His beautiful Sarah.
Wentworth’s Sarah. Lady Sarah Woodville.
Some part of him cried out that she was his. They’d been wed according to the traditions of the frontier. He’d taken her maidenhead. He’d made love to her, and she’d made love to him, and they’d found joy in it. She had never repudiated him, nor he her. She was his!
But then he tried to picture her at the MacKinnon farm, milking cows, sweeping and scrubbing, darning his socks by firelight, Wentworth visiting for Christmas, sleeping in the loft above the barn, his grandnephews and grandnieces crawling on his lap.
It would never happen. It could never happen.
Tha móran ghràdh agam ort. My love lies upon you, lass. God save me, but it does.
Then, without speaking a word, Connor turned and walked away.
Sarah wept into her pillow, the pain in her chest unbearable. How could her heart still be beating when surely it must be shattered to pieces?
Connor had left. While she’d been playing, he’d left. He’d left without saying farewell. Sarah wondered whether the odious Colonel Haviland had said or done something else to provoke him, but Uncle William said Connor had simply turned and walked away.
It hadn’t been the music. Connor loved to hear her play. He’d told her that more than once, and she believed him. There’d been such happiness for her on his face when she’d seen the harpsichord, the look in his eyes telling her he knew how much it meant to her. He’d even asked her to play.
No, it wasn’t that he hadn’t liked the music.
He’d left her. He’d walked out of her life. He’d done what he’d said they each needed to do—he’d let her go. And she knew he would not be back.
We had our time, a few sweet stolen days. No one can take that away from us, and I will treasure it in my heart till my last breath. But now we must let each other go—each of us for the sake of the other.
His words echoing in her mind, Sarah poured out her grief in muffled sobs, hoping neither Uncle William nor Agnes, whose room was beside hers, would hear. She did not wish to worry Uncle William or answer Agnes’s prying questions.
When was your last monthly?
A rush of fear stilled Sarah’s tears. She drew a breath, fought to think.
Her last monthly had stopped the day before they’d sailed. They’d left New York on the seventeenth of March. Tomorrow would be the eleventh of April. She counted out the days in her mind, her heart seeming to stop in her chest.
Eyes wide open, she sat up, staring into the darkness.
Her flux ought to have started a week ago.
Chapter 25
William set the letter from Amherst aside, lifting his gaze to his officers, whom he’d called together to hear the news. “He says Lévis is assembling a force in Montreal and purposes to recapture Quebec before our fleet can arrive to relieve Murray. Meanwhile, Murray and his men have been tearing down houses for their firewood and foraging in fields around Quebec for food. More than half his force is ill with fevers or scurvy as a result of these extreme deprivations.”
It was the kind of situation no commander wished to face, for enemies like hunger and sickness were difficult to defeat.
Haviland was, unsurprisingly, the first to speak. “If Lévis retakes Quebec, he will simply lose it again when the fleet arrives.”
William agreed. “Oh, they cannot hold the city even if they defeat Murray. They are hopelessly outnumbered and have only one stronghold remaining—Montreal.”
“It doesna matter if they cannae hold Quebec.” Major MacKinnon’s gaze fixed on the map on William’s writing table. “By retaking the city, they force us to fight them there, hinderin’ our advance, and buyin’ time for Vaudreuil to prepare in Montreal.”
William hadn’t thought about that. “You think their goal is simply to create an obstacle, to buy Vaudreuil time.”
MacKinnon shrugged. “I cannae say what the French are thinkin’ for certain, but if I were Lévis, I would be seekin’ some means to hinder Montreal from bein’ surrounded come summer.”
Haviland sneered. “It will not change the outcome of this war, MacKinnon.”
The colonel’s dislike for Major MacKinnon was clear with every gesture and every word. He seemed deliberately to be baiting the major, who, for his part, had showed uncharacteristic restraint at last night’s dinner party when Haviland had mentioned Culloden. MacKinnon continued to show forbearance now.
