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On the moon-dappled grounds of Lucien Deane's estate, Draegan watched and waited, unaware that his quarry was at that moment emerging from the deep shade of the woods halfway between the church and the estate.
In the midst of South Road another mounted figure waited, albeit impatiently. "You took your good time in getting here. I was beginning to think you'd changed your plans."
Lucien walked his mount closer to where his partner waited. His voice was distinctive, and he would not risk its carrying. "You need to cultivate patience, my friend. Your haste has brought you trouble once and will again, if you don't learn to temper it."
"I didn't come here in the dead of night to hear a lecture, sir. Have you the dispatches for Stone, or shall I go to him empty-handed?"
"Lower your voice, you arrogant young fool," Lucien sharply warned. "Someone may be listening! And while a good neck-stretching would be a sort of poetic justice where you and I are concerned, I have no desire to see the deed carried out."
The man being chided for his arrogance shifted on his mount, tugging at the short deerskin jacket he wore and glancing nervously around. His obvious agitation prompted Lucien's soft, scornful laughter. "Lost your taste for espionage so soon? I must say, I'm surprised. You were eager enough at the onset to have a piece of this plump pigeon pie."
"After that unfortunate incident at the church, I was left with no other recourse," Randall replied bitterly. "I hanged an innocent man, Lucien, without benefit of trial! A Continental officer, for Christ's sake! What else was I to do?"
"Yes, well," Lucien said in a voice dripping sarcasm, "I suppose I do see your point. It makes more sense for you to abandon your loyalty to the American cause and to join forces with the British than to admit your error and risk being reprimanded."
"Reprimanded!" Randall seethed. "They would have hanged me!"
"Perhaps not."
"I could not risk it," Randall insisted. "I would not take the chance, when I'd been as much a victim of your schemes as the major! You sent his horse off into the night and put yours in its place; you planted those papers in his belongings, stole his wrap, and disappeared, knowing what the outcome would be!"
"I set him up, 'tis true enough," Lucien admitted. "But how the devil was I supposed to know you'd hang him?"
Randall fairly trembled with fury. "I believed him to be Sparrowhawk! How could you think I would not!"
Lucien sighed ponderously. "Little minds," he muttered. And then, louder, "You may cast blame for your troubles if you wish, but it does not change your actions after the fact. You had a clear choice, Randall, my boy. Turning me in would have gone a long way in righting the wrong done that night—but you chose instead to keep silent about my involvement so that you could blackmail me."
Randall's face was swollen. He seemed about to burst. "You owed me something for dragging me into this! You owed me, dammit! Enough! Enough, I say. Have you the papers for Stone, or shall I report that the great Lucien Deane has failed him once again?"
"Is that a threat, dear boy?" Lucien asked, reaching inside the voluminous cloak he wore and coming away with a small sealed packet. "Are you perchance suggesting that you would attempt to gain through my destruction what you have been unable to gain through extortion?"
"The papers, sir."
"Lud, what a disappointment you have turned out to be. But then, I learned early on that life is full of little disappointments." He gave the packet into the hands of the liaison. "Just so you'll know, Randall, lad. The target is a settlement just twenty- five miles northwest of here, called Peterskill. I believe you have heard of it. Stone will like this assignment. He can be in and out in an hour or two. It's easy pickings, as the saying goes."
Randall Quill secreted the packet inside his short deerskin coat before breaking the uneasy silence that settled between them. "Rumor has it the new minister has arrived."
"Yes, well, good news travels fast in a town like Abundance."
"Yes, but is it good news?"
Lucien shrugged. "I can only report that he is young and exceedingly well favored, and that Fallon seemed quite flustered in his presence. I watched them from the windows of my study while they talked in the garden, and I must admit, they make a striking pair."
Randall stiffened, and Lucien thought he heard him gnash his teeth. "I don't give a damn about the man's looks. Will he cause us any trouble?"
Lucien smiled into the dark. "Time will tell," he answered. "In the meantime we proceed as before, and we'll hope that our Reverend Mattais does not prove as inquisitive as his predecessor."
Peterskill, New York
April 22, 1778
The twenty-second day of April dawned chill and misty, but the kitchen of the Kriegers' spacious boerenwoning on the outskirts of Peterskill was always toasty warm. Greetje Krieger rose each day before the dawn to stoke the fire and prepare a hearty breakfast for her family, and each day she watched with silent pride as one by one her husband, Freidryck, daughter, Alida, and son, Jan, were enticed from the cozy warmth of their beds by the smell of her good Dutch cooking.
