Major Reed straightened the lace on his sleeves. “I suppose there is wisdom in that.”
“It is common sense, my friend. If I speak up, I fear my punishment would be swift. I would be forced to return to London with my wife and daughters, and there would be one less family in Virginia loyal to the Crown.”
“We knew your father when he was much younger, Major Reed.” The soothing lilt of Mother’s voice broke through the tension. “But I did not have the pleasure of knowing your mother well. Where is her family?”
Major Reed looked startled at the change in direction of their conversation. “She is from Canterbury.”
“I visited Canterbury when I was a girl.” Mother’s tone remained soft, her smile demure. “It was a charming village.”
Major Reed mirrored her smile. “Aye. It is a beautiful place.”
“You can understand, I suppose, how Caswell Hall means so much to all of us.”
“I understand your sentiments, Lady Caswell, but my superiors may not.”
“We are on your side,” Father insisted.
Mother didn’t mention Grayson, but Lydia knew the plantation meant so much to her mother in part because her son had grown up within these walls. He’d walked the fields and worked alongside Father. She wanted to protect her memories as much as Father wanted to protect his kingdom.
Lydia didn’t want to return to London either. This colony was her home, a place where her father had prospered. She loved the beautiful landscape around Caswell Hall and their view of the river. Father had given much of his life to the building of this house and to the planting and cultivating of the seven thousand acres that surrounded it. If they took Caswell Hall from him, if they burned it like they had so many houses . . . she feared her father would never recover from such a loss.
As Major Reed continued to ask questions, her mother urged Lydia to sing again. She moved to the pianoforte. Her heart wasn’t in it, but she joined the men in a song about God saving their king.
Chapter Thirteen
Sarah packed hard cheese, a small bottle of cherries, and two slices of bread in a small basket. She buckled her oldest pair of shoes and wrapped herself in her light-brown cloak. It was already after eight in the morning, and the letter seemed to be burning a hole in the pocket under her petticoat. With the horses gone, she had no choice. She must walk the three miles to Williamsburg.
It might not be safe on the main roads with the British so close, but she would have to risk traveling over the footpath to deliver the letter.
She’d finished the weekly inspection with Thomas yesterday, walking the grounds to check on the buildings and the work of their Negroes. Winters weren’t nearly as taxing as the summer planting and harvesting—nor were they as profitable—but the workers stayed plenty busy with maintenance and care for the livestock. The field slaves and house servants alike would be occupied for most of the day.
She found Morah dusting the banister over the main stairs, Alden playing with his crutch at her feet. Sarah assumed that Elisha had made the crutch for his son, but she never asked. Alden needed his father, but Lord Caswell refused to sell Elisha to her. Now Sarah simply pretended that she didn’t know Elisha paddled down the back river every Sunday night to visit his wife and son.
“When Thomas returns, please tell him I have decided to picnic this morning.”
Morah stared at her as if she’d gone mad, and Sarah knew she must have a hundred questions about one picnicking in March, during a war.
“Yes, miss,” Morah replied instead.
The gray skies threatened weather, but it was too warm for another snow. As long as she returned by nightfall, she would be fine.
Sarah walked the path along the riverbank east before turning north toward Williamsburg. In the distance she saw one of the few Patriot ships moving toward the ocean, probably going out to defend the Chesapeake Bay.
Not too many years ago, her heart had swelled with pride at the strength of the Royal Navy. At the time, her father hadn’t been on a ship in many years, but he still regaled her and Seth with stories about his years traveling the world, before he and Mother came to run his father’s plantation. Mother had neither the strength nor the interest in traveling with him, but he’d seemed to settle well into the life of a planter until Parliament petitioned him to travel to the West Indies.
When Seth joined the Continental Army, it seemed that Father had been proud of his son for fighting. Father had once spoken out in favor of liberty, before the colonies wrote their declaration for independence, but he had withdrawn quickly, growing more dispassionate even as the world grew passionate around them. When he received his orders to sail, it seemed a mercy for him to escape all that confused him and his family.
She wondered if he still believed in any of the foundational blocks of freedom.
The path led her into a labyrinth of mud, leaves, and branches with snow quilted like patchwork between the trees.
Father would never approve of what she was doing. It was too risky to allow a messenger from either side to come onto their property, and he would fear for her life. On the other hand, Seth wanted her to be safe, but he also wanted to win this war. Her brother had given his life for freedom; he would never be satisfied with defeat. Sarah would rather die than live under oppression, with the punishment that would inflict all those who had rebelled.
If she could fight on the battlefield, she would. She’d heard the story of Mary Hays, the woman who’d served as a “water girl” to cool down the cannons as the Patriots battled the British. When Mary’s husband was injured in battle, she took his ramrod and kept loading the cannon. General Washington designated Mary Hays a sergeant for her courage, but Seth said General Washington would never allow Sarah to fight—her role here as a courier was even more vital.
Or it had been, until they stole her horses.
She heard the sound of voices through the thickness of the trees, and she stopped walking. There were two or three men speaking, and they were close.
