“I’ll change once I eat.”
“Afteryou eat?” She stepped aside as if not wanting to get wet. “What’s this about a wedding?”
Not even Coralie could dim the moment. “We’re to be married here at the farm.”
“When?”
Mae looked to Rhys, then said, “As soon as Fort Montgomery’s chaplain is free to perform the ceremony.”
Speechless, Coralie turned and disappeared upstairs while Mae and Rhys took a place at the empty table. Joanna came in with two full plates, smiling and calling for Cassandra to fetch cider as Jon and James resumed their conversation on the porch and the children played outside.
With a wink, Rhys leaned across the table and took Mae’s hand to say grace. “For what we’re about to receive we give Thee thanks. Bless this meal’s preparer, and please save us from our sins—and quarrelsome sisters. In Your name we pray. Amen.”
twenty-eight
I hate to complain. ... No one is without difficulties, whether in high or low life, and every person knows best where their own shoe pinches.
Abigail Adams
The wedding day dawned overcast, the May heat tempered. The floral chintz made by Madame Jaquett had been aired and ironed, none the worse after the journey from Chatham. With Coralie busy in the kitchen, Joanna helped Mae upstairs. Once dressed, her hair pinned beneath a newly made lace cap, Mae turned away from the looking glass as the sound of riders reached them.
Her groom—or the long-awaited post?
Joanna went to an open window, her voice high with excitement. “The chaplain is here with General Harlow and a few officers—and I spy another horse carrying a young couple. Lucy Hawkes and her husband? You were kind to invite them.”
“I’d rather Lucy and her husband than four hundred riflemen,” Mae teased, joining her at the window.
“We’ve never hosted a wedding before. The prospect makes me quite giddy. I suppose, had the entire Rifle Corps come, we wouldhave simply rolled out kegs of cider and not all of them would have had cake.”
Joanna had baked a lovely wedding cake four stacks high. It sat in the buttery, the house’s cooler north corner. Early this morning, Phemie had snuck into the shadowed room and licked at the icing till Dierdre shooed her away. Now all three girls were in the garden picking flowers for Mae’s bouquet while the boys helped Jon tend the roasting pig in back of the barn.
“My, how handsome General Harlow looks in his bottle-green coat.” Joanna turned away from the window. “And you, my dear, are a very lovely bride.”
“I’m certainly the happiest,” Mae replied, hoping Rhys felt the same. “Though this is a far cry from the wedding I thought to have with Mother by my side, Father officiating, and Hanna and Aaron attending.”
“How I wish we could all be together in one place. It seems something of a miracle to have a wedding in wartime, at least betwixt an officer and his lady.” Joanna studied her wistfully. “We’d best go below. Guests are usually impatient—and hungry for the wedding feast.”
Mae followed her down the stairs, a sudden shyness overtaking her. Was Rhys sure of today? She looked to her ring, a dozen memories resurfacing along with her doubts. But when she came to the porch and found him waiting, every bit as handsome in his frock coat as Joanna said, she read adoration in his eyes and let go any remaining fears.
For a moment they seemed at a mutual loss for words. And then he extended his arm and she took it as the girls rounded the house with her bouquet, exclaiming with delight at her gown. Giggling, they soon scampered away, their petticoats as colorful as the posies they’d picked. The wedding party waited in the shade at the side of the house where the climbing rose was trellised. The entangled vines wound up the stone wall, the first ruby blooms heady.
Chaplain Israel Evans was not the aged, silver-haired man she’denvisioned but young as she and Rhys, his amiable manner winning her over in an instant. As the ceremony began, James and Joanna stood as witnesses while the children looked on with Jon, Phemie in his arms. A smiling Captain Sperry spoke in low tones to Lucy and her husband behind them, and then came Coralie, head down.
Mae refused to let her sister’s mood taint the day. She faced Rhys, their hands entwined, and listened to the vows she’d once thought she’d never hear him say.
“I, Rhys Harlow, take thee, Maebel Bohannon, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
She repeated his words, their gazes never wavering. The depth of such vows, meant to weather the years, shook her.Lord, let it be for a long time,enduring through the war, reaching into the next century.
Suddenly it was done, a prayer and benediction said.
She was his. He was hers.
Till death do them part.
Rhys escorted Mae to a table beneath a widespread oak where platters of roast pork and garden vegetables waited. The wedding cake sat at the center, fresh flowers and sugared almonds atop thick icing. Everyone was talking and laughing, the solemn ceremony already a pretty memory. Joanna and Jon were the perfect hosts, as if weddings were held every day of the week.
Rhys sat at the head of the long table with Mae to his right. She hadn’t stopped smiling, nor had he, so the slight ache in his jaw told him. Nor could he take his eyes off her. The flush of joy turned her radiant. She darted loving, almost disbelieving glances his way, making him wish the meal over so they could be alone. But first, the feast.
