I couldn't pretend that I wasn't unnerved after my moment with Tavington outside. I lay in my bed, half willing myself to fall asleep before he got back—I had left the door unlocked purposely this time—half wanting to stay awake to see him. But I couldn't talk to him yet. Not only was there the continuing issue of my confusion about him and Paris, but—in my happiness to see Bligh and Lawrence back safe, I had neglected to consider what their rescue meant in practical terms. The rebel militia wouldn't have let them go without a fight, and there had been no prisoners with the Dragoons when they returned. Much as I didn't want to reflect on it, it was clear that Tavington's men—and, undoubtedly, Tavington himself—had killed rebels tonight. Rebels—patriots—Americans. I had meant it when I made my promise to Tavington the night before; I wasn't going to wear my emotions on my sleeve where the Revolution was concerned. But distasteful as I found the idea of killing in general, it was infinitely worse when it was no longer abstract—when it involved people I knew, and a cause I believed in. I couldn't stomach the thought of Tavington actually participating in battle, especially now that I was beginning to care for him…even if I didn't yet know in what capacity.
I pushed these troublesome thoughts away and attempted, in earnest, to go to sleep. But then I heard the sound of boots on the steps, and a moment later, the opening of my door. Quickly, I squeezed my eyes shut and slowed my breathing. A moment later, Tavington came into view through my eyelashes. I thought he was looking at me, but couldn't be sure without opening my eyes more; and after a moment, he sighed and turned away. I watched furtively as he removed his boots and waistcoat and released his hair from its queue. As he turned back toward me, I saw that his shirt was ripped, and I could see some dried blood on it. The rescue mission this evening had very clearly been an actual fight. Sighing once more, Tavington settled down onto his makeshift bed and, again, fell asleep much more quickly than I did.
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Astonishingly, I woke up before Tavington had left the next morning. He had bathed and was in the process of buttoning a clean new shirt on. I sat up and stretched, yawning. "Good morning," I said.
"Good morning," he replied, and pulled on his waistcoat.
I ran my fingers through my tangled hair and groaned. "Good grief, I could use a comb," I said, more to myself than to Tavington.
He finished buttoning the waistcoat and pulled on his boots. "Regretfully, madam, our supply lines have been cut, and such extravagances as combs are running short."
"Oh," I said. "I was just talking to myself. Really, I'm capable of living without a comb." I smiled at him.
He gave me something halfway between a smile and a grimace. "Good day, madam," he said, and exited the room. I rolled my eyes; I had never been "madam"ed in my life before I got here, and now Tavington had just done it to me twice in the space of a three-sentence conversation.
There was still some hot water in a basin next to the tub, and I availed myself of the opportunity to have a bath. When I went downstairs, presentable at last, Cornwallis and a man I didn't know—around Tavington's age, and quite attractive in an aristocratic way—were in the dining room. They both stood when I entered the room, and I realized that the man was the first I had seen since I arrived here that wasn't in uniform. In fact, he had dressed with far more attention to his outfit than I had; his white-stockinged legs were clad in white breeches, and he wore a tailored white coat over a vest printed with pears and blossoms.
"Mrs. Tavington," said General Cornwallis. "May I present Mr. Edward Rutledge?"
I froze. Rutledge, whose house we were in? Who had signed the Declaration of Independence—and had a copy in his study? Who was an officer in the Continental Army? What the hell was he doing here, breakfasting with Cornwallis?
I extended my hand to Rutledge, who bowed low and brushed his lips over it. "Your servant, madam," he drawled.
My heart fluttered. "Delighted, Mr. Rutledge," I said, trying not to look too confused.
The General noticed my bewilderment and smiled. "Mr. Rutledge is under house arrest, Mrs. Tavington."
"Oh," I said, though that explained nothing.
"As you know, we have been relying on Mr. Rutledge's tacit hospitality whilst we have been residing here," said Cornwallis. "He has been an officer in the Continental Army these past months, and he was captured at Charles Towne. Rather than continue to hold him there, we felt it was only right that he, as a gentleman, be held here at his own home."
"Oh," I said again. It made no sense to me; but then, very little did these days.
