Hi dear readers,
As usual, sorry for not posting sooner. You all know how it is: real life has to be dealt with first.
Now, I have a question for you all. I am floored by how many hits I have on my traffic counter on this site for a chapter in this story: Chapter 12 Bordon's Diplomacy. This particular chapter has 3-4 times as many hits/views more than any of the other chapters in this piece. I'm trying to figure out why. I guess as the author, I am not sure what is so special about the chapter because it is basically conversations between Bordon and Betsy to establish character, events unfolding, etc, or I guess that is how I look at it. But for some reason, you readers are reading, re-reading, and devouring that particular chapter. Why? I would love to know! If you have a minute, drop me a private message and let me know why you like that chapter and keep re-reading it.
Thanks and enjoy!
JScorpio
Chapter 19: Relief
The minute Betsy heard Captain Bordon's door shut, she perked up. The young lady froze in her seat, not moving, not even breathing. She wondered what the officer was doing.
The girl turned her head cautiously to the side, looking at the wood of her door, wishing she could see through it. She imagined the captain standing in the hallway, looking at her chambers and pondering.
Miss Burwell wondered what his intentions were. The moment shared between them hours before was so intense. Her thoughts flitted about like butterflies in her head. I should have let him do it. I wonder what it is like to kiss a man? He is very handsome. I shouldn't have stopped him. Why was I so afraid of one little kiss?
Betsy sat up straight, breathing heavily. She knew the man was hesitating in the hallway as she had heard no steps going away. The girl wondered what he would do, hoping that he might come into her room and make good on the faltered kiss.
Then, she heard footsteps, loudly, then fading away. He'd walked away, down the hallway, obviously to pursue other interests. Betsy was disappointed after acting the part of the infatuated young girl all day long; thinking, wondering; imagining.
Maybe, if she hurried fast she could catch him. Betsy bolted from her desk, flying to her door, which she tore open. She leaned into the hall, looking both ways. It was empty.
The young lady sighed in dismay as she leaned against the doorframe. Her feelings were so conflicted. She had never been kissed before, yet deferred her chance today. The girl was engaged to a handsome officer who might as well be a million miles away, and an equally as dashing enemy officer, so near her in her own home, had made an advance to her.
Betsy barely knew George Clark, her father's chosen fiancé for her. However, the girl was getting to know Captain Bordon well. He protected her, guided her, and she was learning to trust him.
Miss Burwell reluctantly pulled herself away from the doorframe after a moment, certain that the British officer wasn't coming back. She sulked across her room to the window, wanting some fresh air. As she pushed it open further, she smiled as she noticed Bordon walking across the lawn. Betsy lingered there, hoping he would look up and see her. The girl continued to watch him stalking across the green, moving somewhere with a purpose.
She sat down on the window seat, and watched him disappear into the darkness, her feelings deflating and dropping into the pit of her stomach. Betsy heaved a sigh, realizing that the officer was heading toward the tents of the camp followers.
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"Deal you in, Captain?"
Hugh Bordon lingered at the door of the tent, looking at Major Brackin and Captain Huxley of the infantry, sitting at the table with Cornet Kidwell of the dragoons. Cards and drinks were spread out before them.
"A little later," the dragoon second in command answered Brackin. "I have something to take care of first. I'll be back in a bit."
Bordon turned on his heel and hurried away. A silent look of knowing passed between the three officers. The trio snickered, having a good idea of why their friend had rushed off.
"No doubt an itch that only a woman can scratch," Huxley smirked as he fanned his cards out in his hand.
Hugh hurried quickly toward the camp follower's tents, anxious to procure some female company. As he rounded the corner of the cattle barn, he crossed the path of Miss Violet, one of the whores.
"Fancy some company, captain?" she asked, tilting her head, smiling lasciviously at the man.
"Yes," he answered. Bordon fished some coins from his pocket then placed them into the upturned palm of the prostitute.
The woman was older, in her mid forties, but still shapely and pretty. She knew Captain Bordon to be from one of the wealthiest families in England and was always glad and very willing to make herself available to take his money.
"My tent," she said as she reached for his hand. Before she could touch him, the woman found herself being shoved face first into the wall. The area was dark and was good a place as any to calm the officer's ache.
"Anxious, sir?" she asked as she reached downward to pull up her skirts.
