It was time to depart.
He turned to look one last time upon the farmhouse, but his vision had blurred again, his throat almost too tight to speak. “Good-bye, Sarah.”
Blanket around her shoulders, Sarah stood when the door opened, expecting Connor to lead Uncle William inside. But only Connor and Iain entered, their faces red from the cold, snow clinging to their hair, their lashes, their bearskin coats.
Morgan stood on the step. “I must be headin’ home to my own sweet wife. I can see her watchin’ out the window. She must be worried. Good night.”
And Morgan was gone, the door shut behind him.
“We found two sets of horse tracks in the forest across from the house.” Iain removed his coat, shook it, then hung it on its peg. “The snow was well tramped down, so they must have been waitin’ there for a long time. They vanished down the road, the horses at a near gallop.”
Connor hung his coat on the peg next to Iain’s. “We followed for a time, but the storm grew worse and the tracks harder to see. When we reached the crossroads, we couldna tell which direction they’d taken.”
He looked into Sarah’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Sarah.”
“All this time I thought he was dead.” Sarah sank back into the rocking chair, clutching the black king to her breast. “Why did he not knock? Why did he not answer or come to me when I called for him?”
“We cannae ken for certain it was him.” Iain took a cup of hot tea from Annie.
“Aye.” Annie looked up at her husband, handing a second cup to Connor. “We can.”
Then Annie told the men what she’d told Sarah. “The day you were shot fightin’ Bute, I went to see Lord William. I begged him to release you from service, and, when he refused, I knocked over his chess board. The pieces scattered on the floor. This one must have broken.”
“I saw him with it many times.” Sarah looked down at the chess piece in her hands. “He kept it in his pocket, often worrying it with his fingers when he was pensive.”
“So that’s how you kent it was his.” Connor sat at the table beside Iain.
“Why did he not come inside?” Did he not wish to see her?
Connor seemed to think this over. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it. If he’s been a captive all this long while, he has surely suffered torture. He might not be the man you remember. Perhaps he didna wish to be seen.”
Sarah’s stomach seemed to fall to the floor, tears gathering in her eyes again. She could not stand to think of Uncle William suffering long months of torment while she’d been contented here. “I would have welcomed him no matter what his condition.”
But now Connor’s attention was on the letter. Sarah had forgotten about it. Connor opened it, read it, his eyes closing for a moment. Whether it was grief or anger on his face, she could not tell. Without saying a word, he handed the letter to her.
Sarah took it and looked down at the pages, the writing unfamiliar to her.
Brigadier General Wentworth, I write to inform you that my investigation is complete. I was able to trace the circulation of the journal back to Lord Caswell, Earl of Denton, and, indeed, found some pages of the journal, those displaying the most shocking drawings of your dear affronted niece, amongst his most private possessions. The marriage contract was, of course, dissolved. A warrant was made for his arrest, and when confronted with the charges, he confessed that he had stolen the journal to foment scandal and secure a fortune through marriage to your niece. He further confessed that he knew of the journal because he’d seen his cousin making sketches of Lady Sarah late one night when your niece was not there. This news exonerated your niece of the worst suspicions about her. Denton fled to the continent and has not been seen since.
I made your noble sister and her husband, the Marquess, aware of the investigation and its results, and they seemed most remorseful that they, themselves, did not take their daughter’s part in this tragedy but rather through their own actions seemed to confirm her guilt and assure her ruin. When word reached them of their daughter’s terrible death, they were most inconsolable. My condolences on your loss. What a terrible business. I hope it will comfort you to know that, as the truth has spread in London society, your niece has become almost a martyr, an innocent whom society itself helped to doom.
It may also interest you to know that, ever since the truth about Denton’s involvement in the scandal became known, his cousin’s sketches and paintings have taken on great value and have sold to some of the finest collectors in London. The artworks Lady Margaret could not sell in life for fear of scandal have, following her sad demise, earnt her a measure of fame as well as artistic approbation. The painting deemed to hold the greatest value and artistic merit is one of your niece playing the harpsichord beside a large vase of roses. That, it seems, is how Lady Sarah Woodville shall be remembered.
