Chapter 113 - Not a Groat More:

31st October 1780

Dark clouds gathered overhead, billowing as far as the eye could see, shrouding the blue of the sky beyond. The clouds were heavy, with an ominous feel, Beth could smell the rain in the air. She sighed, she'd have to go back into the tent very soon. In order to escape the tedium of the tent, she was braving the chill and reclining in a very comfortable arm chair, covered from her chest down to her feet with a thick blanket. Sitting beneath the awning of the joined tents, she was able to watch the goings on without actually involving herself her quarters.

Camp life, she found after almost two weeks of living it, suited her just fine. Oh, there were some small inconveniences, and it was starting to get quite cold with the march into November. And quite boring at times, for she didn't really do very much of anything. There was not much to occupy her time, with Banastre so frequently away, for days at a time sometimes. He'd been gone for two days now and no one could predict when he would return. And she spent her days in idle boredom. She certainly did not lift a finger to help the other camp followers, though by rights, she should. There should be no idle hands when the work load was so heavy, and the hands so few.

Instead of assisting, she watched the camp followers passing her by, the women who served the men of Tarleton's Legion. There was one woman for every unit of ten or so men, to do the cooking, gathering of firewood and wild fruit, to carry water, clothes washing and so forth.

One such woman had her head down against the wind, her shawl ballooning around her. She kept one hand at her breast, clutching the shawl to keep it closed. As she ambled along, she did so on a kilter, for she carried a heavy looking bucket with her other hand. The woman looked ragged and tired, her clothes heavily patched, her hair lank and oily under her dust cap. Another woman, attired much the same as the first, lugged about a heavy basket of wet washing. How she was going to dry those with the rain coming, Beth could not guess. Others were likewise busy; cooking, washing clothes at the river, tending sick soldiers. The list of their chores was never ending, and still Beth sat on her chair, doing absolutely nothing.

She had not tried to mingle with a single one of the camp followers in the two weeks she'd lived amongst them. She did not speak to Banastre on their behalf, she did not try to use her influence over him, for the camp women's gain. She could have, of course. In fact, it was her responsibility to take charge of them and to do what she could to make their lot better. For she was high ranking in and of herself – far higher than any of the women there. And that had nothing to do with being Banastre's mistress. As Banastre's mistress, she could have wrung all sorts of concessions from him for the women, in order to make their lives better.

But Beth did not.

She was done with camp followers. She was done with women completely. Who needed friends, anyway? Not her. They only betrayed you in the end. Scheming, gossiping, and helping husbands to screw other women… Thinking of Harmony, she drew a sharp breath and held it, bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt, and willed her fury to pass. She'd helped Beth's husband in such a way, keeping Linda and William's affair a secret, while pretending to be Beth's friend, accepting Beth's help and giving nothing in return – not even Loyalty which she bloody well owed to Beth!

Just breathe… Breathe… Beth released hers, she uncurled her fingers from the fists they'd formed as soon as her thoughts had turned to Harmony.

A few more ragged looking women appeared on the rough trail, they were walking in Beth's direction. As they drew close, their eyes darted toward her, the Colonel's friend. Perhaps they suspected she was more than that, perhaps they suspected she was his mistress, despite the efforts they had gone to, to have separate sleeping quarters. Friend or mistress, it did not matter - they despised her either way. Each one wore the expression one makes when eating something sour, their lips and nose sort of twisted, as though they had bitten into a lemon. They did not quite glare at her; none would dare to be as bold as that. A word from her – a single word – would bring the wrath of the Colonel down upon their heads. Their glances were fleeting – they did not dare to stare too long, nor too openly, at the Colonel's… Companion. Still, their dislike was clear. None of them cared if she was bedding Banastre or not, half of them had spread their legs for him themselves. But the despised her for being the gently reared, well bred woman that they must now serve, because the Colonel told them to. Beth just shrugged, her eyebrows arched. Needing something to hold, she reached for the cup and saucer on the small table to her right. Tendrils of steam rose from the cup, Beth held it up to her nose and inhaled, and she stared back at the women over the rim of her hot tea. With both hands wrapped around the cup for warmth, she continued to enjoy the beverage, while those other women toiled around her.

