“Sleep is for babies,” she said between clenched jaws. Discipline and self-control must be maintained in dying as well as living. “Give me my dose; then go to Judge Shippen. Ask him to call this afternoon without fail.” Before it was too late, she and the judge must draw up a new will. One that would never be contested. By anyone or under any circumstances. Once the will was made, she could let go and meet the end with dignity and grace.
As the drug began to blur her mind, she lay still. In the distance, the sound of soldiers drilling mingled faintly with birdsong . . . she was back in Myles, sitting in a church pew with the coal box at her feet . . . her mother was holding the new baby, her sister Jane . . . and Jane’s daughter was here, the daughter who had taken the place of the child she had lost in London so long ago.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
May 18, 1778
A day that began with showers had turned warm and sunny. By mid-afternoon, a crowd had gathered at Knight’s Landing, ready to form a triumphal procession up the river. Ships flew bright pennants, and reds, blues, and golds gleamed against the brilliant sky. The waterfront, the beach by the Blue Anchor Tavern, and even the masts of the moored ships were crowded with spectators.
Sarah looked at Charles, impressive in full dress uniform and sword. She was wearing her green silk polonaise; the ankle-length skirt could be managed in a boat, and her broad-brimmed hat would shade her face. For a few hours they would be together. Aunt was wrong. Charles was not just amusing himself like the others. The way he looked at her, touched her during the few times they managed to be alone—he loved her. She came to life when he came toward her, his blue eyes searching hers intently. Often they didn’t talk, but when they did, the similarity of their thoughts amazed them, as if they were two parts of a whole.
In spite of Captain Andre’s pleadings, they both refused to play a part in the tournament. “But you must be a lady of the court, Miss Champion, and Charles will be a very parfait gentil knight.”
Her aunt’s illness was her excuse, and Charles had not argued. A few weeks earlier, as they had walked arm in arm down Cedar Street, they’d come face to face with old Mrs. Proctor.
Sarah curtsied. “Good day, ma’am. I haven’t seen you all winter. I hope you are well.”
Mrs. Proctor narrowed her little eyes. She glared at Charles and then at her. “Traitor,” she said loudly and walked away. Charles didn’t laugh or make a comment about prickly old ladies. The message was clear.
As they stood waiting on the wharf, she was aware of deep anguish concealed under polite smiles. “Headquarters is filled with loyalists trying to cut hard bargains,” Charles had told her. “They’re telling Sir William that if part of the army will stay, they’ll raise a force of three thousand men. If we all go, we have to transport those same loyalists to New York. Some even hope to be taken to London and be given honors and titles by the king.”
Betsy Galloway was standing nearby; her father and Sir William, once cronies, were no longer speaking. “Such a scene this morning,” Betsy said to young Mrs. Chester. “A delegation of Quakers went to Judge Shippen. They told him he must not allow his daughters to be ladies of the court and wear heathenish costumes.”
Young Mrs. Chester gave a little scream. “Lud! What happened then?”
“The judge called Peggy, Polly, and Sarah downstairs and said they could not take part. An orderly arrived to collect the costumes. Mrs. Shippen was in tears. Look. People are starting to board.”
Slowly the flotilla of small boats moved out onto the water. As it reached the warship Fanny, anchored midstream, guns saluted and bands played “God Save the King.” The crews bent to their oars, and in a short time the guests embarked at Walnut Grove.
Long, sloping grounds led to the jousting field, marked by tall Doric arches. And there, in two opposite pavilions, sat the ladies of the court, ramrod stiff in white polonaise gowns with trimmed sashes and extravagant turbans.
“Becky Franks is about to burst out laughing,” Sarah whispered to Charles as they found seats in the stands. “Peggy Chew looks ready to cry.”
“Are you sorry you aren’t with them, waiting to have your honor defended?”
“My honor doesn’t need defending. Besides, those turbans look very hot.”
