Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Patriot. This is a work of fanfiction and I am quite obviously making no money from it. And this is my last disclaimer on the subject. I'm tired of writing them.
Chapter 16: Lady in Waiting
A pleasant diversion, Tavington reflected. While he had thought the Lord General's plans for diplomacy and high strategy a waste of time, the visit to Charlestown had been personally useful to him. He had largely made peace with Jane. She was still unhappy with her living arrangements, but had submitted to his decision. She seemed to have accepted him on an essential physical level. Certainly, she was as anxious as he that the marriage prosper, and yet she still seemed to suspect him of planning to abscond with her fortune. The very morning of his departure, she sat on their bed and blurted out her fears to him one last time.
"Do you promise that you'll come back for me? Do you promise?"
"Heavens, Jane, what passion! Yes, of course I'll return." With a theatrical flourish he pressed his hand to his heart. "I promise. There now, are you satisfied?"
"You had better come back," she growled, as if he had not spoken, "You had better come back, or I swear before God that I'll hunt you down. You'll never escape me. I'll hunt you down, and —"
Astonished at her, he forced a laugh and kissed her farewell. He had not planned on marrying a young woman of such strong feeling, but decided that it was not the worst thing in the world, after all. It certainly made her a more satisfactory bedmate.
The soldiers made their way north, and then went their separate ways. Tarleton traveled toward North Carolina; Tavington himself accompanied the Lord General to the central swamplands of the colony, where the Ghost operated. He had his work before him there: work which was in its way as satisfying as educating a virgin bride.
Jane was not so well satisfied. She was again left to her father and her stepmother, and all the household cares that had formerly seemed important were revealed now to be drudge's work. Letty moved back into Jane's room, and resumed her music lessons. It was odd to share her room with another girl instead of a demanding, alarming, and exciting male person, but it was quiet and restful, and pleasant in its own way.
And yet, she could hardly say that it was as if he had never been there, for Jane was very conscious of the lack of him, especially when she lay down to sleep at night. He was such an overwhelming presence, and she had begun to find his strange ideas of pleasure rather –addictive. It had been wrong to resist these feelings as she sometimes had. One day she found some folded handkerchiefs he had left behind, and breathed in his scent from them. It made her feel quite---how to describe it?—quite warm.
Three days after his departure, she had a surprise which distracted her from these reflections.
When Davus told her she had a letter, she wondered why her husband was writing to her so soon. But the letter, it transpired, was not from her husband.
"Oh, Letty!" she cried, recognizing the handwriting at once. "It is from Miss Gilpin!"
Letty sat on her little bed, while Jane went to her dressing table and found her opener to break the wax seal. She pried it off gently, for the letter was fairly weather-beaten. Glancing over the contents, she smiled, and turned to tell Letty about it.
"The voyage was dreadful, and the journey by post coach very tiring, but she is safely in England." Jane laughed at the next part. "She was very surprised to see how much older her brother was, and he felt just the same about her. Her nieces are sweet, delightful girls, and she is very, very happy to be with her family once more."
Jane blushed at the next few paragraphs: Miss Gilpin's hopes and fears for Jane's marriage, her gratitude for the money, her enthusiasm for her new way of life.
"How odd," Jane said thoughtfully. "I thought I would be the one who would leave and have an adventure, but it was Miss Gilpin who did, instead."
"You'll have your chance, Miss Jane. What else does she say?"
"Here is something interesting:
'It is high summer in Bedfordshire, and yet the weather is perfection: a sweet, mild climate, free of oppressive heat and without the swarms of insects that make July in the Carolinas so difficult to bear. Here, one's clothing does not stick to one; it is possible to take a vigorous walk at midday without endangering one's life. Before I went out to America, I was accustomed to long walks; once arrived in South Carolina, I wondered why other women thought me reckless. I can no longer walk quite so far and fast, but I have taken up the habit again, and am learning all the country lanes and paths with such pleasure, accompanied as I am by Fanny and Belinda. They love to hear of my travels, and I have told them about you, my dear Jane.
