Chapter 10
ten
Yonder are the Hessians. They were bought for seven pounds and tenpence a man. Are you worth more? Prove it. Tonight the American flag floats from yonder hill or Molly Stark sleeps a widow!
John Stark at the Battle of Bennington
Mae opened her eyes and remembered General Harlow sitting beside her. Rhys. Now her bedchamber was empty. Doubly empty since he had gone. Had she only dreamed it? The intensity in his expression? The way he’d said her name and kissed her fingers?
Only a dream.
The chair where he’d sat seemed lonesome. A cup of water rested on the table beside it. Her parched throat craved a long, cold drink, but her arm was leaden. She could only stare at the cup as she slid back into the uncomfortable cocoon of sleep.
Hanna’s soothing voice intruded. “Mae?”
Her eyes came open again briefly, long enough to make out her sister-in-law’s anxious face.
“General Harlow is here. In fact, he stayed the night. He’s working downstairs in the parlor right now.
He said he won’t leave till you rouse yourself and convince him you’re still among the living.
In fact, he’s never left your side except when your fever climbed and we needed to undress you and pack you in snow. ”
Mae gave a slow, drowsy smile as Hanna continued talking. Her hand crept to the pearl heart. Had he noticed she wore it?
“James has brought him his traveling desk and papers. I’ve never seen a man so intent upon his work . . . or your recovery.”
Mae felt her face, and all the joy leeched out of her. Beneath her fingers were hard, round bumps. Slightly itchy, they hurt when she touched them. “Hanna . . .”
“Don’t be distraught. You’ve only a few lesions so far.”
“And Coralie?”
“Coralie is fine. Well enough to protest General Harlow.”
“What?”
“She’s none too pleased to have him here, but he’s put her in her place.”
A twinge of alarm pierced her distress. Had Coralie gleaned anything more to pass on to Eben? If the general’s lap desk and papers were near . . .
“You need to eat and drink.” Ever the nurse, Hanna plumped the pillows. “Let me help you sit up first.”
Her recovery was slow. But the fact they could be burying her instead checked her impatience.
The graveyard behind the Presbyterian meetinghouse had never been busier.
On the afternoon she finally roused herself, no one else was in the house save Mrs. Hurst, who had last checked on her half an hour ago and thought her sleeping.
Hanging her bare legs over the bed’s edge, Mae tried to stand by holding on to a bedpost. The effort drenched her in a most unladylike sweat.
The odor of illness still clung to both her and the bed linens.
Though they’d been changed frequently, they still smelled of medicine and all the unsavory things she wanted to forget.
She spied a glass of water and downed it in a few gulps, though what she craved was herb tea. Her dressing table seemed a world away, its looking glass a hurdle she must reckon with. Lightheaded, she sank to the rug and hung her head till it cleared again, then crawled across the carpet.
Another burst of sweat, a blinding pain in her temples, and a weakness that turned her limbs to jelly resulted in a fierce struggle that finally landed her atop the dressing table’s low seat.
For a few moments she just sat, head in her hands, unable to peer in the looking glass.
She could feel the hated lesions on her face.
Straightening, she took her hands away and forced herself to confront her fears. Her skin, once pale as milk, bore cranberry-red sores. She looked in horror at her arms, where especially vicious lesions welled. Grabbing at her linen shift, she raised it and saw other lesions marring her legs.
Never had she considered herself a vain woman—till now. Her disgust led to a shallow sob. She was too weak to push away from the dressing table. She could only hang her head again, tears making the sores sting like fire, reminding her of the time she’d fallen into a bees’ nest as a child.
She reached up a welted hand and yanked at the ivory heart so hard she tore the silk ribbon.
Free of her neck, it lay small in her palm.
She opened the dressing table and shut up the trinket inside.
She had no idea what Rhys had meant by the gift.
He’d stumbled upon it, after all. It had cost him nothing.
All she knew was what it had meant to her.
Slowly, she crawled back to the bed and lay face down atop the mattress, spent. She couldn’t bear to be looked at by him. Her shame went soul deep. All her vanity rose up, and she sobbed like a child.
“Miss Maebel.” A soft rap at her door signaled Mrs. Hurst. “General Harlow is here to see you.”
Mae rolled over to face the door, glad she had locked it. “Send him away, please. I can’t be seen.”
