My sincere apologies for delay in posting updated chapters. Real life is just too busy! Thanks for staying with the story. This chapter was longer, so I cut it into two chapters, so another one will be posted here soon.
JScorpio
Chapter 33: Dinner And Discussion
"The scourge marks aren't showing, are they?" Betsy queried in a frantic voice. She was craning her head backwards over her shoulder as far as her neck would allow, trying to look at the back of her dress in the mirror.
"Stop squirming, missy," Pansy demanded, punctuating it with a firm tug, "I can't get this ribbon tied."
Betsy stood still as commanded. She was anxious, hoping her mother's dress—this one she had not worn before—would cover the remnants of her whipping from some weeks back. The wounds had healed into bright pink lines, still raised, but enough to let anyone know that they were new scars.
"No, they don't show," the middle aged maid said as she handed the mirror to the girl. Miss Burwell quickly eyed the backside of the frock, pleased that the dress came up high in the back.
She turned to look at herself from the front. A warm grin of satisfaction spread over her lips. The dress was cut very low in the front, and her reward for wearing a tight stay was the becoming figure of a woman in this particular garment, with round breasts and subtle, but noticeable cleavage showing.
The young woman had been notified late in the afternoon of an arrival of a contingent of Redcoat generals, complete with one Member of Parliament, here to observe the war and how things were going to report back to England. Colonel Tavington had, as usual, demanded that Miss Burwell play the part of plantation hostess. Betsy had to wait for hot water, then rush to get a bath in and have Pansy help style her hair. The two had been just as frantic to find something suitable to wear.
The late Mrs. Katy Burwell's dresses had been carefully packed into trunks when Colonel Tavington moved into billet in the main house, taking her room. A handful of the best dresses had been hung in Betsy's wardrobe, which was now overflowing with her own clothing, so much so that the doors nearly would not shut anymore on them. The young girl managed to find a forgotten dress that had been a favorite of her mother's. It was lavender silk, but with a dull shine with minimal lace and ribbons. It was too subdued for a ball, yet too fancy for church, but perfect for a formal dinner with dignitaries.
Pansy the servant smiled, looking over Betsy's shoulder in the mirror. "It is amazing how little farm girls turn into cultured women, isn't it?"
The two laughed heartily. But their mirth was soon startled by the chime of the clock in the hallway.
"Oh my! I've got to get downstairs!" Betsy plopped down on a nearby stool just long enough to put her shoes on, then fled her room.
As she rounded the stairway and into the landing, she stopped to look into a mirror in the hallway. She smoothed her hair back and her dress, then took a deep breath. After a few seconds, the young girl let the breath out, summoning as much courage as she could. Being as much of a lady as she could, she walked calmly through the breezeway and into the detached meeting room where the dinner boards were spread and crowded with red uniforms and a few powdered wigs.
When the teen aged girl entered the room, the men's heads turned to see a perfect young lady standing regally in the doorway. After all, this had been her family's plantation, before Britain seized it. Indeed, Betsy Burwell had transformed for a few hours this evening, into the image of a perfect, well bred young lady, every inch the plantation mistress. She was beautiful in Mrs. Burwell's pale lavender.
The officers' eyes drank in the sight, thankful for seeing an impeccably dressed lady, looking pretty with a demure coiffure. It was a relief for them to gaze upon her after seeing farm women laboring in soiled dresses and refugees with dirt smudged faces traipsing along the roads in tattered clothes trailing their children and belongings behind them. She was welcome sight indeed, reminding them of their class and distinction even amidst a war.
Betsy herself immediately noted that these were not 'fighting' generals. They were administrative—there to oversee the huge British military occupation and operation; there to evaluate and make sure the Kingdom's money was being spent wisely upon the war. She knew this because two of the three visiting commanders were older, over age fifty, looking as if they should be home in England, sitting on a porch somewhere in the countryside watching grandchildren prance and frolic before them. The other two men were in their forties, but nonetheless 'official' looking.
"Good evening, gentlemen," she greeted with a genteel smile, putting on her best warmth, "I'm sorry I am late."
Colonel Tavington shot her a subtle glare, letting him know he was not pleased with her tardiness. But the other generals smiled widely and dripped with forgiveness for her transgression. They were just so glad and appreciative to see a refined, albeit beautiful, young woman.
