Philippe awoke during the night, sat on the edge of the bed he and Charles shared, and looked outside. Snow. Snow so heavy it had begun to drift against the side of the house. He arose and walked to the door, pushed against it, and peered through the slight opening toward the barn. It was completely hidden behind the blanket of snow descending from the dark sky. He lay back down.
Why, God? Why, when I need good traveling weather, do you send the snow? He closed his eyes and fought his disappointment. My dear Bridget, I will try to get to you in time. But I cannot control the weather. Only God . . . only God controls the weather. Only God.
He turned on his side, away from Charles. His brother moaned and mumbled from time to time in his sleep. Philippe wondered if he’d always done that or if it was simply because he was in pain.
If Bridget and I are meant to be together, won’t God make a way? As he made a way for us in France and through the snow to the Saunderses’? And for Charles to get there as well? Is there a reason he sent the snow to delay us? For Charles’ hands to heal? To avoid some danger of which we are unaware, but he knows? We don’t know, do we? But you do.
Philippe’s midnight musings turned into a prayer. Father, once more, you are requiring us to trust you. Build my faith. Help me to be patient and rest in your arms. I place my faith in you. Help me to get to Bridget as quickly as I can.
His mind began to fill with visions of the girl he now knew he loved—her smile, her laugh, her dusky blue eyes. He chastised himself again for rejecting her. Almost tangible pain rose in his heart. Father, if you give me the chance to claim her as my own, I will never reject her again, for any reason. Never again.
PIERRE STOKED THE FIRE IN THE KEEPING ROOM AND brought the flames to life. Claudine scurried to the fireplace from the small room she shared with Vangie, pulling on her white cap. “I’m sorry, monsieur. It’s so dark outside; I didn’t know what time it was.”
“All is well, Claudine. My timepiece says it’s about six o’clock. We’ve had quite a snowfall during the night.”
“I’ll have breakfast for you soon.” She set about putting a kettle of water on the fire and bringing out skillet biscuits from the night before. She cut slices of smoked venison and cheese on a board and set them on the table. “Porridge will be ready as soon as this water gets hot.”
The door to Philippe and Charles’ room scraped open, and the two brothers ambled into the keeping room. Philippe looked at Pierre with a quirk of his eyebrows. “Looks like our trip is going to be delayed.”
“That it does.” Pierre reached out for Charles. “How are your hands feeling?”
“Better every day. The tips of these two fingers are still numb.” He held up the fourth and fifth digits of his left hand.
“You need to be diligent to protect them from further injury. They will be quite sensitive to the cold for several weeks.”
Charles nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful.”
The men, their faces reflected in the mellow glow of two lanterns at the trestle table, discussed the brothers’ options.
Pierre rubbed his chin. “Have you thought about where you are going to stay? And the possibility of running into Zwicken, Charles?”
“I’ll be watchful. Zwicken doesn’t leave the shop during the day, and every night he goes to the Boar’s Head and drinks himself into a stupor. We’ll cut a wide swath as far as he is concerned.”
Philippe propped his leg on the bench. “We can stay at the Harbor Tavern & Inn. I believe it’s far enough from the foundry. I’ve never been to Moorehead’s, but you have, Charles, correct?”
Charles nodded. “Yes—making deliveries.”
Pierre leaned back in his chair at the end of the table.“This reminds me of when I set out to look for your father. I had no idea where he was in all of France, or whether he was even alive. But God guided me every step of the way, and he will guide you as well. However, I didn’t have snow to contend with—only King Louis’ wrath.”
Madeleine came into the room. “You are talking about Louis?”
“Only indirectly, my dear.” Pierre motioned for his wife to join them.
“In a moment. I’ll help Claudine finish up.”
Vangie emerged soon from her room, drawing a shawl around her shoulders. “I didn’t hear you get up, Claudine.”
“The dark skies and snow have thrown our clocks off.” Claudine smiled as she dished up the porridge, and Madeleine set it down in front of the men.
Vangie sat down next to Charles and snuggled up to him. “I’m so glad you are home.”
“You’re growing up too fast.” He chuckled and pulled on one of her braids.
She looked out the window as the sky started to lighten. “It’s still snowing.”
Philippe kept his head down and began to eat his porridge.
