We read your past letters so often that the ink is smudged and faded, and are very curious about this belle of Chatham you mention. Clearly she has your heart, which will crush your many admirers in the valley here when found out. Yet you make no mention of her feelings for you, so perhaps this Jersey lady will be left behind when you move on with the army. I hope not, for it is time you settled down, though I do wonder how she would like Virginia should she leave her home.
Soon I will put my hand to the plow to help Father in the fields. It is the least I can do with you away fighting for our very liberties. Our wheat and corn should be bountiful again this year, and my kitchen garden is wintering well. I am anxious to see how the bees and orchard fare come spring without your careful tending. Your house is empty but standing strong, a comfort to us when we look up the hill. I may plant you a kitchen garden of your own come spring.
Our prayers are with you, to protect and guide you wherever you go.
Your loving sister,
Bronwyn
One line dogged him.Clearly she has your heart.Though he had only mentioned Mae briefly, his astute sister had read the meaning within and summed up the dilemma of his moving on. Bronwyn said nothing about the man she loved who’d fallen early in the war. Micah Edmiston had been one of the Virginia line who’d died at the Battle of Great Bridge. Did she not mention him anymore because she knew how it grieved him? Or had she somehow moved past it? He doubted the latter.
Micah had been his childhood friend, more a brother, and Rhys still couldn’t fathom he was gone. Nor had he much time to ponder his absence or the hole he’d left in the Shenandoah Valley, since Rhys had soon left to lead his riflemen to reinforce Boston’s Patriots in 1775.
He folded the letter and put it in his dispatch case before reaching into his pocket. When he withdrew Mae’s braid it lay like gold in his open palm.
Maebel Bohannon Harlow.
He tried picturing her in the valley, in the house he’d built. Of solid stone, it was a bare six rooms with a central staircase. A grand home compared to the log dwelling his father and mother built together and where his father and sister lived today.
But was Mae meant to be its mistress?
She could sew but barely cook. She played the spinet but he didn’t have one. Her dresses were far above the simple linen and homespun of his Shenandoah world. Even the furnishings in the Chatham home were fine, far finer than any he owned. His house sat empty. His only pride was the beginnings of a library.
Still, stubbornly, he saw her there. But how would she manage?Would Bronwyn be on hand or would Mae expect another Mrs. Hurst? Domestic help was beyond his ken. The nearest town was hardly the caliber of Chatham. Would Mae be willing to accept him on such humble terms?
Would anyone? He had no ties other than partnering with a woman for a dance or two at some local function where he’d been invited to fiddle. He’d had little time for amusements even before the war. And suddenly it seemed odd that he was still solitary at more than thirty years of age, as if he’d been waiting, keeping himself apart, his whole life till Mae.
His mind leapt ahead to children ringed round the table. Childish voices uttering prayers at bedtime. Mae’s soft voice above them all. He hoped for a large family in time. He hadn’t any inkling what she wanted. And it didn’t seem to even matter as he might share Micah’s fate. Above all the wonderings and imaginings and longings, he didn’t want to hurt her by deepening their tie and making foolish promises he couldn’t keep.
The temperatures rose and the northeaster was a dim memory when James readied the coach to journey to Morristown. Mae was glad to travel two days ahead of the ball as they’d need time to prepare their gowns and coiffures, to say nothing of their nerves. To be in the same room as General Washington and his lady was remarkable enough. But the possibility of being with Rhys again was all that truly mattered, and she was about to see if he danced as well as he fiddled.
His absence seemed a twelvemonth. She’d neither seen nor heard from him since he’d delivered the salt, nor had she asked James about him as Coralie was almost always present when they’d been snowbound. When she rode with James to deliver the last wagonload of goods to Lowantica Valley, Rhys had been elsewhere, thus she missed him again.
Expectant and somewhat heartsick, she pinned all her hopeson the ball. After all, he was an officer, and all the general’s officers in the winter encampment were invited, clear to Chatham and beyond.
As she and Coralie arrived at Morristown in a flurry of petticoats, capes, and baggage, their elderly aunt met them at the front door.
“Welcome, my dears!” The bent, wrinkled widow ushered them in with her usual peppery relish. “’Tis been an age! I’ve been hearing rumors that the British might storm Chatham any minute, then move on to Morristown. I’m more than relieved you’re here safe and sound.”
“I’m sorry the weather and the pox kept us away so long.” Mae removed her cape. “Praise be ’tis spring and we can turn our minds to other matters.”
“Indeed, a dance is most welcome after so much death. I’ve seen far too many soldiers and townspeople buried over the winter. For a time I feared there’d not be a friend left standing. There is simply no more room in the Presbyterian and Baptist graveyards.”
“We’re glad you’re still breathing, Aunt Verity,” Coralie said, kissing her pockmarked cheek. Their aunt had suffered the disease as a child long ago, so long ago she couldn’t recall it, she’d said.
She helped them remove their wraps before resuming her vigil by her parlor window. “I’ve been wanting to catch sight of Mrs. Washington ever since she arrived. Such a tiny speck of a woman from what I’ve heard—and the general is as strapping as they come! Two hundred ten pounds in heft, ’tis said—and standing six foot three!”
“If you don’t see Mrs. Washington—Lady Washington, some call her—beforehand, we’ll tell you all about her afterward,” Mae reassured her. “I understand she’s very gracious and brings great cheer wherever she goes.”
She and Coralie hurried up the stairs to the room they shared whenever in Morristown, conveniently situated on the town square.Pale sunlight streaked the worn wooden floors of a space that hadn’t changed since their childhood.
“Come down, dearies, when you’ve settled in and we’ll have a dish of tea,” Aunt Verity called from below.
A dish of tea took the chill off their seven-mile journey, though the tea table was positioned by the parlor window, which emitted a frightful draft. But their aunt’s patrolling of Morristown wouldn’t be denied.
“A great deal can be learned by careful observation.” Aunt Verity began pouring from an ancient porcelain pot. “For instance, how many times the bakers and butchers service the tavern, how many laundresses are required, even how many times couriers come and go. The place is a veritable hive of activity at all hours of the day and night. I’ve become very fond of seeing the general taking a walk or riding about town, always in the company of his Life Guards and the like.”
“Does this mean you’re siding with the Continental cause, Auntie?” Coralie asked, taking a tea cake from a floral plate.