Her maid - the girl Banastre had given to her - would bring a tray for her soon, with casserole and bread and other assortments for her lunch. Miss Nancy she had been called once, and she was called Miss Nancy still, despite having married her soldier. The newly wed lass cooked for Beth, cleaned for her, combed Beth's hair at night and dressed it in the morning. As she was Beth's maid, she spent a large quantity of her time in the joined tents with Beth, although she was probably yearning to be with her new husband. If it was company she was wishing for, she most certainly did not gain it from her mistress, who mostly ignored the lass. The girl had been with the camp, screwing Banastre, for months. Perhaps years. So what if she had just recently married one of his soldiers? She'd probably lift her skirts and spread her legs for Banastre again in a heart beat given half a chance. Beth refused to trust Miss Nancy, despite Banastre attesting she could be depended upon. She would not trust any of them again, damned camp followers.

The four women had passed Beth by, their heads were bent together now. Whispering, whispering. Talking about her, she did not doubt. What purpose Mrs. Tavington could possibly have in being there, if she was not bedding Banastre. Beth scoffed, unaffected. Gossiping bitches. Let them talk - she had made damned sure that they could not possibly know the truth with any certainty. Beth had been excruciatingly careful to avoid being seen with Banastre intimately outside their tents – to his growing frustration. He seemed to want to show her off like one did a bauble, but Beth insisted she would not be revealed to be another man's mistress. When they walked through the camp, she did not even hold his arm. She was in camp with him because he was escorting her on behalf of her husband. To where he was escorting her, they never bothered elaborating to anyone, except for vague explanations of Beth visiting her sister and her aunt.

Her marriage might be in tatters but that did not mean her name should be, also. Not just the Tavington name, but that of Martin as well. Her father should not have to suffer for any of this folly.

Her nostrils flared as her mind turned to her husband. It did so often, he was all she could seem to think about. Though he was miles away, he plagued her at every moment of every day. The image of his body above Linda's, thrusting and writhing, the sounds he would be making as he surged above her. Of that damned whore bucking, edging him on, holding him, calling him dear heart.

Overwhelmed by the pain, Beth choked back a sob. There was a sharp twist in her breast and she quickly drew several ragged breaths, trying to get her emotions in check. Why she did this to herself, she did not know. It was torture. More painful than William's belt ever could be. But she did it time and time again; she imagined him in Linda's arms, she pictured them during their intimate moments, imagined the endearments they were sure to be whispering.

"…I'm glad she's gone," he would say and Linda would smile and nod enthusiastically.

"We can finally be together openly now, no more sneaking around," Linda would reply. "She's just a silly girl anyway, my love. I'm a woman grown, it's me you need."

"It's you I love," he would reply. "Everything I've done, I've done for you and the baby. I could not marry you my love, I needed to marry higher up to appease my peers and I needed to marry a fortune. That silly girl is both of those, but my heart was always with you. But now she is gone and we can live together again now. With her fortune, we'll want for nothing!"

"I know it. It's been our plan all along, hasn't it? Dear heart, I'll always love you for the sacrifices you made for our future."

"And I'll always love you," he would reply before kissing her again.

This conversation played out in Beth's mind often. Oh, it changed on occasion but for the most part, it was the same. They spoke of their love, of how they'd planned this all along, of how silly 'that little girl' was, and how pleased he was that Beth was no longer there. He did not have to pretend anymore. Sometimes, William stroked Linda's stomach lovingly, he knelt beside her and spoke to her belly button as though speaking to the babe within. And Linda would laugh indulgently and stroke back his hair…

"Hell's teeth," Beth muttered. She sat stiffly in her chair, her jaw clenched so hard it hurt. She was the stupidest person in the world. For falling for William Tavington, of course, but also for dwelling on him in this manner. It was so very hard not to though, thoughts of him consumed her. Of his betrayal, of all the times he'd gone down to the camp, of him fucking Linda while Beth waited at the house, ignorant, yearning for him. Of how much happier he must be now, living with Linda up at the Great House.

