The Secrets Of Catie Hazard

Anthony twisted in his chair to look over his shoulder, more to mask his feelings than to appraise the looking glass. Though Ridley’s own orders had been explicit about looting, he wasn’t overparticular about helping himself. It was common enough knowledge among the other officers, and cause for more than a few jests, about how crowded dear Chloe’s parlor would be by the end of the war.

But this time Anthony wouldn’t be among those laughing, not when his aunt Mariah’s looking glass was to be the plunder. Damnation, they must have fled with only the clothes on their backs, for everything else in the house to have been left exactly as he remembered it.

But would good could come of remembering? Better, so much better, to forget his uncle’s desk as it had been, piled high with shipping manifests and bills of lading, and how Uncle Gabriel would always find the time to break away from his work to talk to him and to Jon, to show them some rare coin from China or explain how the jiggling needle of a compass worked, the three of them standing there together, with the summer sun slanting in through the tall window and the sweet fragrance of Aunt Mariah’s gingerbread drifting up from the kitchen.

“Yes, I do believe the looking glass would suit Chloe,” the general was saying. “It’s nearly a match for the one I sent her from Boston.”

Slowly Anthony turned back in his chair. How that woman at the tavern must be laughing by now, her silver-gray eyes fair bubbling over with mirth at his expense. She’d been right about his aunt and uncle, of course, while he’d been appallingly wrong in his assumptions. What a pompous, blustering, ignorant fool he must have seemed to her!

Abruptly he shoved back his chair and rose, his sword swinging back against his thigh. “I’m certain Mrs. Ridley will be most pleased with whatever gift you make to her,” he said with a curt bow. “But if you’ll be so good as to excuse me, General, there are a good many other matters that need my attention.”

Ridley’s brows rose toward the front of his wig with mild surprise. “I’d say that such matters are my decision, sir, not yours.” He waved his hand back toward the chair. “And I say you stay until I dismiss you. Unless in your present choler you find my company intolerable, eh?”

It was all the reproof Anthony needed. He’d always been known as a moderate man, one who kept his temper in check. At least he had been before now. Swiftly he bowed again and sat, mentally cursing the woman who’d let him make such a fool of himself. If she’d been more honest with him, if only she hadn’t been so damnably coy, then perhaps—

“You’d do well to watch yourself, Sparhawk,” continued the general, subtly replacing the air of a genial country squire with something harder, sharper and far more astute than his enemies would have dreamed possible. At once Anthony was on his guard. Off the battlefield, Ridley seldom showed this side to his subordinates, and its appearance now could mean nothing good.

“Sir,” said Anthony. It was the only possible answer.

“Sir yourself, man, and listen to me.” Impatiently he drummed his thick-knuckled fingers on the top of the desk. “You know I trust you, Sparhawk. You’ve been with me for more years than I care to count, damn me if you haven’t, by my side through all the worst of this wretched campaign. Breed’s Hill, Long Island, especially that miserable showing at Lexington—not once have you given me cause to doubt your loyalty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Anthony stiffly, already guessing what was coming. “Thank you, sir.”

“Why else d’you think I’ve made you my adjutant here, eh? But there’s plenty of others here who say otherwise, and I can’t say I fault ‘em for it.” He leaned forward, his gaze shrewdly appraising. “You don’t want me in this house, do you, Major? You’re thinking I don’t belong here. You’re thinking I’m taking the place of that blackguard uncle of yours, and you’re thinking of him instead of your king.”

“But, sir, I can—”

“No, sir, you hear me out,” ordered Ridley, each word crackling with authority, and antagonism, too. “I was sent here to put down this rebellion, and I mean to do it. But, by harry, how can I be expected to subdue these damnable colonials when I’ve someone who sympathizes with the bloody rascals in the fore of my own regiment, eh?”

Anthony inhaled sharply. “Are you challenging my honor, sir, or my loyalty to my king?”

“What, and have it said that I’d called out one of my own officers?” retorted Ridley. “I’m too clever for that nonsense, Sparhawk, and so are you. But what else will people think, eh? This town as much as belonged to your people, scoundrels that they are, yet you turned your back on them as pretty as kiss-myhand. Who’s to say you won’t do the same to us in return?”