Applause broke out as seven knights entered the field. Matched gray horses were caparisoned in pink, black and silver; an esquire marched before each knight, carrying a silver shield. They circled the field and saluted their ladies. A herald stepped forward.
“The Knights of the Blended Rose, by me their herald proclaim and assert that the Ladies of the Blended Rose excel in wit, beauty, and every accomplishment, those of the whole world, and should any knight be so hardy as to dispute or deny it, they are ready to enter the lists with them and maintain their assertions by deeds of arms according to the laws of ancient chivalry.”
There was a pause as the Knights of the Burning Mountain rode heavily onto the field, wearing black costumes laced with gold.
“Now for the fun,” Charles muttered. “Rawdon can handle his horse, but the others—ah, unseat him, Cathcart,” he shouted as two knights met at full gallop. Leaping down, they engaged in a fine show of clashing swordplay, ending when the judge of the field, Major Gwynne, signaled a halt.
“Just in time,” Charles went on. “Cathcart was about to bloody that white satin.”
She didn’t answer. It was taking every ounce of effort to hide her mounting revulsion. This ludicrous, posturing farce was alien to every principle her parents had taught her and for which James had died. She should never have come.
The sun was still shining as the assembly proceeded to the mansion and entered the great hall. Captain Andre and his helpers had painted panels to imitate Siena marble; two huge cornucopias decorated the doors.
As tea and lemonade was served, the swaggering knights knelt to receive a favor from their chosen lady’s turban. “It’s like a page from one of Mr. Strant’s novels,” Peggy Chew whispered to Sarah. “There will never be anything like it again. How can we bear it when they leave?”
Sarah turned away, unable to speak. Until tonight she had been able to delude herself, live blindly from meeting to meeting, but Aunt was right. Sarah and her friends would be forgotten as soon as these men crossed the Schuylkill. There was no reason to think that Charles was not like the others. This was what happened in wars.
The ceremony of the favors ended. The crowd moved toward the open windows. Suddenly a burst of light exploded into the sky, followed by twenty brilliant displays. A triumphal arch blazed up and letters of fire appeared: Tes Lauriers Sont Immortels. A final tribute to Sir William.
“Bit thick, that,” Charles said under his breath.
As the fireworks ended, the large doors at the far end of the salon were thrown open. A hidden band played as the diners entered slowly, murmuring in amazement. Twenty-four black slaves stood against the wall, dressed in blue with white turbans and sashes, with gold collars on their necks and arms. Dozens of borrowed mirrors hung on the walls, draped with silk scarves intertwined with flowers and knots of ribbon.
Charles led the way to a long table and pulled out a chair. She sat down and opened her fan to hide her face. In a few months he would be back at his precious Rokum. He would meet well-born girls and marry the sister of a friend. The family would welcome the match. She and Charles would never lie together in a big bed. He might miss her for a few weeks but, like the others, he had no intention of going home with an unsuitable wife from the primitive colonies.
Across the table, a naval captain expounded on the problems of bringing fruit from the West Indies. Charles was talking to the lady on his left. She fanned her flushed face, close to tears. The heat, the noise—all the emotions she had been hiding were surging to the surface. Somehow she must find the courage to tell Charles that they mustn’t meet again. Cut him out of her heart. Cry until she was drained of feelings—but not here.
He turned and look
ed at her. Looked again. “Something’s wrong. What?”
She shook her head.
“Come.” He took her arm and led her past the tables, through the room, and out onto the wide terrace overlooking the water. As they reached the darkness of a far corner he turned.
“It’s not the heat. I’ll find a boat when you tell me what’s wrong.”
“No.” She had pride. The parting must be firm and dignified.
“No?” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me, Sarah. I couldn’t tell you before, but there’s news. Lord North, the Prime Minister, is sending Crown Commissioners to meet with your Congress and parley for peace. They’ll be arriving at the end of the month, headed by the Earl of Carlisle. As soon as I knew, I used my uncle’s name with Sir William. This morning I heard that instead of leaving with him, I can stay and be an aide to one of the commissioners.”
