Chapter 36
thirty-six
In every human breast, God has implanted a principle, which we call love of freedom.
Phillis Wheatley
A fife broke through the stillness of August, sounding reveille.
Mae rolled over atop the lumpy mattress, missing Rhys.
He’d gone north days ago on another foray with a select company, the best of his riflemen.
When the hours grew hollow without him, she dwelled on all she missed.
His smile. His touch. His clean habits in a fort naturally given to filth.
The prayers he said morning and evening, the most beautiful she’d ever heard, an echo of his Welsh ancestry.
His low, slow playing of her father’s fiddle.
Somehow he seemed to sense how the wilderness struck a woman who’d never been beyond Jersey. His tenderness and patience in the face of her fears and uncertainties made her all the more smitten. The belle of Chatham, as he liked to call her, seemed a far better woman with him by her side.
Once roused, she dressed slowly, pulling at her front-lacing stays and feeling a pinch.
She let out a bit before tying them at her waist. How could she be more stout when she’d eaten so little of late?
Ignoring the question, she donned a light indigo linen dress, her white apron and cap freshly washed.
Since she tasked herself with her and Rhys’s own laundry, her return to Popolopen Creek was familiar.
She arrived ahead of a dozen women who manned the kettles and fires and lye soap, Coralie among them.
For now, the gravelly bank was mostly empty save the guards and patrols who roamed and stood watch.
One doffed his cocked hat and addressed her as Mistress Harlow when she passed by.
She went farther inland up the creek where water flowed over mossy slabs of rock like stairsteps in a spirited journey to the river below.
Amid the ferns grew wild masses of mint with long, lush stems and dark green leaves.
She stripped a stem clean and crushed the leaves between her palms, breathing in the heady scent till her stomach quieted.
She gathered more for tea, already envisioning laying it out on the windowsill in their quarters to dry, and continued till her apron was full. The rising sun dispelled the river’s mist, then the queasiness struck hard again, almost sending her to her knees.
Why this foot-dragging fatigue? Frequent naps when she’d never napped before? Feeling ravenous when she wasn’t nauseous? Being near tears for no apparent reason?
She refused to admit what stared her squarely in the face.
She lowered herself to a log and closed her eyes, allowing her mind to roam where it had never been before. She braced herself for the pain of childbed . . . the possible fall of this very fort . . . traveling from New York to Virginia . . .
What would Rhys’s reaction be?
She’d sensed a change about him lately. A tenseness, even a terseness.
While still gentle and considerate of her, he seemed increasingly preoccupied.
He didn’t confide in her like the other officers did their wives.
Did he want to shield her from the worst of the conflict?
The ugliness and brutality of the fight?
“Maebel Bohannon Harlow.”
She startled, though the beloved voice was rich with mirth and affection. She opened her eyes. Rhys stood a stone’s throw away, his shirt and leggings besmeared with mud, his battered hat missing the cockade she’d made, a telling bruise beneath his right eye.
A thrill of relief coursed through her. “You look like you had a tussle with the wilderness—and lost.”
He sat down beside her as a grouse flushed from hiding and careened overhead. “Is that all the welcome I get?”
Smiling, she scooted a bit farther away. “Till you bathe, it is.”
He removed his hat and flung it into the water that pooled below them. His moccasins followed, then all the rest of his tattered garments. He pulled himself to his feet and waded into the creek, water frothing about him in its musical rush to the river below.
Long minutes later he emerged, his wet skin glistening, his dark hair plastered to his tanned neck and shoulders. Half drunk with delight and wonder, she watched him as she would a captivating sunset or sunrise.
“You’ll need clean clothes,” she called, getting up and forgetting her apron full of mint. It spilled to the bank in a green torrent, but she left it, hurrying up the nearest trail hugging the hillside.
When she returned, he sat behind the screen of a sprawling laurel bush. Once dried and dressed, he began helping with her mint, picking up what she’d dropped in her haste to help him.
“I don’t recall you being overfond of mint.”
She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and lowered herself to the log again as wooziness got the upper hand. She’d not eaten yet, nor had he, she guessed. Toast and coffee, eggs and bacon were what he needed. She even had a few potatoes to fry. But the very thought of cooking . . .
His eyes roamed over her as if he’d been gone a month. Their eyes held, his so sharp they felt cutting. And somehow she sensed he knew what she was about to say.
?????
Rhys studied her, finding her somewhat different—more beautiful than she’d ever been, as abloom as a wild rose. Her skin reminded him of the fine porcelain cup Bronwyn treasured. Only a few faint pockmarks remained. Simply put, Mae glowed. As he stared at her, a hitch of concern dented his awe.
Women looked that way for a reason.
“I’d thought to tell you this in Virginia once we were settled, not here in the wilds of New York. Naive of me.” She took a breath, her eyes entreating. “I’m—we’re—”
“With child,” he finished for her.
She looked surprised and relieved all at once.
Father. Soldier. The two words seemed contrary. For a trice a soaring elation got the upper hand, then it came crashing down. He wanted to hear “Father” with all that was in him. Just not now.
His throat tightened as he swallowed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say we’ll manage this together.” Her eyes glittered. “I have to believe that whatever happens, for whatever reason, this is meant to be now and not later.”
“We’ll more than manage, Mae.” He knelt before her and took her hands in his. “There’s no better news.”
“I know, but I never thought . . .”
“You thought all our lovemaking would come to naught?” He regarded her with an amused tenderness.
Color pinked her cheeks. “Say nothing to anyone. Not Jon nor James.”
“Why?”
“’Tis too soon.”
“When will it be, by your reckoning?”
“Early spring, perhaps.”
“You’re well. Strong. You were meant to be a mother.”
A sigh. “I’m actually quite unwell at the moment.”
A commotion on the bluff above brought them to their feet. The washerwomen were coming downhill, baskets on hips, singing a familiar tune.
“Let tyrants shake their iron rod,
And Slav’ry clank her galling chains,
We fear them not, we trust in God,
New England’s God forever reigns.”
Mae was certain Coralie wasn’t singing along. How galling did she find their show of patriotism?
Rhys touched her cheek, and she looked back at him. “I have a report to give Clinton. Then I’ll head to our quarters and break my fast with you there—if you can manage it.”
“I’ll fix you a fine breakfast.”
“Have some mint tea first.”
Once all the laundresses were on the riverbank, Mae and Rhys started up the hill.
Coralie raised a hand after setting her load near a washtub.
Mae waved back in reply, having seen little of her in recent days.
She’d seemed to settle into the humble routine better than expected, walking round the parade ground in the evening, talking and playing cribbage with other women and soldiers.
She’d even ventured onto Sutler’s Row. Rarely did she come to Mae’s quarters.
Dare she hope her sister would find some measure of peace and purpose, after all?