It was agony, excruciating torture, and she could not escape it. It was burrowed deeply into her chest. That deep seated pain had wormed its way in there and she could not get rid of it, it followed her everywhere - even to her bed with Banastre. She'd tried to run from it – she'd put a hundred miles or more between herself and William, and still that pain followed. Misery, anguish, heartbreak, it flowed with her life's blood through her veins. There was no escaping it, no running from it, though she'd tried. She'd run from her husband, she'd put a different man into her bed entirely; and still that awful agony persisted. It was like a canker, deep in her soul. It could not be cut from her, it was an awful wound in her heart, a scar that would never heal.

A splash of wet landed on her face; and her mind was snapped back to the world around her. She glanced upward at the brooding clouds and saw that the heavens were about to open.

"Oh, Mrs. Tavington," Miss Nancy had arrived and was carrying Beth's tray. Seeing Beth sitting there, when she'd thought her mistress was inside in the warmth, bought her to a frenzy of panic. Despite the danger she might turn an ankle, she rushed forward even though the ground was uneven and her skirt tangled between her legs with each step. If she fell, that tray would go flying... "Oh, do please come inside where it's warm and dry! Yeh'll get drenched out here in a few more moments, yeh'll catch your death!" She gushed. At only seventeen she was still a girl even if she was now married.

Beth's gaze as flinty when it landed on Miss Nancy. The girl was always so jovial, even in the face of her mistress' obvious contempt. The lass acted as though she had been serving Beth for years, and was as fond of her mistress as she was her husband. She always bustled around the tent, chatting away.

No doubt she was trying to gain Beth's trust, so she could stab her in the back later.

Like Mrs. Harmony Jutland-Farshaw had. As Mrs. Andrews and Miss Cordell had. Beth had wizened up to the ploys of other women now, and she would not fall for such tricks again. She would not allow any of them to hurt her again.

Peeling the blanket back from her legs, she rose dropped the blanket to the seat, then turned toward her tent.

"Bring in the table, chair and the blankets," she commanded before marching inside. Miss Nancy followed of course, all cheery and happy. She placed the tray on the larger table and then bustled outside again to recover the rest. Beth was already sitting by the warmth of the brazier, at the table, dining on the thick, deer stew. The partition separating her tent from Banastre's was closed, making Beth's tent seem even smaller, but having the canvas down helped to hold the heat in. Nancy lugged in the table and blankets first, then returned with the heavier chair. All of which Beth could have handled quite easily herself, or assisted Nancy with at least.

"Oh, it's so nice and warm in here," the lass chatted as she began folding the blanket. "I do wish I had a brazier in my tent. Though me husband is nice and warm, I snuggle up to him at night, he's like having a furnace right there in the bed."

Ignoring Nancy, Beth glared intently at a jug of milk, though it was Tavington's face she saw in her minds eye. Nancy continued to prattle though Beth's thoughts began to drift again and this time, Linda was in Beth's bed chamber – that's where Linda and William always coupled when the visions assailed her. The whore was dropping to her knees and playfully peeling back the front of William's breeches. He was looking down at her with a fond quirking of his lips, his fingers trailing through Linda's hair. The whore opened her mouth wide, engulfed the purple head and shaft, and William dropped his head back with a very contented sigh. The cold chill spreading from Beth's breast to her every limb had nothing to do with the cold of outside. The rain began, the deluge so loud on the canvas roof, Nancy had to raise her voice to be heard above it.

