Sarah sat, took up a piece of cheese, and began to nibble.
“All shall be well, my lady. In a year’s time, this will be behind you, and you will be free to forget the entire ordeal.”
But Sarah would never be free to forget. Even if Uncle William helped find her a good husband and her condition were somehow kept secret from her parents and all of London, she would be leaving behind not only the man she loved, but also a child. Wellborn ladies who got pregnant outside of wedlock did not keep their bastards, as girls of the lower classes often did. Sarah was not even certain she’d be allowed to see or hold the baby after it was born.
When she returned the wampum to Joseph, she would have to warn Connor that Uncle William knew of her condition. Otherwise, Connor might…
And then she realized she
couldn’t
tell him. Now that Uncle William knew she was with child, she
couldn’t
tell Connor, for he would try to claim the baby, laying himself bare to Uncle William’s wrath. No, she must keep her condition secret from him. She must endure this alone.
Despair, cold and dark, washed through her, tears blurring her vision, rolling down her cheeks. She felt a bony hand upon her shoulder, but she didn’t want Agnes’s pity. “Please, Agnes, leave me.”
W
hen Sarah came down to dinner that night, her mind was set upon discussing one thing—what would become of her child. She had given it great thought—in fact, she’d scarce been able to think of anything else—and she believed she had an answer.
She would give the baby to Joseph.
When she gave him the wampum, she would tell him of
her plight and ask that he keep the truth secret from Connor. Joseph knew Connor even better than she and would surely know that he would put himself in danger to claim the child. When the baby was born, she would have it delivered to Joseph. Uncle William thought the child was half Indian, so he would not question giving the baby to an Indian family. But Joseph would know who the baby’s father was. By the time Connor realized he was a father, there would be no need for him to confront Uncle William, for he would already have what was his. Both father and child would be safe—and once the war was over, they would be together.
It gave Sarah comfort to think of her baby in Connor’s arms.
When she entered the dining room, Uncle William rose and came around to draw out her chair. “How do you feel?”
“I am well, thank you.” She adjusted her skirts and sat, reaching for her napkin and spreading it on her lap. “Evenings are not as bad as mornings. I do not feel as sick.”
“I am glad of that, at least.” He watched her, his gaze troubled.
For a time they spoke of inconsequential things, neither of them mentioning the examination he’d forced her to endure. It wasn’t until after they’d completed the main course that Sarah broached the subject.
“I’ve given great thought to what I should like done with my child once it is born.” She watched Uncle William’s eyes narrow. “I should like it to go to Joseph’s people. I know he will see that the baby is raised with kindness and not neglected.”
Uncle William took a swallow of wine. “Dr. Blake tells me that it is not uncommon for a woman in the early stages of breeding to miscarry. Let us pray your womb rejects the bastard before it quickens.”
“Uncle!” Sarah could not help but gape at him. “How can you say such a thing? This baby might be a bastard, but it is also
my
child!”
“Your maternal impulses do you credit as a woman, but do not forget this was forced upon you. Would you see your noble blood mingle with that of the heathen who ravished you? I should hope not.” He glared at her, then seemed to catch himself, his gaze softening. “If the…
offspring
survives to birth, your idea has merit. We needn’t trouble ourselves with that now. There are more important matters at hand. I have received word from your father.”
Sarah’s pulse quickened. “What does he say?”
“He has recalled you to London. It seems he has found a husband for you.”
Blood rushed to Sarah’s head. “Wh-what?”
“My missive apparently arrived in London too late to be of any use to you. Your father had just entered into a marriage contract with one George Caswell, Earl of Denton, settling a small fortune upon the man in exchange for—”
But Sarah heard only the name of the lord she was to marry before all else was drowned out by the thrumming of her heartbeat. She found herself on her feet. “N-no! There must be some misunderstanding, Uncle. My mother loathes him. I cannot marry him! I will not marry him!”
Uncle William’s gaze grew stern. “Sit. Calm yourself.”
Sarah sat, her hands beginning to tremble.
