Chapter 133 - The Sire:
With the quill poised just shy of the parchment, Banastre glanced at his bed. His empty bed. He'd been forced to leave Beth with such frantic haste, leaving both baggage and women behind. Including Beth. The crisply made bed looked cold, he had no desire to climb into it, without her in it. Their quarrel was regrettable, perhaps he never should have bought Electa to the house. Perhaps he'd been mistaken to believe that Beth would want to be with another woman. She'd seemed quite as delighted as he, while reading those scenes with Fanny; she'd certainly been enthralled by it that day when she'd first bought the book to his attention. After reading that passage, she'd been absolutely hot for him - climbing into his lap and proceeding to rut with him right there on the stool. She'd been excited, why wouldn't he think she'd like to try it? She'd been eager enough to try other delightful activities they read about. Well, he wouldn't press her. There was still yet plenty of pages unexplored, plenty they could still try from Fanny's book. Perhaps one day she would change her mind, now that she knew Electa was agreeable. He turned back to the parchment. A letter from himself to Lord Cornwallis, where he recommended to the General that he be allowed to head further west than they'd anticipated. It was further afield than they'd expected him to go, but it was necessary if they wished for him to head off General Burwell.
It'd been a rough two days; the weather was absolutely atrocious, unyielding in its ferocity. Driving rain, freezing wind, cold that cut through you like a knife. The Dragoons were not equipped for this. Their clothes were too light, they needed their winter attire. Already his men were becoming sick from the unforgiving weather and lack of sleep. He needed the baggage he'd been forced to leave behind. Banastre sat in a small brick house at Monses Mill, missing Beth to distraction. Again, he regretted ever bringing Electa to join them in their bed sport. It hadn't ended the way he wanted at all and now he was at odds with his mistress, during a time when he was parted from her. It added to the misery of his situation. It ate him alive, more than the mosquitoes and other biting bugs that plagued him while riding in search of Burwell. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to hold her, to make it right, to have her near again. Beth was not what drove him to request his baggage be sent on to him, however. Of course not. His men needed their winter accoutrements, their heavy coats, blankets, anything that would keep them warm and thriving. That was why he was writing to request that the baggage be sent on to him now. Not because with the arrival of his baggage would come Beth… It was purely a military decision. It was his responsibility to supply adequate clothing for his men.
Cornwallis wanted Burwell captured, did he not?
He sanded the parchment, folded it carefully and sealed the letter. He steepled his fingers and laid his chin on top. A rare moment of quiet. It'd been nothing but gallop, cross rivers, rest horses, gallop, rain and more rain, thunder and lightening, thunder of hooves and men yelling, mud and cold. Miserable, miserable cold. And no Beth to warm him. And no bloody sign of General Burwell. He let thoughts of capturing the General fire his soul. How wonderful would it be, after his capture of Colonel Martin? He recalled how grand it'd been, back in the day, when he'd been naught but a Cornet and he'd captured General Lee. Of course, he hadn't been alone on that expedition, he hadn't even been in command. He'd been one of many but the action gave him instant stardom. Suddenly, everyone knew his name. Even the papers back home - that'd been spelling it incorrectly, finally got it right. His next greatest feat was Benjamin Martin and there, he could take all of the credit. For he was Colonel, and it was his tactics and his alone, that had made it possible. If he'd thought he'd received accolades for those accomplishments… How much more would be his, if he bought Burwell in, kicking and screaming?
Burwell could share the same cell as Martin.
Banastre was glad he'd changed his mind that night, glad he had gone to Winnsboro without Beth. She would have wanted to see her father and he would have been hard pressed to put her off. The lovely chamber and all things luxurious was a fallacy, Martin was not a pampered prisoner, he was rotting in a cell not fit to house a horse. Yes, he was pleased he hadn't taken her to Winnsboro but he dearly wished he could have bought her with him here, when he set out the other night. She would be by his side again shortly. Cornwallis could not refuse his need. For his winter accruements, of course. He was not sending his request for the purpose of having his mistress delivered up to him. He pushed away from the desk and opened the door, handing the missive to a private who would see the thing delivered. Gathering up his Officers, he made his way outside into the driving, unforgiving, unrelenting rain. There was work to be done while he searched for Burwell; recruiting, for a start. There must be Loyalists in the area who would wish to join the Dragoons, to replenish those who lacked courage and fled at the first test, and he was damned determined to find them.
When he returned to Monses quite a few hours later, there was a missive from Cornwallis. With rain dripping from his helmet and great cloak to form a pool of water on the floorboards beneath his muddy boots, he tore into the envelope and read eagerly. Yes, he could travel further west than first established. He must head off Burwell at all costs.
Beth's baggage was packed and already on one of the wagons waiting outside. The entire camp had been taken down yet again, with the orders that had come in that morning with the 7th Regiment. Tarleton's Baggage could not find its way to him without protection, Lord Cornwallis had sent the 7th Regiment to be its escort. Which had Beth walking very small indeed. She hadn't encountered any other Regiments or companies since becoming Banastre's mistress, she'd thought she'd always be sheltered within the protection of her Legion. But here was Tavington's wife, about to be escorted to her lover, by a Regiment she did not even know. Oh, she was keeping her head down, sure enough. She hoped the Commander had no reason to speak with her - just another camp follower - or so he should assume. She did not seek him out, did not try to have herself introduced. Of course, a careless tongue might waggle that Tavington's wife was travelling with Banastre Tarleton's baggage train, but then again, perhaps not. Banastre would have warned them against such, surely?
For days now, her anger with Banastre had been all consuming, all she'd needed to keep her well warmed through the long, cold hours. Now, she wished he were here. Not for the usual reasons a mistress might long for her beloved - she did not miss him, nor did she long for his touch. She wished he was here so she could ask him directly if he'd commanded his soldiers to be discreet, should any other General, Colonel or Major from another Regiment happen to call by.
