Chapter 1
Back home, Hans thought, Mother and Maria were probably pulling the Lebkuchen from the oven, preparing sausages for Christmas morning, and sitting by the fire with mugs of warm Apfelwein.
Probably old Herr Schneider was in the parlor, pumping away at his squeezebox, while his grandchildren sang Christmas songs in their charmingly off-key voices, snow falling gently on the fields and forests around the cheerful little cottage.
And here am I, he glumly mused, trudging a wintry road alone, an ocean away, with nothing but British hardtack in my belly and no cheer to warm me.
Though really, all was not so bad on his sojourn to North America.
He had seen only two engagements so far, his unit routing the American rebels both times with considerable ease, and Colonel Rall ensured the troops that winter would see very little action.
The rebels were hunkered down in the wilderness across the river, with starvation and freezing cold in a race to see which would kill the most of that ragtag band, and the fight would certainly be out of them before spring.
Meanwhile, the British King sent gold to Prince Frederick, whose treasurers saw that a portion went to Mother and Maria; he could tolerate a bit of discomfort and enjoy a little adventure abroad in exchange for more money than he would earn in many years working at Herr Ruppel's butcher shop.
And now, on Christmas Eve, he carried in his pocket a letter from Colonel Rall introducing him to Anna Lotz, a young widow whose mother came from Rall's home region of Stralsund.
A young man away from home at Christmas for the first time should have a home-cooked meal in exchange for chopping some firewood, Rall had said that morning as he pressed the envelope into Hans' hand.
Be back before the New Year, as I am quite sure we will not require your services before then.
Scribbled on the back of the envelope was a hasty map to Anna Lotz's farm, located beyond the apple orchard east of the town of Trenton.
Hans had trudged for almost an hour along a snowy road that hugged a frozen stream, passing the orchard's bare and twisted trees, and he was beginning to doubt his directions and was considering going back to the relative comfort of the barracks near the river, when he finally saw a red wooden barn tucked into a copse of fruit trees.
He let out a sigh of relief, which quickly turned to frost in the chilly air, and adjusted the straps of his knapsack as he quickened his pace.
***
"I am Hans Gossler," said Hans, in Hessisch, to the woman who answered his knock at the farmhouse's door. "Colonel Rall sent me to chop wood."
He reached a gloved hand into his coat pocket and extended the colonel's letter to the woman, who stared at him with a furrowed brow.
She was perhaps thirty years old, Hans thought, perhaps older — in only his twentieth year himself, Hans was a poor judge of age, particularly in women — and wore a white canvas apron over a gray homespun frock.
Her brown hair was pulled back and tied behind her head, but loose strands framed a pretty face sprayed with freckles across her nose and cheeks.
She took the letter from him, glanced briefly at it, then returned to stare with puzzlement at Hans. She stared for so long that Hans began to feel uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot in his heavy boots, and he contemplated snatching the letter from her and running back to town.
Then a smile spread over her face, and a look of recognition lit her eyes, and she said, in English (which Hans only barely understood), "You must be the German boy Anna asked for. Come in, come in, but kick off those boots — I won't have you tracking snow inside."
She took Hans by the elbow and pulled him through the doorway, then pushed the door closed behind him.
***
Hans followed the woman — who introduced herself as Sarah — into a warm and tidy kitchen.
His boots sat on a rough hemp mat by the door, and Sarah took his blue woolen coat and hung it on a peg among an array of cloaks and jackets.
She motioned for him to take a seat at a long wooden table in the middle of the slate-floored kitchen and went to the black cast-iron stove that squatted in the far corner where a pewter pot sat steaming.
Sarah spoke over her shoulder to Hans while she poured from the kettle into a pair of heavy gray mugs, but Hans understood only a few words: "chop," "Anna," "wood," and "supper" stood out, and that last word and the rich smells of roasting meat rising from the oven set Hans' stomach to rumbling.
The company's rations had been sufficient, he supposed, but certainly not tasty, and rarely warm enough to chase off the damp chill that persisted in the barracks.
Hans also noted that Sarah had a pleasant shape that was not entirely concealed beneath her rather shapeless frock.