Madeleine put her hand on his shoulder. “Surely you are not going to try to leave today, are you?”
He continued to eat. “God will make a way when it is time.”
FIVE DAYS LATER, AFTER THREE FULL DAYS OF SUNSHINE, THE brothers decided to start for Philadelphia. They appeared at breakfast with their packs ready, awaiting the first sign of sunlight. Charles carried the fur robe the Indians had given him. They sat at the table to eat breakfast with Pierre and Vangie. Madeleine was missing.
“Is Maman . . . ?”
Pierre, slathering a piece of bread with apple butter, shook his head. “This is difficult for her—to watch both of her sons leave again, and on a mission that she does not approve of.”
CHARLES SAT ATOP A LARGE PERCHERON MIX. HE ADJUSTED his gloves over the wrappings with which Claudine had bound his fingers. Philippe threw his knapsack over the back of Legacy. Each of the brothers carried a rifle, a knife, and a pair of snowshoes. And in Philippe’s vest pocket lay a blue hair ribbon, tied into a soft, loose knot.
Philippe turned toward the house as Vangie came out the door and handed each of her brothers biscuits, smoked venison, and cheese wrapped in cloth and a flask of ale. “There are dried apples in there as well.”
Philippe looked into the dark Clavell eyes of his sister and chucked her chin. He bowed to her. “Merci, mademoiselle.” Then he kissed her hand and hugged her. “Now get inside. It’s too cold out here for you. You’re already shivering.”
She smiled and walked back onto the porch. Pausing in the doorway, she waved and then went inside.
Pierre handed Legacy’s reins to Philippe. “Be alert, and be wise. I pray Godspeed for you on this mission.” Then Pierre walked over to Charles and put his hands on top of his. “I pray quick healing for these hands, Father.”
Philippe looked at the clear sky. “Could you pray for good weather, as well?”
Pierre laughed and tipped his hat. “That I will do. Now be on your way. Be especially attentive to the rivers and streams. They will be dangerously rapid after this snow. Don’t try to cross unless you know—”
“I know.” Philippe smiled as he mounted Legacy. He paused and looked toward the house.
“Don’t worry about your mother. The past is still too real in her memory. She still sees her sons being captured by an enemy. How can she put her stamp of approval on that? But I am confident that with time and prayer she will see that God is bigger than Protestants and Catholics and dragoons and the king of France.” Pierre handed Philippe a bundle wrapped in cloth and tied with twine. “She made hoecakes for you to take, and there’s some extra money in there as well.” He waved his hand. “Go on about your mission, and bring your Bridget home, if God allows you to arrive in time, and she agrees. We shall be waiting with open arms—all of us.”
Philippe nodded, and the Clavell brothers headed for Philadelphia.
LEO ZWICKEN TOSSED EDWARD’S LETTER OF DISMISSAL ONTO his desk. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk and chuckled. He cannot dismiss me. I know too much. He wouldn’t dare. This is just for show.
The bell over the door jangled, and loud voices rose above the noise of the foundry. Taking his feet down and rising, Zwicken made to leave his office, but stopped in the doorway, shocked. British redcoats stood across the front of the shop.
“What is this? What is going on?”
A lieutenant stepped forward with a paper in his hand. “Are you Leo Zwicken?”
“I am.”
“You are hereby notified that this property is being conscripted by the Royal Crown of England. Mister Leo Zwicken will no longer be allowed on said property until further notice.”
“Impossible! You cannot do this. I am a partner in this business, and my quarters are upstairs.”
“I have my orders, sir. I am to escort you off the property.”
“Off the property? This is my property!” Zwicken pounded his fist on a table.
The lieutenant stepped forward with his hand on his sword. “Please, Mister Zwicken. Let’s do this peaceably. We are authorized to use force if we must.”
The workers in the shop had stopped their work and were staring in disbelief at the scene. Goody Wallace stood at the door between the shop and the kitchen with a mixing bowl in her arms and a spoon in her hand, her mouth agape.
Addressing the workers, the lieutenant motioned with his hand. “Continue with your work. We have orders to keep you busy, and you will be paid as usual.” He took Zwicken by the elbow.
Zwicken wrenched his arm free, tore off his apron, and threw it on the floor. “Would you allow me to gather a few things from my quarters?”
