“My lady.” Lieutenant Cooke gave a crisp bow. “Your uncle wishes you to join him for morning tea in an hour. Is there aught you require?”
“No, thank you, Lieutenant.” She stepped aside to permit the private to enter the room and place the pitcher and bowl on the bedside table. “I shall be ready.”
Would Connor still be there? Oh, she hoped he would!
Sarah quickly washed her face and hands, then removed the muslin gown and wool stockings, leaving on the soft cotton shift Connor had bought for her, wanting something of him against her skin. She stepped into the wardrobe, pondering what to wear, wanting to please Connor, yet certain silk and lace mattered little to him.
In the end, she chose a simple dress of blue silk taffeta with a burgundy petticoat, both embroidered with silver roses. Laying it aside, she drew on a pair of silk stockings, tying the ribbons above her knees. Then she struggled with her whalebone stays, which she was forced to put on backward at first so that she could draw the laces tight.
When her stays were turned back into place, she stepped into her hooped petticoat, tying the laces tight at her waist. She put her underpetticoat over this, followed by the burgundy silk petticoat, and then the gown itself, buttoning the stomacher in place and adjusting the cloth of her shift so that it showed evenly from beneath her bodice. The gown’s sides were meant to be drawn back the better to display the burgundy petticoat, but this Sarah could not accomplish on her own. She let it go, reaching in a drawer for a pair of ruffled lace cuffs, fastening one in place on the end of each sleeve.
It felt good to be properly dressed again with stays and petticoats. But what could she do with her hair? Though she’d spent her life watching her lady’s maids comb it, curl it, and shape it stylishly, she could not dress it properly herself. She brushed and braided it, coiling the braid at her nape and pinning the end in place. It was neither fashionable nor terribly flattering, but it would have to do.
She opened her jewelry box to select a necklace, reaching up to remove Joseph’s band of wampum. Then her hands stilled. Not even the gold cross her parents had given her as a confirmation gift meant as much to her as this simple band of polished shell and leather. She hadn’t the heart to remove it.
She turned to the looking glass to study her reflection to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything, feeling strangely uncertain about her appearance, wishing she could do something more with her hair. She’d never dressed to please a man before.
He cared for you when you were wore only doeskin and his homespun shirt, Sarah. He will not think less of you because your hair is not dressed for court.
She turned from the mirror, left her chamber, and descended the stairs slowly so that she would not seem to rush. But when she reached Uncle William’s study, Connor was not there. Uncle William stood alone looking out his window onto the parade grounds, his fingers troubling what looked like a black chess piece—a cracked and chipped king.
Fighting to hide her disappointment, she curtsied. “My lord.”
He turned toward her, dropping the chess piece into his pocket and offering his hand. “You’ve grown more beautiful than I could have imagined. Please join me.”
“Thank you, Uncle. You are most kind.” Sarah took his hand and let him lead her to a plush chair, adjusting her skirts as she sat.
Upon that moment, the same young private who’d brought her hot water arrived with a tea cart that held a porcelain teapot and two matching cups, along with milk, sugar, true clotted cream, strawberry jam, and freshly baked scones.
Sarah’s mouth watered.
Distracted by the sweet taste of the tea, the fluffy warmth of the scones, the tart sweetness of the jam, and the buttery richness of the clotted cream, she allowed herself to forget the important matters she needed to present to Uncle William, their conversation drifting toward inconsequential things—the difficulty of getting a cook who knew how to make good clotted cream in the Americas, the flooding of the Hudson, the way winter seemed to linger here. Only when she found Uncle William watching her, his gray eyes studying her, did she remember there were much graver matters to discuss.
Sarah set her cup on its saucer. “I should like to send letters to the families of the two who were taken captive with me and slain—dear Jane, my lady’s maid, and Thomas Wilkins, a child of nine or ten years. Their families deserve to know how they died. They were most brave, my lord. They did not deserve such a terrible fate.”