"Yes!" he exclaimed in a whisper as he undid his breeches. "Do your job and take care of me!"
"Certainly sir," the doxy answered as she finished securing her skirts above her waist. The harlot, still facing the wall, put her hands on it at chest level, bracing herself against it.
In an instant, the officer lobbed his stiffness into her with a hard jolt, taking the experienced woman's breath away.
"Oh, Captain," she moaned in obligatory pleasure.
As Hugh rutted into the whore, he felt the throbbing of the wound on his chest. That reminded him of his encounter with the Burwell girl hours ago. He closed his eyes, imagining a kiss with that young lady.
His breath was against the shell of the prostitute's ear, his body pinioning her to the wall. Hugh was lost for a moment, his mind forming an image of Betsy Burwell beneath him on the couch in the drawing room of her house—the same one he had reclined on as she had sewn his wound. In his mind, the officer had succeeded in kissing the girl, innocently at first, then she had accepted his eager tongue within her mouth. After a kiss filled moment, the man had soon found himself atop the innocent girl, her skirts resting on her thighs. Bordon, positioned between her spread legs, eased himself into the girl's virgin sheath, making her wince in pain.
"Oh, Captain, your cock is SOOOOO hard," Miss Violet, the bawd, mewled.
"Quiet!" Captain Bordon shushed, the woman's voice disturbing the fantasy of Miss Burwell that raged inside the man's head.
The officer continued on, heaving his hardness in and out of the doxy, bracing himself as well, against the wall, his hands on it on either side of her hands. And again, he closed his eyes, now trying to fantasize about some intimate encounter with his late wife, Sarah. And as he did, his paid companion once again ruined it.
"Sir… oh….you will surely give me my pleasure," she cried, feigning joy at the feeling of the soldier within her.
"Silence, for Christ's sake!" he whispered menacingly through gritted teeth. Hugh quickly decided not to force his imaginings and instead, concentrate on the feeling of his yard inside this woman.
After a moment, the woman moaned again, making the dragoon leader sigh in a sort of defeat. He couldn't fantasize or even concentrate on any physical feelings with that strumpet bellowing fake appreciation. And he was certain that she had warbled the same words to her previous customers of the evening. Bordon pulled himself from the woman, releasing a frustrated breath.
"Bloody Hell! Am I to have no relief tonight?" he swore to himself, running his hand through his ginger locks.
The whore turned around, facing the man as she pushed her skirts down. She was concerned, afraid that he would ask for his money back since she didn't bring him to completion.
"Have you been drinking, sir?" she inquired, knowing that alcohol could inhibit a man's 'performance'.
"No, but I damn well intend to before the night is over," he spat, pent up frustration lacing his every word.
Violet the prostitute reached out, taking hold of the officer's arms. She turned him gently around toward the wall of the barn, changing places with him.
"I can take care of your ache, sir," she cajoled. The woman then knelt on the ground before him tugging his breeches back down slightly.
Bordon sighed and leaned back against the wall as he felt the woman's mouth close around his still hardened member. The captain closed his eyes, letting his head drop back, reveling in the feeling of the whore's mouth on him. He was finally able to lose himself in the moment.
The officer soon came, letting out a nearly inaudible groan of relief as he did. The man hitched his breeches back up, anxious to get on to playing some cards. He thanked then bid farewell to the woman and began to walk away.
"Uh…Captain," the whore called after him.
He turned about to face the woman. She was standing there, holding her arm out, palm upturned, obviously wanting money.
"I already paid you," Bordon reminded her in an irritated tone.
She waggled her fingers at him, saying nothing, smiling wantonly.
He finally understood. "More?!" Hugh questioned, flustered at her insistence and gall.
"I did suck your cock," Violet insisted.
"Since when did whores start charging by the act?" the officer asked as he searched his pockets for more change. He couldn't give her all his money, he thought. After all, he would need some coins for the card game.
"When men need more….urging….and effort," she answered, as she closed her fingers around the sovereign placed upon her palm.
"That's highway robbery," Bordon objected with a scowl.
"No. It's a living," the woman replied. "Goodnight captain."
The officer said nothing more, glaring at the woman as she turned and walked away. He rolled his eyes then headed toward his card game.
