Bronwyn finally sat, her hands cupping a steaming treenware cup. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said, eyes on Mae. “I have a hundred questions, but perhaps it’s best I talk while you eat and then you can answer.”
Mouth full, Lucy nodded, while Mae had to slow herself down lest she appear half starved or, worse, rude.
“Rhys grew up in this house, but the one he built up the hill is finer—fit for a bride. You can see it plain now that the trees surrounding it have lost their leaves. Since the war called him away Father and I have tried to finish and furnish it, but there’s still plenty that needs doing.”
Mae could only imagine the hole Rhys’s absence left. “He told me about starting with rock from your quarry here.” Those memories, at least, were happy when he’d shared his pride in the details.
“He started between planting and harvest. It took years, but the house is finally habitable.” Bronwyn’s smile held relief. “I’m sure I speak for Father when I say you’re welcome to stay here with us till Rhys returns if you don’t want to live alone on the hill.”
Mae put down her fork. “Actually, I’d welcome moving in ahead of his return.” Should she tell all? “With a baby coming, I want it to be home. I want to help make it a home.”
Bronwyn’s eyes went wide. She reached across the table and squeezed Mae’s hand. “A baby?”
“In spring, Lord willing.”
“You came all that way...” Bronwyn’s hazel eyes glinted. “So much traveling must have taken a toll.”
Mae’s free hand moved to her waist beneath her mother’s shawl, where she felt a slight flutter even as she shared her joy. On the trail she feared the baby wouldn’t thrive. How hard it would have been to meet Rhys with sad news when he returned.
“You’re clearly worn to ribbon, the both of you.” Bronwyn looked at Lucy, then back at Mae. “We can move you up to the house once you’ve rested. My raspberry leaf tea should help you recover your strength, among other things.”
Was she an herbalist, then? Memories of Aaron’s apothecary, hardly thought of on the journey here, came rushing back.
“We’ll have to acquaint you with the midwife not a mile from here. She’s birthed half the babies in this valley.” Bronwyn looked thoughtful as if trying to come to terms with being an aunt. “Father will be so pleased. He’ll make a fine grandfather.”
Might the baby help fill the emptiness left by Mrs. Harlow and possibly Micah Edmiston? Perhaps in hindsight, Mae would realize that despite her rift with Rhys, her coming here was not happenstance but heaven-sent.
“There’s a cradle in the attic.” Bronwyn’s excitement was palpable. “We’ll move it in with you. I can make new bedding and line it with wool if you like.” She gestured to a spinning wheel by a window, a basket of wool beside it. Rhys had told her they had a large flock of sheep.
“You’re very kind,” Mae said. “I’m sorry I’ve brought so little with me. Only what fit in a saddlebag.”
“No matter. We’ll soon have you settled with all that you need. If anything’s lacking there’s a store further down the valley, though the owner has enlisted like so many. His wife is managing business while he’s away.”
All across America were homes and farms and businesses abandoned or turned over to women and kin instead. Sad and sobering to think many men would never return to resume the lives they’d left. Mae could hardly bear the thought.
Bronwyn began gathering their empty plates. “It’ll be good to see lights up on the hill while we wait for Rhys’s homecoming together, all four of us.”
Mae got up to help her sister-in-law, so sleepy she’d nearly nodded off in the midst of the meal. Bronwyn’s graciousness was all the more poignant, given she’d been denied so much.
forty-nine
The women of America have at last become principals in the glorious American Controversy.
Benjamin Rush
Lucy left, and Mae, unable to wait a moment longer, went up the hill to the new house. Though Rhys had told her much about it, he’d hidden details and embellishments as if wanting to surprise her. Artfully arranged corner fireplaces, elegant wainscoting, tall casement windows, and paneled oak shutters greeted her. A straightforward stair in the hall with a few turns and a finely crafted balustrade had her hurrying upstairs.
All six rooms were sparsely furnished, but the furnishings were well-made. The parlor’s settle reminded her of theirs in Chatham. A long, unscarred table with six ladderback chairs dominated the kitchen. Handsome cupboards and wardrobes and chests were upstairs and down. Carpets and curtains would soften the austereness in time. Lord willing, the echoing house would soon be filled with a baby’s cry.
Soldier, rifleman, and farmer, Rhys was also an accomplished builder, his craftsmanship on display everywhere she looked. Somehowthat made her feel closer to him, cocooned by the work of his hands.
Over the next few days as she rested and recovered, life began to settle into a pleasant pattern. Between dawn and dusk’s many tasks they took meals together downhill. Nightfall found Father Harlow making the rounds to the barn and outbuildings before Bronwyn snuffed the house lights. Mae snuffed the lights uphill. Never had she been so glad to lie down each night. A working farm was not for the faint of heart, even in the dwindling days of November.
Two weeks passed. Newspapers carried details of the battles near Saratoga, though there’d been no list of Continental casualties as of yet. British prisoners taken in New York were marching to Boston—more than two hundred miles of misery, ’twas said.
“’Tis a good time for Rhys to return home,” Bronwyn said as she set jars of applesauce and preserves on the kitchen table. “Most of the fieldwork has halted till spring, though there’s always clearing and splitting timber to be done. Cidermaking is finished and the larder and cellar stocked. Butchering, soapmaking, and candlemaking are next.”
Mae didn’t tell her she’d done none of that, having relied on Chatham’s butcher, general store, and chandler, to say nothing of Madame Jaquett. But neither did she sit idly by and let her sister-in-law do the work. She marveled at all Bronwyn accomplished, but as the Quakers said, where work is shared, the burden is halved.
