Chapter 49
forty-nine
The women of America have at last become principals in the glorious American Controversy.
Benjamin Rush
Lucy left, and Mae, unable to wait a moment longer, went up the hill to the new house.
Though Rhys had told her much about it, he’d hidden details and embellishments as if wanting to surprise her.
Artfully arranged corner fireplaces, elegant wainscoting, tall casement windows, and paneled oak shutters greeted her.
A straightforward stair in the hall with a few turns and a finely crafted balustrade had her hurrying upstairs.
All six rooms were sparsely furnished, but the furnishings were well-made.
The parlor’s settle reminded her of theirs in Chatham.
A long, unscarred table with six ladderback chairs dominated the kitchen.
Handsome cupboards and wardrobes and chests were upstairs and down.
Carpets and curtains would soften the austereness in time.
Lord willing, the echoing house would soon be filled with a baby’s cry.
Soldier, rifleman, and farmer, Rhys was also an accomplished builder, his craftsmanship on display everywhere she looked. Somehow that made her feel closer to him, cocooned by the work of his hands.
Over the next few days as she rested and recovered, life began to settle into a pleasant pattern.
Between dawn and dusk’s many tasks they took meals together downhill.
Nightfall found Father Harlow making the rounds to the barn and outbuildings before Bronwyn snuffed the house lights.
Mae snuffed the lights uphill. Never had she been so glad to lie down each night.
A working farm was not for the faint of heart, even in the dwindling days of November.
Two weeks passed. Newspapers carried details of the battles near Saratoga, though there’d been no list of Continental casualties as of yet. British prisoners taken in New York were marching to Boston—more than two hundred miles of misery, ’twas said.
“’Tis a good time for Rhys to return home,” Bronwyn said as she set jars of applesauce and preserves on the kitchen table.
“Most of the fieldwork has halted till spring, though there’s always clearing and splitting timber to be done.
Cidermaking is finished and the larder and cellar stocked.
Butchering, soapmaking, and candlemaking are next. ”
Mae didn’t tell her she’d done none of that, having relied on Chatham’s butcher, general store, and chandler, to say nothing of Madame Jaquett.
But neither did she sit idly by and let her sister-in-law do the work.
She marveled at all Bronwyn accomplished, but as the Quakers said, where work is shared, the burden is halved.
Standing in the large kitchen she was now mistress of, she felt at sea. But she could learn, could she not?
“I want you to teach me how to cook,” Mae began somewhat hesitantly. “I don’t want Rhys returning and having me make a mess of this beautiful kitchen he’s built.”
Bronwyn smiled, no stranger to Mae’s hearth mishaps down the hill. “If you make messes it’s only because you relied on Mrs. Hurst. Why don’t we start with cornbread?”
“That’s fine. But I don’t just want to make cornbread,” Mae told her earnestly. “I want to master corn pudding, fried corn, creamed corn, hominy, and anything else I might have overlooked.”
“Corn is king here, truly.” Rhys’s sister was as patient as she was amused.
“You northerners rely mostly on wheat, I take it. We do grow wheat but prefer maize.” She began poking around in the cupboards.
“Let’s start at your own hearth then. Maybe you’ll feel more at home right here and we can partake at your table on occasion. ”
“Of course,” Mae replied with some trepidation.
“If you truly want to impress, you should master my brother’s favorite, lemon cheesecakes.”
And so they began, crossing the untrod pine floor to stir and bake and fry countless meals, as Mae’s bespattered aprons soon proved. The bake oven built into the hearth was much like Chatham’s, though it took time to get the wood and heat in harmony.
Weaving between patience and exasperation, Mae burned most of what she baked but pressed on.
When Father Harlow pronounced her venison stew delicious, she wanted to rejoice.
He even rigged a clockwork spit in the hearth, complete with drip pan, but this required skill and attention too.
Never had Mae appreciated Mrs. Hurst so much. Or Bronwyn.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be the accomplished cook you are, but I’ve learned a lot in a short time,” Mae told her.
“I’ve never seen anyone try harder. You’re making great gains.
Let’s leave the kitchen for now and sew.
” Bronwyn led the way, trading the sunny kitchen for the parlor across the hall.
“Your stitching needs no instruction. Rhys mentioned how much he appreciated you and the Liberty Ladies in a letter.”
Had he? Mae took out her sewing kit with her newly sharpened scissors, thankful it had survived her journey. “When we met last winter, I began sewing for the army encamped at Lowantica Valley. Shirts, mostly. Once we arrived at Fort Montgomery I moved on to cockades and coats.”
“Ambitious,” Bronwyn said, admiring Lucy’s pincushion. “I’ve heard the Continental Army is hoping to have blue uniforms with colorful facings for different regiments.”
“Rhys and his riflemen mostly rely on linen hunting shirts and leggings, though Lucy and I did make him a handsome blue coat in New York.” Mae tried to push away a darker memory. Their quarrel had come on the heels of finishing that coat.
Bronwyn looked up at her briefly before continuing work on a baby’s cap edged in lace. “I sense a sadness about you when you speak of him.”
Mae’s needle stilled. Bronwyn was as perceptive as she was capable. How much should she confide?
“My last memory of him is a quarrel we had which seems to overshadow everything.”
“I’m sorry, Mae. I don’t mean to pry—”
“You’re not prying but caring.” Mae looked down at the tiny linen gown half finished in her lap. “The quarrel came about because of a family situation. I have a younger sister, you see, named Coralie . . .”
Even saying Coralie’s name dredged up details and hurt feelings that were best forgotten. With a resolve to not besmirch her sister but simply state the facts, Mae let the whole story spill out, every miserable drop, and she felt both relieved and ashamed in the telling.
