then looked twice at the words beneath. "Washington Dee Cee. What does that mean?"
"District of Columbia," said Rutledge. "The capital of the fifty states."
"It's on the Potomac River," offered Emilie. "Near your Maryland and Virginia."
Her words were lost on Andrew. " Fifty states?"
"Thirteen colonies became fifty states," said Emilie, eyes shining. "From the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific."
A green seal was positioned beneath the name of the nation's capital and within that seal were the words Department of the Treasury 1789.
Andrew dropped the bill as if it had suddenly caught fire. His chest felt tight, making it hard to draw sufficient breath into his lungs. He looked again at the redheaded woman and her tall companion. It would explain so much about them. Her strange attire, the king's ransom in precious metal that bedecked her person, the odd manner of speech they both affected.
There was no denying Rutledge's fury when the Mistress Emilie related the story. The man had had the look about him of a wild animal caught in a trap. Andrew knew the feeling of being caught in circumstances not of his own design and, despite his better judgment, he well understood Rutledge's agitation.
But what then was he to make of Mistress Emilie? Andrew recognized something of himself in the redheaded woman as well and that threw his mind into a whirlpool of confusion.
The patriots had been engaged in the battle against British tyranny for more than a year and still had not achieved a victory. His Excellency, General Washington, had sent numerous missives to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia, begging the good men of conscience to provide more troops, more food, more weapons to aid in their cause.
Andrew had seen the swift horror of Lexington and Concord. Little had happened since to raise the spirits of the patriots.
"You spoke of the General," he said, choosing his words with great deliberation. "Of some danger--?"
"A plot to assassinate him," said Mistress Emilie. "In my day you are thought of as a hero."
He was many things but a hero was not among them. "And what is it that I have done to deserve such praise?"
She told him quickly of a masked man, garbed all in black, who had risked his own life to save the commander of the Continental Army.
"When did this happen?"
"In the summer of 1776."
Andrew grew quiet. July was all but gone. "Can you put a date and place to this event, Mistress Emilie?"
"I wish I could, but there has always been a degree of uncertainty attached to the event." She hesitated, dropping her gaze in a most uncharacteristic fashion.
"Mark me well, mistress. I am not a man afraid of harsh news."
"The truth is that I have no news, Andrew. From that moment forward, you exist only in speculation." Her smile was gentle and for a moment he was reminded of his Elspeth. "I have always imagined that you retired to a life in the country with a wife and children and lived to be a very old man."
Her words struck a chord deep inside him, hidden away in that place where love had gone to die. For the past few years he had not felt himself long for the world. When Elspeth and their son had died, they had taken with them all that was fine and good in the world, leaving him behind to mark the days until he met his Maker.
Some men joined the militia because the fires of independence burned hot in their breasts. Those men became generals, leaders of men. Andrew had joined because he had nothing of value to lose. They made him a spy.
He looked at Emilie who was standing near her companion. "How is it you come to know the ways of this time to such a degree?" Were he to find himself in Plimoth colony at the time of its beginnings, he would be without a clue as to proper behavior. "Sorcery, perhaps?"
"Nothing so exotic. I earn my living--Zane!"
Rutledge suddenly doubled over, clutching his right arm against his chest.
"He's in pain," she said, eyes wide as she looked at Andrew. "Can we fetch a doctor?"
"I cannot
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