January 5 - 7, 1778
Through the windows of the tiny downstairs parlor, Anne watched as Aunt Georgiana’s carriage, refitted with sleigh runners, receded down the narrow lane and disappeared into the afternoon shadows. Blessedly, the house was quiet again. Happily the last of the day’s endless succession of visitors had bid her good-byes and, with promises to return, at last took her leave. It was not that Anne disapproved of the constant stream of well-wishers who descended on the little farm house. Rather, she was grateful for the kindnesses, for the baskets of food and flowers, and for the company, which had contributed greatly over the past week toward her father’s improved health. Equally so, she took delight in her father’s enjoyment, and in her own way, welcomed the diversion. Invariably it kept her mind from dwelling on Peter.
She had not heard from him—not a word—in the ten days since she left him. Not a word from Tony either. The New Year had come and gone. Days passed in a random progression of idleness and activity, minutes standing still, hours fleeting. With each new day came new hopes and heightened expectations, which, by day’s end, degenerated into new fears for her husband’s safety. But she would not allow her anxiety to affect the little bit of peace she had earned and the promise yet to be realized. Peter had given his word. “Whatever happens,” he had said, “we’ll be together. I can’t live without you.”
All her hope rested on that pledge.
Lady George’s carriage had long since disappeared, and still she stood at the window, her thoughts miles away, her attention fixed on the nothingness between herself and her thoughts, her fingers absently toying with the amber glass bubble on the silver chain around her neck.
The memory of that evening in New York haunted her. How somber Mercy had been when she presented the necklace and exacted her promise, her round little face lined with worry—as if to relieve a deep-seated fear.
The Indians believe it brings good fortune to them that possess it, she had said, or so my mother used to tell us. I suppose she believed in its powers, for she never had it from about her neck. Wore it till the day she died.
Anne had regarded the necklace with heightened fascination. Will it bring me good fortune?
If you believe. Now promise me.
I will wear it till the day I die.
“Why did I not question?” she asked herself silently. “What can it mean?” She turned her hands over and, in the fading afternoon light, gazed darkly at the lines of her palms. Mercy Van Allen’s voice reverberated in her memory.
You will never bear children.
Although a bitter concession, she considered it a fair exchange. She had resigned herself to it. She accepted it. Even at such a cost…. Often, she had repeated to herself those very words that had given her strength and purpose. Even at such a cost, it is well worth the happiness we will find in the end. Grace had seen it clearly in her hand. She saw the fulfillment that awaited them.
Yet, had not Mercy made a startling confession? Grace is sometimes wrong, my dove.
No, that was not possible! She would never concede to that! She needed to believe she would find peace. Grace saw it! You will find what you seek! Mercy had told her so. Grace could not be mistaken.
Still, something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Peter had not sent word. Was it because of something overlooked or misread, some truth distorted?
Yearning for the power to grasp their secrets, she pondered those same lines that had moved Grace so profoundly.
It isn’t true! She pressed her hands to her abdomen, where something unmistakably had taken root in her womb and had begun to undermine all that had been prophesied.
But even that could be explained. The daily bouts of nausea could easily be attributed to strain and worry. The reasons for the absence of her monthly cycle were numerous. Had she not missed it months on end during that long, cold sea voyage as she bedeviled herself over the uncertainties that awaited her arrival in America and the hardships that greeted her? Surely there was another reason.
Her father’s voice, filtering through the void, might have been the echo of her own abstraction. His hands on her shoulders abruptly restored all to its proper perspective.
“You startled me.” She pressed her cheek to his hand. “Did you say something?”
“It’s been a long day,” he said softly, his voice tinged with fatigue. “You must be tired. Why don’t you rest now? I’ll tell Francis to bring your supper to you on a tray.”
She forced a weary laugh. “You really must stop all this nonsense…all this needless bother….”
“Devereaux said you need rest. After what happened to you the last time you—”
“Devereaux is an ass!” She turned on him in a fit of choler, her voice pinched. “If I were to place the least bit of credence in anything he said, I warrant we should both be bloodless and dead before spring!” Then, seeing the sincere reflection of his concern melt into consternation, she groped for his hand and pressed it to her lips. “Oh, forgive me! I’m not angry with you. Please you mustn’t think that I…!”