The carriage would be outside, waiting for her. Would that occasion comment? Would the Commander think it strange that a fancy carriage was part of Banastre's baggage train? Would he desire to know who was the important personage riding within it? If he believed himself high enough, he might just come and introduce himself, to ensure he had someone of equal rank to talk with on the journey. Just as she thought this, lightening lit up the sky and thunder crashed overhead. The rain was so hard she could barely hear her own thoughts. No, the Commander would not idly ride beside her carriage chatting with her - not on a day like today. He would have his hands full, negotiating their travels in this terrible weather. She allowed that reasoning to give her some small relief. If he did come knocking, she'd refuse to reply. Nancy had to come in handy for something; she'd have her maid do her talking for her while she pretended to be asleep or somewhat, and they'd definitely use a different name other than Martin or Tavington. A slim disguise, one that a loose tongue in the ranks could destroy with terrible swiftness and ease. But at least she will have done her part.
She opened her little cloth portmanteaus, and packed away the last of her most personal belongings. Hair brush, sewing kit, spare gloves and the like. Lastly, she picked up the book, the Gods cursed book, and she stared at it. Whatever possessed her, to become so obsessed with it? Was it the simple fact that she'd never, ever read anything like it before, had never considered anyone would commit such words to paper? Beth shook her head, bewildered. Yes, it'd been a rarity, but why should she have found it so fascinating? Less than a year ago, she'd have been appalled to read, in such fine detail, the act of a man and woman coming together to have relations. Or a woman and a woman. She dropped the book in disgust, into her portmanteau, and snapped the bag closed. She could just leave it behind on the beside table… that was a possibility. But Lord, when it was found… She didn't like to think what her name would be then. It'd fly like wildfire through a summer dry woods, a lady of her standing reading such material. No, she'd dispose of it another way. Maybe she'd track down Mrs. Simmons among the camp followers and shake the woman until she apologised for suggesting such a book for her. That was a nice fancy.
"Are ye ready, Mrs. Tavington?" Nancy said at the door. "They's wantin' to go."
Beth nodded. Nancy darted forward and heaved the portmanteaus, then followed Beth out the door. In an effort to conceal herself, Beth kept her hood up high and her eyes peeled until she was stepping outside into the driving rain and splashing through the mud for the safe - identity hiding - confines of the four horse carriage. She needn't have bothered, she was surrounded by men from Banastre's Legion only, the commander of the other was no where to be seen. With a relieved sigh, she settled into the seat and gazed out at the curtain of rain. Would they even get far in this? Wagons and carriages - even horses - struggled in weather like this; the churned and muddy roads bogging down wheels, stopping all progress. That might happen yet, but Beth didn't particularly care. As long as she didn't have to get out of the carriage, that was fine with her. Nancy began to prattle how wet Beth's cape had gotten in that short dash, her shoes covered in mud. About having been to the kitchen and getting a basket filled with all sorts delights for her mistress. About how she longed to see her man again - she was speaking of her husband - and the wonderful reunion she would have, until Beth demanded she be quiet. She didn't want to listen about how content Nancy was with her husband. She could see Nancy had gotten the food, the basket took up half of Nancy's seat. She knew her cape and shoes were wet and muddy. She didn't need for Banastre's former whore to tell her any of it. All she wanted to do was listen to the rain driving against the roof of the carriage and stare out into the grey haze beyond the square window.
They arrived to Banastre's camp late in the afternoon; it was evening by the time she reached the house because she demanded they detour past where the Dragoons horses were picketed. Ignoring the rain - it was not quite as bad as it had been - she stepped out of the carriage and moved along the line of horses until she saw her own grey and white mare, Shadow Dancer. Relief flared inside her that the mount was safe, followed by cutting fury, that her mare was out here with nothing but a saddle blanket to protect her from the rain. Shadow Dancer was accustomed to better, she was always quartered in a stable, not out in the air under a damned tree! Beth drew a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She's a horse, Beth, she told herself. Horses are outside animals. Shadow Dancer nickered a greeting, it sounded like a question. When the horse realised it was Beth walking toward her, she began to snort and heave her head upward, hoof pawing at the ground. Her lips drew back in what Beth swore was a smile as she pulled on the lead rope, wanting to close the distance and meet Beth those last few steps. Beth laughed - her first true laugh in days - every bit as delighted to see Shadow Dancer. Not caring that her gloves would get wet and filthy, she reached up and scratched Shadow Dancer's nose and ears, fingers digging into the coat. When they had their fill of each other - Shadow Dancer was trying to lick Beth and nuzzle her - Beth immediately began running her hand over the horse, starting with the right foreleg, she lifted each leg, checking for injuries. Two soldiers stood waiting to escort her back, exchanging puzzled glances, but Beth ignored them. She did a full circle of Shadow Dancer until she was again at the horse's head, lifting her left leg to check the ankle. Which was precisely when the horse behind her decided to almost shove Beth to the ground, like a ram charging at someone's backside. Beth yelped and spun, barely keeping her footing in the slippery mud as the horse continued butting its face into her, whinnying and puffing the same excited greeting as Shadow Dancer had done.
Thunder.
Beth stared at her husband's horse, emotions she tried to keep contained rushing upward like vomit heaved into a bucket. Thunder did not sense her reluctance or shock, he kept up that battering, at her hand, as if he was urging her to pat him. His lips and teeth tried to rip a hole in the pocket of her cape. Demanding; those puffs and snorts were. Every bit as demanding as her husband. She felt something loosen inside her at the horse's welcome and his performance, she knew damned well that most people were bitten if they got too close to the brute. Thunder was happy to see her. He had no idea what was happening, why he'd been taken from the Master he loved. He seemed pleased to be with Shadow Dancer, and was just as pleased to see Beth now. He knew nothing beyond the moment. It was not his fault that his Master was such a damned bastard.
Earlier, while in the carriage, she'd cut up several apples from Nancy's basket into chunks with a small knife, on a board placed on her lap. Now, she reached into her pocket and started feeding Shadow Dancer those chunks, offering them to Thunder as well. For all his severe reputation and awful temperament, he was as gentle as a kitten as he took those pieces from her palm. She had to wave down a concerned groom, who'd come darting over, yelling not to get too close. The groom stood there staring, scratching his head as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing, as Thunder gingerly took his share of apple from Beth's hand.