“No, but Lévis…”
From the room next door came the sound of a harpsichord as Sarah began her morning playing, the music apparently disrupting the major’s thoughts, for he seemed to forget what he’d meant to say. A muscle clenched in his jaw.
He quickly recovered, fixing his gaze on Haviland. “Lévis is a fightin’ man, and he’ll do whatever he must for honor’s sake until the end. There are times when every day that doesna end in defeat is a victory.”
Wentworth understood what the major meant, but was surprised to hear him say it. “I’d no idea you were a philosopher, Major. You are quite right.”
“Well said, Major,” added Cooke.
When Haviland opened his mouth, ready to interject, William held up his hand, silencing the colonel. “I have also received from Amherst an outline of his plans for the summer campaign.”
It was quite straightforward. Amherst would march on Montreal from Fort Oswego, surrounding the city on the west. Murray, his forces replenished by the arrival of the fleet, would descend on Montreal from Quebec to the north. William would lead his troops north to Fort Ticonderoga then on to Crown Point to attack from the south.
Montreal would be surrounded and put to the siege if necessary.
Checkmate.
Haviland smiled. “We’ll be back in London by September.”
“I wouldna pack your trunks just yet.” MacKinnon’s brow was bent in a frown as he looked from man to man. “Peace wi’ the French doesna mean peace wi’ their Indian allies. The Indians might refuse to acknowledge the peace or even feel betrayed by the French, as they did after the French victory at William Henry, and continue to fight. When Amherst negotiates with Vaudreuil, he must remember to ask the French for help in persuading their allies to bury the hatchet, or we may find ourselves at war for a long time to come.”
William trusted the MacKinnon brothers more than most when it came to understanding the ways of the Indians. Sarah was living proof that his trust was not misplaced. “I shall make certain Amherst is made aware of your concerns, Major.”
Sarah rose from the harpsichord bench, walking slowly toward Uncle William’s study for morning tea, her mind on anything but music. She’d slept but little last night, kept awake by the fear that she might be with child. She’d tried to reassure herself that Connor had given her dogbane both times he’d left his seed inside her. If the herb truly thwarted conception, she had no reason to worry. Perhaps the lateness of her monthly was some effect of the dogbane that Connor had forgotten to mention.
“Come and take tea with me,” Uncle William called from his writing table.
She curtsied at the door, joining him in a plush chair before the fire and pouring out cups of tea for both of them. “Good morning, Uncle.”
“Good morning.” He put something in his coat pocket—the cracked black king.
She stirred milk and sugar into the steaming liquid, passing the first cup to Uncle William. He accepted the cup and its saucer, leaning back in his chair before taking a sip.
“Governor DeLancey writes that he is content to allow you to remain here until he receives word from your parents to send you home. He writes that my letters to your father and mother have already left port for London.”
Sarah felt some of the tension she’d been carrying with her ease away. “That is good news. Thank you, Uncle. You have been most kind to me. I still cannot fathom how you managed to get a harpsichord here from Albany.”
He’d already told her how he’d had it shipped from New York to Albany in honor o
f her visit, then had to have it loaded upon a special wagon and brought slowly through the forest to the fort, wrapped in thick blankets and under guard.
Uncle William seemed to study her. “The last time I heard you play, you were but twelve. I thought at the time that your skill was unmatched for a child of your age. You have improved beyond my expectations. I’ve never heard such playing outside of the Theatre Royal. You, my dear, are a virtuosa. No wonder you frightened my poor, untalented sister.”
Sarah reached for a scone and clotted cream, at once pleased by his praise and confused to hear him disparage her mother. “I am glad you find my playing to be improved. I am sadly out of practice, I’m afraid.”
“That will soon change.” He prepared a scone for himself, preferring jam.
Sarah took a bite—and remembered out of nowhere Lady Margaret telling her of some lord’s wife, who was newly with child and was therefore feeling quite ill and unable to keep down her food. If being with child left a woman sick, then surely Sarah couldn’t be with child, for she was quite hungry. And her fear turned to giddy relief.