“So, your Loyalist sister chose Lieutenant Gibbs, and your family didn’t take kindly to the matter,” Bronwyn said as she stitched.
“Don’t judge yourself too harshly. You wanted what was best for everyone, including Rhys.
You acted out of love and a desire to keep the peace, not from wrong or deceitful motives. ”
“I never thought her letters and loyalties would cause harm, but now I wonder if they didn’t play into the downfall of the twin forts in even a small way.
Both garrisons were well prepared but terribly undermanned.
Perhaps my sister relayed their situation to the British and they seized the moment and attacked. ”
“You’ll likely never know.” Bronwyn gave a rare sigh. “‘Things without all remedy should be without regard: what’s done is done,’ as Shakespeare says.”
“I can’t change any of it, though I wish I could. And I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Try to dwell on Rhys and his homecoming instead.”
But what if there’s not to be one?
So far Bronwyn hadn’t shared her own heartache. Mae had only heard the barest scraps from Rhys that Micah Edmiston had fallen in one of Virginia’s first battles. Had Bronwyn moved past his death and locked that part of herself away?
“I hope and pray there’s some word from Rhys soon,” Mae said. “And more news from New York.”
“Father has gone to market today so will hopefully return with a newspaper or broadside. I’m uneasy too. What little we do know is that General Washington is moving the northern army to winter quarters.”
“Our Quaker hostess outside of Philadelphia mentioned Valley Forge near the Schuylkill River as a possible encampment.”
“Hopefully once Rhys is settled we’ll hear. He could still be somewhere along the Hudson River. New York is a vast territory, and mail is oft intercepted.”
Mae withheld a wince. Fleeing the wilderness with all its hardships was something that would never leave her, nor would the memory of Jon’s farm, burned beyond recognition. “Has the Shenandoah Valley escaped the conflict?”
“We’ve not escaped the war entirely,” Bronwyn told her. “We’ve a few Loyalists here, though most of this valley are staunch Patriots. Several regiments are serving in the Continental Army all over the united states. Our foremost worry has been raids by the British and their Indian allies.”
“Have there been any?”
“A few skirmishes so far—stealing supplies from farms and the like. We now have Patriot patrols to warn us.” Bronwyn looked up and smiled. “I’d rather talk about tomorrow’s Sabbath service.”
Church? Mae sat back, hardly aware of time. Her days seemed as scattered as dandelion seeds.
“Our pastor is something of a firebrand, one of the so-called Black Robe Regiment who preach independence from the pulpit.”
“Like Colonel Muhlenberg from Virginia. Rhys spoke highly of him. He actually forsook preaching to join the Continental Army.”
“He did, indeed.”
“Our own pastor in Chatham wasn’t so bold.” In hindsight, Mae saw how ill a match they would have made. “Tell me more about your congregation.”
“On the third Sabbath of the month we gather for a community meal.” Bronwyn smiled again, the dimple in her cheek unnoticed till now. “Best prepare yourself. You’ll break a few hearts appearing as the new Mrs. Harlow.”
Clad in her second-best dress that had finally been ironed, Mae sat with Father Harlow and Bronwyn in a back pew at the Presbyterian church.
But being inconspicuous didn’t seem to stop all the whispering behind hands, especially among the congregation’s young women.
Lucy’s appearance bolstered her, though she sat upstairs in the loft with her kin.
“This morning we have with us General Harlow’s new wife from Jersey,” the pastor announced at service’s end as countless heads turned in her direction.
“I hope everyone will greet her kindly as we continue to pray for her husband’s homecoming, as we do all the defenders of freedom from this valley and elsewhere. ”
Flushed, Mae tried to shake off her shyness and remember the names of those who greeted her.
The communal meal was held inside the church itself, plentiful southern fare that bespoke a rich harvest. Smoked hams were in abundance and numerous cider kegs were tapped, the Hewes Crab and Taliaferro quite different from Newark cider in Jersey.
Mae looked over the room, the pews pushed back, the talk and laughter deafening.
Though Bronwyn had kept close to her side, she now drifted toward her female friends just as Father Harlow gathered with men outside the open door.
Several older women peppered Mae with questions, and she felt stark relief when Lucy made straight for her.
“Fancy seeing you at church and not the middle of the wilderness,” Lucy jested, squeezing her gloved hand. “How are you faring?”
“I’ve missed you, though Rhys’s family has been so very good to me. I’m even living in the house he built. Soon you’ll have to visit and we’ll share some of Bronwyn’s sassafras tea.”
“I knew they’d welcome you proper-like, though I can’t say the same for the unmarried misses who’ve long pinned their hopes on being Mrs. Harlow.” She winked as if Mae had won at a game and outfoxed them all. “But he never paid any of them much mind other than a dance or two.”
Mae mulled this, wondering if he now regretted his choice. Doubts continued to bedevil her, making her question everything, including their all-too-tenuous future.
“You’ve not heard anything about what came after Saratoga? Where our men might be?” Mae knew the answer before she asked. Lucy would have run to her house if she had.
With a shake of her head, Lucy shot down the notion. “All I know is that both New York battles were brutal. I’m sure my Isham was right there with his drum. The Rifle Corps fought ferociously, ’tis said, but not all stayed standing.”
Mae felt as dependent on the unreliable post as Coralie had when she’d hoped for letters from Lieutenant Gibbs. Waiting and wondering seemed another sort of torment. No letters. No casualty lists.
If he lived, what if Rhys chose not to write because he’d not forgiven her?