17

THAT EVENING A frost came, along with damp cold that promised snow. Father, weary with pain, gave up waiting for the lieutenant and went to sleep. Mother and I stayed by the fire. We had been talking about William. Mother, having convinced herself that John André was going to provide assistance, was much more at ease. I was not about to share my forebodings.

There was a lull in our conversation, after which Mother suddenly said, “Sophia, there is something I need to say to you about Lieutenant André.”

“What about him?”

Mother made me wait while she appeared to shape her words. “You are twelve years old, a child, I would say,” she began. “But a young woman, nonetheless.” She paused, and in the interval I could feel myself growing warm—not from the fire, but with discomfort. “It is wonderful that the lieutenant will help us,” she said. “But, Sophia, you are showing a reckless infatuation with him.”

“A what?”

“A misplaced affection. I must say it’s neither proper nor intelligent. Consider your age. Our situation. His position.”

Even as I bowed my head, I knew my cheeks were crimson.

She patted my hand gently. “Though we will be extra grateful to him when he helps William, there will be a better time, place, and other persons upon which you can bestow your affections.”

“I assure you,” I spoke the lie. “I have none for him.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” She took my hand and held it, as if to remind me that I was still a child. “But be careful,” she whispered. “Young women are severely judged.”

We sat there in quietude, during which time I thought of her words. Even as I knew she was right, I resented the notion that she treated my emotions as childish. I sought some gratification in that she used the words “young woman” to describe me.

In the midst of the stillness, there was a sharp rap upon the outside door. Next moment John André, along with his servant, entered the house.