12

Despite dressing in the somber little cabin with all its secrets and shadows, Roxanna felt an unexpected spark of excitement as she pulled on her stockings, securing them to her garters and smoothing her petticoats into place. Bella had insisted she dress her hair in long spirals once again with the curling tongs, weaving in a bit of silver ribbon among all that glossy black to match the fine Irish lace fichu about her shoulders. It dressed up the sedate lines of her dove-gray gown and made her look less mournful.

“Now, I know yo’ missin’ yo’ pa, but he’d want you to look mighty fine while you’re playin’ that there music box he made you.” She pulled a stray string from Roxanna’s skirt and sighed. “Law, but I hope all them men behave when you womenfolk walk in. With the colonel there, they won’t make too much mischief. And then there’s the child.”

At that mention, Abby peeked out from behind Roxanna’s full skirts. A smile pulled at Bella’s dour mouth as she surveyed the dress she’d made Abby. ’Twas a lustrous yellow satin with a quilted petticoat, gotten from her secret stores in the stone house.

“Why, you look bright as a sunbeam,” Roxanna whispered as Abby fingered the lacy bows of her bodice.

Despite the compliment, no answering smile graced the small face, and her blue-gray eyes seemed huge in the shadows. Earlier, Olympia had finally given her over to their care, intent on beautifying herself for the dance without the child underfoot. Taking advantage of the moment, Roxanna asked if she might teach Abby her letters.

“Letters?” Olympia paused in affixing a beauty mark to her cheek. “What for?”

“I think Abby would like to read . . . write her name.”

Olympia tucked a strand of graying hair behind her ear and made a face. “No sense in makin’ a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

“But I thought you wanted a better life for Abby,” Roxanna said quietly, as stung by her callous comment as by the sudden sadness in Abby’s eyes.

“Who’d teach her?”

“I would. Before coming here, I was a tutor to children just Abby’s age. I have a hornbook in my belongings, some story cards.”

“I’ll study on it,” Olympia said, fussing with her powdered hair, clearly bored with the subject.

Pondering it now, Roxanna took Abby’s hand and crossed the snow-dusted common with her dulcimer in arm. They entered the large blockhouse dining room that served as a makeshift dance hall and marveled at the change. Dovie and Nancy were putting fresh tapers in all the candelabras, and a fire crackled in the river rock hearth. Benches lined the log walls, and there was even a small platform where the musicians would sit.

She found Bella leaning over a barrel in the kitchen, a rapturous look on her bony face. “Bella, are you imbibing?” Roxanna couldn’t help tease.

“I sure is,” she said, waving a ladle. “Would you like a little sip?” Roxanna stepped up as she made another pass over the shiny liquid. “None o’ that flip or mulled wine for McLinn, but genuine cherry bounce.”

Roxanna’s delight faded as grief crowded in. Papa had dearly loved cherry bounce. She and Mama had made many a gallon from their own orchard in days past. Here’s to old times, she mused, in a sort of silent toast. She took a generous gulp and her eyes widened. “Why, Bella, that’s the best bounce I’ve ever tasted!”

A rare smile softened Bella’s countenance. “Let’s hope the colonel says the same. I was nearly scalped pickin’ all them cherries downriver at Smitty’s Fort. Hank helped me. He and the colonel planted a fine orchard back of the stone house here on the hill, but the trees are young yet, and what little we get the birds gobble up.”

Roxanna longed to learn all she could about the colonel’s private retreat but stayed busy helping set out an assortment of cheese, bread, and tarts alongside cider and the coveted bounce. As the soldiers began assembling, she kept a close eye on Abby, easily spied in her yellow dress. Soon Micajah Hale was beside her, a fiddle tucked under one arm.

“The evening improves already,” he said, eyeing her dulcimer appreciatively. He removed his uniform coat to better play his instrument, revealing a pristine linen shirt and brocade weskit, his sandy hair tied back with silk string. Small pockmarks pitted his cheeks and chin, evidence of the scourge so common to soldiers. She thought how waifish he was when compared to his commanding officer.

Around them the air seemed to crackle with excitement. Bella had wisely left the blockhouse door ajar, and the room was filling with every conceivable soldier but Colonel McLinn. Micajah gestured to a seat and Roxanna took it, glad to be off her feet. Two more fiddlers gathered round and Hale made polite introductions, all the while looking at her, she noticed. Slightly ill at ease from the attention, she listened to their small talk but found her eyes trailing to the blockhouse door again and again.

Would the colonel not come? Were the comforts of the stone house so great?

