by Amii Lorin
“You’re dressed.” Faith peered through the darkness at his vague outline. “You’re leaving?”
“I must.”
“But…,” she began to protest, only to be silenced by the tip of his finger against her lips.
“My love, please understand,” Pres whispered, dropping to his knees next to the bed, “Were it possible, I would ask nothing more of my God than to be allowed to spend my life by your side.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Being with you, not only the way we were last night, but in all ways, is all I now require of life.” He pressed his lips to her palm. “But it is not possible. I cannot, in good conscience, indulge my personal desires. I must do what little I can to further our cause.” His hand gripped hers. ‘‘Faith, it rends my heart to see the men. My compatriots languish under appalling conditions while our generals argue over various locations to quarter the army over the winter.”
“It will be Valley Forge,” she said, raising her hand to stroke his hair back from his forehead.
“So you foretold the night of your arrival.”
“Yes.” Faith sighed, recalling that night, the surprise, the shock. “I wish I could help in some way,” she said. “But I own nothing except the clothes I was wearing when I arrived here.”
“You help me just by being alive,” he murmured, bending to brush his mouth over hers. “I must go.”
“I know.” Faith felt her throat tighten with the admission. “I know.”
“Know also that I love you.” He gave her a hard, fast kiss, then before she could respond, he drew away and moved to the window.
“Pres,” she called, as he swung one leg over the sill. “I love you too.” The first gray streaks of dawn revealed his adored face to her.
Pres smiled. “You honor me with your love. Keep safe, my Faith. I shall return whenever I can.” He was outside, his voice wafting to her on the wind. “Pray for me.”
* * * *
Faith had never prayed so often, or so fervently, as she did during the weeks following his plea.
From the talk of the men who frequented the inn, Faith heard that General Washington had marched his ill-equipped, ill-dressed, ill-fed army out of Whitemarsh on about the first of December. With a number of the men shoeless, their feet wrapped in rags for protection, leaving bloody footprints in the early snow, it had taken the ragtag army a full week to march the thirteen miles from Whitemarsh to Valley Forge.
Of course, Faith knew about the terrible situation facing the army, had read in her own time about the deprivations suffered by the men. But knowing about them from a twenty first century perspective did not prepare her for actually living through the events, even from a secure distance.
And so Faith prayed a lot, and worried constantly, for Pres’s safety.
Faith could not recall an autumn so unrelentingly harsh as this one was. Snow began falling weeks before the official arrival of winter. And the knowledge that Pres was out there, enduring the cold and wet, playing his dangerous game of aristocratic dandy and shadowy scout, terrified her.
On the few occasions that Pres managed to stop at the inn, attired in his guise of the wealthy man of business, Faith knew he had either been to, or was returning from, the occupied city of Philadelphia. She also knew that, on the nights he silently slipped through the window into her bedroom, he was engaged in scouting the terrain both for supplies and information. She was frighteningly aware that neither endeavor was conducive to his continuing good health. If he were caught, he would be shot.
The realization that each time she saw Pres might well be the last haunted Faith, making her numb to the approach of Thanksgiving. Since the holiday would not begin to be celebrated for over a decade, the special Thursday in November came and went without Faith’s giving it much thought.
It wasn’t until near the end of the second week of December that Faith remembered Christmas, and then only because Mrs. Shelby broached the subject.
“William and I were just discussing our trip to York, Faith,” she said, bustling into the kitchen, where Faith was kneading bread dough.
Faith glanced up from the floured wooden table to frown at the older woman. “York?” she repeated, at a loss to understand what Mrs. Shelby was talking about.
“Surely you must remember, child,” Emily chided. “I told you over a month ago that we would be making the journey to York to spend Christmas day with our children.”
“Oh, yes, yes, of course,” Faith lied, for in truth, she had been so distracted by her concerns for Pres, she had completely forgotten, even with the constant reminder of the woman herself, who’d been busily employed during the previous weeks knitting long scarves and mittens for her sons. “Ah...” she continued. “What about your trip to York?”
