Mae donned hers, which was deemed a perfect fit. Next came Coralie. Standing before them in what was to be her wedding finery, she looked every inch a bride. Her trim waist and height accented the crimson silk damask with blond lace sleeve ruffles and fichu.
“Alors, the hem still needs to be altered a half inch.” Madame Jaquett knelt, examining where it touched the floor. “If you can tarry I shall do it this very afternoon.”
Sensing a long alteration, Mae excused herself. “I’ve a letter to post at the tavern.”
“Wait,” Coralie said, gesturing to the discarded dress she’d worn to the shop. “Please post my letter as well.”
To the lieutenant? Taking the sealed paper from Coralie’s dress pocket, Mae schooled her dismay and went on her way to Day’s Bridge Tavern. Despite the deep gray of the day, signs of spring snuck past lingering patches of snow. Snowdrops bloomed in green and white profusion along the riverbank and at the base of bare trees. But her mind wasn’t on them nor the tethered horses indicating the presence of soldiers. Chatham’s largest tavern was truly a second Continental headquarters, as some said.
By the time she’d walked into the tavern’s entryway and past the noisy taproom, she’d made up her mind. She retreated to the small, empty room to the right of the stairs, stood by the hearth’sfire, and silenced her guilt as she broke Coralie’s seal. Why were her hands shaking? Because she felt this a reverse betrayal?
The letter began with all the usual flowery lovers’ talk, making her feel the worst sort of intruder. Coralie described what she had been doing, the lack of goods in Chatham, deaths and illnesses of those he knew, news from church. Nothing that would frame her sister as a spy.
Perhaps Coralie had had second thoughts and never mailed the one incriminating letter telling Eben she’d report everything she could to help the British cause. Had Mae been wrong to suspect her sister? Yet why was Coralie returning to the hidden room to overhear conversations?
The fire’s logs settled, shifting the interior’s light and shadows. Stepping nearer a lit candle on a table, Mae gasped as Coralie’s writing between the lines of the letter became visible from the candle’s heat. Not a cipher or secret code ... a sympathetic stain?
Forgive me for being so foolish as to not write discreetly previously. I will now do as you advise with ink as I continue to glean information from J and CS at home. To our loss, RH has returned to Lowantica Valley. Though essential, he was never glib.
I plan on attending a ball in Morristown hosted by none other than George Washington himself to see what can be had there.
You said your superiors are most interested in knowing troop movements, supply routes, etc. Now with so many rebels in the village, I will make it my ambition to learn more.
I trust that what I provide is of use and can help, in even a small way, to bring a halt to these turncoats ruining our very lives.
Further shaken, Mae lay the letter on the table, wrestling with the contents while wanting to throw it into the fire. What wouldCoralie’s punishment be if she was caught? Nathan Hale flashed to mind. She wouldn’t hang like Hale, surely. The schoolteacher-turned-spy’s death haunted. Was it just last September the young Patriot had met his demise?
“Miss Bohannon.”
The low voice turned her around. Rhys?
He stood in the doorway, concern on his face as she shoved down her hurt he’d not used her forename. His gaze lowered to the letter. Surely he sensed her disquiet. He was as shrewd as his rifle was unerring. The room grew unbearably still, the ticking of a corner clock overloud.
For once she wished he was garrulous.
She pocketed the letter, then held out her cold hands to the fire’s warmth, missing her wool mittens. “I came here on an errand but didn’t expect to see you.”
“I’m here regularly for meetings and mail.”
“How are you faring at Lowantica Valley?” She took him in from his wool coat to his boots. When he’d resided with them all the lean corners of him had begun to soften, but now he appeared whittled down again. The time they’d been apart seemed an eternity, not days. “Are you warm enough? Well-fed?”
“Nay to both.” He looked to his boots with a wry half smile. “And the company is decidedly lacking.”
She made no reply, riven with frustration. He could remedy the situation between them in an instant. But he wouldn’t. Though she didn’t know him as well as she wanted, she was certain he wasn’t one to change course. He was honest. A man of integrity. One who would keep his word. And it only magnified her feelings for him.
They were staring at each other in a most unseemly manner. Openly. Lingeringly. Longingly. He was the first to look away.
“I should go.” She raised her cape hood and he started to say something more, but then, as if he thought better of it, let it pass. “Good day, General Harlow. Till we meet again.”
fourteen
With regard to military discipline, it was safe to say that no such thing existed. ... There were no regular formations, the formation of each regiment was as varied as their mode of drill dictated and which consisted only of manual exercise.
Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben
The ballroom of Arnold Tavern faced a village green fronted by several tall, south-facing windows. General Washington occupied the second floor and often used the ballroom for meetings. Early each morning, the general issued orders of the day in which he communicated daily passwords for sentries, troop movements, changes in policies, and commands that were the lifeblood of the army.
Rhys studied the tall, well-honed man who stood at the room’s center. His officers were ringed around him, listening as he spoke about the most pressing needs of the army at this juncture of the war. They were preparing for the next assault, spies watching the movements of British troops in the northeast and Canada and maintaining a close eye on what was happening in the southern campaign. For now, Washington was most concerned about the British occupation of New York City.
