Chapter 1
one
Drifted with snow, the village of Chatham was decidedly quaint.
Tidy. Or once had been. Now it was infused with Patriots.
Infested, some said. Countless rebel soldiers milled about, some of them almost leisurely, others purposefully.
Since the Continental Army had no standardized uniform aside from the topmost officers, most of these Patriots were a ragtag, homespun sort, some even barefoot, reminding Mae of the couple she’d caught in the smokehouse.
Had it only been a fortnight ago she’d ushered them into the kitchen and supplied them?
She’d told no one, not even Coralie. Try as she might, she couldn’t scrub her mind clean of the bloody footprints in the snow.
And she continued to wonder . . . Had the sad pair returned to the army? Or deserted?
Basket on one arm, Mae crossed the village green, her progress as slow as it was slippery, her scarlet cape furling and unfurling like a flag in the wintry wind. Few would guess British-occupied New York City with its hordes of redcoated soldiers was only twenty-five miles away.
“Morning, miss.” One tattered soldier doffed his cocked hat to her in the middle of the green.
“Good morning to you, sir,” she returned, hastening past.
Tattered and ragtag, aye. But these men were unified in spirit if not dress, and she sensed their resiliency and resolve from a distance.
Wrestling with admiration and pity, she fixed her eye on the trade sign that waved in a north wind.
The words “Old Town Apothecary” lettered a wooden board where clusters of lavender, rosemary, and mint grew in painted profusion.
Her youngest brother’s business, the shop was the handsomest building in Chatham save the Presbyterian church. Aaron Bohannon did them all proud.
If she’d expected an empty shop she was sorely mistaken.
Winter’s agues and miasmas laid many low.
A line of villagers snaked out the front door, sending her round to the side entrance.
After letting herself in, she made her way to a back chamber, a cozy bower lined with medical books that boasted Aaron’s desk and an immense brick hearth roaring with heat.
She pulled off her mittens, extended cold fingers to the fire, and breathed in the earthy, medicinal scent while listening to the shop’s chatter. In minutes, her sister-in-law Hanna appeared, her lovely face pinched with concern.
“Morning, dear Mae.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Is Coralie’s cold worse?”
“No better,” Mae replied. “And we’ve run out of herbs and simples.”
“I do worry, as she’s painfully thin.”
As painfully thin as I am plump, Mae thought.
“I recommend a decoction of peppermint leaves, dried ginger, a pinch of yarrow, and lemon balm with a small piece of willow bark.” Hanna disappeared again to fetch the needed ingredients before returning and advising, “Add all to hot water and let rest for fifteen minutes, then strain. Have Coralie inhale the steam as she drinks to help clear her head.”
Thanking her, Mae turned her backside to the fire and took in her brother behind the counter as Hanna returned to help the next customer. Aaron bore a marked resemblance to their late father, though it was their mother she missed most.
Grief, still raw, pushed Mae out the door and past the First Presbyterian Church. Across the stone fence was her parents’ grave marker, hidden by snow. If only she could do the same with her emotions. Bury them. Banish them.
Armed with a fresh remedy for Coralie, she allowed herself a last, less practical stop.
Down a side street stood the dressmaker’s shop, beckoning her inside with all its color and creature comforts.
The pomaded, powdered owner was a French Huguenot, an independent woman of means who somehow seemed to be the only merchant immune to the war’s blockades and barriers.
Some suspected her of smuggling, but who knew?
“Ah, Mademoiselle Bohannon.” Madame Jaquett’s heavily accented English gave no hint she’d been in Chatham for a decade. “My shop is all too quiet on account of the snow, so it is good to see you venture forth.”
Smiling and shivering, Mae set her market basket down. “I promised Coralie I’d ask about her gown.”
“Of course. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve nearly finished.” Escorting her to the rear of the shop, Madame Jaquett pointed to a wickerwork mannequin bedecked in exotic Indian chintz. “Voilà!”
Awed, Mae eyed the gown and tried to put down the envy that needled her. “My sister will look lovely.”
“Alors, mademoiselle! This dress is yours—her gift to you.”
Mae stared at her.
“For a very special occasion, she said.” Madame Jaquett smiled and lifted a lace sleeve ruffle made from the same delicate lace that lined the bodice. “Would you like a decorative ladder of bows at the front? A flounce at the hem?”
Mae smiled and shook her head, even more appreciative of the colorful fabric now that she’d come out of mourning. “Nothing more is needed, thank you.”
“Then I shall finish it at once.” Madame Jaquett went to a chest of drawers and took out a length of silk ribbon. “Please take this to your sister and tell her I am trimming her gown with such.”
Mae took the ribbon, a marvel of embroidered flowers. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“I send my best wishes for her complete recovery”—she darted a wary look out the window, where snow masked the alley and surrounding structures—“and an end to all this inclement weather.”
Mae let herself into their clapboard house quietly, removed her damp cape, and hung it on a peg to dry.
The center hall was quiet, the staircase empty as it wound upward to several bedchambers and an attic.
She darted a look into the parlor, where a fire burned in a large hearth, bookended by shelves.
A red-nosed Coralie dozed in a Windsor chair nearest the blaze, eyes closed, a handkerchief fisted atop her quilted petticoat.
Tiptoeing, Mae took her basket into the kitchen and began to prepare the apothecary tea.
Above her head, the room’s oak beams, taken from a spice ship, held their own exotic scent and seemed to whisper of faraway ports.
In summer the room hinted of pepper and mace, in winter cinnamon and cloves. Mae inhaled deeply, happy to be home.
