The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (18 page)

Corporal Bowman returned with a cot and blanket and he and Pat went about setting them up in the antechamber. Sam and Lady Strathmore glanced at each other uncomfortably until she looked away. Suddenly, her hand went to her mouth to cover a grin.

“What now?” he said. He followed her eyes to his crotch. Sam had pulled on his breeches hastily and only the waistband was buttoned. The buttons up the front were undone and a piece of his shirt poked through.

Determined to not lose this battle, he held her gaze as he boldly pushed his shirt in under the fall and fastened one button. “If we are to live together, my lady, you will need to get quite used to such indelicacies.”

Her blush was enchanting.

“What was that?” asked Pat as he joined them from the annex, then shook his head with a smirk at the scene of the roommates glaring at each other. “All finished, my lady. The room is rather small, but you’ll merely be sleeping there, I suppose.”

The cot did indeed take up most of the space. The center of it was lined up with the curtained doorway. Elias had a difficult time extracting himself from the little room before returning to his post.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” she said. “I suppose I’ll just go to sleep now.”

“Lieutenant, I would like to see you outside for a moment,” Sam snarled under his breath.

“Certainly, captain.”

Once outside, Sam dismissed Elias for a piss break before he rounded on Pat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled quietly. “You know I get in a foul mood if I can’t … well, you know, in the morning. I suppose I can just stop what I’m doing during the middle of the day and go frig myself?” He raked his fingers through his hair, grabbed the roots and pulled. “Christ! You are so frustrating sometimes!” His hands continued to hold his head as if to keep it from exploding.

“Look, Sam, she might escape if she remains in the women’s dormitory. That should be first and foremost on your mind. She may very well be a spy. Have you considered that? As for the other, you’ll find time during the day. Or maybe you could do it once she’s asleep.”

“I make noise.”

“Yes,” Pat chuckled. “I know.”

Sam couldn’t stay mad at him for too long. “You are responsible, First Lieutenant Patrick Hamilton, if anything goes wrong with the workings of this fort because of my bad mood.” He stood as close as he could and not cause suspicion. Their mouths were an inch apart.

Patrick licked his lips. “Yes, captain. Now go to bed. I’ll wait outside until Corporal Bowman returns.”

Sam went inside, closed and bolted the door, then leaned his back against it, mulling over his changed living circumstances. He would now have to wear clothing to bed—his shirt or drawers or something. And where the hell was the lady going to pee? She’d have to get her own damn chamber pot. He glanced over at the annex doorway, then froze at the scene before his eyes. Lady Strathmore had taken a candle stub into the little room with her. The light cast her shadow against the curtain, practically sheer from age and wear. Her hands loosened the laces of her stays behind her back, then she lifted the boned garment off her body and twisted around to place it on the floor. The flame of the candle flickered before she came back into focus against the curtain, this time only wearing her shift, the outline of her very feminine body clearly defined. She arched her back ever so slightly as she raised her arms above her head to toy with her hair, shaking it loose until it tumbled down her back. Sam’s body grew warm in response to his now rampant cock. He had to look away, he had to, but he couldn’t.

Until she blew out the light.

All through the night, Lady Strathmore tormented him in his dreams, until he woke with a start, wanting so much to frig himself, aching to spend. He couldn’t, of course, not with her right there. She would hear, wouldn’t she? He resigned himself to being frustrated tomorrow. Pat would get an earful at the very least.

Chapter Twelve

The women said nothing to Clara the next morning. Yet they must have known something was amiss once they saw her changing out of her silk dress, then discovered she did not spend the night in their dorm and a sentinel had been stationed outside Captain Taylor’s door. If anyone asked, she would admit that there
was
a war going on and she
was
the wife of the enemy, and that perhaps the captain had received intelligence that necessitated the guarding of the fort’s guest.

Clara picked up her mending, inspecting it with a curious look as she joined the sewing circle. The breeches and shirts were not just torn from soldiering, they were threadbare.

“It’s difficult to keep our men in uniform, Lady Clara,” explained Martha.

“In fact, we really don’t have uniforms at all,” interjected Abby. “Which I suppose is good as we can make whatever it is the men need in whatever color we happen to have.”