Mrs. Shelby gave her a strange look, as she often did, but went on to explain. “Because the weather has been so very harsh and unpredictable for this time of year, Mr. Shelby has decided to depart for York a few days earlier than we originally planned. William intends to make an early start on the twenty-first day of December.”
“The twenty-first?” Faith repeated, knowing she sounded somewhat dim. In Faith’s natural time, the drive from the inn to York could be made in little more than an hour, even with adverse traffic and weather conditions. The idea of Mr. Shelby’s allowing himself so much extra time to traverse a distance of some sixty-odd miles was inconceivable to Faith.
“Yes, dear, the twenty-first,” Mrs. Shelby said, slowly and distinctly, as if she were speaking to a rather dull-witted child. “And so, I think it would be best if you accompanied us, instead of remaining here at the inn by yourself, as you wished to do.”
“I would rather not,” Faith demurred, adamant in her determination to be there if and when Pres put in an appearance.
“But, Faith,” Mrs. Shelby argued, “we will be gone nigh onto a week. Please reconsider.”
“No.” Faith shook her head. “I prefer to stay here and ... er, rest a bit until you return.”‘
Throughout the following week, Faith jumped every time the door opened during the day or her window rattled during the night, praying that when she turned she would see Pres standing there, smiling.
But Pres didn’t come, not in either of his two guises. Overcome with mounting fear for his safety, Faith waved the Shelbys on their way on the overcast morning of the twenty-first, then went back inside to pace through the inn, listening to the hollow sound of her own footsteps on the bare floor boards.
The days until Christmas dragged on, one after the other in seemingly endless succession. Faith filled the daylight hours with work, cleaning her bedroom and the rooms on the first floor, in a fruitless effort to hold her increasing concern for Pres at bay.
The nights were the worst, fraught with dreams in which Faith searched in frantic despair for Pres, and always found him lying on his back, his dark eyes staring sightless, his life’s blood staining scarlet the pristine snow around him.
On the day before Christmas, Faith was a near basket case, fighting an urgent inner command to ignore the heavy snowfall and make her way to Valley Forge to satisfy herself about his continued existence.
It no longer mattered to her that she and Pres came from different time periods. She loved him with every fiber of her being, and knew she always would. Even if she should suddenly be swept back into her own time, Faith knew she would continue to love Pres, even as she mourned him.
Near midday on Christmas Eve, Faith called a halt to her frenzy of scrubbing and polishing. Exhausted, depressed, yet resisting a need to scream or dissolve into tears, she hung a huge water-filled iron kettle over the fire to heat, then dragged the heavy wooden wash tub onto the kitchen floor. By the time she had heated two kettles of water and poured them into the tub, she was almost too tired to undress and climb in, but the temptation of an allover soak won out over weariness.
It was full dark when the rapidly chilling water drove Faith from the tub, but her body and hair were clean and her
spirits somewhat restored. After wrapping her dripping body in a blanket she had placed near the fire to warm, Faith hurried from the kitchen.
A still, tomblike cold permeated her tiny bedroom. Shivering, Faith pulled the scratchy undergarments from the armoire and, with a muttered imprecation, thrust them back and withdrew the filmy lingerie she had been wearing the night of her travel through time.
There was no one there to see her, Faith mused, fastening the front closure on the lacy bra. And even though there were no outward signs of it—like brightly lighted decorations and the spicy scents of holiday foods—it was Christmas Eve, she reminded herself as she stepped into the matching panties. Cold or not, she reflected, smoothing the sheer hose up her long legs, she would indulge herself for the occasion.
Faith was so preoccupied with her own thoughts, she didn’t hear the window sash glide up. Her first inkling that she was no longer alone came from the low, raspy sound of a sharply indrawn breath and the dull thud of something hitting the floor.
“Pres!” Faith cried, spinning to face him. In one greedy, all-encompassing glance, she noted the snow on his hair and shoulders, the shocked expression on his face, and the bulging leather saddle bags at his booted feet.
