Chapter 11
eleven
If you were lost for America, there is nobody who could keep the army and the revolution [going] for six months.
Marquis de Lafayette to George Washington
Mae bent over the hearth, stirring a pot of venison stew with a long-handled spoon.
Mrs. Hurst’s apron was wrapped round her twice, reminding her she had no business being in the kitchen.
Why hadn’t Mother taught them to cook? Such a lack seemed a severe hindrance when the man she wanted most to impress was expected—and could likely cook better than she.
“I hear them in the hall,” Coralie said, taking blackened bread out of the bake oven.
Mae looked on with dismay, singeing her petticoat’s hem as she stepped too near the fire. “What a memorable meal this will be.”
“The butter is no better,” Coralie murmured. “It didn’t set well once I churned it, though I put it outside to firm up.”
Sighing, Mae poured applesauce into a dish. “Mrs. Hurst best recover soon or we’ll all be thin as rail fencing.”
“Surely this meal is better than camp rations.”
“At least we have ample spirits in the cellar, though these particular officers don’t seem overfond of drink, just victuals.”
Coralie eyed her with concern, still shaken by Mae’s falling so ill, or so she said. “I’m thankful you’re up and about and don’t seem so . . . shamefaced.”
“Of my appearance?” Mae reached for more serving spoons. “I can do nothing about it.”
And my scars are as nothing to his.
She reached for the tureen of stew while Coralie gathered up applesauce and bread.
Together they served the three hungry men seated at table.
Mae kept her eyes down as the dishes were passed.
If only she was as competent a cook as he was a marksman.
Rhys Harlow deserved a woman—a wife—who knew her way around the kitchen and larder.
“I apologize that we have no salt,” Coralie said, seating herself. “Everything seems tasteless without it.”
“Enjoy the peach preserves,” Mae said, taking her usual place. “Mrs. Hurst’s fruit is without fail, at least.”
Rhys said grace, then met Mae’s eyes across the table at their combined “amen.” Still self-conscious, she resisted the urge to look to her lap, given she had no veil to hide behind.
But his heartfelt words to her in Lowantica Valley stayed uppermost. The memory in the cabin—hours old—bolstered her even as the sight of his whipped back wrenched her.
So private a moment, even intimate. And not long enough.
Tonight the men seemed especially subdued. Lord, let it not be about the food. James had mentioned a meeting in Morristown this afternoon. Had it gone awry?
When she could stand the silence no longer, Mae said, “I heard news in the village that General Washington’s lady has arrived.”
Coralie stared at her in disbelief. “Whyever would a woman of quality come so far in winter conditions?”
“She likely wants to make sure the general is recovering from his latest illness,” Captain Sperry said. “For a time the entirety of the Continental forces seemed to hold its breath.”
“There was even some discussion as to who would command in his stead should the worst happen,” James added. “It won’t be General Lee, now a British prisoner.”
“Oh?” Coralie asked, spoon suspended. “Who, then?”
Captain Sperry took another slice of bread. “General Henry Knox.”
“The Boston bookseller?” she replied with a hint of disdain, spooning preserves.
“He’s just returned to Massachusetts to raise an additional battalion of artillerymen. He’s establishing an armory there.”
Mae caught Rhys silencing Sperry with a glance. The captain returned to his meal and said nothing more. Why was her sister so garrulous? Because she was gathering information to pass to Eben Gibbs? The certainty set Mae asimmer.
“So the war shall continue?” Coralie said, looking around the table.
“I’d rather talk of Mrs. Washington and the coming ball.” Mae smiled despite her ire. “I hope she’s settling in well and raising spirits.”
“The general’s foremost,” Rhys said, pouring himself cider.
“The ball is set for later this spring. Time is needed to prepare for such a function.” James seemed well-versed on matters. “Tickets are three hundred dollars in Continental currency.”
Coralie’s gasp resounded to the room’s corners. “For a poverty-stricken army? I’ve seen the rags recruits wear. They resemble beggars—”
“Only the officers and ladies will be in attendance, not the regulars,” James told her. “And General Washington has good reason to host, much of it at his own personal expense.”
Coralie shook her head in indignation as Mae said, “Gracious of him.”
Captain Sperry winked as if suspecting Coralie would shun such a function. “Of course, you’re both invited, as sisters of an officer, that is.”
Coralie’s frown deepened, but Mae took the notion to heart. To attend a function with the general and his officers—a historic moment, truly. She stole a discreet look at Rhys. Would he go?
As the men discussed the weather and more banal matters, Mae backtracked to the kitchen to serve a rich custard made with molasses, eggs, and milk, the one dessert that never failed. She’d brewed a pot of coffee and poured that into treenware cups on a tray while her sister hovered.
“I’m weary tonight.” Yawning, Coralie hung her apron from a peg. “I think I’ll retire early.”
Mae bit her tongue as she eyed the stack of unwashed dishes. “Good night, then.”
The hall clock struck nine as Mae returned to the dining room to pour more coffee and remove the empty dessert dishes. Rhys had lit a pipe, the fragrant smoke reminding her of her father’s favored Tidewater tobacco. The men continued talking in low voices that had turned quite serious in tone.
Wishing Rhys would take up her father’s fiddle like he had at first, she took up her knitting by the parlor fire but soon found herself weary. She’d still not gotten her strength back. Aaron said it might be months till she felt herself again.
