Chapter 48
forty-eight
The buffalo, elk, deer, bear, panther, wildcat, wolf, fox, beaver, otter . . . were abundantly plentiful.
Simon Kercheval, on the Shenandoah Valley
Breathless and disbelieving, Mae reached a rise overlooking the Shenandoah, a great bowl of a valley rimmed by mountains that were a peculiar shade of blue.
She’d nearly despaired of ever seeing it, but here they stood, having come through a high gap.
She literally stood on the cusp of her new home and life.
New York and Jersey seemed a world away, if not their raw memories.
Even the usually practical Lucy seemed overcome.
Despite frequent stays at ordinaries, the both of them were weary, wrinkled, and emotional.
“Just a few miles more,” Lucy said.
“Is there an ordinary near where we could stop first?” Mae looked down at her muddy skirts and begrimed hands. “Mightn’t morning be a better time to . . . um, arrive on my in-laws’ doorstep? They don’t even know I’m coming, and it will be quite a shock.”
Dusk was drawing in, not as cold and damp as in the north, but still calling for a warm hearth or a hot toddy. They’d ridden especially hard of late, finally ferrying across the south fork of the Shenandoah River. Even the horses were beleaguered.
Turning away from the view, Lucy finally said, “There’s a decent place not far from here. We’ve plenty of coin left to see it done.”
Plenty of coin. If not for Rhys’s foresight .
. . Mae felt stark relief as they rode past scattered farms to a two-story log structure puffing smoke.
Once The King’s Arms, it now boasted “Rebel Arms” on its trade sign.
They dismounted and a stable hand saw to their horses while they went inside the crowded but clean ordinary.
The rest of the day dwindled as they ate, and Mae made use of the hot water provided, ridding herself of every speck of filth and thoroughly cleaning her hair, which had been wadded into an untidy bun for weeks.
She laid out a clean if wrinkled chintz gown, hoping it wasn’t too fancy.
Lastly she washed her mother’s shawl and let it dry by the fire, though it was still damp the next morning when she wrapped herself up in it again.
Revived if still skittish, she and Lucy took to the trail for the last time.
Fog whitened the valley floor, wrapping round flaming maples and golden oaks like a tattered coverlet that bespoke November.
Following a deer path that branched off the main road into dense woods, Lucy led while Petey trotted between them.
This wasn’t the way she’d intended to meet her new family. Her dream had been to appear alongside Rhys, triumphant, the war won.
What could she possibly say?
Good morning, I’m Mrs. Harlow. I haven’t any idea if Rhys lived through October’s New York battles or if he’s wounded, sick, or imprisoned. When I last saw him we quarreled and never spoke again. He may not return home, but here I am, carrying his child, and feel Virginia is where I should be.
“What is General Harlow’s family like?” she said to Lucy’s back.
“His father is well-thought-of all over the valley,” Lucy called over her shoulder.
“One of the Friends—Quakers. A farmer and woodworker. His sister, bless her, had her heart broke when the war started. And his mother, God rest her, was akin to a saint, always doing good, ever generous to any in need.”
Mae fell silent. She was walking into a house of heartache that had nothing to do with her own. Nor was she akin to a saint. Suddenly she was questioning the wisdom of coming here and how far she would have to travel to return to Chatham. If not for Lucy . . .
Already Mae felt the wrench of separation. “Promise you’ll come visit.”
“Aye, once you’ve settled in.” Lucy reined in her horse as they traded the trail for a clearing. “If you hear Petey bark you’ll know I’m near.”
Petey gave a sharp yip as a few grazing cows came into view.
Fenced pastures reminded Mae of Jon’s farm—or what once was.
Here everything still seemed lush if autumn-tinged.
The sun had dispelled the mist, shining down on tidy outbuildings and not one but two handsome houses, the farthest atop a hill.
Her heart leapt. The home Rhys had built with his own hands?
Lucy’s father lived farther up the valley, as did Isham’s kin.
Mae watched a tall man emerge from the smaller of the two houses, so like Rhys in height and gait she felt a little start. Lucy headed straight for him while Mae lagged behind, a fit of shyness overtaking her.
“Shush your yipping,” Lucy scolded Petey in a rare rant as another cow ambled into sight. She slid from the saddle and snatched him up lest he set off on a chase.
When Lucy halted suddenly to let her go first, Mae balked. Gathering what little grace she possessed, she dismounted and walked Orion toward the man she sensed was Rhys’s father. He turned toward them, axe in hand. Neatly stacked firewood filled the open shed behind him.
Oh, how like Rhys he was.
An older version of the man she loved, stockier and fuller of face. He didn’t smile as she approached but continued stoic, even wary.
“Sir . . .” She stopped a stone’s throw away. To come any nearer felt too familiar. “I’m Maebel Bohannon Harlow of Chatham, New Jersey . . . and I’m married to your son.”
After a slight hesitation, his stoicism broke like the rising sun. Turning toward the house, he called, “Bronwyn, come and greet your new sister-in-law.”
At once a young woman appeared on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron. She took in Mae and Lucy at a glance and broke into a half run toward them. Catching Mae up in her arms, she hugged her hard, turning Mae teary. This was the homecoming she’d hoped for. Warm. Welcoming.
“Can it truly be you?” Bronwyn’s tanned features shone with pleasure. “Rhys wrote about you in his letters and told us you’d married, but we never thought to see you so soon, at least not without him. And riding horseback all that way?”
Lucy approached, Petey in arms. “He ordered me to bring her here shortly before the fort was attacked.”
Mr. Harlow’s features tightened. “Montgomery?”
“Fort Clinton too. We fled when Patriot pickets shouted the redcoats were coming.”
