After breakfast, he would see to his duties, while she sat on a chair just inside his cabin door, stitching and darning garments his men had brought to her for that purpose. The men, who were now nearly as besotted with her as Connor, would take turns watching over her during the day, carrying wood and water for her, bringing her midday meal and supper, carrying in the washtub when she had need of it. Connor would not see her again until the evening when the men gathered round the fires with their nightly ration of rum. Dougie would play a tune, then hand his fiddle to Sarah, who would make such music with it that Connor’s throat would grow tight, all falling still to listen.
Hearing her play, seeing the effect music had upon her, had only strengthened Connor’s rage at her family. ’Twas clear she had a God-given gift. Even Father Delavay, who had listened from the secrecy and solitude of his cabin, said so. Her family did her grave wrong by withholding music from her.
There’s naugh’ you can do about it, lad.
That fact galled Connor. He could not bear to think of her back in England, unhappy and alone, either in a loveless marriage or locked in with some old harridan, music banished from her life. And yet there was naught he could do to spare her.
Forbes passed, carrying an armload of wood. “Madainn mhath.” Good morning.
Connor acknowledged him with a nod. “Ciamar a tha thu?” How do you fare?
Forbes called back. “Tha mi gu math, tapadh leat.” It goes well, thank you.
The scent of sizzling salt pork grew nearer, mingling with the smells of wood smoke, pine forest, and moist earth. All around them, the river continued to rise. It had left its eastern banks, flooding the low ground to the south of the fort.
He’d just filled a bowl with cornmeal porridge and a few slices of fried salt pork when he heard shouts. And there in the distance Connor saw.
On the road from Albany marched a company of redcoats, and in the van, mounted upon a fine black horse, rode Wentworth.
“Take my arm, my lady. This bridge can be treacherous.”
From behind Sarah came an ungentlemanly snort from Connor. “Lieutenant Cooke has the honor of bein’ the only British officer to fall off the bridge.”
Lieutenant Cooke’s face reddened and he turned, his eyes narrowing when as looked at Connor. “I fell in only because someone cut the ropes.”
Sarah could tell from the lieutenant’s tone of voice that he believed Connor guilty of the deed. Confused by their animosity, she lifted her skirts, took Lieutenant Cooke’s proffered arm, and let him guide her across.
Indeed, the bridge did seem treacherous. Made of planks and bateaux that had been lashed together, it floated on the water, the weight of so many men making it dip and bob. Two regulars, part of Uncle William’s guard, walked ahead of them and two behind. After them followed Connor, who’d likewise been summoned by her uncle.
They reached the other side of the river without incident, Lieutenant Cooke releasing her arm when she was steadfastly on shore.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. You are most kind.” How she managed to sound pleasant and calm when her insides were tied in fraying knots she did not know.
As excited as she was to see Uncle William again—and she was excited to see him—his arrival meant an end to her stay on Ranger Island and put an even greater distance between her and Connor. These past days had been hard ones. She’d watched Connor, spoken with him briefly each morning, and yet she’d not been able to show her feelings for him, her love for him expressed only through the music she’d played on Dougie’s violin each night.
Did he know she’d been playing for him, that the passion in her playing had been meant for him? She hadn’t dared to ask him.
But now there would be no more violin music, no more nights spent round the fires. Now the fort’s great walls would stand between them—not to mention her uncle and his army. Little by little, she was losing Connor completely.
Uncle William’s arrival also brought her closer to the day she would return to New York and then England and whatever fate awaited her there. She did not know how long Uncle William would permit her to remain at the fort, given that he’d never intended for her to be here in the first place. She was supposed to have visited with him in Albany for a fortnight, returning to New York before he left for Fort Edward. There was every chance he would send her back to Governor DeLancey on the morrow. But she would not go easily, not when leaving meant returning to a life of loneliness and saying good-bye forever to the man she loved.