The village is so charming: full of pleasant people. I imagine you amongst them so easily. My dear brother's church is small, but very fine: dating from the twelfth century. The vicarage is extremely comfortable and generous in size. Sir Roger Seymour, our local squire, is a good friend to my brother. They have known one another since their days at university. Sir Roger did a great deal to improve the vicarage when he gave my brother the living. My own room is delightful, with a view of the meadow. There are also very handsome guest quarters, to which I now make free to invite you, my dear, someday when a kind Providence may reunite us.'"
They were silent a moment, thinking.
Letty said, "You'll see her again, Miss Jane. I would wager you will be in England within a year or two at most."
"Oh, Letty, who can foretell the future? The war has lasted so long already. Perhaps it may last another five years." She folded the letter and put it away in her writing desk. "But it is nice to dream. When I write to Miss Gilpin I shall ask her to describe her bedchamber and the guest apartments in detail. That way I can picture her more clearly." A saucy smile crossed her lips, "Besides, if I'm in England, you'll certainly be with me. You'll see it all too."
"I can't imagine that. I wonder if Mama would like to travel so far---"
"She told me that as long as she has you and has me, she'll be happy. We'll never be separated. Where I go, you go, and that's that."
Letty laughed. "Then I'd better study my books, so I'll be ready if I ever come upon Mrs. Teachum!"
Jane laughed in her turn, and then felt a little uncomfortable. She leaned back and shut her eyes. Her monthly courses, always irregular, had not come for some weeks, and now she was a bit sick. Usually when the wait was this long, they struck with a vengeance, and she was not looking forward to their arrival. They must be soon, though: her breasts were painful and tender, and food was becoming more distasteful than ordinary. She was trying to obey William, and eat a little more than usual, but lately it had become increasingly difficult.
"Are you all right, Miss Jane?"
"Yes," she answered automatically, and then decided to be honest. "No—not entirely. I don't feel particularly well. My stays are digging into me so—" She got up restlessly, and looked at her pale face in the mirror. Absently, she brought her hand to her breast. "I'm so sore. Perhaps you could loosen my laces."
Concerned, Letty set about undoing the back of Jane's gown, and then unlacing the tight, boned stays. As she adjusted them, they slipped up, and Jane gave a little gasp of pain.
"Are you hurting? I better get Mama!"
"No—Yes! See if she can come down. Maybe she'll know what to do." Her laces undone, she sat down again, leaving her gown and stays open in the back.
Biddy was down directly, conversing quietly with Letty as she entered. She came to Jane, brows knit, and wasted no time; but pulled up a little footstool, sat down, and began to ask very personal questions.
"When did you last bleed, honey?"
"Oh! Not since early September—yes. It was about two weeks before the Colonel's visit."
Biddy nodded thoughtfully, and laid a gentle hand over Jane's left breast, feeling the swelling.
"Are you having to use the commode more than usual?"
Jane blushed at such a strange question. "Well--yes, I suppose--"
"Are you having trouble keeping your food down?"
"Well—sometimes I feel little—green. I just won't each as much, and it—"
"You'll eat, honey. The Colonel ordered me to take good care of you, and he's my new master."
Jane smiled unwilling, and Biddy smiled back, taking Jane's hands in hers.
"Ain't nothing wrong with you, honey. You're just going to have a baby is all."
Jane's mouth opened, and then closed. "Are you sure?"
"Not certain sure, but it's the most likely thing." She stroked Jane's cheek tenderly. "The nicest thing in the world, honey. A little baby all your own. Maybe a little rascal boy, growing up to be a soldier like his Papa. Or maybe a sweet little girl. Think how nice it would be to dress her pretty and teach her to be a little lady."
Impulsively, Jane threw her arms around her nurse, feeling tears welling up. "Oh, Biddy! How will I manage? Thank Heavens I have you!" She reached over and grasped Letty's hand. "And you too, Letty. It will be our secret for now, for I can't bear to tell Papa and Selina and have them talk about my baby in that way they have. Promise me you won't tell."
"I promise, Miss Jane," Letty replied earnestly.