“Earlier, Rhys had gone north with his riflemen to a place near Saratoga,” Mae added.
“You haven’t heard? The Americans won the battles there,” Mr. Harlow said. “We got the news day before yesterday, though we’ve not heard from Rhys himself since he left Montgomery. That fort fell along with Clinton.”
Mae drew a surprised breath. They’d left in the nick of time, then. Still, her heart hurt. Those she’d known there might have fallen with it or been taken prisoner.
“And you?” Bronwyn turned to Lucy. “I recollect you married one of the Hawkes up on North Mountain.”
“Aye, my Isham is General Harlow’s drummer.” Lucy let Petey loose. “He went with him to fight near Saratoga.”
“And you’ve come all the way from New York—two women alone?” Respect rode Mr. Harlow’s lined features. “With a fine pair of horses and a little dog.”
“I would never have attempted it without Lucy. And Petey’s been quite a comfort,” Mae told them with a small smile. “Especially on cold nights.”
“The north is frigid this time of year. We’ve had a beautiful Indian summer, though it’s frosted a time or two.” Bronwyn gave her father a worried glance. “Mercy, how we rattle on in light of your exhaustion.”
“Here, let me see to your horses while you sit down for breakfast. Bronwyn’s a fine cook and her biscuits and gravy are about ready.
” With that, Mr. Harlow took the reins of both mounts and led them to the barn, which stood on the other side of a split-rail fence.
Petey ran after him as if wondering where he was taking his faithful companions.
Mae and Lucy followed Bronwyn inside, the aroma of coffee strong.
Spacious yet spare, the log home bespoke peace and orderliness.
Bronwyn invited them to a long trestle table where Rhys must have sat countless times.
Mae’s eyes moved from the chairs at both ends to the side benches and tried to picture him there.
Fronting the table was a huge hearth. Large enough to stand up in, it covered an entire end wall, the long mantel home to books and a clock and myriad candlesticks, even a landscape painting of a castle. In Wales?
“Once our home was an ordinary,” Bronwyn told them. “Father was the owner, and this was the public room. He and Mother decided to close soon after I was born, though folks still happen by who once lodged here.”
She placed overflowing platters before them and filled large mugs with coffee enriched with sugar and cream. Lucy looked as pleased as Mae felt. They’d not had so ample a meal since the Quaker tavern outside Philadelphia.
Bronwyn finally sat, her hands cupping a steaming treenware cup. “I don’t know where to begin,” she said, eyes on Mae. “I have a hundred questions, but perhaps it’s best I talk while you eat and then you can answer.”
Mouth full, Lucy nodded, while Mae had to slow herself down lest she appear half starved or, worse, rude.
“Rhys grew up in this house, but the one he built up the hill is finer—fit for a bride. You can see it plain now that the trees surrounding it have lost their leaves. Since the war called him away Father and I have tried to finish and furnish it, but there’s still plenty that needs doing.”
Mae could only imagine the hole Rhys’s absence left. “He told me about starting with rock from your quarry here.” Those memories, at least, were happy when he’d shared his pride in the details.
“He started between planting and harvest. It took years, but the house is finally habitable.” Bronwyn’s smile held relief. “I’m sure I speak for Father when I say you’re welcome to stay here with us till Rhys returns if you don’t want to live alone on the hill.”
Mae put down her fork. “Actually, I’d welcome moving in ahead of his return.” Should she tell all? “With a baby coming, I want it to be home. I want to help make it a home.”
Bronwyn’s eyes went wide. She reached across the table and squeezed Mae’s hand. “A baby?”
“In spring, Lord willing.”
“You came all that way . . .” Bronwyn’s hazel eyes glinted. “So much traveling must have taken a toll.”
Mae’s free hand moved to her waist beneath her mother’s shawl, where she felt a slight flutter even as she shared her joy. On the trail she feared the baby wouldn’t thrive. How hard it would have been to meet Rhys with sad news when he returned.
“You’re clearly worn to ribbon, the both of you.” Bronwyn looked at Lucy, then back at Mae. “We can move you up to the house once you’ve rested. My raspberry leaf tea should help you recover your strength, among other things.”
Was she an herbalist, then? Memories of Aaron’s apothecary, hardly thought of on the journey here, came rushing back.
“We’ll have to acquaint you with the midwife not a mile from here. She’s birthed half the babies in this valley.” Bronwyn looked thoughtful as if trying to come to terms with being an aunt. “Father will be so pleased. He’ll make a fine grandfather.”
Might the baby help fill the emptiness left by Mrs. Harlow and possibly Micah Edmiston? Perhaps in hindsight, Mae would realize that despite her rift with Rhys, her coming here was not happenstance but heaven-sent.
“There’s a cradle in the attic.” Bronwyn’s excitement was palpable. “We’ll move it in with you. I can make new bedding and line it with wool if you like.” She gestured to a spinning wheel by a window, a basket of wool beside it. Rhys had told her they had a large flock of sheep.
“You’re very kind,” Mae said. “I’m sorry I’ve brought so little with me. Only what fit in a saddlebag.”
“No matter. We’ll soon have you settled with all that you need. If anything’s lacking there’s a store further down the valley, though the owner has enlisted like so many. His wife is managing business while he’s away.”
All across America were homes and farms and businesses abandoned or turned over to women and kin instead. Sad and sobering to think many men would never return to resume the lives they’d left. Mae could hardly bear the thought.
Bronwyn began gathering their empty plates. “It’ll be good to see lights up on the hill while we wait for Rhys’s homecoming together, all four of us.”
Mae got up to help her sister-in-law, so sleepy she’d nearly nodded off in the midst of the meal. Bronwyn’s graciousness was all the more poignant, given she’d been denied so much.