There was a time when she would have confided in Uncle William, knowing he would indulge her. But she could not let on about the true reasons she wanted to stay, for if Uncle William knew what Connor had done to save her, he would kill Connor. Nor was she certain how he would react when she told him about Lady Margaret and the reason her parents had sent her away, as she knew she must if she wanted his help in finding a good husband. There was a chance he would be every bit as angry with her as Papa and Mama and send her back to Governor DeLancey straightaway.
Somehow she managed to respond to Lieutenant Cooke’s good-natured conversation as he told her about the fort, leading her through a gate in a wall of dirt-covered fascines to a vast open area where newly arrived Regulars were busy erecting white canvas tents in neat rows.
“It is not uncommon in the buildup to a campaign for more than fifteen thousand troops to encamp here,” he was saying, a smile on his face. “It has been your noble uncle’s honor and duty to see the troops provisioned and ready for battle and my honor and duty to aide him in this endeavor these past five years.”
Sarah did her best to give Lieutenant Cooke the praise and attention he merited. “It is a difficult task, I am sure. It must keep you busy night and day.”
Young and handsome in his white wig and bright uniform with its polished brass buttons and bronze gorget, Lieutenant Cooke might have captured Sarah’s fancy if she’d met him back in England. But now he seemed a mere boy compared to the big, brooding Highlander who walked not far behind her, his face a stone mask.
With merry chatter, Lieutenant Cooke led her across the encampment, through the outer wall, across a bridge that spanned a flooded moat, and then through a gate in the inner wall into the fort proper. Wooden buildings clustered around a parade ground, each two stories high with glass windows and stone chimneys. There was no doubt which building billeted the fort’s commander, a guard of two Regulars posted at the front steps.
Upon seeing Lieutenant Cooke, the Regulars snapped to attention. Heart pounding, Sarah followed him up the steps and through the front door. And there, through a set of double doors to her right, stood Uncle William.
At the sight of his familiar face, she felt a surge of affection that made her forget all propriety, the breath leaving her lungs in a rush. She took a few hurried steps forward, arms out as if to embrace him. “Uncle William!”
The slight hardening of his expression stopped her.
Pulse thrumming, she sank into a curtsy and remained there. “My lord.”
He crossed the floor with measured steps, his heels clicking on the polished wooden boards. He reached down, took her hand, and drew her upward, his gaze fixing for a moment on the wampum band around her throat. “Lady Sarah, dearest niece. I am overjoyed to see you safe and sound.”
Sarah looked up to find him smiling, his gaze warm, her lapse of propriety clearly forgiven. “Thank you, Uncle. And yet I should not be alive were it not for Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph. They saved my life more than once, sparing me both slavery and death. I am eternally in their debt.”
Uncle William glanced over her head toward Connor, then back down at her. “Your ordeal must have been terrible. It is over now, and we shall never speak of it.”
Sarah started to tell him that she would not mind talking about it, but he cut across her.
“Your trunks were retrieved from the ship and await you upstairs. I’ve not yet had time to secure a lady’s maid for you, but I shall attend to that presen
tly. Lieutenant, would you escort my niece to her chamber? I have business with Major MacKinnon.”
And scarcely a minute into their reunion, Sarah found herself being led from the room.
“Lord William waited until the doors were closed behind Sarah before addressing Major MacKinnon, his anger at the major tempered by the relief he’d felt to see his niece safe and alive. “Why did you bring her here? I ordered you to return her to me in Albany.”
MacKinnon met his gaze, unflinching. “You ordered me to do whatever I must to protect her. The Shawnee kent we’d come from Albany. I didna wish to make it easy for them to guess our path and ambush us.”
The major’s answer was reasonable, his strategy sound, his logic unassailable, and William felt the last of his anger drain away. The past fifteen days had been hell. Having been made to wait an additional three endless days while word that Sarah was safe had traveled from Fort Edward to Albany had infuriated him. But who was to say that MacKinnon’s strategy had not been the very saving of her?