"If that's what you want, honey, maybe it's for the best," Biddy agreed. "It might be a false alarm, though I don't think so. 'Twouldn't be good for you to be troubled and worried about it. But you got to eat!" She declared with a firm nod. "The Colonel's right about that."
"Everything seems so nasty."
Biddy frowned. "Letty, you get Miss Jane some tea and toast, and maybe a little rice pudding."
"I'm tired of rice."
"Don't you be like that. It's good for you. You want a healthy, strong baby. You need to eat and drink enough that the baby gets a share! Now you take off your gown and stays and have a good rest." She got up and pulled Jane to her feet, giving her another warm hug. "And you write to your baby's Papa and tell him. He's got a right to know."
"All right. As soon as I hear from him, I'll write back and give him the news." Jane had become more confident in her marriage, but receiving a letter from her husband was her secret test. He must write first.
------
As her condition became more and more apparent to her, Jane found waiting for Tavington's letter very tiresome. The secret was a burden, and she wanted him to share it. Selina's growing belly did not so offend her now. While it was possible that her husband was the father of her stepmother's child, he would never be so openly. Selina's condition was now old news, and Jane found herself regarding it something that no longer had any bearing on her life. Her father's sneers and gibes passed over her nearly unheard.
News of the war came endlessly: some of it good, a great deal of it bad. The tale of the battle at King's Mountain swept the town, and loyalties shifted subtly with the enormity of the defeat. The ruthlessness with which the Loyalists there were massacred made many reluctant to support the Crown openly any longer. Ashbury Rutledge did not rely solely on newspapers. He had sources within the British garrison, and among relatives and friends on the opposing side. He kept his own counsel, but was increasingly irritated that his willful daughter's elopement had put him so definitely on the King's side. It was time to find a better balance, but how could he do so with the wretched girl under his own roof? It would not do to put her out of the house at the present time: it was too late to claim indignation over her disobedience. To disown her now would declare him openly on the side of his cousin John Rutledge and the other radicals. At least that thieving Englishman was far away.
Jane could not help hearing the news. At dinner, she heard even more, for it was impossible for Selina, restless and now confined by her condition, to be entirely discreet. But other than feeling for her husband's dangers and hardships, none of it mattered to her as much as her own affairs. She would be a mother—was in fact already a mother, for she was already hard at work caring for the child within her. There were dangers, to be sure. It would be terrible if her own mother's fate were to be hers, but there was nothing she could do about that. Jane went about her daily duties in her usual conscientious way; and she was equally dutiful to herself. Occasionally, she was sick; but she learned that if she had breakfast early, and did not see her father gobbling his fried eggs in the morning, she was less likely to waste her efforts. As for the other meals, she kept her eyes on her own plate, adding an extra helping like a quartermaster judging the rations for a soldier. She visited the nursery with greater attention to the essentials of childcare now: not simply playing with her brother, but understanding his schedule and his meals; the changes in his little mind and body.
And one wonderful day, she and Letty went out to the shops and came home with delicate white linen and the softest wool; with ribbons and colorful yarn, with lace and lengths of little seed pearls: everything they would need to make Jane's baby linen the most beautiful ever seen. They worked on it in secret, in Jane's cozy green bedchamber, bringing up the tiny shirts and caps and blankets for Biddy's advice and admiration when Coral was out of the nursery.
And at last she had her letter.
October 20, 1780
My dear Jane,
Despite a brief fever, I am otherwise well and unwounded. This sickness has made heavy inroads in the Army. In addition to fever, the smallpox swept our camp, and killed a number of soldiers and civilians. If nothing else, I am obliged to my mother for her care of all her children, for she kept us in the country and far from infection until we were old enough to be inoculated. Among the victims was Mr. Blethers, the chaplain who married us. I was harsh with him, these past few months, wanting to punish him for his rudeness at our wedding, but in the end Nature caused him more suffering than ever I could have. It is a dreadful disease.
The Lord General is sick, on and off, his condition complicated by his recurrent quartain fever. Because so many are ill, we have been slow to deal with the rebels—tragically slow up north, where Tarleton's illness made him incapable of going to Ferguson's relief in time to save that gallant officer.
