Chapter 104 - A Question Worth Considering:
A great peel of thunder boomed overhead, shaking the windows in their casements. Cilla shuddered, she'd always hated storms. Rain lashed at the windows, a gale was whistling past the house. Despite sitting as close as she could to the fire, those sounds chilled Cilla to the bone. How was Beth fairing, riding in this? Would Banastre consider Beth's health, would he stop and take shelter to keep her out of the driving rain? Or was he in such a hurry to reach Cornwallis, that he'd force Beth to travel in such weather? Cilla hoped not. This was the sorts of weather that only the bravest would dare to attempt. The bravest, most hardy sort of men.
And the most dedicated armours. Richard had ridden out in this weather - not because he was brave or stalwart, but because he was desperate to fall into bed with his mistress. Cilla ran her fingers through the silk in her lap. She was making a cravat from it for Richard. Not because she was a devoted wife, or was even trying to pretend to be a devoted wife. But because she'd started to make it for Banastre, only he was gone now.
Might as well give it to Bordon, instead.
She heaved a sigh and dropped back into the chair, losing all interest in the half made garment. Beth was gone. Banastre was gone. She was not certain which she wept for more - her cousin or her lover. Four days now. Four days since she'd last felt his touch, since his wonderful hands had slid along her body, setting her aflame. She missed him, missed their intimacy, their stolen and joyous moments, the love and the warmth. Oh, they were not in love with each other, but Cilla felt a strong attachment all the same.
Broken, now. She was alone. Except for Bordon. Their new shared custom was to sleep side by side now, spooning, to share heat with the weather getting so much colder. The first time Bordon had pressed his body to hers, she'd almost shouted at him to get the hell away. But then he'd asked her that question. That damned question that his conduct toward her thus far, forced her to consider.
"Seven weeks, we've been married. Seven weeks, we've been sharing this bed. Do you still not trust me?"
Did she trust him? Seven weeks, they had been married. And not once had the monster from the dungeon emerged.
But that did not mean it wouldn't.
Bordon had done what he had done to her, because he had felt provoked by events entirely outside Cilla's control. What if he ever felt provoked again?
She did not feel constantly under threat, she did not feel constantly afraid. She did not feel entirely unafraid, either; for the monster had emerged once, who was to say it would not again? But with each passing day, the danger felt less and less.
No. She did not trust him.
But nor was she constantly suspicious of him, either. And Bordon was her husband now.
She found herself missing so much about Banastre and his touch that at least, now, she was able to recapture a shadow of what she had lost - when she snuggled down in her husband's arms, she imagined they were Banastre's. It wasn't intimacy. It was a pale shadow of what she had shared with Banastre. Richard was strong though, strong like Banastre, whose arms had cradled her often, but never would again.
And Richard was warm, far warmer than Cilla. It was like having a furnace in the bed, beneath the covers, and she knew that their new custom would make her winter nights far more tolerable.
Still, as she sat by the warmth of the fire, sewing Banastre's cravat to give to Bordon, she mulled over the question. Seven weeks, they had been married. How did she feel about it now?
Not terrified, at least. Richard and Cilla had slipped into a routine - one that was highly reliant on avoiding each other. He went scouting with the Dragoons, and he went to his mistress. Cilla had spent her days with Beth, Emily, Sarah and Rebecca, and later with Banastre as well. Then she took sick and it was two weeks before she was recovered. And then Richard took sick, and another two weeks passed before he was recovered. And when he did finally rise from his sickbed, it was to return to his routine - of scouting with the Dragoons, and bedding Harmony Farshaw, while Cilla slipped into Banastre's room, and spent her other free time with Beth.
When had she ever spent time with Richard? Certainly, they had been married for seven weeks just as he had said. But they hadn't spent a single moment of that time working on their marriage. No, they had fallen into a routine, that only saw them bought together at night.
Still, she was not frightened anymore, she could stomach the sight of him now, and even allowed the physical contact for it provided her warmth and for those moments before sleep, she could pretend he was Banastre.
Her question, how did she feel about being married to the person who had attacked her so brutally, remained unanswered. She did not like to remember that awful hour in the dungeon. When she did, she felt such a welling of hatred and fury toward Richard Bordon, the force alone should have smote him dead. All other times, however, she was just… herself. She still had enjoyment of life - Banastre had given her that. During the course of the last seven weeks, she found she could speak to Richard without wanting to stab him in the chest.
She had no choice but to just take each day as it came.
And the days to follow might well be the hardest yet. For while Richard had returned to his routine of bedding Harmony, scouting and sleeping in Cilla's chamber, the people who had filled Cilla's daily routine were gone. All of her companions had left her, there was not a soul left to speak to. Rebecca might accept her invitation to return to Fresh Water, but how long would it be before she arrived?
Left alone with her thoughts, she'd been unable to think of anything else besides Tavington and Beth. Tavington, that damned bastard. It was all his fault. His and that whore, Linda Stokes. Christ. They'd caused so much heart ache. Because of them, Beth was gone. Cilla's eyes filled with tears as she remembered the look on Beth's face when Cilla revealed that the woman, Mrs. Merry, was actually Miss Linda Stokes. How could Tavington do such a thing? After all his professions of loving her. What a damned lying bastard.