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Captain Bordon looked at his pocket watch with bleary eyes, trying hard to focus. It was a little bit past two in the morning, and the alcohol was beginning to work its way through his system, warming his limbs and numbing his thoughts. The officer steadied himself before ascending the stairway to his room, holding the liquor bottle securely in his hand. He hadn't won any money at cards earlier, but a fine bottle of confiscated whiskey had been wagered, and he'd been just the gent to win it.
After paddling quietly up the stairs and down the hall, he stopped at the door to his chamber, noticing that Miss Burwell's door was open. With the alcohol making him feel daring, he peeked slowly into her room. The captain saw the girl asleep, her head down on the desk. The candle there had burned down completely, leaving only the one in the wall sconce by the door flickering. The man padded silently across the room to where Betsy slept.
At the desk, he could see that she had fallen asleep while writing a letter, for the quill lay in her relaxed fingers. He softly removed it from her hand and deposited it back into the ink well. Then he gently picked the young lady up into his arms and carried her to her bed. The officer laid her there delicately, pulling her blanket over her. Tipsy from the whiskey, Hugh Bordon hovered over her for a moment, staring down at her sleeping form.
I could have her now, he thought. She'd probably scream, we'd be caught and I'd get into trouble. Then he remembered how quickly she had rebuffed his advance. Why should I want her, this little chit? I only care for her because she is of value as a prisoner and has to be protected. I've no romantic designs on the girl. If I did bed her, it would be purely for the destruction of her virtue, and my own satisfaction.
He chided himself, even under the effects of the liquor, at making an advance at this young girl. But he had no desire for it now, having been satisfied this evening. Bordon turned, and left the room, silently closing the door behind him.
Stepping across the hall, Hugh entered his own quarters, not bothering to light a candle. With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he quickly found a glass, and poured himself another drink of his prize. The officer shrugged off his shirt, then stepped over to the bureau. In the moonlight, he quickly located a miniature portrait of his late wife and son. He sat on the bed, staring intently at it, unable to see it clearly in the dark, but knowing it by heart. The captain had memorized every bit of the painting of Sarah and Robbie. He knew what he was looking at although he could barely see the thing in the darkness.
"Sarah. Robbie," he lamented in a murmur, "My God I miss you both so much." With that, he took a long, deep drink of the golden liquid. He closed his eyes and sighed as he remembered how excited both he and Sarah had been at the news of her second pregnancy. She died with that baby inside of her, often leaving Hugh to wonder if she had carried a boy or girl.
Captain Bordon felt the familiar sorrow welling up within him, gripping his heart. The tightening grew in his throat, and the pain of grief consumed him. The man quelled the pain with the closest medicine at hand: his whiskey.
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Betsy stepped outside the hospital tent, quickly organizing the chaotic bundle of material in her arms. She dropped the soiled dressings into an empty bucket on the ground near the tent flap, then folded the injured soldiers' ripped garments over her arm. The girl picked up the pail and headed toward the out kitchen.
At the door of the kitchen building, Mrs. Leyanova, Miriam, and Pansy were busily preparing food. Betsy immediately smelled the strong odor of onions being chopped at the table. That was no reprieve from the pungent scent of medicinal herbs that had permeated the hospital tent.
She spoke from the doorway. "Dressings to be washed," the girl said, nodding to the wooden bucket in her right hand. "Redcoat clothes to be laundered and mended," Miss Burwell informed, lifting her left arm displaying the blood soiled garments torn and dirtied during the skirmish.
Mrs. Leyanova, stirring the pot boiling in the fireplace, looked up quickly. "Leave them by the door," the older servant woman answered. "I'll assign someone to them."
Betsy nodded wearily as she set the pail down just inside the doorway. The young woman doubled the garments over quickly, placing them on a nearby bench.
As she turned to go, Mrs. Leyanova called to her. "Are you going to the house, missy?"
The girl stopped in the doorway, turning about. "Yes," she replied, surprised that the Russian woman had stopped tending the pot at the fireplace and was now within arm's reach of her.
"Take this with you," the servant said, pressing a small glass bottle into Betsy's hand. "I suspect Captain Bordon will be needing it this morning."
Miriam and Pansy snickered knowingly at each other. They quickly hushed and went back to their duties when Mrs. Leyanova shot them a stern look.
"Is he in the office?" Betsy inquired.
"No. I'm sure he's still in bed," the Russian servant answered. "Be careful when you go in there. The maids say he upset some furniture and there is broken glass lying about."