"There's soldiers wanting to come in!" She said loudly. "They're carryin' something, oh, it's a chest!" She turned to the two soldiers. "Come on then," she said, stepping to one side. Beth cocked her head as the two young men entered, they were struggling with a chest between them. More followed behind, carrying smaller boxes. Beth set aside her spoon.

"From Fresh Water, for Mrs. Tavington," one of them said, knuckling his forehead in salute. Beth felt herself grow cold all over. "There's a letter from Colonel Tavington, too, Mrs. Tavington," the soldier bowed and he handed it over. Beth stared at it like it was a snake he was trying to hand to her.

Take it, take it! She hissed to herself, commanding herself to recover from the shock. Or at least not show it to them. She lifted a trembling hand, feeling as though she were moving through cold molasses.

"Thank you," she forced herself to say. The soldiers bowed, then left the tent. Beth stared at the packet in her hand, the oil skinned leather that held a letter from her husband.

"Oh, what do you think is in them?" Nancy gushed. "Can I open the chest? Please say I can!"

"Open it," Beth said, her voice urgent and rushed. She wasn't sure if she were speaking to Nancy, or to herself. Nancy fell to her knees on the dry straw ground and she opened the chest lid. Beth drew a shuddering breath and opened the leather packet.

Dry within was a single leaf of paper, the message was so short it took her all of half a minute to read it.

"Mila has packed for you, as you instructed. Within the chest, you will find two hundred pounds cash. Write if you need anything from the house, or if you need more money."

Beth choked back a sob. He didn't even sign it - except for 'Mrs. Beth Tavington' on the front and 'Colonel Tavington' on the back, that was all he wrote. No endearments, no begging to be forgiven, no words of love. She turned her back on Nancy and struggled not to cry, struggled to gain control of herself.

"Oh, me Lord, would ye take a look at this!" Miss Nancy sighed, a small silly smile spreading across her pretty face as she pulled out an ensemble of clothes that made up one of Beth's beautiful silk dresses that she had had to leave behind. Nancy spread the bodice and skirt out on Beth's bed, her fingers running along the silk with awe. Her mistress, Beth, sat at the small table, quickly dashing tears from her cheeks, before turning to look, her face as cold as stone. "'Oh, 'twill look so fine on ye, with ye smooth skin. Twill compliment yeh eyes, 'twill. Your man will love seein' ye in this one."

"He is not my man," Beth snapped and Nancy startled.

"I'm sorry, I… I shouldn't have said… of course he ain't," Nancy quailed. Beth tightened her lips and looked away. "But, oh Mrs. Tavington, I do want to dress ye up, I do!" She removed more clothing from the chest, two more gowns of equal quality to the first. "This one." Decided, Nancy set aside the dress, she folded the other two, then continued pawing - carefully - through the contents of the chest.

"My husband writes that there should be money in the chest. Is it in there?" Beth asked. Nancy held up a hand - gesturing to wait - then she pulled out a leather wallet and coin purse.

"Here it is, I think," she handed both to Beth, who took them and placed them on the table. Nancy continued to rummage in the chest, finding shoes, stockings, petticoats, shifts, jewellery, a brush and mirror.

Nancy soon got to the other boxes and found they contained blankets and the like. Mila's doing, Beth was sure. She fingered the heavy purse on the table before her, idly toying with the laces. Some two hundred pounds - more than Nancy and her soldier husband would have earned in three years. Beth did not care about a penny of it. She dwelled over his letter, her dinner forgotten. No words of love, of sorrow or longing for her, of remorse at his horrid treatment of her, no decrying his anguish that he had lost her due to his own folly in keeping a mistress. Eyeing Nancy to be sure the girl wasn't watching, she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. Why should she feel such agony, when William clearly did not feel any himself? Why should she feel despair, or heartache? She closed her eyes as waves of both twisted in her breast.

"I'm so sorry I have to spend so much time away," Banastre cupped Beth's jaw with gentle fingers; he held her with such tenderness, as as would a frail and trembling dove. His lips were so close to hers, his dark eyes warm and intent.