Going upstairs, she saw light under Coralie’s door. Was she writing Eben again? She spoke her sister’s name, to no answer. Opening the door, she found both bed and desk empty.
Where was she?
Flummoxed, Mae had almost forgotten the seldom-used stair accessed from Coralie’s bedchamber. It led below to the hidden closet their grandparents had used when Chatham was still frontier and under attack. Had Coralie gone there?
Suspicions aroused, Mae tiptoed down the narrow steps. A single candle burned on the floor beside Coralie’s stool. She sat with her back to Mae, head near the wall. The men’s voices in the dining room were distinct—and they’d returned to discussing the war.
Mae froze, hardly breathing lest her sister suspect she was being watched.
She turned slowly, her tread light upon the stair.
Once in her own room she let out a pent-up breath, her stomach churning like the failed butter.
Surely her sister didn’t glean anything worth passing on to Eben and his superiors.
But if she did, wasn’t it tantamount to . . . spying?
Did James realize everything he said was likely to be sent north to the British in New York?
He and Captain Sperry, when they’d had more than a glass or two of spirits, could be too garrulous.
Rhys, never. Often they were here without their commander, discussing matters.
The hidden room was the perfect place to obtain information.
Returning downstairs, Mae heard the scrape of chairs against the plank floor as the men left the dining room. Had Coralie returned to her bedchamber?
Heartsick, Mae stood by the hearth where the coals glowered scarlet. She stirred the ashes, then added several pieces of seasoned hickory. The wood caught and sparked, mirroring the ire she felt over Coralie’s perfidy. She gave the wood a vicious jab with the poker.
“Mae.”
Rhys stood in the kitchen doorway, watching her. Returning the iron poker to its place, she faced him, sparks in her middle now.
“We need to talk.” His voice was low but still heard above the men’s footsteps as they went upstairs to their rooms.
Alone again. “Speak freely, then,” she said quietly.
Would he ask her to marry him?
Her emotions seemed to run ahead of her, leaping over realities, bypassing flags of warning. Something about this moment seemed . . . awry.
He came to stand by her at the hearth, much like they’d done at Lowantica Valley. Only he didn’t touch her. She felt the divide almost painfully. Her need of him made her ache. She clasped her hands together to keep from reaching for him.
“I don’t know how to say what needs saying.” His tone, usually tender when he was alone with her, held a determined edge.
She braced herself, sensing something hurtful ahead. He’d brightened her days so much since his coming. His steady, quiet presence. His fiddle music. His wisdom. The way he weighed his words before speaking. Even his wry teasing. She sensed him withdrawing now before he’d uttered a word.
“Mae, you know how I feel about you.” He looked down at her, and she read deep concern and hurt in his own eyes. “Let there be no doubt.”
She swallowed hard. “But . . .”
“I’m in the midst of a war without any certainty of the outcome. I have a British target on my back. To entangle you in all that is wrong, even foolish, and I’m not a foolish man.”
Nay, he was far from foolish. He was levelheaded. Wise. But . . . “Not even a war should keep you from planning or hoping for the future, Rhys. Some would even say that hope keeps them going, keeps them sane.”
“My concern is that it gives you false hope. I’m to march when it thaws. I have my orders . . .” He hesitated, frustration flaring in his eyes. “But all I can think about is you.”
“Is that wrong?”
“It puts me and my men at a decided disadvantage.”
She understood this too, and she hated that she’d become a distraction.
“After tonight I’m moving to Lowantica Valley, where I’ll be till we break camp.”
After tonight. She bit her lip. Already his absence loomed large. “Wouldn’t continuing here in the comfort and care of a home benefit you for that next foray? Camp conditions are harsh—”
“Being here means being with you—raising your hopes and mine—and that I cannot conscience.”
The pearl heart she’d taken from her dressing table and tucked inside her bodice seemed heavy. “You’re sure?”
“Nay—and aye.”
She sensed his dilemma and vowed not to make it harder for him. She reached for the broken silk ribbon attached to the heart pendant and pulled it free of her bodice. Taking his hand, she placed it there and folded his fingers about it.
“Mae—” he protested.
“I don’t need a reminder, especially if our tie is broken.” Her voice held no rebuke, just a flat acceptance of what he’d obviously given considerable thought.
“You’re not angry with me?”
“I’m angry with a king and parliament who can’t make peace, who cause good men to suffer and die on both sides when far better things await.”
She took a step back, turning away from him toward the warmth of the fire. He stayed where he was, all their feelings roiling in the silence between them.
“There’s much that you don’t know about me, Mae. You might not hold me in the same regard if you did.”
His low words sent her thoughts spinning. She kept her eyes on the flames. “You have no sweetheart in Virginia?”
“None. The only woman I care about is right here.”
“Then remember, should you stay alive, right here is where I’ll be.”
“Then take the gift back.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re meant to have it. Because it means something, even if I stumbled across it in the snow coming here.”
They were dallying, if only to delay their inevitable parting. He knew it and she knew it, but time ticked on, the hall clock’s shuddering toll detested. Her concern over Coralie only added to her angst. She was crying again despite biting her lip till it nearly bled.
Was this what heartbroken felt like?