The Colonel's Lady

  In half an hour’s time, she’d heated enough water to turn the rain barrel under the eave into a fine bath. Abby thrashed about in the tub, covered with soapy bubbles, her hair a wet ruby red. She’d recently lost a front tooth, which made her dimpled smile all the more winsome. For the first time since their meeting, Roxanna was almost glad the girl was mute. At least there’d be no fielding curious questions . . .

  Why are all the soldiers hurrying so? Why are big buzzards circling above? Where is Colonel McLinn?

  Roxanna took ample time scrubbing her head, not once but twice, picking at the little scalp beforehand. When she was done, the comb slid through the clean, tangle-free curls, and Roxanna threaded a rose ribbon throughout. She was rewarded with a tight hug.

  “Would you like me to read you a story, Abby? I have Aesop’s Fables in my trunk.” Roxanna knelt and began scrubbing Abby’s soiled dress in the bathwater before wringing it out to dry. “I’ll make us some tea first.”

  Abby nodded and went to fetch Sukey out of Roxanna’s sewing basket, then rocked the doll by the hearth. The tea made and drunk, the two of them settled in the rocking chair. With Abby on her lap, Roxanna began to read but could hardly push the words past the knot in her throat. Within moments, Bella came, expression grim. Seeing Abby, she left without a word.

  “There goes an old story of a Country-Mouse . . .”

  As she read, her mind kept returning to the river. Why such carnage? What had the surviving poleman given Cass that he’d tucked in his coat?

  “She visited a City-Sister of hers . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as she realized Abby had fallen asleep in her arms. The suddenly still room invited unwanted thoughts. She kept rocking, waiting for a knock or summons at her door. But no one need come and tell her she’d not be going upriver. The facts were plain. Civilization was now beyond her reach. She was locked within the Kentucke territory. There would be no abandoning Fort Endeavor. Yet she felt . . . nothing. Not dismay. Not relief.

  Only emptiness.

  31

  Everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells, Roxanna included. Even at this early hour, headquarters was stifling, the stench of sweat overwhelming. She tried not to think that she might have been well on her way to Philadelphia by now, a replacement scrivener occupying her Windsor chair. But the man who’d been sent to relieve her had been on the ransacked keelboat and was now buried on the hill. She didn’t even know his name.

  As she finished sifting sand over a document that told of a change in strategy and timing for the coming campaign, she wondered if it was just a ruse to confuse the elusive spy. The men of Fort Endeavor would soon march north, so the dictation read, and invade the middle ground far earlier than planned. Simply penning the words sent a chill up her spine and blunted her anger. If she was ever inclined to believe men reaped what they sowed, the coming conflict was to be Cass’s punishment in spades for killing her father.

  Stopping the inkpot, she darted a glance at him. There was no denying the strain he was under. Though his handsome face failed to betray a hint of unease, she sensed his deep distress. He was perusing maps with his officers, and Micajah’s foot was rat-a-tat-tatting in a nervous rhythm that set her teeth on edge.

  Without looking up, Cass said, “Kindly control your foot, Major Hale.”

  The leg stilled, only to be replaced by a nervous tic pulling at Joram Herkimer’s left eye. There was a brief, expectant hush as one of the orderlies brought over an armful of maps. He tripped and jarred the table, spilling the maps in every direction.

  Cass looked at the mess and said quietly, “Hobbes, ’tis the third time I’ve had to clean up after you and ’tis not yet noon.”

  The orderly shrank at the rebuke and bent to retrieve the maps, bumping his head on the desk edge and overturning a vial of ink. It splashed over the freshly made map Cass had labored over since dawn. In response, Cass brought his fist down on the desk with such ferocity every man jumped.

  He uttered a Gaelic curse, his voice lashing them like a whip. “Out—every one of you!”

  All scrambled to do his bidding, even Roxanna. But the last officer out shut the door before she could escape, and it was just the two of them in the tense, warm room.

  “What say ye, Miss Rowan?”

