June 1780
Colonel William Tavington was most severely displeased. Then again, he was rarely in anything but a bad humor these days. He had indulged in the luxury of a long, solitary ride this morning, and it had actually put him closer to a good mood than he had been in recent memory; and then, the moment he arrived back in camp—
"Lieutenant Bligh!"
"Sir?" The lanky lieutenant stepped away from his friend, with whom he had been engaging in mock swordplay.
"How many times must I remind you to polish your sword, Bligh?" The younger man lowered his eyes to his weapon, which was grimy and dull, the polar opposite of the gleaming blade that was currently sheathed at Tavington's side. He looked sheepishly back up at the Colonel and tried to apologize.
"Sir, I—"
"No excuses, Lieutenant. I have made it clear that I do not accept anything less than perfection when it comes to uniform detail, and that applies in particular to weaponry." Bligh was an obedient soldier, but he was hopeless when it came to appearances; he never failed to have a uniform article out of place, a tendency which the compulsive Tavington found completely infuriating. Today, it had been the first stroke of irritation that, the Colonel knew, foreshadowed an entire day of unpleasantness. "If I have to mention anything of the kind to you one more time, you will no longer be riding with the Dragoons."
"Yes, sir," said the lieutenant, looking askance at his friend. This bode poorly for his friend, as it drew attention to the latter, and—
"Lawrence!" Tavington directed his icy blue gaze now at Bligh's friend. "What the devil do you mean by that scarf?"
"Sir?" the other man replied, looking down at the offending article that was draped around his neck in a manner entirely unsuited to an officer in His Majesty's Army.
"Get rid of it, Lieutenant, and get out of my sight! Both of you!" Tavington's command was never one to be taken lightly, and both lieutenants scurried obediently away toward the center of camp. Tavington grunted and spun on his heel, marching toward his tent.
Upon reaching his solitary haven, Tavington sighed and sat down upon his cot. The everyday idiocies of soldiering were getting to him; having to manage such a bunch of dunderheads outside of a battlefield was more of a challenge than fighting had ever been, and every incident like the one with Bligh took its toll on the Colonel. How was His Majesty's Army ever to defeat decisively these tiresome rebellious colonists if the Green Dragoons—the most fearsome unit of the world's most powerful army—couldn't manage to keep their weaponry in order?
Tavington sighed again, massaging his temples. He didn't know how much longer he could serve as nursemaid to his incompetent lieutenants before he lost his mind entirely. He pulled off his boots, soiled with a morning's hard ride, and was just about to give them a much needed polish when he perceived a shadow just outside his tent. "Sir?" said a tentative voice. "Lord Cornwallis would like to see you, sir."
The polish would have to wait, then, if the General and his group of admirers wanted to see him. Tavington sighed once more, grimacing, pulled the boots back on, and marched out of his tent, nearly flattening the petrified boy who had been sent to fetch him.
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I had realized soon after the Dragoons took me that the only explanation for them, for the disappearance of my house and everything familiar, was that I had somehow stumbled back in history. And the only time it could be, given the pervasive British accents and those familiar uniforms, was sometime during the American Revolution. Though the still logical part of my brain refused to accept it, I was sure the moment I heard one of the men utter the name Cornwallis. I instantly forbade myself from considering the impossibility of the situation and resolved only to deal with the present moment. And at the moment, it appeared that I was to meet Cornwallis himself. I pushed all thought of my future, of Paris, resolutely away and thought about how best to convince the fearsome general that I was trustworthy.
I arrived in the General's tent manhandled and royally pissed off. I was glad to be rid of the Dragoons who had captured me, but who knew what awaited me once I met the General? From everything I had ever read, Cornwallis was not a man to be taken lightly. Just as I was racking my brains to try to remember some detail—anything that would give me a bargaining chip with Cornwallis—I heard the man himself. "Bring her in, Lieutenant."
The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of General Lord Cornwallis, one of the most famous Englishmen the world had ever known. He looked surprisingly gentle, and I found myself curiously at ease. "Well," Cornwallis said, looking me up and down. I realized belatedly that he must find my attire a little strange—but there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it now. "What is your name, miss?"