Rutledge took a sip of tea. "Tell me, Mrs. Tavington, how do you find Peartree?"
"Um…" I said. It took me a moment to register what he was asking; I had never thought to ask what the name of the plantation was. The man must really have had a fascination with vegetation. "It's wonderful," I said sincerely. "The house is lovely, and the grounds are absolutely beautiful."
He nodded, clearly pleased, and took another sip. "I'm delighted to hear it. And may I inquire how a young lady such as yourself fills her days here at this lonely plantation?"
"Well—" I said, and paused. I couldn't very well tell him that I had broken into his desk and stolen fabric from his closet.
"Oh, she's kept quite busy, believe you me!" Cornwallis said, winking at Rutledge. The other man smiled knowingly and took another sip of tea. Honestly, sometimes I wondered about the General.
"The General tells me you've been making your own clothing," said Rutledge. "Are you interested in fashion, Mrs. Tavington?"
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After breakfast, during which I was continually shown up on the fashion front by the gentlemen I was dining with, I went up to my sewing room. I was dying to talk to Rutledge on my own, but it would have looked exceedingly suspicious, even to the good General, if I had immediately sought out the company of a prominent rebel to whom I had only just been introduced. And the other problem was my discovery the other day; how was I supposed to bring up the Declaration without revealing the extent of my snooping? In the end, I decided it was probably best just to come clean. If I wanted to ensure that the document was preserved without harm to either of us, it would be nice to have a confidant who had the same goal.
I had been sewing for about half an hour when I ran into a sleeve problem. I was modeling my new dress on the few examples I had, but the thing was proving damn slow to make, and I kept having to guess about how much fabric to use to make the bodice fit just right, and how much lace was appropriate. I had enjoyed sewing in a time when I had a machine at my disposal for the monotonous bits, but it was much more frustrating at present because progress was so incredibly slow. And now the sleeve was refusing to attach the way it was supposed to. I swore loudly just as a knock came on the door to the room.
"Oh—come in," I said, attempting to regain my composure.
The door swung open and Rutledge strolled in. "Good day, madam. I trust I am not disturbing you too much?" His eyes roamed over the yards of material piled haphazardly in my lap.
I smiled sheepishly. "Oh, no, not at all, Mr. Rutledge." Good grief, this was strange. "Um…I have to apologize for taking the liberty of borrowing this fabric. I found it in a closet, and we've been having supply problems, and—"
"No trouble at all, madam. It is always my pleasure to assist a pretty woman in whatever way I can." He executed a graceful bow. "Speaking of assistance, it looks as though you could perhaps use some as far as that dress is concerned."
"To be honest, it's driving me crazy," I confessed. If anyone could give me advice where dress was concerned, it was Rutledge.
"May I?" He gestured toward the bit of the dress I had been working on, and I handed it to him. He frowned as he examined it. "You shall need a good deal more lace, and perhaps some patterns. I shall speak to the General about it this evening."
"Thank you, that would be wonderful," I said. If my sewing project was going to progress—and, honestly, I needed it to, if I was going to have anything to fill my days—then I needed some help. And I also needed to talk to him about the Declaration—and why not now? Steeling up my courage, I said, "Um, Mr. Rutledge, I was browsing through your library a few days ago—you have a lovely collection, by the way—and I came across…some documents."
In the moment it took me to finish my sentence, his dapper air had vanished completely and his expression became guarded. "And may I inquire—of what nature were these documents?" His tone was still light, but I could tell it was forced.
I decided just to come out with it. "I found the Declaration," I said quietly.
He passed a hand over his eyes and turned away from me. "I had hoped…I left Peartree in rather a rush the last time, and I failed to take the time to—take certain precautions. But then—" he turned back to me, looking both worried and curious—"why has Cornwallis not had me drawn and quartered?"
"I haven't told him," I said. "And I don't intend to."
"Why not?" Rutledge seemed genuinely curious now.
"Because—well, my position prevents me from expressing any of my own convictions at the moment, but I do have them. And I have no interest in seeing you drawn and quartered. Or myself, for that matter." The precariousness of my position occurred to me when I considered the situation.
"And why should you be in any danger?" Rutledge regarded me intently.