For a moment, Uncle William looked confused by this request, as if he’d forgotten that she wasn’t the only one who’d been taken captive. Then he nodded. “Ah, yes. Terrible business. I shall ask Lieutenant Cooke to aid you in any way he can.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“I said I would not speak of your ordeal, but I find I cannot help but tell you how pleased I am by your actions. You are possessed of extraordinary courage for a woman—courage befitting your noble blood.”
Feeling almost shamed by such praise, Sarah took up her teacup and pretended to study its contents. “It was Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph who showed true courage. If not for them—”
“Modesty becomes you, Sarah, but I know how you came to wear that band of wampum.” Uncle William’s gaze dropped to her throat. “As for the Scot and his Mahican friend, they were born and bred to fight. It is but a part of their nature.”
Sarah might have objected to this easy dismissal of Connor and Joseph, but Uncle William went on.
“I regret that I allowed you to be put in harm’s way by yielding to your pleas to journey to Albany.”
Her pulse skipped, his words treading near the very subject that she most needed to broach with him. “I do not blame you. I could not bear to remain there another day.”
Uncle William’s lips pressed into a firm line, his gray eyes narrowing. “Did they harm you, Sarah? Did anyone in the governor’s household mistreat or threaten you in any way?”
Sarah’s gaze dropped to her tea, her heart beating faster. “N-no, my lord. They were not cruel, but neither were they kind. I was confined to my chamber for most of every day, allowed to walk about only at mealtimes. I feared I would die of loneliness.”
“I see.” Was that displeasure in his voice? “You wrote in your letter that you needed my help. I suggest you come to the heart of it and explain what you meant by that. I should also like to know why your parents sent you away. If you want my help, I must know the truth, Sarah.”
Sarah nodded. This is why she’d come—to plead her case and seek his help. She set her teacup aside, took a steadying breath, and began, Margaret’s words of caution echoing in her mind.
Never show your true self to those who do not truly love you.
Connor had believed her. He had accepted her.
She prayed Uncle William would, too.
Connor watched the new recruits charge uphill, his already dark mood turning darker as boys barely old enough to go to war fought for breath, tripped on tree roots, and lost gear in the underbrush, only a handful making it to the crest of the hill with their gear in the allotted time. He cursed under his breath. “Och, for God’s sake!”
“’Tis no’ so bad.” McHugh stood beside him. “Do you remember that first summer when you, Iain, and Morgan tried to make Rangers out of us all? I’d swear we were no better than this.”
Young men struggled to catch their breath, their faces red with exertion, sweat dripping on their foreheads, some still fumbling with their bayonets.
Connor ignored McHugh, hopping up on a tree stump so that everyone could see and hear him. “If runnin’ up this hillside is too much for you on a sunny spring day, how do you think you’ll fare in snowshoes wi’ three hundred French soldiers and Wyandot warriors at your heels? The burnin’ in your lungs and legs is naugh’ compared to the agony of bein’ burnt alive. If your bayonet doesna fit and falls off when you train, how will it stay fixed in battle? If it falls off, leave it on the bloody ground and draw your hatchet! Do it again.”
McHugh shouted out the order. “Come, lasses, let’s try it again, and put your hearts into it this time! You’ve come to fight a war, no’ to play games in the forest.”
Connor stepped off the trunk, watching as the recruits hurried back down the hill, determined looks on their sweaty faces.
Killy, who’d been drilling alongside the recruits, came up to him, still out of breath. “You’re drivin’ them hard, so you are. Are you tryin’ to build them up or hopin’ to break them?”
“Both.”
Not all recruits made it through the first few weeks. Killy knew this. Those who lacked the physical strength, the endurance, or the cods for this kind of warfare would be better off in the colonial militia.
“Drillin’ recruits until they drop won’t make you forget her.”
Connor glared at Killy. “What are you ravin’ about, Irishman?”
