**
It snowed in mid-February. The temperature had dropped from discomfort to misery for the soldiers. During the day, and usually well into the evening, Deborah scrambled to care for the seemingly endless stream of soldiers with winter’s illnesses: lung inflammations, head colds, and all the rest.
In addition, the number of burns went up: a baby, put too close to the fire for warmth, died. Deborah cried herself to sleep because something about her own body told her that things were different. She pressed the secret, the hope, to her breast. It wasn’t something to share yet, she told herself. After all, her courses weren’t due for a couple of days. But, still, something was different. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was a feeling…
**
And so the time went. She wrote to her parents. That was an even more difficult letter than the one to her new mother-in-law. She’d spent several days thinking about what she wanted to say to them and how she wanted to say it. Deborah knew that her mother would cry for joy at her daughter’s happiness, for sadness at missing the wedding, and just because it was incontrovertible proof that her baby had grown up. Her brothers, especially Adam, would be more suspicious, trying to read between the lines to see if she had been coerced or dishonored. They were brothers, after all. Her father, though, her father…she didn’t know what her father would do. He was a romantic, at heart. Many times she’d thought of him as an apple pie: crusty on the outside, sweet and gooey on the inside. He wanted all things good and happy for his children, but he was still a hard-nosed, bull-whacking, Continental general, besides being a father. She could only hope.
Kit knew she was going to write them, but something told her that perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to advertise her family’s direction when the good Col. Tarleton could get his hands on it. Sarah could provide a more secure courier.
Several times Deborah dragged Mr. Thompson into Camden. The first time she just called for the carriage, thinking to go by herself. He got wind of it and caught up with her as she left the house grounds.
“Now look ‘ere, yer ladyship. Ye know the Colonel wants me with you iffing ye leave t’ camp. Don’ be goin’ and makin’ me ‘unt for ye, if ye please.”
Deborah didn’t know many people in Camden. Those who wanted to know her, she didn’t want to have anything to do with. As a result, she spent the great majority of her time at the store, getting in the way, asking questions, taking up space, and wanting more of her friend’s time than Sarah could afford and still run a business.
So, Sarah acquired a new shop girl. Those who knew the truth thought it a marvel that a countess should wait on customers. Sarah didn’t complain, since her profits rose on those days Deborah came in. Deborah enjoyed having a little pin money to call her very own, even though the local banker confirmed that she didn’t need it.
The day after she finished her parents’ letter, Deborah tucked her it securely in her pocket before setting out for Camden.
Up in Sarah’s office, Deborah reached inside her skirt and found the pocket with its contents. “Can you see that this gets to my family in Virginia? I’m not comfortable sending it through British channels. Col. Tarleton knows how to carry a mighty big grudge, and I’d just as soon not provide him with another target.”
Sarah leaned back in her chair, a wry smile playing across her mouth. “I can get it there, may take a little time, though. I don’t have a regular postal service.” She took the packet and placed it in a small drawer on top of the desk. “So, you’ve decided that the British aren’t all sweetness and light.”
“No, indeed they aren’t.”
“I still can’t believe you let that skunk’s belly talk you into marrying him!”
“Sarah, please…”
“Sarah, please…” Sarah mimicked. Her look spoke of an admixture of disgust and disappointment. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just think you’ve gotten yourself into something you’ll regret in the not-too-distant someday.” She strode the two steps to the small window and peered out of the tiny pane. “As your friend, I feel I have to do something to save you.”
“But Sarah,” Deborah laughed, “I don’t want to be saved.”
“Yes, well,” she turned and took a deep breath. “Let’s get to work. Would you get the pans organized? Mistress Barnes pawed through them yesterday, and they’re a disaster.”
“Of course.” She was relieved that the confrontation with her friend had ended so easily.
**
After Deborah left the office, Sarah took the letter out of its drawer. Turning once more to the window, she tapped the missive thoughtfully on the palm of her hand for a few moments. After reaching a decision, she sat down at the desk, pulled a paper towards her, and dipped her quill in the ink well.