I have been tasked with tracking down the latest thorn in our side, the so-called "Ghost." In reality, the man is one Benjamin Martin of Freshwater, whose farm I burned back in May. No doubt that exasperated him, but I cannot regret it. Have you heard of him? Any information you have could be of use, for the Lord General is "mightily wroth" with Martin. Among other things, he stole his dogs and then seduced their affections. "Good riddance," say I.
Actually, I could not help but feel some amusement. I had, at the cost of some brave men's lives, succeeded in surprising Martin and his marauders, and captured a number of them. Cornwallis and O'Hara made some ridiculous prisoner exchange arrangement with this man, whom I know to be absolutely without honor. He gulled them into believing that he had taken a number of our officers captive and was threatening their lives. My superiors—though I hate to use that word in such a context—then allowed him to leave with his band of outlaws, one of whom was wearing a clerical collar! I attempted to forestall this farce, but was called to order by that martinet O'Hara. At least I relieved my feelings somewhat with a few well-placed taunts in Martin's direction. At any rate, you will laugh when you hear that the "British officers" were scarecrows! I was blamed, of course, for the feckless behavior of those in command. They did not even send out scouts to verify the rebel's story! I have approached Wilkins for intelligence about Martin, but I need more. See what your father knows, I pray you.
Our time together in Charlestown has left me with a number of pleasant memories. I look forward to our next meeting.
Your devoted husband,
William
Jane had never replied to a letter with such joy. There was so much to say. She had her own glorious news, but she had an opportunity to help him now: an opportunity to make him respect her as a real helpmate.
November 15, 1780My dear William,
I was relieved to hear that you took no great harm from the sickness at camp. May you continue well.
I have news, my dear husband, which you might find of some interest. It appears that my hopes have been answered, and that our family shall be increased in the coming year. Biddy has assured me it is so, and who would know better? I cannot describe my happiness. I am quite well—only rarely indisposed—and am sleeping and eating as I ought. She believes—and it is only logical—that the child will arrive sometime in June. You may think it whimsical of me, but what do you say to the name Junius—or Junia?
I hope that you too, are well and taking care of yourself—as you ought. I do, however, understand that it might not always be possible. Perhaps I should write to Captain Bordon and ask him to be my spy, and see that you follow a healthy regimen, for our child must know his father. Or perhaps my cousin Wilkins, though I doubt his powers of observation are equal to the former's.
We received the news of the disaster at King's Mountain, and I am so very sorry for all the suffering. We heard how the brave Ferguson fell, and of the outrages committed by the Over Mountain Men. What brutes they must be. And as for that Martin and his outlaws, I pray nightly that you put them down directly. It is frightening to think of such lawlessness in this colony, which was once so peaceful and prosperous. I hate the thought of our child ever experiencing such upheaval and distress.
You asked me if I knew the Martins. Yes, I have been introduced to some of the family. Mr. Martin dined with us once or twice, usually when visiting the sister of his late wife, whom we know much better. Mrs. Selton is a renowned beauty, but I have never found her very amiable. However, she never got on with Selina, either, so she must have some redeeming qualities. I always thought she dressed rather too young for a widow, though she has never remarried. There has been gossip in the past about her and Mr. Martin, but I cannot believe it. Mrs. Selton is Church of England, and so could not decently marry her brother-in-law! The Martins, though, are Huguenots, and so who knows what he may intend? She has a large plantation, Selton Hall, which she has managed well since her husband's death, so marriage would certainly improve his fortunes. Papa fancies her, I think, for he often said she was a good woman of business, and very comely, besides.
The only one of the Martin children I ever met was Gabriel, the eldest son. The girls are not old enough to be out and have never been sent to school in Charlestown. Gabriel is considered very handsome, and I suppose he is—if one cares for that type. I cannot say I have ever conversed with him, as he was only interested in radical politics, and not at all in music or literature. In fact, none of the Martins are very well educated, from what I can gather. But they are not in the first circles of Charlestown society, not being related to any of the leading families. Mr. Martin served in the Assembly, and contrary to what you may have heard, did not favor war. He represented all the suffering that would ensue from armed rebellion, and in that he was perfectly correct.