As a rule, fourteen-year-old Jan was the slowest to respond. His attic room was tucked up high under the farmhouse eaves, and the beckoning aroma of sausage and supawn took longer to reach him there. This particular morning proved an exception, however, for this was the day that Jan, his mother, and sister were to depart for a long-awaited visit to Jan's Aunt Ona and Uncle Killian Schoonmaker's house, and Jan's excitement at the prospect of the twenty-five mile journey had kept him from sleep.
For a long while that morning he'd lain in the warm darkness of his attic room, fidgeting with nervous excitement as he tried to picture the town of Abundance from his mother's description, imagining his jolly Aunt Ona and her tall, spare husband, whom his mother claimed rarely spoke. Jan had never been far from his father's boerderij. He had never met his aunt and uncle. In fact, he had never been to a village that lay a mere five miles west of the Hudson, the great river his ancestors had called the Tappan Zee.
The gray light of dawn filtered in through the small window in Jan's attic room. Impatient for his adventure to begin, the boy crept from his bed to quietly draw on his best woolen stockings, his breeches, and the scratchy new tow-cloth shirt his mother had sewn for him the previous week. Then, with shoes in hand, he crept to the stair to listen.
Jan heard the soft pad of feet on the stair, and he knew that his mother had wakened. In less than a moment, he entered the kitchen, and after donning his shoes, he took up the pail that hung from a peg by the door. Humming softly under his breath, he made his way to the cow shed.
Hiltje, his father's Guernsey cow, was dozing in the warm shed. Jan settled onto the low stool beside her, taking her long soft teats into his hands. Hiltje, always biddable, was strangely obstinate this morning. She would not release her milk, and she bumped against Jan and the bucket, lowing and blowing as if she had caught the scent of wolves on the wind.
The thought raised the fine hairs on Jan's forearms. To combat his prickling fear, he hummed a bit louder and shot a surreptitious glance over one coated shoulder.
Abruptly his humming ceased.
Something moved in the shadows outside the cow shed, far too big to be a wolf. Jan slid off the stool and crouched behind Hiltje's warm, concealing flank. Then he remembered his mother, who was hard at work in the kitchen, preparing his breakfast, and his father and sister, who by now must have risen. Jan eased away from Hiltje, away from the dubious protection of the shed.
A half-dozen figures crouched at various positions around the dooryard. Five were dusky- skinned Mohawk warriors, armed and painted for war; the sixth was a white man garbed in a scarlet coat and snowy breeches, a black cocked hat trimmed with the gold braid of a British officer perched on his white-wigged head.
As a wide-eyed Jan watched, the door of the house opened and his ten-year-old sister Alida appeared on the stoop. In her hands was a bowl of vegetable peelings for the chickens.
One of the warriors crept forward toward Alida.
"Don't scream, Alida,' Jan barely breathed. "Don't scream. Stay quiet and still."
Alida looked up, catching sight of the Mohawk, and a piercing squeal of pure terror tore from her throat. The warrior raced forward and grabbed the girl, covering her mouth with his hand to stifle her cries.
Jan's mother's voice, raised in alarm, issued from inside the house, followed by the deep-throated rumble of his father's reply. There was not a moment to lose.
Jan darted from the shadowed doorway of the cow shed into the yard, running as fast as his legs would carry him, straight toward the warrior who held a struggling Alida.
The door of the house opened again, only this time the great bearlike figure of Freidryck Krieger filled the doorway. Freidryck held an ancient blunderbuss in his huge hands, but before he could lift the weapon, the warrior nearest Jan raised his rifle and squeezed off a shot.
The bullet took Freidryck through the chest, but it didn't stop him. Face alight with fury, he launched himself bodily at the man who held Alida captive. Freidryck caught the warrior easily and wrapped his massive hands around his neck. The two went down in a tangle of limbs.
Alida, thrust aside in the struggle, was still screeching wildly as she ran for the house.
Jan continued his desperate sprint, but before he could reach his father, a second man stepped up behind Freidryck and raised his steel war hatchet high. Jan opened his mouth to cry out, but his scream seemed frozen in his chest, and he could only watch in terror as the lethal blade came arcing down.
It was Sunday morning. Word of Reverend Mattais's arrival had quickly spread throughout Abundance, and the villagers, long deprived of a worthy man to lead them in worship, turned out in full to welcome him.