"Oh, no, no," one of the older generals, who looked as if he could be her own grandfather, waved off dismissively. "Indeed, we have anticipated meeting you—"
"And looking forward to your company", interrupted the middle aged man, who was the only one not in uniform. Betsy could tell right away that he was a charmer of women though not very handsome.
William turned about with a fake smile on his face and took back command of the room. "This is Miss Betsy Burwell. This is her farm which we happily are billeted at now."
He then began his introductions. "This is General Lassen, and General Costin." Betsy extended her ungloved hand to both older officers, letting them take it.
The colonel then moved her on. "This is General Deaton, and over there is Sir Christopher Addley, who is a Member of Parliament. They are all here visiting...checking on the situation for His Majesty."
"Welcome," said Betsy. "I hope you will find your stay here pleasing."
After a round of thanks to her for her hospitality, the visiting men introduced their adjutants, who were seated at the far end of the table visiting with Colonel Tavington's subalterns. The older gents, Lassen and Costin, shot condescending looks at their young aides, silently scolding them when they were caught gawking with wolfish expressions at the young lady. They immediately became stone faced, causing the dragoons' Captain Wilkins and Lieutenant Kidwell to chuckle, for they saw the girl everyday at her best and worst.
After only a moment, supper was brought in and placed on the long table. The visitors surrounded Tavington, who sat at the head of the table. Betsy had been put in the middle, seated across the board from Captain Bordon, who had been quiet so far. He nodded his head slightly at her, and she smiled back at him with a nod likewise.
Miss Burwell realized that she hadn't spoken more than ten words to the officer in as many days. She felt immediately the tension between them. Their last encounter, some interrupted foreplay in her bed, flashed in the back of her mind, and she did her best to fend off a blush. And he had made good on his threat to avoid her, or at least it felt that way.
Bordon felt trapped. He could go nowhere, expected to participate fully in this formality of a meal. He took a deep breath, trying to relax. He knew he couldn't gape, but his eyes were inexplicably drawn back to the young hostess. Again, as at the ball months ago, he marveled at her transformation from a farm girl doing daily chores to a demure, sedate woman. He noted her curves, shown off perfectly in this dress. The officer felt nearly tipsy when he looked at her rounded, young breasts—the same ones that he had caressed and suckled just days ago—peaked out and taunted him from the low collar of her dress. Her pretty neck, which he'd relished kissing the soft skin of, was decorated with a simple pearl necklace, again, teasing him. He grunted low in his throat and closed his legs under the table. Hugh felt the beginnings of an erection in his pants, and knew it would become firm and aching if he couldn't leave the table or occupy his mind elsewhere.
The dragoon second in command quickly downed his glass of Madeira. He motioned Walter, one of the servers, over to him. Hugh Bordon already had his wine glass up and ready, which the servant soon filled to the rim with wine from the carafe he carried. The officer didn't hesitate to begin sipping away at it. And that was all he could do for he knew it would be bad form to become inebriated in front of these generals. But at that moment, it was the only way he could cope with being in close quarters to the Carolina beauty whom he had attempted intimacy and failed.
Ninety minutes later, the dinner was still dragging on with boring small talk made by the generals and the Member of Parliament. Betsy continued to smile and answer questions politely, preferring for once to be seen and not heard. And although she could hear the inane babble droning on, and she answered demurely when asked questions, her mind was elsewhere.
She looked about the table, trying to keep a blank stare, wondering if the guests for the evening had heard or been told of her whipping just a few short weeks ago. She also wondered if news of Colonel Tavington assaulting her months ago had been spread, and if her father had heard of it. And if her father knew, then the news would eventually make its way to George Rogers Clark.
Miss Burwell also worried that the young rebel colonel would even want to marry her after having been raped by Tavington. It was just as well if he did not for she was having her own reservations about their betrothal. It had been so many months since she met him those scant times in Charlestown. She was so taken with him and he seemed to be with her, as well, especially since her father had promised her to him. But Clark never wrote to her. And although she heard of his heroic exploits on the western frontier of the colonies in the gazettes, there was also more ominous news.
