Chapter 40
forty
If this be treason, make the most of it.
Patrick Henry
Mae poured tea in her quarters, the chipped cups reminding her of the lovely porcelain china back in Chatham’s cupboards.
She tried not to make comparisons, but as the days unspooled along the Hudson with all their sameness and smallness, the crudities of the fort were increasingly felt.
She seemed caught between one life and the next, the old of Chatham and the not yet of the Shenandoah.
Seated by an open window where rain smeared the pane, Coralie leaned nearer her cup and inhaled. “What on earth is this?”
“Independence tea—sassafras leaves, mint, bee balm, red clover, and chamomile flowers.” Mae sat down and pushed a wayward strand of hair beneath her cap. “Lucy showed me how to blend it.”
“Lucy again?” Coralie made a face. “I’ve seen several officers wearing the new uniform coats you two have been making. ’Tis a wonder you have any time for blending tea.”
“We’ve run short of buttons again, but the coats are quite dashing, don’t you agree? Indigo is such a handsome color.” Fitting Rhys out for his had been one of the little thrills of her married life. “General Harlow looks splendid.”
“Far better than those rustic hunting shirts he and his riflemen usually wear, though I suppose their garments keep them safe in the woods.”
“Far more so than scarlet. I daresay the British are ruing their red as it makes them such targets.”
“I’d not thought of that till this war.” Coralie stirred sugar into her tea, her sunburned features drawn in a frown. “Speaking of red, being outdoors all day, even wearing a hat, spoils my complexion. Autumn should be cooler, according to some of the militia from this area.”
“You’re making quite a few soldierly friends,” Mae said, adding sugar to her own cup. “Is there a favorite?”
Coralie looked pleased. “Well, Captain Sinclair plays a fine game of cribbage . . . Private Jenkins is well-read . . . Major McTavish is as dashing as his name . . . and Captain Etienne Lefevre from Fort Clinton is très beau.”
“No favorite, then.”
“All four help relieve the sheer drudgery of being here.”
“I don’t suppose,” Mae dared, “that you’ve become any less a Loyalist and more a Patriot given the company you’re keeping.”
“Ha!” Coralie reached for a berry tart and took a bite, spilling crumbs onto her bodice. “All I’ll say is that these Continental soldiers help me bide my time till I can safely see Jersey.”
“If troops are ordered south, you could return in the same way you arrived here, accompanied by the army.”
“We’ve had quite a comedown since Chatham.” Coralie’s eyes roamed the rough-cut walls with distaste. “No better than slatterns.”
“’Tis only temporary, remember. Once this is over, we’ll go home.”
“Home will never be the same.” She took a second tart. “I never thought I’d miss Mrs. Hurst, but . . .”
Mae laughed. Coralie and their housekeeper had never seen eye to eye. “I wrote Mrs. Hurst a letter, then remembered she doesn’t know her letters. Hanna and Aaron will read it to her, I suppose.”
“I haven’t written anyone.” Coralie looked back at Mae. “What’s there to write about? ‘Dear whomever, I washed fifteen bushels of breeches and hung them out to dry, then mended one too many officers’ shirts.’”
“’Tis not easy being a laundress when you’ve not done that before.”
“I’d thought to be far from here by now—in New York City with Eben or his family.” She looked down at her lye-battered hands. “I’m glad they can’t witness this.”
“We all have a part to play in this war, no matter what side we’re on.”
“You’ve always been sunny, Sister, making the best of the moment. Would that I were more like you.”
“Sunny? Not always. But lately I’ve prayed to be the person the Almighty wants me to be. Let challenging circumstances change me for the better.”
“Noble of you.” Her voice held a brittleness that set Mae on edge. “I’m simply the belle of Chatham’s younger sister and always will be.”
“I’m sorry if you feel you’ve lived in my shadow. I never wanted that to happen.”
“You’re not to blame. You can’t help your appearance, though I do wonder why God makes so many of us plain when He could just as easily make us pretty.”
“Probably because man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart, as Scripture says.”
They fell into an uncomfortable silence that weighted Mae sorely. Would they never be friends, only contentious sisters? How she longed to share that she was expecting, that Coralie was to be an aunt three times over. But her sister would resent that too.
“I should go.” Coralie finished her tart and tea. “I don’t want your husband returning and finding me here.”
“Whyever not?”
“He’s never cared for me, nor I him. Do you deny it?”
“He’s never spoken an ill word about you.”
“Yet I’ve shunned him ever since he appeared in Chatham. I’ll grudgingly admit, however, he’s an able commander and has the respect of a great many men.” She stood, staring down at her soiled apron. “Back to the river. The head laundress is a termagant about work.”
“Not before I give you some salve Joanna made that Jon brought by recently.” Mae went to a cupboard and retrieved a small ceramic pot. “Rub this on your hands nightly, especially when they feel chafed.”
To her surprise, Coralie took it and embraced her.
Rarely did her sister show affection. Their stoic, studious father had been the same.
Murmuring her thanks, Coralie bade her goodbye and went out, and Mae watched her sister’s tall, spare figure cross the parade ground to the sally port.
She suddenly realized Coralie had some of Aunt Verity’s vim and vinegar.
Would her sister ever be settled? Settled in spirit and in a home of her own? She didn’t ponder it long before a familiar tread sounded on the wooden floorboards outside their quarters, and she opened the door she’d just shut.
Rhys appeared, hat in hand. His clothes were begrimed—his indigo coat more dusty brown than blue—and his half beard turned him more handsome.
She melted into a puddle where she stood.
When he caught her up in his arms and swung her around she forgot everything else, even the brokenness with Coralie.