February 1781
It had been more than a month since Cowpens, and Tavington's physical ailments now presented him only a marginal obstacle. True, if he rode for more than an hour or so the dull pain in his abdomen became excruciating, and he still wasn't able to speak with excessive volume; but both of these conditions were vast improvements upon being cooped up on strict bedrest and speaking in a whisper for the better part of a month.
During that time, his sole company had been Lieutenant Lawrence, with very occasional visits from Cornwallis (who rarely left without tears in his eyes at the "untimely loss of Mrs. Tavington") and one from a petrified Captain Schoen (who felt, rightly, that Tavington blamed him partially for the loss of the field at Cowpens). This afforded Tavington plenty of leisure time in which to contemplate precisely how his wife had succeeded in betraying him—and precisely what he would do when he found her and her accomplice.
For she must have had an accomplice: there was simply no way Kat could obtain a horse and a Dragoon's uniform, and track the regiment undetected, without help. Initially, Tavington had directed all of his rage toward Bligh: aside from being a deserter, making him worse than a common traitor, he had obviously aided in Kat's escape. Had the pair been plotting against him the whole time, Tavington wondered? It would have been easy enough…Bligh was always at headquarters, and he and Kat had been close from the beginning…she was certainly capable of taking a lover; she had proved time and again that she was fickle and unworthy of a husband like Tavington…
But after several days of brooding on the objectionable prospect of Bligh luring Kat out of his grasp, Tavington realized abruptly just how ludicrous a notion this was. Bligh, with his gangly frame and awkward manners, was hardly capable of seducing a drunken prostitute, let alone the wife of his superior: he lacked not only the charisma necessary for the act itself, but also the wit required to conceal such an affair.
There was also the fact that, if Kat and Bligh had escaped together, there should have been at least one eyewitness. But Tavington had interviewed each of his Dragoons closely about the day of the battle, and though a number of them remembered seeing Bligh as they rode to Cowpens that morning, and even pledged that they had witnessed him plowing his way through a line of rebels on the battlefield, each one swore he had seen no sign of Kat. Lawrence, too, had vowed to Schoen that he had not seen Kat anywhere near Bligh that morning. Though suspicious, Tavington was forced to accept this testimony: Bligh and Lawrence always rode together, and Lawrence could have no reason to prevaricate now that Bligh had abandoned him and the Dragoons.
Which left—Edward Rutledge. He and Kat had always been suspiciously close friends, and they had always lived in the same house, spending a significant amount of time alone together during the days when all of the gentlemen of any worth were out serving King and country. And, loath though Tavington was to admit it, Rutledge was certainly enough of a dandy to be able to charm a woman, what with his interest in fashion and his aptitude at the violin. Kat and Rutledge had disappeared on different days—but that could simply be a clever ruse, part of their plan to conceal the connection between them. Without question it had worked on Cornwallis, who would never do Kat the disservice of imagining her to be unfaithful to the husband he had obtained for her, and on Lawrence, whose admiration for Rutledge knew no bounds.
It was the sole plausible explanation, and yet Tavington could not shake the suspicion that something about his theory was not quite right. Still, it was the only lead he had, and if he didn't take some proactive motion toward reclaiming his wife, he was certain he should go mad.
As soon as he felt physically able, Tavington resolved to ride to Applebottom and search the house. That was the place in which Kat had determined to end her marriage; there, he reasoned, might be found some clue as to her present location. His quest to locate his wife was quickly becoming obsession. And if he failed to find her…well, someone would pay.
Toward the end of the month, Tavington felt quite nearly at the peak of health. He could ride for sustained lengths of time, handle any weapon with ease, and—most importantly—rebuke his Dragoons at full volume. His voice did sound a bit hoarser than in days past, but he knew that this only added to his air of impenetrable masculinity.
