Chapter 55
fifty-five
The greatest and completest revolution the world ever knew, gloriously and happily accomplished.
Thomas Paine
Days passed, the brilliant snow now old and muddied.
Though he was getting around on crutches with more ease, his pain more manageable, Rhys was not the man he’d been, neither in body nor soul.
Because of it, he forced himself to tend to chores his father or Bronwyn could easily have done.
He fell down more than once, even sliding on ice and getting bloodied all over again when he collided with the side of the barn.
Christmas loomed but none of the festive feeling with it, though Harlow House, as neighbors called it, overflowed with the aroma of gingerbread and beeswax candles and pine boughs. Mae seemed determined to decorate their home top to bottom as if staying busy could keep her grief over James at bay.
When he wasn’t in the house he went downhill to his father’s workshop, forbidding Mae to follow.
Bronwyn was often uphill, keeping her company, so he didn’t feel guilty absenting himself.
By the workshop’s fire, he and his father crafted a rocking chair from maple.
Though his thigh was mangled, his hands were not.
Using a drawknife, he shaped the spindles and backrest and legs while his father assembled the frame.
It required both of them working if they were to finish by Christmas.
Anticipating Mae’s pleasure spurred him on. Losing himself in something to benefit someone else seemed a tonic, a means to heal. The deadness he’d felt since New York began to lighten somewhat.
“So, are you ready to be a father?”
Rhys continued carving, shavings at his feet, surprised by his father’s candor. He had always been a taciturn man, and Rhys seemed to mirror him since his harrowing return from the war.
“I misdoubt anyone is ready for the most important task of one’s life aside from being a husband. And I’m a poor one at present.”
“You’re still healing.”
Only physically, he thought. In other ways he seemed as far as the east from the west from the one that most mattered. Mae seemed untried territory, a wilderness with no compass, and he didn’t sense a way through. “I can’t seem to find my way back to her.”
“To Mae.”
Rhys swallowed, suddenly at sea. That was how he felt. Adrift. Unable to return to what they’d once had. “Much has changed.”
“But not your love for her.”
“Nay.”
“Then you need to tell her.” His father bent to join the chair seat to the frame. “It will do you both good. In hindsight, I didn’t tell your mother near enough.”
With that, he left to see to the horses, leaving Rhys alone.
Leg aching, he took a stool by the hearth to continue his work.
Long minutes passed, and he heard Bronwyn calling the cows for the evening milking.
Dusk gathered at the windows, reminding him supper would be waiting.
He stood, preparing for the long, slow journey uphill, his father’s words accompanying him.
He hadn’t told Mae he loved her since their wedding day. When had he decided it didn’t need repeating? Mayhap it needed saying now most of all.
Mae cleared the supper dishes, waiting for Rhys to cross the hall and go into the parlor like usual.
She usually joined him afterward. Sometimes he read to her by candlelight or they’d discuss something printed in the newspapers.
Neither of them had mentioned Coralie again.
They steered around anything personal, even the baby, and held each other at arm’s length, a distance that tore her heart in two.
But what was she to do? Was he waiting for her to reach out to him first?
Finished washing dishes, she carried a lit taper to the parlor, remembering the letter from home in her pocket. Home. Would she ever stop thinking of Chatham as home? Home was here. With Rhys and their coming child, despite a tangle of heartaches and setbacks.
He sat in one of the twin Windsor chairs fronting the hearth. He’d once jested that while their backsides were ice, their fronts were aflame. Tonight he had no book or newspaper in hand. Lately he’d kept up with war news less, perhaps because the army was in winter quarters and fighting had ceased.
“’Tis a momentous time,” she said, “the day Congress has proclaimed we should stop and give thanks to God for blessing our nation and troops in their quest for independence and peace.”
“I’m feeling far more grateful here at home than far afield,” he murmured, reaching for his pipe.
Sitting down in the empty chair beside him, she took the letter from her pocket. “Hanna wrote us a letter.”
He nodded and lit his pipe as she began to read aloud.
Dear Sister and Brother-in-Law,
We are overjoyed to announce the arrival of Claire and James . . .
Twins? Mae stopped reading and Rhys raised an eyebrow.
“I mayn’t have mentioned there are twins on Mother’s side of the family,” she said, thankful all was well. The pronounced flutter inside her and her increased girth challenged her to consider two Harlows. “I’m glad they’ve named him James, and Claire is especially pretty.”
. . . born 26th October. They joined us around midnight during a full moon and have turned our home upside down with happiness.
Their safe, healthy arrival tempers the loss of James somewhat. We have heard from Jon and they are rebuilding. What matters most is that they’re all together and Joanna and the children are well.
Your letter telling of your coming through the wilderness seems a womanly version of Robinson Crusoe or Gulliver’s Travels.
We thank God still that you and Lucy are all right.
We pray daily that General Harlow’s return to health is swift and he is on his feet again.
For pain relief, Aaron advises an infusion of willow bark or Valerian root. Ample rest is essential.
Perhaps once the twins are older, we can venture south to your new home. We are counting the days till spring and your confinement. You never know the wonder and joy a child brings till you experience the miracle yourself.
We have moved into Father and Mother’s house and let our apprentice live at the apothecary shop. Mrs. Hurst sends her regards to you both. She seems quite content to be with us now as she gets on in years and needs a remedy or two. She says the children will keep her young.
Jon has told us of seeing Coralie from a distance at the New York surrender.
We are sad that she has chosen to side with the British and is now a prisoner of war.