She was so glad Tavington was away from Fresh Water. She didn't think she'd be able to hold her tongue if the storm had kept them both confined to the house. She doubted she could form two civil words to say to him. It was just better that he was gone. Richard, also. Despite his professions of remorse and sorrow, despite his vows not to hurt her, she still preferred that he was well away from her. Threading her needle, she bent over the white silk in her lap and began her work. How long she was at the task, she could not tell, but she'd sewn at least half along one length when the parlour door opened and a Redcoat entered. She despised Redcoats - well, excepting for Banastre. Still, despite her hatred of all British Officers, her mouth dried when her eyes landed on this one. Tall, ebony hair, finely chilled features and the most brilliant green eyes she'd ever seen in her life. He was remarkably handsome, she could not help staring at him.
"Mrs. Bordon?" He asked and she nodded mutely, despising the need to do so. She wished she could tell this Redcoat 'no, my name is Miss Putman!'. She doubted she would ever resign herself to the name everyone insisted on calling her. Mrs. Bordon. She shuddered. He bowed low, then he shut the door behind him and stepped deeper into the chamber. His boots were wet, though he must have worn a great cloak over his uniform, for the rest of him was dry.
"Have you come from my husband?" She asked. Perhaps to tell me he's dead and that I'm a widow?
"No, Mrs. Bordon," the fellow smiled. Cilla's heart skipped a beat, she felt she might swoon, he was so very comely! "I come from your father," he said.
The blood drained from her face, her attraction to the fellow vanished. She stared up at him for several long, speechless moments before finding her voice.
"How dare you?" She asked so softly, he had to step forward to hear her over the driving rain outside. When he discerned her anger, he made to defend himself.
"No, madam, you do not understand -"
"How dare you! Is this some new way to torment me?" She yelled up at him. "My father is dead, as every one damned well knows! Get out! Get out of my sight -"
"I can't do that, and please stop yelling!" The fellow cast a worried look over his shoulder, but no one was rushing toward the parlor to discover what had upset the Major's wife. "It's all true, I vow it!" The fellow squatted at her knee and began speaking furiously. "Your father was shot but Nicholas Watson - who was once a Redcoat but is now on our side - saved him by pushing him out the window and into the Cooper. They swam for a smaller byway and there, hid themselves until they could find a boat. Up the river they rowed until they found an old woman who was willing to help them. She tended your father's wounds, Mrs. Bordon, I swear as God is my witness, that he is very much alive. It's all in this," he reached inside his coat and pulled out a letter.
By the time the fellow finally fell silent, all Cilla could do was gape with astonishment and stare down at the parchment in his hand.
"It's from your father; you recognise his handwriting, surely?"
She certainly did. She stared at her name - Miss Cilla Putman, as it was meant to be written - across the front of the letter, in her father's own hand. Her eyes welled up with tears, she could no longer read her name, her vision was blurred. "Who are you?" She asked in a voice choked with emotion.
"Lieutenant Calvin Farshaw," he replied and she drew in a sharp breath.
This was Calvin Farshaw. The fellow she'd been told so much about. Harmony's husband, who'd raped her, beaten her, could have killed her. The fellow who probably would kill her, should he learn where she was and whose child she was truly carrying. This was the monster, the foul and violent beast. She leaned back into her chair, trying to create distance. For the fellow had no love lost for Richard, none at all, and she was Richard's wife, and they were all alone in the parlor.
"Have you come to hurt me?" She asked softly, terrified. He blinked at her, surprised.
"What? No!" He said, pulling a face. "I came because your father bade me. To give you the message that your father entrusted me with. To deliver this and to tell you he is alive."
"Why… why would he entrust such a task to you?" Her mind was whirling, she'd never been so confused in her life.
"Because I was a Continental before and I'm a Continental still," he said, voice firm, implacable with resolve. "They can make a man change his coat, but they can't change what's in his heart, ain't it true? I was a Lieutenant before I fell at Savannah, you see," he explained. "I got many scars from that battle. I was left for dead in the mud and when they realised I was alive, they tossed me in the dungeon to finish the job. Must have had a change of heart or somewhat because they ended up giving me a choice, die there or turn coat. Perhaps I should have stayed in the dungeon," a far away look came across his features as he stared blankly past her. "But I found I didn't want to, you know? To die. So I put on the Red, but I was never one of them. Not in my heart, anyway. And there's others here like me, I'm not alone, you see. When I came here to search for that…" He paused and drew a sharp breath, then laughed it out. "My lovely wife," he spat bitterly, "I was forced to join Tavington's Legion. We'd be far, far from here by now, if not for that. Anyway. Once here, I was visited by Jack Statton, cousin to the spy they hanged. Banksia. You know about that?" He asked when he saw Cilla give a start. She nodded, wide eyed. "Well, here he was, wearing the Redcoat, too. I was surprised at that, because I remembered him to be a Patriot like me. After posing some real careful questions, it turned out he still was. Jack and another fellow were placed in the Legion by your father," he lowered his voice and cast a look over his shoulder toward the door, to ensure no one else could hear. Then in a conspiratorial voice, he said, "spies. You know. The ones Tavington didn't discover and hang. They were working for Trellim -"
"Oh my God!" Cilla covered her mouth with her hand, shocked. "Trellim?"
