The General’s Wife: An American Revolutionary Tale (7 page)

Not so the man opposite. He grappled roughly with Annabella until she was enveloped underneath his voluminous cloak, then pulled his arms through the sleeves and inside their private tent. He forced her legs open amidst her struggles and cries, subduing her with a harsh utterance in her ear. She surrendered, slackening against his body, letting him manhandle her, screwing her eyes shut against the assault, her whimpers quickly turning to agitated breaths.

Alarm coursed through Clara. She renewed her struggles, but her captor gripped her more tightly. “Unhand her, you brute,” she hissed, her voice shaking.

Her captor clamped his hand on her mouth to silence her. All she could do was stare with abhorrence at the monster opposite. From under his hood his eyes pierced hers with loathing. His eyes … a striking shade of blue-green. Only one man had such color eyes.

Her breath hitched in her throat.

Redmond.
It was Redmond who ravished Annabella.

She tried to look away, but could not, thoroughly transfixed by the lascivious scene, Annabella’s expression a mirror to the pleasure elicited by her lover, a pleasure Clara barely knew herself. At Clara’s side, the heat rose in her captor’s body, radiating through her. He shifted in his seat, the movement exposing the wet fullness of her sex. His breathing was ragged, an aural accompaniment to Annabella’s moans. Unwittingly, Clara’s breaths synced with his, their chests rising and falling in unison, as if they too were joined intimately.

Annabella’s yelp of ecstasy shot right to Clara’s core.

She flushed in chagrin, hyper-aware of the closeness of the coach, and that her captor sat aroused at her side. He removed his hand from her mouth, brushing her cheek reverently before he resumed his grip of her shoulder, as if a caress after love-making.

Clara shuddered in shame.

* * * * *

They drove all day. Clara’s body cramped with the tension of trying not to lean against the man holding her, to not renew their unexpected intimacy. They did not even stop for relief and she feared the dampness on her under-petticoat was not just sweat. It was thoroughly barbaric.

As dusk turned to night, they pulled into the drive of what was apparently the kidnapper’s intended destination, a well-maintained two-story wooden house, rather elegant with six-over-nine pane windows. A still-masked Redmond carried Annabella to the front door, while the driver carried her traveling box. Clara and her captor waited in the coach in silence. With the end of their journey imminent, his muscles relaxed as his breathing evened, so she took the opportunity to shift slightly to relieve her discomfort.

The driver returned and took his position. As they drove away, Clara saw a candle flicker in an upstairs window. Annabella and Redmond would be having a reunion of sorts.

Minutes later, the carriage stopped before a small cottage with a steeply pitched roof and large chimney. In case she had the urge to run, which she certainly did not, her captor flashed his gun as she was helped out of the coach by the driver. Once on the ground, her kidnapper picked her up and carried her in his arms. Before them, the driver opened the door to the little house, then went about lighting candles. Clara’s captor put her down and motioned with his gun for her to sit in a wingback. She did so immediately, then surveyed the tiny space. One wall was almost entirely taken up by an enormous hearth, well-used, with a black pot hung inside. The driver knelt to start a fire. Along the walls were shelves and cupboards. The room was obviously a kitchen, but one with a large bed placed in a corner.

The fire lit, both men stepped outside for a minute and conversed in low tones. Her captor stepped back inside, keeping his eyes on her. The driver returned shortly, carrying her traveling box, then left. As her captor locked the door, the coach pulled away, the crunch of wheels on gravel and the jangling of harness and axle disappearing into the distance, leaving only the crackle of the growing fire to fill the void.

Clara’s gut clenched. She had never been left alone with a man other than her husband or brother. It was unseemly, more so given the scene they had witnessed earlier that day.

He stood at the hearth with his back to her and removed his cloak and hood. He let out a heavy exhalation. “I am so sorry to have frightened you, Lady Strathmore.”

Mr. Bridgers?

Clara balked at the familiar voice, then jumped up when he turned around. Disheveled from his hooded mask, bedraggled from the ride, his brow twisted in remorse, he was still the handsome, gallant object of her fantasies.

