I’d been trying to push our farewell from my mind, busying myself with my work on Cumberland Hall, but it refused to be silenced. What little appetite I had for tea fled, and I set my biscuit on the tray.
I would never see Henry again after tomorrow. I would never be held in his arms, never know the sweet kiss of his lips, and never hear the cadence of his voice.
The baby moved again, causing my stomach to lift at the force of her somersault.
Suddenly, I could not be still any longer. I needed to find something to occupy my mind.
Leaving the study, I walked down the corridor to the great hall, where stone masons were repairing the cracks in the wall high above. Sunshine poured in through the tall windows, illuminating their work.
I observed them for a moment, but my loneliness overwhelmed me. My pregnancy caused me to stay home more and more. No longer could I serve at the soup kitchen or visit the people who had become friends during their recovery at Cumberland Hall. Dr. Aiken visited regularly and suggested I keep to light, easy activities. He had some concerns about my pregnancy, though he said I didn’t need complete rest. The last thing I wanted was to hurt my baby, so I had heeded his advice and stayed close to Cumberland Hall this past month.
But it had caused a deep, gnawing isolation, especially with the impending loss in 1775. Once I left Mama, I would have no one to talk to about my time-crossing. That in itself made me feel like a castaway on a deserted island.
Not for the first time, I thought of Congressman Hollingsworth, and a bit of the loneliness lifted. There was one other person on this planet who understood, and even though I couldnot contact him now, perhaps I could after my twenty-first birthday. There would be no history to change then.
The door to the library was open, and I caught a glimpse of the maids cleaning inside. I had not entered that room since Reggie had visited and had no desire to do so now. Yet the Virginia book called to me. More than ever, I wanted to look through the pages to see the familiar names and places I would soon be leaving forever.
I stopped outside the door, wondering if the memories of Reggie’s visit would overshadow the comfort I might take in seeing the book again. Perhaps I could slip in, grab the book, and then go to the conservatory. I didn’t need to actually read the book; just having it with me felt like enough.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped into the library. The two-story room immediately brought back the memories of that night five months ago when Reggie had forced me to stay with him. An uneasy, panicked feeling settled in my chest. I laid my hand on my stomach and felt the baby press against my palm, reminding me that there was beauty among the ashes. I quickly located the Virginia book and then rushed out of the library.
Pressing the book to my chest, I felt as if I had found a friend once again. I ran my hands over the leather cover as I entered the conservatory. It was bright and welcoming, a refuge among the rubble of my sorrow.
I sat in my favorite chair, with a view of the moors and the sea. The conservatory was warm and humid, but I didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t alone. Part of me wanted to open the book to find the names of people I knew. Yet part of me was frightened. Would I have the willpower to stop myself from looking up Henry’s name? But what if the news was good? Might the book tell me where he would live, if he married, and how many children he’d have?
Did I want to know?
Somehow, the thought of him moving on with his life after Idied felt like too much. Maybe one day I would have the strength and desire to learn the truth, but was that today?
“I wish you could know him,” I said to the unborn child in my womb. “But I’m afraid all he’ll be to you one day is a name from a distant time and place that bears no significance. Just like the name Travis from Mama’s path is to me.”
The book was large and heavy, so I set it on the table beside me—but I missed the edge, and it fell to the stone floor, landing facedown with the pages splayed open. I bent to pick it up and turned it over, afraid I’d hurt the spine or damaged some of the old paper. A smudge of dirt marred one of the pages, and I wiped it away, but then my eyes fell on the words.
The book had opened to ther’s, and Peyton Randolph’s name jumped out at me. He’d served as the speaker of the House of Burgesses in Williamsburg and the President of the Virginia Convention and the First Continental Congress. But I paused when I read the date and circumstances surrounding his death. He would die of apoplexy on October 22, 1775, while dining with Thomas Jefferson during the Second Continental Congress in Philadelphia.
My heart lagged as I thought of his wife and children, who would soon be bereft. He’d already left for Philadelphia, which meant they’d probably never see him again.
I was so far away from them’s that I decided to look at the other names near ther’s. Some of the biographies surprised me, others made me sad, and still others made me smile. I was honored to know some of these men and proud to be a Virginian.
I spent the afternoon reading the book, purposely avoiding them’s, and that was where Mr. Wentworth found me when it was time for supper.
“Would you like your meal brought to you here?” he asked.
I stood and stretched, sore from sitting for so long but happy I had spent time with so many people I knew and cared about.
“I’ll take supper in my bedchamber tonight,” I told him.I was exhausted and would retire with my book after I was done eating. It would take me hours and hours to get through all the information contained within this volume, and then I’d have twelve others to read when I was done. I looked forward to learning more about the colonists who would aid in the American Revolution.
An hour later, after I was done eating and Edith had helped me into a nightgown and wrapper, I went to the chair near the fireplace. It had been lit to contend with the spring chill that had settled inside the house that evening.
I brought the book with me and opened it to a random page, ready to keep reading, but realized I was looking at them’s.
Henry’s name stared at me, and before I could stop myself, I was reading the information the book contained.
Henry Montgomery was a merchant, burgess, and American Patriot. He was born on August 16, 1750, at Edgewater Hall along the James River near Williamsburg, Virginia. Montgomery served as a spy for the Committee of Correspondence, first in Williamsburg, using his connection to Governor Dunmore, and then on two separate missions from Virginia to Massachusetts, gathering and sharing intelligence among the colonies to aid in preparation for war. It was on this second mission, at daybreak on June 17, 1775, during the Siege of Boston, that Montgomery was captured by the British army. The papers he was carrying conveyed a message from Colonel William Prescott to the Second Continental Congress at Philadelphia, revealing the plan to occupy the hills around Boston and prevent the British from fortifying the city. This alerted the British of the colonists’ plans, and the Battle of Bunker Hill ensued. Though the British won the battle after three separate attacks and the colonists were forced to retreat after running out of ammunition, it demonstrated that the inexperienced American militia were able to fight regular army troops in battle. Henry Montgomery was held as a prisoner and hanged for treason on June19, 1775. He became the first American spy executed during the Revolution.
I stared at the words on the page as my body grew cold and numb with disbelief. This couldn’t be true. Henry couldn’t die on my birthday. He couldn’t die at all. He was meant to live a long and happy life, bearing the fruit of his sacrifice and labor for decades to come.
Grief, deep and debilitating, settled over me as I reread the short paragraph. This was what Henry’s sacrifice would amount to? This was what his death would produce? A brief mention in an old book? It wasn’t right or fair. How could God allow such a tragedy? It was a waste that defied comprehension.