Clara was a little perplexed, so the women explained. The occupation of New York by the British necessitated the development of cottage industries as imports could rarely get through, if at all. Weaving homespun cloth of wool and hemp not only helped keep the New York regiments in shirts and tents, it helped the women who lived at the fort to earn their keep.

“Only officers’ wives are allowed to be on the official army ration,” said Martha. “Those of us what have soldiers can share in their victuals. It’s especially hard if there’s a baby on the way.” She nodded at Susie, who was busily spinning hemp. Martha leaned in. “Many of us lost our homes and even our loved ones when the redcoats invaded New York,” she said in a low voice. “This fort is our home now, so we do what we can to help out and the army gives us room and board.”

Clara felt a queasiness in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t given much thought to the colonists who had been displaced because of the war. She now sat amongst them, listening to them chatter away about what role they played in their fight for independence. By “helping out,” it seemed, Martha really meant practically running the fort. Not only did the women mend and make clothing and tents, they worked in the hospital, gardened and cooked, tended the pigs, cows, and chickens, cleaned the common areas and officers’ quarters, and did the laundry.

“Our own Mrs. Scott maintains discipline among the girls,” said Martha, once again speaking quietly. “She doesn’t allow drunkenness, and no whoring, although the girls can be sweet on a soldier.”

“You do so much,” Clara said with awe. “What is it that the men do?” It was a bold question in the heart of a rebel garrison, but Clara was genuinely curious.

Martha laughed softly. “Well, I don’t suppose I should tell you all as you just might tell your husband. We gather and distribute supplies for the militia and the regular army.”

“And the men go out on scouting missions,” Abby added. “They survey the terrain and build bridges.” She suddenly flushed crimson. “That’s what Andrew told me.”

“Abby!” exclaimed Martha with a smile. “Andrew Ross? He’s a nice one, he is.”

Abby leaned in. “But he says some of the men want field action. They want to fight. They think they’re not doing enough for the war. Some of ’em are even bored.” She sat back in her chair. “If you ask me, what we do is awfully important. And I don’t want my Andrew getting shot full of holes. And if any of ’em is bored he can help me do the washing!”

Susie got up from her spinning with a sigh and padded over to the mending area, her hand on her belly. She looked over Clara’s shoulder. “You certainly know what you are doing, Lady Clara,” she said sweetly. She stood there for a moment, admiring Clara’s work, before she asked, “How long have you been in the colonies?”

Clara looked up, and offered a smile. “About a year, I suppose.”

“Do you like it here?” asked Abby with heartfelt enthusiasm. “I mean, is it as nice here as it is in England?”

“Well, the two places are so very different.” It was the most gracious thing to say.

“Do you think women have more rights in England?” Martha blurted.

Clara was taken aback by the question. “I really don’t know.” It was something she had never considered.

“Women have no rights anywhere,” Mrs. Scott boomed, walking in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “We feed and clothe our men, give them babies, and they take us for granted. Like the African slaves, except they don’t keep us in chains. Don’t none of you think they’re fighting this revolution for
you
r freedom.” She nodded at Clara. “When it’s all over, we and our European sisters can start our own revolt.”

“But the rich have more rights, don’t they?” asked Abby. She turned to Clara. “Isn’t it better for titled women in England?”

“So, if we were all rich we would have rights?” retorted Martha. “I don’t think that’s true, Abby. We’re still women.”

The conversation gave Clara pause. She had never felt she lacked rights at home—until, of course, she got married. Her marriage was forced upon her. “I will admit that I don’t want for anything. I have good food, fine dresses, even jewelry. But I did not make my own choice for marriage,” she confessed. “I simply could not have. My father and brother made the choice for me.”

There was a brief moment of silence, before Mrs. Scott asked, “And do you love the man, dear?”

No one had ever asked her that question before. Love was irrelevant for her class. What she felt for Paul was definitely love. There was not a shred of the sentiment in her relationship with the general. “We have nothing in common, really,” she said evasively. “He’s so much older than I.”

Mrs. Scott stood with her hands on her hips. “Like I said, we have more work to be done once this war is over. And you girls have mending to do to keep our patriot men out of rags.”