We are even more grieved that her loyalties returned her to Lieutenant Gibbs and somehow influenced his heinous actions at the last, including his own death.
Mae paused, wishing she’d kept that part from Rhys. He sat stoic, still smoking, as she continued.
Please write as soon as you are able. The Shenandoah Valley sounds lovely, and we are comforted knowing you may be far from Chatham but are surrounded by loving family there. Again, give General Harlow our best. We pray for you and yours daily.
Your ever loving,
Hanna
Mae folded the letter back up and put it in her pocket. Somehow it assuaged her the Chatham house didn’t sit empty and was near enough to the apothecary that Aaron wouldn’t have far to walk.
“Do you miss home?” Rhys asked, drawing on his pipe.
“Only family and the apothecary, even the scent of it.”
“We could go visit, in time.”
“I’d rather they come to Virginia.” She took up her knitting. “Since it was so hard getting here, I’m in no hurry to leave.”
He chuckled, which lightened her spirits a little. “If you’re wondering why I’ve been spending so much time in the carpentry, it’s for a good reason.” His pipe smoke purled between them, a richly spiced aroma that rivaled her gingerbread.
“Seeing you occupied does my heart good, though ample rest is essential, like Hanna says.” Already they were sounding like a seasoned married couple, or nurse and patient. It chafed her and left her longing for the passionate tie they’d once had. “I’m guessing you’re working on my Christmas gift.”
“I am, aye.”
“I’ve been working on yours too, in spare moments.”
“Honestly, we should be done with such. Your company is all the gift I need, Mae.”
She let that settle as she worked her needles, tears burning at the backs of her eyes.
Fears and tears. That was what life had become lately.
Tears over death and betrayal and what couldn’t be undone.
Fears that Rhys would return to the war.
Many injured, wounded men returned to active duty, even limping ones.
“You do believe me when I say that, don’t you?”
His careful question drew her out of her dark thoughts. She didn’t look at him but continued her handwork. “Believe you?”
“That your company is all I need.”
“I’m not very good company lately, mourning James.” To say nothing of Coralie.
James especially was much in mind lately. Even the joys of the season couldn’t shake her sadness or her ongoing worry that the man sitting beside her wouldn’t fully recover but carry a grudge to his grave—or would return to full health only to fall again in some distant field.
“We’re mourning together, then.”
She looked over at him, thinking he had far more to grieve than she.
In the flickering light she detected a few new lines in his face, carved by pain and disappointment and all she wasn’t privy to.
He rarely complained. And he seemed to be extending some intimacy to her now when they’d not been truly intimate for months.
Her answering unease brought her to her feet. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” Suddenly she craved the cocoa Father Harlow had gotten her at Hough’s store. A luxury. For his coming grandchild, he’d jested.
At Rhys’s aye, she went to the kitchen. She grated cocoa into the chocolate pot, then went to the spice cupboard, which stopped her. The finished uniform coat hidden there made her reconsider their drinks.
When she returned with the coat, holding it to her chest, he was standing by the hearth looking robust. His recovery of late had been nothing short of miraculous, though he would likely always bear a limp.
She had prayed unceasingly for his health with every stitch, surrendering her own hopes and plans for their future.
What if he was meant to return to the war, after all?
Standing in front of him, she held the coat out to him with a tentative smile. She didn’t miss the flare of surprise in his eyes. He took it and admired the fine blue fabric, the tailored epaulets and double row of buttons.
“I lined this one with silk, not linen,” she said softly. “And Lucy managed the silver thread embroidery on the collar and cuffs.”
He swallowed, visibly moved.
Her own throat was so tight her words sounded half choked. “Please, try it on.”
He shrugged on the garment in one seamless motion, his arms sliding into the fitted sleeves as the coattails fell to the backs of his knees . . . so handsome her heart gave an almost forgotten flip.
“Well done, Mae.” He smoothed the lapels with a sharp tug. “And Lucy.”
The accolade fell short. If he would only take her in his arms and kiss her. It had been so long she’d nearly forgotten that too. Biting her lip, she simply admired him instead, reaching out to brush away a speck of lint on his sleeve.
He was so handsome it hurt.
He held her gaze in a way he’d not done in weeks. “Is this my Christmas present?”
She nodded, unable to look away. Something soul deep made her say, “When the winter is past and you return to the fight, I’ll stand behind you.”
The sudden hush was so fraught she felt near tears again. Had she misspoken? Resurrected some old wounds or poked at a new one?
Sparks flew past the andirons onto the newly scrubbed pine floor, and he ground them out with the heel of his boot. “I’m not leaving, Mae.”
Her stomach lurched. “Why?”
“I’m most needed here.” He began removing the coat. “But it’s more than that. There’s a toll that killing decent, misguided men takes.”
So many men. Fathers. Sons. Brothers. Husbands. War was no respecter of persons. The lament in his voice wasn’t lost on her.
“You sound like a Jersey Quaker—or your father.”
“I’m no Quaker.” He hung the coat on a wall peg. “Not with the men I’ve taken down.”
The lament in his tone grieved her, yet she understood.
“Most of all I can’t bear to be away from you and our child.”
His low words narrowed the distance between them. This was what she most wanted. To hear his heart. To know he still cared for her, despite all her missteps and regrets—and his.
“You’re my world, Mae.” His arms slipped round her, as strong and warm as she remembered.
His lengthy, searing kiss rivaled the linen closet of long ago.
“I can’t fathom being without you or living like we’ve lived lately—separate rooms, separate beds, withheld words.
I love you with all that is in me. Nothing will ever come between us again save death. ”