  She felt a bittersweet pang. ’Twas the first time he’d acknowledged her in any way for days. She put away her work, aware of his eyes on her. All she could dredge up from her torn, beleaguered heart was a finishing school rule, and it was little more than a whisper. “Detract not from others, neither be excessive in commanding.”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  Guilty of a great many things, she thought, shutting her lap desk a bit too forcefully.

  “I apologize,” he said quietly, rolling up the ruined map and depositing it in the empty hearth.

  She met his hard gaze, rebuking herself for thinking he could have ever loved her, had ever been tender toward her. In that excruciating instant, she saw everything so clearly. Guilt had driven him to offer marriage, not love, and her refusal had wounded far more than his pride. Tears pricked her eyes, and she felt an unbearable, swelling resentment toward him—

  And then the door pushed open and Abby stood there.

  Roxanna felt a breathless dismay at being interrupted but was amazed that a child’s sudden appearance could shift the room’s dark shadows. Her reddish-gold hair glowed like a halo in the bright sunlight just outside the door. She looked like an angel, even remembering her manners, not setting foot inside till Cass motioned for her to enter. Then she smiled her wide smile and walked over to the chess board, where she curtsied. The lacquered pieces—staunch rows of British and American soldiers—stood on the mahogany top as if begging for a game to begin.

  “I’ve no time for it today, Abby,” he murmured apologetically.

  Her little face dimmed like the sun going behind a cloud and strengthened Roxanna’s ill feeling toward him.

  “I have something better,” he said.

  Abby perked up again and held out her hand to him with an endearing familiarity. He took it, the hard, lean lines of his face softening as he looked down at her. They went out through the open door, and Roxanna could hear him calling to one of the regulars on the parade ground. Moving to the open window, she watched a soldier lead a pony out of a far corral. Its glossy coat shone a sooty black as it walked docilely through the dust.

  Plucking her off the ground, Cass deposited Abby atop the saddled back. She sat as if stunned while he bent to fit her feet into the stirrups and showed her how to hold the reins. “He’s your pony and he needs a name. What will you call him?”

  The pointed question carried on a warm wind to Roxanna, and she leaned onto the sill, watching Abby open her mouth as if to answer.

  Speak, Abby . . . speak. Oh, how she ached to hear the sound of Abby’s voice! Was it childishly high or melodiously low? Would it hold a lisp, as she was missing a front tooth?

  When her little mouth clamped shut, Roxanna felt a sharp disappointment. Did Cass feel the same?

  Holding on to the bridle, he led the pony around the flagpole and magazine a few times, stopping by the quartermaster’s to obtain a coveted sugar lump. ’Twas a touching moment, Roxanna thought grudgingly, given he didn’t have time for such things, and the state of his temper.

  Far across the dusty common, Olympia stood in the doorway of her cabin, half dressed, eyeing the poignant scene. Roxanna felt an urge to go and speak to her, if only to avoid Cass.

  As she exited the blockhouse, she could smell meat roasting in back of the kitchen and wondered if Bella needed help. Lately Olympia hadn’t been showing for kitchen duty, irking Bella severely, though the other women covered for her. Another Saturday night frolic was just days away, though Roxanna wondered if it would be cancelled because of the keelboat disaster—or Olympia’s absences.

  As she neared, Olympia regarded her with bloodshot eyes. Stale liquor emanated from her like tawdry perfume, and th
e lines in her face seemed to have deepened overnight. “I’ve been meanin’ to thank you for seein’ to Abby.”

  “She’s no trouble,” Roxanna reassured her, looking again at the parade ground. Off her pony now and sucking on a sugar lump, Abby waved a hand at them. Cass, she noticed, had since disappeared, and a regular supervised in his wake. “I was thinking how much life she brings into this fort, even if she doesn’t speak.”

  “Makes up for those of us who got little spark left.”

  The words were flat, defeated, so unlike Olympia that Roxanna stared at her, new worries dawning. How could she not have noticed how her dress hung loosely on her once voluptuous frame, the pale skin stretched taut over high cheekbones almost skeletal in the glaring light? Had her own preoccupations blinded her to the need in front of her? First Abby’s mother . . . and now her aunt.

  Lord, is there nothing but death and destruction in this place?