The Schoonmakers were present, as were Samuel Sike, the tavern keeper, his wife, Cicely, and their brood of eight youngsters, all freshly scrubbed and fidgeting in their Sunday best. The cooper, James McCord, recently widowed, occupied a pew with Thomas Smith and his father, Evan, who sat snoring softly between them.
Positioned strategically across the aisle were Willie and Zepporah; the former cast longing looks at Thomas as frequently as she dared without risking a punishing pinch from the latter's deft fingers.
Cordelia Plum, daughter of a prosperous wheelwright, and her three sisters, June, July, and Augusta, had squeezed into the pew directly behind Fallon, along with their stepmother, Nancy Mae. July and Augusta were busily whispering behind their hands, while Nancy Mae did her level best to shush them. June made faces at Cordelia, who, with glowing cheeks and fat yellow curls, hung on the new minister’s every word.
Fallon had never cared much for Cordelia Plum, but she could hardly have faulted the girl for her fascination with Reverend Mattais.
There was no denying that the man was a presence at the pulpit, and even Fallon was impressed.
He seemed an endless well of hidden talents. He had questioned her about the most intimate details of her life in such a way that she would answer him—almost before she knew it. His manner was teasing, almost flirtatious, and at times irritating. If that was not enough, he'd already proven himself quite adept at straddling the political fence. It was this last, so far as Fallon was concerned, that was his greatest and most unpardonable sin.
Mattais closed the service with a prayer, then descended the steps from the pulpit and limped from the sanctuary to the vestibule, where he stopped and waited. Fallon followed, breathing a prayer of thanks that her obligation to Lucien was nearly fulfilled. Soon she would no longer need to concern herself with him—and she would not be forced to shiver beneath the weight of his unsettling stare.
The thought was a slim comfort, however, as she stood by his side, introducing each of the parishioners as they filed from the church, listening as they spoke to him in glowing terms, hearing his smooth but humble replies.
"Wonderful sermon, Reverend," said James McCord. "My Emma would have loved to hear it."
Draegan grasped the widower's hand, noticing the lines of sorrow etched into his face. He regretted that he could offer him nothing but tired old platitudes. "Take comfort in the Lord, sir, and in the knowledge that your dear wife resides with Him in heaven."
"It does help to hear it. Thank you, Reverend, sir." McCord hesitated. "Perhaps you'd stop by of an evening to pray?"
Draegan grimaced inwardly. His evenings were well occupied. Yet in his mind, he heard the admonishing voice of Pastor Akers, warning him of the gravity of his undertaking, his responsibility to the God-fearing citizens of Abundance, whom he served. "Aye, sir. I'll stop by of an evening to pray, if you wish."
Mr. McCord took Fallon's small hand in his. "Thank your uncle on our behalf, won't you, Mistress Deane? He's done the town a wonderful service in finding us a clergyman to serve our needs."
Mr. McCord stepped through the open door, and Vrouw Schoonmaker and her husband took his place in line.”Welcome, Pastor Mattais," Ona said. "Our dear Fallon has told me so much about you, but it is good to meet you at long last."
Draegan bowed. "Goeden dag, mevrouw; mijnheer," he said. "I am honored that you have come to worship with us, and hope you will come again soon."
"All denominations are equal in de eyes of de Lord," Ona Schoonmaker told him. "Unt since the British burned Kingston, there's no proper Dutch Reformed Church close by, isn't that so, Killian?"
Killian Schoonmaker stepped forth to grasp Draegan's hand. "Sadly, what Ona says is true. We lost our own church last year, but I don't expect God will mind if Ona and I gather here among our friends and neighbors until it can be rebuilt." With a nod and a parting smile, Killian went out into the bright spring sunshine, where he lit his pipe and waited for his wife to join him.
Ona paused to speak to Fallon. "Vat a nice man the reverend is!" Draegan heard her say. "Unt so young and handsome! I hope you will be helping him for a long time to come."
Fallon was about to reply when Draegan stepped in. "Mistress Deane's help has been invaluable," he replied in Low Dutch, "and I wouldn't dream of giving her up so easily."
Vrouw Schoonmaker patted Fallon's hand, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, Fallon, I do belief I like this young man!"
As she joined her husband for the walk home, Fallon turned toward Draegan. "What did you say to her just now?"