“You know very well what I’m sayin’. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you at that cabin that you’d gone and fallen for her.”
Connor leaned down, getting nose to nose with Killy, his voice dropping to a furious whisper. “Uist! The men will start to tittle! I’ve no’ fallen for her or for any woman!”
Killy arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Don’t be thinkin’ you can deceive this old man. I’ve been makin’ a fool of myself over women since before you were born. You’ve been in a foul temper ever since she left the island, and these poor lads are payin’ the price for it.”
Connor bit back a string of curses, but Killy was right.
Connor had been in an angry mood ever since Wentworth’s arrival. He’d known the day would come when Sarah would return to her own world, leaving his behind. But he’d been unprepared for the emptiness he’d felt at her going.
Then he’d watched Wentworth receive her with such indifference. The lass had almost lost her life, yet when she’d reached for her uncle and begun to run toward him, as any lass would upon being reunited with her kin after such an ordeal, Wentworth had stopped her with a single icy glance. She was his niece, and he’d denied her his embrace.
The man had no heart.
It had hurt Connor to see her treated thus, and he’d found himself fearing for her. When she told Wentworth the truth about Lady Margaret, as he knew she meant to do, would Wentworth beat her as her parents had done? Would he lock her in her chamber, feeding her only bread and water? Would he berate her, curse her, turn his back on her?
If he hurt her, Connor would kill him.
But for now, he needed to turn his mind to the training of his men. “After this run, we’ll allow them to rest and regain their strength. And, Killy, say naugh’ of your suspicions to the others. I wouldna see the lass suffer shame on my account. She is blameless, and there is much at stake.”
“Aye, Connor. My gob is shut.”
Connor glared at him. “And pigs can fly.”
“A tribade.” William poured himself another glass of scotch—his second of the morning. Now he understood why his sister had refused to tell him. This was entirely unexpected. “Do you know what that means, Sarah?”
“Yes. It was explained to me.”
This surprised him. “By whom?”
She seemed to hesitate. “Major MacKinnon.”
“You spoke of this with the major?” William was not pleased, though he knew MacKinnon, with his inflated sense of honor, was unlikely to breathe a word of it to anyone. “I hope you swore him to secrecy.”
“Yes, of course.”
William was torn between pity for his niece and rage toward her parents. His brother-by-marriage was as cowardly as he was rich, and his sister as pious as she was stupid. Had they but an ounce of will and wit between the two of them, they might have turned this to Sarah’s advantage, decrying the journal as false, styling her an innocent victim, allowing the blame to fall upon Lady Margaret, whose suicide offered a clear testament of her guilt. Instead, they’d squandered their one and only chance to save their daughter’s reputation. And now Sarah, the brightest star in the familial firmament, apart from William himself, would have to live with the terrible consequences.
He turned to face her, found her watching him, her eyes revealing her every emotion. “I’m not going to beat you, Sarah. I’m not even going to berate you. God knows, I cannot blame you for seeking to evade my sister’s iron hand.”
“Then you believe me?”
“Yes, of course.” He strode to the window, looked out onto the parade grounds. “What you seek is not my help, but rather a miracle. If I were your cousin, I would immediately offer for your hand. As your uncle, I cannot. Nor can I persuade my dear sister or your father to pursue any course of action other than the one they choose. As you may know, there is little affection between me and your mother.”
“I do not wish to live out my life as a spinster, but I fear the kind of man Papa and Mother will choose for me. I had hoped you might be willing to help me find a suitable husband—a man I can respect, who would value me as I am, who would take my part against society, and who would permit me to continue my study of music.”
It was on the tip of William’s tongue to tell her that such a man would be rare if he existed at all, but she went on.
“He does not have to be handsome, so long as he is not revolting like Lord Lard.”
William turned to face her, amused. “Lord Lard?”