I understand that you were taken captive by Indians in that same terrible attack and traded to the French and that the secretary of state is close to securing your release in a prisoner exchange. I hope you will be freed by the time this letter reaches Albany and pray your ordeal has not proved too unpleasant.
Your most bound and humble servant & etc.,
John Fielding,
Bow Street, London
Sarah’s heart was already raw, and now it was all too much. Without saying a word, she stood, set the letter on the table, and hurried upstairs.
Connor gave Sarah a few minutes to herself then followed her up the stairs, feeling as if a shadow had just passed over his heart. Wentworth had done for Sarah what Connor could never have accomplished—he’d uncovered the truth about Lady Margaret’s journals, redeemed Sarah’s reputation, and restored her place in society even if she were not there to take it. If it hadn’t been for the fact that she was supposed to be dead, she might have returned to London now that she was not with child.
Of course, Connor would never have allowed her to go. She was his wife in the eyes of God—and the mother of his son. She belonged with him.
Did she regret that? Had learning she’d been redeemed made Sarah long for her life of luxury, of days at court and nights in the Theatre Royal? The poor lass didn’t yet have a wedding band—or at least she wouldn’t until Christmas Day, when he planned to surprise her.
Dinnae be a fool, lad. She loves you. You ken she loves you.
He found her lying on the bed, looking down at little William, who slept swaddled in blankets beside her. There were fresh tears on her cheeks, but when she saw Connor, she smiled.
He walked over to her and sat on the edge of the bed behind her, sliding his hand up the soft skin of her arm. “Did he wake? I didna hear him cry.”
“No, he did not wake.” She looked down at their sleeping son again, a mother’s love shining on her face. “I just wanted to be near him.”
“This has been a hard night for you.” It had near broken his heart to hear her crying for her uncle and see her running barefoot through the snow.
The joy on her face dimmed. “I cannot bear thinking of what Uncle William might have suffered for my sake, and I can’t abide the fact that he would not come in and speak with me. There’s nothing that would make me ashamed of him or afraid to see him.”
“He’s a prideful man, Sarah. I doubt he feared how you might react. ’Tis more likely he feared how it would make him feel to be seen.”
“What a shame if that be the case, for I should dearly have loved to see him again.” Her voice quavered. “I would have loved for him to see our son.”
Connor wasn’t certain Wentworth would have cared to see William, given how very much he’d hoped Sarah would lose the child, but Connor kept that thought to himself. He’d made it a hard-and-fast rule that no one speak ill of the man in Sarah’s presence. “At least he is alive. Take comfort in that.”
She seemed to consider this, then gave a wistful smile. “I was pleased to read that Margaret’s art is getting the attention it deserves, though I wish she were here to see it.”
>
“She knows, Sarah. She knows.”
Her smile faded, her gaze still on sleeping William. “I am relieved, too, that the truth was revealed and Denton exposed. It seems I would not have had to marry him after all. Uncle William would have seen to that.”
With those words, she struck at the heart of the uncertainty troubling Connor.
He needed to know. “When you read that letter, did you find yourself wishin’ you could return to London? Some part of you must miss your family and the luxury of the life—”
She pressed her fingers to his mouth and sat up, bringing her face close to his. “What luxuries did I have? Gowns? Jewels? Such things are hollow. I spent every day of my life there in dreariness, hoping for a moment when I might be allowed to play music, pained by guilt because I could not be the daughter my mother wanted. My sisters and I were always together, and yet I never knew what was in their hearts, nor did they know what was in mine.