William sat, motioning for MacKinnon to do the same. Predictably, the major remained standing. “Give me your full report.”
William listened for more than an hour while the major gave a detailed account of his pursuit of the war party, arrival in the Shawnee village, fight to win Sarah’s freedom, and the long flight northward. William stopped MacKinnon now and again to ask questions. It sickened him to think of all Sarah had endured—being dragged through the forest in bonds, walking the gauntlet, being forced to go bare-breasted amongst the heathen, barely escaping bondage, watching men kill and die, being forced to kill. It was his fault for allowing her to travel to Albany in the first place, and he would see that the Shawnee paid dearly.
Yet he could not deny he felt a sense of pride at how Sarah had borne up under such adversity, leaving a trail for the major and Captain Joseph to follow, making the long journey back without complaint, fighting for her own survival. She had more than proved the mettle in her noble blood.
As for Major MacKinnon, he had demonstrated once again his skill at woodcraft and the Indian style of warfare. Few men could have succeeded against such odds. What he had accomplished with Captain Joseph’s aid was near to miraculous.
How amusing it was to think of Lady Sarah, His Majesty’s great-granddaughter, as the latter’s adopted sister! Sarah’s mother would no doubt be horrified by this, which made it all the more entertaining.
“Would you be able to find your way back to the Shawnee village?”
“Aye, but it willna be there when we return. The old woman will have moved it, fearing a British attack.”
“She is wise, indeed, for I’ve a mind to slay every male amongst them and raze it.”
More than that, he wanted to find this Katakwa and see him flayed alive. Why had MacKinnon let the whoreson live?
“If it is vengeance you seek, dinnae be forgettin’ that this began wi’ the Shawnee seekin’ revenge for the rape and murder of Katakwa’s wife. They have already paid dearly for their actions. Not only have they lost face, but their best warriors lie slain in the forest.”
But not Katakwa.
There was one more thing William needed to know. He pondered a moment how best to ask the question, then decided there was no easy way. “Was my niece ravished?”
A fleeting look of surprise crossed MacKinnon’s otherwise unreadable face. “Nay.”
“You are certain of this?”
“I asked her if she’d been harmed on her first night alone wi’ Katakwa and his men. She said only that Katakwa had struck her. I dinnae think he defiled her.”
William was relieved to hear this. Still, there was every possibility Sarah would have chosen to keep such a shameful injury secret from the major, a man far beneath her class and a stranger to her. Perhaps William ought to have Dr. Blake or a midwife examine her.
William stood, crossed the room, and poured scotch into two glasses. He turned and held one out for the major, who accepted it, sniffing it before drinking it in a single swallow.
“You may not wish it, Major, but you have my deepest gratitude. My niece is a rare and precious flower. To lose her to slavery or untimely death…” William pushed the unwelcome thought from his mind. “What reward would you ask of me?”
“Just this.” The major set down his empty glass, his gaze boring hard into William’s. “Free the MacKinnon name from all taint of murder, and I’ll gi’ you my word as a Scotsman to serve you through war’s end.”
William drank his scotch, savored the taste on his tongue even as he mulled over MacKinnon’s request. There was a time when he’d needed the murder charge to bind the three brothers to him, but what purpose did the threat of execution serve now? William had discharged Iain MacKinnon—a gift to Lady Anne upon the birth of her first child—and General Amherst had cast out Morgan MacKinnon for marrying that French officer’s daughter. Now only Connor MacKinnon remained, and the war was all but won.
William considered himself an expert judge of character and knew that if any MacKinnon were to give his word on any matter, he would not break it. The brothers had an exaggerated Gaelic sense of honor that made breaking a vow unthinkable. But Connor MacKinnon, far more than his two older brothers, hated William. It had long been William’s belief that the murder charge was the only thing keeping him alive. The moment he lifted it, he fully expected Connor MacKinnon to cleave him in two with his broadsword.