"Only that you'd been a great help to me, and that I hoped to continue working with you." There was no time for more, for in that moment four fresh-faced young ladies and their dour-faced chaperon entered the small vestibule, fairly filling it to overflowing with their voluminous skirts. It was obvious that the four were siblings; they all had coy little mouths, fat saffron curls, and light blue eyes.
"This is Mrs. Nancy Mae Plum and her stepdaughters, Cordelia, June, July, and Augusta," Fallon announced with a tight little smile.
Cordelia Plum came forward and then suddenly appeared to stumble. Draegan instinctively reached out to steady her, and for a moment she clung to his forearms, her touch almost caressing. "My dear Miss Plum, are you quite all right?" he asked.
"How clumsy of me," Cordelia said, turning the full force of her bright blue eyes upon Draegan as she leaned in against him—eyes that held a decidedly predatory gleam. "I don't know what's come over me."
"The same thing that comes over a she-cat when she sees a likely tom," Willie put in, yelping as her mother gave her a censuring pinch.
Still gazing up at Draegan, Cordelia ignored Willie's remark. "I really would like to thank you properly, Reverend Mattais—for saving me just now, I mean."
Draegan hastened to set the young lady aside. "Think nothing of it, Miss Plum."
"Oh, but I do," Cordelia insisted. "And just to show you how your sermon touched my heart, I would like to be the first to invite you home to dinner. I'm a wonderful cook, and I would love nothing more than to serve you."
"There is nothing that would please me more," Draegan said, "but I'm afraid it's quite impossible. Fallon—ahem, Mistress Deane—was kind enough to invite me to dine at the manor. Indeed, she was most insistent. And since she has been so cooperative—so unfailingly generous thus far—I simply could not refuse."
Miss Plum nodded and reluctantly trailed out the door, leaving Draegan, Fallon, Zepporah, and Willie inside. "Come along, Willie," Zepporah said. "We'll wait for Fallon outside." The two went quietly out, and Draegan and Fallon were left alone.
"Indulging in white lies, Reverend?" Fallon's tone was scathing.
Draegan observed her coolly. "I thought we'd agreed you’d call me Draegan."
"Draegan—Reverend Mattais—teller of untruths. What else should I call you, I wonder? What other names suit?"
He placed one hand on the breast of his shirt, looking as innocent as he dared. "I'm not at all sure what you mean."
"You lied to Cordelia Plum just now."
"I suppose that is one way to look at it."
She thinned her lips as she stared at him. "I daresay it is the only way, from a righteous standpoint. Need I remind you that your presence strengthens the moral fiber of this community?"
He made a noise of disgust and thrust his hands in his coat pockets. "Since it seems this must come down to a discussion of what is morally right, I must ask you: was it more Christian for me to tell the truth and risk the anger of Miss Plum's entire family, or to take the small sin of telling a half-truth upon myself in the interest of sparing her feelings? Because the truth is that I recognized the gleam in the wide blue eyes of Cordelia Plum, and it is not salvation she is seeking!"
There was no time for Fallon to reply, for in that instant hooves sounded along South Road, coming from the direction of the village.
Draegan went out and Fallon followed, their brief but provocative discourse forgotten as the rider galloped up the rutted lane. At a little distance, he sawed on the reins, bringing his animal to a shivering stop.
Willie broke away from her mother's side and ran to the flush-faced young horseman. "Thomas, what is it? What’s happened?"
"There's trouble in town," Thomas told them breathlessly. "They've hit Peterskill, Reverend—a band of damned Tories and Indians. It happened early yesterday, and the folks who survived are starting to trickle in—Ona Schoonmaker's sister and niece are among them. They need you. Will you come?"
Draegan shouted for Jacob. In a moment the caretaker appeared, leading the white stallion.
Fallon caught at Draegan's coat sleeve. "Wait! I'm coming with you."
"I'd rather you didn't," he said.
"Please," Fallon said, gazing earnestly up into his dark countenance. "They are my friends and their families. I must do whatever I can to help."
Draegan hesitated. "Situations like this one have a way of becoming dangerous."
"I'll be just fine," she insisted. "Now, will you take me with you, or must I find my own way there?"
"Very well." He stepped into the saddle; then, leaning down, pulled her up before him, turning his attention to the housekeeper. "Zepporah," he said to the housekeeper, "please inform Master Deane that Fallon is needed at the Schoonmakers', and assure him that I will see to it personally that she gets home safely."
Without giving the housekeeper time to reply, Draegan booted the white horse. With a leap the animal took off, thundering down South Road.