“Your father wrote that Lord Denton was the only nobleman in all of Britain to offer for you these past long months. Though both he and your mother have misgivings about the match, he believes you would be better served through marriage than by living out your life as companion to some elderly noblewoman.”
“But I cannot marry him! He is none of the things I wished for in a husband. He is dull-witted and corpulent—”
“You need not love him or find him desirable, Sarah. You need only marry him. If his bed sport is not to your liking, you need only bear him an heir, which I’m sure you will do quickly, given your apparent fecundity. Once he has a son or two, you will no doubt be free to seek your pleasure elsewhere. He only wants you for the coin you will bring to his coffers.”
Did Uncle William expect those words to make her feel better? Did he not intend to help her fight this match?
“I will not marry him.”
“You will.” Uncle William’s eyes were hard like slate, his voice cold. “The contract is already signed. It is your duty.”
Sarah stared at her uncle, unable to believe her life had taken this turn. To be married to Lord Lard, to be expected to lie with him…
She thought back to the last time she had seen Denton. He’d come to call on Lady Margaret, ostensibly to wish her a happy birthday. The real purpose of his visit was to ask her for money, which Margaret had declined to give him. He’d spoken with Sarah briefly, and Sarah had been afraid that Lord Denton might reveal to her mother that he’d seen Sarah playing the violin, but…
And then it hit Sarah with the force of a war club. “It was Lord Denton!
He
stole Margaret’s journals.
He
circulated them. Uncle, it was he!”
Lord William glared at her through narrowed eyes. “Sarah, do not attempt—”
“He is Lady Margaret’s cousin. He came to her house seeking money a few months before the journals were stolen, but Margaret refused him. He saw me there, and we spoke briefly. Not a fortnight later, he approached my father with an offer of marriage, which my parents rejected. Soon thereafter, Margaret’s journals were—”
“Sarah! Stop this nonsense!” Uncle William’s shout startled Sarah into silence.
He had never raised his voice to her before.
“I have been understanding of all you’ve endured these past months, but I
will not
tolerate hysterics or childish attempts to avoid this marriage!” He closed his eyes, rubbed his temple as if he had a headache. “Perhaps I should have waited until another time to tell you about your father’s letter. I was certain you’d take it as good news.”
“I apologize, my lord, for bringing my difficulties to your doorstep, but I am not saying this merely to escape marriage to Denton.” Sarah struggled to keep her voice even. “Do you not think it a strange coincidence that a scandal involving his own cousin, with whom he had occasion to be angry, should be the very thing that renders me unmarriageable and so available to him when he had earlier sought my hand and found himself thwarted?”
There was a subtle shift on Uncle William’s countenance, and Sarah knew he was thinking it through.
“There is, of course, one other problem, my lord. I cannot very well arrive in London for my wedding with a big belly.”
Uncle William met her gaze, clearly still vexed with her. “Another reason it would be fortuitous if you were to miscarry.”
W
illiam rubbed his temple, his headache worse. “What have you discovered?”
“I’ve read everything I can find on the matter, and I would plead with you to set this madness aside. I fear for Lady Sarah’s life and for my honor as doctor if you persist in—”
“Dr. Blake!” It was all William could do not to shout. “My niece has suffered a terrible misfortune through no fault of her own, and I am doing all I can to protect her so that she might regain her place in society. Her father has arranged a match for her, but she cannot return to London heavy with child. Nor would I watch her die in childbed. There must be
some
way to free her from this burden!”
Dr. Blake seemed to hesitate. “I have spoken with a few camp followers, one of whom claims to know another woman who succeeded in ridding herself of a bastard by drinking pennyroyal tea. I asked her about the amount, but she couldn’t recall. I have the necessary stock of pennyroyal, but I am far from certain about the dose.” Dr. Blake’s lips pressed together in a frown. “I will not risk Lady Sarah’s life. If you insist this must be done, then I shall first test the potion on myself.”
“Do not risk yourself either, for God’s sake! Test it on a camp follower.”
Dr. Blake gaped at William as if he’d gone mad. “Such a thing would be unconscionable! You are not yourself, my lord.”