Her hips were broad, her back slender, and he could see the round swell of her buttocks when she bent to open the oven door.
Her hair had a slightly auburn tint in the pale morning light through the high windows along the kitchen's wall and looked soft as corn silk.
Sarah turned away from the stove and carried the mugs to the table, setting one in front of Hans.
It held tea — flavored with rosehip and lemon peel, by the sweet smell of it — and the steam rising from the warm, dark liquid melted something inside him.
He let out a sigh, wrapped his fingers around the warm mug, and took a long sip, thrilling at the sensation of the tea spreading a pleasant warmth through his body.
Sarah sat at the table opposite him, looking over her mug at him with soft green eyes that glowed in the pale light.
Her lips turned up in a gentle smile that made her eyes glow even brighter, and Hans had to look away for fear of staring too deeply into those emerald pools and losing himself entirely within their depths.
When he set his half-empty mug on the table, Sarah reached across and took his hands in hers.
Her fingers were warm and soft, her grip firm but gentle, and Hans felt his heart race at her touch.
A woman's touch, except for his mother's and sister's, was a strange new experience for Hans; he had not yet courted any girls at home, and when the other soldiers in his unit spent their last night in New York carousing in the bawdy houses, Hans had spent it writing letters home to Mother, Maria, and Herr Schneider.
He realized after a few moments that Sarah was speaking to him, a warm rush of words that washed gently over his ears, but Hans understood only a few: "welcome," "barn," "Anna," "Christmas" ...
They were kind words, he was certain, nothing like the barked orders and crude jokes he heard most days in camp, and Hans was happy to bask in their kindness.
"Ah, there's the lad, at last!" a woman's voice called from behind him, and Hans turned to see a figure step through the door wrapped in a dark, heavy cloak, a woolen hat pulled low over her ears. She spoke in German, but in a North Sea dialect that sounded odd to Hans' ears.
"Don't get too comfortable, Hessian soldier," the woman said as she took a seat beside him. "We have a lot of work for you to do, to earn your Christmas dinner."
"Yes, ma'am," Hans said, beginning to rise from his seat. But the woman put a hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay. Sarah released her grip on Hans' hands and moved back to the stove.
"I'm Anna," she said, "and you've met Sarah. Gretchen is out feeding the chickens — the dreadful little beasts don't care that it's Christmas Eve."
"Thank you so much for your kind hospitality, Frau Anna," said Hans.
"Just Anna," the woman said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "There are no titles in America, or haven't you heard?" Then she winked at him as she reached up to pluck off her woolen cap. "I suppose that's what the King's gold is buying, isn't it, a return to titles?"
When she plucked the cap off her head, her long black hair fell over her shoulders in luxurious waves.
It looked as soft and rich as the finest velvet, and Hans knitted his fingers together to prevent himself from reaching out to touch Anna's raven locks.
She looked a bit older than Sarah, he thought, with tiny wrinkles around her dark eyes, and for just a moment he felt a tingle of warning run up his spine, as if he were encountering some mysterious, dangerous, but beautiful creature in a dark wood.
But then Anna smiled, a glow spreading across her wind-reddened cheeks, and his alarm almost instantly subsided.
Sarah returned to the table with a mug of tea for Anna and retook her seat across from Hans, reaching out again to take his hand. Her thumb ran thoughtlessly along his palm while Anna spoke, sending an altogether different tingle up Hans' spine.
"We are but three widows, alone on the edge of a wilderness village," Anna said. "We need someone with a strong back and great strength to cut wood for us and prepare our household for the coming winter. Like something out of the M?rchen, no? You can be our brave prince, Hessian soldier."
"Yes," Hans said, eyes flitting from Anna's red lips to Sarah's green eyes and then back. "Yes, certainly, Frau — er, certainly, Anna. I can be that."
Hans was just beginning to relax, warmed by the cast-iron stove, Sarah's soft hands, and Anna's fingers squeezing his shoulder, when he heard the kitchen door fly open again with a bang.
"Why is there a British soldier in our kitchen?" a woman's voice roared.