Pres stood stock still just inside the window, his eyes raking her nearly nude form. “You are beautiful, Faith,” he said in a ragged whisper. “But what in God’s name do you call that costume?”
“My underwear,” Faith answered, laughing and crying as she ran to him.
“I should have known,” he said wryly, clutching her to him with one arm, while closing the window against the wind-blown snow with his free hand.
“Where have you been?” she cried, racing her hands over his shoulders, arms, and chest to make sure he was in one piece. “I was so afraid you were lying out there, alone somewhere, wounded or dead.”
“My love, my love,” Pres murmured, holding her close, stroking her back. “I assure you I am fine. A trifle damp, perhaps, but fine.”
“Damp!” Faith struggled free from his tight embrace. “You’re wet,” she said, shoving his bulky coat off his shoulders. “Get out of those clothes at once.”
“Your servant, Mistress Faith,” he intoned, bending slightly in a half bow and slanting a roguish grin at her. “Your wish is my command.”
“Right,” Faith muttered, ignoring the chill on her scantily clad body as she went to work on the laces of his shirt. “If I truly had my wish, I’d command you to stop all this skulking about, especially into Philadelphia.”
“Yes, well, as to that, you may have your wish,” Pres said absently, reaching with one hand to trail his finger up her thigh, encased in. black nylon, “I recollect being intrigued by the peek I had at your hose on the very night you arrived.” He gave her an eloquent look. “I never dreamed it went all the way to your waist.”
“Hmm umm,” Faith murmured, pausing in the process of drawing his shirt from his pants, motionless and breathless from the sharp desire stirring deep in the most feminine part of her. “Ah, what were you saying about your trips to Philadelphia?”
Pres stared at her blankly, then blinked, as if coming out of a trance, “Oh, yes. Yesterday, a friend quietly informed me that my movements are being observed by the British. Thus, it appears your wish that I stop skulking about may be granted within the near future, at least as far as Philadelphia is concerned.”
Relief surged through Faith, enhancing the sensations deep inside her. “Thank God,” she breathed. “I’ve been so worried.”
“No more so than I, my love,” Pres said, drawing his finger up and over her rounded hip to the elastic waistband of her hose. “I live in constant fear of you disappearing as mysteriously as you appeared.” A frown knitted his brows as he hooked the finger under the band to test the elastic.
Faith felt a shiver unrelated to the night cold at the flame that leaped in the depths of his dark eyes. She caught her breath and held it when he raised his hand to lightly touch the lacy edge of her bra.
“Exquisite,” he murmured, but he wasn’t looking at the garment; he was staring into her eyes. “How does one get into it?”
‘The same way one gets out of it,” Faith said, beginning to tremble from the explosive mixture of relief, excitement, and desire coiling inside her. “I’ll show you.” Releasing the folds of his shirt clenched in her fingers, she brought her hands to the bra’s clasp and flicked it open, freeing her breasts for the intent perusal of his lowered gaze.
“You are cold.” His voice was hoarse, his stare riveted to the hard tips of her trembling breasts.
“And hot,” Faith confessed, shrugging out of the bra. “I need you, Pres,” she whispered on a sob. “I need to feel you, vibrant, alive, and safe inside me.”
“And I need you, my Faith,” Pres groaned, gathering her into his arms as he lowered his head to hers. “I have been driven nearly mad these past weeks with needing you.”
His mouth took hers in a kiss of tender savagery. She returned his kiss with gentle ferocity. Within fevered minutes, his clothing and her panties and hose lay strewn on the bare floor. Then, mindless with passion, they fell onto the bed, lost to the world in their mutual need to be one.
Faith reveled in the force of his hungry mouth, his hard, demanding body. Pres was there, a part of her, as she was a part of him. For the moment, it was enough.
* * * *
Faith was awakened by a shuffling noise. Smothering a yawn, she turned her head in the direction of the sound. Fully dressed, but in different, clean clothing, Pres was kneeling on the floor beneath the window, folding his discarded clothes and stuffing them into one of the pouches of the saddlebags he’d brought with him.
