“Hopefully once Rhys is settled we’ll hear. He could still be somewhere along the Hudson River. New York is a vast territory, and mail is oft intercepted.”
Mae withheld a wince. Fleeing the wilderness with all its hardships was something that would never leave her, nor would the memory of Jon’s farm, burned beyond recognition. “Has the Shenandoah Valley escaped the conflict?”
“We’ve not escaped the war entirely,” Bronwyn told her. “We’ve a few Loyalists here, though most of this valley are staunch Patriots. Several regiments are serving in the Continental Army all over the united states. Our foremost worry has been raids by the British and their Indian allies.”
“Have there been any?”
“A few skirmishes so far—stealing supplies from farms and the like. We now have Patriot patrols to warn us.” Bronwyn looked up and smiled. “I’d rather talk about tomorrow’s Sabbath service.”
Church? Mae sat back, hardly aware of time. Her days seemed as scattered as dandelion seeds.
“Our pastor is something of a firebrand, one of the so-called Black Robe Regiment who preach independence from the pulpit.”
“Like Colonel Muhlenberg from Virginia. Rhys spoke highly of him. He actually forsook preaching to join the Continental Army.”
“He did, indeed.”
“Our own pastor in Chatham wasn’t so bold.” In hindsight, Mae saw how ill a match they would have made. “Tell me more about your congregation.”
“On the third Sabbath of the month we gather for a community meal.” Bronwyn smiled again, the dimple in her cheek unnoticed till now. “Best prepare yourself. You’ll break a few hearts appearing as the new Mrs. Harlow.”
Clad in her second-best dress that had finally been ironed, Mae sat with Father Harlow and Bronwyn in a back pew at the Presbyterian church. But being inconspicuous didn’t seem to stop all the whispering behind hands, especially among the congregation’s young women. Lucy’s appearance bolstered her, though she sat upstairs in the loft with her kin.
“This morning we have with us General Harlow’s new wife from Jersey,” the pastor announced at service’s end as countless heads turned in her direction. “I hope everyone will greet her kindly as we continue to pray for her husband’s homecoming, as we do all the defenders of freedom from this valley and elsewhere.”
Flushed, Mae tried to shake off her shyness and remember the names of those who greeted her.
The communal meal was held inside the church itself, plentiful southern fare that bespoke a rich harvest. Smoked hams were in abundance and numerous cider kegs were tapped, the Hewes Crab and Taliaferro quite different from Newark cider in Jersey.
Mae looked over the room, the pews pushed back, the talk andlaughter deafening. Though Bronwyn had kept close to her side, she now drifted toward her female friends just as Father Harlow gathered with men outside the open door. Several older women peppered Mae with questions, and she felt stark relief when Lucy made straight for her.
“Fancy seeing you at church and not the middle of the wilderness,” Lucy jested, squeezing her gloved hand. “How are you faring?”
“I’ve missed you, though Rhys’s family has been so very good to me. I’m even living in the house he built. Soon you’ll have to visit and we’ll share some of Bronwyn’s sassafras tea.”
“I knew they’d welcome you proper-like, though I can’t say the same for the unmarried misses who’ve long pinned their hopes on being Mrs. Harlow.” She winked as if Mae had won at a game and outfoxed them all. “But he never paid any of them much mind other than a dance or two.”
Mae mulled this, wondering if he now regretted his choice. Doubts continued to bedevil her, making her question everything, including their all-too-tenuous future.
“You’ve not heard anything about what came after Saratoga? Where our men might be?” Mae knew the answer before she asked. Lucy would have run to her house if she had.
With a shake of her head, Lucy shot down the notion. “All I know is that both New York battles were brutal. I’m sure my Isham was right there with his drum. The Rifle Corps fought ferociously, ’tis said, but not all stayed standing.”
Mae felt as dependent on the unreliable post as Coralie had when she’d hoped for letters from Lieutenant Gibbs. Waiting and wondering seemed another sort of torment. No letters. No casualty lists.
If he lived, what if Rhys chose not to write because he’d not forgiven her?
fifty
Live free or die; death is not the worst of evils.
General John Stark
In the November twilight, Mae stood by the window of her upstairs bedchamber and took in shadowed outbuildings, fences and fields, and the long rutted road that wound in and out of their portion of the valley.
From which direction would Rhys come?
Cold seeped through the panes and turned her away from the window. Barefooted and nightgowned, she crossed the room to replenish the fire. Above, the mantel clock seemed to be ticking her life away without him.