"He and Banksia. Both hanged. They were your da's men too," he said intently. She nodded, tears finally spilling over.
"My father…" she stuttered, "he - he organised them. He g-got Trellim and B-Banksia into the G-Green Dragoons. T-Trellim was their… Captain… they g-gathered information and p-passed it b-back to Trellim to g-give my father."
"They still do, Mrs. Bordon. And now, so do I. I wasn't going to join Jack because I thought I'd be gone from here after only a few days, but when Tavington got me stuck here, I thought fuc - ah that is, stuff it. If I have to be here, might as well join Jack and Eric Clayton. I've been reporting things from the Great House at the Ferguson's ever since. I see everything that passes Major Fallows' desk and almost everythin' goes through him before it reaches O'Hara. I even got access to O'Hara's seal and cipher, and Fallows seal too. I've made these clay impressions of both, and I'm going to make forgeries. We can wreak havoc with those - just got to get them to your da, which I'll do as soon as they're ready. For the longest time, we had no one particularly high up to give the information too, so not much was bein' done about what we learned. But now your father is back, and he's organised us again," Calvin said, voice urgent, intent.
She mouthed something but no words would come. Overcome, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry in earnest. Swearing under his breath, Calvin shot a worried glance over his shoulder at the door again. If anyone saw him sitting there, with the young woman crying, it would only mean trouble for him. There was not a soul alive in the camp who was not aware of the troubles Calvin had had with Bordon. If a passerby saw him sitting with Bordon's wife, with Bordon's wife crying… He could almost feel the whip lashing his back again. He had to make her stop, but he could not approach her further, he could not comfort her, or he'd get whipped for that, also. He waited with growing impatience as she struggled to come to terms with all she'd been told. Her tears of grief were slowly turning to joy now, as it began to sink.
"My father is alive?" She stammered out and when he nodded, she choked out a sobbing laugh. "Oh my God! He's alive!" Followed by more sobbing, louder this time. The girl was rocking herself, her arms wrapped around her body, the strip of silk slipped to the floor, forgotten.
"Please," he whispered, casting more glances over his shoulder. "You need to stop crying. I know you must be overwhelmed, and I can't imagine how you might be feeling about it, but you need to calm down now. If I'm caught in here…"
Calvin was worried she'd never recover from her weeping, but she managed to get control of herself. There was eagerness in her tear filled eyes now, eagerness and joy.
"Where is he?" She asked breathlessly.
"He has newly returned with Benjamin Martin, he was up north fighting against that Ferguson fellow the Lobsters are all crying over."
"Oh, he fought in a battle?" She cried, filled with pride.
"He distinguished himself. But they're back here now, they're going to ask Mrs. Rutledge if they can quarter on her land and -"
"Oh, that's only a few miles away! I could go to him! How easy would it be, my husband's not here and -"
"They won't let you leave," Calvin said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but they won't. You know that."
Cilla paused to think a moment, she was so overcome with joy and shock and excitement that for a moment there, she really had thought that she could simply order the carriage and she would be taken wherever she wished to go. That was impossible however, Major Bordon's wife would not be able to leave the safety of the Plantation without two score of Dragoons, which would require his permission to gain. Had he been there, she could have been granted such permission, she could pretend she wished to visit friends. But what would she do when she reached Henrietta Rutledge, with forty Dragoons at her back? They might find her father there, and her uncle, and both would be taken captive. She would not take the enemy within ten miles of anywhere her father intended to quarter.
"There has to be a way," she whispered. "God, I need to see him!"
"I know it's hard," Calvin commiserated. "But there's nothing to be done about it. You know the reason why as well as I do. But it doesn't end here, Mrs. Bordon. Your father has taken back command of the small spy ring here, we have proper leadership now, someone who can give us direction, someone who knows people who can act on the information we send him."
"I don't want him to do anything risky. I've only just got him back, you tell him I said he's to be careful. If I have to stay here forever, then so be it. I'd rather that, then for him to be caught again. I've finally got him back," she laughed softly, then began to sob again.
Calvin waited her out, again casting worried glances at the door. Her fit this time was not as powerful as the one before, and he suspected she would gather herself soon. Although he was not the most compassionate person in the world, even he understood what she must be feeling. The turmoil she must be going through. At length, she sighed and closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she was ready to speak.
"Did you see him yourself? How was he, is he truly recovered? Is he well?" She asked.
"Yes, he is well. Fighting fit. We have peddler's visiting the camp on occasion. This morning, your father managed to get himself in with one of those. It was a great risk for him to take, and he won't be takin' it again, but he needed to meet with us. I suspect he wanted to make sure he could be certain of me because he don't know me, but Jack spoke up me. We met on the outskirts of camp, and I only spoke to him for a short time before he had to leave. He gave me that letter after I told him I come and go from here often. I was damned surprised to learn you were a Patriot, if you don't mind me sayin'."
"Well. As you say. They can bend us to their will but they can't change what's in our hearts," Cilla replied, eyes on her lap. Calvin cocked his head, made curious by her words, but when she said nothing further, he let it drop.
"He asked that you read the letter, and your reply will be relayed back to him. Do you want me to come back in an hour or two?"
She nodded, that would be more than enough time for her to read the letter and write her reply. "How will you get it back to him?"