"Silly man," she said as her fingers began giving Thunder the same treatment as they'd given Shadow Dancer earlier. Thunder leaned into the touch and she half expected his back leg to start working, the way a dogs does when it's scratched in just the right spot. "We're old friends, you and I. He doesn't know you'd never hurt me. Oh you're just so beautiful, aren't you boy? Are you looking after our girl, are you?" She continued speaking nonsense, to Shadow Dancer too, while the last of the sun began to disappear, giving way to twilight. In the last of the darkness, she saw the two horses turn to one another and begin nuzzling. They pressed into one another, Shadow Dancer pushing her snout up beneath Thunder's. They appeared to be disdaining the company of the other horses, now that they were back together.
Beth noticed this and unable to help herself, she began to cry. Great. Just wonderful. She must've looked a sight, standing there weeping for no apparent reason. But she was pregnant and emotion was flooding through her and Shadow Dancer was her horse and Thunder was William's horse and here they were, acting like a happily married couple and it just made her eyes burn and the tears flow and it was impossible to stop herself. By the Gods it was a mad thing to weep over, but there it was.
Her escort didn't seem to notice after all, for when she joined them, neither said a word. They fell in behind her and she led them back to the carriage. It was darker within than it was without, and she kept her hood pulled high - Nancy didn't even notice her mistress was crying like a foolish, idiot child. By the time they reached the house, a good half hour later, her eyes were dry. She hoped they weren't puffy or red, for it was sure to be quite light inside the house and everyone within would be able to see she'd been weeping. The carriage pulled to a stop and Banastre himself threw the door open wide, not content to wait on his men to bring her into the house. A fellow stood at his side, holding a lantern high. Banastre wore that huge smile that she'd used to relish, but now it just fell flat on her.
"Mrs. Tavington!" He cried, reaching for her as if he was about to pick her up and lift her from the carriage. She stood, stepping forward and then down. He bowed over her hand. "Please say you're not still wroth with me, my love," he whispered. He sounded so solemn now, so utterly downcast, as if he'd been worrying that very thing for days and absolutely could not bear it. She sighed, letting herself ease back from fury.
"I'm not still angry," she said. She wasn't completely happy, either, but in that moment - hearing his despair - her anger did fade and disappear, leaving her feeling oddly numb. After declaring what a sweet relief it was that they were back to normal again, he told her dinner was waiting for her. He sent Nancy away to be with her husband for the night, and led Beth up into the small house, leaving his men to bring in her belongings. Much later, after a few glasses of wine and a very quiet dinner, Beth found herself in Banastre's small room. She had her own, as part of their agreement - she would always have her own tent and her own chamber. But it was to his chamber that he took her too. It wasn't a massive plantation house, but the room was nicely warmed and the bed looked comfortable enough. A bit on the narrow side, but wider than the cots in their tents. He had part way undressed her already - seeing to the task himself after having sent Nancy away. He stood behind her and unlaced her stays, being playful and flirty by kissing her neck and whispering sweet things. He pulled the stays away and his hands went immediately to her bosom over her shift, one hand cupping each breast. She laughed despite herself.
"There we are," he said, turning her to face him. "You were so quiet at dinner… I believe you told me a wee falsehood earlier, sweet Beth," he said, pulling her closer.
"Oh? What was that?"
"That you weren't still angry. You barely said a word… I think it's only just now that you've stopped being wroth."
"I'm just…" How to explain? Should she bother? Bringing that woman into their bed… No, she'd said her piece, he knew her stance and she doubted he'd ever do any such thing ever again. No point in discussing it further. It was all resolved, was it not? She gave a small shrug, still feeling numb in a way she could never describe to him. He'd think she was mad. "I'm just tired," she said instead. "Pregnant and tired."
"Of course you are! I'm a dolt," he said. Then he leaned down and his hands moved from her breasts to the small swell of her stomach. "How is my little baby?" He asked her.
"I've had a few pains lately," she said, placing a hand over her stomach. "But I'm certain everything is fine."
"Perhaps I should send for a doctor?"
"I don't think it's needed," she replied.
Banastre rose, standing before her, he cupped her face and they began kissing, Banastre oblivious to her conflict and Beth trying to dampen it down. He was almost undressed already, he wore only his breeches and his auburn hair hung in lengths over his shoulder and down his back. Beth's hung the same, only far longer. He drew back, smiling warmly, if a little weakly. She had the feeling he wanted to ask her or tell her something, but he seemed almost reluctant. His fingers caressed up and down her sides, he caught his bottom lip between this teeth for a moment, then he finally asked, "would you like to read some from the book tonight, love?"
"No," she said immediately, no hesitation whatsoever, no hemming and hawing. Firm, decisive. Most certainly not. "I don't feel like it. I'd rather we just… talked."
"Oh," he looked startled. She had spoken but two words at dinner and now she wanted to talk? When they were both almost naked and about to climb into bed..? "Alright," he drew out slowly. "What about?"