Anthony lunged forward, the rank between them forgotten as his long-simmering temper finally boiled over, and he struck his fist down hard on the desk, inches away from the general’s face. “I say it, and to hell with the man who dares say otherwise!”

“How dare you—”

“Sweet Mary, Ridley, if you slander me and then can’t explain your meaning any better than that, then I—”

“Remember yourself, Sparhawk!” barked Ridley. “At once, sir!”

The order shattered Anthony’s anger, years of training racing to silence him. Orders were to be obeyed; every good soldier knew that.

So what the devil was he doing now? Two steps behind him the general’s sentries had rushed through the door with their muskets raised, the gleaming barrels aimed at him, at him, and in that horrible moment he realized how close he was to facing a court-martial and the end of everything he’d worked so hard for.

Breathing hard, he jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned and shook his head in disbelief, appalled by what he’d done. Once again he’d lost control. To threaten his superior before witnesses, to raise his voice and bellow like a madman—for the sake of this one insane minute, his career might be over and done, and his life with it.

He drew himself up as tall as he could, his eyes staring impassively ahead. “Forgive me, sir. I do not know what came over me, but I give you my word that it will not happen again.”

“The devil it won’t.” Furiously Ridley glared at Anthony as he waved the sentries from the room. “Your unforgivable behavior here only proves that I’m right to doubt your allegiances.”

“But sir, I assure you that—”

“I want none of your assurances, Sparhawk,” snapped the general, his face purple above his neckcloth. “I want your loyalty. Now you watch yourself, watch every last bloody step you take. Because I’ll be watching, too, and next time, an outburst like that will break you. Do you understand me, Major Sparhawk?”

“Perfectly, sir,” said Anthony, and this time, when he bowed to take his leave, the general didn’t stop him. “Good day, sir.”

But instead of feeling relief at having escaped the punishment he deserved, Anthony continued to smolder with anger as he stalked through the still-empty streets. By the time he reached Hazard’s, he felt close to strangling with blind fury and frustration. The winter sun had set, and supper, such as it was, would be served soon, but the very notion of sitting down to dine with the other officers was more than he could stomach. Instead, he turned to the stable in back, ordering the black gelding that he’d brought from Boston to be saddled.

“Now what shall I fetch for the others. Major?” asked the groom, trying to look around Anthony and out the door into the yard. “How many more do you reckon be riding wit’ you?”

Anthony swung himself up into the saddle. “There are no others,” he said, gathering the reins in his fingers. “I’ll be riding alone.”

The man stared up at him, openmouthed with surprise. “Alone, sir?”

“Alone,” repeated Anthony curtly, and turned the gelding’s head toward the street.

He understood the groom’s surprise. He carried no weapon beyond his dress sword, and even half-hidden by his cloak, his uniform coat, glittering with lace and polished buttons, would stand out wherever he went. For him to travel unattended on this island was risky enough; to do so after dark was madness. But tonight Anthony was mad, or close to it, and as soon as he reached the edge of town he let the gelding have his head, urging the horse to race wildly into the darkness.

He headed south, then west, following the curve of the coast as the road became little more than a worn path. The way hadn’t changed over the years, and he followed it effortlessly, without having to consider his route. Overhead, pale clouds scudded across the stars and the silver moon in the icy-clear winter sky. The wind was cold here, near the sea, as cold as it had been when they landed, two days before, but tonight Anthony scarcely felt it.

At last he came to the last of the land, a rocky outcropping called Damaris Point, jutting into the sea, and he jerked the tired horse to a halt. Here he was alone; here, at last, he could think.

Damnation, he was English. How could the general say otherwise? Since he left the colonies, he’d come to think and act and feel like a true English gentleman, one born in London’s shadow, instead of in a house of peeled logs on the banks of the Connecticut River. He had learned to prize the neat, well-drilled precision of a line of soldiers in battle over the strike-and-run Indian fighting he’d practiced as a boy. He had put aside the rough ways of the frontier and instead perfected the hard-edged confidence of an officer in the most powerful army in Europe. His honor was his guide, his king his master, and in his well-ordered London world, that had always been everything.

