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THE FOLLOWING DAY, Betsy could hardly wait to tell Joseph what she was certain now was the truth, although which particular criminal had kidnapped Rachel did not change the awful fact that her sister was still missing. Because Betsy knew that Joseph and his men would again spend all day searching for Rachel, she did not expect to see him until later that evening. As the long hours of the day dragged on, she found it more difficult than usual to fix her thoughts on the task before her, completing Miss Olsen’s wedding gown.
At length, the garment was finished and Betsy wasted no time sending a message to Mrs. Dearborn telling her so. Within the hour, both women arrived at Betsy’s shop to collect the wedding dress and traveling suit. Miss Olsen was elated when she tried on the pretty traveling suit and found it fit her like a glove.
“You are a marvel, Mrs. Ross!” the girl’s aunt declared. “I cannot think how you managed to complete both costumes in such a short stretch of time.”
“My new helper did the bulk of the work on the traveling suit,” Betsy replied softly.
“Well, both garments are exquisite and I, for one, could not be more pleased!”
“I am pleased, as well, Mrs. Ross,” Miss Olsen said shyly.
The two women rose to take their leave, the action causing a stab of alarm to course through Betsy as once again Mrs. Dearborn had made no mention of discharging the large sum she owed for not one, but two garments. Deciding not to put herself through the additional stress of waiting and wondering if and when she’d be paid, Betsy advanced to her desk. Snatching up a piece of paper, she jotted down a few figures. “Here you are, Mrs. Dearborn. I have set down the charges due for both gowns.”
“Oh, yes, dear.” Mrs. Dearborn turned around. “I quite forgot.”
Betsy presented her calculation to the woman and was relieved when she promptly handed over the entire sum.
“We are off for New York on the morrow,” Mrs. Dearborn announced gaily. “We have only been awaiting word from you that Anne’s gowns were ready before we set out.”
“I wish you much happiness in your married life, Miss Olsen,” Betsy said. “May you have a pleasant and safe journey to New York City.”
“La!” Mrs. Dearborn laughed. “Now that the war is over, I have no doubt we shall be quite safe indeed.”
The war was over? Betsy had heard nothing regarding the war in the past few days, not since her sister disappeared. “What is the latest news on that head, ma’am? I have been so busy sewing I confess I have not kept up.”
“Well, let me see.” Mrs. Dearborn paused. “Last night over dinner I recall Mr. Dearborn remarking that the rebel general who was taken prisoner following last month’s battle has been granted safe passage in order to come to Philadelphia to appeal to the Congress for a peaceful resolution to the conflict.”
“Oh!” Betsy’s eyes widened. “That is quite good news, indeed.”
“Anne and I are certain now that what little remains of the poor defeated rebel troops will be gone from the city by the time we arrive.” She pulled a face. “I daresay I shouldn’t wish to encounter a single one of the wretches. From all accounts, the rebel soldiers are not a pretty sight. Ill-clothed and every last one filthy dirty.” She laughed. “It is said one can actually smell the rebels from as far as five miles away.”
Betsy swallowed a curt reply. “Do come to see me when you return from New York, Mrs. Dearborn.”
“Indeed, I shall. You may count upon it, my dear!”
Closing the door behind the Loyalist ladies, Betsy thrust Mrs. Dearborn’s offensive remarks from mind, her thoughts fastened instead upon what the woman had said regarding the conflict heading for a swift and peaceful conclusion. If that were true, then neither the rebel troops nor the British would have a further need for guns; therefore François would have no one to sell them to, which meant he could not continue to blackmail her into doing his bidding. A modicum of relief washed over her. Until a second later when she realized that Paul Trumbell kidnapping her sister had nothing whatever to do with the war. Trumbell had snatched Rachel for his own reasons. Once again, terror overtook her.
* * *
IT WAS AFTER SUNDOWN that evening when Joseph finally appeared at Betsy’s door, his crestfallen features perfectly reflecting her dejected state.
“No luck today either,” Joseph remarked as he followed Betsy into the parlor. “Did you hear anything from Sarah today?”
“I have not see Sarah today.” Both sat down upon the sofa. “But, I did hear a bit of good news about the war.” Betsy quickly told him what Mrs. Dearborn had said and how she believed it greatly lessened the stronghold François had upon her. “If the war is indeed coming to a peaceful conclusion, he will no longer need to sell weapons and will have no reason to threaten me with harm to either Sarah or Rachel.”
Joseph’s response was skeptical. “I find it difficult to believe that our rebel troops will give up so easily, Betsy. Not unless we’re assured that a good many of our demands will be met . . . sanctions against foreign imports lifted, and various taxes removed. “No.” He shook his head. “I do not believe the war will end so quickly or easily, not by a long chalk.”