"I don't know. Anything. About what we've been doing these days we've been apart. About what's happening in the real world - anything. Have you heard news of my father? My brothers? What's the situation out there, are the men still sick in Cornwallis's camp? There's so much to talk about…"
All subjects we could have discussed at dinner, he thought but did not say as he kept his face smooth of sudden frustration and despair. Worry flared up inside him, Beth was not angry anymore which was wonderful, but he sensed that book was still causing trouble between them. Had they come to the end of it then? Would there be no more wondrous, exciting nights of her reading scenes to him as they wrapped around one another, sweaty, clinging, giving one another the most titillating pleasures, the most magnificent orgasms? The strength of his lately had been phenomenal, since the book came to them. Was that all over with now? Would they sit there on the bed and do nothing but talk, now? Good God, this was not what he wanted. Still, he patted the edge of the bed and as she sat beside him, he pulled a blanket around them both and huddled in close to her. Talk. Very well. He began by telling her of Cornwallis' situation, as he didn't want to discuss her father. Sickness was rife in the battalions. The doctors were ill, the regulars, half the officers, Cornwallis himself. In a few days, Cornwallis would move out of Winnsboro, sick or not, because he could not risk being caught there by General Greene and General Burwell, who appeared to be encroaching forward to pincer him there. They would form their own pincer, he told her, with Cornwallis bearing down on Burwell one way, Banastre the other, until they were able to trap him and take him prisoner. That was the latest from Cornwallis, in a letter which arrived that very afternoon. Beth listened gravely, she seemed to be quite serious about chatting with him, despite his arm being around her shoulders, despite the fingers of his other hand exploring her breasts and stomach while he spoke. Lord, this can't be the end. No more Fanny Hill. No. He wouldn't let it be. Beth would come around, she just needed a few days. She would still want to know how the story ended, she'd want to know what became of Fanny Hill. She just needed time, he assured himself. "The weather is playing havoc with our plans, however," he said. "But, it would be playing havoc with Burwell's as well, he's as hampered as we are. I finally received word of his camp, it's up near a small frontier settlement called Grindal Shoals -"
"Grindal Shoals!" Beth gasped, her hand over her mouth. "That's…" she trailed off as she thought of Harmony Farshaw. For a moment there, she'd felt such a rush of excitement and longing for her friend, just because Harmony had grown up near Grindal Shoals. That stab of longing… Where had that come from? She hardened herself, she could not afford to be sentimental, not any longer. Harmony betrayed her, she'd helped Linda and William to have their affair. She could not let herself be drawn in again. Banastre was looking at her, waiting. "Harmony's parents live there," she finished, her voice dulling. "They own a small farm."
"Is that so?" Harmony Farshaw. The wench who got away. He still couldn't quite believe it of her, a woman who clearly enjoyed men and coupling, but would be so utterly faithful to Bordon. To Bordon, of all people! He gave a great sniff of disdain. He liked Bordon well enough, but he could not equal Banastre for charm. His own wife came to Banastre's bed - while Bordon's mistress remained faithful. Huh. Passing strange, that. "Her father might be playing host to Burwell as we speak, then. The enemy will be doing much the same as we, taking up accommodation they can find, wherever they find it."
"Wouldn't that be strange?" Beth said. "It's such a small world, everything keeps coming back around full circle. You know, I never thought to ask what her father's allegiance is. Calvin Farshaw is a Patriot, but Harmony is… Actually I don't even know what Harmony is. Her allegiance might only be to…" another name she couldn't bring herself to say. Bordon. She heaved a sigh. "So what is Cornwallis planning, how will he - what was the word you used, pincer? How will he get Burwell into a pincer?"
"Cornwallis will need to leave Winnsboro, he plans on making camp at Turkey Creek while I begin an advance toward Grindal Shoals from here."
Beth groaned. "I only just got here," she said. "When are we leaving?"
"Oh, we have a few days," he assured her. "Cornwallis proposed I begin moving out next Tuesday, so we've got what - three days? Yes, three days. I'll be gone for much of the day, recruiting has been quite good in this area. But we'll have our nights," he brushed her hair over her ear and kissed her temple. "Cornwallis is in quite a quandary. He needs to leave Winnsboro, he can't risk being backed into a corner there by Burwell and Greene But leaving means he might very well be opening South Carolina to attack by Greene's force if Winnsboro is empty… we need to subdue Burwell's force and quickly, or we'll be leaving Cornwallis' flanks open to constant attacks from Burwell's rebels. We could go directly after Greene and meet him head on, but that leaves Burwell and his eight hundred strong force," he emphasized, "free rein to come down from Grindal Shoals and take Fort Ninety-Six - I was about to leave here for Ninety-Six today, but I received word that Burwell is not heading there. That could change abruptly if the way remains open to him. Cornwallis has no choice, I believe, but to split the army. He'll leave a force in Camden and Charlestown in an effort to keep the rebels in check. And although your father has been captured, his men are still quite active. Cornwallis and I will work together to capture Burwell, and then together, we will go into North Carolina to meet head on with Greene head on."
"North Carolina," she repeated. "What of my father, Ban? Will Cornwallis take his prisoners with him?"
"I, ah… I will send a letter to find out for you," he replied. "I am not sure. The letters I've received thus far only speak of Burwell and Greene. He's quite passionate about the two. 'Catch him and wipe him out'. Was what he wrote in his last missive."
Beth stared at Ban in shock - her former fiancé, to be 'caught and wiped out' by her current lover. She was beginning to regret her request that they just talk. It was all making her feel quite ill. She wracked her brains, trying to think of something more light-hearted that they could talk about, but it was a time of war in atrocious weather, what else was there to be discussed? She was far from home, she had no idea what was happening in the city, and Banastre wouldn't know half the people she was talking about anyway, even if she did have news of them. She had no news from her friends, the ones Banastre did know. She hadn't been to a ball in months, no point in discussing a party from half a year ago. The weather was awful, no sun and warmth and bright flowers to ooh and ahh over. There was nothing in the past or present to speak of, that wouldn't leave her feeling more wretched than she did now.
The future, then? She looked down the long road to North Carolina and beyond, the road that would eventually lead her to being Banastre's kept mistress in some village or town in England. Probably London, seeing that he liked it so much. They could talk about that, but the mood she was in, at the moment, that road only led to darkness. What would it be like in London for a woman on her own, raising a child that might be a bastard? Banastre would be with her, she wouldn't be alone. So what would it be like in London for Banastre's mistress, raising a child that might be a bastard? What would it be like for her child? Bastard or not. Dark thoughts indeed. She was quiet for too long, she looked to Banastre, trying to think of something to say, but he saved her the trouble by leaning in and kissing her. Not a small, simple kiss, but a deep one, he was kissing her in such a way, as though he was letting her know he was done with talking. Considering the subject matter, well, so was she. She let him guide her back onto the bed, her arms around his shoulders, his pulling her shift up her legs. She was content enough by now to let it happen, she'd known they'd couple at some point.
Now was as good a time as any, as long as he didn't mention that damned book again…
Why Banastre had sent for Mrs. Garland, Beth could not fathom. She never should have mentioned the pains she'd been having, which Beth had put down to constant travel. She knew the baby was fine, but Banastre was worried and he did not like the idea of Nancy, who was only seventeen and had never had a child, being Beth's only advisor regarding her pregnancy.
