“Just this.” The major set down his empty glass, his gaze boring hard into William’s. “Free the MacKinnon name from all taint of murder, and I’ll gi’ you my word as a Scotsman to serve you through war’s end.”
William drank his scotch, savored the taste on his tongue even as he mulled over MacKinnon’s request. There was a time when he’d needed the murder charge to bind the three brothers to him, but what purpose did the threat of execution serve now? William had discharged Iain MacKinnon—a gift to Lady Anne upon the birth of her first child—and General Amherst had cast out Morgan MacKinnon for marrying that French officer’s daughter. Now only Connor MacKinnon remained, and the war was all but won.
William considered himself an expert judge of character and knew that if any MacKinnon were to give his word on any matter, he would not break it. The brothers had an exaggerated Gaelic sense of honor that made breaking a vow unthinkable. But Connor MacKinnon, far more than his two older brothers, hated William. It had long been William’s belief that the murder charge was the only thing keeping him alive. The moment he lifted it, he fully expected Connor MacKinnon to cleave him in two with his broadsword.
Had William misjudged him? Was the major willing to forgo his own vengeance for the sake of his family’s good name?
William studied him for a moment, seeing the determined set of his jaw, the cold steel in his eyes. “Major, I shall consider it.”
As the major walked away, it struck William that it was the first exchange he’d had in five years wherein Connor MacKinnon hadn’t deliberately been disrespectful and rude. Perhaps calling William names—“wee German lairdie” was William’s favorite, followed closely by “Your Immensity”—had lost its appeal.
How disappointing.
S
arah lifted the gown of dark blue silk taffeta from the trunk and laid it across the bed, tracing the pink brocade roses with her fingertips. Jane had packed the gown with such care that there was scarcely a wrinkle, the lace-trimmed stomacher buttoned in place, the fabric smelling faintly of lavender from the lavender packets Jane had tucked inside the trunk. Sarah picked up one of the little linen bundles and held it to her nose, inhaling the soothing scent, tears stinging her eyes as an image of Jane’s terrified face flashed into her mind.
God bless you, my lady! Don’t forget your English tongue!
Sarah said a silent prayer for Jane and young Thomas then reached for the next gown. Lieutenant Cooke had apologized profusely that there was no one to attend her, suggesting that she rest until a woman could be retained to help her unpack and dress. But Sarah had thanked him for his concern, assuring him that, given all she’d been through, she could manage this small task without help.
In truth, she had never packed or unpacked her own belongings before. She wasn’t even sure which trunk held which items—her hairbrush, her shoes, her toothbrush and tooth powder. This one seemed to contain only gowns.
She laid out the gowns and matching petticoats one by one until the broad feather bed was draped in an array of bright
colors and shimmering silks—ivory, burgundy, and blue satins, rose, green, and lavender damasks, pink, blue, and peach taffetas, gray, claret, and midnight-blue velvets. When the gowns were all laid out, she hung each carefully in the wardrobe, frustrated whenever they slipped free and fell in a heap on the wooden floor.
In the second trunk, she found her stays, underpetticoats of embroidered silk and wool, shifts and night shifts of soft cotton, silk stockings, hair ribbons, sleeve ruffles of French lace, lace tuckers, embroidered linen kerchiefs, fans, and shoes, each one wrapped in a square of linen. She placed the garments in the chest of drawers across from the bed, lining the shoes up in neat pairs beneath it, as Jane had done.
The third trunk held things that were unwieldy and more difficult to pack or that might open and cause a stain—hooped petticoats, summer hats, her heavy winter cloak, embroidered handbags, winter bonnets, her fur-lined muff, a small box of jewelry, rose-scented soap for her skin and hair, her brush and comb, cream for her hands, cotton cloths for her monthly, her silver-handled toothbrush, her little box of tooth powder, and her Bible. Some of these she stowed away in the wardrobe. Others she tucked into the chest of drawers.
Sarah knew she ought to be happy. Tonight, she would sleep on a feather bed beneath a quilt and sheets of soft flannel, not on a straw mattress beneath a bearskin. But as she finished putting her things in their proper places, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling that she was looking at the pieces of a stranger’s life. All of these beautiful things she’d just unpacked—it was as if they belonged to someone else, artifacts from another life. The inexperienced girl who had taken them for granted could not be the woman who now stood there clad in muslin and moccasins, grateful just to be alive.