When the kettle sang, she swung it off the fire and poured hot water over the herbals in a large stoneware mug.
Mrs. Hurst, their longtime cook and housekeeper, had left a kettle of fish chowder in the ashes and a loaf of bread on the open door of the beehive oven.
A widow, she lived across the alley behind their stable.
Night was falling fast, the wind rising.
“Mae?” Coralie’s hoarse voice reached out from the adjoining room. “Is that you?”
“Finally home,” Mae called, carrying in the aromatic, steaming mug.
“How I miss going out with you.” Coralie sat up straighter, then sneezed into her handkerchief. “Surely this sickness will pass with a little help from Aaron and Hanna.”
“They send their regards. Madame Jaquett too. I’d hug you if I could because of that lovely chintz gown.” Mae smiled her thanks and passed her sister the tea.
“So you discovered my surprise.” Coralie’s wan face brightened. “Isn’t it lush? Since you’re to be my bridesmaid, I wanted something colorful.”
“’Tis vibrant as a garden in full bloom. And the skill with which Madame sews! My stitches shame me.”
“Seamstresses we are not.” Coralie sighed. “Though we do manage petticoats and aprons and caps admirably.”
Mae sat back in Father’s worn chair, wishing she had Mother’s warmest shawl to give Coralie. “Mrs. Hurst said she feels a blizzard in her bones.”
“She’s rarely wrong about the weather, but oh, what woe it brings.” Coralie stifled a cough and took another sip. “I pray my beloved is warm and dry up north.”
Coralie’s betrothed seemed far away. Last they’d heard, Eben Gibbs was serving as a British lieutenant under General Burgoyne at a remote garrison in New York.
“Eben doesn’t tell me much about his whereabouts or happenings. I suppose, being an officer, he fears anything he writes might be confiscated,” her sister lamented. “This weather will prevent any post riders from coming, anyway.”
“How long since you’ve had a letter?”
“Twenty-three days.”
So she was counting? “Take heart—you have an amazing array of them to reread in the meantime.” Mae’s teasing was not far from the truth. She’d never seen a man pen so many letters. It made her wonder what officers did if they had the luxury of so much ink and pounce and paper.
“We must pray he gets leave to return this spring. After the wedding we hope to go to New York City to see his family, if they can rebuild after the terrible fire there. Then he’ll return to the fray, wherever that is.
” Coralie sneezed again, jostling her tea.
“Odd to think Eben might be fighting against our own brothers.”
“Whom we haven’t heard from in so long I’m beginning to wonder.”
The moment turned melancholy. All they knew was that James had joined the Continental Army following the bloody debacle in Boston, and Jon was a militia captain somewhere along New York’s Hudson River.
“Have you any fresh news from villagers?” Coralie pulled her shawl closer. “About the conflict?”
Conflict. Coralie refused to call it war, as if changing the wording would wish England’s and America’s ire away.
“There’s talk that General Washington may winter in Jersey.” Mae reached for her knitting, wanting to change the subject yet driven to keep abreast of matters as an older sister should.
“With all the Continental soldiers here lately being resupplied, I’m not surprised. Where, exactly?”
“Somewhere in the Watchung Mountains,” Mae said, eyes on her yarn. “General Washington’s troops need to recover after their recent victories at the battles of Trenton and Princeton.”
“Hollow victories, you mean.” Coralie made a face. “You’re not sympathizing with that turncoat, I hope.”
Turncoat? Mae tried to ignore her personal feelings and deal with facts.
“How can I not sympathize with wounded soldiers on either side? A great many of Washington’s men have been lost with expiring enlistments.
The Continental Army has been whittled down to three thousand or less.
Without fresh recruits I don’t know how they’ll continue. ”
“Eben’s last letter indicated the British army’s strength at five times that, given all the Hessians and Prussians, Brunswickers and Hanoverians coming to our shore in droves. They’ve even brought over a German general, if I recall.”
“General Riedesel, yes. A fine commander, though German troops are said to be among the fastest deserters.” All she’d heard and read crossed Mae’s mind like buckshot.
“I hardly blame them. Imagine being in a strange land with a different language and customs. It’s not their battle to begin with, though I hear they’re rewarded handsomely to fight—the officers, anyway. ”
“Heaven help us all. ’Tis so hopelessly complex and dangerous.” Coralie dabbed her nose with her handkerchief. “How did it all go so wrong?”
“Matters have been coming to a head for years now with king and parliament. We just never thought it would amount to men taking up arms.”
What they’d once considered a minor skirmish over tea and taxes had turned into something far more frightening and enduring.
New Jersey seemed to be the very crossroads of the revolution.
Lately most of the war’s action seemed to play out on their very doorstep, making them wish themselves elsewhere.
“I want to be like Father and Mother, taking neither side,” Mae told her. “Father always strove to keep the peace as pastor and stay far from any divisiveness.”
Coralie breathed in the tonic’s steam. “I’m glad they didn’t live to see the conflict unfold and us in the midst of it.”
“They certainly didn’t want to leave us alone, two women rolling around this house like misplaced marbles.”
“At least Aaron and Hanna are close at the apothecary. And Mrs. Hurst is near, as well as Adam.”
Mrs. Hurst had been with them since their parents married. But aged and rheumatic as she was, how much longer could she keep at her tasks? And Adam, their hired lad, was at an age where he could enlist in the army.
“We’re immensely blessed. The future is bright. Your future, anyway.” Mae tried to summon some joy. “I’m not at all sure about mine.”