There were whispers of George's fondness for drink and drunkenness, how much money he was borrowing to finance his meager army, and how much even now, was owed back. Bankruptcy was already being mentioned in conjunction with his name. Worse, there were the stories of the women—single, married, Indians alike—all throwing themselves at him due to his hero status and handsome physique. Lurid stories in the more disreputable broadsheets of whom he had lain with, and of many redskin chiefs wanting him to have union with their daughters and even wives just to mingle the copper haired warrior's blood into the future generations of their tribes. All of it appalling to Betsy, and embarrassing. She hadn't seen this part of Colonel Clark when she met him, showing only his gentlemanly side and affability. And, even though Captain Bordon had tried to assuage her fears about Colonel Clark, telling her that men act differently during war, it didn't seem to help. It was as if Clark had forgotten her and forgotten the fact that he was betrothed to a country lady of good society.
Maybe it was for the best that he had forgotten his obligation, for she was no longer keen to marry him. But what if he came back after the war to claim his bride? Betsy told herself that she may be forced to wed the rebel officer, though she no longer held feelings or zeal for him.
She sighed and looked up from her plate slightly, enough to hazard a glance at Hugh Bordon, who was listening intently to the table conversation. She was glad he did not see her long gaze.
The dragoon second in command was a whole new set of trouble for her. She yearned for him, hoping he would notice, and after having one drunken encounter with her months back, he spurned her in favor of his officer's decorum. The captain suddenly aborted their most recent encounter just days ago, for the same reason. He had made good on his threat to avoid her, and for that she was glad and sad: glad to not have to encounter him and deal with awkwardness, but sad as she missed his company.
After her stolen glance at him, she set her eyes back down on her cake, staring at the half eaten dessert. Don't I have enough to deal with already without having to fall into awkwardness with the captain on top of it all?!
Bordon participated in the conversation, and saw that Miss Burwell was cautious and few in her answers. He thought that was wise considering her sometimes careless and bold mouth, which even after a year of living in legion captivity, still made surprise appearances. You think she would have learned by now, the captain thought as he recalled instances of her impertinence. But it was also clear to him, this man who knew her better than anyone currently residing on the farm, that Betsy's mind was elsewhere though politeness and seemliness trumped whatever bothered her inwardly.
During a lull in the conversation as dishes were cleared, Betsy folded her napkin and rose from her seat. "Well, gentlemen, I must take my leave of you," she apologized with all the graciousness of her kind and patient mother.
After the scooting of the chairs on the wood, she continued. "I am afraid I have quite a pile of vouchers on my desk, overdue to be signed and turned into the quartermaster," she lied. The girl just wanted to leave when the conversation had turned to British politics. "I shan't keep him waiting any longer."
And again, the girl sauntered across the room to curtsy to the generals and accept their valedictions. She turned when she reached the head of the table. "Gentlemen, if there is anything at all that you need during your stay here," she informed politely, looking as if she was indeed a loyalist plantation mistress and not a prisoner forced to play the part, "please do not hesitate to call on me or my staff."
And as the men answered with a raising of their glasses and a hearty "hear, hear" to the girl and libations of appreciation, she made her way to the side of Colonel Tavington.
Betsy spoke to him in a low voice, deploring how close she had to stand next to him to talk. "Colonel, may I go visit my friend, Mrs. Day, sometime during this week? She is near to giving birth and I'd like to see to anything she may need during her confinement."
William, pleased with how the girl had not seemed to cause any trouble in the last few weeks and exceptionally satisfied with her 'performance' this evening smiled just a bit. "Of course," he muttered low. "I'll have Captain Bordon set up an escort for you. See him tomorrow for the details."
"Thank you, sir. Good night." He merely nodded his head instead of responding as she left the room.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
The officer's dinner finally broke up around 11pm. Hugh Bordon bid goodnight to all and took a detour to the horse barn instead of his room. His current horse, Apollo, had become inexplicably lame this morning. Always the good horseman, he wanted to check on his mount before he went to bed.
During his stroll down the path to the barn, he untied then rid himself of his cravat. Shoving it into his pocket as he walked, he smiled when a puff of cool night air hit his neck and upper chest, now free of their confines. And although the equine enclosure seemed to stink less in the lukewarm evening, the smell still entered his nostrils as he drew close.