She’d seen smoke rising from the twin chimneys just as the sun had set and the stately walls had flamed with warm crimson and gold light. She imagined him sitting feet to the fire in a deep wingback chair, perhaps smoking a pipe, far removed from the filth and cramped quarters of Fort Endeavor. She felt curiously let down, though the Redstone women were a blessed distraction, making a grand entrance in dresses she’d never before seen.

Each preened like a colorful songbird—Olympia bright as a cardinal in red wool, Mariah in canary yellow, Nancy a bluebird in rich indigo. Dovie brought up the rear. Clothed in pink linen, she looked even younger than her fifteen years. Tonight they were the belles of the ball, though Roxanna wondered how they would hold up with such an abundance of partners. Then, remembering the impromptu dance aboard the flatboat, she sensed the night might be long indeed.

Micajah began tuning his fiddle—fine maple from the sheen of it—and she dared to ask, “Shouldn’t we wait for Colonel McLinn?”

He stopped his adjustments and gave her a smug smile. “If we wait, we might not have a frolic at all.” Seeing her confusion, he added, “The colonel rarely partakes of any sort of amusement. I wager he feels it beneath him. A cramped blockhouse hardly compares with a Williamsburg ballroom.”

With that, he struck a spritely tune, and the twang of the fiddles nearly drowned out the dulcimer. Roxanna soon lost herself in the merry music and rhythm of the reel, looking down at her hands as she played, almost able to forget where she was and her uncertain future. Less than an arm’s length away sat Abby on a stool, watching her pluck the strings as if transfixed, her riotous curls alight in the fire’s backdrop.

When at last Roxanna looked up again, it was the colonel she saw straight across from her, broad shoulders filling the width of the door frame, fiery head ducking beneath the lintel. The fiddlers began a new tune, and she fell in a bit behind, thoughts askew.

Ah . . . one simple look . . . but what a memory it made.

He was in full dress uniform and clean shaven, his hair pulled back in still-damp strands and caught with the usual black silk ribbon. She saw a flash of white teeth as he laughed and joked with his officers, and she felt a deep gnawing to know what it was he found so amusing. In blockhouse headquarters, he was often tense and solemn, his smiles tight, as if her company somehow grieved him. This was a side of him she’d not seen.

Across the way, Bella was bringing out the cherry bounce for him to sample, and his satisfaction was so apparent her own dark face creased with a smile. The lively strains of the gavotte filled the large space, and she looked up again to see the colonel escorting Mariah into the middle of the melee. Mariah smiled up at him as he placed one hand upon her waist and led her out with the other. How gallant—and surprising—Roxanna mused, given his reservations about the Redstone women.

Truly, Captain Stewart had not lied. Colonel McLinn had indeed graced some of the finest ballrooms in the colonies. Partnered with him, even Mariah seemed to shine. Roxanna wondered how it felt to be held so, to be turned about like one was light as thistledown. Her best shoe with its extra-tall heel seemed almost to ache as she watched them, and when she looked back down, the polished wood of her dulcimer was a watery brown.

She shouldn’t have come—her emotions were too raw. Every poignant note seemed to prick her, though she played as stalwartly as she could. She was more than ready to stop when the musicians took a short rest and Micajah brought her some cider. Abby had slipped away to the food-laden table, eyeing the apple tarts. A hundred or more voices hummed inside the timbered room now six people deep. There was precious little room for dancing, yet the men showed little inclination to quit—perhaps not till the clock struck twelve and turned into the Sabbath.

“You don’t have to play all night,” Micajah told her. “Though you play very well.” He tucked his bow under one arm and sat beside her, fiddle in one hand and cherry bounce in the other. “’Twas a brilliant idea you had suggesting this. I’ve gotten more work out of the men this week than most. And aside from that court-martial, there’s not been one breach of behavior.”

“Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves,” she said, letting her eyes roam over the crowd again. “Even Colonel McLinn.”

Surprise crossed his face. “I wasn’t sure he’d come—or stay. Once he leaves fort walls for the day, he doesn’t often come back. Likes to shut himself away in the stone house.”

“’Tis a beautiful place.”

“A bit grand for Kentucke, some say. He calls it Sithean—that’s Gaelic for ‘fairy hill.’ The only way he could abide coming to the frontier was to build a bit of home here.”

“He must miss Ireland, then.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. He rarely speaks of it. He does have ties there—some relatives and an Irish beauty by the name of Cecily O’Day. I suppose Bella has told you about that. No doubt you’ve heard of Liam McLinn.”

Roxanna brushed a speck of dust off her dulcimer. “Bella mentioned he has a twin.”