"Your da trusts the peddler he came with today, and that fellow is still circulatin' the camp, pretending to sell his wares when he's really gainin' information about the camp," Calvin said. "I get it to the peddler before he goes, your da should have your reply by tonight."
"Thank you, Lieutenant Farshaw," Cilla said, wrapping her hand over his. "For everything. You don't know what this means to me, I know what risk you're taking, coming here in person. Not just because you're a spy, but because of Bordon and Tavington. I know they mean you harm, but you came anyway. I owe you a debt."
"Not at all," Calvin shook his head. "In for a penny, in for a pound, ain't? It's just as dangerous spying here as it is next door. I get all sorts of information at the Ferguson's," he said, though strangely, a blankness entered his eyes, giving him a glazed sort of look, and his face became decidedly pale. Cilla wondered at the cause of it. "Yes, all sorts. Major Fallows," his voice hitched, he stared intently into the fire. Cilla swallowed, seeing a change come over him. His entire body tensed, his fingers clenched, his face was set. It was a little frightening, and she pulled her hand back from his, a little startled. He barely noticed. "Major Fallows - I'm using him, you see. He protects me from Bordon and Tavington. And he trusts me, stupid prick. I see almost every missive from O'Hara, almost every command. Companies being sent out, supplies shipped off and coming in, Cornwallis' intentions for the North… I see it all. I've also made copies of Major Fallows seal, like I said. I'm still working on O'Hara's. When it's finished, I'm going to give them to your da - with a copy of O'Hara's cipher, too. Think of all the chaos he'll be able to cause," Calvin's laughter was grim.
"Lord, what risk, stealing those!"
"Eh. Fallows' was easy enough, I use it often enough when scribin' for him. But yeh, it was a risk I took in getting O'Hara's. But I managed it - the other morning, when they was all in that council and crying like babies over their defeat up north. Stole into O'Hara's chamber, made an impression of his seal in a bit of clay, quickly copied the cipher, and I was back in my chamber before anyone noticed I was up to no good."
"You're very brave," she said, getting the distinct feeling that he was fishing for a bit of praise. Well, after all that, surely he deserved it. "And stalwart. You're right, Lieutenant, my father will be able to cause all cause of mischief for them, thanks to you." He smiled up at her and she found herself melting - Lord, but he was comely.
"I've still got to make a copy of O'Hara's seal from the impression. Damned Fallows has been keepin' me busy, I barely get a wink of sleep," a darkness entered his eyes and Cilla sensed great hatred from the youth for his Superior. "Especially now with the defeat up north. There's missives to be copied and carried off left right and centre. And then I try to make copies of those, copies that Fallows don't know about, they get given to the spies to pass along. Gods, it's so good, knowing those missives are going to end up in the hands of someone who knows what to do with them."
"Me too," Cilla said.
"It's worth it, don't you think?" He glanced at her now and the look in his eyes made her shudder. "Doing things you would never otherwise do…" He paused, clenched his teeth. "It's worth it, ain't? Don't you think, Mrs. Bordon? That it's worth it, for the Cause?"
"Any hardships we endure are worth it for the Cause," she replied. "I understand the hardships we suffer quite well, Sir. And I do wholeheartedly believe that it is absolutely necessary that we endure them. One day, when our country is free, we will remember and we will be proud that we did what we did. We will look at our children, who live in a free world, and we will be grateful that we endured what we did. We will feel pride, Lieutenant Farshaw. For we are brave. We are stalwart. And we will baulk at nothing."
Calvin sat up straighter, taller, prouder than he had before.
"I just want to do my part. And I'm in the perfect position to do it, up at the Great House, surrounded by Generals and the like. It'd be wrong of me to avoid my duty when I'm in such a prime position to do it."
"I could not agree more and I want to do my part too," she said.
"You do?" Calvin frowned. "How?"
"I am my father's daughter," she said, leaning forward, eying him intently. This was the perfect thing - her new routine! She needed something to fill her days now, with Banastre and Beth gone. She might as well make her hours worthwhile, she would be helping the Cause! "I know his tricks. I helped him in the city - I got all sorts of information from Tavington's men, just by having conversations with them. And now, I'm in an even better position to learn more. My husband is not careful of his tongue around me, none of them are, despite my betraying them before. They think I've got no one to report to now, that's why. But there's you, and the others. I have access to Bordon's journal, Lieutenant Farshaw! My bedchamber is the second one along, at the rear of the house. On the window sill, there is a pot plant, I keep it there to get the sun. Have an eye kept on the windowsill, Sir, and when it is placed to the far right, you or one of the other spies are to find an excuse to see me, for I will have information for you."
"I don't think…" Calvin licked his lips, his green eyes were wide. "I don't think your da would approve, Madam."
"My father is the one who set me to spying in the first place," Cilla replied. "You say you are in a strategic position to gain information? Well, Sir, so am I. You'd be a fool to reject this offer, Sir."
He gaped at her, utterly astounded.
"I am his daughter, I do know what I'm doing," Cilla said. "I won't take unnecessary risks. I'll show more caution than a deer hiding in the brush. Bordon leaves his journal in our bed chamber, right under my nose. I hear conversations all throughout this house, and if I'd known there were spies near to hand, I'd have sent that information down to them long since. Now I know, I will not be denied. I tell you now, that if I put the plant to the right and none of you boys make contact with me, I'll head straight over to the Ferguson's and ask to see you there."
