“That’s what my ma used to say.”
“Do you want children?” She’d never broached the tender subject before, nor had Lucy.
“I don’t suppose everyone is meant to have them. For now, Petey’s plenty.” She took a bite of a ginger biscuit and proclaimed it delicious. “I’ll just borrow Mahala every now and then.”
“Then we’ll call you Aunt Lucy.”
“I like the sound of that.” Her smile widened, then faded as she saw Mae’s sewing basket by the hearth. “A uniform coat?”
“Yes. Bronwyn gave me the wool cloth and I dyed it blue. The one we made General Harlow was ruined on his journey here.”
“So you’re making him another.”
“For Christmas, yes. I thought I might ask you to finish it in silver thread like you did the Clintons’ coats.”
“You think he’ll return to the army, then.” For a few seconds Lucy fell as silent as Mae, then said, “The general’s poorly. I’ve never seen him so. What happened?”
Mae poured them both coffee, her voice low. “He won’t say.”
“Well, it’s clear he’s had a grave injury. I pray he’s out of danger.”
“The doctor seems to think he’ll be all right. For a time we feared blood poisoning.”
“Poisoning’s buried many a soldier.” Lucy shuddered. “Now that he’s mending, fatten him up and keep him off his feet.”
“Sage advice, Lucy, but I doubt he’ll agree to it.”
“Well, ’tis clear he’s glad to be home. He adores you, he does. I see it plain when he looks at you.”
Mae reined in her surprise as she stirred sugar and cream into her cup. “He’s rather ... cantankerous of late.”
“Men make poor patients. When he’s himself again all will be well.”
But he won’t ever be himself again, she thought.Nor will I.
Mae missed Lucy the moment she left Mae alone with Rhys in a too-quiet house. His midnight feat of coming uphill and then meeting with Lucy seemed to set him back, though for a moment she’d grabbed hold of hope again.
She wasn’t a widow. Nor the mother of a fatherless child.
Just the wife of a broken-down soldier who must be rebuilt bit by bit with food and care and kindness. For now, he could manage only a few spoonfuls of soup before his stomach cramped and he heaved it up again.
“By far the best medicine is his being here at home near you and the baby,” Bronwyn had told her.
But Mae doubted she was the medicine he needed. There’d been no true conversation between them since he’d been back. Now he simply slept and ate by turns as if the sheer effort of living wore him out.
When another day passed and he slipped into a profound sleep, she feared his rallying was a ruse. Still, Dr. Hardy smiled for the first time since she’d met him as he examined Rhys and pronounced the infection lessened.
“Continue with the poultices and keep the wound clean. Do as much as you feel like doing, but don’t overtax yourself,” he advised Rhys. “Try to get up and navigate with those crutches I spy in the corner.” Looking to Mae he added, “Fatten him like a prize calf before market.”
And so Mae set to work in the kitchen, turning out apple tarts, thick stews, and endless cornbread and wheaten loaves. The aroma alone was enough to strengthen a man, Father Harlow said. Mae felt a small flicker of pride that she’d conquered the kitchen andbecome something of a cook, though she still doubted she’d ever rise to the heights of Bronwyn or Mrs. Hurst.
At week’s end the doctor told them he wouldn’t return unless they needed him. To celebrate, Bronwyn and Father Harlow carried a prized firkin of their best cider up the hill. Once the wooden bung was removed and the cask tapped, Mae poured them all a drink, including Rhys. He took his with an unsteady hand.
Once he’d seemed unstoppable. A force. She paled at his patriotism, his devotion to the cause. It had outweighed his devotion to her. She’d tested that devotion and come away the loser. As they toasted his return to health, she wondered...
How would their frayed tie weather his return to the fight?
fifty-three
