Hand in hand they ran for the docks.

  28

  Elizabeth kept the curtains open to the sunlight as her carriage approached Charlestown. Some people said God was smiling on the king’s victory; Elizabeth thought the sun would still be shining had the Congress won.

  Les Chenes had been full of politics during the siege, a constant stream of British officers wined and feted. General Clinton. Admiral Arbuthnot. General Lord Cornwallis. General Leslie. And, of course, there’d been the favored few among the young officers.

  They and Papa Fourrier had seemed to get on very well, full of smiles and private talks. Toward Justin, however, they’d been quite cool. Oh, he’d been commissioned a major, and his unit taken on the list as the King’s South Carolina Horse, but his being at Thompsonville had told against him, even though they didn’t mention it. When the rebels surrendered at Thompsonville, Justin maintained, he’d gotten the Indians under control as soon as he could, but the fact remained that all forty-seven prisoners had been killed and scalped. Almost worse than that were the nine women who had been there. They simply disappeared. Some of the junior officers whispered that they’d been given to the Indians as payment, but none said it to Justin’s face, or in his hearing. They’d all heard of his prowess with a pistol, and seen his saber practice with Colonel Tarleton.

  Banastre Tarleton was the only one of the British officers who seemed to like Justin, talking and drinking late into the night together with Captain Houck, one of Tarleton’s men.

  In the Jersies, Tarleton had made a reputation as a cavalry leader. It was said the rebels there called him Benny. But he didn’t seem like a Benny in South Carolina. He struck hard, and with complete ruthlessness, inflicting fearful casualties. And, except for William Washington, his opponents always lost. His name was hated among the rebels, and feared.

  He’d wanted Elizabeth to call him Ban, making his approach in the garden while Justin slept off their drinking. She almost fell into his trap. He was boyishly handsome, with a polished grace when he cared to use it. But she’d looked into his eyes when he tried to kiss her, and seen the tiny spark deep inside that told her why he wasn’t repelled by Thompsonville. He reveled in pain and fear.

  She’d torn away from him, but he’d been persistent. Oh, so persistent. And then she’d seen two of the farmgirls Tarleton had used for his entertainment. No matter how decent they were before, after they acted like whipped curs. That was why she was on her way to the house in the city.

  For some time she’d been passing large groups of men under guard on both sides of the road. Some were obviously soldiers, in the blue of the Continental Line or the motley of militia units, but many were civilians, or dressed as such. There were boys barely into their teens, and old men who couldn’t stand without their walking sticks. The carriage stopped; a redcoated sentry tapped on the door.

  “Ma’am? I must know who you are, and what you want in the city” His tone was halfway between impatience and respect for the equipage.

  “Those men,” she said. “The boys and the old men. What are they doing out here?”

  “Part of the rebel militia, ma’am, brought out to have their names took—”

  “What is this?” a voice cracked, and the sentry snapped to rigidity.

  “Sir,” he said. “This lady wishes to enter the city, sir, and I was just making inquiry as to her purpose there, being as I was instructed to take the utmost care against the entry of rebels into the city. Sir.”

  “Didn’t sound like inquiry. And I seriously doubt this carriage conceals a rebel column.” A young officer, trying to appear both bored and authoritative, appeared at the window. “Why, Mrs. Fourrier,” he said eagerly, and stopped in confusion. “Your pardon, ma’am. No reason why you should know me, of course, but I’ve often admired you from afar, if I may be so bold. Jerome Dudley, cornet in the light infantry of the Twenty-third Foot.”

  Elizabeth gave him a slight smile. He reminded her very much of a puppy she’d once had. “Why, Mr. Dudley, I do hope you won’t remain a distant admirer. You must leave your card on Broad Street. That is, if I’m to be allowed into the city? Please say you won’t turn me away.” She wet her lips, carefully leaving them ever so slightly open.

  The young cornet stared at her for a full minute before managing to reply. “Turn—Oh, no, ma’am. I should say not. Clear a way there. You men, clear a way for this lady’s carriage. Clear a way, I say.” He was still shouting when the carriage rolled away.

