Rapture's Betrayal (15 page)

Dunley nodded, while Godwin apparently had decided not to comment. Randolph glared at the fat Tory until the man rose to his feet, clearly discomfited.

“On second thought, Bernard,” William said. “Meet me here tomorrow night at ten o'clock. You'll go with me.”

“I? Go with you?” Godwin said, his gaze becoming wary.

Randolph smiled wickedly. “Into the arms of the enemy. Afraid?” he taunted.

“Of course not!”

“Good.” He slapped his hand on his knee. “Edmund, we'll see you here in three days' time. I'm sure you can make it.” It was a command not a request, with implied consequences should he decide not to come.

Edmund Dunley inclined his head. He would come.

“Until then,” Randolph said, rising to see his gentlemen friends to the door.

And the meeting of the Tory minds was ended.

 

 

Richard was tired of the charade. Thus far, his act had gotten him little or nothing. He was weary of the game, of pretending to like the fools who accompanied him on his travels. Would the ruse ever be over? Would he ever gain any clues as to the identity of the man he searched for, the unknown, faceless cur responsible for Alex's death?

The band had been on the move steadily for three days since leaving Hoppertown. Richard was annoyed that Greene had remained closemouthed about their mission. They wandered aimlessly through the Ramapo Mountains and later the region to the north in the colony of New York.

Finally, that night, a messenger arrived after they made camp. Richard recognized the man as one from Hoppertown and realized he must be one of William Randolph's men. His interest caught, he strolled over to where Greene stood with the messenger, deep in conversation. Their words were hushed, low. Greene looked over at Richard's approach.

“Trouble?” Richard asked politely.

The Tory leader scowled at him. Lately, he'd been exceedingly rude to Richard, his irritation evident and no doubt attributable to the fact that he'd yet to indulge in “Canfield's” games with the fairer sex. But in their wanderings, they'd come across few women, all of whom were, luckily for Richard, either too old, too ugly, or too fat for either man's tastes. So it was a great surprise to Richard when Greene decided to answer his question.

“General George Washington is at Paramus—near Hoppertown. In fact, a woman—Mrs. Prevost—is giving a party in 'is honor. Strange, actually, since the lady's a wife of a British officer. Well, in any event, Randolph wants us to return. Sends word 'e 'as news vital to our side. 'E wants us to deliver the message to the British army, to a Major Thatcher. Only the devil knows where that bastard is stationed.”

Richard held back his excitement. “Surely, he doesn't expect us to take on the rebel army! We number what—fifteen men? How many does Washington have there? Did Randolph say?”

Elias Greene shook his head. “Do ye know?” he asked Randolph's messenger.

The man shrugged. “Thirty? Fifty? It's right hard to judge. He suggests you come to . . .” And he described a secluded area not far from William Randolph's farm. “Near enough to be reached by Randolph, far enough away to be safe from rebel attack.

“It will be safe to meet the night of this party at the Hermitage,” he continued. “What with Washington and his officers being entertained by Mrs. Prevost. . .”

Greene frowned. “Don't like the sound of 'er. Don't like it at all.”

Richard's insides froze. “Perhaps she's a spy for the King,” he suggested. If Greene refused to return, then Richard's hopes of finding the traitorous link between the contact Biv and Alex's death would be dashed. Here was the chance he was waiting for. Randolph had gained his information from someone. Who?

“We've been idle these past days,” Richard pointed out. “A return might herald some action. The wenches in Hackensack are comely. 'Tis only a few miles away from Paramus. Perhaps you and I can slip away one evening, seek a bit of entertainment there.” His eyes gleamed as he gave Greene a wicked smile.

Greene jumped at the bait. “Yes . . .” He returned Richard's smile with a lecherous grin. “Fine, then, Canfield,” he said to Richard. “Alert the others. Tell the sorry bastards that we leave for Hoppertown at first light.”

Richard inclined his head and abruptly left to do the man's bidding. Soon he'd have the information he needed to complete his mission—and with Washington on hand to receive it!