Mrs. Garland - a camp follower whose sons had died early on, though she herself had stayed with the camp to help - was also a midwife. Banastre had sent for her first thing in the morning and now, Beth stood in nothing but her shift, describing to the older woman what she had been experiencing.
"The pain is gone, it was just a few pangs and only lasted a few minutes. The baby is fine," Beth said.
"It's the eighth of January. When were your last courses?" Mrs. Garland asked.
"Around the twentieth of September," she replied.
"Which means you could be…" Mrs. Garland closed her eyes, she appeared to be counting. "Three and a half to four months along."
"Does it matter, how far along?"
"It does," Mrs. Garland replied, "you will need to judge when you should begin your lay in, which is usually around seven months."
"Oh. Well, I do not think I was with child until after seventeenth October," she said, not quite looking Mrs. Garland in the eye.
"Why is that?" Mrs. Garland asked.
"Because… that is when…" her face blazed crimson. That was when she began bedding Banastre again.
"I see," Mrs. Garland seemed to understand. She nodded. "If that is so, then you will be," she closed her eyes again, again calculating silently. "Three months," she said. "Are you certain there is no possibility that you might have conceived sooner?" Mrs. Garland asked gently, her eyes dropping to the roundness under Beth's clothes.
"No," Beth said shortly. She sighed, then added, "it is doubtful. My husband and I… we were… well, I got my menses each month around the twentieth, even after marrying him. I left on tenth October. I do not believe I was with child when I left… Fresh Water."
"Fresh Water. Is that your husband's home?" Mrs. Garland asked conversationally. She pulled up a chair and sat down.
"It's my father's home," she replied. "Though Sir Clinton granted it to Colonel Tavington, because my father is a rebel and so the Plantation was seized… It is William's now," she said, her entire body tensing with fury.
"I see," Mrs. Garland said. "Won't you sit, Mrs. Tavington?" She asked, and Beth loosened her muscles in order to move to seat herself across from the other woman. Nancy was sitting in a far corner, watching curiously, on hand in case the women needed anything. "Do you believe your husband can not conceive children?"
"No, I know he can," Beth said, staring at her hands in her lap.
"Ah. Well, Mrs. Tavington, I am not sure how you will feel about hearing this, but your child could very well be Colonel Tavington's. That he did not get a child on you in that short time, does not mean he could not have done, after your last menses. There was must have been a good two weeks after your courses finished, before you left. You did bed him before you left?"
"Yes, I did," she said reluctantly, adding all in a rush, "Colonel Tarleton is certain the child is his."
"He can be as certain as he likes," Mrs. Garland said. "It doesn't make it so."
"Why are you saying this?" Beth asked, voice sharp.
"Because, Mrs. Tavington, I can see the shape of your stomach under your clothes and I believe you could be further along than the three months you've been in Colonel Tarleton's bed."
"Pardon?" Beth breathed, shock crawling up her spine.
"I won't know for certain until I've asked you a few more questions and examined you - it could be the bulk of your clothes, it makes it hard to judge."
"What questions?" Beth asked softly, feeling quite frightened.
"Aside from the pains you told me about - those pangs - have you been feeling any other sensations in your stomach?"
"Yes, I… a few weeks ago, I started to feel some flutterings inside my stomach, like butterfly wings." Beth said, trying to describe it to the midwife. "They've gotten stronger over the last few weeks. I thought it was just..." she paused, not wanting to tell Mrs. Garland - a woman she did not trust - about her recent troubles with Banastre. "Nerves," she finished. "You know, all the travelling taking its toll and the like."
"It is not nerves, Mrs. Tavington," the stout woman replied. "You have begun to feel the babies movements."
Beth drew in a sharp breath, both her hands flew to her mouth and unaccountably, she felt she would begin to cry. Nancy bobbed up and down on her toes with excitement. "Are you certain?" She gasped behind her fingers, her eyes filling. "It's my baby? But I thought… the way my mother described it, the feeling is more like being kicked from the inside!"
"Yes, later it will be. But not this early on. Initially, it starts just the way you described - like butterflies whirling around in your stomach with the feeling getting stronger with each passing week. It's the baby, Mrs. Tavington."
"It's the baby," Beth breathed with wonder, as she placed her hand over her stomach. She smiled and a tear slid down her cheek. "I can feel my baby moving."
"Yes. As wonderful as that is for mother's - especially new mother's such as yourself - it is especially important information for midwife's. I now know for certain that the child is well, despite all this travel," the midwife continued. "And now I will have a decent measure the child's continued well being, with each passing day. You will need to keep track of the movements. Not every time you feel a flutter of course, but send for me immediately if you don't feel it for several hours." Mrs. Garland continued to give her instructions and advice, with Beth trying to listen and take it all in. She could feel her baby moving! Even now, it was fluttering around in there like a little bird with wings outstretched. How marvellous! She couldn't wait to tell Banastre.
"Would you please stand, Mrs. Tavington?" Mrs. Garland asked. "If you don't mind, I'd like to take a look at your stomach. Miss Nancy can help you undress down to your shift - remove your stays and skirt, but leave your petticoats on. Pull your shift out, so it can be lifted and I can see your stomach without seeing anything I shouldn't." As Mrs. Garland instructed, Nancy helped Beth disrobe until Beth was standing with her inner petticoats pulled down below her stomach, and her shift lifted up to bunch up beneath her breasts. She gazed down at the roundness of her stomach fondly. Mrs. Garland warmed her hands over the fire before approaching. "Will it hurt?" Beth asked her, a little worried.
"Not at all," Mrs. Garland replied. She knelt down in front of Beth. "I'm just going to feel your stomach gently, and then I'll run a measuring tape over your stomach to get an idea of size and determine just how far along you are."
Beth swallowed hard, recalling what the woman had said earlier about the roundness of her stomach. Her clothes might have made her appear further along than she was, but now she was bared to the midwife and she would soon know for certain. Mrs. Garlands warm hands moved over Beth's stomach, pressing gently all around.
"Can you feel her moving now?" Mrs. Garland asked and Beth nodded. "Where?" Beth gestured to the side of the swell and Mrs. Garland placed her hand there and pushed down gently. She held her hand there for some time, before nodding. "I think I can feel her move, but I'm not entirely certain. I'll do the measurements now, the tape is a little cold I'm afraid."