“Here, I play music whenever I wish, and you all share in my joy. Annie and Amalie and I—we laugh and talk together. We share our thoughts, our fears, our dreams. They are my true sisters. Here, I have brothers, too—Morgan, Iain, Joseph. I have a newborn son I cherish, and a strong and handsome husband who loves me so much that he would gladly have given his life to spare mine. For me, these are luxuries. Why should I wish to leave this place and return to a home where I am not loved?”
At these words, Connor felt the shadow inside him begin to dissipate. “But surely your parents love you. The letter said they felt deep remorse. Do you no’ miss them?”
Sarah shook her head, her hair in a tangle about her shoulders. “Lady Margaret told me never to reveal my true self to those who do not truly love me, but I think she had it turned around. Those who would not know me cannot truly love me in the first place.”
He’d never thought of it in that way. “I cannae argue wi’ that.”
“My parents never knew me, never wanted to know me. When I most needed them, they beat me, starved me, left me alone. But Uncle William knew what was in my heart, and so did you.” She cupped his face between her palms. “You accepted me as I was from the start.”
Connor pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “I’ve only ever wanted for you to be safe and happy.”
“I am happier than I knew it was possible to be.” She looked deeply into his eyes, her gaze holding nothing back from him. “I know why you asked me this, Connor. Some secret part of you wonders whether I married you simply because I carried your child and could not return to London. Let your heart be at ease. I married you because I love you.”
He let out a breath, relief making his heart lighter. “I dinnae ken what I did to deserve you.”
“Oh, Connor!” She shook her head, smiled, her hand closing over his. “You may not be a nobleman, but you are the most noble man I know.”
Her words brought a smile to his face. “And you dinnae mind livin’ in a cabin instead of a castle, Princess?”
She laughed, wiped her tears away. “Joseph was right. This new life is a gift. I want us to live it with strength and joy, cherishing every day we have together.”
Connor drew Sarah into his arms and buried his face in her hair, love for her welling up inside him until he feared he might burst. “And that is what we shall do—each of us for the sake of the other.”
Afterword
The seed for the MacKinnon’s Rangers series was planted in 2004, when I was doing research for Ride the Fire and came across repeated references to Robert Rogers and Rogers’ Rangers, to whom incredible feats of wilderness warfare, woodcraft, and survival were attributed. Curious, I did a bit of extra reading—I never get tired of research—and found myself in awe of this group of fighters. Rangers had been used in colonial warfare in the past, but Robert Rogers took the style of guerrilla warfare common to American Indian inhabitants of the wilderness, broke it down, and organized it, distilling it into a set of twenty-eight rules, known as the Rules of Ranging. Although he could never have imagined it, his genius in crafting the Rules made him the father of a new kind of fighting and the leader of North America’s first true special operations force.
I was amazed by what I learned about Rogers and his Rangers. Imagine trekking hundreds of miles through a snowy forest with nothing warmer than buckskin and wool—no polypro, no GPS, no rescue helicopters, no MREs. Or fighting battles on primitive snowshoes. Or going for so long without food that “stew of boiled moccasin” sounds appetizing. But as fascinated as I was by Rogers, he wasn’t a suitable hero for a romance, in part due to his involvement in a counterfeiting scheme prior to the war.
Instead of using the figure of Rogers himself, I developed MacKinnon’s Rangers, putting them in the same location where Rogers was stationed—Rogers Island, which I called Ranger Island, at Fort Edward in upstate New York. To say that I fell in love with this period of history and with the landscape in which the events of the French and Indian War took place would be a gross understatement. It has become an obsession.
I had the good fortune of visiting Fort Edward and Rogers Island, as well as taking the route the Rangers so often traveled, heading north along Lake George to the La Chute River and over to Fort Carillon/Ticonderoga. I was also able to take a pontoon trip on Lake George and go hiking on the eastern shore of the lake where the forest is largely undeveloped. Being there gave me a sense of how dense the forest had been and how easy it was to be ambushed or to get lost. If you can make it to the Rogers Island Visitor Center on Rogers Island in Fort Edward, I heartily recommend it.