**
In truth, that evening, Deborah felt a little guilty about not sharing her news with her best friend. However, she felt firmly that the father had a right to know first. The feeling that she’d had about her body being different, oh how right that had been. As soon as her feet had hit the floor the next morning, she‘d experienced what her mother had delicately called morning sickness. She hoped the next nine months wouldn’t follow this pattern.
After supper, she would begin the letter to Kit to tell him that around the first of November, he would be a father. He would be such a good father. She hugged the knowledge to herself and went downstairs to eat for two.
The table was even sparser than usual. The newest lieutenant, Collings by name, was out on patrol, being commanded by his much senior officer, Lt. Harvey.
Halfway through the meal, a soldier entered. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” he addressed Major Smythe as the senior officer present, “dispatches arrived.”
Smythe held out his hand. In addition to the single fat packet that he expected, there was a smaller letter. “Ah, my dear Lady Westridge, this is addressed to you.” He made a production of going around the table to hand the letter to her with a bow. “I trust Lord Westridge is in good health.”
Deborah nearly gagged. Smythe, who generally ignored her, had metamorphosized into a solicitously polite, obligingly unctuous sycophant. She’d liked him better when he pretended she was part of the furniture. “Thank you, I’m sure he is.” Smythe waited expectantly for her to open the letter, and her fingers itched to do so, but she slipped it into her pocket. Some things were not for sharing.
**
Upstairs, she smoothed the letter on her lap. Even the feel of Kit’s words were comforting. She hopped that her remark to Smythe was correct.
My dearest wife, I pray this finds you well. I am saddle-sore, but unharmed. Our mission
reminds me of chasing a mouse in a barn. We followed Greene and his troops to Danville,
but he seems to have doubled back on us. We continue to look. One piece of news I’m sure
you will be interested in, our informants tell us that General Morgan has left the Continental
army because of his health. I know you worry about that, but I’m sure you are relieved to
have him out of the action. I, too, am glad not to have to face my father-in-law on the field
of combat. The courier has my direction. In haste, but with all my love, Kit.
The messenger would be leaving in the morning, so she set to work telling Kit of the joyous news, as well as the more mundane events of the last month.
**
Deborah settled back into the routine of doctoring, working with Sarah, sewing and knitting, and trying not to expire from boredom. Sarah had taken the news of her pregnancy with joy, but with a strange overlay of alarm. Surely, Deborah wondered, a half-British, half-American child was not an unusual thing. She dismissed Sarah’s worry and set to folding the pile of towels.
**
Days turned into weeks and February turned into March. A fortnight into March, a post rider delivered news. The Continental Congress had approved something called The Articles of Confederation. Details were ske
tchy, since the messenger didn’t have an actual copy of the document, but it was obvious that a major change in the relationship of Britain and her American colonies had occurred.
The officers in camp walked around with grim faces for a few days. Deborah struggled to maintain a neutral air.
In another ten days, a dispatch rider raced into camp. News of a battle wafted through the camp, even before he had a chance to hand Deborah the letter.
The 16th of March---Dearest—Engaged Greene at Guilford Courthouse. Uninjured. We held
the field. K.
**
The next day, Tarleton road into camp. He was not in a good mood. Deborah sat sewing in the parlor when she heard him stomp into the house.
“Later, Smythe. All I want to know now is where Marshall’s whore is.” He burst open the doors to the parlor.
Behind him, Smythe snickered, “Ah, Colonel…”
“What, you simpering fool?”
“May I present Lady Westridge?”
Deborah put down her sewing and stood, just as Tarleton took one more step, hauled up and rounded on the major. “What did you say?” Each word held a knife cut.
Smythe reveled in his moment and bowed to Deborah over Tarleton’s shoulder. “Our little Mistress Morgan married our dear Kit, only to find that his father and brother’s deaths have left him Earl of Westridge. Hence…our new Countess.”