“Aye, so he does—one who just happens to be an officer in the British army. When Cass joined the Americans, it caused a bit of a fracas. As heir, he lost the family holdings when the British learned of his betrayal. But it hardly mattered. Liam was already wreaking havoc making free with their inheritance. He spent some time in Dublin’s Marshalsea Prison for debt, but slippery as he is, he escaped and came here.” The relaxed lines of his face tightened. “General Washington calls him Lucifer McLinn—on account of all the trouble he’s caused.” Seeing her blank expression, he added, “Don’t you read the papers, Miss Rowan?”

“Just the Virginia Gazette . . . occasionally.”

He grimaced. “Liam McLinn is a staunch loyalist and spy. And one of the greatest threats to the Continental cause there is. He’s done untold damage masquerading as his Patriot brother in the colonies. Once he nearly had Cass hung for treason.”

A chill touched her spine. “What?”

“A group of New York Tories led by Liam formed a secret organization to assassinate General Washington. Fortunately, the plot was uncovered, and forty or more conspirators were arrested, including one of Washington’s beloved Life Guards.”

“Colonel McLinn was also a Life Guard, wasn’t he?”

“Aye. Liam tried to implicate him, but there wasn’t enough evidence to send him to the gallows. Fortunately, Washington never believed ill of him. A close friend of the colonel’s, Captain Thomas Hickey, wasn’t so lucky. He was hanged. After that Washington sent Cass west.”

“To remove him from the danger and speculation, you mean? So no one can confuse him with his brother?” The prospect was so stunning—and intriguing—she cast aside her self-imposed rule to mind her own business.

He nodded and downed the last of his bounce. “Now Washington merely has to point west when an ugly rumor arises. Having Cass here makes it that much easier for Continental forces to catch the real loyalist McLinn.”

Cass. She found herself lingering on the name, liking its softness, so at odds with the man himself. Behind them the fiddling commenced again, and Micajah left her side to resume playing. She found her heart racing inexplicably, her pulse keeping time to the music. Her thoughts were in such a troubled jumble she decided to sit this tune out, searching through the crowd till she located the object of their discussion.

The colonel was standing in front of Abby now, and she barely came up to his thigh. Her head was tipped back and her lips parted as if in a sort of wonder. Around them all had stilled, even the music, every eye on the commander and the child. Roxanna watched as he made a small bow. Though no expression crossed her face, Abby put one foot behind the other and gave a surprising curtsey.

A ripple of amusement passed through the gathering. Cass held out his hand and Roxanna held her breath. Would he even charm a mute child? Pensive, Abby studied him before extending her own small hand. He took it, and the music began again, but not before he’d stood her little feet atop his polished boots.

Around and around he danced with her, holding on to her hands, her feet firmly planted atop his own. And she was . . . smiling. Still mute yet smiling. Even Olympia seemed a bit awed, standing with Dovie and Captain Stewart in the shadows. It seemed something of a miracle. Roxanna swallowed past the tightness in her throat and returned to her dulcimer, trying to sound the right notes, the picture of Abby and the colonel lingering.

The dark log walls and press of perspiring men receded as her thoughts winged across a continent to Ireland and an Irish beauty named Cecily and a twin called Liam McLinn. Lucifer McLinn. She regretted that their trouble went deep, pitting brother against brother. Family rifts were common enough with a war on, but one involving an enemy twin seemed extraordinary somehow—and doubly dangerous.

An hour passed in a sort of haze. Suddenly weary, she waited for the right time to bid the musicians goodbye, then slipped into the empty kitchen unnoticed and hastened out the small side door that led to the springhouse and parade ground. But before she’d pulled it shut, she heard a heavy footfall. Cold moonlight cast the colonel in a long black silhouette directly in her path.

“Miss Rowan, I believe you’re in need of an escort.”

In the silence, his voice was deep and clear and lilting, and her soft response was lost as the music started up again. He held out his arm, and she had little choice but to take it, startled when he brought his other hand to bear on hers as it rested on his wool sleeve, its warm width covering her cold fingers like a glove. She was acutely conscious of his height and how, unlike the diminutive Dovie, she was eye level with his epaulets. There was something different about him tonight, and it struck her as hard as the cold. He was gallant . . . charming . . . almost mellow. Perhaps on account of Bella’s fine cherry bounce.

He said quietly, “I wanted to thank you for the evening’s entertainment.”

She nearly slipped on an icy patch, but he caught her and she stammered, “Th-thank you for allowing it.” Hugging her dulcimer tight with her free arm, she noticed he walked the long way to her cabin, along the north barracks, as opposed to simply crossing the parade ground.