"Jesus, don't do that!" Calvin cried, "that'll just be begging for trouble - for both of us!"
"So, I have your agreement then?" She said, arching an eyebrow. She felt she'd won a battle, but she would not gloat. She would not! "You, or one of the others, will attend me to receive whatever I discover? You will report it back to my father?"
"Yes," he replied sullenly as he rose. "Here, I better be going. You read your letter and I'll be back soon for your reply."
"Thank you," she said again, then she broke the seal and began reading before he even reached the door.
Beth stood at the opening of the tent with her cape clutched about her shoulders, watching as lightening lit up the night sky. It was a spectacular sight, one she usually enjoyed as much as other people loved the theatre. Now, as the white flashes lit up those billowing, black clouds, all she could think about was how well the storm matched her emotions. There was turmoil within that blackness over head, and it matched the turmoil raging in her heart. Thunder roared overhead like canons exploding, touching a cord deep within her. Nearly two full days had passed since leaving Fresh Water yet somehow, she'd survived. She had somehow managed to continue breathing, to continue moving through the endless agony. Her mind was twisted around the same heart stopping subject, that of William's affair with another woman.
She felt empty in a way she'd never known before. It was not loneliness, this was a different sort of loneliness, as though she were nothing but an empty vessel moving throughout the world, unseen, devoid of life. A soulless creature eating, drinking, sleeping and breathing only when she's told to, like some mindless machine. William had become her life, and that life was over now; what was left for her now? She barely felt alive now. She was naught more than an abiding numbness in an empty shell.
It was getting too cold to stand there any longer, and there had not been a lightening strike for some minutes now. Perhaps that part of the show had stopped. The rain was still relentless, it had been all day. That morning, when they set out from the plantation they had spent the night in, it had only been a light drizzle. By the time they reached Winnsboro in the late afternoon, it had become torrential.
Sitting at the table with the remains of their meal before him, Banastre beckoned to her. She managed to muster up a smile for him, for she knew he was worried, and as she approached, he rose from his stool and placed his arms around his waist.
"Are you cold?" He asked her as he nuzzled his nose against hers. "Your nose is freezing..."
"I'm alright," she replied. He was becoming increasingly concerned for her, and so she forced herself to add, "I think the lightening has stopped."
"Finally! You'll catch your death standing out there in that chill," he scolded her. His warm fingers cupped her face, his thumbs moving over the soft skin as he tried to transfer that warmth to her.
"I'm fine, truly I am," she said the words by rote but her voice was flat, her shoulders slumped. His strong hands did feel nice though and she leaned into his touch, the glow of heat soaking into her cold skin.
"Are you hungry?" He asked her, resting his head to her forehead. Their lips were quite close, just a bit closer and they'd be touching. Beth shook her head - no, she was not hungry - and she took a step back, out of his embrace. "Beth, you barely ate a bite," he pointed out.
"I'm just not hungry," she said, shrugging. Banastre gazed at her in disappointment as she glided away from him to sit in a chair by the brazier.
"The rain is stopping, will my tent be erected now? I'd like to lay down."
"Would you like a cup of mulled wine?" He asked.
"How about some warmed milk?" She replied, showing some amusement.
"Did you just joke?" He asked, ecstatic to see her smile become more genuine. "Did you? Let the Heaven's rejoice! She did!"
At this, she even laughed softly. "I'm not going to let you get me drunk again, Banastre Tarleton."
"Why not? We had so much fun the last time," he quipped. She smiled and laughed that soft laugh.
"Milk," she said, voice firm, though she was still smiling and that was all that mattered to him.
"Spoiled sport," he accused fondly.
He went to the tent flap and spoke to a guard outside. A short while later, three women entered the tent. Banastre was standing at Beth's side as they came in and he felt her entire body stiffen. He glanced down at her in the chair, startled, to see her glaring, face dark, at the women. Why should the sight of camp followers cause such anger? Two of them began clearing away the plates and other utensils, while yet another - Electa Alden - a stunningly beautiful young woman Banastre frequently sported with, approached. Electa was carrying a tray with the warmed milk. Face like stone, Beth took the cup and she waggled her fingers at Electa, a haughty gesture of dismissal. Beth did not thank Electa, she showed no gratitude whatsoever. Beth was high-bred, but still it startled Banastre to see her behaving it. She was always polite to her staff and servants. Banastre was quite dismissive of servants and had always found it quite strange that Beth would be so friendly. To see her acting according to her station was a stark change in her.
Electa did not seem to know what to do; she stood there with the tray in her hands, startled. She'd been in Banastre's bed often and she enjoyed being there. The downside to being the sometime lover of the Colonel, however, was that she had to endure it when he took other women over her. This was not the first time she was forced to watch him pay court to a favourite. But to be treated like a serving girl by his new lover? She'd never had to endure that with any of his women before. She stared down at Beth, her blue eyes becoming flinty.
Beth did not appear to notice, she had her head buried in her milk. Electa looked on the verge of speaking - and it was sure to be something unpleasant - but Beth got in first.