Beth stood still as the cold tape was positioned above and over the swell, down to her pubis. She tried not to move but it was quite uncomfortable, having the woman's hand so close to her sex. Especially after that horrid encounter with Electa Alden. Mrs. Garland made a clucking noise, she lifted the tape, straightened it, and did the measurement again.
"Is something amiss?"
"Mrs. Tavington," Mrs. Garland gazed up at her. Nancy stool at Beth's side, helping to hold her shift up. "You said you last had your courses from twentieth September?"
"Yes," Beth frowned.
"I've been a midwife for many, many years," the older woman said. "I've birthed countless children, I've helped countless women through their pregnancies. I have kept ledgers of so many details - from when women start to feel the baby move, to when others feel it. From the date of the last menses to the beginning of labour, and the stomach measurements in between. I have found that while every pregnancy is different, many things remain the same. I have also found that this," she shook the tape, "is a quite reliable measurement to determine how far along a woman is. This, is a woman at three months," she held the tape straight out, her thumb and forefinger crinkling it at the twelve centimetre mark. Beth breathed out slowly, that length would not stretch across her stomach, she could see that without needing Mrs. Garland to try. "This is a woman at four months," her fingers slid along the tape, allowing more slack and stopping at sixteen centimetres. Beth began to grow cold. "And this," Mrs. Garland said, "is a woman at five months." Her fingers slid along again, to twenty centimetres. Mrs. Garland, holding that length out, placed it over the swell of Beth's stomach again, from the top down to her pubis. It measured perfectly. Beth met Mrs. Garland's eyes, barely daring to breathe. The midwife's voice was gentle. "You are five months along, Mrs. Tavington and not a day less."
"Oh my God," Beth finally breathed.
"Which means you conceive sometime in late August or early September."
"Impossible," Beth whispered. "I had my courses in September."
"I have occasionally observed that some women have their courses, even though they are indeed pregnant. I believe that happened to you. You were already pregnant, there is not a doubt in my bones. But if you need further convincing, I can tell you with absolute certainty that in most cases, I should not be able to feel a baby move until around six months. I am sure that I felt yours just now, which confirms it as far as I am concerned. You are not a day less than five months pregnant. Therefore, it was your husband who had the siring of this child."
It was like a splash of cold water in Beth's face.
"You said you don't know for certain if you could feel it," Beth whispered.
"Very well, let us entertain the idea that I have my calculations wrong," Mrs. Garland said, as if that could not possibly be the case. "You said you have been feeling this child move within you for a few weeks now, and that it has gotten stronger with each passing day. Mrs. Tavington, most women do not start feeling their child move within their bodies until four and a half months, at the earliest. If this child was sired by Colonel Tarleton, you would not feel it move for another month and a half, at least. And the measurement I took, it would be here," she held out the tape again, her finger and thumb stopping at the fourteen centimetre mark. She placed that over Beth's stomach to prove it, and it only stretched three quarters along the swell. I do not say this to distress you, though I can see that it has. Why don't you take a seat?" Mrs. Garland said and Beth sat. "Nancy, help me tidy, will you?" Mrs. Garland said. She continued to chat as she worked to tidy. "That is to the good, Mrs. Tavington. When I first saw you, I thought you were even further along and I feared you'd be giving birth in July, during the hottest and most sickly months. But yours will be born late in May or early June, which is far more comfortable. For the newborn, also - it will be warm at night when she wakes for her feeding…" Mrs. Garland's words faded into the background as Beth sat there, reeling. Mrs. Garland was absolutely certain; Beth was five months along.
William's baby, then.
Sweet Lord above. Even if Mrs. Garland was off by a month - and Beth doubted the woman would be - it would put Beth at four months and William would still be the father. Gods. She was caught between joy at finally knowing for certain who fathered her child - a thing that had bothered her since she discovered her pregnancy - and absolute despair that Banastre was not the father. Would he stick by her still? Sweet Lord, how much would change now, would his promises still hold? She sat, pale faced, feeling suddenly faint.
"This information will not leave this room," she said to Mrs. Garland and Nancy, her voice suddenly iron. Both women turned to her, startled. "I will tell this to the Colonel in my own time, in my own way. I will not have this gossiped about, it will not become general knowledge. Do I make myself clear?" Mrs. Garland was astonished and Nancy shuddered at the finality in Beth's voice. They did not look puzzled, they both knew that the sire of Beth's baby was finally confirmed and that it would likely cause trouble between Banastre and his mistress.
"I've never particularly liked gossips myself," Mrs. Garland said. "Nancy?"
"No. I won't say nothin'," the younger woman said. Beth stifled a snort, neither woman could be trusted.
Dear God, she thought, feeling the strong need to lay down. William is the father. How in the world will I break this to Banastre?
"I have not yet heard," Banastre was saying to Whitty, both stood in the doorway, water dripping from their great cloaks to pool on the floor. "For now, the plan still holds, we shall ride out from here in a few days."
"The weather is prohibitive," Whitty said. "All this rain, we'll be hard pressed to cross the rivers or even move through the woods. The wagons will be even more troublesome."
"Lord Cornwallis shares our difficulties," Banastre replied. "And our frustrations. His situation is worse than ours, with so many soldiers sick in the battalion. He will not wait much longer however - General Greene is coming, he is going to join with Burwell if we do not stop him. If those two are allowed to come together, they will be formidable indeed. The plan holds - Lord Cornwallis will bring up the battalion up between Greene and Burwell, and we will chase Burwell away as best we can."
Oh, God, will you just stop? Beth sat at the small table, her head in her hands, impatient for Whitty to leave. Banastre had just returned, finally - she had had to hold on to her news all day and now finally she must break it to him, but she could not for they were standing there, dripping in the doorway, talking about Cornwallis. She just wanted Whitty to leave - all day, she'd been carrying this burden, now it seemed she would carry it still, until their damned conversation was over.
"I just fear that we won't get very far," Whitty said and Beth felt like groaning. He'd said this already! "Not with these constant storms. We were hard pressed just to do a spot of recruiting."