“Ooh, look at those elegant stitches!” Abby exclaimed, examining Clara’s work.

The other girls looked over. “Your sewing is much too fancy for this lot,” said a young blond woman mending a tear in a soldier’s breeches. The women laughed.

“Maybe you can mend the captain’s clothes, then,” said Martha. She caught Clara’s eye and winked.

Clara flushed. “I can certainly teach you—” A sudden pain gripped her lower right. She doubled over with a groan.

Martha was instantly at her side. “Lady Clara, what’s wrong?”

“There’s a pain in my side … in my belly.”

“Is it your courses?”

Clara blinked back tears. It seemed a little soon. Paul had told her to not expect her body to return to normal for a while. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

“The medicines and herbs are kept in the hospital,” explained Martha. “Come, let me take you there.”

The hospital, across the courtyard from the women’s rooms, was another large dormitory with curtains separating the beds. Only a few of the beds were occupied by soldiers. Martha left Clara in the capable hands of Jenny, the nurse—really a midwife—on duty, who put Clara in a cot, gave her an herbal tea for her pains, a towel for the bleeding in case she should start, then closed the curtains around her.

Clara lay on the cot contemplating the women’s conversation and wishing very much she were in the little annex room upstairs reading one of Captain Taylor’s books in solitude. The commotion of a couple of newly arrived wounded militia men gave her the chance. Slipping out of the hospital was as easy as slipping out of the women’s dorm. She silently made her way up the wooden staircase conveniently situated right outside, then slunk down along the covered corridor to the captain’s door. She quietly and slowly lifted the latch and went in.

She breathed a sigh of relief at finding the room empty. She hadn’t thought until that very moment what she would say if the captain had been present and working. He had been gruff with her that morning, so much so she had had to leave as soon as she was dressed to wash her face in the women’s dorm.

She went to the bookcase and searched along the spines. She was not in the mood for Caesar so she picked one she had never heard of.
Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure
was a slim, leather-bound volume. She opened to the title page, where she beheld an inscription in a masculine hand:

Sam, I sold my soul to the Devil for this one. Enjoy! And I’ll see you in Hell. —Paul

Paul? Paul Bridgers?
Thoroughly intrigued, she took the thin book to her cot in her little room and began to read.

The
Memoir
was written by a girl a little younger than herself, but with a far more vigorous and enterprising spirit. Clara had never read such a story! Fanny Hill’s adventures were of such voluptuousness Clara had to glance around to ensure she was actually alone. Her body heated as Fanny was seduced by a woman, her ire raised when Fanny’s virginity was offered to a man far too old for her, her sex tingled and swelled as Fanny awakened to the pleasures a man could bestow upon a woman.

Clara shifted on the cot trying to relieve the wet tightness between her legs, only managing to arouse herself further. She pulled her cloak around her shoulders and leaned against the cold stone wall, her legs splayed open and crossed. When Fanny opened the parlor door to see a beautiful, sleeping youth, an idea sparked in Clara’s mind that she could touch herself as she read, a thought dismissed quickly. The pleasures of the mind were far more respectable than the sins of the flesh. Better to be caught reading an immoral story than to be caught assuaging one’s lust. Whatever would the captain think if he happened upon her in such a state? Clara smiled. Perhaps he would—

The door to the captain’s quarters crashed open.

She jumped, flattening herself against the wall, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure whoever had just entered could hear it. She peeked through a tear in the annex curtain.

Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Hamilton entered the bedroom with a clandestine air. The lieutenant bolted the door as the captain stripped off his jacket and threw it on the bed, clearly cross and irritable, muttering about that “blasted woman,” as the lieutenant countered with “Sam, Sam,” and soothed him with calming words. Clara could not quite hear what they were saying but she was certain she was the topic of conversation.

Suddenly, the captain pushed the lieutenant against the wall and took him in a violent kiss. Clara froze.
Two men kissing?
She had never heard of such a thing. The men tore at each other hungrily, stripping off clothes, biting, clawing, licking each other like animals in heat, until, finally, they stood completely naked, and simply pressed themselves together in a tangle of arms, their mouths and tongues still teasing tenderly.