Anger soon replaced my grief. I could not let this happen. Henry couldn’t die, not this way and not this soon. He had so much to offer the Patriots—so much to offer the world.
I wouldn’t let him go to Boston. When he came to see me tomorrow, I would tell him not to leave Williamsburg. I would think of a way to prevent him from going.
There was still time to change history, to save him from this fate, and I was the only person who could.
25
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA
MAY 29, 1775
The second I awoke in Williamsburg, I rushed out of bed. It always took me a moment to adjust to the differences in my body and remember that my child was not with me in this time and place. I ached for her while I was here, my hand often going to my flat stomach out of habit.
I dressed quietly, not wanting to wake Rebecca and Hannah, and slipped out of my room.
A dim light filled the eastern horizon as I tiptoed toward the stairs. Mama was probably awake, saying her morning prayers, but I did not want her to know I was leaving the house. If she knew what I was doing, she would try to stop me. I was about to change history, and I knew the consequences.
Henry was carrying papers that would alert the British to the American activities on the hills around Boston. It would lead to the Battle of Bunker Hill, a defining moment in American history. Would the battle not happen if Henry didn’t go? And what about the other information he passed along before he was captured? Would that affect the war or the outcome? Wouldit have a ripple effect that prevented America from winning? I couldn’t even imagine what that meant for the world.
I’d wrestled with these questions all night in 1915 and come to the conclusion that it was worth the risk to save Henry’s life. One small change couldn’t possibly affect so much. The knowledge that I was forfeiting my path in 1775 three weeks before my birthday was harder to accept. Tonight, when I went to sleep in Williamsburg, I would wake up in Whitby and never return.
The thought stopped me as I put my hand on the railing. My legs became weak, and I sat down hard upon the first step. Did I have the courage to do this?
“Libby?” Mama’s door opened, and she peeked out of her bedchamber, a frown on her face. “What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t gather the strength to rise and address her. My words stuck in my throat, and I tried to swallow them.
She stepped out of her room and walked down the hall, joining me on the top step. It was crowded, with both of us sitting there, but it also felt safe and secure.
“What’s wrong?” she asked again. “Is it the baby?”
I shook my head as tears gathered in my eyes. “It’s Henry. He’s going to die.” I couldn’t keep the information to myself. It was too much to carry on my own.
“How do you know?”
“I read about it in a book in Whitby. He’s going to be hanged for treason on my birthday—in Boston.”
“What?” Mama frowned. “Are you certain?”
I nodded as the tears fell down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. “I’ve known about the book for nine months, but I wouldn’t allow myself to look—until yesterday. Oh, Mama.”
I laid my cheek against her shoulder and wept like I’d never wept before. She put her arm around me and held me tight, whispering soft, reassuring words, though none of them made me feel any better.
“I love him,” I said when my tears had subsided.
“I know, Libby. I know.”
“What will I do?” I kept my cheek on her shoulder, staring down the stairs and at the path before me. “How can I stop this from happening?”
“You can’t.”
“But I must.” I sat up straighter and used my apron to wipe my cheeks. “I can’t let him die.”
“Only God is in control of our destiny. He alone is sovereign. When we try to control the people and events around us, we are telling Him He doesn’t know what’s best for us. We’re setting ourselves up as our own gods, elevating ourselves above Him. It’s a dangerous game, Libby.”
“But you said I always have a choice.”
“You do, but is that truly the choice you want to make? Doesn’t He know what’s best for Henry?”
