A Girl Called Samson (54)

I ground my teeth and willed the embarrassment in my chest to subside as I considered my words. I hadn’t meant to brag. I was distracted and had simply stated the truth.

“I am only accomplished because I try very hard at everything I do. Not because I am especially gifted.”

“Hmm.”

“Tuck your lip, please, sir,” I asked, intent upon my task. He obeyed, and I pressed my thumb to the point of his chin to hold him steady. He did not speak again until I was finished. His eyes remained closed, his lashes thick against his cheeks, and his breath was even. His stillness made me more nervous than his speech, the necessary familiarity of the act creating an intimacy I should not feel.

I stepped back when I made my last swath and breathed in deeply, composing myself as he blinked his eyes open. He looked as though I’d come close to putting him to sleep. The man was weary, and my heart twisted in a compassion almost as great as my hope. I would be an excellent aide-de-camp, and I would take very good care of him if given the chance.

“Finished?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. The men in my company will attest to my skill.”

He ran his hands across his face and rose to look at himself in the small oval mirror mounted on his office wall.

“Not bad. You have a fine hand and also a steady hand.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He studied himself in the mirror as if he pondered his decision. Then he squared his shoulders and drew the drape from his neck, tossing it toward me.

“Come then, Shurtliff.”

I caught the drape, shook it out, and folded it neatly. “Where are we going, sir?”

He strode from the room, and I followed him obediently. The door opposite his office was identical to every other door lining the hallway, but he opened it and motioned me inside.

The room looked much like the drawing room in color and shape, though a big bed with carved posts and a deep red coverlet dominated the chamber. Two oversized leather chairs bracketed a stone fireplace, and a chest of drawers, a writing desk, and a table that held a basin and a pitcher for washing completed the furnishings. The only item of a personal nature was a painting of a dark-haired woman that hung above the bed.

“These are my quarters,” the general said. “When General Washington is here, they are his quarters. You and I will move up the stairs to the servants’ wing when he’s at the Point.”

“You and I, sir?”

“If you want the position, Shurtliff. There is a valet’s closet through that door.” He moved toward a section of paneling that was slightly ajar. A discreet knob was hidden in the raised whorls and vines of the woodwork.

“My last aide slept here. The room has been aired and the bedding stripped. There’s a small window, a basin, and shelves and hooks, of course. It will be sufficient, I trust.”

He opened the panel, and I peeked around him, almost unable to believe my good fortune. The valet’s closet was bigger than the room I’d occupied at the Thomases’. An upholstered window seat in velvet blue stretched below a tall window, and a narrow berth was built into the wall below the shelves, a small table too, and judging from the cupboards from floor to ceiling, taking care of Master Moore’s wardrobe had been a full-time endeavor. General Paterson’s blue dress coat, two waistcoats, three shirts, and an extra pair of breeches looked very meager indeed.

“You can read and write and recite the declaration. You can barber. You can ride—”

“I do most things very well,” I interrupted. “And what I don’t know I will learn. Immediately.”

His brows rose and his mouth twitched. I didn’t blink. I wanted the job, and I knew I would not get such an opportunity again.

“Yes. As you’ve demonstrated.” He cleared his throat. “Mr. Allen, the staff officer, will answer any questions you have about the house. He’s ill-humored, but efficient. I will inform Captain Webb that you will be relieved from his ranks until further notice.”

“You will?” I breathed.

“Yes. I will. I don’t think I demand much . . . but the less I have to think about small matters, the better. My uniforms. My boots. The order in my quarters and the running of errands. The tasks vary and will probably feel endless . . . and thankless.”

“I know what an aide does, sir. And I am honored to do it.”

“Good,” he clipped. “Mostly, I will need to be able to trust you. No gloating. No gossiping. No repeating what you see here or while you are at my side. Can I trust you, Shurtliff?”

My heart quaked and my belly flipped, but I nodded firmly, as curt as he. “Yes, sir, you can.” And he could. No one worked harder or kept a secret better than I. Being a woman would not prevent me from doing any of the things he required.

“Then gather your things from the barracks, and I will tell Mr. Allen that you are now on staff. He’ll be waiting for you to return.”

“Thank you, General.” My voice was steady, my gaze level, and he nodded once, dismissing me.

“Report back when you are settled,” he said.

He followed me from his quarters and returned to his office, and I walked down the hall, through the expansive foyer, and out of the Red House with calm and measured steps, though I felt like skipping. Racing. Sprinting through the woods, leaping shrubs, and dodging the trees like I’d done when I was small.