He watched my face as I spoke and I saw that he was a little too wise. Perhaps his quietude meant he had better judgment than the others, and he was not believing my tale. He said, “Let’s take her to the colonel. See what he says to do.”
I stood before his colonel in the parlor of Lady Spencer’s house where once I had danced a reel, where I had made Wallace a traitor with us, where I had helped August escape. The brigand did not so much as ask me to sit or offer tea. He did not recognize me from the day August escaped, either. He talked with the soldiers for a moment and then came toward me, adjusted his powdered wig, and leaned forward. “You know, do you not, what this coat is, Mistress?”
“I do, sir.” I leaned toward him and crooked my finger at him, then cupped my hand across my mouth as if to tell a secret to a child. “It is nearly new. I found it in a bush.”
He snarled. “Since you had to walk past breastworks and artillery to come here, I warrant you know that this color of coat, this blue, is the one chosen by the outlaw Washington and his men—soon to be hung, mind you—as a uniform of their treason against the King, His Royal Majesty Charles Third, do you not?”
I smiled and nodded. “I do know that, sir.”
“And here, in broad daylight, you are caught carrying just such a coat.”
“Yes, your lordship, that is true.”
“I am not a lord.”
“No, sir.”
“Have I met you before? You look familiar.”
I knew the colonel from his raid on August’s house. I smiled. “Perhaps it was last market day. Did you buy my hog foot stew?”
He made a face of disgust. “Did you make that coat?”
“Why, everyone knows the rebels get these from France. See this weft? Only French mills make such. The color is—”
“Where were you taking it? And to whom? I suppose you would not confess to treason, but would rather some poor fool hang in your place? You tell me who was to receive the coat and who made it, and then I will let you go, grandmother.”
I winced at him calling me that. “I may be convicted of being foolish, your lordship, but as I see so much of it around me, I am sure it is not a hanging offense. I saw this bright color and found the coat in a bush, rolled up. I knew at once it was either hidden for someone’s return or placed as a trap by your men. I have mouths to feed and those buttons are sure to bring some beef tongue or a bit of hog back.”
“What is your name?”
“Widow MacLammond.” Those words felt like a firebrand upon my heart.
“Where do you live?”
“Me, sir? Why, down the main road and take the second path past where there was once a tree but it was taken down in a storm in seventeen and fifty-one. Then go as far as it takes to sing three verses of the Doxology and turn right on a path where there was a mill some years back but now it has become a grain house—”
“Enough. What do you do in this town, madam?”
I smiled when he interrupted me, as if I wished to appear helpful. “I do a little tatting and toting, you know. Selling odd bits I find. Cleaning shoes.”
“Let me see your hands.”
I held them forth. The tar-soaked hogshead had left my fingers blacked and the calluses were real. They trembled, but I exaggerated it to make it seem more of an old woman’s palsy than fearful trembling. My heart jumped and bucked like a spring colt.
“I think you are lying.”
“Lying? Sir, I am a woman of good repute. Honest as a fairy. Your accusation cuts me to the bone. I never, ever, lie.” I saw from the corner of my eye Bertram driving past, with Alice facing this way. I said, “Ask any soul in this town. Ask that woman there, or the boy driving. Everyone knows me, sir.”
The British colonel returned to the far side of Lady Spencer’s buffet he was using for his desk. He moved some papers and uncovered a pair of clippers. “Here,” he said, tossing them toward the edge of the table closest to me. “Cut it up for clouts.”
I put the thought of all those hours of work, the strain on my eyes, the tortured fingers, out of my head and as far from my face as the moon was from the land. “Are you going to let me keep the buttons?” I asked, as I began snipping them from the sleeves and coat front. My fingers trembled so violently the metal blades gave a little drum roll against the button’s metal shank.
“Cut it,” he said with a voice that sent a chill into the room.
I slashed into the sleeves, folding them out as I cut them from the jacket. I cut the front from the back and frowned to hide my lip quivering.