Yet he was still a Sparhawk, too. He couldn’t deny that, either. Staring out beyond the rocks and waves, Anthony pulled off his hat and stuffed it beneath his coat, letting the salt-filled wind from the water whip against his face and clear away the confusion in his thoughts.

Of course he’d been shocked by the news of his uncle’s treachery. How could he not have been? In those early, homesick years, he’d written to his Newport relatives as often as he could, whenever he heard of a ship bound for the colonies. But because he moved so often with his regiment, he had had no permanent address of his own where they in turn might write to him. Without replies, his own correspondence had dwindled and then finally stopped. Otherwise, he might have known of his uncle’s dangerous inclinations, and wouldn’t have been taken so completely by surprise.

Aye, surprise, that was it. His uncle’s decision to embrace the traitors’ cause was unfortunate, even lamentable, considering it had brought about his ruin, but that was no reason for Anthony to destroy himself, too. His duty was to protect the decent, loyal subjects of the king and to subdue the rascals who’d broken the peace of the land. If that included his uncle, then so be it. His duty to the crown must come first, and the rest would follow. That was what his grandfather had taught him so long ago, and his grandfather had always been right.

Autumn was slow in coming that summer he turned eight. It was the middle of September, yet only the very tops of the maple trees had begun to turn from green to red, and there were still tall stalks of snapdragons— rose, white, palest yellow—nodding around the base of the sundial in Grandmother’s garden. A long summer, but a peaceful one, too, the first that Anthony could remember when the Frenchmen and their Iroquois allies hadn’t threatened the wide valley around Plumstead. Otherwise Grandfather would never have brought him out to these woods to hunt, far from the big house or any of the lesser farms. Most likely he wouldn’t have been on these lands at all, but off with the rest of the militia, fighting with the other king’s men against the French.

Anthony shifted his musket from one shoulder to the other and stole another glance at Grandfather. Grandfather was about the oldest gentleman Anthony knew, his long hair snow-white beneath the flat brim of his hat with the old-fashioned sweeping plume, but he was also the wisest and the bravest gentleman, too. Everyone in the valley said so. Though he’d given over being the leader of their county’s militia, Anthony heard how they still called him Captain Sparhawk instead of Master Sparhawk or just plain Kit, though only Grandmother did that. They all came to him whenever they had a problem, too, and day or night, there always seemed to be someone waiting in the hall to see Grandfather.

But not today. Today Anthony had Grandfather all to himself, and he couldn’t quite believe his good luck.

“Here, lad,” said Grandfather, holding back a branch for Anthony. “We’ll stop here for a moment, then onward to home.”

Anthony nodded, the shy little ducking of his head that he always used around Grandfather, and obediently clambered up the big rock before them. Beneath his tired legs, the stone felt smooth and warm from the sun, and with a contented sigh he settled as close to the older man as he dared.

Grandfather drank deeply from the wooden canteen, then handed it to Anthony. “Your grandmother will be glad to see us tonight, won’t she?” he said, cocking his head toward the three wild turkeys they’d shot, now lying on the rock beside them, with their feet bound together for carrying. “You’re a good companion, Anthony. You know the rare virtue of silence.”

Anthony flushed with pleasure, and prayed Grandfather would never guess that his silence came from being tongue-tied with awe, rather than from virtue.

Grandfather was studying him closely, his expression thoughtful. “You’re like your father, you know. He wasn’t full of empty talk, either, but there wasn’t a better man in the forest or in a fight. If you turn out like him, you’ll do well by yourself, and by his memory.”

Anthony handed him back the canteen, desperately wishing he’d hear more about his father. He’d been only a baby when his parents died and he remembered nothing of either of them. “I want to be like him,” he said wistfully, “’specially if he was like you.”

Grandfather grunted “Ah, well, Richard was more like your grandmother, small and dark, the way her people were. You’re more pure Sparhawk. The green eyes mark you, lad, like it or not. Cat’s eyes, eh?”