I have tried, whenever possible, to remain true to the history, not only in the bigger details of the war, but also with regard to the details of daily life—what a Ranger carried in his tumpline pack, what he ate, how he spent his free time, how he fought. Even Lord William’s dinnerware is based on archaeological findings from the site. So, although every event in this series and this story is not historically accurate, the environment of the story is. Some of the characters are based on real people, as well, including Jabez Fitch Jr., whose diaries tell of his time as a Ranger. As a fiction writer with a specific story to tell, I was forced to take a few liberties in this book, most notably with the fateful battle in which Lord William Wentworth finally follows his heart. No such battle happened on the army’s northward march from Ticonderoga to Crown Point in the summer of 1760. (However, it is true that men were occasionally sentenced to a thousand lashes. Unfortunately, I did not make that up.)
While the series itself is very much a tribute to Rogers and Rogers’ Rangers, this book also pays homage to Mary Jemison, a young woman who was taken captive by the Shawnee together with her parents and siblings and lived through the horror of having her entire family tomahawked behind her back. She endured watching as her family’s scalps were stitched onto hoops. She was later traded to the Seneca, married a Seneca man, and lived out her life as a Seneca woman. Her courage amazes me. I have deliberately paraphrased some of what she said about her ordeal when she was interviewed late in her life by a curious reporter. I guess it’s my way of reaching out to her across the centuries.
I find it sad to think that most Americans and Canadians—this war is part of Canadian history, too—have no idea who the Rangers were or what they did. Rogers Island and Fort Edward are largely unknown to our time. And yet events at Fort Edward and on Rogers Island were crucial for the shaping of the North American continent. When I heard that even New York was removing the French and Indian War from its school curriculum, I began to fear that we are losing this special piece of history.
Of course, I didn’t write this book to provide a history lesson, nor did I write with any political message in mind. This is a love story about two people who never should have met or fallen in love, but who were thrown together by events in the midst of a war, events over which they had no control. Still, I hope that by infusing the story with real history, I might have sparked your interest in the events and people of the period. Just in case, I’ve included a
short bibliography of some of the books I read in preparation for writing this series.
How important were the Rangers?
At the time, they were considered true heroes, our nation’s first celebrity warriors. King George II knew of the Rangers in general and specifically of Robert Rogers. Many men who learned to fight as Rangers went on to play key roles during the American Revolution, using skills acquired in one war to win another. During the Revolution, John Paul Jones named his ship the USS Ranger in honor of Robert Rogers and his Rangers.
Today, Rogers’ Rules of Ranging, modified to fit modern times, are still standing orders for the U.S. Army Rangers, who venerate Robert Rogers as their founding father. Army Rangers, both active duty and veteran, regularly visit Rogers Island to pay their respects, weeping as they walk on the ground where Rogers and his men camped, prepared for battle—and changed the course of a war.
Pamela Clare
January 20, 2012
References
Chartrand, René. Ticonderoga 1758: Montcalm’s Victory Against All Odds. New York: Osprey Publishing Ltd., 2000.
Darounian-Stodola, Kathryn Zabelle, ed. Women’s Indian Captivity Narratives. New York: Penguin, 1998.
The Diary of Jabez Fitch, Jr. in the French and Indian War, 1757. Third Edition. New York: New York State French and Indian War Commemoration Commission and Rogers Island Heritage Development Alliance Inc., 2007.
Dunn, Shirley W. The Mohican World, 1680–1750. New York: Purple Mountain Press, 2000.
Marston, Daniel. The French-Indian War 1754–1760. New York: Osprey Publishing Ltd., 2002.
Parkman, Francis. Montcalm and Wolfe: The French and Indian War. New York: Da Capo Press, 1984.
Starbuck, David. Rangers and Redcoats on the Hudson: Exploring the Past on Rogers Island, the Birthplace of the U.S. Army Rangers. Lebanon, NH: University Press of New England, 2004.