He looked down at her. “You’re leaving early.” She opened her mouth to mumble an excuse, but he went on easily, “But then, so am I.”

She looked over the far pickets and up the hill where warm light beckoned in every window of the stone house. Home. She wanted to keep walking right out the fort’s gates and up the rise and over the threshold into a warm paneled room where she just knew a wingback chair waited before a crackling hearth.

The ache in her chest expanded till she could barely breathe. “What will you do when you get there?” The wistful question was uttered before she realized what she’d asked, and there was no wishing it back.

She could hear the smile in his voice in the darkness. “Read. Smoke. Badger Hank into going to that dance.”

She hadn’t noticed Hank was missing. Only Bella had been there.

He stopped abruptly and turned to her. “What will you do when you get here?”

They’d come to her cabin door, and she hadn’t expected him to echo her question. It took all the poise she possessed to simply say, “Read. Have a cup of tea.” Cry.

He released her arm. “Are you in need of some books, Miss Rowan? Tristram Shandy, perhaps? Some Samuel Johnson?”

She nearly raised an eyebrow at his recommendations. A touch scandalous, she thought. For a moment she sensed he might invite her to the stone house. Bella had said he had a fine library. “I have the good book, Colonel. ’Tis enough for now.”

“The offer stands should you have need of anything else—or want to move to another cabin.” He hesitated and she thought he might say more, but he simply finished with a disappointingly curt, “Good night, Miss Rowan.”

He opened the cabin door, and she went inside and set her instrument down. Still breathless, she cracked open the shutter to watch his retreating back and heard the crisp crunch of snow under his boots. An extravagant moon illuminated every nuance of the scene unfolding before her. The sentries at both gates saluted as he passed, the saber tips of their muskets a flash of silver in the deep darkness.

He was moving toward the little sally port along the north wall of the fort. Bella had pointed it out to her, and she’d been struck that it was barely big enough for a man’s girth. A secret escape, if you will. Two regulars fell in behind him without a word, and the trio disappeared behind the high north wall, only to emerge on the moonlit hill leading to Sithean.

Her heart gave a lonesome leap as they reached their destination. Before he’d taken the first of three steps to the front door, it opened wide in welcome and Hank’s voice rang out. Cass disappeared inside and then Hank took his leave, coming back down the frozen hill with the two regulars and entering through the sally port.

A knowing smile touched Roxanna’s lips. Colonel McLinn hadn’t had to do much badgering. Hank made a beeline for the blockhouse and Bella’s cherry bounce.

The Sabbath yawned gray and quiet. Since the army chaplain had died in the fall, no services were held, Bella told her. If they had been, Roxanna wondered how many would attend. She smelled strong coffee brewing all the way across the parade ground, but not a soul came for breakfast save little Abby, wandering across the cold common in her fancy quilted petticoat, clutching the doll Roxanna had made her.

I must fashion a day dress for her from one of my own, she decided. And so she set to work, assembling her sewing supplies, knowing Bella would feed Abby once she slipped into the kitchen. Truly, Bella seemed fond of the little girl.

It wasn’t till dinner that anyone stirred save the sentries. When Colonel McLinn appeared through the sally port at dusk, Roxanna wondered what the commander of the entire western frontier did on an idle Sabbath day. She kept busy helping Bella in the kitchen while the Redstone women prepared to serve. It had become their habit to eat in the confines of the kitchen before the men crowded into the dining room.

Bella stood watch over a venison roast turning on a spit while Nancy mashed the potatoes. “These need a mite more salt, just like the gravy,” Nancy said, reaching for a salt gourd.

“Careful,” Bella cautioned. “Our salt’s runnin’ low—same as everything else around here.”

“I thought the colonel sent out a salt-makin’ party over a fortnight ago,” Mariah said.

“He did, but they ain’t back yet. Makin’ salt’s a bad business even in the dead o’ winter. We’ll have to stretch what we have another week or better till they get back.”

Roxanna set the trestle table for their own meal, thinking they were becoming woefully short of many things, even cornmeal. Fort Endeavor grew mostly corn, the now fallow fields barely visible under a skiff of snow. Bella bragged that some stalks were so tall they seemed to touch the Kentucke sky. But plowing and planting were months away. She’d be gone before anything was harvested—or so she hoped.

They sat down together, all six women and Abby. Joining hands, they said a prayer, then passed bowls and made small talk, all the while waiting for the men. Roxanna noticed each woman seemed to be listening for a certain voice in particular. She’d often done the same with Ambrose, waiting for his warm baritone to fill the long hallway of her house back home. Beside her, Olympia kept an eye on the door adjoining the dining room. She still claimed an officer, Captain Stewart, while the others had settled on the less refined regulars.