Overcome by her outpouring of remorse, he embraced her. “Oh, my dear girl! Of course I don’t think it. You’ve been so kind! How good you are!” Holding her away, he looked deep into her eyes. His disquiet increased. “All the same, I ask you to think of—”
“Really, Father, I tell you it’s nothing!” She forced a quivering smile. “But look at you!” she gently chided. “All this excitement was bound to tire you. Come, I’ll help you to your room and you’ll lie down. Really you must! I’ll read to you. Aunt Georgie brought us some books.”
She broke away in a burst of feigned energy and began exploring the day’s gifts piled on the side table. “I haven’t had a moment to see what…. Oh, but look, Father. She’s brought you those books you mentioned. The ones you thought were lost. Look! Here they are! She had them all along, all these years! Robinson Crusoe, and Gulliver’s Travels, and Smollett’s translation of Don Quixote. I think we’ll start with that one.”
Darvey observed her amid growing uneasiness. Anne avoided his eye, but his silence arrested her. Setting the stack of books back on the table, she glanced up with a strained smile.
“Honestly, Father,” she began, “if I thought for a moment that Devereaux’s opinions bore even the slightest consideration, I’d be the first to—”
“Anne, the man is a respected physician! How can you ignore—”
“Why is it that people like Mercy and Grace Van Allen, and Reba, and poor LeClair—who never studied respectable medicine—know more about healing than these pompous—”
“It wasn’t only Devereaux!”
She idly leafed through the pages of Don Quixote.
Gently, he closed the book and laid his hand over hers. “The midwife concurred. Why must you feel compelled to deny what daily becomes more and more apparent?”
Anne touched the amber glass bubble to her lips. Deep inside, she knew it was true; she could not help knowing. So many times during the past month, when the evidence cried out for recognition, she tried all in her power to deny it. Partly out of self-preservation, for she could not bear the thought of losing another baby and enduring the pain and anguish all over again.
As she looked up at her father, no words could adequately express her difficulty. He would never understand. Even as she shook her head, she was not certain that she, herself, understood. His expression grew pained. Once more, he took her in his arms. He spoke slowly, inspired with a new and profound insight. “I know you think of Peter.”
The truth in his observation moved her more deeply than his show of compassion. Both touched her to the heart, inducing wrenching sobs. Burying her face in his shoulder, she gave vent to her distress. “Why hasn’t he sent word?”
He held her tight. “Oh, my poor child! Dear girl….”
“If only he’d come, it wouldn’t matter. I’d have the courage to face it again.”
“Shhh. You need rest. You’re overwrought.”
“It was not supposed to be like this.”
“He loves you. He’ll come.” He rubbed her hair with his cheek. Then he added quietly, tensely, as if to himself, “For my sake as well as for yours.”
* * *
Darvey had thought it wise not to mention the letter. The chance existed that his efforts would prove futile; there were no guarantees of a successful outcome. More than anything, he wanted to protect her—as well as himself—from groundless expectations. Still, he maintained a particle of hope that his appeal had reached General Sir William Howe and that His Excellency would be moved “to employ his great influence in securing the safe passage of my wayward Son-in-Law….”
He considered it a personal kindness. Without going into any incriminating detail, he concluded in his note that Peter Marlowe might have been mistakenly adjudged an adherent to the rebel cause, when in fact the entire affair had resulted from a long-standing misconception, which now had been rectified.
“I will assume all responsibility for the young Man’s Conduct,” he explained, “and rely on your Excellency’s generosity to ensure that this Matter remains Confidential.” In conclusion, he invoked the “blessed memory of your noble Brother, George Augustus, under whose command I served, and whose valiant Life and tragic death are a credit to all of Britain.”
In the days since dispatching the letter through the generous offices of Charles Aderley, he began to wonder if he had not been a bit too presumptuous, if he had not done more harm than good, if it would not have been more advantageous to undertake his appeal in a more personal manner. And as the days passed and no reply came, his silent optimism turned to despondency. Again he had failed his daughter. Again, he had come between her and Peter. Again, he had proved himself deserving of her scorn.
On the morning of the sixth of January, he awoke early from a restless sleep. After dressing hastily and gulping down his coffee, he sat at the kitchen table with paper and pen and vainly attempted to redress his error. “Your Excellency….” He reread the words and crushed the paper into a ball. He rubbed his eyes and began anew. “Most Noble Excellency….” It would not do. He paced by the fire. In despair, he called for Francis.