His smile was bittersweet as he rested his hand on Anthony’s shoulder, the weight heavy, but comforting, too. “There won’t be much I can do for you, Anthony. Your father was my youngest son, and by English law and entail there’s little to come your way.”

“I don’t care,” said Anthony promptly, and at that moment he didn’t. “I’m a Sparhawk, and that’s enough.”

Grandfather laughed “A good answer, that. But think well before you make such pledges. My father, and his father before him, were good, honorable men, strong men. There’s a responsibility to being in this family, you know, and it isn’t easy. In this valley, we’ve always been the ones to watch over those who can’t, to guard and treasure what we love most and believe in. Can you understand that?”

Anthony squinted a little as he looked up at Grandfather. The setting sun was bright around the old man’s shoulders, almost like a halo. “I think I do,” he said slowly. “You want me to help everybody and keep them safe from the French and make sure we all can be free, loyal Englishmen, the same way that you do?”

Grandfather laughed again, softly, and pride was warm in his eyes. “If you do half that much, Anthony, then you’ll do well indeed. Here, I’ve something for you.” He reached inside his hunting pouch and held out his open hand to Anthony. “A small trinket, I know, a bit of silver I’ve had fashioned for trading with the Abenaki, but still, it might serve as a reminder for you.”

It was a small silver disc, polished and gleaming against his grandfather’s lined, worn palm. Etched into the silver was a fierce bird with spread wings, perched on a stick or branch and surrounded by tiny stamped hearts.

“A hawk on a spar,” explained Grandfather as he traced his finger across the design. “A spar’s part of a ship’s mast, you know, or maybe you didn’t. A spar with a hawk. Spar-hawk, eh? There’s a pin on the back, too, so you won’t lose it.”

Anthony held his breath as Grandfather bent to pin the silver circle to his hunting shirt. He’d never had anything so beautiful or so wonderful in all his life.

“There now, Anthony,” said Grandfather. “Wherever you go, you look at this and you’ll always remember what we said this day.”

Anthony slipped his hand inside his cloak and touched the same pin on his waistcoat, there where he always wore it. With time, the silver had grown scratched and flattened, but the magic of that afternoon—and the message—had never dulled.

To be strong and watch over those who were weak, to guard and protect what he loved and treasured most—that was why he’d become a soldier in the first place, and why, too, he was here now. He must take care to remember that. With Ridley, he had let his reason and his judgment become clouded. He must not let it happen again.

And yet, strangely, it wasn’t his grandfather’s voice that echoed in Anthony’s conscience now, or the sharp taunts that had come from Ridley, but a softer, more passionate voice.

You truly have no shame, no loyalties, do you?

He swore to himself, ordering the woman’s words from his thoughts. But what remained was the woman herself, the way the winter sun had gilded her face as she stood by the window, her bowed head framed by the squares of the panes. Catharine Hazard could deny whatever she wished. He was certain they’d met before, and not just in passing. He thought again of her neat ankles in the colored stockings, and how—

Abruptly the gelding shied away at the sound of the musket shot, reduced by the wind to a dry, muffled crack, and Anthony pulled hard on the reins to wheel the frightened horse away from the sea. It was then that he heard the second shot, and felt the sharp, sudden bolt of pain rip through his upper left arm. Fifty yards to the west lay the dark shadow of low, scrubby pines, more than enough to shelter a man—or men— and their muskets.

Anthony swore again, cursing his own carelessness as he struggled to control the terrified horse. He dug his heels hard into the gelding’s sides and bent low over the animal’s neck, striving to make himself as small a target as possible as he raced back toward Newport.

Not that Anthony expected his assailants to follow. Rebels never did. Yet when at last he reached the town, he felt more relieved than he knew he had any right to, and he didn’t slow the gelding until Hazard’s swinging signboard was in sight.

The groom was slow coming from the stable, sleepily shoving his shirt into his breeches as he trotted forward to take the reins. Anthony winced as he swung his leg over the horse and slid to the ground, the impact jarring like a bolt straight to his arm. He knew the wound wasn’t a bad one, especially considering what it might have been, but his sleeve was wet and clammy with blood and his knees felt weak, and he prayed he’d be able to walk across the yard to the doorway without keeling over facefirst onto the paving stones.