What else do I know of them? I have heard that Gabriel was betrothed, but I do not know what came of that. I do not know the young woman. She is not a lady, for the father, a Mr Peter Howard is the name—is in trade in a small way upriver at Pembroke. Not a great match, but good enough for that family, certainly.
Jane looked over the letter and was ashamed of the catty tone. It was true that she knew the Martins—better than she admitted. And there was a particular reason for her dislike. Charlotte Selton had seemed very condescending on occasion. Perhaps she was oversensitive, but there had been something in her eyes that had irked Jane. Perhaps it was simply that she was so beautiful, in that gold and ivory way she had learned to hate in Selina.
Gabriel Martin she remembered very well indeed, though probably he could never have recognized her. He had been in Charlestown just before the war, and there had been a ball, at which she had sat not three feet from him, while he stood there chatting about politics with his tiresome friends. She had been the only young lady sitting down at one point, and the boy (for he was a year or two younger than she) had actually glanced around and seen her. He had looked at her briefly, and then had resumed his tedious conversation. Jane had been humiliated, for it was plain that he had not thought her worth his time. A petty cause, but she would never, never forgive him. Let him marry some peddler's daughter and live in the backcountry on hoecake and sowbelly. For all his pretty face, he had not been very gallant by her. She decided to let her words stand. William would not fault her for not being kind to his enemies. She suspected William was not very kind to his enemies, either.
She was proud of the next paragraphs. He had specifically asked her to obtain information about Benjamin Martin from her father, and she had managed to pry some out. It had taken positively Byzantine maneuvering. She had engaged Aunt Alice in conversation about Martin and his rebel band, and Aunt Alice had heard some gossip about him long ago. At the dinner table, she had timidly brought it up and Selina had been avid for more. Her father, to please her, had told her all about Martin's exploits in the last war under Harry Burwell, whom he also knew well.
Papa, of course, also knows Colonel Burwell, who was Mr. Martin's commander when they served together in the last war. Mr. Martin held the King's commission, though he never uses the title Captain. Apparently he is ashamed of it. That may disgust you, but the reason may be no so much Mr. Martin's view of the Crown, as from shame at his conduct while on campaign. Apparently, he committed atrocities upon both Frenchmen and Indians at a place called Fort Wilderness. Mr. Martin was very partial to using an Indian tomahawk, and was given a commemorative engraved one to celebrate his chopping up of captured men. Papa told Selina that he tortured and mutilated his enemies, scalping them and gouging eyes and cutting off ears and other parts—well, you can imagine. Or not. He was very quiet when I met him, but Papa says that he has always struggled against a violent nature. Evidently, he struggles no longer.
Papa believes that he has rounded up some of his old scalphunters to join his militia band, for they are excellent woodsmen and would not shrink from any desperate deed. Colonel Burwell is a very gentlemanly man, and was not besmirched by Mr. Martin's actions in the last war—or in this one—but Papa thinks he knows perfectly well what is going on. Mr. Martin is no better than his friend Cleveland who goes about hanging people and lopping off limbs and cutting ears. I will not write any more about this, for it makes me sick and frightened to imagine such wickedness.
Your description of Lord Cornwallis' discomfiture made me laugh. It is clearly a judgement on him for his lack of confidence in your advice. And who would have thought a brave man like General O'Hara would have become such a toadeater? Good Sir Henry was so much more rational, and I regret his departure.
I heard from my dear Miss Gilpin, who arrived safely at her brother's home at Catesby Vicarage, near Biggleswade, Bedfordshire. She is well and very happy with her brother and her nieces. The way she describes the country makes me quite envious, but I am relieved at her good fortune. She says she does not miss the climate of the Carolinas, and I cannot blame her.
She did not feel she could send the letter without some more intimate touch. After some nervous reflection, she added:
Dear William, I too have pleasant memories of your visit. I regret that I am so stupid about some things, but please understand how new and strange they seem to me. I promise to do better.