At the very moment Marlowe appeared to inform him of the three Kings’ men approaching on horseback, a knock rattled the door.
The messenger from Sir William Howe stayed only long enough to deliver the general’s brief reply:
My Lord,
Forgive the interminable length of time it has taken to respond to your inquiry. Have looked into the matter and regretfully report no information regarding the whereabouts of your lordship’s son-in-law. With all due Respect, I am sincerely yours, W. Howe
* * *
From her bedroom window overlooking the front of the house, Anne watched in horror the three men in scarlet coats approaching on horseback. She heard the knock on the door and listened as Francis addressed them before escorting one of them inside. As soon as they had taken their leave, she rushed from the room, only to encounter her father on the darkened stairs.
Without a word, he handed her the note and continued past her to his quarters.
General Howe’s letter did little to allay her disquiet. Her father’s disappointment wore as heavily on her heart as her own anxiety. Sitting at the foot of the stairs, she pondered the writing, while Francis leaned ponderously against the wall. It served no advantage for either of them to speak. She sensed his concern, as she was certain he sensed hers. To speak would only add to the fears—a parent’s worst fears for his son, a wife’s for her husband and father of her unborn child. She laid a hand on his shoulder.
* * *
The morning passed quietly. At noon, Mr. Samuelson arrived with news of a packet ship scheduled to sail for England on the nineteenth. He also brought a letter from Lady George in which she extended an invitation to stay at her house until their departure. She had more than enough room, she wrote, now that her lieutenant and his man had found suitable quarters elsewhere. Although Darvey had expressed a deep desire to return home, he appeared reluctant to commit himself “for at least a day or two.” Samuelson left after a few hours of pleasant talk.
For the remainder of the afternoon, Darvey watched the sky grow dark with ominous clouds, while Anne read aloud from Don Quixote. The snow began in earnest as evening fell.
* * *
Long after the fall of night, the snow-swept landscape glowed with an eerie light in the window of the little parlor. Swirls of feathery gusts sparkled against the night and framed the panes in plumed patterns that shifted and swelled and settled anew with every silent squall. Inside the room, though warm and well-lit, a palpable tension crackled with the intensity of an electric storm.
From her chair by the hearth, Anne regarded her father—a fixture by the window—and awaited his response. The light had long since grown too dim to read by, she had said. She suggested they both retire. Amid the anxious hush, perhaps he hadn’t heard a word she had said.
“Father…?” she began softly, tentatively. He turned and smiled in spite of his preoccupation. Suddenly unsure of herself, she spoke haltingly. “Please, don’t do this to yourself. Whatever happens, you’re not to blame.”
His face darkened. In the harsh shadows, he appeared old and feeble, all sign of improvement having vanished from his bearing. “How good of you to say that.”
“Then for both our sakes….” She rose unsteadily. She wanted to go to him, but she could not. She wanted to hold him and reassure him, but she feared his tears and contrition. “Please stop tormenting yourself.”
“Yes…yes,” he said in a voice without conviction, “we must have faith.” Again he turned to the window.
“Yes.” Inadvertently, she echoed his despair. As she fingered the glass bubble, she raised her head in defiance of her own submission. “Yes! We must.” She went to him, and slipped her arms through his. “Father, perhaps it’s nothing but foolishness, but I do believe that all will be as it was meant to be. All will be well.”
He smiled sadly. “No one will come tonight. Not in this weather.”
“Tomorrow then.” She gently tugged on his arm. “It’s time for bed.”
“How good you are.” He touched her cheek.
She covered his hand with hers and lowered her eyes. “You do know…. As soon as Peter can, he will come for me.”
“I never dared to hope that you would return with me to England.”
“I don’t imagine we will ever meet again.”
“Dear girl! You’ve made me so happy.”
“It pleases me to give you a little joy.” She turned away and looked outside. The snow fell heavily. “It will do you good to see Esterleigh again.”
He stood beside her in silence, watching the falling snow.
“How I long to be home.” His voice held a note a yearning.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “so do I.”
