Law, Susan Kay Page 3

  As she wiped tables, drew beer, snuffed wicks and rinsed tankards, she shot furtive glances at the soldiers. She couldn't help it; she could feel them watching her. Captain Livingston, sipping on his drink, appeared to scrutinize the room, and her most of all, with speculation and undisguised amusement. And every time her gaze caught Jon's soft, sleepy one, he grinned at her with pure joy. Much as she tried to look away quickly, she always found herself smiling back. Warm, innocent happiness was impossible to resist.

  "Better not let Father catch you smiling at them like that." Brendan's soft voice coming from the shadows in the corner startled her; she hadn't thought anyone would notice.

  "I'm not smiling at them."

  He puffed on his pipe, the rich scent of tobacco drifting to her. "Oh?"

  "Of course not."

  Arching one dark brow skeptically, he waited.

  "I was smiling at him," she admitted.

  "Him?"

  "Lieutenant Leighton."

  Brendan shook his head in mock sadness. "Elizabeth, Elizabeth. You of all people should be immune to handsome faces, large brawny bodies, and empty heads. I'd thought you'd learned to appreciate finer, more subtle men."

  "Men who have some of the same qualities as, say, you have, perhaps?"

  "Exactly."

  Laughing, she reached for a big pewter tankard. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  "You didn't really think I'd say no, did you?"

  She carefully poured fragrant hard cider into the mug. "It's not that I appreciate him, you know—at least, not the way you meant. But how can you not smile at him? He's so happy. So simply happy."

  Brendan reached around her for a bottle and added the hefty portion of dark rum that turned the cider into a "stone wall." "Simply happy? You think so?"

  "You don't?"

  He took a long sip of his drink. "Is anything ever really that uncomplicated, Elizabeth?"

  "He is," Bennie said with conviction.

  "Maybe."

  Elizabeth filled her own mug with cider and leaned against the wall next to Brendan, studying his fine, dark profile. Of all her brothers, Brendan was the one she felt closest to, perhaps because they were the two Jones progeny who were different from the rest.

  "I'm sorry, Brendan." She traced the rim of her tankard with her forefinger. "About what Dad said about wondering how he produced you, I mean."

  Brendan took a sip and leaned his head back against the wall. "It's nothing new, Elizabeth."

  It wasn't. In the Jones family, a man was judged by his size and his brawn. Brendan wasn't exactly small, but he was definitely on the lean side. What no one seemed to appreciate was that his clear, brilliant mind was the equal of anyone's anywhere. Bennie knew he'd wanted desperately to go to Harvard and test himself among others who loved to think and learn but even if Da had had the money to send him, both Bennie and Brendan knew he never would. Cadwallader Jones would consider it a complete waste; a man should be working, not thinking.

  "I know it isn't," she said softly. "Still—"

  "Never mind, Elizabeth. That wound has been scarred over for so long I scarcely feel the pricking anymore."

  "I just wish he would... I don't know. Stop expecting you to be like him."

  "He's not going to change. I stopped hoping he would a long time ago." He pushed himself off the wall and grinned at her. "Now, enough of the diversionary tactics. Are you going to tell me you're really interested in that big lug?"

  "I wouldn't say interested. I just feel kind of sorry for him. I wonder what he was like before his accident."

  "Ah. So you're simply picking up strays again, is that it? Mother will be so disappointed. She's only been trying to marry you off for six years or so."

  "Oh, stop." She gave him a small shove. "At least that's six years fewer than she's been trying to find a wife for you. After all, you're the only other never-married person over the age of twenty in New Wexford."

  "I know." He placed his hand theatrically over his heart. "I'm 'in violation of God's command to multiply,' as Mother so frequently reminds me. But who would want to marry a poor printer like me?"

  "Poor? You do a fine business, and you know it. The next nearest printer is all the way to Boston."

  "I'm sure the right woman for me is all the way in Boston, too."