She ate her scone rather quickly and found herself wishing she could reach immediately for another. Manners overcame her hunger, and she sipped at her tea.
“You’ve been playing from memory—astonishing in itself. I shall see what can be done to purchase some printed music for you in Albany.”
Sarah stared at Uncle William, unable to hide her excitement. “Oh, Uncle! Do you think any of Master Handel’s works have been published here yet?”
Before Uncle William could answer, Lieutenant Cooke appeared at the door.
“Pardon me, my lord.” He bowed, acknowledging Sarah. “My lady.”
“Come in, Lieutenant.”
Dressed neatly in his uniform, a neat white wig upon his head, Lieutenant Cooke entered and stood stiffly. He was a dear man, bound most dutifully to Uncle William, well mannered, and quite solicitous of Sarah. “The Rangers are set to drill shooting and charging at marks on the plain. Some of the Regulars wish to watch, but Haviland does not think they should be distracted from—”
“I had already given orders that my officers were to choose the best amongst their men and reward them by permitting them to watch the exercise.” Uncle William looked over at Sarah, as if to explain. “It helps ensure humility amongst the Regulars and engenders a certain respect for the Rangers. Tell Haviland my orders stand. And, Lieutenant, you may watch if you choose.”
Lieutenant Cooke tried in vain to hide a pleased smile. “Thank you, my lord. My lady.” He bowed and was gone.
Sarah watched him go, the impulse to follow him overwhelming. She might not be able to speak with Connor, but she would at least be able to see him. “I should like to watch, too, Uncle.”
Uncle William was chewing his scone, but his eyebrows bent in a frown. At last, he spoke. “I should think after all you’ve endured, I would do better by you if I were to shelter you from musket fire and anything that might remind you of your ordeal.”
“You cannot shelter me from my own memories, Uncle.” Nor could he shelter her from the passions of her own heart. “I watched a man stitch the scalp of my lady’s maid onto a hoop. I watched Major MacKinnon and Joseph fight and kill. I watched men die by poison. I, myself, killed a man.”
Her words clearly troubled Uncle William, for his frown deepened.
Sarah searched for a way to make him understand. “I came to value the Rangers’ fighting skills because those skills saved my life—more than once. I should think that watching them drill would be quite stimulating.”
He seemed to consider this. “As a rule, I do not permit women on the ramparts.”
“I am not just a woman.” Sarah lifted her chin. “I am your niece.”
He picked up his cup of tea, one dark eyebrow arching. “I doubt my officers will appreciate that subtle distinction, my dear.”
Connor looked across the plain, checking to make certain all was in order. He’d had the men out before sunrise, carrying thick logs that would serve as cover onto the field. It was hard labor, especially with their gear on their backs, but it was not near as difficult as the days to come.
Today was a test of the new recruits’ marksmanship. All of them were skilled at hitting marks, but this would test their ability to shoot while under fire, as they would be in battle. While some Rangers pretended to fight alongside them and others shouted and fired blanks, recruits had to crawl and run from log to log, each firing at his own mark set in the distance. And they would have to do it in rhythm with the others—half laying down fire while the other half reloaded. Those who could get off that third shot within two minutes and strike their marks would become Rangers.
It was as close to real battle as they could come, the noise and the urgency enough to ensure that few recruits would hit their marks the first time through.
The recruits were tight-lipped and quiet, their faces lined with fatigue and apprehension, each man wondering if he would be amongst those who gave in or failed today and were sent back to the militia.
“Gather round, lads!” Connor raised his voice so that all could hear him. “You ken what you’re about to face. This drill is a mere taste of the battles to come. If you dinnae ha’ the skill or the belly for it, now is the time to discover the truth. Let any man who wishes to leave do so now. There is no shame, and no one will speak ill of you.”
He waited, giving their doubts and fears time to gnaw upon them. Chins went up, recruits looking surreptitiously about to see if any amongst them would leave, while the Rangers gazed about, clearly finding all of this quite dull.
