“What is General Harlow’s family like?” she said to Lucy’s back.
“His father is well-thought-of all over the valley,” Lucy called over her shoulder. “One of the Friends—Quakers. A farmer and woodworker. His sister, bless her, had her heart broke when the war started. And his mother, God rest her, was akin to a saint, always doing good, ever generous to any in need.”
Mae fell silent. She was walking into a house of heartache thathad nothing to do with her own. Nor was she akin to a saint. Suddenly she was questioning the wisdom of coming here and how far she would have to travel to return to Chatham. If not for Lucy...
Already Mae felt the wrench of separation. “Promise you’ll come visit.”
“Aye, once you’ve settled in.” Lucy reined in her horse as they traded the trail for a clearing. “If you hear Petey bark you’ll know I’m near.”
Petey gave a sharp yip as a few grazing cows came into view. Fenced pastures reminded Mae of Jon’s farm—or what once was. Here everything still seemed lush if autumn-tinged. The sun had dispelled the mist, shining down on tidy outbuildings and not one but two handsome houses, the farthest atop a hill. Her heart leapt. The home Rhys had built with his own hands? Lucy’s father lived farther up the valley, as did Isham’s kin.
Mae watched a tall man emerge from the smaller of the two houses, so like Rhys in height and gait she felt a little start. Lucy headed straight for him while Mae lagged behind, a fit of shyness overtaking her.
“Shush your yipping,” Lucy scolded Petey in a rare rant as another cow ambled into sight. She slid from the saddle and snatched him up lest he set off on a chase.
When Lucy halted suddenly to let her go first, Mae balked. Gathering what little grace she possessed, she dismounted and walked Orion toward the man she sensed was Rhys’s father. He turned toward them, axe in hand. Neatly stacked firewood filled the open shed behind him.
Oh, how like Rhys he was.
An older version of the man she loved, stockier and fuller of face. He didn’t smile as she approached but continued stoic, even wary.
“Sir...” She stopped a stone’s throw away. To come any nearer felt too familiar. “I’m Maebel Bohannon Harlow of Chatham, New Jersey ... and I’m married to your son.”
After a slight hesitation, his stoicism broke like the rising sun. Turning toward the house, he called, “Bronwyn, come and greet your new sister-in-law.”
At once a young woman appeared on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She took in Mae and Lucy at a glance and broke into a half run toward them. Catching Mae up in her arms, she hugged her hard, turning Mae teary. This was the homecoming she’d hoped for. Warm. Welcoming.
“Can it truly be you?” Bronwyn’s tanned features shone with pleasure. “Rhys wrote about you in his letters and told us you’d married, but we never thought to see you so soon, at least not without him. And riding horseback all that way?”
Lucy approached, Petey in arms. “He ordered me to bring her here shortly before the fort was attacked.”
Mr. Harlow’s features tightened. “Montgomery?”
“Fort Clinton too. We fled when Patriot pickets shouted the redcoats were coming.”
“Earlier, Rhys had gone north with his riflemen to a place near Saratoga,” Mae added.
“You haven’t heard? The Americans won the battles there,” Mr. Harlow said. “We got the news day before yesterday, though we’ve not heard from Rhys himself since he left Montgomery. That fort fell along with Clinton.”
Mae drew a surprised breath. They’d left in the nick of time, then. Still, her heart hurt. Those she’d known there might have fallen with it or been taken prisoner.
“And you?” Bronwyn turned to Lucy. “I recollect you married one of the Hawkes up on North Mountain.”
“Aye, my Isham is General Harlow’s drummer.” Lucy let Petey loose. “He went with him to fight near Saratoga.”
“And you’ve come all the way from New York—two women alone?” Respect rode Mr. Harlow’s lined features. “With a fine pair of horses and a little dog.”
“I would never have attempted it without Lucy. And Petey’s beenquite a comfort,” Mae told them with a small smile. “Especially on cold nights.”
“The north is frigid this time of year. We’ve had a beautiful Indian summer, though it’s frosted a time or two.” Bronwyn gave her father a worried glance. “Mercy, how we rattle on in light of your exhaustion.”
“Here, let me see to your horses while you sit down for breakfast. Bronwyn’s a fine cook and her biscuits and gravy are about ready.” With that, Mr. Harlow took the reins of both mounts and led them to the barn, which stood on the other side of a split-rail fence. Petey ran after him as if wondering where he was taking his faithful companions.
Mae and Lucy followed Bronwyn inside, the aroma of coffee strong. Spacious yet spare, the log home bespoke peace and orderliness. Bronwyn invited them to a long trestle table where Rhys must have sat countless times. Mae’s eyes moved from the chairs at both ends to the side benches and tried to picture him there. Fronting the table was a huge hearth. Large enough to stand up in, it covered an entire end wall, the long mantel home to books and a clock and myriad candlesticks, even a landscape painting of a castle. In Wales?
“Once our home was an ordinary,” Bronwyn told them. “Father was the owner, and this was the public room. He and Mother decided to close soon after I was born, though folks still happen by who once lodged here.”
She placed overflowing platters before them and filled large mugs with coffee enriched with sugar and cream. Lucy looked as pleased as Mae felt. They’d not had so ample a meal since the Quaker tavern outside Philadelphia.