  Elizabeth fell back against the cushions. Oh, most certainly a puppy. If he’d had a tail, he’d have wagged it. It might be amusing to watch his innocence disappear. Unbidden, Michael came into her mind. His innocence had been of a different kind. Damn him. Any real man would have welcomed her with open arms. Justin now—her mind flinched away.

  The carriage moved slowly through clogged roads, parties under guard going one way, troops and wagonloads of baggage going the other. At every intersection the flow snarled into a knot, and the carriage jolted to a halt.

  Elizabeth fanned desultorily during one such wait, her eyes falling on a long line of wounded men, lying motionless in the side street.

  And there was Michael. He lay on a pallet, the nearest to her. His face was covered with dirt and a week’s growth of beard, a soiled, bloody bandage wrapped around his forehead. Another showed at his waist, and a third banded his thigh. He looked dead. At the far end of the line a man checked bandages, and there was a British soldier standing with musket and bayonet, watching. Neither doctors nor guards would be set on dead men. He must be alive.

  She felt a flood of relief, and then it disappeared as she was back at Les Chenes, while Tarleton tossed a paper to Justin. “That should be what you want,” he had said. “It authorizes his arrest when you find him, and calls on any officers present to sit for a court. Signed by Clinton, Cornwallis, and Arbuthnot.”

  Justin had laughed mirthlessly. “A prompt arrest, a quick court, and a speedy execution.”

  It came to her now, that there was only one man Justin would be that happy to see dead. Suddenly she was in his arms again, in memory, in the cool dark above her father’s stable. It had been so clean, almost innocent. There had been no fear, then. He’d been so tender, so gentle. And he was lying there unconscious, waiting for Justin to come and—

  The carriage started forward, and she quickly halted it with a tap on the roof. The driver’s black face appeared in the trap.

  “Sampson. That gentleman at the end of the row of wounded? I want you to get him into the carriage without anyone seeing. The carriage will screen you from the street.”

  The driver swallowed convulsively. “That guard, ma’am, he got a musket.”

  “I’ll distract him, and the doctor, too. You just do as you’re told. And, Sampson. No one is to know about this. No one.”

  As she stepped to the ground, the sentry’s face turned in surprise, and the doctor froze with his ear six inches from a patient’s chest. She walked down the row slowly, looking at each face, but never stopping. For the soldier she had a pleasant, but not inviting, smile. His head turned after her, and when she reached the end of the row and turned around, he was facing her, his back to the carriage.

  The doctor bounded to his feet and hurried to her, trying not to ogle as fine a figure as he could remember seeing. “If I may say so, this is hardly the place for a lady. Are you searching for someone among the wounded?”

  Elizabeth moved a little to one side, so the sentry would still be able to see her. “No one in particular, sir. I had friends who remained in the city, and I simply wondered whether any of them were among the wounded.”

  “Almost I wish you had recognized a few, if you’ll forgive me. At present most of them are listed as ‘unknown rebel found among ruins.’ Why, we could have John Rutledge himself here, and not know it.”

  “Then you’re not—You must forgive me this time, I’m afraid. I thought you were one of the rebel doctors.”

  “No, no. I’m Dr. Lynus Allen, of New York, and a good King’s man.”

  “How interesting.” She glanced toward the end of the row. Michael was gone, and his pallet with him. “However, Dr. Allen, since you don’t have anyone I know, I expect I’d better be going.”

  His fatuous grin faded. “But I don’t even know your name, Miss—”

  “Doctor Allen,” she said over her shoulder, “so very nice to have met you.” With an enigmatic smile, she left him standing there.

  Sampson’s face was covered with sweat despite the spring coolness, but Elizabeth didn’t notice. She had eyes only for what would be inside the carriage. Michael.

  He half sat, half lay on the floor, still unconscious, his pallet wadded up beside him. Lord, but he was dirty. But the dirt could be washed away. And with the help of Sampson, and Solange, whom she’d sent ahead to open the house, she could keep him hidden. Once he was healed—she smiled, and touched his face in spite of the dirt. Once he was healed, and knew who’d cared for him, she’d have her Michael back. It’d be as it had been, innocent and clean again.