His heart thundered in his chest. And he'd be near Kirsten again. Would he see her? Did he dare hope he would? If he did, it would have to be by chance, by an act of fate; for he could surely not risk seeking her company. The danger would be too great for both her and himself.

Still, he could dream—envision her sweet face, the smile on her lips when she saw him, the honey taste of her mouth as he kissed her, the soft whimpers as he stroked and caressed her silken skin . . . He imagined the throaty sound of her wild passionate cries as he made love to her and drove himself into her willing warmth.

He paused and closed his eyes. He was glad it was dark for his loins were on fire, his manhood hot and throbbing against the front of his breeches. It wouldn't do for the others to see him, to suspect the direction of his thoughts. There were a few among them so desperate for a woman that in their hunger they'd be less discriminating in their choice of sexual partners.

It was for this reason that Richard went into the thick of the forest on the pretext of relieving his bladder. After a few moments, he composed himself, then returned to camp to carry out Greene's orders.

The sun was but a faint glow in the sky when the Tories broke camp and moved out. They had traveled about for days, but the return trip to Hoppertown would take only a day, the direct distance being shorter than their earlier, seemingly aimless route about the countryside. Greene thought they would arrive at William Randolph's suggested meeting place by sundown.

Richard knew that he should concentrate on the meeting with Randolph, on the importance of his mission, as he walked along in the others' wake. But all he could think about was Kirsten Van Atta and how much he'd missed her. How much he wanted to see her again.

A dangerous state of affairs.

 

 

Kirsten was shocked when the invitation came. She stared down at the parchment that had recently been delivered. Her mouth open, she reread the carefully written words from Mrs. Theodosia Prevost, inviting her to attend a “small gathering” held in General Washington's honor, where there would be “dancing and other forms of amusement.”

A party! She'd never been to the Hermitage, but she was familiar with the Prevost home. It was a modest but lovely house just north of her father's property. The invitation was a great surprise to her, because Mrs. Prevost was the wife of a British officer. Major James Prevost was away, somewhere across the sea on business for the King. Why would his wife entertain General Washington? Could she be trusted? Was Theodosia Prevost neutral in the fight for freedom, or was she loyal to King George?

Kirsten was puzzled by something else also. She hadn't known the woman was aware of her existence. Why did Mrs. Prevost invite her and not her parents? Was it possible that the lady had made a mistake? Or had General Washington himself requested Kirsten's presence?

She became concerned that she wouldn't be allowed to go. Her father had been dismayed to learn of her visit to the Paramus encampment. Would he refuse her permission to attend her first real party? She wanted so badly to go.

And what did one wear to such an occasion?

Kirsten recalled the fine English and French gowns stored in the hall
kast
upstairs, brought over from England by her mother's mother—her grandmother, Elisabeth Randolph. Would
Moeder
understand? Would she let her borrow one of the fancy garments? And what if the gown needed to be altered? The ball was in two days—a hurried undertaking. Would there be hours enough to make the alterations?

She felt her heart lurch with an odd emotion. How wonderful it would be to attend such an event on a lover's arm! She thought of Richard, and her breath caught as she wondered what he was doing. Was he all right? Alive? She swallowed hard.
Dead?

He couldn't be dead, she decided, for she would know it, would somehow sense it if he was. After all, hadn't she detected that special bond between them, a bond formed while she was nursing him back to health?

Nonsense!
she thought. He was a Tory, and she'd never guessed it. She'd believed him a hero for the cause!
Ha!

Pain lanced her midsection. There was no bond between them. She'd have no way of knowing if he were dead or alive.

Tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away as they escaped to wet her cheeks.

“Moeder!”
she called, hurrying into the house.
“Moeder!
I've been invited to a party at the Hermitage! It's to be in honor of General Washington.” She paused for breath on the stairs. Her mother had indicated that she was in the room above in the loft.

“Can I go?” she asked as she entered the chamber where the ladder reached up to the attic floor. “I'll need your help. There's a gown to select. Tucks to be made. Oh,
Moeder,
please! Make
Vader
see that I must attend. I'll be safe, I promise. I've never been to a party before!”