The optimism in Betsy’s blue eyes faded. “What shall we do now?”
“Oh.” A sudden thought struck Joseph. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew a scrap of cloth. “I realize you have not seen your sister in a spell, but is it possible she might have been wearing a garment made from this when she disappeared?”
Betsy examined the tattered piece of cloth. Brushing the dust from it, she held it near the candlelight. “The cloth is woolen and although dusty, is not old. It appears to be the same sort of cloth our new cloaks are made from. And it’s the right color.” Excitement rose within her. “Sarah said Rachel chose the wine-colored cloak, which is similar to the burgundy one I chose. Where did you find this?” she breathlessly asked.
“Along the edge of the Germantown highway fronting an overgrown field. Was quite early this morning, just after we set out. I confess I forgot about it until now.”
“It’s the only clue anyone has turned up. Might we go there? Now? Please?”
“It’s late, love, and a storm is brewing. It’ll be too dark to see anything along the road, and certainly nothing beyond it.”
“Joseph, we must go! Rachel could be lying in that field injured or . . . or worse! We must find her!”
“Very well.” He rose to his feet. “It’s chilly tonight, Betsy; get your cloak and we’ll head out.”
Betsy hurried to fetch her cloak. “Perhaps we should take your cart. If we find Rachel injured and unable to walk . . .”
“We’ll take Aunt Ashburn’s cart.” He ushered her ahead of him to the shop door.
“We must find her, Joseph; we must!”
On the way to Aunt Ashburn’s home, Betsy told Joseph of her conviction that it was not François who had spirited Rachel away but was instead Paul Trumbell. And why.
“That does make sense,” he agreed. “I haven’t seen Rachel since she was a little girl, but Sarah seems to think the pair of you bear a striking resemblance to one another.”
“Enough that in the dead of night Trumbell could easily mistake Rachel for me.”
At the Ashburn home, Joseph alerted his aunt that he and Betsy were taking the horse and cart in order to scour the Germantown highway in search of Rachel Griscom.
“I didn’t want you to hear a noise and think thieves were making off with Priscilla and the cart,” he added before he and Betsy headed for the shed behind the house.
Carrying an oil lamp, Betsy waited while Joseph went inside and came back out leading the sleepy horse behind him. It soon became apparent the animal was not taking kindly to having its sleep disturbed or being hitched to the cart at night.
“Whoa there, boy. Settle down,” Joseph coaxed, slipping on the harness and tugging the straps taunt. “He generally doesn’t go anywhere at night.”
“I thought you said the horse’s name was Priscilla,” Betsy murmured, hugging her cloak tighter about her as she waited.
“It is.”
“Priscilla seems an odd name for a male horse.”
“Well, given that he’s no longer . . . entirely male, it seemed appropriate.”
Betsy grinned, forgetting for a scant second the serious nature of their errand.
Once she and Joseph climbed aboard the somewhat rickety cart, they set off, the sleepy-eyed horse clip-clopping over the cobblestones through town. Even before they left the city, Betsy pulled up the hood of her cloak as cold wind whipped about her ears. The night air, pungent with the smell of impending rain, felt quite chilly. As they reached the Germantown road, Joseph flicked the reins in an effort to hurry the horse along. But it balked when of a sudden two riders on horseback galloped past them, their mount’s hooves flinging pebbles and debris up behind them, causing Betsy to close her eyes and duck her head.
“Damn,” Joseph grumbled. “C’mon, boy, giddya’ up!”
Presently he said, “I believe it was right about here that I spotted the cloth.” He slowed the horse. “Snagged on a twig, or bit of brush.”
“Might we head off the road into that field, or . . . would it be too treacherous for . . . Priscilla?”
Joseph chuckled. “It does sound silly when you say his name.” He glanced about. “What do you say we tie him up over there, and you and I tramp farther into that field? My mate and I searched both sides of the road this morning and a good way into these woods. Perhaps you and I could go beyond those trees.” A hand indicated the dense thicket up ahead.
Betsy nodded as Joseph headed the horse and cart across the field and into a small clearing surrounded by a copse of birch trees. After securing the reins around a tree trunk, he helped Betsy to the ground. Guided by the haze of moonlight flickering through the gathering storm clouds, they picked their way through the thick overgrowth.
At length, Betsy pointed at something up ahead. “Look, just there, I am certain I see something flickering.”
“It’s a light.” Joseph took the lead and before long they spotted what appeared to be several weathered outbuildings. As they drew nearer, it became plain that one of the structures was little more than a primitive lean-to and the larger one, although dilapidated, could have once sheltered cows or horses.
“Do you see that?” Betsy asked in a low tone. “The light looks to be coming from inside the barn.”
At that moment, they both heard the sound of a horse neigh.