“You mean—”
“Did you think I was about to march off with the others and leave you? I’ve been out of my mind trying to figure out how we can be together.” His hands tightened. “I love you, Sarah. I want to marry you.”
She stood still. Love—marry—these were words she never expected to hear.
“I’ll say it again.” His voice deepened. “I love you, Sarah. I love you more than life itself, but do you love me?’
She reached out and held onto his arms as if he might disappear. “I thought—I was sure you were going with the others.”
“Good God, you should have more faith. Once we kissed in the garden—I’m not a cad. The question is, do you love me? Enough to leave your country and your family?”
“Yes.” She raised her face. “Yes, I love you. I love you enough for that.”
“Then it’s done, by God.” He put his arms around her, holding her so tightly that the buttons on his scarlet coat dug into her skin. “What’s more, the commissioners will be here for weeks. We can be married soon. Once in New York I’ll resign my commission and take you home.”
“Aunt. I can’t leave Aunt.”
“I’ll wait in New York until you can come to me, but no one here must know. It would be dangerous for you. Can you pretend nothing between us has changed?”
“I can.” She reached up and touched his face. “This afternoon— tonight—I made up my mind to tell you I never wanted to see you again. Now—marriage—to be together for the rest of our lives— your family may object.”
“My family will love you. There may be a few hurdles, but it’s settled.” He bent and kissed her lips. “It’s been hell, the waiting, but that’s over. We are going to be man and wife.”
In the room behind them, a band began to play. Another couple came through the door, laughing and talking. “Damn,” he said under his breath, straightened, and took her arm. “We must go in,” he said loudly. “May I have the first dance?”
Moments later she was surrounded by a number of officers. “We’ve missed you, Miss Champion. Thursday nights aren’t the same without you.” There was a spirited competition for her attention, but after a polka and a gavotte, she and Charles were able to meet again. “Pretend to be bored,” he said under his breath, and then, “Will you have a glass of punch, ma’am?”
“Thank you, I will.”
The punch bowl was situated in an alcove. The old waiter from Mr. Smith’s stood behind the table. Charles picked up two glasses. He glanced around, but no one was near.
“To my precious and very dear Sarah. To our future.” His look was grave and passionate.
She looked up at him. “To our future. Until tonight, I thought we had none—now I think I would have died if you hadn’t spoken.”
“You’ll live to be as old as my grandmother, the terror of your ten children.” He handed the empty glasses to the old waiter and took her arm as they moved toward the dancing, green gown and scarlet coat.
By dawn a number of guests had left, but the party was still in full swing, a telling contrast to the celebration at Valley Forge with its religious undercurrents.
Two knights staggered up to the punch table. Lieutenant Bygrove’s satin waistcoat was badly stained. Lieutenant Underwood was barely able to stand. He hit his friend on the shoulder.
“Hell of an expense, but worth it.”
“S’worth it. Tell you what. When we win th’ bloody war and pull out of this flea-bitten country, we’ll have another what d’you call it.”
“Have another. Make tonight look like cheese parings. Show these colonials how to live.”
“Apple parings.”
“I say cheese. Waiter, stir your stumps.”
Andrew refilled the glasses. It might take years, but when the bastards finally left there’d be no celebrations. By God, they’d slink into their ships, wishing they’d never set foot this side of the ocean.
“Your punch, sir,” he quavered and handed the glass to Bygrove. As for Miss Champion, his first assessment of her character had turned out to be right. She was volatile and could never be trusted. Let her sail off to England and good riddance. The British were welcome, more than welcome to that flighty little turncoat.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
May 22, 1778
At three o’clock in his private quarters, the chaplain of the Royal Welch Fusiliers pronounced Charles Anthony Wemyss Colborne of Rokum, Buckinghamshire, and Sarah Champion, spinster of Myles, Connecticut, to be man and wife.