“The most important thing today is no’ to shoot each other, aye? Keepin’ a cool head is important in battle. No Ranger should lose a leg or his life because another Ranger let fear get the best of him.”
This was Connor’s first year running the drill himself—last year Morgan had been in command—and he prayed no one would get maimed or killed.
“Take your places. When you hear the first shot, move. Listen for the commands.”
But the men were no longer looking to him, their gazes fixed on the ramparts of the fort behind him.
“Aye, the redcoats like to watch. Dinnae be lettin’ them take your mind off the task at hand.” He looked over his shoulder. “They find our way of fightin’ strange…”
It wasn’t the redcoats the men were gawping at, but Lady Sarah, who stood on the ramparts beside Lieutenant Cooke like a princess surveying her realm, lavender silk skirts catching in the breeze, her gaze fixed on Connor.
He felt something constrict in his chest, found himself staring up at her, all of the feelings he’d fought so hard to bury welling up inside him. He met her gaze, gave a little bow of his head, then turned back to his men.
Killy cleared his throat. “As you were sayin’, Connor?”
Connor glared at Killy. “Rangers, fall out!”
He pointed his pistol skyward and fired.
Sarah watched as weary recruits made their way back toward Connor, smoke clearing over the imaginary battlefield.
“Compared to the disciplined attacks of our Regulars, it looks like madness.” Lieutenant Cooke was kindly explaining the drill to Sarah. “However, there is an order to their actions. They stagger their fire so that the enemy is given no respite, and rather than standing in ranks, they take cover, each man fighting to his best advantage but with a common goal. While watching, imagine yourself in the forest…”
His words trailed off. “Pardon me, my lady. I forgot your recent ordeal.”
“Do not trouble yourself, sir.” She met Lieutenant Cooke’s kindly gaze and smiled. “It is true, however, that I do not need to imagine being in the forest, for I have been there and seen Major MacKinnon fight.”
“As have I.” His brow knitted in a frown. “Major MacKinnon’s eldest brother saved my life one day when a company of Regulars I was leading got lost in the forest. We were ambushed by French soldiers and under the most deadly fir
e. But the Rangers crept in and silently outflanked the French, who had outflanked us. Iain MacKinnon threw me to the ground and in almost the same breath fired at a soldier who’d been about to shoot me. I shall never forget it.”
“I am grateful you were spared, Lieutenant.”
“They’re about to try again.”
The blast of Connor’s pistol split the air.
The recruits ran for cover behind logs, loading their muskets, while some of the Rangers did the same. The rest of the Rangers, however, ran about shouting, screaming like Indians, and firing their muskets and pistols into the air, creating a terrible discord that surely sounded very much like real battle. The screams were especially painful to hear, the sound sending chills down Sarah’s spine.
Smoke lingered in the air, partially obscuring her view, the scent of gunpowder sharp in her nostrils. She watched recruits fire their muskets, then stumble toward cover. Some became encumbered in their gear, tripping or dropping their muskets. Others struggled to reload. Few struck their marks.
Along the walls beside her, Regulars jested with one another, mocking the Rangers with ill-mannered shouts, laughing at struggling recruits, until Lieutenant Cooke, noticing Sarah’s displeasure, commanded them to be silent or return to duty.
The drill ended. Connor examined the marks, then drew the recruits together. He and the other Rangers instructed them, showing them how better to aim while moving, how to reload while running, crawling, lying on one’s back.
Then they began again.
For long hours, Connor drilled his men, the air hazy with smoke. If Sarah had not been filled with admiration for him before, she was now. A true leader of men he was, inspiring when possible, reprimanding when necessary, driving his men on.
Some of the recruits seemed weighted down by frustration. Two or three walked away, heads down and shoulders drooping, looks of despair on their faces, their will to become Rangers broken. Others fought gamely on, returning to their starting positions time and again, refusing to be beaten. And slowly out of the chaos something like an organized attack began to take shape, more holes appearing in the marks.