"Which reminds me, see that the new recruits settle in, will you?" Banastre said and Beth lifted her head hopefully - that sounded like a dismissal. Was it a dismal? "And get something warm to eat." Yes, finally! It was!, she thought. It was! Whitty doffed his hat to her, water streamed down from the brim, he stepped into the driving curtain of rain outside. Banastre closed the door, they were alone now in their small house at Monses Mill. Beth leapt to her feet to help him with his great cloak, she hung it on a hook by the fire while he pulled off his sodden boots. "Did you have a good day?" He asked her. She turned toward him with a faltering smile.
"Better than yours I think," she replied. "Or dryer, at least."
"And warmer," he shuddered within his green woollen jacket. "It's freezing out there." He caught her hand as she passed him and he pulled her close, his cold wet lips catching her cheek. She recoiled as he meant her to and he laughed softly. "See? Cold…"
"Your word was sufficient enough to convince me, there was no need for a demonstration," she said. "Are you hungry? Mrs. Garland made rabbit stew and dumplings."
"Starving. Utterly and completely - there is a hole right here, I feel as though my stomach is eating itself," he pointed to his midsection.
"Poor Ban," she laughed. She waved her hand, gesturing him to take a seat at the table, while she ladled a healthy portion of the stew into a wooden bowl, taking care to scoop several chunks of rabbit and quite a few dumplings. The stew was tasty and, as it was sitting in a kettle over the flames, it was piping hot. Just what a man needed on a stormy night when he'd been out riding all day long and had returned to receive what was sure to be a devastating blow. She set it before him, handed him a spoon and knife, then sat opposite him.
"You're not eating?" He asked as he began stirring the stew with the spoon.
"I had some earlier," she replied. He was settled and warm with a bowl in front of him - now was the time to deliver the unhappy news. But for all her earlier impatience, she found she baulked now. Gods, he'd just arrived home after recruiting all day long in a storm, should she really burden him with this now? He was tired, hungry, still wet and cold… She swallowed hard, uncertain what she should do. Her heart pounded, she hadn't realised she would become so damned nervous… Of course, she'd known it would be hard; imparting unwanted news always is. But she was actually frightened to tell him. That was a surprise. He was chatting to her now, telling her of his day around chunks of rabbit, which he just about swallowed whole he was so hungry. She paid him half a mind while fretting over her dilemma. When was the perfect time to tell her lover that he was not the father of her child?
Of course she was scared. Why shouldn't she be? She was truly entering the unknown now - she had no idea if his promises would hold when he was finally confronted with the hard truth. How many times had he tried to reassure her, that he would raise William's child as if it were his own? But how many times had he knelt before her, or laid beside her, his hand on the swollen arch of her stomach, whispering his hope that he - or she - would have his auburn hair and brown eyes. He wanted it to be his - desperately. And now she was about to tell him it wasn't…
"…And the water was rushing so fast, the current so swift that if we crossed it then, we surely would have drowned," he was saying. "We'll have to try across the river for recruits when the rain stops a bit. We'll be here for a few days yet, there's time, yet."
There's time yet…
Don't be such a coward.
"We're sure to do well - this country is teeming with Loyalists. They just need for me to find them," Banastre said. "And when I do, they'll -"
"Banastre, the baby is William's," Beth interrupted, unable to hold it in any longer. He froze, the next spoonful halfway to his open mouth. He stared at her, slowly closing his lips and lowering the spoon. Had he had enough to eat? Perhaps she should have waited that long - how selfish of her. How thoughtless. Her need to offload her unhappy news should not have outweighed his hunger. He needed sustenance but what she was telling him was sure to drive his hunger away. Should have waited - just a few minutes longer. "I'm so sorry," she said, for not waiting for the baby not being his. She'd truly wanted it to be Banastre's, so they would have something to truly connect them, seeing that they'd never have marriage. "Mrs. Garland told me this morning," Beth said weakly.
"How could she possibly know?" He asked, the spoon falling to the table with a clatter.
"She just… knows. She's been a midwife a long time - she felt my stomach and she measured it… she asked when I started feeling movements and how strong they are now, and all of it amounts to me being five months along. She said four months at the very least, though she highly doubts it. Either way, Ban - four months or five - the child has to be William's. I was with child when I left him."
Banastre shook his head, as if denying this news. He lurched backward, shoving the chair back as he rose; he did a full circuit of the room, back stiff, lips tight. He returned to her side, his face bloodless.
"But you don't really know that," he said. "What you're feeling, when you started feeling it… It seems quite a… a… wishy-washy way to measure such things. You don't even know if it's the baby moving, Beth. You might have indigestion."
Beth laughed despite herself, though she knew he was deadly serious. He was not amused in the slightest. But to mistake movements as indigestion? Only a man could suggest such a thing, seeing that they'd only experience one of those and never the other. She sobered, this was not a laughing matter - her brief flare of amusement fleeing.
"I wish I could agree," she said solemnly. "Ban, what I'm feeling, it's so hard to describe. I didn't even know I was feeling it at first, but it definitely started weeks ago. It was like… little flickers here and there. Mrs. Garland is certain that I would have been close to four months when those started. Now, it more like butterflies fluttering around all over, constantly, the feeling is far stronger and occurs far more often, which means the baby is much bigger now. For it to be yours, Ban, I'd be three months along. I don't think she would mistake four or five months of pregnancy for three months."
"Impossible," he shook his head, he appeared as though he were about to attack her with a new argument as to why it was impossible, but she could not allow him to delude himself any longer. He needed to accept this truth, even if it meant he'd leave her because of it.
"You're right, there's no real way of knowing. Stomach movements - a wishy-washy way of determining how far along I might be. But coupled with the measurements and with her feeling the baby move beneath her own hand… Ban, Mrs. Garland is in no doubt, I am absolutely no less than four and a half months pregnant, at the very least. Which means -"
"You were pregnant when you left him," Banastre whispered, eyes wide and horrified. Beth lowered hers, she dropped her hands to her lap, uncertain what to say now. He ran his fingers over his hair, raking it back, messing his already messy queue. He moved in a wooden sort of way, like one walking to his own execution, he dropped into the chair opposite her. Instead of returning to his meal, he shoved his bowl away and dropped his head to his hands, elbows on the table. Beth reached out and stroked his hair back.