The summer evening of Mrs. Prevost's gathering was clear and lovely, the temperature pleasant, the sun an orange globe in a cloudless sky as Kirsten stood at her bedchamber window, waiting anxiously for her cousins. Martin and Margaretha Hoppe were coming to take her to the Hermitage. They, too, had been invited to the party.

The Van Attas had also been invited, their invitation arriving separately hours after their daughter's. But one of their horses—a gelding—had become sick, and James wanted to remain near to watch him. So the couple had elected to stay home.

Kirsten's fears that she wouldn't be allowed to attend were unfounded. Her mother had been excited for her, hurrying from the attic loft to open the
kast
in the hall below, pulling out not one but several dresses that she deemed appropriate.

Kirsten had stared in awe at the lovely gowns, and had felt her own excitement about the event grow.

A party! She knew it wouldn't be so grand as those held in her mother's England or in great places like Philadelphia, New York, or that city in the Virginia Colony, Williamsburg. But it would be a fine occasion nevertheless, she decided as she tried on the first gown. And she'd meet all manner of illustrious people.

“Kirsten, stand still while I fasten the hem.” Agnes Van Atta wanted to ensure that her daughter's gown fit perfectly.

Since the affair was a Patriot event, Kirsten had chosen from among her grandmother's and mother's dresses a gown of red silk. This particular garment had belonged to her mother, and it had been made for her only weeks before her departure to the New World.

The low-cut garment had elbow-length sleeves, each with a detachable white ruffle, and a long train attached to the back of the neck. This last could be removed if desired, affording the garment a somewhat different look should the wearer decide she needed one.

The bodice was long waisted, lined with linen and boned for form. The overskirt was gathered on drawstrings to add fullness in the back and was sewn to the bodice. The gown fastened in the front much like a jacket, with a opening to display the dress's petticoat.

Kirsten's petticoat was white and had tiny seed pearls stitched onto the skirt in a floral pattern. The fancy petticoat would look stunning under the bright red gown.

“Kirsten,” her mother said, “come away from that window. Over by the looking glass. I'm not finished with you.”

She turned restlessly and went back to her parent's side.

Kirsten's hair had been arranged artfully, fastened up in the back in a cascade of curls, several silvery strands having been left to hang in feathery wisps about the sides of her face.

“I thought this would look lovely in your hair.” Agnes smiled down at her daughter with affection. In her hand, she held up a jeweled hair comb, diamonds set around a glistening red ruby gem.

“It was my mother's,” she explained. “The only treasure left us from a family of wealth. Your grandmother wore it to her very first dance.”

Kirsten squirmed impatiently while her mother added her grandmother's ruby hair ornament.
Dance . . .
she thought vaguely as her mother fixed a pin holding up a curl.

“Moeder,”
she gasped with a sudden realization, “what if I can't dance! I'll look a fool.”

“Nonsense,” Agnes said, standing back to view her handiwork. “Remember that charming little dance you and Miles used to do when we all went on picnics together?” She seemed pleased with her daughter's appearance.

“But we made that up!”

“Shall I call your
vader
then? He's a most accomplished stepper. He can show you how to dance.”

Kirsten agreed. “Please hurry. Martin and Margaretha will be here soon!”

The doors to the alcove bed were open. On the feather tick mattress lay Kirsten's night rail, a spare petticoat, and various other discarded garments. Her slippers rested on the floor by the bed. Ignoring them, she pushed the clothing on the bed aside and carefully sat down.

James paused on the threshold of his daughter's room and gawked at her. Kirsten stood up, feeling suddenly shy and nervous. Her father's opinion meant a great deal to her.

“Kirsten,” he said in a whispered voice, “you look beautiful.”

“Oh,
Vader,
do you truly believe this?”

He nodded and came into the bedchamber. “You are a most attractive young woman. You'll be the belle of the ball.”

“Even when I cannot dance?”

“But you can dance, dear daughter. I taught you once before, remember? When you were but six years old . . . at the Ackermans'?”