"Yes Ma'am," answered Miss Burwell.
Betsy strolled slowly toward the house. The thought of seeing Captain Bordon again both thrilled and terrified her. As she plodded along, her mind twisted in circles as she recalled being so startled at the officer's advance, no notion that it was imminent. Yet wondering about it afterward made her realize that the man was handsome, and left her wondering what a kiss was like. Though she was afraid of what may transpire between the two of them when they crossed paths again. Would he try it again? Would it be awkward? Would they act as if nothing had happened?
Before she knew it, she was standing outside of the dragoon officer's door. Betsy drew in a deep breath, held it an instant, then let it out. Then she knocked on the door.
No response.
After a moment, she knocked again.
Again, no answer.
Quietly, the girl turned the doorknob, letting herself into the second in command's chambers. She was only mildly surprised at the sight. From Mrs. Leyanova's words, the girl had conjured an image of total destruction in the man's quarters.
In actuality, parts of his uniform lay about the room on the floor. A chair was upset, lying on its back. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on the nightstand. What was a glass had been shattered on the floor. Betsy, who had fallen asleep wondering where Captain Bordon had hurried off to, had her answer. The mess in the room and the headache medicine in her hand told her the officer had gotten drunk.
She tiptoed through the clutter and over to the man's bedside. The girl absently started picking clothes up from the floor as she walked, laying them over her arm. Betsy froze in her tracks when Bordon turned over in the bed and groaned.
Betsy stood watching him as he roused. He moaned in obvious pain. His eyes were scrunched shut, his face contorted in 'morning after' agony, as his hand went up to massage his forehead.
The officer finally opened his eyes to the blurry image of someone standing in his room.
"Oh, Miss Burwell," he slurred, as his eyes adjusted to the light. Hugh's head was pounding and the light in the room pricked his eyeballs, feeling like dozens of pins and needles. His own body felt heavy to him as he pushed himself up to sitting.
The covers fell down to expose his naked torso. Betsy blushed again, even though she had just seen his bare chest yesterday as she'd sewn his wound. The girl pretended to look out the window when he caught her looking at him.
"Sorry to disturb you, sir," she apologized timidly. The girl held out her arm, displaying the bottle of powder clasped in her hand. "Mrs. Leyanova sent me up with some Ward's for your head."
"Thank you," he answered, taking the small bottle from her hand.
"I'm sorry for the mess," he apologized. "I'll clean it up."
"I can send a servant up to help," offered Betsy as she laid his clothes down at the foot of the bed. As Bordon prepared the concoction for his head, the girl continued tidying up what she could. Stepping toward his desk, she righted the chair that lay on the floor. As the young woman reached down to pick up the liquor bottle on the floor, she noticed a heart shaped locket.
The girl picked up the necklace as she retrieved the whiskey bottle. Staring for a moment at the jewelry and the glass container, she became angry. Betsy now knew that the man had had female company in his room while drinking last night.
The young lady spun around, looking accusingly at the ailing officer. "Really, Captain," she accused as she held up the locket, swinging on its chain. "You told me that you ordered the men to patronize the doxies at their tents; that they were not to bring them to the house!"
"Yes," he countered. "I did order that." Hugh Bordon's head was throbbing even more now. He didn't feel like sparring with this teenaged girl and her smart, insolent mouth.
Betsy burned with ire. He says that he orders the men to keep the prostitutes in the camp, yet he brings one into my house himself, she thought.
"So, which one does this necklace belong to," she asked curtly. "I'll see that she gets it back."
The captain, sitting up in bed, reached his long arm out and yanked the chain from the girl's hand. "It's my wife's!"
Miss Burwell was aghast. She suddenly felt stupid and embarrassed. The girl had pined for another chance of a kiss from this man yesterday, after he had tried and she had refused him. Then she spent all day wondering about him, dreaming the day away thinking about the handsome officer. Betsy was sorry that she had wasted her time on this silly schoolgirl infatuation with a married officer that obviously patronized whores.
"Thank you for the Ward's. You can leave now," the officer dismissed sharply.
Betsy, still stunned, turned and walked to the door. The young lady stopped and turned back toward the officer. Feeling betrayed, she let her words spill out. "I trusted you. You have helped and protected me. I thought you cared for your prisoners, but you are no different than the other officers!"