* * *
Anne set the steaming bucket of milk in the snow, as the eastern sky above the hills glowed with the first light of dawn. It would be a lovely day! Following the snowstorm, the air was unseasonably mild, the breeze gentle, fragrant, and clean, the sky clear and cloudless. Even the birds in the barren trees seemed to sense the promise in their morning song. She drew in a deep, satisfying breath, lifted the bucket with both hands, and continued back toward the house.
Rounding the corner of the barn, she came to an abrupt halt, the bucket sloshing. The tracks intersecting her own threw her into a turmoil. The impressions of a horse’s hooves—a single horse—clearly were new, although she did not recall hearing anything approach. Unable to restrain the sudden thrill of anticipation, she took note of the direction from which they had come. From the south, by way of Beggarstown on Gorgas Lane. From town, no doubt. Her heart leaped at the prospect. Peter! Surely, he had come at last!
But the portly man standing in the dwindling shadows wore a dark greatcoat of fine worsted and a cocked hat. By his posture and bearing, he was not her husband. Standing beside a sleek dappled gray, the lines dangling from his hands, he gave the distinct impression of a man who had lost his way, and in his hapless predicament, appeared to contemplate the front door, debating whether or not to rouse the sleeping inhabitants.
Anne slowed her steps, eagerness dissipating into disappointment. He was not aware of her approach until she hailed him in an uncertain voice. The man turned around with a start and she gasped her own astonishment. “Tony!”
He removed his hat, his troubled look twisting into an addled smile. “Good Lord! What a fright you gave me! I had no idea anyone was up and about at this hour. But here…let me….”
As he moved to relieve her of the brimming pail, she shuddered at the sight of him. Even in the scant morning light, his pallor and hollow eyes struck her as unnatural. She resisted the overture. “I can manage,” she whispered. “See to your horse.”
He tied the reins to the fencepost, talking all the while in a forced but jovial tone. “What trouble I had finding this place! You’ve no idea! I left yesterday well before sundown. And then with the snow and all that…. Spent the night at Levering’s on the Ridge Road, didn’t sleep a wink.” He laughed nervously as he followed her around to the back of the house and in through the kitchen door. Once inside, he basked in the fire’s warmth while she removed her cloak and poured milk into the blackened kettle on the fire.
“Where is my husband?” she demanded, regarding him anxiously.
“Of course, I was getting around to that! He sends his best wishes.” Although he responded quickly and easily, she sensed evasion in his tone.
“Is he well? Is he safe? When will he come?”
“Really, Cousin! I would have thought you’d allow me time to thaw before subjecting me to your lovelorn anxieties.” He breathed deeply, exhaling with the sigh of one whose patience has been tried to the limits. “If I were to tell you he was well when last I saw him, would you spare me the interrogation?” When she made no response, he went on in a lighter manner. “Actually I’ve come to see your father. I have something for him…in the right-hand pocket of my coat, if you will. My hands are numb or I’d….”
She pulled a small parcel from the deep pocket and held it to the light. It was sealed with Aderley’s insignia. “What is this?”
“Why don’t you open it? I have no feeling in my fingers—”
“Is it about Peter?”
“Good God, woman! Can you think of nothing else?”
His strained levity irked her as, without question, she tore open the parcel. The official documents bore the inscription: “Pay to the Bearer….” Bank of England notes totaling five hundred pounds, the amounts inserted in her father’s hand.
“I don’t understand. What…?” When Tony turned his gaze on her, awareness flooded her reason. “You! It was you all along, wasn’t it? Aderly’s anonymous client. It was you!”
He nodded soberly. “It’s all there. I’ve paid off the parasites out of my own funds.”
Shaken and amazed, she stammered, “I don’t know what to say! I don’t know what….”
“‘Thank you’ is a good place to start.”
“Of course I’m grateful! Grateful and…. I’m just so…. I don’t know what to think!”
He took her by the arms. His gravity further disconcerted her. “So long as you think well of me, I’ll be satisfied. It’s compensation enough.”
Blinking away her astonishment, she tried to gather her thoughts. “But why did you…? When you seemed so convincing…. Everything you did was for the reward money. I thought….”
“Yes, at first it was for the reward money,” he said. “But then I realized I couldn’t accept it. It’s as simple as that. I thought the money would be incentive enough, but I was wrong. I was wrong to accept it from the start. I want you believe that.”
