“Fort Edward upriver?” Mae ignored her cup of tea. “I heard it was controlled by Americans under General Schuyler.”
“Not any longer.” Caty shook her head, her features tight with distress. “It’s since fallen to the British—General Burgoyne—after he took Ticonderoga.”
Alice recoiled. “So the British are felling forts left and right on their way south? Will we be next?”
Mae looked from Alice to Caty again. “That isn’t the tragedy you speak of.”
At the shake of Caty’s head, Alice urged, “By all means, tell us.”
“’Tis quite ... gruesome. And it might have been one of us instead.” Caty took a sip of tea as if to steady herself. “A young woman named Jane McCrea was recently en route to her fiancé at Fort Edward, a British lieutenant serving with General Burgoyne’s forces.” Clearly rattled, Caty toyed with her cup. “Miss McCrea’s lieutenant arranged for a party of British-allied Indians to escort her and a female friend to Fort Edward, where they could be married. They didn’t make it far.”
Mae resisted the childish urge to cover her ears, but she’d always been repelled by brutality. Once heard, such news tended to play over and over in her mind.
“Some blame a skirmish between American and British forces and a stray bullet. Others report it was her Huron guard who killed her after having an argument over who was to claim the reward for her safe delivery. Whatever happened, her scalp was delivered to her fiancé at Fort Edward.”
Mae flinched as the bloodshed played out in her head.
Alice’s gasp shook her further. “Are you sure ’tis true?”
“Intelligence came in today confirming the report. My husband rarely shares such things with me, but he felt it necessary that I be on my guard. And I tell you now so that you’ll be on yours.”
Mae’s mind veered to Coralie. How alike Jane McCrea and her sister were. Both affianced to British officers. Both in New York. Jane’s fate might have befallen her sister. Had Lieutenant Gibbs written as she’d hoped?
“Tragic,” Mae murmured. “The lieutenant’s life will never be the same.”
“I imagine he’s more than brokenhearted.” Alice shuddered. “He’s likely blaming himself for arranging her transport in the first place.”
They finished their tepid tea in silence. What more was there to say?
That night Mae and Rhys retired early to bed. She washed first, the tubful of cool water refreshing. Rhys preferred the river, having found a secluded spot up Popolopen Creek. Once Mae had donned a nightgown, she took out her brush.
“This weather makes me want to snip off my hair.”
“Don’t you dare,” he told her, taking her brush. “Your hair is your glory, like Scripture says.”
Her thoughts took a melancholy turn. What color was Jane McCrea’s hair? Would he not tell her about the incident as Caty’s husband had done? Nor had he told her about the fall of Fort Edward.
Silent, he began braiding her hair, each finger a thumb.
Turning, she interrupted his clumsy efforts by standing on tiptoe and kissing his bristled cheek. She preferred him a bit scruffy, liking the way his roughened skin felt against hers. Sand against silk, he said. He kissed her back, driving all thoughts from her head, including the room’s uncomfortable heat. For a moment,war and advancing armies—even Jane McCrea—seemed distant and less dark.
Once they’d said their nightly prayers they lay down on the too-small bed with the thin mattress, and he ran a finger down her flushed cheek. “Someday we’ll have a thick tick filled with a great many goose feathers.”
She shut her eyes, trying to envision it. “Describe our bedchamber in that house of yours. Every inch.”
“’Tis a large room at the top of the stairs with a corner fireplace, with south- and north-facing windows overlooking what I hope to be gardens.”
“A flower garden and a kitchen garden.”
“Under your oversight, aye. I already have the seed.”
“Tell me more.”
“As for the finished bedchamber, there’s oak floors and lime-plastered walls with raised paneling.”
“No wallpaper?”
“Papered walls?” His amused voice held disbelief.