"What do you mean?" Bordon was befuddled by the girl's actions and words, which only added to his pounding head.
"I have heard the rumors about what has happened to local women at the hands of you redcoats," she began, her voice rising. "You made an advance to me then you patronized a harlot both on the same day! All this, and you have a wife at home!"
With that, Betsy cared not to look upon the man anymore. To her, a man she had come to trust, she thought him as horrid to women as Colonel Tavington. The girl turned abruptly and left in a huff, slamming the door behind her.
Hugh, ailing with a hangover, reclined back onto his bed. He closed his eyes and sighed, only wanting some rest. The man could deal with the impudent and confused Miss Burwell later.
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In the late afternoon of the same day, Captain Hugh Bordon finally felt well enough to get up. And though his head still ached slightly from the alcohol the night before, he knew a walk in the fresh air would help that. He had to lead the night patrol in a few hours and needed a clear mind to do that.
As the officer strolled about the green, he spotted the Burwell girl sitting under a tree over to the side beyond the outbuildings. She was seated on a blanket, her sewing basket and a pile of clothes stacked next to her.
Bordon swallowed hard. He decided to clear the air between them now, as obviously the girl was ignorant of a few things. As he neared the blanket, the girl was busily mending clothes and took no notice of the officer.
"Good afternoon, Miss Burwell," he greeted cautiously.
The girl gasped, startled at the man's intrusion. "Captain," she acknowledged coldly, not wishing to speak to the redcoat officer. Betsy went back to her sewing, not looking at the dragoon adjutant, half hoping he would go away. She thought him no more than a rakehell.
"I'd like a word with you, please," Bordon requested.
Clever of him, she thought. She was sitting on the blanket, swimming in her sewing, garments spread about. Not as if she could quickly run from him. "Yes sir," she replied, putting her mending down in her lap, but still refusing to accord him a look.
"As an officer of His Majesty's army," Hugh began in a haughty voice, "I don't have to disclose anything to a prisoner."
Betsy's lips drew tight, as she tried to hold in an indignant huff. Lecturing me again, she thought. Always reminding me of my place. Telling me how I do not deserve to know anything.
"However," he continued on, his tone softening, "as an honorable gentleman, I owe you an explanation…..and an apology."
Betsy looked questioningly up at the officer. She now focused her attention on the dragoon leader, curious at this rare display of humility.
"The locket you found was my wife's," he confirmed. "She is dead, and so is my son."
Miss Burwell was stunned. The young lady supposed that his wife had stayed behind to live at their home in England. She now felt terribly that she assumed that the jewelry had belonged to a prostitute.
"I'm sorry," she said in a quiet voice, truly humbled by her own wrong assumptions.
"Thank you," the captain replied. "They have been gone two years now. I keep the locket with me always."
"Oh," Betsy nodded. She looked down at her folded hands in her lap, still ashamed.
The officer clasped his hands behind his back, looking official, and paced a couple of steps. He stopped, then gazed thoughtfully out over the lawn before going on.
"I did not have a doxy in my room last evening," he defended. "My only companion was a bottle of whiskey, I assure you. I gave you my word that the bawds would stay down amongst the camp followers, and that is indeed where they conduct their business—not in the main house."
Betsy now knew how wrong she was, that the captain had been alone indeed and that the mess in his room was caused by his drinking. She was silently grateful to hear that whores were not being brought into her home. The young lady nodded mutely, a slight smile on her lips, quietly showing the officer that she understood and appreciated him keeping his promise.
"However," he continued on, "we have talked about how things are different during a time of war, and that men have needs. If I, or any officer or soldier here chooses to patronize one of the prostitutes, it is done discreetly and is no one's affair."
Miss Burwell looked away, distressed and blushing at the subject matter. Her pride stung a bit as well as the officer's scolding was only thinly disguised.
"And as for the rumors you have heard about the King's soldiers with local women," he began, carefully having to spin a lie, "they are just that—rumors only. His Majesty's soldiers conduct themselves as gentlemen always."
Betsy was confounded. She could not erase the image of Colonel Tarleton assaulting the blacksmith's daughter, though viewed as only a brief glimpse when she was trying to escape the dragoons weeks ago, from her mind.