William finished off his cognac and set his empty tulip glass aside, the pressure in his skull nearly unbearable. He rubbed his temple with his fingers. “Forgive me, Doctor. As you say, I am out of sorts.”
William hated to admit such weakness. He’d always prided himself on his restraint, his ability to control his own emotions while manipulating those of others. But this day had tried him sorely. The news that Sarah had been violated and was pregnant. The letter from her father. Her outburst at dinner. Her accusation against Lord Denton—and the chance that she was right.
And now this news.
William had a war to wage and win. He could not afford to spend all day addressing Sarah’s troubles. And yet if there were any chance she was right about Denton, William would know the truth of it. In the morning, he would dispatch letters to his connections on Bow Street and have the matter investigated. If, indeed, Denton had circulated Lady Margaret’s journals, bringing shame to Sarah and setting this chain of events in motion, he would pay with his life.
Dr. Blake interrupted William’s thoughts. “Has Lady Sarah agreed to do this?”
William had yet to mention it to her. “She understands where her duty lies.”
C
onnor jolted upright, his skin covered in cold sweat. He sucked air into his lungs, his nightmare fading as he took in the sight of sleeping Rangers.
It had seemed so real.
He glanced at the sky, saw that the moon had moved but little since he’d lain down to sleep. He shoved the bearskin aside and rose from his pallet of pine bows, his heart still pounding between his ribs, his mouth dry from fear.
He needed to find Joseph.
Connor made his way through the encampment, calling out the correct countersigns, Lake Champlain glimmering in the moonlight below. He came to the place where Joseph and his men were encamped to find his Mahican brother still awake.
Joseph sat speaking with two of his most trusted men—Daniel and Joshua. But one look at Connor’s face, and Joseph sent them away. “Something troubles you.”
“A dream.” Connor tried to recount it as best he could, fear snaking through as he spoke, seeping into his bones, turning his blood to ice for reasons he did not understand. “I saw Sarah standin’ naked and alone in the midst of a storm. In her hands, she held a flame. It didna burn her, but danced on her cupped palms, small and bright. She fought to protect it, and there were tears on her face. The storm pressed in around her, the sky blacker than the blackest night. I tried to help her, for I kent if the flame went out, she would perish wi’ it. But no matter how I tried, I couldna reach her.”
Joseph’s face was bent in a worried frown. “If we were in the village, I would speak with our sachem about this.”
“We dinnae ha’ time for a sachem or songs. Everything inside me tells me Sarah is in grave danger.”
“Then, brother, you must listen to your heart.”
I
t was late on the seventh day of their ten-day mission when Connor led the Rangers out of the forest and back to Ranger Island. Spurred on by a growing sense of urgency, he had cut the mission short, turning back south of Crown Point and
driving the men hard, returning in three days over ground it had taken four days to travel. The lads had learned a thing or two about being a Ranger during that long, forced march. That much was certain.
Connor dismissed his men, leaving them to settle in with their nightly ration of rum, while he quickly bathed and shaved, washing away a week’s worth of sweat and dirt. He donned a clean pair of breeches and a clean shirt, searching for a pretext to meet with Wentworth. There was little of worth to report. No skirmishes. No French troops. No supply trains. They’d found some Wyandot canoes and supply caches hidden near Lake Champlain north of Ticonderoga, a sign that the Wyandot were keeping an eye on the British at Crown Point.
Regardless, Connor would report to Wentworth despite the late hour—and he would ask about Sarah. He’d carried a knot of fear in his chest for her since having that nightmare three nights ago, and nothing but the sight of her, alive and safe, would banish it. He drew on his belt, sheathed his hunting knife, then slipped a dirk into his leggings and set out for the fort.
He found Joseph waiting for him at the bateau bridge. Joseph rested his hand on Connor’s shoulder. “Tell her I keep her in my prayers.”
“Aye. I will.” Connor crossed the bridge, made his way through the outer entrenchments, through inner gates, and across the parade grounds toward Wentworth’s quarters, praying with each step that Sarah was safe.
The guards at Wentworth’s door stopped him.
“Is the brigadier general expecting you?”