by Lori Benton
Which begs a Question I have meant to ask. I have reread some of your Missives from years past (Yes, I save them; forebear to Tease!) and I detect an Alteration—a general Elevation of Mood—which I fix at a Twelvemonth past. Something changed you. Will you tell me what—or should I say who—it was?
Of course ere long I shall judge it for myself, and while I confess to Excitement at thought of seeing you again, despite what you have written on the Matter I cannot come to terms with Father’s thinking and confess myself as consternated over the Whole Affair as I was during Michaelmas Term when he wrote of his Grand Plan. I know the pair of you are “thick as thieves” as Mrs. Doyle has put it in her letters, that you hold him in the highest Regard and Fatherly Affection, but I wonder if this has clouded your view of the Situation? I beg leave to note that it does not seem to me, judging from your letter, as if Father has shed sufficient light upon his Reasoning for your benefit either, yet where you are accepting of his Plans and Purposes, my heart and mind teem with questions. Why sell the Estate? Why summon me home before my studies are concluded, if I can still call home a land where so many of its Citizenry stand in open Rebellion to their King? Be glad you needn’t endure the talk I hear daily in the halls of Queens and in every public house beyond its walls—that a ragtag band of farmers and shopkeepers styling themselves an Army would take on the might of Britain’s forces is cause for the rudest scoffing and Indignation. I blush for the ribbing I endure from those who know me not Welsh-born, but a Colonial. Mayhap it shall be short-lived, this Rebellion, and swiftly crushed. The only battles I wish to wage are fought among dusty tomes and even dustier Tutors. And in these battles I am being tempered, proven a worthy Warrior. I have a Life here! How if I were to refuse to abandon it? Stage my own Rebellion, plant my feet in Oxford and vow to remain?
Of course my musket lacks powder, and my bayonet is waxen. Father’s Factor is already neck-deep in the process of divesting the family of our Ancestral Estate, and I am soon to be landless and penniless, and Degrees are not granted for Charity’s sake. Back across the Ocean I am bound come Spring and am meant to be thankful for the Allowance Father grants me to finish out the present Term. But enough. I shall style myself the Dutiful Son and return to New York. I do long to see you again—never doubt it despite my ill-tempered Foot-stamping in these pages. Perhaps then I can make Father see reason. In the meantime I have every Intention of discovering what lies behind the aforementioned change in your letters. Spare me the Suspense. Write soon and give answer to your most obedient and curious Brother,
William Llewellyn Aubrey
—
28 February 1776
Schenectady, New York
Dearest William,
Your letter of January last comforts and troubles me, which ought come as no Astonishment since that is what you are to me, Consolation and Vexation, oft times concurrently! I say that with all due Affection and with Assurance that you could say the same of me, though do refrain, at least for the hour of our reunion.
William, I long for you and Papa to be of one mind about your Homecoming. It aches my heart that the two of you have grown apart in your thinking on so many Issues. Papa has endured such Loneliness these past years, and I have not been equal to the task of assuaging it. As strained as things were before you left, given the state of her unhappiness here, still I believe Papa missed your Mother as much as he has missed you. As for the state of Matters beyond the confines of our Farm, I confess myself too uninformed to attempt to persuade you to think on things Political in any manner other than you do. But speaking to your Comment that what is happening here is not your Quarrel, you may see that it is mine, and it is Papa’s, and it is Lydia’s, and that of everyone you name Family, Friend, and Neighbor in New York. Perhaps Papa did not mention in his last letter the News of Sir William Johnson’s son, Sir John, how he sent a letter to Governor Tryon in which he expressed his intention to raise a Loyalist Battalion for the British cause, including some five hundred Indians—right across the river at Johnstown!—to retake the forts in the west being held by our militia. General Schuyler, along with the Tryon militia, managed to bring that to naught, disarming the men he’d assembled, although Sir John was paroled and set at Liberty.