"Firstly, because I found the…document, and secondly, because I hid it."
Rutledge raised an eyebrow delicately. "You hid it? Where?"
"In a book about the fruits in South Carolina," I said, feeling somewhat sheepish.
To my surprise, Rutledge chuckled. "And there it shall stay! Let us not speak any more about this, madam. Your secret is safe with me, as, I trust, is mine with you." I nodded, feeling better already. "Then—would you care to accompany me on a tour of the grounds?"
"I'd love to," I said, and leaving my troublesome sewing and my worries behind, I followed him out of the room.
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Bligh was enjoying a moment's peace in the silence of the woods. He had stayed close to camp, having no desire to be the subject of a rescue mission again (if, in fact, Colonel Tavington would bother trying to save him should he find himself the victim of another rebel kidnapping); but he needed a moment to reflect. He stopped beside a gently flowing brook and sat down, leaning against an obliging tree trunk. Almost immediately, Bligh leapt to his feet once more.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?!" he exclaimed.
"I followed you," replied Lawrence cheerily.
"Why?" growled Bligh.
"I wanted to know if you'd heard the gossip," Lawrence said breezily. "And anyway, there's no need to be so testy; if you'll recall, I saved your life last night."
Bligh sighed and conceded the point. "Fair enough."
Lawrence regarded Bligh, an expectant look on his face. "Well?"
"What?"
"Have you heard?"
Bligh resisted the urge to beat Lawrence over the head with his saber. "No."
Lawrence puffed out his chest importantly. "Edward Rutledge has come to the plantation to serve out the remainder of his sentence under house arrest!"
Bligh was momentarily startled. "You mean a rebel's living with Cornwallis and the Colonel?"
"Precisely, my dear fellow, you've hit the nail on the head." Lawrence looked off into the distance, pensive. "I wonder what he's like?" Bligh shook his head. "Ah, well, no matter, we've got sentry duty there tomorrow. I suppose we'll find out then."
"We do?" Bligh hadn't heard anything about sentry duty.
"Indeed we do. Captain Schoen told me this morning," said Lawrence. "Apparently Tavington's not thrilled that we got ourselves taken prisoner, so we're to remain close for the next couple of weeks. Schoen said the Colonel said that he'd be looking for any reason to punish us—so I'd give your sword a polish at least twice daily, if I were you."
Bligh groaned and buried his head in his large hands. He wished fervently that Lawrence hadn't just reminded him that he had the twiddlepoop to thank for saving his life; it would really just be impolitic to throttle him with the scarf now, even if he managed to steal it back from Tavington.
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Colonel Tavington was not at all in a good mood by the time he reached the plantation for dinner. It had been a long day in camp; though there had been no losses in last night's impromptu skirmish with the rebels, several of his men had been injured, one fairly seriously. And he himself was feeling rather stiff, the wound on his abdomen burning slightly. Then Lieutenant Lawrence had wandered into his tent mid-afternoon to inquire if the rumors about Edward Rutledge were true. That was the first Tavington had heard of the matter; trust Lawrence to be atop the gossip heap. And finally, there was the matter of his wife. He had no idea what her ridiculous display the night before had meant. He would never hit a woman, but he couldn't deny that it had been a temptation when he caught a glimpse of her throwing herself at Bligh and Lawrence. He had just gone to the trouble of explaining to her that her behavior reflected upon him as well as upon herself, since she clearly didn't care about her own reputation; and then she made an absurd exhibition with two young, single officers. And then, just when he had been considering appealing to Cornwallis to see if perhaps an annulment wasn't in order, she had—kissed him. No woman had ever kissed him on the cheek except his mother, and she hadn't done so since—well, since he had left home at 17. He had no idea what she meant by it, and he couldn't deny that he was unnerved: a feeling he was unaccustomed to and one which he disliked exceedingly.
Tavington dismounted, handing his horse's reins over to a stable boy, and marched up onto the veranda and into the house. Immediately, he heard a voice he didn't recognize in conversation with Cornwallis. He cursed under his breath—Lawrence's information must have been correct—and, steeling himself, proceeded into the dining room.
