A Girl Called Samson (104)

“What did you tell her?” I asked as we climbed the hill lined with stately homes and pretty carriages that was only minutes, and a great deal of money, from the shops near the wharf.

“I told her I was in Philadelphia and that I was getting married to a young woman I have known for many years. A friend of the family. I asked her if Stephen would perform the marriage. He is accustomed to such things. He was an army chaplain in the early days of the war.”

“And you asked her if we could stay?”

“I didn’t have to ask. She insisted.”

“Oh, John,” I breathed. “I do not feel very good.”

“Courage, Samson,” he said softly. “And I like very much when you call me John.”

Anne Holmes did not wait for us to knock on her big black door, but flew down the drive and threw herself into her brother’s arms before I’d even slid to the ground. I gathered the reins of both horses, standing quietly by until a servant strode from the house, clucking at Mrs. Holmes, and took the horses around the house to the stables, promising to remove our packs from the saddles and have them delivered to the general’s quarters. He did not ask my name or question my status, and I turned back to the general and his sister, who was ushering him toward the house, chattering all the way.

“I have been beside myself with excitement since I received your post, brother. All is in order. Stephen has use of the church, as you know. You will stay here tonight, of course. And for as long as you need. The servants have been advised, though I see you have your aide. The reverend and I leave first thing in the morning for Trenton. I’m so glad you came today! I would have missed you. The house will be yours . . . but when will we meet Miss Samson? How lovely that she knew Elizabeth. That will make it better for the girls. Do they know?”

“No. No one knows, Anne. Just you. I will tell you everything. But let’s go inside.”

He waited until we were settled in the sitting room where tea had just been laid out. I was hungry and terrified, and I sat perched on the end of the settee. The cup Mrs. Holmes gave me rattled in my hands, and I set it down immediately. She didn’t seem to notice. I took a bite of a biscuit and it was powder in my mouth. I made another attempt at the tea and managed to splash my coat and miss my lips.

“Deborah?” John said quietly.

I raised my eyes to his and realized he’d said my name more than once.

“Yes, sir?”

“Deborah Samson, this is my sister Anne Holmes. Anne, this is Deborah.”

His sister looked at me, baffled, and her cup began rattling on its saucer as well.

“Have you lost your mind, little brother?” she whispered. “You said you were bringing a woman. To marry. Who is this boy?”

“This is Deborah Samson, my aide-de-camp, and my wife-to-be.”

I took off my tricorn hat and tugged the tie from my hair, but it wasn’t enough. Like everyone else, Anne Paterson Holmes simply saw a lean-cheeked, square-jawed boy in army dress. That I was anything else was too impossible to believe.

She actually moaned, poor woman. “John. I don’t understand. Am I to dress your aide as a woman . . . or is your aide dressed as a man?”

I did not flinch. I’d learned not to, but for the first time since I’d begun my quest, I mourned that she could not tell.

“I am Deborah Samson, Mrs. Holmes,” I said quietly. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I may be out of practice, but I am indeed a woman. I would appreciate all the assistance you can give me. It has been a while since I wore a dress, and I’ve never been especially skilled with my hair.”

Her mouth formed an incredulous O, and she looked from me to her brother and back. “What are you up to, John Paterson? This is not at all like you.”

“No. It isn’t like me. So I would ask, darling Anne, that you trust me. I don’t have much time, and very little of it is my own. I would like to wed Deborah before the day is done. And the Reverend Stephen Holmes, bless his righteous heart, will not perform the marriage if my wife-to-be is wearing breeches.”

She moaned again. “Stephen! What will Stephen say?”

“Anne.” The general’s voice was sharp, and he leaned forward on the settee, demanding her attention. “Help us. I came to you for a reason. There is little you haven’t seen and no one I trust more. You have been a patriot, through and through. From the beginning.”

She exhaled slowly, her eyes clinging to her brother’s face and then to mine.

“Do you trust her?” she asked.

“I have known her since she was a child.”

“That is not an answer, John,” she contended. “You know what many of us went through in this city with Benedict Arnold and that terrible Miss Shippen. I had known her since she was a child. That means nothing.”

When the British had withdrawn from Philadelphia in ’78, Benedict Arnold had been assigned military command of the city. Not long after, he’d married Peggy Shippen, a young socialite from a wealthy, loyalist family who was thought to have encouraged and even arranged his defection.

“Arnold was ambitious, arrogant, and selfish, but she was a spoiled snake,” Anne Holmes continued, vehement. “They bankrupted the city and sold us out. So I will ask again. Do you trust this woman?”

“Yes. I trust her,” John said. “And I need you to trust me.”