Your obedient wife,
Jane
-----No letter came in reply. Jane did not expect one for at least a month, but the time stretched on and on. Whispers and rumors reached her, the cullings from rebel newspapers and from letters from rebel relations. Tavington was storming up the rivers of the backcountry with fire and sword, as he had promised. People were saying dreadful things about him. And at dinner Jane had to listen to them, for her father and Selina found the gossip quite interesting.
Rutledge felt it confirmed his opinion of Tavington as a brute of a soldier. Selina agreed with her husband to his face, but instead of feeling contempt for Tavington, she was excited by the stories. Her lover was a fearsome warrior—everyone quaked at the sound of his name. She would have liked to have seen him, sword in hand, and offered him a soldier's reward for all his deeds of valor. It was a great pity, she reflected, that Tavington would have to glean what scraps of pleasure he could from Jane, who could not possibly appreciate him.
When her clothes became uncomfortably tight, Jane went to Mlle. Renaud's, asking for and receiving discreet assistance. New clothes were ordered that would accommodate the expansion of her waist. To her surprise, Jane found herself with something of a bosom. The changes were not all pleasant, but they were interesting, and the pretty, loose-bodied gowns in mulberry and dark green, and the new walking habit in dark blue broadcloth made a nice change. She was advised to go to a shop that would make her maternity stays that laced in the front. This was done, and Jane contemplated the possibility of being able to entirely dress herself, if necessary.
Finally, just as Jane was beginning to worry a little, a brief message arrived just before Christmas.
December 17, 1780
Camden
My dear Jane,
I am well and unwounded. My dear, I am delighted at your news, and I charge you to care for yourself as you know you ought. Take the kind of care you would with another, for I know you unfortunately tend to put yourself last. This must not be.
Your information about our friend, "The Ghost," proved quite useful. I cannot write more as I am in hot pursuit of the fellow and his outlaws. We had other intelligence suggesting that Pembroke was their base of operations, but you helped confirm it. Well done, my dear. May we meet again soon in the new year.
Your devoted husband,
William
Short as the note was, it was a great comfort to Jane. She read it and reread it in the privacy of her room, and replied at length.
…how glad I was to be of some use to you in all your difficulties. I felt quite clever, obtaining that information from Papa without him knowing that it was I who wanted it. Perhaps I am not the most skillful spy in this war, but I have done what I could.
I am quite well, and other than you and Biddy and Letty, no one knows I am with child. I did not like the idea of how Papa might behave, though I suppose it must be faced eventually. He will certainly make some coarse remark. I am not sure Selina will even notice. She is very near her time, and I do pity her a little, for she is so uncomfortable and awkward, and our female relations come and tell her every frightful story of childbed terrors that they can lay tongue too. I come in for quite enough of that myself as a supposedly uninterested party. I cannot imagine why women do this to other women. It is really quite cruel. You know I am not fond of Selina, but I would never tell her horrors and gloat over her misery. I think sometimes that my female relations are very much a pack of old cats. That does not sound very nice of me, I know, but if you knew what they are saying…
She could not imagine that he would find the particulars interesting, so she did not write them. At that, some of the stories, like that of the twin born without a head, were so hideous that she tried not to think of them at all. Selina had born a child before, but had had a very hard time then. She was clearly frightened, and the most recent tea visit had not made her any calmer.
Thus the days dragged on, with Jane's life more and more separate from the lives of her father and his wife. Davus had orders to bring her letters to her at once. When one finally arrived in late January, she cried, "At last!" and opened it eagerly, not even seeing the handwriting on the outside. Had she done so, she would have realized that the letter was not from her husband. She paused, at the unfamiliar script, and stood frozen as she read the terrible words.January 25, 1781
Camden
My dear Mrs. Tavington,
I regret to inform you, Madam, of a most disastrous engagement between His Majesty's Army and the forces of the Continentals, which took place on January the seventeenth of this month. Your husband, Colonel Tavington, was gravely wounded, and is now in hospital here.
The colonel fought with undaunted courage against overwhelming odds. His wounds, alas, are such that our surgeons fear that it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to them…
Jane's head spun, and she sat down heavily in her rocking chair. Letty, who had been folding linen in the clothespress, heard a faint whimper, and turned to see the look on Jane's face.