"I'm so sorry, Ban," she said softly. He did not say a word, but he didn't pull away. That was something at least. A heavy banging on the door made them both jump, Banastre's hands sprang from his head and he jerked up, looking wretched.
"Come!" He called, and the door was shoved open, Lieutenant Lyons. Walked toward him. Beth recognised him, he was the head of the small unit which handled all the correspondence coming into the camp.
"From Lord Cornwallis, Sir," he handed the letter over, it was remarkably dry, even though everything else about the fellow was sodden. Banastre took it, he read it through quickly.
"Send for Captain Whitty," he said, rising. As Beth watched, he began pulling on his boots and his green jacket. His great cloak hadn't had a chance to stop dripping let alone actually dry, but he pulled that on, also.
"What is it, Ban?" She asked, rising also. He picked up his helmet, fingers running through the wet plume.
"He is breaking camp," he replied, not quite looking her in the eye. "He has said we are to move out immediately."
"But, you said we'd be here for days!" Beth cried, stunned.
"Not now," he said, voice ringing command. "I am leaving - you will travel with the baggage train as always, perhaps I will see you when we stop tonight, if the baggage catches up."
"Banastre," she said, reaching for his arm as he turned to the door. "We have so much to discuss -"
"No time," he said, shrugging her off.
"Well…" She said miserably. "At least finish your stew. You'll need your strength."
He glanced at the bowl and shuddered as if he might be sick. "My appetite is gone." He said, he put the helmet on, then closed the door behind him.
He returned a few minutes later, Beth was pulling dirty clothes from his saddle bags and folding in a new shirt and breeches.
"I'll have Officers here shortly, we don't have long to discuss this," he said without preamble. Beth straightened, stretching, knuckling the small place in her back that was hurting. His boots thudded the floorboards as he came to stand before her. "I need some reassurance from you."
"And I from you," she said, cocking her head. Such as, would he keep his promise, would he raise the child as his own? Would he provide for them both, would he love them both? The questions burned inside her. "But you go first," she said, giving him the field.
"I need to know that you will not go rushing back to William, if you believe him to be the father," he said, lifting his chin, his jaw set tight.
"Oh, Ban, is that what's bothering you?"
"So much about this bothers me," his fists were curled at his sides, "but that is a concern, yes."
"A foolish one," she cupped his face with her fingers, his cheeks were wet and cold, her hands dry and warm. He leaned into her touch. "Even if I could, I wouldn't. He is with her, remember? But even if he wasn't, I am not going to return to William, not for any reason, ever." He blew out a relieved breath and put his arms around her, gingerly for his coat was soaking wet. When he drew back, she could see by his face that he was still troubled. "What are your other concerns?"
"I wanted the child to be mine," he said. "But it's William's. It'll always be William's. His son. Or his daughter. Never mine."
Beth felt her blood run cold. Trying to keep her voice light, she said, "you promised it would make no difference. That you would love it as if it were your own."
"That was when I thought the child was mine. How was I to know how I'd react, when confronted with the opposite?"
"But… You said… you and William were friends, once. You said you would have raised his child, had William died in battle or the like."
"But William is very much alive, isn't he?" Banastre asked.
"What does that mean?" She asked, fearing lancing through her. Would she be raising this child alone after all?
"Nothing - it's just that I thought it was mine, I wanted it to be mine. Damn it Beth, are you absolutely certain it's not?"
"Mrs. Garland is certain," she said and after having time to think about it, she was certain as well.
She had been unhinged when she left Fresh Water, so filled with rage over William and Linda - and rightly so, he was having an affair with her all along! - But her rage had been more than she'd ever felt, it'd been a palpable thing, she'd felt entirely out of control, her emotions amplified tenfold. And now she understood that her pregnancy had as much to do with her wild behaviour, as discovering her husband's affair did.
"I'm so sorry, Ban," she laid her hand on his face. "I knew this wouldn't be easy for you. I wish the child was yours, I truly do." At the same time as being pleased it was not a bastard… it was strange to be sorrowful over the one, while be relieved by the other. He rested his forehead against hers, she could feel how deeply hurt he was - it was alright for her, she was the child's mother - she would never have to go through what he was going through. All she could do was comfort him and give reassurance. Recalling her own worries, she said, "Banastre, if that was your worry, that I wouldn't go running back to him, then that must mean you still want me to be with you -"
"Of course I do," he frowned fiercely.
"Well, I have given you my reassurance, I have no intention of leaving you for William. Ever. I need you to reassure me, now. You promised you'd -"
The door was shoved open, cutting her off abruptly as Officers began filing in, none even bothering to knock. Banastre stepped away from her and became Commander again, delivering orders like the Colonel he was. Time was of the essence, Banastre appeared to become so caught up in all he was and all that he needed to do, that as the Officers began filing out, he followed them out the door and into the driving rain.
"Ban!" Beth cried from the chamber, rushing into the hall to the door. He turned to her, rain already sleeting across his face.
"Oh, I'm sorry love," he said in a distracted sort of way as he leaned forward to kiss her cheek. As if that was what she'd called him back for! It was too late to correct him, he was running into the grey afternoon, dangling saddlebags bouncing against his leg.
He had his reassurance, but she did not have hers. Nothing was settled. If anything, she was more uncertain. He'd voiced the exact concerns that she herself had. If the child wasn't his, would he still raise it? Even he was doubt it, or at least feeling confused over it. He had left, and he had given her nothing. All she had was the ability to reason, and she sat down now, and tried to reason. His first worry had been that she would flee back to William, which gave her some solace - he still wanted her, at least. She placed her hand over her stomach as she leaned back in the chair. But did he want the baby? He couldn't have one without the other… But that didn't mean he would love it, as he'd promised he would. "I wanted the child to be mine. But it's William's. It'll always be William's. His son. Or his daughter. Never mine." Gods, what did that mean? When a knock came on the door followed by soldiers, Beth rose heavily and stood in a corner, letting them upstairs to do the work of packing hers and the rest of Banastre's belongings.