The only trouble was that Lawrence, formerly the portrait of buffoonery and butt of Tavington's most forceful censure, had morphed into something else entirely. He seemed to have taken the loss of his companions very hard indeed: in most un-Lawrence-like fashion, he generally refused to talk about them at all. In fact, as the weeks passed, he talked less about everything, focusing instead on drilling exercises and weaponry practice. Truthfully, Tavington found himself almost enjoying Lawrence's companionship now that the foppery in him had been diminished. In part, this was because Tavington felt that he and Lawrence were somehow united in purpose at this juncture. Tavington suspected strongly that Lawrence's constant offers to help him seek out information regarding Rutledge's whereabouts were linked to the lieutenant's desire to reinstate his companion into his former place of esteem. Tavington had, of course, no intention whatever of allowing that to happen; but at present Lawrence's fixation with locating Rutledge was quite aligned with Tavington's interests.
For his part, Tavington's pursuit was single-minded. He could think of nothing but Kat and her infamous treatment of him; his fury toward Rutledge, though no less potent, was secondary to his obsessive wrath at his wife. She had sworn to honor and obey him for as long as she lived: having forfeited that oath, her life was also forfeit. Tavington would not stand idly by while she had taken up with another lover—particularly when that lover was Rutledge. Worst of all, she had deprived him of the opportunity to divorce her if she failed to produce an heir. Now all hope of an heir was gone, and he would have to divorce her regardless.
Something clicked in Tavington's brain as he considered this…an heir…and he realized abruptly that Kat must be, even now, carrying his child. It explained her strange emotiveness on the night before Cowpens, her near-continuous weeping in the preceding weeks—though, now he thought about it, she had always been prone to weeping. But he had had an odd sense, during their last night together, that she had wanted to tell him something. And then she had disappeared—perhaps she had thought he was dead—perhaps she and Rutledge really had been planning their escape—but all of that could be discovered later. For now, the material point was to recover her: he had no intention of allowing a treasonous libertine to raise his stout English heir.
One morning toward the end of February, Tavington decided that the time was right for action. He strode across the campground, boots thudding dully on the frozen ground, toward the stables. "Lieutenant!" he barked as he entered.
Lawrence, who had been stroking his horse's tail, looking rather morose, snapped to attention and saluted smartly. "Colonel Tavington, sir?"
"Gather a squadron of Dragoons, Lieutenant," said Tavington. "We ride south tomorrow."
"South, sir?" Lawrence looked understandably confused. "Aren't we meant to be—heading north?"
Tavington glared at his lieutenant, but Lawrence didn't take the hint, instead continuing to look at him expectantly. "The Dragoons have business in South Carolina, Lieutenant," he growled, "and I intend to see it carried out." He turned on his heel, intending to leave Lawrence to his horse, but his underling wasn't done with his inane questions just yet.
"Where in South Carolina, Colonel?"
"That is of no import to you," snarled Tavington, not bothering to turn back. "Be sure everything is in order for the morrow. If anything is amiss, you shall accept all responsibility."
He took a step toward the stable doors, then paused, frowning, as a thought struck him. "Lieutenant," he said, turning back to face Lawrence, "where is Bligh?"
He was not sure why he had not yet asked this question of Lawrence, nor was he certain what had made him ask it now. The change in Lawrence's countenance was instant and astonishing: his mouth slackened and his eyes widened, full of fear and—guilt? But just as quickly, he looked away. "I don't know," he mumbled, looking down at the hay-covered floor.
But now that he had begun, Tavington would not give up so easily as that. He took several steps forward, stopping inches from Lawrence. "Lieutenant," he hissed. "You will tell me everything you know about the disappearance of Lieutenant Bligh. Am I understood?"
Lawrence took a step backward and stumbled into his horse, who flicked his face with its tail. "Y-yes," he stammered, looking wildly around him as though something in the stable might provide a respite from Tavington's command.
"That is an order," Tavington growled.