Perhaps once you are home for a time your heart will follow your feet? Papa and I, and the Doyles, desire above all else to have you with us again as we face these Uncertainties, and toward that end I bend all my Hope and Prayers to Heaven for you daily, lifting you before the Throne of Grace for safety in Travel, health of Body, and contentment of Soul, resting assured that our Heavenly Father has you in His hands, which is a cause of utmost Comfort as you are dear (dearest!) to us all, most especially to the Heart of your sister,
Anna Doyle
—
7 April 1776
Crickhowell, Breconshire
Dear Anna,
Do not think I failed to note the Lack of Response to my Query. Far from brushing the Matter aside, your silence only whets my Curiosity and compels me to ask again. What is it that causes this depth of Joy I sense in you these past months, that even as you talk of heartache at my hands, you bless me with your Affection and Prayers? Of course, what I have greatly feared has come upon me! I must endure a sea voyage ere I have my Answer, as I shall myself be hot on the heels of this letter and perhaps outrace its Journey, if the Winds be fair. There is nothing for it but to possess my Soul in patience, which seems to be the lesson Providence has Designed for this Hour. Term is ended. I, with my trunks and my folded up Dreams, am home at Crickhowell. I’m to retrieve several Artifacts of our family that Father has asked I convey to him, and a few which I fancy for myself—including Grandfather’s bow. Then what is left but to wander these rooms and passages a final time and visit Mother’s grave. How sad to think of her resting here alone in years to come.
I send ahead my Gratitude for your faithful Prayers. I do not know how I deserve them, but confess myself glad of them, and you. I shall refrain from addressing the subject of our illustrious Neighbors across the River. Let us discuss them and their doings upon my arrival. Better yet, let us instead take a run through the Beeches and sit by your Waterfall and see if for that Hour at least we may wink at the Wide World and pretend what concerns us is of such small Matter as when last you sat there beside your most dutiful Brother,
William Ll. Aubrey
26
April 1776
“I have it in mind to supply General Schuyler with a few of our bateaux—more than a few, actually,” Reginald told Ephraim Lang, who’d accompanied him from the Binne Kill into town on an errand to the cooperage, where Sam Reagan was employed when not piloting bateaux on the Mohawk. He’d held his tongue and saved the announcement until they’d passed several townsmen and women, so as to not be overheard.
Lang raised his brows. “In addition to the grain shipments for Boston’s relief?”
“Aye. What say you of the prospect?” Reginald lifted his hat to an elderly woman who passed them near where the McClaren apothecary had stood. Now a haberdashery, he couldn’t see it without experiencing a pang of sadness for Lydia.
They strode on, the captain scratching at his whiskers, blue eyes bright in his sun-leathered face. “Well now, Major, reckon I’d say huzzah and hallelujah. Only I’d be inclined to say it quiet-like…unless you mean to use the occasion to hoist a Liberty pole over our corner of the Binne Kill?”
“To which you’d say huzzah as well?” Reginald inquired, brushing absently at wood shavings clinging to his coat sleeve. Before Lang could reply, Reagan’s voice called to them.
“Mr. Aubrey, I’ve those buckets you ordered here.” They’d reached the cooperage. In the yard, Sam Reagan was holding a trussing ring steady round a circle of staves, while the master cooper cranked the windlass to tighten them into proper barrel shape. Reagan jerked his chin toward the interior of the shop. “Be just a moment.”
“Take your time,” Reginald said, then noticed Reagan’s left eye, b
ruised, the skin around it swollen. He quirked a brow at it.
“What? Oh,” Reagan said and shot them a cheeky grin. “Serves me right, talking politics in taverns.”
The cooper, a burly man with a scar through his lower lip, glanced up from their work. “If ye’d pick a side and stick to it, ye’d maybe not arouse the ire of your neighbors quite so much.”
A look of…something too brief to read sharpened Reagan’s features, before his hazel eyes danced with a careless light. “So I like playing devil’s advocate. I’ll take the punishment that comes with it.”
The cooper grabbed a metal hoop and a pair of mallets. He tossed one at Reagan, whose hand shot up to catch it. “Punishment’s what I’ll be dealing out presently,” he growled, “do ye no’ keep your mind on what ye’re doing.”