“Yes, yes. I do!” She needed to sit, but he continued to hold her. She could not help thinking that, in spite of his earnestness, there was something insidious in his motives.
“Does that change your opinion of me?” His voice held the familiar mocking tone she had come to expect, but his eyes were pleading, searching.
She could not respond.
“The reward is not what I needed.”
“What is it then? What do you need?”
“I don’t know!” His pained desperation wrenched her heart. He released her, taking the notes and thumping them forcefully onto the table. “I don’t know what’s come over me. Since I met you, I feel as though my life is…. But, that’s absurd!”
His smile provided an imperfect mask for his confusion. As if sensing that her desire for truth was not to be diverted by his pretense, he turned away and continued quietly. “All the while, I had the notion that, yes, I will be rewarded for my good deeds—five hundred pounds minus expenses—but somehow, the reward was…unfulfilling. It felt wrong. I felt I had dishonored myself…if you can imagine such a thing possible.” He winked at her. “But there was something else, something I still can’t explain.” Again he forced a smile, as if to dismiss his feelings as insignificant. “But truly it’s not worth the trouble to go into.”
Meeting his ambivalent smile, she fingered her necklace without thinking. “No, I understand.”
“Do you?” His tone challenged her.
“Yes.” She went on in a growing agitation. “I’ve often done things without knowing why, without understanding the reasons. But I’ve come to expect that there’s a reason for everything, even if isn’t always apparent…not a first, anyway. I believe that in my heart.” Turning away, she stirred the porridge, her thoughts transporting her. “Somehow we’re tied together in this—you and I. It’s not just a coincidence…that we met and that we’re linked by blood. It has meaning. There has to be a reason for it.”
He stood, silently considering her and her words with the corners of his mouth turned down. “It’s all nonsense. We’re nothing but fools, groping our way through life, eager to grasp at the first thing to make sense at the moment. There’s no meaning to it at all! It’s pointless. We’re born, we live, and then we die. Pfft! We’re gone. No reason for it. Why bother?”
“No!” She turned to him with a surge of agitation. “It isn’t so! There must be more. I wouldn’t be standing here now if I didn’t believe that. It’s as if everything we’ve done, every choice we made in our lives has guided us here, to this very moment.”
“Honestly! I think, if there is a Higher Being, He has better things to do than to sit around plotting the course of our miserable lives…like a chess match!”
“No, no…not a Higher Being…those who came before us. Our mothers…and grandmothers…. Andrew Darvey…and others I can’t even begin to name. All of them. We’re tied together in this. Blessed and cursed by the blood of those who came before us, by all they’ve left us. By all that’s made us what we are!” She paused as everything suddenly crystalized. “Yes! And I’ve received it all in double measure, because my mother and my father were both born of Darvey blood…. Yes. Of course. That’s it!” She beamed a smile at Tony. “I understand it now. I do!”
She stumbled to the head of the table and sank into the chair. From the drawer in the table end, she quickly assembled the ink pot, molting goose quill, and a sheet of paper. When she looked up at him, he stared at her as upon a person gone insane.
She laughed a giddy laugh. “It makes perfect sense! Finally, I know what it all means. And now,” she said with a flourish of the quill before dipping it into the ink, “I will put it all right again.”
“You needn’t, you know.” He tried to humor her. “I can live with my failings.”
“You don’t have to.” She slipping into her thoughts, a smile creeping over her mouth and eyes, she rolled the pen between her fingertips. “We’ve been given another chance. Your reward is the key to my redemption.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “If you asked me, I’d say you’d gone mad.”
“Not so!” Feverishly, she began to write. “I am about to grant you your dearest wish.”
Standing by the fire, he watched her with an air of indulgence. When she was done, she pushed the paper across the table and indicated that he read it.
He glanced quizzically at her, then sat with the fire at his back and fanned it dry. He read aloud: “Seven January Seventeen-seventy-eight. I, Anne Darvey Marlowe, being of sound mind….” With eyebrows raised, he shot her an incredulous look. “…and body, do hereby renounce all claim to my inheritance, including Esterleigh Hall and all its holdings. I relinquish all claims on the legacy of Charles d’Hervé in favor of my cousin, Anthony Granville….” He peered over the top of the paper, his playful expression giving way to one of consternation. His voice dropped in volume, its tone matching his expression. “…Anthony Granville, who being a direct male descendent, and who, in accordance with the terms of primogeniture, is entitled to this claim, as well all titles and their accompanying privileges.”