Kirsten frowned. “At the Acker—Ah! That? It wasn't a true dance, was it?”

“It was. It is. It's a Sir Roger de Coverley. Dance only the country dances, and you'll be fine.”

She rushed into her father's arms and hugged him tightly. “Bless you,
Vader!”

He laughed and held her slightly away. “You will mess your hair, daughter, if you are not careful. It's a calm night; no one will believe you weren't out dallying with some handsome beau.”

James Van Atta suddenly scowled. “I want you to listen to me, Kirsten, and listen well. There is a war. Many of the guests will be true Patriots, but there may be those among them who only pretend to be so.”

Kirsten wondered if he was referring to her hostess for the evening. “Mrs. Prevost is a pleasant woman,
Moeder
says.”

His expression softened. “She is. You will like her. She is most charming.”

The sound of horse hooves on the packed earth of the yard filtered up through the open window.

“They're here!” she cried.

Her parents smiled at her. “Slowly,” her mother instructed. “Slowly.”

James nodded. “You will get there soon enough.”

Kirsten was barely able to contain herself as she went downstairs to greet her cousins. She wanted to run, but did not.

Night came after the sound of the
klapperman's
ninth rattle, so the sky was still bright as the three cousins drove up before the Hermitage at half-past seven. The Prevosts, unlike the other villagers who were farmers or
boers,
were mill owners and considered to be wealthier than other Hoppertown residents.

Kirsten studied the Prevost home, saw the modest building with a door flanked by a single window on each side. It was a two-story house with a flat roof as compared to the gambrel roof of her own home. There was certainly nothing too stately or grand about the residence, and the realization made her wonder how much of what she'd heard of the family was true. Did the Prevosts possess great riches? Were there hidden jewels in secret rooms?

She and the Hoppes had arrived at the same time as some of Mrs. Prevost's other guests. Kirsten recognized familiar faces in the group as she alighted from Martin's conveyance. She saw Rachel Banta and her family. And there were the Bogerts and the Van Voorheeses, the owners of the farm outside the village.

The sight of the last family reminded Kirsten that she had a job to finish. The day after the Tories had left, she'd begun the task of transporting the goods from Martin's cellar. With Martin's help, she'd managed to move several crates and one cask. Tired and sore after that, they'd decided to wait until they could get more help, before they attempted to transport the rest.

“Kirsten,” Margaretha called. “Come. Mrs. Prevost is waiting to greet us.”

Kirsten smiled at her cousin. Margaretha looked ethereal in a gown of gold silk brocade. Her stomacher was embroidered with fine gold threads in a pattern of roses and laurel leaves.

Martin, too, looked smart this evening in a coat of military cut. His navy frockcoat had shiny brass buttons, and his buff breeches tapered down to white silk stockings. His silver-buckle shoes had been polished to a bright shine. Studying him more closely, Kirsten saw her cousin as one would view a man who wasn't a relative. Martin, she realized, was a handsome fellow.

Upon seeing Mrs. Prevost, she was surprised to recognize her hostess as a woman she'd seen at the
kerk
a few times. She'd had no idea that the woman who attended religious services on rare occasions was the wife of a British major, the lady who lived with her three servants in the Hermitage up the road.

As she and her cousins approached their smiling hostess, Kirsten detected some wonderful smells in the evening air. The scents of cook-smoke and baked goods and roasting meat made her mouth water in anticipation.

“Martin,” Theodosia Prevost said, “how wonderful to see you again!” The dark-haired lady wasn't an attractive woman. Her features were much too plain, and she had a scar across her forehead that couldn't be hidden by face powder. But there was something about her that drew one to her, an inner glow that showed in her eyes, a charm and friendliness that immediately grabbed and held one's attention.

Of course, she'd know Martin, Kirsten thought. Everyone in the area knew the tavern owner.

“Margaretha,” the woman said. “How lovely you look this evening! You appear well. Are you feeling better these days?”

The younger woman nodded. “Much improved. Thank you, Mrs. Prevost.”

“Theodosia,” their hostess insisted. “After all, we've known each other forever it seems.”