"It's alright, you're back now," she replied.

He caught her upper lip and held it with his, his sweet sigh breezed into her mouth. Releasing her, he caught her lower lip and suckled gently. It meant the world to him to have her in his arms. To be able to hold her and kiss her as he was now. Such a pity she would not let him shout his joy to the world.

He wished he could show her off, for she was his one precious and beloved jewel. A jewel that he desperately coveted for entirely too long. So proud was he to finally have her, he wanted for nothing more than to show off his beautiful jewel. But in order to keep her, he had to respect her wishes, and so they were in her tent, with the flap closed to the world outside, where no one could see and know for certain that Beth was, indeed, his mistress.

His hands remained where they were, cupping her face as he kissed her. Beth's hands were not so innocent. One arm had reached around Banastre's hips, her fingers gently kneaded his firm buttocks. The palm of her other hand gently explored and groped the front of his breeches, her fingers tracing the outline of his thick shaft through the layer of wool. With a shudder, he groaned into her mouth.

"My Beth," he whispered, not moving his lips from hers. "I could not rest. Not day nor night. Until I had you in my arms again. Ah, God, my love."

This speech charmed her as it always did, it eased her fears and doubts and recriminations every bit effectively as his caresses did. Beth pushed all thought from her head, shoved it into the far corner were niggles and doubts belonged. Losing herself to the moment, the nearness of his body, touching him in his most intimate place, it set her blood on fire, the deepest of that heat spreading from her womanhood. She pressed her hips closer to his and though she gripped his shaft tighter, it was she who whimpered.

Hearing the sound of her arousal, the devil entered him. Gone was his gentleness, he picked her up and threw her atop the narrow bed. In a passionate fury, he kissed her with a violence which matched her own. He pushed her skirt and petticoats up her stockinged legs, higher until her bare quim was revealed. Her fingers tore at his belt buckle and buttons, she shoved his breeches down as far as was needed. Barely noticing the hindrance of having his breeches only partway down his thighs, he carried himself over her leg and settled between her parted thighs.

Both already being well warmed, his phallus slid inside her with ease. Beth arched her back and clung to him, her fingers digging into his green Dragoon jacket. With her skirts around her hips and his breeches around his thighs, Beth thrust her pelvis to meet his every stroke. With his pleasant weight on top of her, the two kissed and whispered their ardour, until it grew to feverish heights and it broke, sending them soaring. For several long moments, it was impossible for either to speak; their breaths were stolen in a fit of panting, their ecstasies held them fast. At length, a now weary Banastre dropped his head to Beth's shoulder, his weight was now limp on top of hers, his strength and his sticky seed drained from his body.

"So he sent you all this, did he?" Banastre said as he threw off the blankets and rose from the cot. A merry fire burned in the brazier, keeping the tent nice and warm. The candlelight threw a soft yellow glow over his pale skin - there no need to clothe himself as he walked across the tent toward the chest and boxes. He glared down at those. "Does he think I can't provide you with blankets?" He asked scathingly.

Beth was still beneath plenty of those, laying on her bed, her head on her pillow. "I believe that would have been Mila's doing," she said. "I doubt he would have thought to send blankets."

"He sent you clothes, though," he said without turning to look at her.

"A good thing too, I was getting tired of wearing the same two outfits," she said.

"Eh. You're happy, are you? To have received all this from William?"

"Ban," Beth pushed the blankets away and rose. She crossed the tent and wrapped her arms around his body, her bare chest to his bare back. He glanced over his shoulder at her. "It's just clothes. You don't need to worry about it."

"Just clothes. It shows that he is thinking of you. It's one step closer to him asking you to return to him."

"Hardly that," she snorted. "And I wouldn't, if he did. I suspect it's more that my dresses don't fit his whore so there was no use for them - he likely wanted to make way for her clothes."

"He sent you a letter, as well?" He asked.