"B-but," Lawrence stammered, recalling the foppish nincompoop of yesteryear rather than the much more obedient soldier he had become in recent weeks, "but I don't know anything."
"Well then," Tavington said, stepping toward him once more and fencing in the unfortunate lieutenant more completely, "you will tell me what you guess. Now, Lieutenant."
His underling looked at him and away again very quickly, heaved a great sigh, and said in a high-pitched voice, "I last saw Lieutenant Bligh as we rode into battle together at Cowpens, just after we parted from Mrs. Tavington." Thus relieved of his burden, Lawrence turned away and buried his head in the mane of his horse, who turned to regard Tavington balefully.
But the Colonel was incensed to the point of incoherence. Lawrence had seen his wife—on the morning of the battle—and he had never thought to mention this? "Lawrence!" he roared. "Leave off your bloody weeping and tell me precisely what occurred that morning!"
Sniffling, but looking somewhat encouraged that Tavington had not yet inflicted physical damage upon him, Lawrence turned back to his superior. "I came upon Mrs. Tavington when I happened to approach Lieutenant Bligh during a respite as we rode to Cowpens. She was dressed as a Dragoon—now that I think of it, Bligh must have given her my coat, and after he promised he'd take it to the tailor!" Looking pouty, Lawrence extracted a frilly handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly. Tavington couldn't help but notice that the initials AH were embroidered onto the corner of the handkerchief; he had less than no interest in Lawrence's lamentable love affairs, particularly now, but sometimes he wondered what his lieutenant got up to.
No matter; now was neither the time nor the place for such queries. "Why did you not alert me immediately that my wife was present, Lieutenant?" His voice was quiet, but all the more threatening for its low tone.
Lawrence appeared properly sensible of the danger he was in. "I—I—Mrs. Tavington made me promise I wouldn't tell anyone! She said you couldn't know she was there!"
Now, there was an intriguing bit of information. As though she believed he wouldn't find out in the end. "And why have you seen fit to withhold this information in the month since that day?" he growled, eyes fixed on the quaking lieutenant.
"I was afraid that you would be angry, sir," Lawrence squeaked, eyeing Tavington with sheer terror around the corner of the handkerchief.
"Oh, I am angry, Lieutenant," Tavington said quietly, barely controlling the rage in his voice. "I am extremely angry. Fortunately for you, however, the majority of that anger is not directed at you. At present," he said, and the relieved smile that had crept across Lawrence's visage vanished. "For the moment, we must take steps to recover my wife—and your friend. And then—" he leaned in closer to Lawrence to ensure that his point was taken— "we shall see."
And he stalked out of the stables, leaving Lawrence quite literally quaking in his boots behind him.
They left just after dawn the next morning. There was virtually no chatter: these were battle-hardened men, all of whom were inspired to silence by their Colonel's intimidating single-mindedness. Riding hard, stopping only to water their horses and themselves, the squadron reached Applebottom without incident as the sun reached its zenith.
The moment they were within the unmanned gates—Applebottom, now in disputed territory, had been abandoned by both sides of the conflict—Tavington leapt off his horse, shoved the reins at the Dragoon nearest him, and marched into the house. Casting a terrified look at his compatriots, Lawrence followed suit, rushing to accompany the Colonel into his former home.
Even a month's disuse had wrought a distinct change in the house: without its armies of butlers and maids, Applebottom was left dusty and derelict. Lawrence looked around him nervously; there was something quite eerie in visiting the house again when it was so dark and vacant, especially when he thought of what a treat it had looked at Christmastime. "Colonel!" he said in a loud whisper. "Sir, it could be dangerous! Please wait for the squadron to ensure—"
But Tavington merely laughed hollowly, cutting him off. "Ensure what, Lieutenant? I have no intent of being the victim of a surprise rebel assassination. I will carry out my business here. Unhindered," he added, glaring meaningfully at Lawrence, who gulped and nodded, tiptoeing silently behind the Colonel as he mounted the stairs.