"Banastre," she said as she gazed up at him, ignoring Electa thoroughly. She complained, "I did ask for warm milk." With that, she put the cup back on the tray, still full. Only now did she meet Electa's gaze. Beth's eyebrows were arched, as though she were waiting for some sort of stammered excuse or apology. She was sitting and Electa was standing, however Beth managed to appear as a queen on her throne, chastising one of her subjects.
"I did warm it, Sir," Electa said, throwing Banastre an incredulous look. Her fingers tightened on the tray, she seemed ready to take up the cup and pour the contents over Beth's head. It was Banastre who reached for the cup, however, and he tasted the milk himself. It was barely lukewarm, but still, for Beth to take Electa to task like this was completely out of character.
"It's cold," he said, voice blunt, taking Beth's side. The other women were still clearing away the dishes, pretending not to watch. Banastre poured the milk into a pot and set it atop the brazier. The message was clear, while he did have a slew of lovers within the camp, none of them were of equal rank to Beth. And if a servant could not tend his consort as befitted her, then he would be forced to do it himself.
Still glaring at Electa, Beth leaned back in the chair with an air of triumph.
"Sir, if you don't mind me askin'," one of the women - this one just shy of middle years who reminded Beth of Mrs. Andrews, said to Banastre, "we 'aven't been introduced to the... lady," she said with doubtful emphasis as she darted a glance at Beth. Banastre was stirring the simmering milk with a spoon, it was at the perfect temperature now, and he poured it back into the cup. In a gallant display which showed both his affection and respect for Beth, he handed her back the cup, then waited for her approval.
She took a sip, then smiled warmly up at him. "It's perfect now, thank you Ban."
The women were watching this, too, nothing was escaping them.
"Well, as you appear to have everything in hand, I shall leave you to it," Electa said to Banastre, a bite to her voice. She strode from the tent, abandoning her companions.
Banastre tried to ignore Electa's defiance. he turned to Mrs. Simmons, ready to answer the question asked of him.
"My guest, Mrs. Simmons, is Mrs. Tavington," he began in a crisp tone. He would need to have a stern talking to with Electa, but for now, he would settle the other camp followers back on their heels. "She will be traveling with me for the foreseeable future. Any request coming from Mrs. Tavington is to be carried out with alacrity." This pronouncement caused more startled looks and eye widening from the women. "My Lady will require a maid - young Miss Nancy, perhaps. Yes, she will do perfectly fine. Inform Miss Cavanaugh that she is to attend Mrs. Tavington first thing in the morning."
"I see," the one called Mrs. Simmons said, eyes on Beth. It was not unusual for Tarleton to take a lover, but she was always from amongst the other camp followers and never received any particular preferential treatment. And if she was unwise enough to try to lord it over the others, she was soon made to remember her place, for none of the other women would put up with it. This, however, was entirely new and different and not at all to Mrs. Simmon's liking. She was forced to reexamine her original assessment of Tarleton's new lover, a woman she had assumed, initially, to be just another doxy trying to lord it over the others. The difference with this one was, she had the Commandant's backing, he was ready to tend to her himself as he expected the other women to tend her. Mrs. Simmons glanced at Beth's red dress, at the bodice and skirt. While both were covered in dirt, they were of the finest cut and the best quality silk. Her heeled shoes, peeking out from the hem of her petticoats, looked to be quite new. The buckles were bejeweled, the shoes embroidered with flowers. Such finery was not to be found amongst any of the women in camp. She was well-born, this one, accustomed to wealth and it's trappings. Mrs. Tavington, though? Mrs. Simmons thought. If this was Tavington's wife, what was she doing in Banastre's camp? Even if the woman was high-born, and she clearly was, if she had run off from her husband to be with Banastre, then she was still just another harlot. If she was Banastre's latest lover, then she was as much of a hussy as any of the doxies in camp.
Still, Mrs. Simmons forced herself to curtsy, filthy homespun and patched skirts spread wide. For, even if Mrs. Tavington was a bawd no better than any of the other women in camp, Banastre Tarleton clearly thought her to be something special, and Mrs. Simmons was most reluctant to overstep with the Colonel. The other woman, seeing Mrs. Simmon's curtsy, followed suit. This one looked as though she'd bitten into a lemon, though.
"If there is anythin' I can get for you, Mrs. Tavington, please send Miss Nancy to me," Mrs. Simmons offered, voice tight. "I'll make sure she's obeyed by the others, as befits any requests comin' from you."
"We understand one another then?" Beth asked primly, eyebrows arched, appearing as haughty as a Baroness. Mrs. Simmons, momentarily taken aback by the question, inclined her head in agreement. "Good. You may leave us now," Beth continued arrogantly and the women bristled. How dare she take the role of dismissing them from the Colonel's presence? They served him, not her. Neither said a worst of protest, however. Almost as an afterthought, Beth added, "I wish to retire for the evening. See that my cot is made up in my tent and inform Miss Cavanaugh that I shall interview her tomorrow."
Mrs. Simmons, startled now, cast a confused glance at Banastre.
"Interview?" Banastre asked, frowning.
"For the position of abigail," Beth explained. "You needn't think you will choose my maid for me, Banastre. I will be the one to decide who serves me."
"Alright," he drew out slowly. "Ah… about the tent…" he continued apologetically. "I enquired of the Quarter Master earlier, he explained that there is none to be had. The camp is quite overcrowded, you see."