Her fantasies. She had just been in his arms for the better part of the day. Confusion agitated her senses, mixed with a bit of relief and excitement. For some unknown reason, Mr. Bridgers had abducted her, Redmond had abducted Annabella, and both men were now alone with their respective captives. She had entertained many imaginary scenarios of being alone with Mr. Bridgers, but this one was playing out too roughly for her tastes. A man had been murdered, for God’s sake.

“Mr. Bridgers, please, what is going on? What is this place?”

He sighed as he hung up his garments near the door. “Until a few days ago it was a very profitable brothel.” He sounded disappointed.

“A brothel?” She never imagined such an establishment would resemble the estate of a gentleman farmer.

“Annabella and Redmond are in the main house. This is the kitchen.” He peered inside the pot next to the fire, then swung it over the flames. “I had it built separately as clients do not always like the smell of food while they are, uh, being diverted.”

Clara eyed him incredulously. “You? This is your property?”
A brothel?
“I had no idea.” Her back twinged in pain. She sat down.

“And as for what is going on, I have had it with your husband, to put it bluntly. He owes me quite a sum of money.”

“My husband?” Clara said vacantly. “He owes you money for supplies?”

“No.”

It took but a moment for the information to sink in. “My husband would never go to a brothel.”

Mr. Bridgers said nothing.

Clara stared at him. “No,” she said hoarsely, shaking her head.

“I will tell you one thing, my lady. Over the last year the general has never come to the house on a Wednesday.”

Her hand flew to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, God!”

“I’m so sorry to have to be the one to tell you this,” he said, genuinely apologetic. He drew in a long breath. “One of my girls has certain specialties which General Strathmore enjoys. She’s my best girl.”

“What do you mean by ‘specialties’?” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

“She’s very good at oral copulation and enjoys participating in erotic flogging.”

She gaped as tears trickled down her cheeks. “Pardon?”

The color rose in his cheeks. “Uh, she pleasures his prick with her mouth until he spends his seed. After that he is aroused again by controlling her. Usually she is tied up and he whips her.”

Such a thing sounded preposterous. “No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “That can’t possibly be.”

“I regret to tell you it is true. Several days ago, he came in with four other officers, two colonels and two Hessians. They wanted Constance—that’s her name—they wanted her services. After they left she was barely alive.” He cleared his throat. “My lady, your husband not only owes me a thousand guineas for our services here, he almost killed my best girl. He is a rake, a scoundrel, a liar, and a cheat, and I intend to disabuse him of the notion that he can continue to treat others in such a horrendous manner.”

The room spun slightly as she tried to comprehend all that she had heard, suddenly remembering Annabella’s confession that morning of her fears regarding the Hessian driver. The general was a blackguard and, it seemed, surrounded himself with the same. “He cares naught for me, you know.”

“Yes, my lady, I do know that,” he concurred. “It is unfortunate and, for that, he does not deserve you. However, he does care about the child you carry.”

“Yes, of course,” she said sullenly.

“In a few days Redmond will release Annabella with a ransom note. Ethan—my boy-of-all-work Ethan Pitt was the driver in this whole affair—will leave her somewhere near Chesterton. Annabella will not be told that I am behind the scheme, nor will she know where she has been kept. If Strathmore tortures her she can reveal nothing.”

“Torture! My husband would not torture her!” she blurted.

“Pardon me, my lady, but you do not know what General Strathmore is capable of.”

Apparently Clara did not know anything about her husband, and it was beginning to sound like she was better off being the captive of Mr. Bridgers. Yet, something did not seem right about the plan. “But if my husband comes here as frequently as you say he does, might he not appear unexpectedly?”

Mr. Bridgers nodded. “I’ve sent word out that we have shut down for some renovation work needed before the snows come. We’ve done that before, so it will not seem so unusual.”

The fire popped and crackled against the stillness of the night.

“The house looked empty. Are the—”
what did one call them?
“—girls there now?” Clara flushed just saying the word.

He inhaled deeply. “I’ve got a friend with a house farther up the Hudson River. They’ve been sent there and they’ll all continue to work. Except for Constance. She’ll be well-looked after, though.” He leaned on the mantel and stared into the fire.

“And Redmond? What is his part in this plan?”

“He came here looking for work last week sometime. He also holds quite a grudge against the general.” He quickly glanced in her direction, then returned to contemplating the flames. “Your husband has been abusing Annabella.”

