Free Camp Follower: A Mystery of the American Revolution by Suzanne Adair Page A

smile
curved Enid's lips.   She handed her a
card withdrawn from her pocket.
    An audacious,
masculine hand had scrawled the letter "D" on the card.   No other message.   Helen cupped the card in her palm, deep relief piercing some of
her grief over Charles.   Amused,
embarrassed, she recalled David's grimace when he sipped her wine.   "Open the wine.   You shall share it."
    As soon as Enid
left the parlor again, Helen pressed the card to her bosom a moment before
tossing it into the fire.   Audacious.   She hoped David
hadn't compromised his escape and was at least thirty miles south of
Wilmington, enjoying brandy at an obscure inn that hadn't seen traffic with
soldiers in a long while.
    After drinking
a goblet of wine, Enid secured the house and retired to bed.   Helen nibbled bread and cheese, drank wine,
and brooded.   By three-quarters of the
way into the bottle, the Italian red had swelled to a delectable, sensuous
experience that blunted the edge on grief, fear, and loss.
    Like a
paramour, she thought later, sitting on the side of her bed and staring
drunkenly at the empty bottle on the nightstand.   No, not quite like a paramour.   The wine was more like a temple priestess of ancient Babylon, condemned
by the Biblical prophet Hosea, worshipped and delighted in by warriors who
returned from battle.   A snort of irony
escaped her, and she traced the bottle's label with her fingertip.   Fancy that.   She was a warrior, and her temple priestess was a bottle of wine.
    At dawn Sunday
morning, she was awake.   Silas had
trodden over her dreams, the ball from his dueling pistol embedded above his
right eyebrow and dribbling blood and brains.   He pursued her down Market Street, swinging at her with his riding crop,
second to his fists as the preferred tool for discipline.   She'd shaken herself awake when Charles — a
ball from a dueling pistol embedded above his eyebrow, too — joined them.
    Her skull felt
stuffed with goose down, the migraine unabated.   And, of course, anguish took pleasure in her company, undeterred
by wine.   She hadn't expected grief to
vanish.   At least she hadn't laced the
wine with laudanum.   For her, that would
have induced worse than nightmares: hallucinations and visions most unholy.
    She sought the
dawn place after she'd dressed, almost too distracted to lose herself in
earth's wisdom.   At the back door, Enid
awaited her, eyelids swollen and red.   "I've porridge and coffee ready, mistress."   Her tone lacked spunk, and her dark gray
jacket and petticoat leached color from her face.
    "I shall
breakfast in the study.   Jonathan must
be notified of Charles's death."   A
memory from the Atlantic crossing surfaced: Silas drunk in their cabin, she and
Jonathan exploring predawn star clusters up on deck with his spyglass.   How pleasant his company, compared to that
of Silas.   Her throat tightened.   Aware of Enid's astute expression, she
cleared her throat.   "If Jonathan
is in residence at his estate, you know he'll attend the funeral."   But he was likely elsewhere than his estate
half a day south of Wilmington.   Africa.   India.   China.
    At seven
o'clock, a letter to her former teacher composed, she found dawn's light
through the study window blocked.   Startled, she looked up from her desk.   Fairfax fingered the window frame at the spot where one of his men had
jimmied it open early the previous morning.   Indignation frosted her expression.   She stood, fists balled.
    He spotted her,
removed his hat, and bowed.   "Good
morning."
    From his lack
of emotion, he might have addressed a farm animal.   She compressed her lips.   "How dare you peep in on me like that?   Remove yourself from my property this instant."
    Enid huffed
into the study and glowered.   "What's he doing out there?"
    "Mrs.
Chiswell, as you and Mrs. Jones are decent widows, do allow me an audience lest
neighbors presume me a loiterer."
    Welsh accent
ground from between Enid's