Tavington, focused on his mission to discover his adulterous wife, was utterly unprepared for the visceral reaction he experienced as he turned the handle and stepped through the doorway of the bedroom he had shared with Kat. Memories of their last night together rushed unbidden into his consciousness, serving only to increase his bitter hatred. With a snarl, he crossed the room to search through her dressing table, her wardrobe, looking for some small clue that would indicate her whereabouts. He left papers and garments scattered on the floor, upturning the vanity in his rage when he found the comb he had given her for her birthday. But still he found no sign of a conspiracy, no telltale letters between her and Rutledge or even Bligh. As he searched through her bedside table, something akin to disappointment seized him. How was he ever to have his revenge if he could find no clue?
Just when he was about to declare the search a failure (and punish Lawrence severely for withholding valuable information), Tavington was seized by a sudden suspicion. "Lawrence!"
A frightened squeak revealed that, as he had supposed, the interfering lieutenant had followed him upstairs. Lawrence edged into the room, clearly petrified. "Sir?"
"Come here, Lieutenant," said Tavington, a dangerous note in his voice. Lawrence complied, looking more terrified still, and came to a halt some feet away from Tavington. "On the floor," he growled. Lawrence complied, grimacing at the dust that covered the floorboards. "What do you see, Lieutenant?"
"Er…your boots, sir?" Lawrence offered, peering intently at those articles.
Tavington rolled his eyes. "Lieutenant, I do not need your less than formidable powers of observation to inform me that I am wearing boots. Look under the bed, Lawrence. Do you see anything?"
Lawrence turned his head toward the bed and lifted the skirt gingerly. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "There's something here! A—a book, I think!" He sneezed loudly.
"Well, fetch it out, Lieutenant." Tavington felt quite pleased with himself, both for having discovered something Kat had clearly been trying to hide from him—and for getting Lawrence's uniform dirty in the process.
Lawrence sneezed again and obediently pulled out an enormous tome from under the bed. He rubbed the dust off its cover with the edge of his sleeve, wrinkling his nose as he did so, and peered at it. "Fruits and Flowers of South Carolina!" he said, obviously excited. "But—that was one of Edward's favorites!"
Tavington wordlessly held a hand out, and Lawrence scrambled up to hand him the hardback, albeit somewhat reluctantly. It was awkwardly large, and Tavington set it on the bed to rifle through its pages. Surely there must be something, some evidence—and then he found it. A piece of parchment that filled Tavington with a loathing so intense it startled him. "In Congress, July 4, 1776. The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America."
"Jefferson," he spat. How had he not seen it before? He rolled up the piece of parchment and pushed past Lawrence.
"Sir?" said Lawrence hesitantly. "Are you—are you going to take the book, too, sir?"
"You may read about fruits in South Carolina to your heart's content, Lieutenant, if it will inspire you to remain silent," growled Tavington, but with less venom than usual, causing Lawrence to look rather as though Michaelmas had come early.
Tavington, meanwhile, was deep in thought. If his wife were in league with Rutledge and Jefferson, there was much to be done. "Lawrence! Cease your daydreaming!" he barked. Lawrence lowered the book, abashed. "Dismiss the squadron, Lieutenant."
"Sir?" said Lawrence, looking fearful once more.
"You and I shall undertake the next leg of our journey alone," Tavington said, glaring at Lawrence with distaste. He would much rather travel by himself, but there was nothing for it: though he would never admit it to the yob, he needed backup, and he trusted Lawrence.
"Alone, sir?" Lawrence's voice quavered.
"A squadron is much more likely to be noticed travelling through rebel-controlled lands, Lieutenant. We ride in an hour. Ready your horse." Lawrence scurried away, casting one last alarmed glance over his shoulder at Tavington, but the Colonel was already lost in thought.
