edges of his Continental cape so that the scarlet lining was visible, his tricorn shading his handsome features.

From the river’s edge his voice boomed loud as a cannon. “I want a
feu de joie
from east to west.”

A running fire of musketry?
Roxanna wondered what he meant.

The men scrambled to do his bidding, forming a tremendous line of sunlit silhouettes, muskets raised. Roxanna watched as the colonel rode to the far right of the long column, shouting another order before taking off at full gallop, just abreast of each exploding gun. Startled, she stepped back and stuffed the linen further into her ears, heart pounding louder than the accompanying drums.

Surely this was no show to impress the two Indian chiefs. Nay, this was . . . suicide . . . assassination. A spy—
the spy
—might still be among them. The paralyzing realization made her take a step back as she realized her part in it all. She hadn’t told the colonel about the journal, and one of these men might mean him harm. Unwittingly, he’d placed himself in the line of fire. If only she’d gone straight to him with her suspicions—

Oh please, God, no!

At the end of the long line, he whirled about on his winded, excited stallion to the roar of his cheering men. Even Bella clapped her hands as Hank moved to stand beside her. Whirling, Roxanna grabbed up her skirts and ran for the gates.

The icy mud churned and seethed beneath her boots, flinging ugly spatters across her clean dress. By the time she reached her cabin, she was shaking, haunted by the explosive crack and smoke of muskets, feeling she was as small as Abby and fleeing a fire-breathing dragon instead. Shaking, she stood before the warm hearth, acutely aware of the lap desk behind her. How easily the enemy might have shot him. With so many guns, who would ever know who’d fired the fatal shot?

The night before, she’d stayed awake reading every single entry written in her father’s flowing hand, dismayed to discover each as cryptic as the last. There was an enemy, he’d said, but never had he alluded in name or physical description as to who that might be. He’d come close, but then, as if he sensed someone might discover his suspicions, had actually torn out the last few pages, leaving a puzzle she couldn’t possibly piece together.

A savage hurt took hold of her, and she fumbled for her handkerchief, dampening it thoroughly by the time a knock sounded on the door. Bella? There was no use pretending with Bella. Balling her hankie into a fist, she took a deep breath.

The door swung open to reveal Colonel McLinn. He had to duck his head to clear the lintel of the door frame and didn’t wait for an invitation to enter in. Stunned, she took a step back on the dusty hearth stones, singeing her skirt hem in the hungry flames. The smell of scorched wool filled the closed space between them. Taking her firmly by the shoulders, he maneuvered her away from the fire.

She was acutely aware of her childish tears—and the stern, undeniably irritated way he was regarding her—and felt like crawling underneath the trestle table.
Oh, Bella, where are you?
She’d never been completely alone with him save his escorting her back to her cabin and was suddenly struck by how intimidating he truly was. He towered over her, seeming to shrink the cabin to the size of a snuffbox. Worst of all was his silence.

Her mouth felt full of cotton when she mumbled, “You might have been killed.”

“’Twas a simple military maneuver, Miss Rowan.”

Her chin came up. Was he making light of her fears? “Nay, not simple, Colonel.”

Not with an enemy on the loose.

His eyes, hard and blue as stained glass, softened ever so slightly. “I’ve been a soldier a long time, and it’s hardened me. I apologize for frightening you. I didn’t . . .”

He hesitated and she filled the silence. “You didn’t see me.”

“Aye, I did. But I kept on. And I’m truly sorry.” With that, he sat down on the bench in front of her, a humble footnote to his apology.

Still shaky, she sank down at the opposite end, hands knotted in her lap, sensing he had more to say. It was sheer work not to look at him. He was no longer the commander here in her tiny cabin but just a man with a mercurial charm, contrite and brusque by turns . . . and terribly appealing.

Eyes down, she waited for him to leave but instead felt the sudden warmth of his hand as he reached over and brushed her damp cheek. The gentle gesture only made her eyes fill again.

He said apologetically, “I have no handkerchief.”

Startled, she revealed the one she held, its lace edges damp and wrinkled. His hand fell away and his gaze skimmed the dark walls as if seeing them for the first time. “Miss Rowan, you don’t belong here. Not in this cabin, not in this fort.”

“Nor do you,” she replied softly. “You belong on a battlefield somewhere in the east, helping win the war.”