"What it is?" she asked, too frightened for respectful address.
"It is from Lord Rawdon in Camden. Colonel Tavington has been wounded. They do not expect him to survive." She sat trembling, clutching the letter, unable to read any more. Letty gently eased the letter from her grasp, and looked at the rest.
"Lord Rawdon sent this with his dispatches. He didn't want you to hear about it from gossip or the newspapers."
Jane could hardly speak. "How kind of him," she whispered. "My husband may be dead by now."
Letty did not much like her new master, but she hated to see Jane so distressed. "His lordship says here that they're doing everything they can for him. And he's mighty strong, honey. You know he'll put up a fight."
"Yes. He'll fight." Jane seized that idea, for lack of any other. "He's never afraid. And if he's is still alive, he's in a horrible hospital."
"They're bad places, but I reckon they'll do what they can on account of his rank."
A flash, a great light, a blazing epiphany struck Jane with physical force. "I must go to him."
"Miss Jane! That's right close to a hundred miles away. You can't go into the backcountry all by yourself!"
"I am going to him. It's my duty to take care of him." Her path lay before her, and she felt ready to overcome any obstacle in her way. "I am going, and no one is going to stop me. I have money. I can buy a coach. I can find a coachman. I can be in Camden in a few days." She took a deep breath, trying to stop the shaking that threatened to overwhelm her.
Letty had never seen such a determined look on Jane's face. "You can't go alone, honey. It's not safe!"
Jane remembered the quarrel with her husband the day of their marriage. I don't want to be safe! I want to be free! Tavington would not take her from her father's house, but now Jane had every right—nay, every obligation—to leave it behind. "I can take care of myself." The rush of blood to her head that had given life to her new purpose subsided. "I don't doubt it will be dangerous. You should stay here, Letty. I'll find some older woman, maybe a soldier's wife—"
"No you don't, Miss Jane! If you're going to that wild place, you are going to take me with you!"
Jane shook her head, and Letty insisted. "Yes, you are, honey! How can you go without me? You can't even dress your own hair! Who's going to take care of you--and you carrying a baby and all?" An exciting idea struck her. "And Mama will want to go too!"
"But Little Ash—"
"Little Ash is going to live off the fat of the land, just like always! Mama and me belong with you! You can't leave us here with the Master and Miss Selina. Where you go, we go, and that's that!"
-----
Note: Some of you will ask, "What happened to "tell me about Ohio"? Well, I'm dropping that bit from The Patriot. After sitting and thinking it over at very great length, I've come to the conclusion that it's just codswallop, and that the screenwriter threw it in to be "neat," and to have moviegoers in the Buckeye State go "eww!" The idea of Cornwallis and Tavington wanting a huge chunk of North American interior is pretty laughable. First of all, the Crown would never have given Cornwallis a hundred thousand acres. Not going to happen. But for the sake of argument, let me point out that if he got it, it would not be worth any money to him for decades at the earliest. Ohio is too far north for any of the profitable cash crops: cotton, tobacco, indigo, rice, sugar. Good farmland, after a lot of clearing and years of hard work, but it would be a long time before there would be a market for large quantities of farm produce, and even longer before there was a reasonable mode of transporting such quantities. The Ohio River runs the wrong way. Who would farm it for them? They're not going to get the army of tenant farmers necessary when those individuals have any hope of owning their own homesteads. Most tellingly, one of the major points of conflict in the war was the Crown's attempt to keep settlers OUT of the land beyond the Appalachians, because of their treaties with the Native Americans. Besides, can any of you actually picture the Tavington of the film wanting to go and live in a log cabin in the backwoods? I think not. I believe he's fixed on going home in a blaze of glory like his template, Banastre Tarleton, because England is the only place that actually matters to him.
Mlle. Renaud might make Jane a wardrobe, but would not sell her stays. The art of staymaking was very specialized and often performed by men.
Thanks to my reviewers! You make my day.
Next—Chapter 17: To Gallop in a Coach and Six