  “I didn’t realize you were ill. Why don’t I speak to the colonel about sending for Dr. Clary?” Roxanna said quietly. She noted the stubborn set of Olympia’s jaw at the suggestion. Was she still sore over Cass’s callous treatment of Nancy and the deserters? The mere mention of the colonel always got her bristling.

  “I doubt he’ll send for ’im, but you can try.”

  Roxanna felt a rush of compassion for her—and fresh ire toward Cass. “I’ll see if he’s in his office.”

  Olympia shrugged, and Roxanna traced her steps, aware of a great many eyes on her. Cass’s office door yawned open, his officers and the orderlies still scattered. He sat at his desk penning something with furious haste, nearly driving the quill into the paper, she thought. His anger of earlier was still palpable, and the fire in his eyes didn’t diminish one whit when he looked up at her. He had no patience for small talk, of course. He seemed to be seething with impatience despite his forced cordiality.

  Standing on the opposite side of his desk, she got right to the point. “I’ve come to ask a favor—if you’ll send for the doctor downriver.”

  He returned to his writing. “Are you ill?”

  “Nay . . . ’tis Olympia.”

  His quill stilled. “’Tis not the doctor she needs. I can well tell you what ails her, though you may not want to know.”

  “What, then?”

  “The French pox.”

  “I’ve never heard—”

  “Be glad of it.” The bruising look he gave her told her exactly what the sickness was—and the indelicate way it was gotten as well.

  Heat crawled into her face, and she fixed her eye on the mantel behind him to avoid his gaze. “Won’t you send for the doctor?”

  “Nay, ’twould be a waste of Clary’s time.” The words were spoken with such quiet condemnation they took her breath. “The trouble is one of her own making, is it not?”

  “What if it is?”

  “You cannot deny she is to blame for such a malady.”

  “Injurious words are your malady, Colonel McLinn, and far more deadly.”

  He returned his quill to the inkpot. “Why can I never have an earnest conversation with you without your reprimanding me?”

  “Why? Could it be because, though remarkably well-bred, you show a frightful lack of evidencing it? Perhaps I am here to remind you of your manners.”

  “Or the lack of them, you mean.”

  She blinked back bitter tears. “Show some decency for Abby’s sake, if no one else’s.”

  His face softened visibly. Ah, that has done it, she thought. Still, he raked her with cold eyes before shouting for an orderly. She started at the force of his voice, not surprised she was trembling. Oh, but he could be so very intimidating. No wonder the regular at the door looked like a whipped dog.

  “You called, sir?”

  “Send downriver for Clary.”

  “Aye, sir. Anything else, Colonel?”

  “Tell my officers if they can behave themselves to return to duty. I don’t have time for schoolboy antics.”

  The orderly disappeared and she turned to do the same, but Cass’s voice followed her, commanding as ever. “Anything else, Miss Rowan?”

  Stiffly, she turned back to him, meeting his gaze reluctantly. Had it only been a short while ago that he’d asked for her hand? Now his eyes held her with such icy regard she felt all the tenderness and heartfelt words of before were naught but wind. Nay, he never loved her. And he was proving it now. The officers were coming in again, meek as horsewhipped schoolboys. Hiding her hurt and fury, she went out.

  In the kitchen, Bella eyed her with such intensity Roxanna wondered how much she knew. Might Hank have told her the truth about the winter campaign? Roxanna turned her back as if to deflect her searching gaze.

  “Why, you is as stiff as this iron poker,” Bella muttered, stabbing the fire beneath the spit just beyond the open kitchen door.

  Roxanna relaxed her rigid stance and shifted on her stool.

  “Guess you wish you was still leavin’ on that keelboat instead of bein’ stuck in this here fort.”

  Amen, Roxanna thought, but she simply nodded and dropped a handful of green beans in a bowl.

  “All them rivermen is buried now up behind the stone house at the edge o’ the woods. Hank’s still helpin’ haul rock so the critters can’t dig ’em up.”

  Roxanna shuddered despite the sweat beading her brow. She was aware of the other women shuffling in, Dovie leading the way. All were unusually tight-lipped, taking up their usual tasks with lowered eyes and careful hands.

  Bella’s voice seemed to snap in the stillness. “Where’s Olympia?”