The officer saw a lantern glowing on the floor near the middle of the building. He walked in the darkness and was pleased to find that the candle was coming from Apollo's stall. The captain stopped at the opening, watching as Gordie, the young squire and blacksmith's apprentice to the legion, was mixing up an offensive smelling herbal solution.
The golden steed vigorously nodded his head up and down at Bordon, trying to get his attention. The horse backed up and then stepped forward, and the officer could see the poor animal still limping.
"Easy, easy," the teen aged boy said, rising from his stool to take the horse's bridle. "Calm there."
"Hello," Bordon greeted Gordie, his deep voice subdued. All the while, his mount was still trying to get his master's attention.
"And a good evening to you to, Apollo," he said with a grin. The man reached out and stoked his horse's face, then moved to pat his neck. "I have a treat for you boy."
With that, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a ripe, yellow pear. The horse nickered happily as Hugh placed the fruit on his opened palm. Apollo gobbled it up quickly, crunching loudly without a care in the world. The sweet smell of the pear seemed to hang in the air around them momentarily after the beast had swallowed it down.
"How is he?"
Gordie, who was seated again, had taken some strips of cloth and pushed them into the pungent solution. "Same, sir. This is the fourth poultice of the day. I am hoping for some improvement in the morning."
The captain bent over and took Apollo's leg, lightly stroking over it. He let go of the beast's limb gently then straightened up and turned back to Gordie.
"Thank you," Bordon said. He then tossed a sovereign to the boy, who caught it."For services rendered." The officer knew that the enlisted men, though paid well and better than most of the soldiers in the world's various armies, were not wealthy by any means.
"I appreciate this, but I can't take this sir." The lad tried to give it back to the officer. "The legion pays me."
"I know," Hugh replied, refusing the coin back. "I appreciate your help, and I know Apollo loves you spoiling him. Don't tell anyone. Keep it and spend it on a good bottle of madeira or some coffee, if you can find it!"
"Thank you, sir. This is our secret. Thanks for your generosity."
"Good night, boys," he bid to both the horse and the squire with a silly smile.
With that, he sauntered out of the barn and back up toward the house. Looking off to the side of the darkened yard, Hugh left the path and headed to the well. Once there, Bordon shed his jacket and laid it on the ground. He was glad to be out of the woolen garment. Then, he reached behind him and unwound the black ribbon which covered his tightly braided hair, which seemed to be giving him a bit of a headache this evening. Shoving the thong in his other pocket, he quickly undid his auburn plait and in a moment, the cinnamon locks were freed and wild on his shoulders.
The officer pulled up a bucket of water. He wanted to wash up, somewhat informally, not wanting to carry what little stench of the barn that may be resting on his hands into the house with him. The officer also needed to cool down a bit, and he knew the water from the well to be colder than the liquid that had likely been sitting in the pitcher in his room for hours now.
Random thoughts crossed his mind as he splashed the cold water on his face and neck. I hope our guests find us performing to the lofty expectations amenable to the Realm. What the Hell did Apollo do to his foot? Miss Burwell looked wondrous tonight. The last thought surprised him and stopped his grooming for a moment.
He thrust his hands into the bucket and washed them. Again, his mind whirled. Well, she is pretty naturally. And she does always look beautiful in formal situations. I can't...though. I must stop this silliness. She is too young and besides, she is a captive. Remember the rules, Hugh. With that, he splashed his face.
Having banished all thoughts of Miss Burwell, he finished up his simple grooming by running his wet hands through his red hair. The dampness made it wavy and it rested atop his shoulders and limply down his back. He collected his jacket and strolled into the house, happy to be on to a night of sleep.
The Captain's eyes had just adjusted to the dark first floor hallway and darkness of the stairwell when he rounded the landing onto the second floor of the main house. Bordon was enjoying how quiet the house was. His eyes soon saw the soft light of candles filtering down the hallway coming from the alcove sitting area at the end of the floor.
As he neared his room, he saw that it was Miss Burwell, sitting alone on the small divan. The captain stopped at his room and opened the door. Curiosity got the best of him and instead of entering his bed chamber, he walked to that area.