"Je—" I stopped abruptly, realizing that Jessica would be an exceedingly odd name for an 18th century woman. I decided to give him my middle name instead—it had been passed down in my family for generations, and I hoped it would sound somewhat more authentic. "Katerinalila."
He eyed me somewhat suspiciously and made a noncommittal noise. "Hmm. And you are from this area? My men said they found you alone in the cotton fields; where is your family?"
"Dead," I lied, my brain racing. "My mother had—consumption, and my father died of dysentery." At least all those hours of my childhood spent playing Oregon Trail had been good for something. "My mother sent me away to try to find help, but I knew she was done for. I've been wandering for—days…" That still didn't explain my sweatpants.
Thankfully, Cornwallis's sympathy seemed to have gotten the better of his skepticism. "My dear girl, we shall have you fit as a fiddle in no time. Nothing, of course, can atone for the loss of your parents, but you will learn to cope in time." Surprisingly, I found my eyes welling with tears—who knew when I'd see my parents again? No, I couldn't think about that yet. "Focus, Jess," I told myself firmly.
But it seemed that my unbidden tears had done more for my case than anything I had said previously. The General smiled sympathetically at me as a stray tear made its way down my cheek. He pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket in his coat and offered it to me. "There, there, my dear, you are in safe hands now."
"Thank you, sir," I sniffled, wiping my eyes and resisting the urge to dissolve into uncontrollable weeping. I gave the General a watery smile. "I'm sorry."
"Not at all, Miss Katerinalila," he said, his gaze suddenly pensive. He studied me for a moment. "Do you know, my dear, you remind me of my daughter. You look much as I imagine she would have, had she lived to be your age."
"Oh," I said, not sure quite what to say. "Thank you."
Cornwallis shook his head as if to clear his thoughts and turned to the officer who had been standing just inside the tent when I entered. "Lieutenant Lawrence, find this young lady something suitable to wear and show her to an empty tent. The one just next to Colonel Tavington's will do." He smiled at me and ate a lemon drop.
"Thank you so much for your help, General," I said, and meant it.
"Not at all, my dear," said Cornwallis. "These are dangerous times, and it isn't safe for a young lady to be alone. Once you're cleaned up, I would be delighted if you'd join me for dinner in my quarters."
"I would be honored," I said, and attempted a curtsey before I ducked out of the tent. As I left, I heard the General mutter to one of his aides to "fetch the Colonel." Could this be the mysterious Colonel that the Dragoons had been so keen to introduce me to this morning? I supposed I would have to wait and find out.
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Tavington flounced into the General's tent, epaulets bouncing. "You wanted to see me, Milord?" he said, injecting more than a touch of irritation into the words.
"Colonel. Delighted to see you," said Cornwallis unconvincingly. "You have heard, I assume, that your Dragoons picked up a young lady this morning on their patrol?"
"I had not," replied Tavington, mentally cursing that fool of a lieutenant, Bligh, for withholding information.
"Yes, well," said Cornwallis, obviously not much bothered. "You will be meeting her this evening; I am having something of a dinner party."
"I should be honored, Milord," said Tavington, sounding anything but.
Cornwallis eyed him, then began pacing. "I have noticed, Colonel, that you have seemed somewhat—discontented—of late. Perhaps you are not as suited for a life of soldiering as you once believed?"
Tavington paused, choosing his words carefully. It certainly wouldn't do to reveal the extent of his frustration. "General, I am more content with the Dragoons than I could be in any other profession. I flatter myself that I am well-suited to be a commander of men. However, I confess I have been troubled lately as to the degree of upkeep required by the soldiers under my command."
"Hmm," said the General. "Much as I expected. Tavington, I believe you are in need of a…tempering influence." He looked expectantly at the Colonel.
"Milord?" Tavington hadn't the least idea what Cornwallis was getting at.
"A woman, Tavington. You need a wife," barked the General.
Tavington could only blink stupidly. "A wife? But I have Bligh to polish my boots, and Lawrence to cook my sausages. What could I possibly need a wife for?" Sometimes he did wonder where on earth the General got his odd notions. On top of which, he couldn't imagine where Cornwallis proposed to find him a wife: surely he didn't expect Tavington to acquire a bride from the colonies?