“I realize,” she began excitedly when he raised his head in speechless amazement, “that it’s not exactly legal and proper, but it’s true, and my father will not deny it.”
“You are mad!”
“If so, I will adore being mad!”
“There!” She sprang to her feet with a buoyancy of body and spirit she had never known. “It’s done! I’m free.” She breathed deeply, easily, her hand on her chest. “But there is so much still for you to do. You must settle your affairs. The ship sails for England on the nineteenth! That’s less than a fortnight! You’ll need to pack and….” She stopped short, all at once perceiving his despondency. “But what is it? Oh, I know. It’s so very sudden. You weren’t prepared. But this is how it was meant to be. This is your reward! Their reparation! Father will be pleased. You see, I told him I would not return with him to England. Peter wants to stay….”
She gripped the back of her chair and then lowered herself into the seat, elation giving way to grim concern. His gloom infected the silence. “Please, Tony, speak to me.”
His gaze fixed on the tabletop, he fingered the edge of the paper. “Anne, I need to tell you. You need to know…about Peter….”
“But you said he was—”
“I lied!” He met her eyes with a troubled look and glanced down at his hands playing with the paper. “What I mean to say is, I said what he wanted me to tell you…not what was true.”
“He was ill. I know that, but he’s well by now.” Tony didn’t answer but continued to fumble with the paper. “He’s in danger. Tell me!” She wanted to pummel him.
Tony sucked in a breath, expelling it on a sigh. “Your husband is a great ass! No doubt he thinks himself a brave man, a man with a purpose, loyal to his cause, willing to lay life and limb on the line for a greater glory. But to my mind, he is just a fool!”
The thrill of premonition jolted up her spine. “Where is he?”
“The fever…. It weakened him. He needed rest. But when he began to fear that Galloway’s spies might come prowling around, he…he left. He insisted. I tried to stop him. I did.”
“Where did he go?” She leaned toward him. Cold uneasiness pulsed through her blood, and yet, she felt as if she had become strangely distant, separated from her body, her mind maintaining its ability to function calmly in spite of the dark foreboding that gripped her.
“He…he said he had to rejoin the army at Valley Forge. He had information necessary to the Cause. He promised to send word. He told me to tell you not to worry. He said he would find you.”
“When? How long ago?”
“It’s been a week. No, longer. A day or two after you left. I waited. I sent Willis to town, to look for him, to ask around. I thought, perhaps, he didn’t make it. Perhaps, they had stopped him….”
“Then, he didn’t send word.” She might have been discussing the weather, so calmly did her own voice strike her.
“No, he didn’t. But you know how difficult it is to get a letter—”
The porridge bubbled over onto the fire, cutting him off with a sustained hiss. Anne rose from her chair and removed the pot from its jack, setting it on the hearthstones. Drawn by the radiance slanting through the window, she wandered away from the fire.
Morning light spilled across the field in a blinding glare, glinting like diamonds in the snow. Already, the eaves had begun to trickle into the rain barrels, the light refracting in the drops of melting snow with a display of crystalline brilliance. Across the field, above the line of trees standing stark against the distant hills of frosted white, a sky of purest blue dazzled her with the image of Peter’s eyes.
Once more, the latest dream was upon her. She glanced down at her upturned palms, and rolled her hands shut.
Soon we’ll be together.
Drawing in a deep, bracing breath, she turned from the window.
Tony remained steeped in guilt, his head bowed, his fingers absently toying with the edges of the note.
“Tony,” she began softly. “You did what you could.”
“I wanted to do what is right. I wanted to….”
“But you have!”
“I should have stopped him! I should have tried harder.”
“No!” She rushed to him and took his face in her hands. “There was nothing you could do. Don’t you see? It was meant to be.”
“I don’t believe that for an instant!”
“But I do! I wish I could explain it so you’d understand…but there isn’t time. Listen to me….” She knelt beside his chair. He turned fully to her. She nervously licked her lips. “I need your help. If ever I needed someone, it’s you…and it’s now, this very minute.”
“Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll do anything!”