“No one must know of our intent,” one of the men said.
“We will search everyone who comes this way.”
Sarah swallowed and then held her breath. Who were these men?
Then she heard the language of a German man, probably one of the Hessians the king had hired from taxes inflicted on the Americans. She wouldn’t be able to pass without them hearing her, searching her. She shivered, her hand over the pocket that held a small book with the letter. It wouldn’t be hard for them to find it, but the thought of them searching . . .
They might not be able to read the contents, but she couldn’t risk it. The letter was still sealed and must remain so until it arrived.
She sat on a stump and waited, wishing the forest would swallow her. There would be no moving in any direction until the men were gone.
Blue and green threads on the canvas formed the path of a river. After weeks of work, the scene was finally finished, and Lydia took an old sampler off the wall by her bureau and replaced it with her new one. If she ever left Caswell Hall, the embroidered river would remind her of home.
Stitching usually calmed her nerves, easing her to sleep, but it hadn’t worked tonight. The thought of having to leave Caswell Hall haunted her.
The officers had retired for the night less than an hour ago, enjoying their time of refreshment to the fullest. Their household staff was showing signs of weariness at the men’s demands. Lydia was exhausted as well, but she hadn’t been able to sleep.
The officers talked tonight of the plantations they’d burned around Charles Towne and New York, and they told of a man—a Loyalist—who’d burned his family’s plantation home even as his rebel brother looked on. It seemed outlandish to her, burning the places they were trying to secure. What would happen if the British did win this war?
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the shutters that folded behind the window seat. If the Patriots won, her family would have to leave Caswell Hall, and the thought of l
eaving her beloved home terrified her. This place was her sanctuary, her fortress. Some people, like Grayson, wanted adventure, but she had never felt the need to explore far beyond their plantation. Their trip to England when she was a child had cured her of any longing to travel. For the entire two months overseas, she had begged her parents to return to their plantation.
Unlike her, Grayson had loved their trip to Europe, especially the ride on the ship. He’d spent every waking moment Father allowed him on deck with the crew.
She and Grayson did have something in common when they were younger. Both of them preferred peace to conflict, like their mother. Lydia still craved peace in their colony, but it seemed as if it was much too late for that sentiment.
Grandfather’s desire for peace had ultimately gotten him killed, and the irony of it still angered her. She didn’t understand why anyone would condemn peace, but in the days after his funeral, she decided it was better to keep one’s opinion to oneself than end up dead because of it.
She opened her eyes and looked out at the darkness.
Where had Nathan gone? Instead of choosing peace, he was risking his life for a freedom that seemed impossible to secure, especially now that the British seemed poised to take Virginia.
She didn’t know what real freedom was like. Even though she’d been raised in the Commonwealth of Virginia, she’d always been a servant of the king. She never dared to wonder what it would be like if the colonies were independent.
It was almost as if the colonists had been children for well over a century now, obeying a demanding parent who lived four thousand miles away, a royal father who grew stricter instead of more lenient as his wards aged.
Could it be time for the colonies to mature? Perhaps they should unite and make laws on their own.
She shook her head. She must stop thinking such thoughts. The very act of considering independence could be considered treason.
Her fireplace was blazing, but she still shivered, rubbing the cotton sleeves of her shift. Perhaps something hot to drink would warm her body and rest her mind. If Viney or one of the maids were in the kitchen, perhaps they could heat some cider or chocolate for her.
She wrapped her nightgown around her shift and then moved into the hall, eyeing the closed door of Major Reed’s chamber before she slipped down the main stairs. Then she took the much smaller staircase down to the basement. One of the maids was still cleaning and warmed up the cider for Lydia over the fire. Lydia sat in the dim kitchen by the remnants of the blaze, sipping her hot drink made of apple cider, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
The housemaid bid her good night, but Lydia didn’t move. She wanted privacy, but she didn’t want to return to her bedchamber. The kitchen was the perfect place for a respite.
Leaning against the counter, she enjoyed her drink until she heard footsteps behind her. At first she thought it was the maid returning but then realized they were much heavier steps, the steps of a man. Fear sparked in her for a moment, and she chided herself. There was nothing for her to be afraid of. This was her home, and Father made sure it protected both his wife and daughters.
Turning, she saw Major Reed walk into the room, and as he eyed her nightgown, a smile crept across his lips. “Good evening.”
She cringed and silently chided herself for leaving her room in this state of undress. “I thought you had retired to your room,” she said.
“I have come to find food.”
“There is plenty of food to be had. Take what you would like,” she said, though she suspected he didn’t need her permission to do so.
He moved closer to her. “Someone distracted me from eating enough at dinner.”
She was glad it was dark, for she didn’t want him to see her blush. “I fear you drank too much sherry tonight.”
His eyes studied her in a way that made her want to run, and yet she wasn’t sure what he would do if she fled. “I need not drink to know that you are beautiful.”