Cornwallis chuckled at Tavington's confusion. "What for? I am sure you don't need me to tell you, Tavington."
Tavington wanted nothing more than to escape from the General's tent. "If that was all, sir…"
Cornwallis waved a lace-cuffed hand in the Colonel's direction. "Yes, yes, we'll talk more about it later. Seven o'clock, my quarters. And Tavington—" the General's eyes strayed down to Tavington's unpolished boots "—do something about those."
"Sir," said Tavington, bowing and practically tripping over the offending footwear in his haste to flee.
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Lieutenant Bligh, whom Cornwallis had charged with finding me a dress, seemed rather perturbed. From the moment we left the General's tent, he refused to meet my eye, answering my queries as briefly as possible.
"So you're a lieutenant?"
"Yes, Miss," he mumbled.
"From England?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Where in England?"
He mumbled something monosyllabic; I couldn't tell whether he had said "Perth" or "Firth," and though I thought both were in Scotland, not England, I decided not to pursue it.
I couldn't get another word out of him. He seemed embarrassed, and I couldn't figure out why: surely my sweatpants weren't that offensive. But something was definitely bothering Lieutenant Bligh. He continually quickened his pace, so that I was practically skipping to keep up with his lengthy stride; I think he was hoping that if I had to run, I would have to stop asking him questions. Finally, we reached a large, out-of-the-way tent, and the lieutenant stopped abruptly.
"I will wait here to escort you to the General's tent, Miss," he said, and bowed at me.
"Um," I said, wanting to ask what I was supposed to be doing, but he merely frowned at me and adjusted his scarf. Not wanting to upset the good lieutenant any more than I already had, I ducked into the tent—
—and found myself surrounded by—erm—"ladies of the evening." At least, that's what I assumed they were; they were all heavily rouged and in various stages of undress, several of them taking swigs from a flask and all of them laughing lustily. When I entered, the conversation gradually ceased as they all took in my appearance, but almost immediately, the laughing began again. I stood near the tent's entrance, wondering what I should do; but just as I was about to approach the group, one older woman disengaged herself from her companions and, taking a lengthy gulp from her flask, wandered over to me.
"Whadd'ya need, love?" she inquired, eyes fixed on the logo on my sweatpants.
"I—um—General Cornwallis wanted me to—I need a dress," I finally managed to get out, overwhelmed by the smell of rum on the woman's breath.
"You do, eh? Well, you's come to th' right place," wheezed the woman. "Over 'ere. Let's see what we's got."
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Lieutenant Bligh leaned his head back against a tree, closed his eyes, and sighed heavily. Taking innocent young ladies to the whore's tent was not his idea of a pleasant task, though at least he hadn't seen Tavington since this morning—orders from the Colonel when he was in a mood like he was today were not only unpleasant, they were downright sadistic. He sighed again, straightened himself up—and found himself face-to-face with Lawrence.
"Where in the blazes have you been?!" Lawrence said, clearly agitated. "Tavington's in a tizzy!"
"Nice to see you too, mate," replied Bligh testily. "What's the matter now?"
"He came back from the General's tent all in an uproar and bade me thrice polish his boots!" Lawrence was obviously very upset about this.
Bligh stroked his chin thoughtfully. The Colonel's compulsive tendencies were legendary, but that seemed excessive, even to such veterans of Tavington's torturous taskmastery as Bligh and Lawrence. "What do you reckon the General said to him?"
"I haven't the foggiest! But it's certainly made him quite unpleasant!" Lawrence frowned at Bligh as though it were somehow his fault.
"Well, then, you'd best remove that scarf before he sees you again," Bligh said sensibly.
Lawrence sighed moodily and removed the scarf for the second time that day. His neck was uncomfortable cold without it, but he knew Bligh was right: a cold neck would be the least of his worries if Tavington caught him sporting a non-uniform accessory when he was in a mood like this. "Well, I'd best be off; the Colonel needs me to assist in dressing him for dinner. You'd better come along when you're finished hear. You know how many buttons there are on that waistcoat, and he's so particular!"
"I'll be along shortly," said Bligh, sighing at Lawrence's melodrama.
