Chapter 10 #2
Mae bit her lip at the flare of resentment over her sister’s Loyalist stance—and then quickly forgot it when a flash of gold caught her eye.
Mama’s shawl? She knew it by heart, if not the russet braid snaking down the wearer’s back.
The woman’s brilliant hair hadn’t been so apparent that night in the smokehouse and kitchen.
Arms full of firewood, the woman looked back at Mae sharply, recognition dawning on her flushed, befreckled face. “Mercy, I almost didn’t recognize you veiled. I never expected to see you here, Miss . . .”
“Maebel Bohannon.”
A slight pause. “I’m Lucy Hawkes.”
James looked at them bemusedly as he helped unload blankets. Did he not recognize their mother’s favorite shawl?
Curiosity pushed Mae toward Lucy and out of hearing. “Are you the wife of a soldier?”
“Aye, the one you done met.” Humor sparked in her amber eyes, her smile showing tea-stained teeth. “Most ladies would give me the back of their hand after that.”
“If I was hungry,” Mae said quietly, “I’d head for the first smokehouse too.”
“Why are you hiding?” Lucy asked, concern etched across her features.
Mae hesitated, struck by her forthright question. Lucy was as quick as she was ragged. “I’ve been ill from smallpox . . . and am scarred.” The honest admission brought no relief, only continued shame. Sometimes she wished she’d died instead. That was the extent of her vanity.
“Take care, Miss Bohannon,” Lucy said with obvious sympathy as she started to walk away. “There are a great many ailing here the infirmary has no room for.”
“I’m safe from the pox, thankfully.” Mae followed Lucy and held her hem above the mud with one hand while she balanced her hat with the other in the cutting wind.
To her astonishment, ragged, dirty children ran in and out among the temporary shelters, as well as an assortment of dogs, large and small. A tent nearby was Lucy’s abode, a growling mongrel at the entrance in need of a meaty bone.
“Petey won’t hurt you none,” his mistress said. “He’s good company.”
Mae reached out a gloved hand to the little dog as a sudden boom shook the camp and turned their eyes to a smoky ridge.
“Harlow’s Riflemen,” Lucy told her. “Target practice, likely.”
Mae’s heart quickened. Rhys was right there, surely.
James was heading uphill, as drawn to the commotion as she was.
Mae bid Lucy goodbye and began the arduous climb, petticoats catching on brush and brambles as she wound her way over dead wood and uneven ground amid stands of trees, thick and thin.
Looking back as if he’d momentarily forgotten her, James hastened downhill and put a steadying hand on her elbow beneath her cape. “Prepare to be deafened.”
“You said powder is low,” she said, already breathless and weak-kneed from the exertion. “Isn’t this a waste of ammunition?”
“Just one round each, to test supplies and keep the men sharp.”
As they crested the hill the landscape flattened, revealing a firing line.
Rhys stood amid men flanking him as he fired at a three-hundred-yard target.
Smoke rolled around them as the rifle cracked.
Dead center. Instead of applause there was complete silence as he took off as fleet-footed as a deer, the rifle clutched in his right hand.
“What on earth . . .” she wondered aloud as they watched him disappear.
“The general regularly runs the men through one-mile contests of speed as well as marksmanship, demonstrating how it’s done. Reloading three times in under a minute is the goal.”
Her brows rose. An astonishing feat. “What’s the prize?”
“Extra rations and a second gill of rum.”
Before she had time to catch her breath, Rhys reappeared through the trees and the next man in the corps took his place, sending Mae back down the hill.
Resisting the urge to cover her ears, the smoke still stinging her senses, she flinched as more rifle fire burst from above.
The immensity of war settled around her with an almost crushing weight.
Rhys had seen her. Looked straight at her, his cocked hat pulled low.
But a private moment with him as she’d hoped was not to be had.
She almost tripped in her haste, her veil billowing as she made for the wagon, hoping James was on her heels and they could depart.
She drew up short and looked back, trying to catch her breath as she waited for him.
Over the rise came Rhys, not James. He overtook her before she could go another step. They faced off, his concern obvious. She put a hand atop her hat that the wind seemed determined to pick free, making her equally determined to stay veiled.
“I owe you an apology.” She swallowed, feeling as fragile as when she’d dragged herself to her dressing table. “For refusing you when you last came to Chatham. I behaved abominably because I was ashamed to be seen.”
“No apology needed.”
“But—”
“I understand, Mae.”
His use of her forename tore a rent in the wall she’d built between them. Mae. He said it so gruffly but with such feeling it turned her heart over.
“I-I couldn’t be seen that day.” Her voice warbled. She hated her weakness. “I still can’t.”
His reply was lost to her. The incessant firing on the hill continued and drowned out their voices. He reached out and took her hand. Her eyes went wide at the strength of his grip.