“Of course. You will be escorted.”
Zwicken stormed through the shop, into the kitchen, and up the stairs with a soldier close behind him. The two returned a few minutes later; Zwicken hefted a large bag. He started back into the shop, but the door was blocked by another soldier.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot let you enter the shop.”
Zwicken blustered and bellowed, “What? Can I not even get my hat out of my office?”
The soldier turned and shouted to one of the workers. “Fetch Mister Zwicken’s hat!”
The hat was duly retrieved and handed over solemnly. Zwicken grabbed it and stormed out of the kitchen, down the back steps, and out to the stable to get his horse.
AFTER THREE DAYS OF CLEAR WEATHER, PHILIPPE AND Charles rode into Philadelphia late in the afternoon. The sun slid into the horizon, and the evening air settled like an icy shell in between the shops and stores lining the streets.
“We need to get to the inn,” Philippe said.
Charles pulled out his money bag and grinned. “I have money.”
Philippe shooed his hand away. “Keep it for now. I’m sure we will need it later. I have my wages from the Barringtons, and Pierre gave me a few coins as well.”
The brothers pulled up to the Harbor Tavern & Inn and rode around to the side. Philippe stepped onto the walkway, then turned to Charles. “Remain here while I make certain there is no one inside who might recognize you.”
He walked around the corner to the entrance and pushed open the door, which was still scraping across the floor. He stepped inside and looked over the sparse crowd. He saw no one that he recognized, but neither did he see Mister Clark. He stepped down the two steps into the dining room, then he spotted the proprietor with his back to him toward the side of the room wiping a table. Philippe walked up behind him. “Mister Clark?”
The innkeeper jerked his head around. “Why, Philippe. What are you doing back in Philadelphia?” He began pounding Philippe on the back with his free hand and laughing, then his countenance sobered. “Your brother? Did he make it home? Is he . . . ?”
“Shhh.” Philippe put his arm around the rotund man. “Charles is fine and waiting outside. And my family thanks you for your help to him. We can never adequately repay your generosity. Now”—Philippe looked around the room—“we need a room for a couple of nights.”
“Of course. I have plenty. Most people are home with their families this time of year.” He looked at Philippe and raised his eyebrows.
“I shall explain everything. And we will pay.” Philippe smiled.
Mister Clark nodded. “Go get Charles. I’ll see that your room is ready.”
Philippe went outside and got Charles and tipped a young groomsman to take care of their horses. They came back in and found a table in a back corner in the shadows of a carved post. The aroma of limes, lemons, oranges, and spices mixed with warm rum filled the room.
Goody Clark smiled at the brothers and set a bowl of the steaming brew in front of them. She looked at Charles. “I’m glad to see you made it. Star got you home?”
Charles grinned. “She did. She is a queen, just as you said. She is safe and warm in the stables on our homestead. Thank you for coming to my rescue. The horse was an answer to prayer.”
She laughed and flicked her wrist. “I’m glad Star has a good home.
I’ll bring your supper right over.”
Philippe ladled out mugs for themselves. “You’ll like this. The Barringtons used to serve lime punch at Christmastime at Whisper Wood. I always got a cup before Abigail carried it out for the guests.”
Charles removed his gloves and fur robe. He encircled the warm mug with his hands. “That feels good.”
“How are your fingers?”
“Better!” He wiggled the two digits that had been affected the most. They did look better. “They are still a mite sensitive, but better.” He took a swig of the punch. His eyes sparkled. “That is good.”
“Don’t drink it too fast. You’ll get light-headed quickly on it.”
Charles took another sip and put the mug down on the wooden table. He began to help himself to the plates of smoked bacon, ham and tongue, stewed oysters and eels. Pickled beets, onions, and eggs sat in smaller bowls around the table, along with cooked cabbage, potatoes, and turnips. Large rounds of bread and cheeses sat on breadboards at each end of the table. “What are our plans, big brother? What do you propose we do now?”
Philippe took off his hat, setting it on the bench beside him, and filled his pewter plate, avoiding the oysters. “Never developed a taste for those.” He helped himself to the bacon and ham and vegetables. “We’ll ask God for direction. He will show us what to do next.”