She took a sip of her cider and stood, trying to appear much calmer than she felt as she backed toward the door. He stepped toward her, and while he didn’t touch her, the way he surveyed her . . . Perhaps she should be flattered, but it frightened her instead.
“I remember when you came to visit London.”
She swallowed. “Do you?”
“You were twelve and already beautiful.”
The stale alcohol on his breath made her cough.
“How old were you?” she asked, stepping away again. If she kept him talking, perhaps he wouldn’t notice her moving backward.
“Fifteen.” He leaned against the wall, his legs crossed, as he continued to watch her. “We spent time in our gardens chasing the rabbits.”
An image began to form in her mind of a boy holding up a rabbit by the legs. She’d begged him not to hurt it. He’d let it go, but if she hadn’t begged him, she didn’t know what he would have done.
“I must go up to my chamber now, Major Reed.”
“You used to call me Dalton.”
“That was a long time ago.”
He stepped close to her again and she shuddered. He stood only a few inches taller than her, yet she knew he was much stronger. Would they hear her upstairs if she screamed?
His gaze on her face, he reached out and caressed the thin material on her sleeve. “You might call me Dalton again.”
She pulled her arm away, repeating her words. “It is time for me to return to my chamber.”
Instead of discouraging him, her refusal made his smile grow even wider, as if the quest was as pleasurable as the plunder. “There is no reason for you to rush.”
“But there is—”
He stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “I do not want to frighten you, Lydia.”
“Miss Caswell,” she said, hating herself for the tremble in her voice. “And I have already promised myself to another.”
His laugh was bitter. “The rebel.”
“I do not think of him as such.”
He pushed a strand of hair over her ear. “I’ll care for you much better than any rebel could.”
Lantern light filled the room, and she turned to see Elisha’s wide shoulders emerge from the shadows.
“Lady Caswell sent me for you, miss,” he said, his head bowed.
Major Reed took her arm. “I shall escort her upstairs.”
“Of course,” Elisha replied, but he didn’t move.
Lydia shook off the major’s grasp. “You haven’t eaten yet—”
“My appetite has changed.” He turned toward Elisha. “Leave us now.”
“But Lady Caswell—”
“Thank you, Elisha.” Lydia stepped closer to him, her heart warming. The major could have the slave whipped for his impertinence, and yet Elisha was willing to risk punishment to protect her. “You must take me to Lady Caswell’s chamber.”
Elisha followed her upstairs, and when they reached the second floor, he opened the door into the hall for her. “Lock your chamber door, Miss Lydia.”
Tears of gratitude filled her eyes as she thanked him again.
Chapter Fourteen
After devouring a large breakfast, Major Reed and two of his men escorted the family’s coach away from Caswell Hall. Mother sat on the leather seat beside Lydia, and she seemed just as eager to visit Williamsburg as Lydia. The officers had been with them more than a week now as they waited for General Cornwallis and his army to join them near Williamsburg.
The Caswell family had enough food at the plantation to see them through the rest of the winter, but Mother still insisted on going into town today to obtain tea and other supplies. It was an excuse, Lydia knew, for her to escape their overbearing guests.
Hannah had stayed in her room this morning, saying it was much too early for her to say good-bye. They all knew she was pouting. With Hannah’s tongue—and no muzzle—Father feared she would say something that might damage their family permanently.
A stream divided the land between the Caswell and Hammond pla
ntations. On the other side of the water, Elisha stopped the horses.
“This is the end of the Caswell property,” he told the officers from his seat high on the coach.
Major Reed opened the door beside Lydia, and she shuddered. It seemed as if he wasn’t even bothered about his behavior—or her rejection—two nights ago, but she could never pretend it away. If Elisha hadn’t rescued her, her life might now be in ruins.
Instead of looking at Lydia, Major Reed addressed her mother. “The British are patrolling the forest between here and Williamsburg. I have given Elisha a letter describing your loyalty.”
She thought it odd that the major hadn’t mentioned the patrols to Father before they left home, but perhaps he wanted the tea and other items Mother would find in town and feared that Lord Caswell wouldn’t permit the trip if he knew about the guards.
“Can you not escort us the entire way?” Mother asked.
He shook his head. “We have other duties we must fulfill today, but you will want to return home before the night falls.”
Mother clutched her beaded reticule in her gloved hands. “We won’t linger any longer than necessary.”
As their escorts galloped away, Lydia buried her hands in the warm folds of her cape and closed her eyes for a moment. Mother might be nervous, but relief washed over Lydia like a spring rain cleansing the ground. She felt a bit like a convict escaping jail—and her warden.
Caswell Hall, with its damask chairs, warm fires, and rich food, was hardly a prison, but this past week the house had been so crowded that she’d wanted to break free. Now that the kitchen was no longer a solace for her, her chamber was her only real escape. But the walls of her room felt as if they were closing upon her as well.
The snow had melted away, the ground swimming now with mud. The carriage wheels groaned and splashed through muck as the coach passed slowly under a canopy of barren elm trees. She didn’t particularly care how long it took them to ride into town. She hoped they would be gone all day.
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