“That was some frolic, Miz Roxanna,” Mariah said between bites of bread. “But it’s a shame you didn’t dance.”

“She’s mournin’ her pa, remember,” Olympia reminded her.

“Oh, it’s more than that, really,” Roxanna confessed, filling Abby’s mug with milk. “I’m a bit lame in one leg.”

“Lame? How?” Dovie asked.

“I fell out of a tree as a child and had a bad break that didn’t mend properly. I’d like to dance but don’t manage the steps well.”

“I noticed you limpin’, ” Nancy murmured. “Though you hide it right well.”

Olympia grew sly. “Now, say you were to dance with someone who knew what he was doin’. I’ll wager you wouldn’t feel lame at all.”

The women tittered around the table, and Roxanna felt heat inching up her neck. Beside her, Bella drew up like an injured hen. “No matchmakin’ is goin’ to go on in my kitchen, you hear? You’d best hoe your own row.”

“Now listen here,” Olympia snarled, rebellion in her eyes. “Miz Roxanna shouldn’t have to sit and watch the rest of us make merry, is all I’m sayin’. ”

“Well, you is always sayin’ too much.”

“Ladies, please,” Roxanna intervened.

A strained silence settled round the table so that only the snap of the fire was heard. This was Bella’s domain, but Olympia, strong willed as she was, liked to overstep her bounds, even in the most trivial ways. The ill feeling between them seemed to simmer and set the rest of them on edge. Roxanna wondered if she’d been wise asking for them to stay on. Yet where would they be otherwise? And there was Abby to consider.

Roxanna finished her meal, eyes trailing to Dovie’s untouched plate beside her. As the others got up and prepared to serve in the dining room, she said quietly, “Abby, will you take round the bread?” The child stopped chewing and slid off her stool. When she’d disappeared, Roxanna continued in hushed tones, “Dovie, are you ill?”

The girl averted her eyes and picked up her fork halfheartedly. “I ain’t got much appetite here lately.”

Mariah turned around, arms full of pewter plates, and hissed, “You might as well tell her. She’ll see for herself soon enough.”

At once Roxanna knew. She’d had too many friends shunning their supper plates on account of this condition—all of them wed. But Dovie seemed reluctant to share her secret, simply whispering, “I’m scared Colonel McLinn will turn me out if he knows.”

Roxanna’s mind raced as she scrambled for the name of the young soldier she’d last seen her with. “Is Private Dayton the father, Dovie?”

She gave a little shrug. “I ain’t sure.”

Swallowing her dismay, Roxanna asked, “Would you like him to be?”

“I like him the best of them all. And he says he’s goin’ to ask the colonel if he can marry me. But his enlistment ain’t up till after the baby comes.”

“When will that be?”

She furrowed her brow, and the sprinkling of freckles across her nose turned her touchingly childlike. “September or so, by my count.”

Disbelief coursed through Roxanna. So soon? They’d been at the fort less than two months.

Bella ceased stirring the gravy and eyed Dovie sternly. “You’d best ’fess up right quick and call for the preacher. The colonel don’t have no tolerance for loose women.”

Dovie turned watery eyes on Roxanna. “Will you speak to him, Miz Rox—”

Bella’s spoon clanged against the side of the kettle. “Don’t you go beggin’ a lady to air your dirty laundry with McLinn—”

“Now, Bella . . .” Roxanna dug in her pocket for a handkerchief and turned back to Dovie. “If Johnny’s willing to ask the colonel for your hand, I think he must care for you and want to make things right.”

But Bella shook her head dolefully. “Johnny’s likely to get fifty lashes and a court-martial for his trouble. Now, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Old Granny Sykes over at Smitty’s Fort can fix you up a tonic—”

“Bella! No!” Roxanna stood, plate and mug balanced precariously in one hand, the other on Dovie’s shoulder. “Babies are a gift, not . . . garbage.”

Bella had the grace to look sheepish, eyes averted. “I’d sooner take a tonic than face McLinn.” With that, she went out, the door slapping shut in her wake.

Roxanna sat back down. “Despite Bella’s rather vocal opinions, Colonel McLinn is an honorable man. And I’m sure he’ll listen to Johnny’s proposal. Besides, a wedding and a baby are some of the finest things this life offers. I’ve often wished for both myself.” The admission made her own eyes water, and Dovie passed her back the handkerchief.

“I’m still prayin’ you’ll find your man, Miz Roxanna,” she said, squeezing her hand. “And I promise not to send for Granny Sykes.”