“Returns? Ha.”
Caroline’s delicate eyebrows jumped at his bitter response, but he tilted his head her direction and finished anyway. “Anyone who goes to battle should consider themselves as well as dead.”
“Uncle, really.” Caroline started forward, and Philo matched her step. She gave him a sideways glance. “You are not a Tory, are you?”
“I am no friend of the British, but I am no fool either. Let the Patriots fight if they will, and all the better for me should they win. I for one would like to keep my head in place.”
A sprite laugh breathed from Caroline’s mouth. Stopping, she looked at him, a sudden wisdom in her narrowed eyes peeling away his exterior, leaving him exposed, as if she could see what lay open in his soul.
Her eyebrows neared as she stared, and his stomach squirmed. Why should a woman—a young one at that—make him feel the pricks of some unknown conscience? Had he anything to hide?
With a smile that said she reserved whatever it was she’d wished to speak, Caroline took the basket from him and turned to where the road curved right. “I shall give your regards to my mother.” Long strides led her swiftly away from him, but she spoke over her shoulder. “You are still welcome, should you change your mind.”
He touched his hat, and she turned away, disappearing around the bend in the road. His gut writhed, and he cursed the discomfort. He shouldn’t let his niece rile him in such a way. ’Twas not as if she was anything but a parrot of her mother, speaking and doing what Helena would do. The very reason declining the invitation was without question.
“Philo! Philo!”
Frantic steps and the blurted sound of his name spun Philo at the heel. “Maxim. I was on my way to see you. I—” Philo stopped, the round eyes and flushed cheeks of his companion seizing his lungs. “My friend, what’s happened?”
Maxim gasped for breath, a hand at his chest. “I’ve just heard about the foundry.”
Was that all? Why such a fuss? Philo fought the urge to growl. “That’s what I wanted to speak with you about this morning.”
“You do not seem as upset as I would have expected at such news.”
“Surely I’m upset, but there’s naught I can do until I know who’s bought it.”
“Bought it?” At that, Maxim’s face lost a mite of color. “Then you haven’t heard. You cannot have, for I just overheard it from a Redcoat in Newcomb Tavern.”
A pin of frustration jabbed, and Philo splayed his palms. “What?”
“The British have taken the foundry. They have taken Eaton Hill.”
The words wound around him like the lingering fog, seeping through his mind before a thrill raced up his spine, followed after by a sharp reprimand. Should he not be aghast, enraged? Somehow only glee found his heart.
He feigned intense shock, but the question was sincere. “What do you mean?”
“The army has taken the foundry for their own use.” His friend looked over his shoulder, then back. “Should we not alert the men in town and make ready to take back what should be yours?”
What should be mine.
At least someone understood that.
Philo filled his lungs. “When was this?”
“I do not know.” Still panting, Maxim motioned over his shoulder. “But it can’t have been long. Come. Let us—”
“No. Wait.”
One hand on his friend, one in the air, Philo’s mind followed the whisper that left crumbs for him to follow. Perhaps…
He caught Maxim’s gaze. “Do nothing.”
“What?”
“Do nothing.”
Maxim jerked back. “You cannot be serious.”