“I heard a horse . . .” Betsy strained to better see through the sheen of mist that had begun to fall. She cocked her head. “I’m certain I can hear voices on the wind.”
“Sh-h-h,” Joseph hissed. He ducked behind a tree, pulling Betsy with him.
“Perhaps it’s the men on horseback,” she whispered.
“Could be.”
Keeping to the shadows cast by the tall trees, they crept closer.
“It sounds as if they are arguing,” Betsy said softly. She tugged at Joseph’s coat sleeve. “I heard one of them say ‘muskets’,” she whispered.
“Either we’ve come upon a meeting between a pair of spies, or . . .”
“Or, what?”
From their aspect, neither could clearly make out anything, but soon, they both spotted a lone horse and rider emerge from the opposite side of the barn and begin to pick its way through the high grass toward the opposite end of the thicket that Betsy and Joseph had just come through.
“One of them is leaving,” Betsy said softly.
“Which means if there were only two to start with, I like the odds now a good deal better.”
“Are you carrying your pistol?”
Joseph patted his pocket. “I only hope there aren’t more men inside.”
In seconds they heard the sound of the horse reaching the dusty road and its hooves break into a gallop. The noise must have also reached Priscilla’s ears, for he let out a whinny. The disturbance brought the second man into view.
“Who goes there?” he shouted into the darkness.
Both Betsy and Joseph ducked; their heads and shoulders hidden by the tall grass they’d just tramped through.
Joseph risked a peek upward, then motioned for Betsy to follow him. Both walked bent over, making their way through the high weeds in a circular path and eventually coming up behind the barn. One by one they ran across the clearing to the backside of the building. Betsy, unable to curb her eagerness to find out what, or who, was inside, inched along the perimeter in search of a space between the weathered boards wide enough to peek through.
Apparently her movements were not as noiseless as she intended, for again, a male voice shouted, “Who goes there?”
Betsy had now reached the opposite side of the building and standing on tiptoe in order to see inside, she gasped. “Rachel!”
In one corner of the abandoned building, she saw her younger sister tied to a beam, her hands bound behind her, a wadded up piece of cloth stuffed into her mouth. White-hot anger surged through Betsy. Giving no thought to her own safety, she ran back around the perimeter of the building in search of the entryway, but the split-second she gained the backside of the barn she stopped short when she spotted a very large man emerging from the opposite corner. Paul Trumbell.
Where was Joseph?
Her heart hammering in her ears, Betsy noiselessly stood with her body flattened against the rough wooden planks of the barn. Suddenly, the thud of something . . . or someone . . . hitting the ground startled her. She held her breath as the unmistakable grunts and curses of a scuffle reached her ears.
In size, she knew Joseph was no match for the giant. An anxious gaze scanned the ground in search of a rock, or stray length of timber, that she might swing at the massive man. Her hopes were dashed when she saw nothing, and realized again that she had no choice but to remain where she was and pray that Joseph’s efforts to subdue the giant would prove successful.
Seconds later, when the ear-splitting sound of a shot rang out on the cold night air, Betsy’s heart plummeted to her feet. Gulping past the fear spiraling through her, she again groped along the splintery planks of the building in order to peek around the corner. Once there, all she could see was the shadowy figure of a lone man, the one holding the smoking pistol, as he stood gazing down upon the other. A gust of wind whipping through the treetops allowed a flicker of moonlight to illuminate the killer’s face.
“Joseph!” Betsy screamed, running from behind the barn toward the man holding the gun.
His eyes did not leave his prey. “Stay back, Betsy.”
She halted in mid-step. “Rachel is tied up inside the barn!”
Pocketing his pistol, Joseph turned away from the body lying on the ground. “Let’s get her and be gone before this fellow’s friend returns. I don’t relish killing two men tonight.”
“Is that one . . . dead?”
“Either that or he suddenly fell into a very sound sleep.”
In seconds, the two of them reached a wide-eyed Rachel. Sobs of joy over finding her sister alive nearly prevented Betsy from being able to render assistance in untying her sister but she did manage to remove the gag from the frightened girl’s mouth.
“B-Betsy?”
“Yes, sweetie, it’s me.” Betsy hugged her sister, who despite her
disheveled state did, indeed, sufficiently resemble her that at first glance it appeared she was gazing into a mirror.
Tears filled the younger girl’s eyes as behind her Joseph worked to unloosen the ropes that bound her wrists and ankles. “I heard a shot. You did not kill François, did you?”
“François was here?”
“Yes, moments ago. He and the other man stood outside talking. Please tell me you did not kill François!”
“No . . . not François.”
“We need to get out of here now,” Joseph insisted, flinging the last of the ropes aside.
“My cloak!” Rachel pointed to the soiled garment lying in a heap on a pile of dusty straw.