She addressed Kirsten next, fixing her with an intent gaze. Kirsten expected to hear her say, And who is this? But she didn't. She said, “Why, Kirsten Van Atta, how grownup you are! You have your mother's eyes and your father's smile.”

“You know who I am?”

Theodosia inclined her head. “So does the general, it seems. Do you know he specifically asked for your presence? I assured him that, of course, you would come. A young girl doesn't forget the first taste of berry pie.”

Kirsten blinked. “That was your pie?” When the woman told her it was, Kirsten blushed. She remembered an occasion when a strange woman had visited the Van Atta homestead, bringing a delicious berry pie. While the adults had been otherwise occupied, little Kirsten had been unable to resist eating most of that pie, sharing the rest with the family dog, Ralph. When it had come time to share some pie with the lady guest who'd brought it, there'd been none left to eat. Agnes Van Atta had been horrified at what her daughter had done.

“Oh, dear, what you must have thought.”

Mrs. Prevost chuckled. “I was extremely flattered. Your mother told me afterward that you had a bellyache for days.”

“It was worth it,” Kirsten said. “It was the best treat I'd ever eaten.”

Theodosia Prevost appeared pleased by the compliment. “Then you'll appreciate some tonight. And don't worry, we've baked plenty. Six.”

The Bantas were waiting to be greeted, so Kirsten, Martin, and Margaretha went inside, at Theodosia's invitation, and joined the other guests milling about the house.

“Look!” Margaretha murmured to Kirsten. “Isn't that Frederick Terhune and his daughter Anna?”

Kirsten studied the two persons in question. She recognized the heavyset man's garish choice of garment colors. And as usual, Frederick Terhune's powdered gray goat's wig sat crookedly on his head. Anna looked pathetically thin in her gown of faded green. “Yes, that's the Terhunes,” she said. Her gaze continued on about the room, and her face brightened. “Oh, see, Margaretha! There's Mr. Hamilton—Alexander Hamilton, the general's aide.”

Margaretha beamed. “He's an attractive man, isn't he?”

Is he? Kirsten wondered. She found the only man to her liking was Richard, a veritable stranger she'd probably never see again.

“What's this?” Martin exclaimed, raising Kirsten's chin with his index finger. “Why such a long face? Has the party palled for you already? And when the music has barely begun?”

She gave him a slight smile. Her grin became genuine as she heard the first strains of music above the conversation of the guests. There was one musician, a man at the pianoforte. The house was small, and Kirsten wondered how many people Theodosia had invited. The parlor seemed to be the main room. Guests took up every available chair; and a few stood at the parlor's perimeter, leaving a place for dancing in the center of the room.

Kirsten saw only four soldiers from Washington's army. She was surprised to see that they were well dressed for the occasion. Brought or borrowed clothes? she wondered, recalling the worn clothing she'd seen at the camp. And then she realized that the four men were officers, one of them being the general himself.

Her attention was drawn away from Washington as the three cousins were joined by friendly neighbors. Rachel Banta eyed Kirsten with admiration, before turning the force of her charm on Cousin Martin.

“Sir, would you escort me to the refreshment table?” the young woman said.

Martin gave Kirsten a twisted smile, then he and Rachel strolled off, leaving Kirsten and Margaretha in the company of Rachel's brother. Margaretha and Thomas Banta began discussing the changing weather. Kirsten stared after Martin, debating whether she should leave Margaretha and Thomas alone.

“She has a tenderness for him, you know,” a voice said in Kirsten's ear. She turned to find John Ackerman by her side, grinning down at her.

“Who?” she said blankly.

“Rachel. She has a tenderness for Martin.”

“No,” Kirsten replied somewhat stiffly, “I didn't know.” She'd never liked John Ackerman, and this evening's encounter with the man hadn't changed that.

He studied her thoroughly from shining blond tresses to bared upper swells of breasts to soft leather slippers. Kirsten shifted uncomfortably beneath his ogling gaze, glad that her mother had altered the hem of her gown to a length that modestly hid her ankles.