Reginald shook his head, amused…and perplexed. Devil’s advocate? Whatever that meant, Reagan seemed to have a knack for creating drama wherever he turned up. While the rhythmic thuds of hammering went on behind him, he turned back to Lang. “It’s no poles I’ll be hoisting. No need to announce our doings, but none to hide them, either.”
General sentiment in the Mohawk Valley was leaning sharply away from England, to the point that Colonel Guy Johnson, who’d stepped into William Johnson’s role as superintendent of Indian affairs, had decamped from the valley, leading more than two hundred loyalists and Mohawk supporters to refuge in Montreal.
Though he’d signed every declaration of association and loyalty oath circulated by the Continentals’ Committee of Safety, and abided by every trade boycott, Reginald had left it to louder mouths—like Reagan’s—to spout their opinions in Schenectady’s streets and taverns. Nominally a member of the Albany militia, there was no denying the crippling wound taken in the Old French War would make campaigning in rough country difficult, if not impossible. But there were other ways of serving. Having evacuated Boston in March, the British had left behind a stunned and starving populace. As had other Mohawk Valley farmers, Reginald had sent grain east.
How long, and how widespread, the present conflict would prove was anyone’s guess, but with Guy Johnson in Canada, it didn’t take a prophet to foresee the need to garrison the colony’s western forts along the Mohawk River and the Oneida Carry. General Washington’s army would stand in need of bateaux for the supplying of those garrisons.
“We won’t have to send the bateaux anywhere,” Lang confirmed, his voice carrying in the sudden hammerless quiet. “Just have ’em ready for Schuyler when the need arises.”
Glancing aside, Reginald noticed Sam Reagan staring at them. He opened his mouth to inquire about the buckets, when a decidedly feminine voice spoke his name.
“Reginald?”
Putting his back to the cooperage yard, he found Lydia standing behind him, looking trim and lovely in a blue gown and matching sweep of hat. “Lydia. Well met, and good day to you. Were you merely passing or…?”
The dazzling smile she gave him set his pulse to quickening. “I’m in need of a piggin, but I meant to come down to the Binne Kill after. Is it a bad time?”
“Not at all,” Captain Lang cut in, making her a brief bow. “I’ll just have a talk with Sam here about his trip upriver tomorrow. Your servant, ma’am.” Grin barely concealed, Lang left them in the yard and hauled Sam away through the open shop doors.
Reginald waited while Lydia and the master cooper haggled over the price of a piggin, then Lydia came out into the gray of the overcast afternoon, carrying the small bucket by its elongated handle.
“Had you something to discuss with me?” Reginald asked. Above them thunder rumbled. They both glanced skyward. The clouds sagged, heavy with the threat of moisture.
Lydia glanced about the yard, the wide brim of her hat casting her features in shadow. “I…Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”
Clearly she didn’t wish to discuss it there. Distracted, warmed, and inordinately pleased by her presence, Reginald offered his arm. “Come you back to the quay with me then. We’ll talk—and maybe beat the rain.”
Perhaps she’d something concerning Anna to discuss. They did so, from time to time. Though Anna was always eager to tell him—oft times in too great detail—about the babies she’d helped birth, or something new she’d learned, he valued Lydia’s perspective on his daughter’s burgeoning skills and calling and was gratified she took the time to keep him appraised.
They’d nearly exited the yard before Ephraim Lang’s drawling voice called, “Don’t worry about the buckets, Major. I’ll see they make it down to the Binne Kill.”
He’d forgotten Lang, the buckets, and his head, apparently. He and Lydia pivoted as one to see his boat captain and his crewman both attempting—a halfhearted effort at best—to stifle their grins.
Blushing—at his age. He couldn’t deny it. Nor could he deny his awareness of the woman whose small hand lay warm in the crook of his arm as they walked, moving quickly with a renewed clap of thunder on their heels. Thirty years of age she must be now—or was it thirty-one?—and still she was as shapely and inky-haired as she’d been at twenty.