And yet these
were
Sarah’s possessions. They represented the life she was about to return to, a life of ease and luxury, of safety and duty, of loneliness and despair.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass, paused, and stared. Dressed as she was in a gown of plain muslin, she supposed she must look very much like a lady’s maid tending her mistress’s wardrobe. The thought made her smile, even as a sense of melancholy settled inside her. How could she go back to the lifeless existence she’d had before?
Sarah had just placed the Bible and jewelry box on top of the chest of drawers when Lieutenant Cooke arrived accompanied by a young private who carried a porcelain bowl and a large pewter pitcher of steaming water.
“My lady.” Lieutenant Cooke gave a crisp bow. “Your uncle wishes you to join him for morning tea in an hour. Is there aught you require?”
“No, thank you, Lieutenant.” She stepped aside to permit the private to enter the room and place the pitcher and bowl on the bedside table. “I shall be ready.”
Would Connor still be there? Oh, she hoped he would!
Sarah quickly washed her face and hands, then removed the muslin gown and wool stockings, leaving on the soft cotton shift Connor had bought for her, wanting something of him against her skin. She stepped into the wardrobe, pondering what to wear, wanting to please Connor, yet certain silk and lace mattered little to him.
In the end, she chose a simple dress of blue silk taffeta with a burgundy petticoat, both embroidered with silver roses. Laying it aside, she drew on a pair of silk stockings, tying the ribbons above her knees. Then she struggled with her whalebone stays, which she was forced to put on backward at first so that she could draw the laces tight.
When her stays were turned back into place, she stepped into her hooped petticoat, tying the laces tight at her waist. She put her underpetticoat over this, followed by the burgundy silk petticoat, and then the gown itself, buttoning the stomacher in place and adjusting the cloth of her shift so that it showed evenly from beneath her bodice. The gown’s sides were meant to be drawn back the better to display the burgundy petticoat, but this Sarah could not accomplish on her own. She let it go, reaching in a drawer for a pair of ruffled lace cuffs, fastening one in place on the end of each sleeve.
It felt good to be properly dressed again with stays and petticoats. But what could she do with her hair? Though she’d spent her life watching her lady’s maids comb it, curl it, and shape it stylishly, she could not dress it properly herself. She brushed and braided it, coiling the braid at her nape and pinning the end in place. It was neither fashionable nor terribly flattering, but it would have to do.
She opened her jewelry box to select a necklace, reaching up
to remove Joseph’s band of wampum. Then her hands stilled. Not even the gold cross her parents had given her as a confirmation gift meant as much to her as this simple band of polished shell and leather. She hadn’t the heart to remove it.
She turned to the looking glass to study her reflection to make sure she hadn’t overlooked anything, feeling strangely uncertain about her appearance, wishing she could do something more with her hair. She’d never dressed to please a man before.
He cared for you when you were wore only doeskin and his homespun shirt, Sarah. He will not think less of you because your hair is not dressed for court.
She turned from the mirror, left her chamber, and descended the stairs slowly so that she would not seem to rush. But when she reached Uncle William’s study, Connor was not there. Uncle William stood alone looking out his window onto the parade grounds, his fingers troubling what looked like a black chess piece—a cracked and chipped king.
Fighting to hide her disappointment, she curtsied. “My lord.”
He turned toward her, dropping the chess piece into his pocket and offering his hand. “You’ve grown more beautiful than I could have imagined. Please join me.”
“Thank you, Uncle. You are most kind.” Sarah took his hand and let him lead her to a plush chair, adjusting her skirts as she sat.
Upon that moment, the same young private who’d brought her hot water arrived with a tea cart that held a porcelain teapot and two matching cups, along with milk, sugar, true clotted cream, strawberry jam, and freshly baked scones.
Sarah’s mouth watered.