The girl's legs were tucked under her and her robe pulled around her. Her book lay open on her lap before her, but she wasn't reading it. Her attention seemed to be outside on something unseen. Her arm was crooked at the elbow on the back of the settee, her chin resting in it, and she stared intently out the window into the inky blackness.
"Good night to you, lass," he said politely.
The girl didn't stir. She didn't even know that she wasn't alone anymore. Bordon spoke again. "Good evening, missy."
Again, the girl sat stock still, entranced by whatever she gazed upon through the window. Bordon, perplexed, padded quietly into the vestibule. He touched her arm, and she jumped. "Uh, Miss Burwell—"
"What?" she asked, startled.
"Uh...I just wanted to tell you good night, Miss Burwell."
Well, he has resumed formalities between the two of us, she ruminated. "Oh...Good night, sir." She closed her book and was quiet again.
The man nodded and turned to walk from the tiny area. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and slowly spun back to face her. "Might I say that you were very gracious this evening. The Colonel was well pleased."
She huffed and sat forward. Her tone took on some defense as she rolled her eyes. "I was doing what he ordered me to do."
The need to calm her came out of nowhere and possessed him. "Yes, you are good at it. And you looked stunning tonight, as well. I don't recall ever seeing that dress before."
Betsy, completely disarmed by the compliment, looked down and began to blush as her fingers moved nervously, gripping and fumbling at her book. "Um...it was Mother's."
"I see," replied Hugh. He let silence pass between them, not sure what to say. He needed deeply, within his soul, to breach the awkwardness that he had created between them.
Breaking the quiet, the captain spoke again. "Is something amiss?"
"What?" the girl asked as she looked up at him.
"At dinner this evening, despite being a good hostess, you didn't speak very much," the officer pointed out. "I know you better than any other soldier here. You weren't yourself."
"Well...I don't know much about the military or politics," she made the excuse.
"No, it wasn't that," Bordon disagreed. "Something is bothering you. Clearly, you were distracted when I found you just a moment ago."
"I'd rather not—"
"You know you may speak to me of anything," Bordon cajoled, partially out of duty, always gleaning intelligence, but mostly out of his heart for concern for the young lady. "We are in confidence."
With that Betsy heaved a tremendous sigh and stood up. The girl was quite irritated with Bordon, that he tended to fish things out of her and would not let go of the pole until she had taken the bait.
She blurted out, "Well, if you must know...I don't wish to marry Colonel Clark!"
Captain Bordon, stunned, looked about, hoping no one else had entered the hallway. He quickly grabbed the girl's arm with one hand, grabbed one of the lit candles with the other and pulled the girl from the alcove.
"What is the meaning—" she protested as she was shuffled along, but was interrupted with a quiet shushing from the officer.
"Shhhh." The man threw her through the doorway and into his room. He then shut the door and turned about to face the stunned girl. He leaned back on the door as if in relief, and whispered in a tone of panic to the young lady.
"You shouldn't have said that out there," he scolded.
"But you asked me! You just won't leave well enough alone!"
"Don't you know that the walls have ears?!"
Betsy looked at him in confusion.
"You know better than that!" he chastised. "Who knows if one of your servants was lurking in the darkness. They are about the house and farm at all hours."
"I trust them!" she shot back.
"Yes, but they gossip nonetheless," Hugh imparted. "You don't want what you just told me to spread all over the countryside, do you?" Bordon swept his arm in a wide arc, animating his words as he continued to look in amazement at the girl for having revealed something so openly.
The captain took a breath, then walked away from the door. He unbuttoned his vest and threw it and his jacket and neckstock onto the floor near his washstand.
"We can speak of this privately, in here," he said, sounding calmer.
"Are you sure there isn't someone hiding under your bed that will overhear us and talk?" she asked sarcastically.
"You are the one who wails about being the subject of gossip!" the captain shot back.
Neither one sat down, both too tense to do so. Betsy parked her body by the door and was relieved to see the captain lean back and partially sit on the edge of his desk, a respectable distance between them. For a conversation only, in confidence.
Private.
"You were saying..." the man trailed off as he crossed his arms over his chest, giving Betsy his full attention.
"I don't want to marry George," she answered, then looked down at the floor.
"I don't think you have a choice in the matter," he replied, trying to sound objective. "I believe your father has made up his mind. You are to be Commander Clark's bride."