He led her inside a crude, unfinished cabin that was clearly his.
Wind whistled through the cracks in a less than merry tune.
The lap desk she remembered sat atop a rough-hewn table, papers scattered hither and yon.
Inkpots and quills stood like sentinels alongside books piled high.
How did he keep the ink from freezing? A fire burned in the rock hearth but held little warmth.
Her attention swiveled back to him. “This is your headquarters?”
“Such as it is, aye, when I’m not at Arnold Tavern.” He regarded her as if he wanted to remove her hat.
She took a step back. “I’m . . . unsightly. I can’t even bear to look at myself. That’s why I came here today—to tell you I won’t see you again after this.”
“Mae.” He took a step toward her, and she fought the urge to flee. The man she wanted to be beautiful for stared back at her, only she couldn’t fully see him. Her tears and her veil saw to that.
She shook her head, her scant hold on her composure crumbling. “You don’t understand.”
“But I do. All of us have wounds. Some scarring you simply don’t see.”
He removed his coat. After draping it across the back of a chair, he unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. Her pulse picked up as he pulled the shirt over his head and the garment lifted to reveal his bare chest, as well-muscled as all the rest of him. And then he turned his back to her.
Her gasp was heard in the sudden lull of firing on the hill.
Despite her veil she could see the savage welts that crisscrossed him from shoulders to waist. His back resembled a freshly plowed field, dark ridges and furrows of flesh in varying shades of reddish-brown, a strange sheen over all that told her they’d healed but still caused pain.
Forgetting herself, she stood behind him and lay a tentative hand on his bare skin.
Tears coursed to her chin as she leaned in and pressed her lips to the worst of his scarring, the veil between them.
Slowly he turned, taking her hands in his.
She stayed still as he released her long enough to lift her veil, then encircled her with his embrace.
She met his eyes. “What happened to you?”
“I had some choice words for a British officer when a prisoner in Canada.”
“You were whipped—brutally.” She was crying openly now, her cheek against his smooth chest, which bore no resemblance to his torn back.
“It’s over now.” He stroked her hair. “It’s over now for you too. Yours are simply beauty marks. I prayed God would spare you when I sat by your bed.”
“I felt you, heard you. I was too weak to speak, but I knew the moment you left my side.”
“I didn’t want to leave. I would have stayed on if I could have. At the very least, I didn’t return to camp till Aaron said you were no longer in danger.” He looked toward a window as if he heard a passerby before letting go of her and pulling on his shirt.
When he’d buttoned the collar and shrugged on his coat, he gestured to the door, then followed her out.
James waited a bit farther downhill by the wagon.
Their disappearance inside what was little more than a shack might raise more than her brother’s brows.
But in light of what she’d just seen, she didn’t care. All else paled.
“What brings you to camp, Major?” Rhys looked to James as if holding him responsible for taking Mae out when she was recovering.
“Delivery of goods, General.” James turned deferential. “All have been distributed.”
Rhys smiled his thanks at Mae, his eyes holding hers for a telling moment longer than necessary. She could hardly look away.
“I’ll return my sister home, then ride to Morristown for this afternoon’s meeting.”
“Sperry will join you, then we’ll meet up for supper in Chatham,” Rhys replied.
Supper? Mae felt another qualm. “I must warn you both that Mrs. Hurst’s rheumatism has her in bed, leaving the kitchen to myself and Coralie.”
James chuckled. “In other words, perhaps we should tarry at Arnold Tavern.”
Mae tried to make the best of it. “Supper will still be served, though I can’t vouch for the quality. I might well be providing ground orange peel and calcium carbonate from the apothecary afterwards.”
“I’ll take my chances with any indigestion,” Rhys said. “And hope Mrs. Hurst is on her feet again soon.”
She took another look at him, feeling doubly undone.
Their brief time together had left her as empty and grieved as she was elated, and all the more besotted.
A thousand other things needed saying, but there seemed never enough time.
Never enough words. Only insurmountable circumstances . . . and feelings.
Rhys handed her up into the wagon. On the seat lay a pale green pincushion. Made of embroidered silk damask, it was astonishing in design, with ombré ribbon, fly fringe, and lace. Mae’s thoughts swerved to Lucy Hawkes before she slipped the pincushion into her pocket, eyes returning to Rhys.
The harsh winter light brought out a scar on his temple she’d not noticed before. She completely forgot the cold, lost in the sheen of his dark hair beneath his hat brim and the ruddy color in his cheeks as he said a few last words to James.
Look away, Mae, lest you lose your bearings all over again.
She and James rumbled off after a hasty goodbye, and she resisted the urge to look back. How long before the entire family knew of their regard for each other? And all the rest of the world besides?