“Oh, God.” She knew she had married a brute, but that was unconscionable. She sank farther in her chair. Her back complained.

“That Hessian, your driver, he was involved in the abuse.” He caught her eye. “Perhaps you can see it was easy for Redmond to kill the man.”

The web of plots and plans, of deceit and violence, was terribly unsettling. Could she trust Mr. Bridgers? She had to. She couldn’t trust her husband, as if she ever did. The room stopped spinning but instead grew warm, too warm, flushing her skin with prickling heat. She was still wearing her heavy cloak. “Mr. Bridgers,” she said quietly, “are we to stay here? Will there be more traveling? May I remove my cloak?”

Mr. Bridgers started. “Oh, my lady, I am sorry. Yes, please.”

She shook out her cloak and went to hang it next to his.

“And you must be half-starved.” He went to a cupboard on the wall opposite the hearth, the wall containing the bed. “We have a meat pie already baked for tonight,” he said over his shoulder. “I hope you don’t—”

He did not finish his sentence. He stared at her with a noticeably panicked expression.

“Mr. Bridgers?”

He ran to her and took her hands. “My lady … your gown … there’s blood.”

Clara grabbed her skirts and twisted around to look. Near her buttocks and thighs against the bright yellow of the silk was a large red stain, the edges dried brown. It was much worse than the spots she had seen that morning. “Oh, God!”

She fell to her knees.

* * * * *

“Lady Strathmore,” Paul said, gently shaking her by the arms.

She did not respond. She wobbled on her knees as she clutched at her skirt.

“Lady Strathmore,” he tried again. “My lady … look at me, please.” He cupped her face, forcing her to look up at him. “I fear you are losing your child.”

She sank down farther, covering her face with her hands. “Oh, God, no, no, no.”

Paul glanced around the room frantically. He usually kept supplies in every room in order to presuppose his clients’ every need.
There must be towels. Yes … the lower cupboard to the left of the hearth … near the door … easy to replenish.

He grabbed the towels from the cupboard, went to the bed, and flung back the covers. He laid the towels on the bed three thick and doubled. He turned toward Lady Strathmore. She would have to get out of her clothes. Into a nightdress, maybe. No. Better to have her remain in her already soiled shift.
Christ!
He hadn’t thought this far ahead.

She’s not one of the whores. She is simply not going to do this in my presence.

He knelt down beside her. “Lady Strathmore, I need you to listen to me. I am going to turn my back while I make you a tea—a tea to relieve your pain—and I need you to—” Paul inhaled deeply “—I need you to take off your clothes, I mean only to your shift. You have another, do you not?”

She roused herself. “Yes, yes. In my box.” She took his arm as he helped her stand.

They stood for a moment facing each other, her forehead furrowed with anxiety or fear. Probably both.

“I’ll need help with my stays,” she said.

“I’ll unlace them. I’ve done it before.” The second he said it, Paul cringed. He quickly went to the cupboards near the hearth, searching the stock of herbs for the right remedies, pulling down the needed jars, gathering cups and spoons, mumbling the ingredients. The sounds of her undressing were unusually loud, and he tried to make as much noise as possible. He checked the kettle. The water was boiling, so he swung the pot out, perhaps with too much enthusiasm, splashing a bit on the brick floor.

“I need your help now.”

Her voice was plaintive, her need for him arousing. Paul tamped down his desires and turned slowly. Her back was to him. She had stripped to her under-petticoat. If she hadn’t been still half-dressed as such, Paul was not sure what he would have done. He unlaced her stays, trying desperately to keep his trembling hands from touching her body. The temptation was driving him insane.

“All finished, my lady,” he said with an unexpected sultry tone. The words did not come out as he intended.

“Thank you,” was all she said.

“When you are ready, my lady, please lie on the bed over the towels and draw up the covers.” He turned his back to her once again to attend to the teas.

He prepared three tonics: willow bark to relieve cramps, valerian to do the same and help her sleep, and bitter wormwood with honey to quicken the release of the fetus. He knew the recipes for relief by heart. How many times had he done this for his girls? Relief for menstrual cramps was to be expected, but too many of the girls lost count of their days, or forgot to take carota seeds after intercourse, or forgot to use a pessary. Too many times Paul had had to end an unplanned pregnancy.