“Countess, my left nut!” snarled Tarleton.
Mr. Thomson barreled in from the servants’ area and skidded to a halt in the doorway. A quick look told him the situation, and he saluted the officers. Then, addressing Deborah, he said, “Begging yer pardon, m’lady. I ‘ad me hands full when ye sent fur me.”
Deborah understood what was expected of her. “Thank you, Mr. Thomson. I had been planning to go into Camden, but I think Col. Tarleton may have other plans.”
“Bloody right! Fix this!” The Colonel shoved his right hand at her.
In all the commotion, she hadn’t noticed the blood-soaked bandage around it. “Follow me.” She led the way, with Tarleton spouting questions and curses in equal measure. In the kitchen, she pointed to the same bench where Isaac Montgomery sat so many…was it only a few months…ago? She smiled to herself as Tarleton plopped on the seat. When she chose a knife from the side board and tested its blade, he pulled his pistol from his belt with his good hand.
Gently placing the knife back on the side board, she folded her arms and leaned against the table. “If you don’t want me to treat you, all you have to do is say so. No dramatics are needed.”
“Like I’ve got any choice?” he snarled.
“Of course you do. You can go into town to Dr. Garden. I’m sure he’ll take care of you. He’s a confirmed Tory and only an hour or so away.”
Deborah studied his ashen face for a long moment. He was near the end of his tether. The pistol dropped, and the muscles in his cheek twitched. He was at the end, and he didn’t like it.
“Do it.”
She picked up the knife again. The pistol popped up. “I can cut the knot of the bandage quickly and easily or I can tug and pull it to untie it. Your choice.”
The pistol dropped again.
Deborah studied him and said, “Major Smythe, would you be so kind as to hold the pistol for the Colonel. If I injure him deliberately, you may, of course, shoot me, but I’d rather not have him do it accidentally.”
Smythe chuckled, and Tarleton mumbled, “Bitch.”
Deborah took Tarleton’s right hand and quickly sliced through the bandage knot. She could feel him trembling. “Mr. Thomson, come around in back of him and hold his arm for me, please.” She put her palm on Tarleton’s forehead, and he jerked back into the sergeant’s belly. “Be still, I’m looking for signs of fever.” She felt his cheeks. They were not the hot or clammy cold she feared. Gently, she unwrapped the bandage. The bloody stumps of his last two fingers greeted her. Objectively, they didn’t look bad. “What did this?”
Tarleton erupted, “Your bloody rebel bastards, you lack wit.”
Struggling to control her own rising temper, she asked again, “Was this from a bullet?”
“No, a sword.”
“Umm.” That was good. A sharp sword cut cleaner than a bullet, which tended to shatter bone. The flesh was angry, but not unduly so. The lack of red streaking up his hand was encouraging, at least from a healing point of view. However, the clean end gave her precious little extra skin to sew closed. “Major, I’m going to need several more men; a large quantity of strong spirits; and two tweezers, needle, and thread from the clinic tent.”
Chapter 20
Scamp needed a walk. He jumped up and down. “Mommy, I need a walk.” She could almost hear him. The mid-March weather was brutal, and the setting sun offered only a modicum of warmth. Sighing, she put aside her book and grabbed her cloak and the leash.
**
Scamp ran out of the house like a racehorse. Promptly baptizing the first bush on the walkway, he barked at her and trotted off down the main road of the camp. She passed the stand of bay trees, now in bloom. Spring, the season of sneezes and watery eyes, would soon be upon them. In the meantime, the day was just cold. Deborah pulled her cloak around herself. Even with her longer stride, it was hard work to keep up with the dog’s short, churning legs.
The dull, almost imperceptible roar that could only be horses’ hooves alerted her to the possibility of a canine-equine disaster. “Scamp, come!” The puppy stopped, turned, and barked. Then he continued on up the road. “He minds just like my brothers,” she muttered. She hurried after him, the sound of horses increasing in her ears. “Scamp, come,” she roared in her best imitation of her father at his most commanding.