  Gabrielle’s carriage rolled to a halt at the old city gate. The sentry spoke, casting a curious glance at Daniel, who, in livery, was following on a horse. “Can I see your pass, ma’am, please?” As in England, it was best to be very polite to people with carriages and footmen.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a pass, Sergeant,” Gabrielle said. “Perhaps I could speak to your officer.”

  The sentry blinked. No pass, and wanting to see an officer. Lieutenant Fortnum didn’t like things that weren’t routine.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see, ma’am. And I’m a private, ma’am.”

  Gabrielle waited until the officer appeared, then put on her prettiest smile and began to chatter. “I know I should’ve asked my brother for a pass, Captain, but I quite forgot until it was too late. I was ready to visit dear Elizabeth, that’s my brother’s wife, whom I’ve not seen in I don’t know how long, but he was off being a soldier. I don’t really think it’s fair of General Clinton to order him off somewhere just when I need him, do you, Captain? I mean, whatever am I to do? I do so want to see Elizabeth.” She finished up breathless, and fluttered her eyelashes at him shamelessly.

  The lieutenant found himself caught between confusion at her words and admiration for her eyes. His chest puffed out. She really ought to be under the protection of an officer. Perhaps—He saw the sentry out of the corner of his eye, looking at him in astonishment. He tried to make his voice gruff. “I’m a lieutenant, miss, not a captain. Lieutenant Thomas Fortnum, Thirty-third Foot. Now, miss, who are you, and who is this brother of yours who could’ve given you a pass?”

  “Well, you should be a captain. You certainly look like a captain. My brother? Why, Justin Fourrier, of course. Major Justin Fourrier. I’m Gabrielle Fourrier. Surely he’s mentioned me.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Major Fourrier. I have heard of him, of course.”

  A sigh of relief escaped her. Quickly she covered. “Then you will help me? Oh, thank you, Captain. I mean, Lieutenant. How sweet you are to let me in.”

  “But I didn’t say—I can’t—” He took a deep breath. “Wait just one moment, please, Miss Fourrier.” Gabrielle smiled as he disappeared inside the guardhouse, and darted out again. “A pass, Miss Fourrier. I can’t let you into the city, or out of it, for that matter, without one. Therefore—” He smiled and made a leg.

  “Why, I just don’t know how I’ll ever thank you. Really, I don’t.” She fluttered her lashes again, and tapped on the carriage roof. The vehicle rolled into the city.

  Fanning herself with the pass, she fell back against the cushions. Thank God that was over. She’d had no idea how she was going to enter the city. She’d only known she had to.

  When Daniel had returned to Tir Alainn and told her Michael was dead, it’d been more than she could bear. She’d taken to her bed for two days, crying constantly, refusing to eat, refusing to see anyone. Something had happened, though. When she woke up on the third day, she found she’d cried away all the belief that he was dead. Another thing she’d cried away. It didn’t matter anymore than he’d been Elizabeth’s lover. At least, not as much as it had. She loved him more than she hated what he’d done. He couldn’t be dead, or she’d know it. And that meant she’d wasted two days she could’ve spent helping him.

  Immediately she set out to discover everything she could about the prisoners taken at Charlestown. She read every list of them put out. And the lists of the dead, as well. She had Daniel deliver letters to everyone she knew and devoured the replies he brought her. She bribed boatmen going into Charlestown, and questioned them closely when they left.

  She found Mr. Petrie, confined in the Provost below the Exchange. He’d burned Hussar—destruction of captured property, the British called it—though she couldn’t imagine why. She’d found Henri, on parole, but confined to Charlestown and sharing rooms with four other officers on parole. She’d even discovered Louis, being cared for on a farm and forgetting his leg with the widow who owned it. But there was not a whisper of Michael.

  It had taken a lot of agonizing before she could admit that there was one person she hadn’t tried who might know where he was. Know where he was? He might well have gone running to her, if he could. Elizabeth. She could still hardly bear to think the name. Every time she thought of the woman, she saw her naked, her arms and legs wrapped around Michael. The trollop! Damn her! She had to grit her teeth to keep from screaming, or snarling. She wasn’t sure which.

