The Blacksmith's Daughter: A Mystery of the American Revolution by Suzanne Adair Page B

ascertain whether I've
further questions for you."   Tom
made a vague motion of acquiescence.   The lieutenant redirected his attention.   "Mr. and Mrs. Sheridan, be assured that I shall discover who
stole your furniture and burned your house, and then bring them to
justice.   It's my duty to see the
Crown's justice executed.   You're loyal
subjects of His Majesty.   I'm at your
service."   He inclined his head.
    Clark's response sounded
mechanical.   "Thank you, but I
don't see how you can help us.   You're
due shortly to catch up with your cavalry unit in South Carolina."
    "The world, sir, is not so large
as you might imagine.   I guarantee you
it isn't large enough to hide a wagonload of furniture, perhaps sodden
furniture."   He gestured toward the
door.   "I've a few more questions
for the rest of you.   Shall we repair
downstairs and allow Mr. Alexander his repose?"
    They filed from the bedroom,
Fairfax first, followed by Ephraim, Adam, and Clark.   When Betsy moved to follow them, she heard Tom whisper her
name.   He motioned her to close the
door.   "Quickly, before Mama
returns."   She sat at his bedside,
afraid of what she saw in his eyes.   "Clark's in deep trouble."
    She made a furtive glance over her
shoulder.   "Hush."
    "The Cordovan leather.   How did he come by it?   He had to deal with Spaniards somehow, and
he's a Loyalist."
    "Forget you ever saw it."
    "Done.   What's his business with Spaniards?"
    "I'm not exactly sure."
    "Trust me, I shan't breathe a
word of it."   He lifted his
jaw.   "I wouldn't betray
Clark.   I've known him most of my life.   You — both of you — have been so kind to
me.   Tell me what he's into so I can
cover for him."
    "Oh, Tom, I don't know what to
tell you.   I honestly don't know enough
myself to say for sure, but it's growing deeper and deeper with each
day."   Her hands shook, and she
clasped them to still the trembling.   "And it frightens me."
    He brushed her wrist with his
fingers.   "I lied to Lieutenant
Fairfax."
    Her heart skipped a beat.   She glanced at the closed bedroom door
again.   "You lied about the men you
saw with the wagon?"
    "Yes.   There were at least four.   I did hear one speak just before I was hit
on the head.   He was a Spaniard.   ¡Cuidado, Basilio, un hombre! he
said.   'Look out, Basilio, a
man!'"   Tom swallowed.   "Your dogs — Caleb is holding them for
you — they weren't barking or nervous with any of those men.   They'd seen them all before."
    "Good gods," she
whispered.   Disillusionment crashed over
her world and splintered what remained of it into glistening shards of
betrayal.   How could Clark have done such
a thing?   That night, she must confront him.
    Tom's gray eyes searched her
face.   "Find me on the morrow and
tell me about it."
    Involve him further in what was
almost certainly suicide?   "I
cannot."   She squared her
shoulders.   "I will not."
    "I don't care about this
war.   You know that.   I want to help Clark.   And you.   You're going to need help."
    The stairs creaked with Rose's
ascending footsteps.   Betsy grafted
serenity into her expression and stood.   Tom was a decent fellow, undeserving of being stomped underfoot by Britain
and an international ring of spies.   "I won't involve you."   Before he could protest, she turned her back to him and opened the door
for his mother.   "You get well, you
hear me, Tom Alexander?   The shop may
have burned, but Clark still needs his apprentices."   Then she smiled at Rose and trotted downstairs.
    Chapter Eleven
    IN THE WEE hours of Friday morning,
Betsy rolled onto her back in the bed she'd shared growing up with a
cousin.   Scents of pine and dewy earth
and the music of frogs and crickets drifted in through the window.   Against the tumult of her thoughts, it had
all proved useless at relaxing her for sleep.
    Men's murmurs rose from the ground
floor.   Imagining how Clark acquiesced
to offers of community aid revolted