Scamp stopped again, but this time he began to trot back towards her. He looked back, but she focused on getting the leash onto him.
“Finally!” She looped her fingers into his collar and bent to fasten the leash. Scamp barked as the horsemen came into view. She glanced up. A moment’s stare and the leash fell from her hands. She lifted her skirts to sprint down the road.
Kit rode at the head of the detachment.
He spurred his horse. The animal shied a bit when he hauled up on it in front of her, but it slowed enough for him to dismount. He closed the few feet between them and grabbed her up as she ran into him. She threw her arms around his neck as he twirled her around. Her skirts sailed out around them like a cloud. Nothing was more wonderful than the feel of his body next to hers. He was dirty and smelled of horse and sweat and his days-old beard threatened to rub her face raw. Still, she was so happy she started to cry.
**
Her skirts settled as he lowered her to her feet. Kit released her enough to frame her face with his hands and kiss her. If he was a starving man then she was the finest of feasts. He gorged himself on her, gulping huge gobbets of her essence until the raging hunger within him began to ease. He knew the hunger would never cease, but starvation is a fearsome thing. His mouth left hers and started to nibble across her face. He tasted tears. He’d seen enough happy tears on his mother’s face to know what they were, but he still asked.
“What are these, sweetest? I told you I was unharmed.” He brushed an errant hair from her face and kissed the end of her nose.
He held her away from his body and hesitantly touched her belly. “A baby?” His voice held wonder and joy. She nodded and placed her hands over his. Troops streamed by them as they stood there. Neither noticed.
With the gnawing ache in his heart moving towards satisfaction, if not quite satiation, Kit began to notice the rest of the world. In particular, he realized that he couldn’t hear much except Scamp’s frantic barking. About the same time he felt the scratch of dog nails on his pants leg as the puppy frantically jumped up and down in his bid for attention.
“Yes, Scamp, I’m glad to see you, too.” He bent to pick Scamp up and got a face full of dog tongue for his pains. Laughing, Kit grabbed his wife around the waist with his free h
and. “Let’s go home.”
**
“’Od’s Blood.”
Deborah figured that Tarleton was moistened just enough to remove the superficial layer of courtesy with which he usually veiled himself. He’d consumed a prodigious quantity of various spirits, but until just recently he hadn’t overstepped propriety. She feared that situation would not continue.
The prior week, Tarleton brought his Green Dragoons into Camden after a patrol. They sheltered-out a late winter storm and proceeded to make themselves comfortable. Over that time, Tarleton’s words and behavior had gotten worse and worse. He was barely tolerable in Kit’s presence. In Kit’s absence, he was vile. Deborah avoided being alone with him at all costs.
“A colonial chit! Any i...dea wha’ people er gon’ say. ‘Spect North mide even have you ar…rested fer treason.”
For some reason he seemed to find that funny and burst into laughter. He tossed back the better part of a goblet of wine and signaled Rogers for more. “Ges think of it The new Earl of Wes…tridge an’ ‘is new Countess rotting in the Tower of London. ‘Course,” he leered at Smythe who assiduously studied the curve of his wine glass, “he can wine away the hours getting ‘tween ‘er legs an’ fuckin’ up new little traitors.”
Deborah watched Kit toy with the blade of his dinner knife. From the far end of the table, she knew there was little she could do, even though she’d managed once or twice to catch his eye and shake of her head.
Tarleton looked down the table to where Harvey crushed his napkin with the effort of holding his tongue. “Wha’ ‘bout you, Harvey, like to get between her legs, lad?”
Harvey was only sixteen, but generations of manners, and polite set-downs, had been bred into him. “Sir,” he spoke slowly and deliberately, “Invidious invective from an inebriated reprobate merits only disparagement.”