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By the time I made it to dinner, I was completely disoriented. My new friend, whose name I couldn't quite decipher between her slurred speech and her thick accent, had crammed me into a corset and shoes too small for my feet, plus what felt like seven layers of crinoline petticoats and skirts. The dress she had found was actually quite pretty, though; it was silk, the precise shade of cornflower blue that matched my eyes—the same shade Paris had always loved me in—and had beautiful lace trim along the bodice and cuffs. I had complained vociferously when she pulled my corset too tight, but rather than acquiescing to my demand that she get the damn thing away from me, she told me in no uncertain terms to shut up and poured rum down my throat, then went to work on my hair. So, between my inability to breathe, the fact that I'd just consumed more alcohol than I had in my entire life, and the persistent voice in the back of my head that kept telling me that I wasn't going to be born for 200 years, I was not exactly at my best.
However, I must have looked okay, because the look Lieutenant Bligh gave me when I was finally released from my torturer's grasp and stumbled out of the tent was nothing short of admiring astonishment.
"Do you like my dress, Lieutenant?" I couldn't resist spinning a little, perhaps to accompany my spinning head.
"Yes, Miss," he said obediently, and offered me his arm. "I'm to escort you to dinner in the General's tent, Miss."
I smiled at him and took the proffered limb. As we meandered back across the camp to Cornwallis's tent, I couldn't help but notice that I was attracting a fair bit of attention from the soldiers. However, I was determined to ignore their advances, especially when I saw Paris's doppelganger leering at me again. Nothing could replace Paris in my affections, even if I had no idea when I would see him again.
Firmly resolved on this point, I was bowed into the General's tent by Lieutenant Lawrence, who seemed in a hurry to get away. Almost instantly, Cornwallis swooped down upon me. "Miss Katerinalila! You look enchanting, my dear. Wine?" he queried, not waiting for my response before he pressed a glass into my hand.
"Thank you," I replied, bewildered.
"I am very sorry to make you wait, my dear, but one of my officers is meant to be joining us. Please do make yourself comfortable," he said, gesturing me toward the table, which was already set. I made to pull the seat out, but he pre-empted me, and I practically fell into the chair. Smiling, Cornwallis seated himself next to me, at the head of the table. "Do try the wine, my dear. It's French, and you know what they say about French wine!"
I didn't know what they said about French wine, but I sipped obediently as the General winked at me. It was surprisingly drinkable. "It's lovely. Thank you, General."
"Not at all, Miss Katerinalila." The General seemed especially jovial this evening. "I thought I would tell you a bit about the gentleman who's due to be dining with us. His name is William Tavington, and he is without a doubt one of the most distinguished soldiers I have ever had the pleasure of commanding."
"Mmm," I said, sipping my wine to avoid having to respond.
"He comes of a noble family—surely you've heard the name?" Taking my blank look as an affirmation, Cornwallis took a sip of his own wine and continued his bizarre monologue. "And, as anyone may tell you, he has a most promising future in His Majesty's Army. Most promising, indeed." He nodded to himself and drank some more wine.
The General appeared to have no more designs on conversation for the moment and was focused on finishing his wine. Since I had already finished my own, I decided to carry on the conversation—if I had to spend an evening with this Tavington, I wanted to be prepared. "What ab—what of his…character?"
"His character…" Cornwallis said, and gulped down the remainder of his wine, signaling for more. "Tavington is—"
Whatever Tavington was, I never heard, because just then a commotion outside reached our ears. "You are two of the most ineffectual yobs whose parents ever purchased them a commission!" I could hear what sounded like muffled apologies, followed by more from the owner of the first voice. "Apologies will not be accepted, Lawrence! Thanks to your incompetent buttoning, my waistcoat no longer closes properly! And Bligh! Is that a scuff I see?!"
I glanced over at General Cornwallis, who appeared to be focusing intently on finishing his second glass of wine and did not seem at all cognizant of the brouhaha directly outside his tent. "General, who—?"
My question was interrupted by a last burst of shouting, closer and louder than ever. "No more excuses, Bligh! I shall have your ascot if anything is amiss again! And you, Lawrence! It will be your neck on the line, whether or not it is wrapped in that impudent scarf!" And with that,
Colonel William Tavington, pride of King George's military and legendary commander of the Green Dragoons, exploded into the tent—and into my life.
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