“Lady Margaret’s cousin.” Sarah frowned in apparent revulsion. “He offered for my hand not long before word about the journals spread, but Mother would not have him. He must weigh a full twenty-two stone—and he is Anglican.”
“So he is both a glutton and a heretic.” William’s sister would not approve.
Sarah nodded. “Also, I do not want a husband so old that he cannot give me children.”
“Many women would consider that to be the ideal match—a man too old to bed them and well on his way to the grave. A year or two later, the blushing bride is a merry widow, free to live as she chooses on her late husband’s money.”
“Uncle!” There was a look of genuine shock on Sarah’s face. “I do not wish to spend my days waiting for my husband to die!”
William had forgotten how very sheltered Sarah was. He turned back to the window, her rebuke making him strangely uncomfortable. “I assure you, there are a great many British wives who do just that.”
“I shall not be one of them.” Then her voice began to quaver, her anguish palpable. “I do not care if my husband is rich or poor, noble or common, handsome or plain, so long as he does not take Papa’s money and then spend the rest of our marriage mistreating me for something I did not do.”
If William had been in London, it would not have been difficult to round up a stable of suitable husbands and then use his influence to see that all other prospective suitors for Sarah’s hand suddenly lost interest. He might even have been able to win His Majesty to Sarah’s side. But he was far from London.
Still, there was no question that William would help Sarah.
“You ask much from a husband.” He turned to face her. “I shall send dispatches to London tonight. I have several acquaintances who may be able to assemble a list of suitable husbands—men of liberality who are of noble birth but little means.”
She gave him a grateful smile, relief naked on her face. “Thank you, Uncle. I am most grateful.”
“I do not wish to give you false hope, Sarah. We shall do all we can, but in the end you shall have no choice but to marry the man your father chooses. That is a daughter’s duty.”
“Yes, my lord.” Her smile dimmed.
He wanted to see her smile again, not accustomed to seeing worry and sadness on her face. “Governor DeLancey is a friend and close ally, but I cannot abide his treatment of you. I have decided to keep you with me for as long as the war permits. To celebrate your safe return, I shall host a dinner party five days hence and invite my officers to dine with us.”
This news had the desired effect.
“Thank you, Uncle!” She loo
ked up at him, anticipation on her face. “Will you invite Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph? Any celebration ought to include them. It is because of them that I survived.”
“Inviting Captain Joseph is out of the question. You understand, of course.”
“No, I’m afraid I do not. Captain Joseph—”
“But if you wish it, I shall invite the major.”
At this, Sarah smiled.
Chapter 24
April 10
Sarah stood before the looking glass, pleased by her reflection. Her new lady’s maid, Agnes, might lack Jane’s sweetness and affability, but she was quite skilled at dressing hair. She’d drawn Sarah’s tresses up, gathering them in a soft knot of small loops just above her nape and allowing their length to hang down past Sarah’s shoulders in long, thick curls she’d made with a hair iron. “It’s lovely.”
Agnes, her own hair drawn in tight, gray curls against her scalp, pressed her lips together in a frown. “Your uncle would no doubt find the painted ivory silk more suitable. Young virgin ladies ought to display their innocence, not their flesh.”
Sarah was not a virgin, but a grown woman, and tonight she would see Connor for the first time since Uncle William’s arrival—if Connor accepted the invitation.
Please let him come!
Oh, how she missed him! How she ached to see him!
Sarah had chosen her light blue embroidered satin in part because the color very nearly matched her eyes and in part because, though its skirts were modest, its bodice was less so. Sarah wanted to feel beautiful tonight. She wanted Connor to notice her and to know she was thinking of him. But, of course, she could not tell Agnes this.
“The panniers on the painted silk are so wide that I should take up an entire room by myself.” It was very nearly the truth. “I’ve no wish to walk sideways through the doors and amongst my uncle’s officers.”
Already Sarah could hear men’s voices drifting upstairs from below. It would not be a large dinner party—only a half dozen of Uncle William’s staff officers and Connor.