"Ban," Beth paused, she frowned up at him, "you promised me my own tent."
"That I did," he said, voice still apologetic. "But this weather... All of the tents are in use, we are lucky to have a tent at all."
"You are lucky to have a tent, you mean," she said, sharpness entering her voice. "Not we. And I believe your rank had more to do with that, then luck. You made me a promise, Sir."
"I did," he replied, a little taken aback. Beth had risen from her chair and she bristled from head to toe. He had promised, but he'd hoped… Oh well, there was no help for it. He went to the tent flap and spoke again to the guard outside, instructing him to have a tent - of which Banastre had plenty - erected alongside his for Beth's use.
He turned back into the tent and met Beth's flinty gaze. Had she caught him out in his lie? He hoped not.
"That will be all," she said to the camp followers who, until that moment, had been exchanging puzzled glances. Now, at Beth's command, all expression drained from their faces. Banastre could see what Beth was doing - she was making certain the women understood that she was not one of them. She was something more, someone higher. It was important to establish from the outset that she was of equal rank to Banastre, in the women's eyes at least.
And so she resumed her seat and sipped delicately of her warm milk, gaze averted from the women, as if they had already obeyed her and were already gone. She did not even acknowledge their curtsies. Banastre inclined his head to them as they left the tent.
"That one," Beth snapped, jutting her chin toward the opening of the tent flap. "That Electa. How many times has she been in your bed?"
"Christ, Beth," he sighed, running a hand over his bound hair. It was a boyish gesture, showing embarrassment and discomfort.
"Don't deny it," she scoffed bitterly. "And that Avril, too. That one was just about ready to fall at your feet, her bottom lip was dragging on the ground as she was leaving. Have you bedded this Miss Nancy Cavanaugh, also? If you think I'll take one of your former lovers as my maid, you can think again."
"Well... my dear... That might make it a bit difficult for me to find a lass for you here in camp," he said, flashing her a youthful grin. She blew out a vexed breath and turned sharply from him. "Come now, Nancy's a good sort. She isn't in love with me or anything, she won't give you any trouble. She has had her eye on one of the soldiers, an infantry man. She snared him and they are engaged now. The last time I flirted with her, she told me that she wasn't going to come to me anymore. I gave her thirty pounds as a wedding gift and wished her well. She prattles on a bit and is more than foolish, but I think you'd like her."
"Yes, I'm certain," Beth spat. Only a fool could miss the sarcasm. "So, you intended for me to quarter in your tent, all this time. Don't deny it, you've been trying to get me to bed you since we left Fresh Water yesterday morning. Now that we're here, I'm to be the queen of your harem, am I? Your favourite concubine?"
"Beth," he soothed. He knelt at her side and took a hold of her hand, "I wasn't lying about the tent," he lied. "With the weather as it is, there's not a single one not in use. However, with just a bit of shuffling, one is being freed for you. As for being queen of my harem," he went to kneel before her, he plucked the cup from her fingers, placed it on on the table, and enveloped both her hands in his. "My love, you are quite correct, I have been making my desire known to you and for that, I shall not apologise. I love you, I have done since the first moment I laid eyes on you and yes, I do want - so very much - for us to return to the way we were. But harem? Lord, no. It will be you," he brushed his lips against her fingers, a long and lingering kiss. His heart was in his voice. "And only you." He kissed again, closing his eyes and leaning into her fingers as though they were her lips.
Beth heaved a sigh. "If we do return to how things were, Ban, we will do so discreetly," she emphasised. "There will be no avoiding camp gossip, but I will not be blatant and nor will you."
"Anything you desire," he said, his voice filled with such boyish hope, she could not help but to laugh. He delighted to hear it. "Your tent will be right next to mine." He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. "Perhaps, with a little ingenuity, we can fashion a side entrance in yours and a side entrance in mine, and we can position them so that we can visit one another without anyone ever seeing us leave our tents."
"Your men will know where you are though. Those who stand sentry," she said, jutting her chin toward the entrance to the guard standing outside.
"They know better than to gossip, I'd cut out their tongues," Banastre replied. "And your maid would know as well, but I promise you, Miss Nancy is a good sort. She will give you her utmost loyalty, if you let her."
"Loyalty?" Beth snorted, bitter. "There is no such thing, not among camp followers."
There was nothing he could say to that, not after the women back at Fresh Water betrayed her so completely.
"Here, will you please try to eat now?" He asked, rising and pulling toward her a plate of cheeses, bread, corncakes and fruit. She nodded and began picking at the food.
As she ate, her tent arrived and Banastre began flittering about with his men, discussing his requirements. Being Colonel came with some privileges, Banastre's tent was no exception. Tarleton's Legion would be camping near to Winnsboro, a few miles from Cornwallis' battalion - for some time and as such, Banastre intended to live out of his command tent - so much larger than the simple A frame tents his soldiers used. It was three times larger, high enough for tallest of men - Captain James Wilkins would be able to stand up straight beneath its roof. The roof was an A frame but the walls were vertical. Beth's tent - a similar design but smaller, was placed hard up against Banastre's and his soldiers worked to create a connecting door in the two sides. When they finished, the soldiers withdrew and Beth joined Banastre to admire their handiwork. The adjoining door in the side of the tent - a canvas flap - was at that moment lifted back. Within was a brazier - already burning. A cot, a small table with two chairs and a lantern, and in one corner was Beth's saddle bags.