  Dovie sniffed. “She’s abed.”

  Bella snorted. “Alone?”

  “Bella!” Roxanna’s whisper turned sharp. “She’s ill, and Dr. Clary’s on his way.”

  “Clary ain’t gonna work no miracle,” she muttered darkly. “He’ll just dose her with mercury like McLinn does his men.”

  Mercury? Roxanna looked up in question and then wished she hadn’t. Bella started in again. “She’ll be droolin’ black bile before long, right before she goes out of her head completely.”

  Dovie sniffed louder. “Captain Stewart’s in a bad way hisself, already mournin’ her.”

  “He’s likely mournin’ hisself,” Bella said dolefully. “He’ll be next.” Taking up a sharp knife, she stepped outside to carve a piece of meat off a haunch of venison, leaving the miserable lot of them alone.

  Were they all wondering if they’d follow suit? What, Roxanna wondered with growing dread, would be the fate of little Abby?

  32

  A more macabre spectacle Roxanna had never seen. Holding a frolic so soon after the keelboat’s disaster seemed tantamount to dancing on the rivermen’s graves. Though she wanted to blame Cass for the indiscretion, she couldn’t. He was trying to hold morale together for his men, and she knew firsthand what a little dancing and feasting did for Fort Endeavor.

  Dressing for the frolic and helping Abby do the same, she tried to summon some enthusiasm as Abby twirled and hopped up and down. Though speechless, the child communicated bursts of joy with her every move. Bella had indeed outdone herself tonight. From the coffers of the stone house came a remade gown just Abby’s size. Roxanna was trying to work a slip of silk ribbon into her bouncing curls, and Bella was exasperated just watching.

  “Hold still, Abby-girl! You remind me of a greased pig on market day!”

  Since leaving the cabin, Abby seemed to flit about like a butterfly, and Roxanna tried to keep a careful eye on her in the exuberant crowd. A low bonfire burned on the parade ground, and a full moon gave plenty of light. She sat atop a small platform with Micajah and the other musicians, dulcimer on her lap. Across from her, somber and silent, Cass wasn’t dancing either. And the breathless, irrational hope that he’d ask her faded a bit more with every reckless reel. She wanted him to ask if only to refuse him, but he’d not given her the pleasure.

  She danced but once with Graham Greer. Though Olympia kept to her cabin, D
ovie and Nancy and Mariah went dutifully from one partner to the next, lacking their usual exuberance. Roxanna felt dizzy watching them—and doubly perturbed when Cass disappeared. Unable to sit still a minute longer, she waited till Micajah was fiddling and couldn’t follow her to fetch some cider.

  But it was Bella who trailed her, face tight with concern. “The colonel wants to see you in your cabin. I’ll keep an eye on Abby. Now go.”

  The vehemence in her tone underscored the unusual request. Cass in her cabin? Why? She raised cool hands to her flushed cheeks and prayed for composure. Would he ask for her forgiveness again?

  Moving discreetly to her cabin door, she pushed it open just enough to slip inside, drawing the latchstring in after her. A single taper glinted on the mantel, and Cass leaned against the hearthstones. Self-consciously she smoothed her linen skirt. She felt as conspicuous as the candle in the near darkness. They were alone. The door was secured. Why was she shaking? Why wouldn’t he speak?

  “Bella said you wanted me.” The ill-chosen words nearly made her wince, as did his vehement answer.

  “Aye.”

  He glanced toward the shuttered window, then reached out and took her hand, pulling her into the corner with him. Swallowing a gasp, she leaned into the wall and he let go of her, stooping to loosen two partial floorboards. She looked down, her eyes widening at the sight. Taking hold of the candle, he shoved it closer to the hole, and the patina of a tooled leather chest flashed in her eyes.

  “This, Roxie, is your future.”

  “What?”

  “’Tis what’s left of my inheritance.”

  “Nay.” She moved back as if bitten, shaking her head. “’Tis yours—your future.”

  “Dead men have no future.”

  “But—”

  “I’m going to lose my life across that river. ’Tis ordained,” he said, inclining his head toward the open Bible on the trestle table, “as if written in your book.”