At Mrs. Hurst’s retreat, she realized she’d not locked the adjoining door to Coralie’s room. Her sister rushed in, relief on her flawless face.
“I’m rejoicing you’ve come to your senses and refused him!” She dropped onto the mattress, taking Mae’s hand. “He upset me greatly when he forced his way in when you were so ill. It proves how ungentlemanly he is, hardly a gallant officer, more bully—”
“Don’t belittle him to me.” Mae snatched her hand away. “Who else came round when I was ill?”
“Pastor Heath sent his regards.”
“At least the general made an appearance. Ungentlemanly he is not, but brave. Bold, perhaps, as befits an officer.”
Coralie stood, fury replacing her relief. “Then why did you send him packing?”
“Are you blind? What woman in her right mind would show herself in such a condition?”
Coralie began backing away. “Your body bears the brunt of the lesions, not your face.”
“Easy for you to say, untouched as you are,” Mae all but shouted. “I look nothing like before!”
Coralie went out and slammed the door, locking it behind her like Mae wished she had done.
Mae lost track of hours. Days. Finally she was well enough to travel.
She perched precariously on the box seat of an overfull wagon as it rumbled up the rutted road to Lowantica Valley, the bed filled with blankets and garments, even bushels of wheat.
James held the reins, Mae beside him, the team pulling them over the frozen ground.
She gave thanks it wasn’t mud. But it continued to be bitterly cold, their breath pluming along with the horses’.
“I feel like a fool allowing you to accompany me as you’re still quite weak.” James shook his head. “I’ll likely get set down by Harlow himself.”
“I’ll do it or die. And I’ll handle the general.” She bit her lip, unsure of how she’d go about it. No matter how she looked, she needed to ask his forgiveness. “I owe him an apology.”
“For refusing to see him? A first, I’m sure.” He winked. “A great many more obliging ladies in Morristown and beyond thank you.”
“James!” she blurted. “I hardly need the reminder that he’s handsome and unwed.” Smallpox had sharpened her temper. Sometimes she sounded like Coralie. “I’m heartily sick of being indoors. As it is, I missed the sleighing you officers enjoyed with local ladies.”
“General Harlow didn’t go.”
Oh? Relief lightened her mood only slightly. “’Tis nearly spring. It seems I’ve been ill half the winter.”
“Well, I’m heartily glad of your company, for it means you’re on the mend.”
Near the foothills the wagon slowed, and then came the valley that resembled a village. Smoke from dozens of chimneys and campfires hazed the broad encampment. Surely General Washington was more comfortable in Arnold Tavern on the Green.
“Three thousand souls right here,” James said. “All those not billeting in Morristown and Chatham, anyway. I wish they had better conditions. But far superior to the HMS Jersey, where many of our captured Patriots lay destitute and dying.”
“Off the shore of Long Island.” She’d heard of the notorious prison ship. It kept her awake nights. “The Wallabout mud flats, specifically.”
“Aye, the reeking mud flats in British-occupied New York. Six or more dead a day amid deplorable conditions. Their Scots Highland guards are said to be among the most savage.”
Mae wanted to close her ears to the horrors that made her scarring seem so small.
Sometimes her prayers seemed to no avail for these all-but-forgotten prisoners who’d sacrificed everything for liberty.
For now, she returned to the misery of Lowantica Valley.
All looked bare bones. Frigid. She spied more than a few women among the melee.
“How are the camp followers faring?” she asked as James rolled to a stop and set the wagon brake.
“They’re invaluable, in my opinion, though they’re the bane of General Washington and a drain on the army’s limited provisions. But what would we do without their service as laundresses, cooks, and nurses, helping with camp work?”
“Some are clad in rags.” She blinked back tears, her emotional state as fragile as her physical. “We must sew for them too.”
She looked down at her scarlet cape, her gloved hands fisted in her lap.
A black lace veil fell from the hat she wore, obscuring her face.
What would General Har—Rhys’s—response be if he saw her unveiled?
Revulsion? Even now her gaze scanned the far-flung camp for him, wanting a meeting, wanting to put whatever the moment held behind them and move on with a clear conscience if not an intact heart.
James helped her down as Captain Sperry appeared with a few men she guessed were among the Rifle Corps. At James’s direction, they began unloading the wagon, all of them expressing sincere thanks.
“My Patriot sister and the Liberty Ladies do what they can in Chatham,” James replied as Mae stood by.
But not Coralie.