“Yes, I came to say good-bye and to leave you the key to the cottage. Feel free to use it if needed.” Callie set the basket on the ground and gave her friend a hug. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come back here.”
Since tears seemed imminent, Gordon said, “I’ll take good care of her, Mrs. Turner.”
“I’m sure you will.” Hug ended, Mrs. Turner dabbed at her eyes. “Your beautiful house is gone, but the land is very well situated. Will you sell it?”
Callie looked blank. “I hadn’t thought of that, but you’re right. It’s a good location. I suppose Washington will still exist no matter how this beastly war turns out, and the property is of no use to me anymore.”
“If someone is interested, do you have a lawyer I can refer them to?”
Callie frowned. “A lawyer over in Georgetown has handled several small matters for me. Mr. Key, Francis Scott Key. Do you know him? I made some gowns for his wife and became friends with both of them.”
“I know the name and will send any interested buyers to him,” Mrs. Turner replied. “Take care, my dear, and write when you’re properly settled again.”
Callie promised to do so. Gordon mounted, then offered Callie a hand. She took it, set her foot on his stirruped boot, and swung up behind him. “Please say good-bye to my other friends for me, Edith.”
“I will. They’ll miss you and your wonderful gowns as well. Have a safe journey!”
Gordon couldn’t agree more.
Chapter 10
The streets of Washington were quietly tense. A few people went about their business, their gazes wary. Callie saw a peddler, a free black named Harry, driving from house to house in his pony cart filled with fresh produce. She’d often bought fruit and vegetables from him. The sight was comforting. Washington might be an occupied city, but life was going on.
Better to wander about the city than to think how close she was to Richard’s very masculine body. Waking up in the same bed with him this morning had been deeply unnerving because part of her found it very natural. Desire had never been part of her life, but apparently it had been lying dormant and was now beginning to stir. The timing was not good.
They turned a corner and saw a large number of British troops marching toward the burned-out President’s House. Nearby was a large brick building that had been untouched. Callie said, “It looks like they’re heading toward that building, which has the headquarters of the State, War, and Navy Departments.”
“Judging by the men carrying powder and rockets, those departments are going to get the same treatment as other government buildings,” Richard said grimly. “Perhaps another route would be wise.”
Before Callie could reply, a man galloped from an alley shouting insults at the British in a wild one-man attack. He raised a pistol and shot—and was immediately brought down by a barrage of return fire. As the rider fell bleeding, Richard turned Samson and spurred the horse into a canter. “Definitely another route! You know this city. Give me directions.”
“Go to the end of this block and turn left.” She swallowed hard, shaken by the swift, unexpected violence. “Why would a man do such a suicidal thing?”
“At a guess, he hates the British and got drunk enough to behave stupidly,” Richard said tersely. “With the results you see.”
He was probably right, but she was reminded how deadly an occupying army could be. A few minutes later they came on another group of soldiers smashing up a business while a fire burned behind the building. “That’s Admiral Cockburn supervising,” Richard said. “Do you know what the business is?”
“A newspaper, theNational Intelligencer. The editor has been writing inflammatory articles about the British in general and Cockburn in particular,” Callie said. “It looks like the admiral is taking a personal revenge. Turn right at this corner.”
Richard silently obeyed. By keeping to smaller streets with no government buildings, they avoided any more ugly conflicts.
They were nearing the edge of the city when a patrol of British soldiers led by an officer on horseback emerged from a cross street and came straight for Callie and Richard. The officer barked, “Halt!”
“Should we try to outrun them?” she asked in a voice that surprised her with its calmness.
“If we did, they might think we have reason to run and shoot us down. Better to bluster it out. We are English, after all. Not their enemy.”
“Speak for yourself,” she said flatly. “I live and work here. I could be considered treasonous.”
“Urchins are beneath the notice of British officers,” Richard assured her before pulling Samson to a stop and waiting for the officer to intercept them.
“Who are you and what is your business?” the lieutenant asked in a menacing tone. Callie surreptitiously laid her left hand on the butt of her pistol, but she didn’t draw it out.
“My name is Lord George Audley and I’m busy about the king’s affairs,” Richard replied with an aristocratic accent sharp enough to cut glass.
“So you’re a lord,” the lieutenant sneered. “And I’m bloody Bonaparte! You sound English, all right, but I’m betting you’re a treasonous Yankee.”
“A bet you’ll lose,” Richard said in full lordly mode. “Shall I show you my letters of introduction?”