  "Well, then, I guess we're stuck, aren't we? Mother will just have to do with the grandchildren she gets from the rest of the family." Across the room, Rufus waved for more beer. "I'd better get back to work."

  ***

  The evening wore on; candles guttered in their holders, and the chill wind screamed outside the Eel. Inside it was tense and quiet; a night of steady drinking, uninterrupted by the customary conversation, left the colonials a little drunker than usual. The equally unaccustomed proximity of British soldiers left them a little angrier than usual, and a little more inclined to try and get rid of these unwelcome interlopers by any means necessary.

  Whispers and murmurs simmered around the room. Nerves were stretched taut, and Cadwallader was torn between the anticipation of a bloody good brawl and apprehension that his tavern would get smashed in the process.

  The redcoats seemed oblivious to the colonials' hostility. They sipped their drinks, turning to beer after they finished the flips. Finally, Captain Livingston stood to leave, his men scrambling to their feet after him, and Cad and his customers heaved a collective sigh of relief. At last.

  Livingston waved curtly, signaling Cadwallader. A bit miffed at the abrupt summons, Cad was nevertheless so happy about getting these intruders out of his place he hurried over.

  "Yes? What would you be wanting now, Captain?"

  The captain carefully brushed imaginary dust from his stained uniform. "First, I'm assuming there will be no charge for the rest of the drinks."

  "And just why would you assume that? You owe me four shillings."

  "How many of your customers actually pay you in hard coin?" Livingston asked, pointedly glancing around the room.

  "Not many," Cad acknowledged. "But all trade me useful goods or services. What have you to offer?"

  "You are all ready receiving the services of the British army. There is no need to offer them for barter."

  "I say there is."

  "We are here for your protection."

  "Protection! Bah!" Cad planted his fists squarely on his hips. "You are here for our persecution. The Quartering Act is no longer in effect, and the people of Massachusetts are under no obligation to provide for your upkeep. And we have no need of your protection. We are all perfectly capable of protecting our own."

  "Ah." Livingston held up one long thin finger. "That brings me to one more thing: It has come to my attention that it is nearly time for your annual mustering of the local militia."

  "Yes." Cad said, wondering why the captain had broached the subject.

  "It will not take place."

  "What!" Cad drew himself up to his full height. "It most certainly will. There has been a yearly mustering on the common as long as there has been a New Wexford."

  "It is no longer necessary. The British army is here to protect you now."

  "It is our right as free men and English citizens to see to our own protection. It is a man's business to take care of the safety of his family. I would trust no one else."

  "You will trust us." The three privates suddenly formed a solid line behind their captain, standing rigidly at attention, their hands hovering close to the short swords strapped at their waists. A few seconds later, Lieutenant Leighton stumbled over to join them, bumping only one of the soldiers before finding his own spot and stiffening his large body.

  "I am ordering you—all of you," the captain said, sweeping his arm to encompass the entire room. "There will be no mustering of the militia in New Wexford."

  All the men in the room surged to their feet, their anger palpable in the suddenly seething air.

  "There will be," Cad stated with utter implacability.

  "It
was an order, Jones. You are British subjects."

  "We are Americans, sir," Cad said proudly.

  A small smile played about the corners of the captain's thin lips. "We shall see." He turned to leave, his men following him in perfect, sharp formation. Even Lieutenant Leighton was barely a shade out of step, and no one doubted he had the strength to use his weapon.

  "Oh, yes," Livingston said, as if it was an afterthought. "Any protests from the Sons of Liberty will be dealt with most severely."

  "The Sons of Liberty?" Cad asked warily. "Why would you think any of us would know one of them? Everyone knows they are headquartered at the Bunch of Grapes Tavern in Boston."

  "Boston is only fifteen miles away, Jones. Not so far for such radicals to travel."

  "I know nothing about them."

  The captain chuckled softly. "Well, perhaps if you should happen to run across one, you could pass on the message. They but play at politics and war. They are dealing with soldiers now."

  His carriage proud and confident, he strode out the door.