Much to Lawrence's chagrin, he and Tavington were obliged to spend the night under a convenient tree. The ground was hard, the night cold, and all in all, Lawrence rather felt that he wouldn't be able to walk the next day, much less ride. But he had no choice: injury or no, the Colonel was clearly not planning to rest properly until he discovered whatever he was looking for. As they continued their south-easterly ride the next day, the terrain began to look somewhat familiar to Lawrence, and not long after noon, the wooded path along which they had been quietly picking their way gave way to—
"Peartree," breathed Lawrence reverently.
Tavington glared at his lieutenant. "This is no time for reminiscing, Lieutenant. Kindly remember that we are on a mission."
"Sir," Lawrence replied obediently, still gazing fondly at the orchard for which the plantation had been named.
They dismounted, leaving their horses tethered to adjacent trees in the orchard, and set off around the house. As they reached the veranda, however, it became clear that Peartree was not quite as unoccupied as Applebottom had been: lively chatter came from the parlor, one of whose windows was open.
Tavington swore quietly and ducked behind a mulberry bush. He had wished to avoid a confrontation, but there was nothing for it: he would not leave without the information he needed. He cast a glance at Lawrence, crouching beside him; the lieutenant's eyes were wide. "How many men do you estimate to be in the parlor?" he asked quietly.
Lawrence listened for a moment. "I'd imagine three, sir."
That had been Tavington's estimate as well. He thought for a moment. "Do you feel prepared to handle them, Lieutenant? Even if it comes to blows?"
"Certainly, sir!" said Lawrence eagerly. "I've been practicing with both hands since my arm was wounded, you know, and I reckon I'm quite able to take two men at a time!"
Tavington seriously doubted this, but in situations such as these, sometimes enthusiasm was enough to compensate for mean skill. "I shall help you to subdue them initially, but you are responsible for detaining them while I search the house. I trust you are capable?" He leveled a stern glance at Lawrence, who nodded excitedly.
Tavington sighed. This was hardly the way he had planned for his expedition at Peartree to go, but he was out of options. He stole onto the veranda, Lawrence at his heels, and burst through the front door.
He and Lawrence were in the parlor, pistols in hand and pointed at their captives, before the three men had even registered that there were intruders in the house. All three were large, burly, and obviously drunk. "Who're you?" sneered one, clearly not much concerned with the weapon trained at his forehead.
"That is none of your concern at the moment," said Tavington smoothly, "provided you stay where you are. When you cease to do that, I shall make it your concern." He lowered his voice threateningly, but it seemed to have little effect on the prisoners. One of them took another swig from his flask and belched. Disgusted, Tavington turned to Lawrence. "I doubt that you shall have any problem, Lieutenant, provided you maintain the upper hand."
"I will, sir!" said Lawrence earnestly.
As Tavington exited the room and shut the door behind him, Lawrence was advancing on the men where they sat grouped in the corner. He did hope the lieutenant would have enough sense not to get himself injured, but that was hardly his most pressing problem. Now—where to look? He knew Edward Rutledge had kept a small study somewhere on the main floor; that seemed as good a place to start as any, if he could only find it. But he did not have to look for long: a plain door off the main hall proved to be locked, and Tavington had to perform some tricky maneuvers with his penknife to induce it to open.