"But that day you captured me," she objected cautiously, doling her words out slowly, "I saw Colonel Tarleton—"
The captain cut her off immediately. He knew damned well at the mere mention of Commander Tarleton's name that some kind of mischief with a female villager must have gone on in town that day, and that Miss Burwell witnessed it. Banastre was a braggart and his record of misdeeds with colonial women and rebels stained him like rust on metal. Still, Bordon, as a subaltern to both lieutenant colonels of the legion, refused to expose his superior's wrongdoings to any Yankee.
"Are you absolutely sure of whatever it was you saw?" the dragoon second in command asked in an attempt to befuddle the young woman. "Eyes can deceive, tricked by the mind or other situations."
"I….well…uh," Betsy stammered, uncertain of whether or not to pursue her accusation of Colonel Tarleton.
Bordon stood by silently, letting her be confused, and think over what she thought she saw. The girl wisely chose to drop the subject, assuming that these men would close ranks on her no matter what. She was beginning to understand that the British officers were a sort of exclusive boys' club; a brotherhood in which they are sworn to each other.
She looked at the captain, a combination of innocence, confusion, and shame in her eyes.
"You should not believe anything you hear," the captain advised of rumors, "and only half of what you see."
Again, Betsy nodded silently.
The officer went on. "And lastly, Miss Burwell, about the advance I made to you yesterday."
The girl stared up at him anxiously. "It was rude of me. I should not have done it and apologize for my action. It meant nothing. It was a forward gesture which put you in an awkward position as mistress of the house and for being betrothed to another man. The colonel and I have advised our men and other soldiers that lodge here to treat this farm's women respectfully. My actions must set a good example for the men which is part of being a commander."
Betsy was torn momentarily. She was secretly disappointed that his desire to kiss her actually meant nothing; that he had no romantic feelings toward her. Yet she felt relieved that the air had been cleared between them. Mostly, she felt happy that the officer respected her enough to apologize for his rakish actions.
"I hope you will forgive me," Hugh asked, looking down at her. His head cocked to the side, his face silently making this humble request.
"Of course," she answered simply.
"Thank you," Bordon said. "I'll leave you to your mending. Good day."
As he turned to walk away, Betsy burned with a curiosity of her own. "Captain," she called after the man.
"Yes?"
"How did they die, if I may ask?"
The officer stopped, first looking up to the Heavens, then down at the ground. He took in a deep breath then let it out slowly, pushing his personal pain down inside of his being as far as possible. The masculinity within him needed for him to sound steady as he spoke; not to be some blubbering idiot, though his pain and grieving was completely legitimate.
"Sarah, my wife," he began haltingly, "was carrying our second child. She was six months along. I was away on an assignment with the cavalry. She wanted to visit her sister before she was confined and unable to travel."
Betsy listened silently, interested in what the officer said of himself. Usually, it was she who was being compelled—or coerced—to give him information. He was good at coaxing it out of her as part of his intelligence duties. But this time, he let his guard down a bit and spoke of himself, and the girl was curious at what this supremely dutiful, stern yet diplomatic captain had to impart.
The dragoon leader went on. "She took our son Robbie, who was two, with her to visit her sister. There was an outbreak of Cholera in that village. Sarah and Robbie fled home quickly, but both were sick by the time they returned. I received word and hurried home."
Hugh stopped, standing there, quietly, thoughtfully, painfully; obviously still haunted. The girl could tell that the man still grappled with his grief, and was trying now as a dignified gentleman to keep it in check before his prisoner.
"They both died within hours of my arrival."
"I'm so sorry, Captain. You must miss them so."
"Yes. Every day," he replied forlornly. "I often wonder about our second child, the one she was carrying. I'll never know if we were to have another son, or a daughter."
His words reminded Betsy of several miscarriages and still births of siblings that she had lived through, how painful it was for her mother and father. A moment of silence passed between the two, both of them reflecting on the deaths of loved ones in recent years.
"We have both had our shares of grief," she commented.
"Yes," Bordon agreed, "and the grieving never stops. But it evolves with time, as does how we deal with the hurt of it."
"You're so wise, captain," she said, smiling up at him.
"No. Just burdened with worldly pain," answered the officer. "Duty beckons. I take my leave of you, Miss Burwell."
"Good evening, sir," Betsy bid as the man walked away. The girl went back to her sewing, amazed at having learned part of the intimate past of one of her redcoat captors.