  Lieutenant Leighton was the last to leave. He whirled abruptly, throwing himself slightly off balance, and grabbed the doorframe to brace himself. The night was black and thick. Cold air crept in around his big body, seeping across the planked floor of the tavern, ruffling the flames of the tallow candles.

  He swung his head from side to side, like an animal searching a new clearing, seeking prey or danger. Finally, his gaze fixed on the spot near the back where Bennie waited, watching them leave. His eyes brightened and his broad, happy grin spread once more across his strong-boned face.

  "Good-bye, Bennie-girl."

  ***

  The other men would call him traitor. He called himself prudent.

  Thoughtfully, he watched the British leave. So that was the new ranking officer in the area. His contact would not change, of course; in fact, the captain would never know he existed unless it became essential. Still, he was glad to have the opportunity to see Livingston in action. One never knew what necessity would bring.

  The captain was pompous, certainly. What he didn't know was whether that pride would become a problem. Could Livingston put it aside and do what needed to be done? At least the captain had intelligence. It could be worse.

  He didn't know who could be trusted yet, he decided. It was too soon to tell, and too important a decision to be made quickly and carelessly. He would continue to listen, to gather bits of information and pass them on. He would watch, and wait.

  The important thing was to be careful. That, and to stop this madness before it went too far, to stomp out the small, isolated fires before they burst into a wild conflagration that would bring only one thing.

  War.

  CHAPTER 3

  Bennie tightened her grip on the handle of her leather case and took a cautious step down the stairs. She paused, listening. It was quiet. She continued stealthily on, placing her weight carefully on the old boards, trying to avoid causing any telltale creaks.

  The last thing she wanted was for one of her family to catch her before she slipped out of the house. If her father found her, she'd be put to work instead of allowed to go off by herself. If her brothers caught her, they'd tease her unmercifully. If her mother saw her—well, that didn't bear thinking about.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she peered both ways, into the dark, quiet dining room to her left and the silent, meticulously polished parlor on her right. Both rooms were empty. She had only to slip across the few steps to the door and then through the small clearing in front of the house without being seen and she was free.

  The door opened. Bennie froze; it was too late.

  "Hello, Mother."

  "Elizabeth." Mary glided into the house, her market basket tucked over her arm, and quietly shut the door behind her. "I was just down at Rufus's store, and look what I found." She stopped, finally glancing up from her basket and getting a good look at her daughter. "Oh, Elizabeth," she said, her lyrical voice tinged with disappointment. "What are you wearing?"

  Bennie glanced down at her loose linen shirt, breeches, and scuffed boots. "Clothes, I believe."

  "I thought we decided you weren't going to wear breeches anymore."

  "No, Mother, you decided. I decided I would wear them only when skirts made things difficult. Besides, think of how many yards of material we're saving by my wearing trousers instead of a dress."

  "Elizabeth." Mary reached up, her slender hand elegantly graceful, and gently smoothed one of the disobedient curls escaping Bennie's braid. "I don't understand why you won't even try. You are so statuesque. With the proper clothes, you could really be quite striking."

  Statuesque. Striking. Resigned, Elizabeth smiled at her dainty, petite, and utterly ladylike mother. Only a few strands of gray threaded the dark, smooth, shiny mass of her mother's hair, neatly woven into a tight bun. Not a stray hair escaped.

  Bennie was nothing like her mother, and she knew it. Her dark eyes were the only feature she could say she'd inherited from Mary; everything else came from Cad.

  "I really wish," her mother was continuing, "you would consider going to Maryland. You know your Aunt Sarah would be more than happy to have you visit for a while."

  Maryland again. Bennie didn't know how Maryland had gotten the reputation as a place where even the most desperate of women could find a husband the instant they set foot inside its borders, but her mother clearly believed this to be so.

  "I'm not going to Maryland. I have no overwhelming wish to get married."

  "Who said anything about getting married?" Mary asked innocently. "I just think you should go visit your aunt."