“Shhh!” A noise in the rooms above shattered her confidence. Bolting to her feet, she flew to the foyer and listened intently for the sounds of footsteps on the stairs. The moaning of floorboards receded overhead—the sound of Francis Marlowe preparing to tend to her father. Anne whirled back into the room.
“Wait here.” She ducked into the parlor and returned just as quickly, hugging a bundle to her chest. “Come with me,” she whispered. Without a pause, she snatched her cloak from the peg by the door and hurtled out into the morning brightness.
She waited for him by the fence at the front of the house. Rubbing the forehead of his sleek dappled mare, she appeared calm, smiling and speaking softly to the horse until Tony stood by her side.
“She’s well-behaved.” She laughed softly when he horse nuzzled her.
“She’s been well-trained…and she’s fast. Her name’s Daisy.”
“Daisy….” She absently stroked the mare’s neck.
Hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, he watched until she turned to him, eyes burning with purpose. “How long will it take us to reach Valley Forge?”
“What, you and me?”
“No, Daisy and I.”
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am.”
“There’s not a proper saddle. You wouldn’t—”
“I’ve ridden astride. It’s no bother.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“Please!”
“It’s madness to think….” He took her harshly by her shoulders, as if to shake her. “Do you have any idea what’s out there? It’s damned, stupid, utter lunacy even to contemplate it!”
She turned away. “Don’t try to frighten me.”
“Beyond here, the roads are dangerous. Hessian soldiers plundering the countryside. Rebel pickets shooting indiscriminately at anything that moves! Every day one hears stories of…. I won’t bother telling you of the carnage they wreak, not to mention….”
“I’ve come this far. It’s only a little farther.”
“No, I won’t have that on my conscience!”
“Please, Tony!”
“You ask too much of me!”
“You take too much upon yourself if you think you can stop me.”
“I won’t let you.” His hands tightened on her arms. “I refuse to submit to this insanity.”
“It’s not insanity! And you can’t prevent me. I will go on foot if I have to. If not now, then later. I will go, with or without your help.” She smiled gently. “But I would rather have your help. It would make it so much easier. And I will always think kindly of you for it.”
He wavered. Her determination was stronger than his logic. Her stubborn resolve was greater than his fears for her. “You say we’re tied together in this. Does that mean I must be an accessory to your madness?”
“Yes,” she said with growing excitement. “I mean no! I mean I don’t know, except that it’s not madness. I’m not sure of everything. But I do know that I’m free to choose, and my life is out there, waiting for me. He’s waiting now, and I’m not afraid. Please, Tony…help me.”
“Do you honestly believe all this gibberish?”
“It’s my dearest wish! You’re the ace up my sleeve.”
He looked back at the house. All was quiet. “I may be a greater fool than any who’s ever lived. I may regret this to my dying day, but—”
“You’ll not regret it! I swear!”
“What would you have me tell your father?”
Her smile blossomed fully. Impulsively, she threw herself into his arms and kissed his cheek. “Tell him I love him. Tell him I’ve gone home.”
As she fastened her cloak, her fingers grazed the amber glass bubble of her necklace. She paused. Following a momentary contemplation, she slowly pulled it over her head, and pressed it into Tony’s hand.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I’m told it brings good fortune.”
“Does it?”
Her eyes flickered with a secret but knowing smile. “If you believe.”
“I’ll keep it always…as a reminder of you.”
“I must go now.”
He took the bundle and helped her into the saddle. While he adjusted the stirrups she arranged her skirts, cloak, and bundle of clothes, then controlled the lines. She headed the horse around toward the path.
Anne glanced back over her shoulder at the house, her cheeks flushed with cold and exuberance. “Look after my father. Be good to him. And Tony…I want you to be happy. Please try to find your happiness.”
Clutching the necklace tightly in one hand, he grasped for the reins with his other. “I will.”
“Good-bye, then,” she said with a grim finality that caused his heart to flutter with terror for her. She cast a glance at his hand on the lines.
“Daisy likes a little honey with her oats.” Reluctantly, he released his hold.
With a shudder of presentiment, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat as she galloped across the field to the west, her red cloak billowing around her. He watched until she was nothing but a tiny blot of red—like a drop of blood—against a sea of white.
And then she vanished altogether.
The End