Charles had impressed the chaplain with the need for complete secrecy. The bride couldn’t leave her dying aunt, and when General Washington’s people came back in, they must never find out that she had married a British officer.
The chaplain was reluctant; at an earlier meeting he had done his best to convince Captain Colborne that a hasty wedding with a young colonial was not advisable; there might be regrets later.
But as he performed the ceremony, he felt moved by this handsome pair. Many brides were trembling and shy. Bridegrooms stared ahead, standing at attention. This pair looked straight into each other’s eyes as they repeated the vows slowly, from the heart.
After they thanked him and left, he walked about, wondering what would become of them. No doubt there was a child on the way. He shook his head, picked up a quill, and made an entry in his records. Then, putting on his hat, he went out to call on a lieutenant who had just received news from home that his wife had died in childbirth.
The sun was shining as Sarah and Charles emerged from the chaplain’s quarters onto crowded Market Street. Charles turned and made a small bow. “It’s done and you’re now my lawful, wedded wife. I want to shout it to the world, but not yet. I’ll meet you at the house. You have the key.” He bowed again, as if they had met by chance, and walked away.
She waited until he was out of sight and started toward Second Street. Through an agent, Charles had rented the house of some departed loyalists. It was set back from the street and easy to reach for the few hours they could escape, he from his duties and she from the sick room.
“Good day, Miss Champion.” Two officers from Charles’s regiment were coming toward her. “We seldom see you these days, not since the big send-off. Have you deserted us? Will you be at the races on the river?”
She curtsied and smiled. “I haven’t deserted you. I’m afraid my aunt is still very ill. I’m doing errands, and I must hurry back to her.”
“Then we won’t keep you.” They bowed and went on. She picked up the skirt of her blue sprigged dress and let out her breath. How long could they keep this clandestine marriage a secret? Aunt must never find out. Later she would have to tell her family, but all that mattered now was to be with Charles for as long as possible.
She saw a friend of Aunt’s and walked faster. In Mr. Strant’s novels, ardent lovers braved violent storms. Romeo and Juliet died for love. It was about to happen to her, the moment she had dreamed about. The moment when she and Charles would be joined and complete, the end of standing at the edge of a magic circle, craving the hot center.
An
other block. She turned the corner and approached a place she knew well. She and Aunt had often called here. Mrs. Lippincott was always friendly and welcoming. The daughters were in tears as they packed and left for New York.
As she reached the house, she looked around. No one was in sight. She slipped to the side and let herself in at the back door. The familiar rooms were dark. Only a few large pieces of furniture remained, a sad testimonial to loss.
Charles was waiting in the hall. “At last. What kept you so long?” He took her hand, pulled her up the stairs, and opened a door. The large front bedroom was filled with flowers; jugs of sweet smelling blooms had been placed on the hearth and mantel.
She stood still. “Oh. Oh. How—?”
“A maid at Mr. Smith’s helped me.” He took off her hat and laid it on a table. Looked at her, frowned, and walked to the window.
She waited, then moved toward him and touched his arm. Charles’s sunniness was like an aura around him. “Charles.” She tried to laugh. “What is wrong? You look as if you were being dragged off to prison. Are you sorry already?”
“Never.” He turned. “It’s this. Until now I’ve been with women who know what to expect, who know what happens when a man and woman—it could be frightening for a young girl. I’m afraid of hurting you. Making you cry.”
“If that’s all—” She put her hands on his shoulders. “This is the happiest day of my life. I—I only hope I won’t disappoint you in any way.”
“Sarah. My love,” He reached down and unhooked the blue dress, slipped it over her shoulders and carried her to the big bed.
She lay still, waiting. At last she would know why lovers desired each other to the point of madness. Why she had made a sacred vow to forsake all others—a vow that would take her away from her family and her country. It was here, the moment to give herself freely. To begin her life with Charles.
CHAPTER
Twenty-EIGHT
May 31, 1778,
Sarah's War Page 14