"It was perfunctory, like he was writing to a stranger," she tried to sound as though she didn't care. She lowered her arms and reached for the packet on the table. She'd put the bank notes and coins in the leather packet, she opened it now and handed him the letter. She held it out to him but it seemed to have fled him mind. Banastre was staring at the bank notes, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide with awe. "He sent me money too," she explained, noting the direction of his gaze. As he picked one up, she folded the letter and returned it to the packet.

"How much is there?" Banastre asked, astonished.

"Two hundred. It's good of him, to share my inheritance with me," she said, voice thick with sarcasm. Disdain. "I'm to write to him, if I need more. It's galling, that I have to beg, cap in hand, to get my own inheritance."

"Two hundred pounds," he breathed, his wide eyes staring at the pile of notes. He read the one in his hand, that alone was for fifty pounds.

"Have you spoken with your reverend yet?" She asked, folding her arms across her chest. "I do not want to have to ask him for a single penny of my own money. I don't want him spending another groat, not on himself, not on his bawd. I need your Reverend to announce my marriage as void, so I can get a lawyer to retrieve what is mine."

"Pardon?" Banastre said, still staring at the money in his hand.

"The Reverend, Ban. Have you spoken to him yet?" Beth asked, voice clipped.

"Oh, no, not yet. I shall, though. Beth… Gods, two hundred pounds?"

"I have nineteen thousand, eight hundred more, Banastre. I want my inheritance."

"I know, I know. I'll speak with the Reverend. Beth, my love, where do you plan to spend this?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "There is nothing to spend it on. Why?"

He ran his hand over his hair and flashed her his boyish grin.

Beth was sitting at her small table by the brazier with a cup of tea in her hand. Nancy pottered about the tent, doing her chores. Beth ignored her as she always did, only this time it was because her mind was quite preoccupied. The partition separating the tents was open, she could see clear into Banastre's tent, to where he stood with Whitty in a far corner.

Earlier that morning, the paymaster had opened his ledgers; the soldiers and camp followers had been paid, and ever since, there had been a slew of visitors for Banastre. Officers, all. And all of them had come to Banastre - knowing he'd just been paid - with their hands out for the money he owed them. It was a monthly custom, Nancy told her. Banastre's purse had been heavy, for all of ten minutes. Now he was using the money he had loaned from her after flashing his boyish grin.

He'd known he'd need it, to pay his long line of creditors. The money he'd loaned from her was almost gone and the way he was eyeing her purse now, she wondered if he would approach her again for another.

Sweet Lord, wasn't it the mistress who was meant to be kept? Shouldn't he have been lavishing her with silks and jewels paid for from his own pocket? Not that she wanted them, but wasn't that how it was meant to be? She didn't think that, in all her years, she'd ever heard of a woman keeping the male lover!

She watched Banastre speaking with Whitty, and she fretted over his expenditure. She'd told him William's instructions, to send to him if she needed more. Therefore, Banastre knew that it was possible for more money to come, should she request it. But it was not inexhaustible, as large as her fortune was, it could be all used up, if she or William chose to live a lavish life.

That whore Linda won't be keeping William, Beth scowled. William is probably dressing her in silks paid from my bloody inheritance! And now I'm supporting Ban from the same? Lord, at this rate, it'll all be drained to nothing and I'll be penniless in less than a few years!

It was her money, for her future! As it was, William was providing for his whore from it. Shouldn't Banastre be providing for Beth? That's how it was supposed to be. He was still chatting with Whitty, but he glanced over toward her and she knew his thoughts as clearly as if he had spoken them. She met his eyes, hers sparking with anger as he approached, stepping through the partition from his tent to hers. Such a gallant smile he wore as he came like a beggar for more money to pay his gambling debts.

"No Ban," she said, voice firm. She spoke before he could even open his mouth. He stood above her, arm behind his back, mid bow. His face startled, he straightened, his mouth falling slowly open. "I will have to write to… him… for more, if you take it," she snapped, not caring one bit that she was embarrassing him in front of Whitty. If she had known this was what Banastre would do with the loan, she would have refused him.