  She alighted before the house on Broad Street and calmly started for the door. Before she’d taken two steps she saw Elizabeth, back in the garden, and had to master her emotions again.

  Elizabeth laid a last flower in the basket and motioned the maid to take it away. “Why, dear Gabrielle,” she said in a velvety voice. “Crawling back to Papa Fourrier, are you, now that the city’s lost? A hint. Be very humble, very contrite. Perhaps then he won’t be too hard on you. Of course, you must realize you’ll have to be cloistered at Les Chenes for a time, until the scandal of your having been married to a rebel dies down.”

  “Where’s Michael?” Gabrielle asked bluntly. The look that came on the other woman’s face jumbled her emotions. Elizabeth knew. He was alive. Thank God. But he had gone to her. Damn him! Damn Elizabeth! Damn the slut!

  Elizabeth tried to cover. “God knows where he is, but I rather doubt he wants you there.”

  Gabrielle’s palm exploded against Elizabeth’s cheek. Before the stunned woman could move, all the pent-up fury in her let go. Again and again she struck, as fast as she could, ignoring Elizabeth’s attempts to fend her off.

  It wasn’t enough, Gabrielle thought savagely, just beating her. She had to show Elizabeth for what she was. She’d strip her naked, like the common tart she was. That was it! She grabbed the shoulders of Elizabeth’s dress.

  Elizabeth struggled to get loose. Then she was free, and only the side of the stable kept her from falling.

  “Now, you bitch,” she hissed, and cut off with a strangled gasp. Her dress, pulled off her shoulders, had rolled and twisted in the struggle, until it held her arms pinned tightly to her sides. She was naked almost to the waist and couldn’t even defend herself. She took a deep breath to scream.

  “Be quiet,” Gabrielle snapped. “Do you want the servants to see you like that?”

  Elizabeth was silent. She wet her lips and tried to slide along the side of the stable, but Gabrielle followed. “Leave me alone!”

  Gabrielle smiled coldly. “Your hair is disarrayed. I’ll fix it.” She fastened two hands in the raven locks.

  “I don’t—” Elizabeth began as Gabrielle pulled her away from the wall. Then she saw the rain barrel. “No!” was all she had time for before she went into it headfirst.

  Gabrielle forced her head as deep as she could and held her there. Elizabeth’s feet kicked wildly in the air. Did she never wear drawers? Gabrielle wondered. If only she had a stick and a free hand. She’d beat a tattoo on that pale rump to rouse every redcoat in Charlestown. Suddenly she pulled the other woman up. “Where?” she asked simply.

  Elizabeth gasped and gulped for air. “You—! You bitch! I’ll kill—Don’t!”

  Gabrielle shoved her down again. This time she tried to ignore the widely kicking legs, the body writhing vainly on the barrel rim. She had to hold her down until she broke. She had to make her talk if she half-drowned her. She had—Elizabeth’s struggles had faded to weak jerks. Hastily she pulled her into the air. Before she could ask, Elizabeth was gasping out the answer.

  “The attic. Please. Don’t. The attic. Swear it.” She began to sob softly. Gabrielle released her, and she fell to the ground.

  Gabrielle’s mouth twisted as she looked down at Elizabeth. In the attic, she said. They’d see. In the meantime, though, she didn’t want to touch the woman again. She found a stick and prodded her. “Get up. Get up, I say.”

  Elizabeth’s sobs diminished. “It’s no use, you know. You can’t get him out of the city without the army finding him, and Justin has an order for his arrest and trial. If the British take him, they’ll hang him. If you don’t leave, I’ve a good mind to call them. Just one shout in the street would do it.” Half-soaked and half-naked, she began trying to wriggle her dress straight.

  Gabrielle flicked her knuckles with the stick. “Stop that. Call them, Elizabeth. Call them and explain why you have a rebel colonel hidden in your attic. Oh, you don’t want to? Then maybe I should. Michael Fallon is mine. He belongs to me. I may not be able to keep him out of other women’s beds, but before I’ll let you have him, I’ll march him to the gallows myself. Now get up and take me to him.”

  Elizabeth believed every word. It was just what she’d do herself. “I—I have to straighten my clothes. The servants.”