A Girl Called Samson (52)

I made myself as presentable as I could in three minutes and ran all the way to the Red House, afraid that if I delayed, I would miss my opportunity.

Agrippa Hull answered the door and took a pointed gander at my feet to check for mud before scanning me from head to toe and back again, a doubtful expression on his face.

“General Paterson asked to see me,” I insisted.

“For what?” he said, folding his arms over his pristine white waistcoat. I wasn’t certain how he kept so clean, but he lived in the house and clearly considered himself a gatekeeper of sorts.

“My captain told me he is seeking an aide,” I said, trying to hold his gaze, but I could see beyond the wide foyer to the broad staircase and the gleaming floors. It was another world—another universe—from the rest of the garrison, and my legs trembled with intimidation. The finest building I’d ever set foot in was Reverend Conant’s church, and it was a simple structure with wooden pews, white walls, and a bit of colored glass.

A dining room lay to the left, a sitting room to the right, and both were furnished with heavy carpets and drapes, paneled blue walls and shelves that held more books than I could read in two decades if I dedicated myself fully to the task. Heavy gold candelabras and sconces lined the walls and adorned the tables. An enormous chandelier hung above the stairs, and a smaller version was centered over the long dining table.

“What’s your name?” Hull asked.

For a moment I was so flustered by the grandeur, I could not remember. “Um . . . the general summoned me.”

“Yeah. So you said. What’s your name, Private?” His prompting of “private” jostled my muddled brain, and I met his lively, dark gaze and managed to respond.

“Robert Shurtliff, sir. Captain Webb’s company, Fourth Regiment.”

“Bonny Robbie,” he said, recognition dawning. “I’ve heard of you.”

I blanched. “You have?”

“I have. There isn’t much around here I don’t know.” He cocked his head, considering me. I didn’t squirm or lower my gaze, but my heart was pounding.

“You aren’t much to look at.” He sounded surprised.

“No, sir.”

He grinned. “So why do they call you Bonny?”

“I suspect it’s mockery, sir.”

He grinned again. “All right, then. Follow me, boy. But not too close. I don’t want you walkin’ on my heels. I just shined my shoes. If the general is busy, you’ll have to come back.”

“If the general is busy, I can wait,” I said firmly. I wasn’t leaving without the position.

“You ever served a formal gathering?” he asked, testing me. “Because that’ll be part of the job. General Washington could drop in at any time. I don’t want you dumping gravy in his lap.”

I had served a table full of Thomases and wrangled a room full of children countless times. Serving dignitaries could not be more difficult than that, but I didn’t lie to him. Lying would come back to bite me if I needed instructions. Which I would.

“I’ve cooked for many and served many, but not in a formal setting. But I learn quickly. You’ll only have to show me once.”

“Hmm. Don’t know about that.” He turned left into a long hallway that was obscured by the stairs. Pictures of cherubic faces and bewigged heads watched our progress from the walls, and I wondered if the Moore family had expected to return at some point. They were a homely lot, but I didn’t care for portraiture much. Everyone looked the same—plump and weak-chinned with tiny heart-shaped mouths and watery eyes.

Agrippa Hull rapped on the double doors at the end of the corridor, and General Paterson called out, bidding him enter.

“I’ve got a Private Bonny here, General. He says you summoned him for the aide position. He’s a little too young and skinny for the job, if you ask me.” He was goading me, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “But maybe that’s good. He won’t eat much or take up too much space.”

I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders, trying to make myself look a little more formidable.

“Send him in, Agrippa,” the general urged, but he sounded preoccupied.

Agrippa Hull stepped aside and pushed the door open to let me pass. When I did, he pulled the door closed behind me.

General Paterson sat at a desk, his head bowed over something that seemed to trouble him. His brow was furrowed and his hands clenched, a quill curling up from his left fist. The general was left-handed. I had noted this when he stitched my arm. That might explain the aggressive lean in the formation of his letters.

“Sir?”

He raised his head, dejection stamped across his features. He had not shaved yet, and his beard was more red than gold in the morning light streaming through the windows to his left.

“Come in, Shurtliff. And don’t mind Grippy.”

I took a few steps forward, my hands at my sides. I did not stand with my hands clasped behind my back unless in formation. I thought it better not to emphasize the thrust of my chest, regardless of my flattened bosom.

“Captain Webb told you the reason you are here?”

“Yes, sir. I am honored.”

He grunted, his eyes falling back to the correspondence in front of him. Then he stood, shoving his chair back.

“You can read and write.” It was a statement not a question, but I nodded.