“Merry Christmas,” she greeted him, sitting up and reaching for the lingerie he had thoughtfully placed at the foot of the bed.
Pres smiled. “Good morning, and Happy Christmas to you, my love.” He withdrew a large leather sack from the other pouch before rising to come to her. “I have something I would ask you to hold in safekeeping for me.”
“Okay, but let me clean up and get dressed first,” she said, tossing the covers back. “It’s freezing in here.”
“Of course ...” Pres began, but broke off to grin at her before echoing, “Okay.” Then he turned away to give her a modicum of privacy.
Shivering, Faith washed, brushed her chattering teeth, and dressed in her own lingerie and the period costume she had been wearing the night she had run crying from the inn. A smile curved her lips as she patted her watch and cigarette case and lighter in the pockets of her apron.
“All done,” she announced, drawing the shawl around her shoulders for added warmth. “What is it you’d like me to keep for you?”
“These.” Pres undid the drawstring on the leather bag and dumped the contents on the bed.
“Good Lord!” Faith exclaimed, going to the bed for a closer look at the glittering array of jewelry heaped on the covers. There were necklaces, earrings, bracelets, brooches, and rings, all worked in heavy gold and all set with precious stones. Faith knew little about jewelry, but even she recognized the enormous value of the creamy pearls, the sparkling diamonds, the emeralds, rubies, and sapphires. Some of the stones were larger than robin’s eggs. “Are they real?” she asked in an awed whisper, reaching out with trembling fingers to lightly touch the gleaming gems.
“Certainly,” he retorted.
“Where did you get them?”
“An inheritance from my grandmother,” Pres explained. “In light of what my friend told me, I thought it wise to remove them from my home in Philadelphia.” He grimaced. “I doubt I will have the opportunity to do so on my next visit to the city.”
“Your next visit!” Faith cried. “Pres, you can’t go back there. It’s too dangerous.”
“I must.” His tone was adamant. “I have work to do there for my commander.”
Fear returned to clutch at Faith’s heart. ‘Isn’t it enough that you’re scouring the countryside for food a
nd supplies?” she cried. “Must you continue to play the spy as well?”
“I assure you that I have not been playing, Faith.” Pres drew himself up, his back ramrod straight. “The cause looks bleak, and my commander needs reliable intelligence almost as much as he needs supplies.”
“But if the British already suspect you, there’s no question but that you’ll be caught!” she cried, growing desperate.
“It is a chance I must take.”
“But... but, dammit, Pres, what use will you be to your commander if you’re dead!” Faith shouted, distraught and ready to use any argument to dissuade him. “I know the outcome, remember? General Washington will win this war, with or without your assistance ... or your death!”
“Nevertheless,” Pres said, calmly picking up the jewelry and sliding it back into the bag, “I cannot neglect my duty.”
Faith stared at him in anguish for long moments, and suddenly the accumulation of three months of confusion, tension, and unendurable fear, for herself as well as for him, was more than she could bear.
“All right!” she cried, tears of defeat and despair running down her face. “Go, I don’t care! Get yourself captured or wounded or killed.” She was sobbing, talking wildly, unable to stop the words pouring out of her. “Go now and don’t come back. But I don’t want to hear of your death. I don’t want to know ... I can’t bear to know.”
Wheeling around, Faith ran from the room and down the stairway. She paused on the last step, sobbing and frantic. Then, without conscious thought or direction, she rushed to the side door, fumbled with the lock, and pulling the door open, ran outside.
She ran only as far as the stand of trees, for though the snow had stopped falling, over a foot of it covered the yard, impeding her progress. Feeling an eerie and fatalistic sense of dêjà vu, Faith raised her hands, buried her face in the ends of the shawl, and cried aloud for help.
“Oh, God, help me, please help me. I love Pres so much, and I can’t bear this uncertainty any ...”
Faith’s voice trailed away. What was she saying? She did love him, and she had told him to go and not come back.