  Bennie shook her head. She knew it would do little good to protest; her mother, gentle though she was, could be as immovable as any of the Joneses. Bennie wasn't the kind of woman a man wanted for a wife; she was too tall, too strong, too much like her brothers. But Mary never seemed to give up.

  "Well, if you won't go for a visit, why don't we at least see about making you a new dress for the mustering? I have a lovely forest green wool that would look very stately on you. If you had a beautiful gown, I'm sure you wouldn't feel the need to go running around in your brother's castoffs."

  "I'm only wearing these now because I'm going for a walk, and my skirts always catch on the undergrowth. I got tired of mending them, and you know I don't have your talent with a needle. I'll make sure no one sees me."

  "You're going out to Finnigan's Wood again, aren't you?"

  Bennie sighed heavily. "Yes."

  "I'm just concerned about you. Do you really think it's safe for a woman to go tramping around in the woods alone?"

  "I'll be just fine," Bennie assured her quietly. "Who would bother me?" There were some advantages, few though they might be, to being her size. She intended to exploit them fully.

  "I suppose you're going out to play that thing, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Really, Elizabeth, I'd be more than happy to get you a more appropriate instrument, something more befitting a young lady. A spinet, or perhaps a harpsichord? If music is your talent, I think you should explore all aspects of it."

  "Mother. I am not young, nor am I much of a lady. The violin suits me just fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go practice." Bennie slipped past her mother and strode across the clearing, choosing the path running behind the tavern and directly into a thick copse of trees.

  Setting her basket down, Mary leaned against the doorframe, concern etching tiny lines around her lovely, delicate features. She loved her daughter completely and treasured her in the way only the mother of eight sons could cherish a lone daughter. But she didn't understand her.

  Mary's hands fluttered up, checking to see if her hair was still tidy. She had known, back when she was seventeen, that the town had thought it a step down when one of the two daughters of the reverend of the First Congregational Church of New Wexford had agreed to marry the young, blustery giant, Cadwallader Jones. Thirty-three years la
ter, she was still sure she'd made the right choice.

  She'd known even then that Cad had loved her wholly and without reservation. She came first with him, and always would. For a young woman whose father had often put faith and duty above family, it had been a seductive lure, and one she'd never regretted succumbing to.

  She loved Cad with a quiet devotion. She understood him, for he was an open man, honest, proud, and uncomplicated. All her sons, too, she loved and understood; seven because they were just like their father, and Brendan because he was so much like her. Brendan, as did she, needed to think things through, to reason, to depend on intellect rather than treacherous and unpredictable emotions.

  Bennie, despite her clear resemblance to Cad, was different. She didn't have her father's elemental nature. She hid so much. There was never any anger, any pain, any grief, not with Bennie—at least, not where it would show. She seemed satisfied, perhaps, but never content. Too much turbulence hid in those dark eyes. Too many ruthlessly suppressed dreams.

  There seemed to be nothing Mary could do; at any rate, nothing she'd tried so far had worked.

  But if there was one thing Mary had learned in more than three decades of being a Jones, it was steady determination always paid off—eventually. And Mary was nothing if not steady.

  Finally taking her gaze from the place where Bennie had disappeared into the dark trees, Mary bent and scooped up her basket. There was nothing she could do now, and she had hungry men to feed. Later... well, later she'd see.

  ***

  Bennie walked slowly through the woods, still lugging her case. A few lonely brown leaves clung to the rough, twisted branches of the oaks, maples, and other trees growing in disorderly profusion. The air was cool and fresh, as crisp as the leaves crunching satisfyingly underfoot.

  Bennie loved the forest. The ground here was rocky, overgrown, and creased with small ravines; there were many acres nearby which were more easily tilled, and so this patch of growth had been left alone. The area was not vast by any means; but securely cloaked from prying, judging eyes by the accommodating trees, here she could feel comfortable. Here she felt like Elizabeth Jones, and not some freak everyone kept trying to shove into one slot or another, slots she could never manage to squeeze into, no matter how hard she tried.