When the door finally gave, he knew he'd found the place that any evidence of a conspiracy would be. He crossed the room in one step and stood in front of the desk, considering it. It was dusty, unsurprisingly, but otherwise extremely neat. Not a single paper littered its pristine cherry surface, and when Tavington tried the drawer, it too was locked. This lock was harder to spring than the one on the door, and it took him several minutes. The drawer sprang open at last to reveal a sheaf of papers, most of which appeared to be correspondence. He rifled through them; there were none in his wife's distinct hand. There was some business correspondence, but most of the letters were of a personal nature. They came from a variety of familiar names, each of which sent a thrill of rage throughout Tavington's person: Benjamin Franklin, John Dickinson, Lyman Hall. More than a few that were quite personal indeed bore the puzzling signature "AH," but Tavington could only focus on one thing: the vast majority of the letters were from Thomas Jefferson, sent from a place called Monticello, in Virginia. And then Tavington recalled that Kat had once said that she had relatives in Virginia…
He had gotten what he came for; he had ascertained that Rutledge and Jefferson were in league together, and circumstantial evidence implicated his wife as well. But still Tavington was not satisfied. He stormed out of the small study and up the staircase, noting as he did so that the parlor where he had left Lawrence and the prisoners was eerily quiet. When he reached the top of the staircase, though, all thought of Lawrence's questionable tactics was lost, and all he could think of was Kat. What had prompted her to betray him so thoroughly? How had she been the one to abandon him, when the advantage in the marriage was entirely on her side?
Furious, he upturned half the furniture in the bedroom they had shared, but there was no clue there. Nor had he truly expected there to be—anything she had left behind would have been at Applebottom. He was nearly back to the stairs when a thought struck him: perhaps the little sewing room at the end of the hall would yield whatever hint he sought? Certainly she had spent a good deal of time there. But after he had looked in every drawer, under every cushion, and found no piece of correspondence outlining her planned betrayal, he was forced to admit defeat. He pulled a small object from his breast pocket and stared at it: a ring, round and silver, its blue stone glowing as with an inner fire in the pale winter sunlight. He cursed, his mouth twisting down at the corner, and threw the trinket violently across the room, ridding himself of the last physical reminder of her. The ring flew under a writing desk, lodging itself in a corner, but Tavington was back in the hall before it had even stopped moving.
As he made his way back down the stairs, seething with rage, Tavington remembered abruptly that Kat had once mentioned relatives in Virginia. It had been only a fleeting reference, but she had said it, he was sure. And that was the connection he had been seeking: Virginia, home of Thomas Jefferson.
When he reached the parlor, he was in a fouler temper than he had been when they arrived at Peartree, if such a thing were possible. The sight that met his eyes as he opened the door did nothing to help matters: all three of the prisoners were bare-chested and blindfolded, gagged and roped to their chairs with the material from what, Tavington supposed, had formerly been their shirts. "Lawrence," growled Tavington, "what the devil are you doing?"
Lawrence, who had been idly stroking the blade of his sword and looking quite pleased with himself, leapt to attention. "I—I subdued them, sir," he said sheepishly.
"Your orders were to ensure that there was no trouble, Lieutenant. Was it entirely necessary to strip these men?"
"I—they—they were threatening me, sir!" stammered Lawrence, casting a nervous glance at the prisoners. "They came at me as you left the room, and it took a bit of fancy work on my part to maintain the upper hand!"
Now that Tavington looked at Lawrence properly, he realized that the lieutenant's uniform was in some degree of disarray. Perhaps there was truth in what he said, and the fop had managed to keep the prisoners in check… "All right, Lieutenant," he said with a sigh. He turned on his heel and headed back toward the door.
"Are—are we going, then, sir?"
Tavington turned back incredulously. "Yes, Lawrence, we are. Did you imagine that we were taking a hiatus from soldiering?"
"Well—no, sir, but—" Lawrence looked extremely uncomfortable. "What—what will become of the prisoners, sir?"
"We shall leave them here, Lieutenant. Either they shall starve to death or they shall manage to escape." Tavington couldn't understand why Lawrence was so concerned.
"All—all right, sir," said the lieutenant heavily. One of the prisoners made a weak moaning noise, and Lawrence looked back at him almost longingly.
Tavington rolled his eyes and strode out of the room, leaving Lawrence to scramble after him so as not to be left behind.
AN: I've been doing my best to post weekly, but I am not at all sure that will continue past this week. Your reviews help me write, though, and I'll do my best to keep up my end of the bargain.
Thank you as ever to all of you, and to TTT for some damn good cucumber sandwiches.