"It's perfect," she said, linking her arm through his. She kissed his cheek and then laid her head on his shoulder. "I really am quite tired and that cot looks awfully comfortable. Would you mind terribly if I retired now?"
"Not at all," he turned to her and pulled her into his embrace. "My love, how are you feeling, are you still quite sore?"
"Yes," she said.
"There's still plenty of that salve left," he offered.
Yesterday, after leaving Fresh Water, they had spent the entire day in the saddle, stopping finally at the house of a Plantation owner not of Beth's acquaintance; they had travelled many miles and she was further north than she had been in years. Banastre had arranged for her to have her own chamber there. When she retired, Banastre had rubbed his miraculous salve into the weals caused by Tavington's belt, drawing the pain from her bottom. It had been no easy thing for him, that sharing of intimacy, with the restraints she was putting between them. She'd fallen asleep before he had, and he had chosen to spend the night in her chamber rather than his. He'd awoken with the woman he loved laying beside him, he'd kissed her and touched her in her most tender place, his phallus straining with morning need made worse with having her at his side.
He'd found no relief then, but perhaps he'd find it now. Perhaps, with just the right coaxing, Beth would become ready...
"Would you mind terribly?" She asked.
"Would I mind? Not at all," Banastre grinned.
He guided her through the door from his tent to hers. The previous night, when they had stopped at the plantation house, he had helped her to undress. The precedent had been set, and Beth did not object when he began to help her again now. She was soon down to only her shift, with her long hair unbound, hanging loose down her back. Banastre helped her to lay down face forward on her stomach, and after shucking off his boots, he laid out along side of her, his head propped on one arm. His fingers combed gently through her golden tresses and traced her spine over her shift. She allowed it for some time, before lifting her head and turning to him. "The salve?" She asked. He grinned, then rose to fetch it from his tent. She settled back down, her head resting on folded arms. She made no move to stop him when he began edging her shift up over stockinged calves, past her thighs, baring her two crescents.
"Gods, the weals are purple now," he muttered. He knelt on the floor beside her. "I want to run that bastard through with my sword." He ran his finger gently along her damaged skin, close to the crevice between her cheeks, following the path of those long, purple bruises. "Does it hurt?" He asked when she shivered. She shook her head no and made a muffled reply, which he took as a sign to continue. Dipping his fingers into the salve jar, he set to work, gently rubbing the substance into the angry weals. Returning the lid to the jar, he continued to massage the damaged skin until the salve was gone from his fingers. Beth still lay before him, completely compliant.
It was time to push the boundaries again, time to press her for more, and see how far he could get. Abandoning all pretence, he caressed her more boldly now, his fingers gliding down the fissure separating those crescents he so loved to touch. He was touching her purely for the pleasure it would give her, and they both knew it. Still Beth remained still, his caresses raising goosebumps in her flesh. His fingers glided downward to the tops of her thighs, along the back of one leg, then back up and over her bottom. The next time he glided back downward, he gently pushed one finger down between the very top of her thighs, inserting it in such a way, that he was able to massage that highly sensitive dip that was her opening. He heard her breath hitch, and although she still lay perfectly still, he had the distinct feeling she wanted to push against his finger. Encouraged, he pushed down further, hoping she would part her thighs and roll her hips upward, allowing him access to her clitoris. His phallus strained against his breeches again, as it had that morning, as it had the night before when he'd massaged the salve into her buttocks. He could feel her moisture building, surely she was as aroused as he? He placed his free hand on her spine to caress her along her back, and he leaned forward to brush his lips on her cheeks, moving downward to her thighs. If she parted them, he'd be able to do so much more... Beth continued to lay frozen for several long moments as the tip of his finger explored her, trying to reach for her womanhood, gliding back up to massage her opening. She began to move and Banastre - breathing heavily - felt a thrill of hope. She was opening herself to him, finally, she would allow him to take her...
Beth rolled onto her side to face him, her thighs stayed resolutely closed as she began tugging her shift back down. He remained kneeling before her as he met her gaze, letting her see the stark desire in his.
"Is there truly any need for me to sleep on my cot?" He asked her, voice thick. "We shared last night. And it's very cold tonight. We'll be warmer in the same bed - we don't have to do any more than you feel you're ready for."
After considering a moment, Beth sighed. "No, there's no need," she said as she shuffled over to make more room for him. The cot was narrow, but with him on his back and her on her side, they'd be comfortable. He undressed quickly, though he left on his small clothes, and she lifted the blankets for him as he climbed in beside her. Laying on his side, he placed his hand on her stomach and gently urged her onto her back, even as he began kissing her softly. Again, she allowed it for some time, enjoying the closeness and the warmth. His hand began to edge downward again, heading toward her quim, and she knew he would press her for more yet again. Instead of allowing herself to succumb to his caresses, she turned onto her side and edged him back onto his back. Once he was laying with his head on the pillow, she nudged his arm aside and settled against her, her head on his chest, his arm looped around her shoulders.
"Good night, Ban," she said softly, letting him know they would go no further. He heaved a great sigh of disappointment, kissed the top of her head, and held her as she fell asleep.