"But I barely know him," she objected. "I only met him a few times in Charlestown."
"And obviously that was enough to see something between the two of you that satisfied your father," he argued.
"He didn't even consult me about it," Betsy cried, trying to keep her voice low.
"He doesn't have to. It is his right to marry you off to whomever he pleases."
Betsy was feeling desperate. She felt she had been forced into revealing her secret, and she was in close quarters with a man she held affection for. What was she to do? To her, the man she adored, Captain Bordon, was taking sides with her father, who was an enemy to the British, in support of marrying her off to Clark, another enemy officer. Why, she asked herself. How could he do this?
"I don't love him," she argued.
Bordon laughed nervously. "Many people aren't in love when they marry. I am sure that with time, you will learn to love him. The two of you will find a mutual affection."
"Did you love Mrs. Bordon when you married her?" Betsy asked impulsively. The captain shot her a dark look instantaneously, and Miss Burwell suddenly was sorry she had asked. But she couldn't take it back now.
"That's not your business," he replied darkly; ominously. His eyes narrowed in warning.
Her mouth dropped open at his callous, double standard. Most always she took him into her confidence, yet he never failed to hide as much about himself as he could. The girl decided right then that she would no longer stand for that, and turned cold.
She opened the door. "Well, obviously there is nothing more to be said. Goodnight, Captain."
The officer, eager for her company after avoiding her for so many days, wanted her conversation; her presence. He couldn't let go of her yet. The man raced to the door and pushed it shut, not allowing the girl to leave.
Betsy refused to look at him. She crossed her arms and stared at the door, and stewed at the sight of his arm across it, preventing her departure.
Both of them stood there frozen for a moment, in some sort of silly stand off. Both stubborn, neither giving in.
After a moment of an arrogant silence between the two, Betsy turned and spoke up. As she did, Bordon eased and stepped backward.
"Hugh, you have begged me to trust you," she advised coldly, not giving him any ground. "Trust moves both directions and you can't expect me to reveal things to you without your charging me with your own worries and secrets."
"You're right," he admitted. He would have to sacrifice part of himself, his secrets, which he was used to holding inside him, since he had no intimacy with anyone save for, seemingly, Betsy.
"Yes," he relented. "I did love Sarah before I married her. But it is different. My parents gave their blessing...we were from the same class of society."
"And so George and I are, too," Betsy pointed out. "He is from a good family."
"Yes, but you're openly protesting the betrothal that your father made," Bordon said, punctuating the last few words with a solid point of his hand toward the floor. "You will disgrace your family."
"I can't marry him," she cried, shaking her head as she felt near tears. "I won't marry him."
"It is not... your... choice," the officer reinforced, measuring his words for effectiveness.
"But I'm in love with someone else!" she announced.
"You're too young to know what love is," argued Bordon.
"No I'm not! I know what I feel!"
"You've not a clue," the officer scoffed, brushing off her misguided feelings as he would dust on a tabletop.
The young lady suddenly turned away from her confidant, feeling shame and trepidation. "He is someone who is near me all the time," she said in almost a whisper as she turned back to face the man. "He protects me and cares for me NOW...HERE."
Blushing now at her admission, Betsy Burwell looked at the floor. But nearly as fast, she lifted her eyes and looked innocently and lovingly at the redcoat officder who stood just feet from her.
Captain Bordon gulped, and realized that he could not—would not—hear this. It would not exist if it was left unsaid. He walked toward her, wanting to move her back to her senses.
"Betsy ….don't—"
"Hugh, I love you," she proclaimed, "And I know you have feelings for me. You said as much to me the other day...when you held me in your arms."
"No," he rebuked as he turned away from her. He walked to his desk where he put both hands on it and sighed in exasperation. "We can't speak of this. I WON'T speak of it!"
With that, awkwardness again hung heavy in the air between the two. Betsy felt angry at his sudden fear and refusal to admit the same for her. She knew he did...it was obvious in his words and actions to her. It had grown to be more than just an enemy officer doing the right thing by protecting a helpless captive from the rest of the world.
Instead, the two of them stood in anxious, suffocating silence. Bordon, refusing to acknowledge any feelings, and Betsy fuming.