Distracted by the sweet taste of the tea, the fluffy warmth of the scones, the tart sweetness of the jam, and the buttery richness of the clotted cream, she allowed herself to forget the important matters she needed to present to Uncle William, their conversation drifting toward inconsequential things—the difficulty of getting a cook who knew how to make good clotted cream in the Americas, the flooding of the Hudson, the way winter seemed to linger here. Only when she found Uncle William watching her, his gray eyes studying her, did she remember there were much graver matters to discuss.
Sarah set her cup on its saucer. “I should like to send letters to the families of the two who were taken captive with me and slain—dear Jane, my lady’s maid, and Thomas Wilkins, a child of nine or ten years. Their families deserve to know how they died. They were most brave, my lord. They did not deserve such a terrible fate.”
For a moment, Uncle William looked confused by this request, as if he’d forgotten that she wasn’t the only one who’d been taken captive. Then he nodded. “Ah, yes. Terrible business. I shall ask Lieutenant Cooke to aid you in any way he can.”
“Thank you, Uncle.”
“I said I would not speak of your ordeal, but I find I cannot help but tell you how pleased I am by your actions. You are possessed of extraordinary courage for a woman—courage befitting your noble blood.”
Feeling almost shamed by such praise, Sarah took up her teacup and pretended to study its contents. “It was Major MacKinnon and Captain Joseph who showed true courage. If not for them—”
“Modesty becomes you, Sarah, but I know how you came to wear that band of wampum.” Uncle William’s gaze dropped to her throat. “As for the Scot and his Mahican friend, they were born and bred to fight. It is but a part of their nature.”
Sarah might have objected to this easy dismissal of Connor and Joseph, but Uncle William went on.
“I regret that I allowed you to be put in harm’s way by yielding to your pleas to journey to Albany.”
Her pulse skipped, his words treading near the very subject that she most needed to broach with him. “I do not blame you. I could not bear to remain there another day.”
Uncle William’s lips pressed into a firm line, his gray eyes narrowing. “Did they harm you, Sarah? Did anyone in the governor’s household mistreat or threaten you in any way?”
Sarah’s gaze dropped to her tea, her heart beating faster. “N-no, my lord. They were not cruel, but neither were they kind. I was confined to my chamber for most of every day, allowed to walk about only at mealtimes. I feared I would die of loneliness.”
“I see.” Was that displeasure in his voice? “You wrote in your letter that you needed my help. I suggest you come to the
heart of it and explain what you meant by that. I should also like to know why your parents sent you away. If you want my help, I must know the truth, Sarah.”
Sarah nodded. This is why she’d come—to plead her case and seek his help. She set her teacup aside, took a steadying breath, and began, Margaret’s words of caution echoing in her mind.
Never show your true self to those who do not truly love you.
Connor had believed her. He had accepted her.
She prayed Uncle William would, too.
C
onnor watched the new recruits charge uphill, his already dark mood turning darker as boys barely old enough to go to war fought for breath, tripped on tree roots, and lost gear in the underbrush, only a handful making it to the crest of the hill with their gear in the allotted time. He cursed under his breath. “Och, for God’s sake!”
“’Tis no’ so bad.” McHugh stood beside him. “Do you remember that first summer when you, Iain, and Morgan tried to make Rangers out of us all? I’d swear we were no better than this.”
Young men struggled to catch their breath, their faces red with exertion, sweat dripping on their foreheads, some still fumbling with their bayonets.
Connor ignored McHugh, hopping up on a tree stump so that everyone could see and hear him. “If runnin’ up this hillside is too much for you on a sunny spring day, how do you think you’ll fare in snowshoes wi’ three hundred French soldiers and Wyandot warriors at your heels? The burnin’ in your lungs and legs is naugh’ compared to the agony of bein’ burnt alive. If your bayonet doesna fit and falls off when you train, how will it stay fixed in battle? If it falls off, leave it on the bloody ground and draw your hatchet! Do it again.”
McHugh shouted out the order. “Come, lasses, let’s try it again, and put your hearts into it this time! You’ve come to fight a war, no’ to play games in the forest.”
Connor stepped off the trunk, watching as the recruits hurried back down the hill, determined looks on their sweaty faces.
Killy, who’d been drilling alongside the recruits, came up to
him, still out of breath. “You’re drivin’ them hard, so you are. Are you tryin’ to build them up or hopin’ to break them?”