Had William misjudged him? Was the major willing to forgo his own vengeance for the sake of his family’s good name?
William studied him for a moment, seeing the determined set of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes. “Major, I shall consider it.”
As the major walked away, it struck William that it was the first exchange he’d had in five years wherein Connor MacKinnon hadn’t deliberately been disrespectful and rude. Perhaps calling William names—“wee German lairdie” was William’s favorite, followed closely by “Your Immensity”—had lost its appeal.
How disappointing.
Chapter 23
Sarah lifted the gown of dark blue silk taffeta from the trunk and laid it across the bed, tracing the pink brocade roses with her fingertips. Jane had packed the gown with such care that there was scarcely a wrinkle, the lace-trimmed stomacher buttoned in place, the fabric smelling faintly of lavender from the lavender packets Jane had tucked inside the trunk. Sarah picked up one of the little linen bundles and held it to her nose, inhaling the soothing scent, tears stinging her eyes as an image of Jane’s terrified face flashed into her mind.
God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!
Sarah said a silent prayer for Jane and young Thomas then reached for the next gown. Lieutenant Cooke had apologized profusely that there was no one to attend her, suggesting that she rest until a woman could be retained to help her unpack and dress. But Sarah had thanked him for his concern, assuring him that, given all she’d been through, she could manage this small task without help.
In truth, she had never packed or unpacked her own belongings before. She wasn’t even sure which trunk held which items—her hairbrush, her shoes, her toothbrush and tooth powder. This one seemed to contain only gowns.
She laid out the gowns and matching petticoats one by one until the broad feather bed was draped in an array of bright colors and shimmering silks—ivory, burgundy, and blue satins, rose, green, and lavender damasks, pink, blue, and peach taffetas, gray, claret, and midnight-blue velvets. When the gowns were all laid out, she hung each carefully in the wardrobe, frustrated whenever they slipped free and fell in a heap on the wooden floor.
In the second trunk, she found her stays, underpetticoats of embroidered silk and wool, shifts and night shifts of soft cotton, silk stockings, hair ribbons, sleeve ruffles of French lace, lace tuckers, embroidered linen kerchiefs, fans, and shoes, each one wrapped in a square of linen. She placed the garments in the chest of drawers across from the bed, lining the shoes up in neat pairs beneath it, as Jane h
ad done.
The third trunk held things that were unwieldy and more difficult to pack or that might open and cause a stain—hooped petticoats, summer hats, her heavy winter cloak, embroidered handbags, winter bonnets, her fur-lined muff, a small box of jewelry, rose-scented soap for her skin and hair, her brush and comb, cream for her hands, cotton cloths for her monthly, her silver-handled toothbrush, her little box of tooth powder, and her Bible. Some of these she stowed away in the wardrobe. Others she tucked into the chest of drawers.
Sarah knew she ought to be happy. Tonight, she would sleep on a feather bed beneath a quilt and sheets of soft flannel, not on a straw mattress beneath a bearskin. But as she finished putting her things in their proper places, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that she was looking at the pieces of a stranger’s life. All of these beautiful things she’d just unpacked—it was as if they belonged to someone else, artifacts from another life. The inexperienced girl who had taken them for granted could not be the woman who now stood there clad in muslin and moccasins, grateful just to be alive.
And yet these were Sarah’s possessions. They represented the life she was about to return to, a life of ease and luxury, of safety and duty, of loneliness and despair.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass, paused, and stared. Dressed as she was in a gown of plain muslin, she supposed she must look very much like a lady’s maid tending her mistress’s wardrobe. The thought made her smile, even as a sense of melancholy settled inside her. How could she go back to the lifeless existence she’d had before?
Sarah had just placed the Bible and jewelry box on top of the chest of drawers when Lieutenant Cooke arrived accompanied by a young private who carried a porcelain bowl and a large pewter pitcher of steaming water.