Joseph snatched it up and all but dragged the two women along with him out of the building and far away from it.
For most of the drive back to town, the threesome scarcely spoke.
Turning onto Sassafras Street and heading down the cobbled thoroughfare toward Betsy’s childhood home, she twisted around to address Rachel, huddled in the back of the cart. Betsy hadn’t said much to her sister thus far because she didn’t quite know what to say. It was apparent Rachel still harbored warm feelings toward François as evidenced by her fear that he might have been the one who was shot.
“Rachel,” she began, “You must promise me you will never see François again. He is not the kind, thoughtful man you believe him to be, sweetie, he is . . .”
“He saved my life!” Rachel cried. “The other man, the one who snatched me, he meant to kill me but François would have none of it! I am alive now because of François and none other!”
Betsy refrained from pointing out that Joseph deserved a good deal of the credit for saving her life. After all François had left her tied up inside the barn and it was Joseph who rushed in to untie her. Instead she said, “François Dubeau is a notorious spy, Rachel, a ruthless killer, who works for the British.” Everything in Betsy wanted to scream, He killed John! but she resisted. “The reason he spared your life is because he is using you to threaten me, and in order to do that, he was obliged to keep you alive. François wishes me to procure information for him, which I do not wish to provide. He said if I did not meet his demands, he would kill both you and Sarah.”
Rachel’s frightened blue eyes filled with tears. “I don’t believe you.” She trembled. “I-I love him!”
“It’s the truth, Rachel. You must not see François again. He will find a way to snatch you again, and the next time, he will not spare your life.” That Rachel appeared now to be listening somewhat gratified Betsy. “Joseph, tell her what you learned about François.”
Joseph repeated what had been told him, vehemently adding that François Dubeau was indeed a dangerous man and not to be trusted. “Rachel, your sister has your best interests at heart. It is unfortunate, but the truth of the matter is, the Frenchman has only been trifling with you.”
When fresh sobs overtook Rachel, Betsy attempted to comfort her. “You’ve had a frightful scare, Rachel, but I beg you to heed what Captain Ashburn says. François is a dangerous man and he will not . . .”
The talk continued on in that vein until Joseph halted the cart in front of the Griscom home on Second Street. Giving her sister a final hug, Betsy and Joseph watched the girl, whose tangled hair and torn clothing bespoke the frightening experience she’d just endured, scamper up the walk and rap
at the door. In the darkness, tears filled Betsy’s eyes when she saw her father fling open the door and heard her parent’s cries of joy as they embraced their lost daughter, then, lovingly draw her into the house. Despite her longing to join in her family’s elation over Rachel’s safe return, Betsy merely murmured, “Please take me home now, Joseph.”
Before Betsy went up to bed that night, she asked one last favor of her seafaring friend. “I think it best that you return to the barn and . . .”
“Bury Trumbell,” Joseph supplied. “I quite agree. When François returns tomorrow and finds Rachel gone, his first thought will be that Trumbell disobeyed orders and went ahead with his plan to kill her, which will undoubtedly anger him.”
“He’ll then set out to extract revenge upon Trumbell,” Betsy added. “Perhaps by then, we’ll know more about what is happening with the war, whether or not the conflict is truly over.” A weary sigh escaped her. “I am so sorry to have drawn you into this, Joseph.”
He wrapped his arms about her as they stood in the foyer of her shop. “Your problems are now my problems, Betsy. Whatever troubles you, troubles me. I care deeply for you, lass. I want nothing more than to be with you now and forevermore.” He lowered his head to press his lips to hers.
Twining her arms up around his neck, Betsy returned the kiss. “I care for you as well, Joseph, but . . .”
He smiled, albeit sadly. “At this juncture, I’ll not press you for anything more, Betsy. Just know there isn’t anything in this world that I wouldn’t do for you.”
Betsy buried her head in his shoulder. The feel of his strong arms wrapped around her and the fresh outdoorsy scent that always accompanied him, comforted her beyond measure. She gazed up at him. Moonlight filtering through the shop window cast shadows across his ruggedly handsome face. Suddenly, a feeling she had not experienced in a long, long time washed over her. She did care for this man. She’d felt drawn to him as a girl, but the pull she felt now was a thousand times stronger. “I care deeply for you, as well, Joseph.”
He hugged her to him again, then, reluctantly extricated himself from her arms. “I still have work to do before this night ends.”
“Be watchful, Joseph, please. We’ve no assurance that François will not return to the barn to check on Rachel tonight.”
Joseph chuckled. “If he does, he’ll not find me alone. I plan to take reinforcements this time.”
Betsy smiled. “And I plan to prepare a nice dinner for you tomorrow night.”
He gave her another peck on the cheek. “Then I’ll make certain I am still alive to eat it.”