Carefully he placed one foot after the other, holding his injured arm beneath his cloak as naturally as he could. If he wobbled now, the groom would merely believe he was in his cups, which was far better than letting the man spread stories about how the redcoat major had been fool enough to get himself shot.

Anthony gritted his teeth from the effort, his forehead glazed with sweat even on this cold night. He was almost to the back door now, where his manservant, Routt, would be waiting for him in the kitchen. Routt would know what to do; he’d mended far worse than this.

Inside the kitchen, Catie hurried to the window at the sound of the horse in the courtyard and peeked through the shutters. One flambeau was always kept burning for the sake of any late travelers, and by its dancing light she made out the tall shape of Major Sparhawk as he climbed from his horse. With a self-conscious shake of her skirts, she stepped back from the window and took a deep breath to calm herself. She’d been preparing for this moment all evening. So why, then, was she as nervous as a cat on coals?

She heard him try the door, discover it locked, swear to himself and knock instead. She almost smiled at that muttered oath, for the very human irritation behind it made him somehow less daunting.

“Who is it?” she asked. Though she knew full well who was there, she decided it wouldn’t hurt to make him wait that extra half minute.

“Major Anthony Sparhawk,” he said, his voice rumbling deep through the barred oak door. “Damnation, woman, open the bloody door!”

This time she frowned, not caring to have the oaths directed at her. It would serve him right if she left him out in the cold all night. But she had her promise to Jon to keep, and, setting her face in a smile she drew the bolt and swung open the door.

“Good evening to you, Major,” she said pleasantly as he brushed past her with a rush of icy air. “Though, faith, ‘tis well past midnight. Do all you English officers keep London hours?”

Anthony ignored her, in no mood or condition for banter. “Where’s my man?”

She closed the door and stood beside it, her hand still resting on the latch. He was hatless, his neat queue torn apart from the wind in a way that left his golden hair loose and wild around his face, dashing and dangerous, enough to make her feel once again like a giddy seventeen-year-old girl.

What Jon asked of her, she thought woefully, oh, what Jon asked!

“Your Mr. Routt?” she repeated, as offhandedly as she could. “I sent him to bed.”

Anthony wheeled around to face her, his long, dark cloak swirling around him. “You’d no right to do that. Routt reports to me, not you.”

“I’ve every right in the world, when he’s cluttering up my kitchen, getting himself underfoot with my cook,” she said defensively. “I sent him to his bed an hour ago, along with the rest of my own help. We’ve precious few customers tonight, thanks to you and I saw no reason to make them all wait up.”

“That still doesn’t give you the…give you the…” Lord help him, he couldn’t remember. All he knew now was that the fireplace was drifting upward at a crazy angle, and if he didn’t sit down directly he was going to fall down, here at her feet. He groped for the chair that must be behind him, his uninjured hand tangling clumsily in his cloak.

“Let me help you.” In an instant she was there at his side, her arm around his waist as she guided him into the chair. “Here you are, no harm done.”

But as soon as he was seated, Catie drew back, frowning down at the blood smeared on her hand and sleeve. Before he could protest, she gently lifted his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal the torn, bruised wound where the ball had ripped through his arm.

He grimaced, but didn’t flinch. At least for now, the fireplace had stopped spinning. “Not pretty, is it?”

“Not in the least.” To his surprise, she didn’t flinch, either. Deftly she unfastened the clasp at the neck of his cloak and pulled it off. “Is a jealous husband after you already?”

“Something like that.” He flexed his fingers and grimaced, noting how the blood still oozed fresh from the wound. “Send for my servant, Mrs. Hazard, so I can stop cluttering up your kitchen, as well.”

She looked at him sharply. “Don’t you wish me to summon a surgeon?”

“What, and have the news common on every street corner, with every rebel in town claiming credit for having done this?” He shook his head with disgust at his own foolishness. “No, thank you, ma’am. For now, I’d rather stake my luck on Routt.”

Catie bent closer to him, her arms akimbo as she studied the wound. At least now she had something safer than politics to discuss with him. “You don’t need Mr. Routt just yet. I can tend to this well enough myself.”