Lieutenant Whitty averted his gaze, he rocked on his heels and whistled as though he were not concerned about Banastre and Beth's conversation at all. The slow flush stealing over his cheeks told her he could hear her every word. She lowered her voice. "I will not write that letter, Ban. For the life of me, I will not!" He should be writing to me! Begging forgiveness, vowing remorse! I will not be a beggar to a man who does not love me. I won't! "I have my pride, for goodness sake."

Banastre circled the table and took hold of her hand. He kneeled before her and kissed her fingers. "My love, two pounds," he said, dark eyes soft as he gazed up at her. "Let me just settle with Whitty and -"

"When will you settle with me?" She asked. Seeing the surprise cross his face, her fingers itched to slap him. He hadn't thought he would have to pay her back! Sweet Jesus! "What I've given you so far, it is a loan, Banastre. You do understand that?"

His smile turned a little sickly. "Of course, my love. A loan. I'll pay you back every pound."

"Very well. Another two to Whitty but after that, no more, Banastre. I don't care how many more Officers are lined up outside, waiting for their turn with you," she lifted her chin, her eyes were flint. Nancy glanced outside the tent flap, and behind Banastre's back, she held up three fingers and to confirm how many were lined up, she mouth the word 'three'. Eyes pinned on Banastre, Beth drew in a long, deep breath. "You spent through five thousand pounds of your own inheritance. You will not spend your way through mine, also."

"There was no need for that," Banastre chided, offended.

"I think there is, Ban. My money is just that. Mine. Two pounds for Whitty," she ground out through clenched teeth, "because I like him." Whitty - face still flushed red - gave her a short bow of thanks. She hadn't lowered her voice as much as she'd thought. "But no more, Ban. Send the others away."

"My love," Banastre turned her hand over and kissed her palm, his lips drifting up to the inside of her wrist. "It will only be another ten pounds for the others -"

"Which far exceeds the pay you received this morning, Banastre!" Beth snapped, too outraged by this revelation to lower her voice now. She jerked her fingers from his grasp. "How did you expect to pay them all with the few shillings and two pounds the paymaster handed to you this morning? Without this, I mean?" She slapped at the packet with the back of her fingers. "If this had not arrived? No. You will pretend it never came, Ban. It's mine, anyway. To pay for things I need, not to pay back your debts. I know this might be quite a novel idea for you, but have you ever considered not gambling?" She asked archly.

Poor Nancy high tailed it to a far corner, where she tried to make herself very small. She'd never heard anyone speak to the Colonel the way Mrs. Tavington sometimes did. It frightened the lass to the highest degree, for there was a reason no one spoke to Banastre Tarleton that way. Even Whitty drew a few steps back, waiting for the explosion.

Which never came. Banastre had the grace to look a little ashamed. Some of the red suffusing his face was irritation, however, and as he rose, Beth distinctly heard the words whispered under his breath, "…sounds just like my damned mother."

She ignored his comment. Reaching into the purse, she drew out two pounds - made up mostly of silver shillings, and dropped them into Banastre's hand.

"Not a groat more," she said, very softly, her eyes fixed on his. Surrendering, he nodded once, then walked stiffly over to Whitty.

"Send the others away," Banastre said, using his voice of command, the one which had women, and most men, scrambling. Whitty was no different, he darted for the tent flap, leaving it swinging behind him.

"Miss Nancy, my lady's hair needs dressing," Banastre commanded of the lass, before he himself strode from the tent.

"Oooh, I don't like seeing him so angry. He's ever so mad!" Nancy whispered as she crept forward.

"He certainly is," Beth sighed, her statement carrying a different meaning to Nancy's. He was mad, if he thought she would use her own money to settle his gambling accounts. And without any expectation of him repaying the money to her. Sweet Lord, he was a stark raving lunatic!