At four-and-forty he was by no means ready to admit himself an old man, but Lydia’s youthfulness made him aware of his irrevocable middle age—complete with inexplicable aches that plagued him of a morn and the all-too-explicable pain of his hip, which rarely gave him respite now. Even so he’d kept active, on horseback or the river most days, and could boast of an otherwise reasonably preserved physique below the neckcloth, which felt of a sudden constricting, though he’d tied it loosely for the day’s labor.
He did his best to suppress his limp and keep to their brisk pace, wanting her to think…Well, maybe he was an old fool after all, but he wanted her to find him appealing as a man, not one to be pitied. Thankfully it was a short walk to the quay. They were already in sight of the river.
Lydia was unusually silent.
“Is it Anna you wished to speak of?” he asked her. “ ’Tis been some time since we have.” Anna was at the farm at present but due to come into town with him on the morrow. “How fares our girl these days?”
He liked the way it felt to say. Our girl.
“Oh,” Lydia said vaguely, as if he’d jarred her from another train of thought. He glanced down but could see only half her face for that sweeping hat. “Anna does well,” she said, warmth infusing her voice. “In some ways better than I do. She has a tender way with patients I admit I lack at times. She’s very patient.”
“Patient with the patients, is she?”
Lydia laughed, a bit too lavishly for so lame a jest. He’d the impression something was making her unwontedly nervous.
They’d reached the boatyard before the first drops of rain hit them. In seconds the drops became a deluge, but they were already scurrying for his office door. He wrenched it open and stood aside for her. She swept in with her piggin, and he followed.
The air inside was stuffy. Despite the rain now gushing down in sheets beyond it, he left the door wide and proceeded to remove his dampened coat, then to turn up the sleeves of his shirt in preparation for the afternoon’s work. “So then, do you think she’ll follow this calling for a good many years?”
“I…Actually, Reginald, I don’t know.”
Lydia’s words were rushed, slightly breathless. He looked up from his sleeve-turning to find her watching him, gaze riveted on his bared forearms, and he realized belatedly what he was doing in front of her. Too late now to rectify it.
Lydia set the piggin on a bench inside the door and, taking his cue, pulled the pins from her rain-soaked hat and set it on the bench beside her new purchase. Her cap, worn toward the back of her head, left the hair swept back from her brow a framing shadow, with a few loose strands left to curl about her ears. When she spoke, her voice just carried above the drumming rain, and she kept her face turned toward the window, where smudged light fought to penetrate the rain-streaked glass.
“Anna has a bright mind and is good at midwifery—at every asp
ect of the healing art I’ve taught her. And as I said, she has a very nice way with people.”
He wished she’d look at him. “Am I hearing a but in there somewhere?”
Lydia sighed. “I don’t sense in her the same…need, I suppose, that I feel when it comes to healing—have felt for as long as I can recall. I do think, if she chose it, she’d make an excellent midwife for the rest of her days. One thing I’ve noticed about Anna, when she sets her mind to something, she does it well.”
Reginald warmed at the praise. “Aye, that she does. And another thing about Anna, she loves you. I’m sure half the pleasure she derives from this arrangement comes from your company.”
Lydia appeared startled but deeply pleased. She glanced at him, then away again, turning toward the window. “I remember the day I came to the farm to tell her I was marrying Jacob.” A smile came into her voice. “She thought it the end of our friendship, and it had barely begun…But I don’t see Anna devoting herself to midwifery lifelong. I fully expect she’ll marry, have children of her own, but until then…”
She turned to him, blue gaze searching, as if she expected him to say something. A frown appeared between her brows.
“Lydia? You’ve plainly something on your mind besides Anna. Is there ought amiss?”
“Not amiss, no. I want to ask a question of you and am having difficulty finding the words to begin.”
He smiled at her. Even in professing hesitation, she came at it straight as an arrow. Though not always a comfortable trait, it was one he admired in her. He’d gone behind the counter, but now he rounded it—trying not to limp—and took her hand in his, turning her so that what light the curtaining rain permitted fell upon her face. “You mentioned friendship before. How long is it you and I have been friends?”