Gathered around the table were his wife and Cornwallis, as usual—and a man who, to all appearances, could be Lawrence's older brother. Or something. From the enormous cream-colored bow that tied back his auburn hair to the queer wedges on his high-heeled boots, the man was a dandy. Tavington realized suddenly that the conversation had ceased when he entered the room, and all three parties had stood, the stranger clearly waiting to be introduced. The pleasant smile on his face had faltered slightly under Tavington's scrutiny, and Tavington recognized he must have adopted a rather alarming scowl. He willed himself to conceal his distaste and turned to the General, who was now addressing him.
"Colonel William Tavington, may I have the pleasure of introducing Mr. Edward Rutledge?" Cornwallis said amiably and, duty performed, took a sip of his wine.
"It's delightful to meet you at last, Colonel," said Rutledge affably, executing a short bow. "I've heard all about you from General Cornwallis and Mrs. Tavington."
"Enchanted, I'm sure," said Tavington, who was anything but. He doubted that his wife had actually been talking about him—if she had, it probably wasn't anything good—and he already disliked this fellow on instinct, not even considering his politics. What the devil was he doing here? Tavington raised an eyebrow at Cornwallis as he sat down. Cornwallis pretended not to see and took a large sip of wine.
"Mr. Rutledge spent some time in our native land, Colonel!" he said buoyantly, clearly trying to circumvent a potential conflict between Tavington and Rutledge before it began.
"Indeed," said Tavington, not bothering to feign interest.
"Yes, I studied the law at Oxford," said Rutledge, clearly quite proud. Tavington stole a glance over at his wife—was she actually impressed by this strutting popinjay? "What part of England are you from, Colonel?"
"Liverpool," replied Tavington shortly, knowing the reaction his response would inevitably elicit.
Predictably, one of Rutledge's well-groomed eyebrows rose delicately, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a gentlemanly smirk. "Liverpool? I see. Tell me, Colonel, do your family own land there?"
"Yes," said Tavington, wishing very much that it were appropriate to draw one's saber at the dinner table. Since that option was unavailable at present unless he wished to find himself immediately demoted, he would have to go on the offensive in another manner. He'd love to attack Rutledge's loyalties, but that would also rile Cornwallis—and, most likely, his wife as well. He would have to be more subtle. "While you were at Oxford, Mr. Rutledge, I trust you took part in sport?"
Rutledge had the decency to look wary at Tavington's tone, at least. "Yes, I did."
Tavington adopted a tone close to cordial as he took a sip of his wine. "And what was your preferred form of physical exertion?"
"Badminton," said Rutledge.
Cornwallis smiled happily, nodding. "Fine game, badminton! Not quite what your typical military man engages in, eh, Tavington? But fine game, to be sure!"
"To be sure," echoed Tavington, unsmiling eyes riveted on Rutledge as a smirk played about his lips. "You played doubles, I'm certain."
"Indeed I did, sir," replied Rutledge. Tavington had to give him credit; he clearly had no idea to what these questions tended and was vaguely unnerved, but his tone belied no discomfort.
"And is your partner still in England chasing shuttlecocks?" Tavington's satisfaction at having delivered this line was somewhat tempered by shock: to his left, his wife had erupted into a coughing fit, clearly trying to stifle a laugh. Tavington glared at her, but she only smiled back, eyes watering as she gained control of herself.
"Please don't worry, General, I'm absolutely fine," she said, waving Cornwallis back into the chair from which he had half-risen. "Just choked on some water. You were saying, Mr. Rutledge?"
"Ah, yes. My badminton partner and I parted ways after Oxford, most unfortunately," drawled Rutledge, straightening his neckerchief and regaining his cool. "I don't suppose you play, Colonel?"
"No," said Tavington shortly.
"Pity," said Rutledge—pompously, Tavington thought. "Perhaps we could have arranged a contest." He smiled superciliously and set into his pudding.
"Oh, capital idea, sir!" boomed Cornwallis. "Perhaps something can be arranged!"
Tavington cursed the social conventions that prevented him from murdering everyone in the room. He contented himself by keeping a hand firmly on his sword under the table for the remainder of the meal.
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