The Wood's Edge

by Lori Benton

  “Overwhelmed?” William suggested. “I would have to concur. In fact…I believe I’d best sit down just now.”

  It broke the tension. Papa came forward, giving her a lopsided grin as he propelled William to the settee. Anna’s gaze raked across Papa’s smiling mouth, his scarred cheek. Her hands would not stop shaking.

  William folded himself onto the settee and stared round at them all, his gaze returning to Anna, rooted in the center of the room.

  “Sit, Anna.” Lydia was moving into action now, asking about tea…supper. Anna somehow made it to a chair. Somehow she spoke without stammering about things a sister speaks of with a brother she hasn’t seen in nine years, while she tried not to stare, while suspicion fermented in her belly and disbelief roared in her head.

  But she couldn’t look at Papa, with that beloved scar across his cheek. Not and keep the smile fixed on her face.

  Anna had moved her few belongings into Lydia’s room, leaving to William the room at the top of the back stairs. The plan had been to return straightaway to the farm once William arrived. Anna wasn’t sure whose notion it had been for them to stay a few nights in town, but that evening over supper Papa brought up the Binne Kill and talked at length of its expansion over the years, his trade upriver, Captain Lang and his crew. Papa’s eagerness for William to see it for himself was plain.

  William had pushed the food around his plate and said little, though he hadn’t objected to the change of plans.

  Supper past, Anna brushed out her hair in Lydia’s room, recalling the unhappy tone of William’s letters in the weeks before he sailed. Glad as he was to see them again, Anna feared William felt he no longer belonged in Schenectady. She was all but certain he was right, though not for the reasons he imagined. Dare she admit of her suspicions?

  And if she was wrong? She would have needlessly complicated the rebuilding of a relationship between William and Papa that was already showing its cracks. And what would it do to Papa to know she’d imagined him capable of stealing another woman’s child?

  Anna set down the brush on Lydia’s dressing table. The uncanny resemblance William bore to Two Hawks could be coincidental. People unrelated by blood could bear a likeness to each other. But Two Hawks admitted he has a twin…somewhere.

  Here, under Lydia’s roof?

  Papa wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have. Could he?

  Over the course of supper she’d managed to shove thoughts of twins and stolen babies to the back of her mind, and found the self-possession to converse of things that would have been of absorbing interest only yesterday—the farm, her experiences as Lydia’s apprentice, Sir John Johnson’s flight to Canada, the war with king and parliament yet to be declared a war but which everyone knew was war. The likelihood of more soldiers in red coats coming to their shores.

  On that last subject William had guarded his words, but she knew what he was thinking. Or how he was thinking. He was thinking like an Englishman. Not like Papa. Yet there was still a bond there. She’d bid them good night in the sitting room, turning back to see Papa clasp William’s arm and draw him into an embrace. A stiff embrace, but still an embrace.

  Let me be wrong. She finished plaiting her hair, not bothering to tie it off, and was reaching for her nightcap when she realized she’d left it hanging on its peg behind the door. Upstairs.

  She slipped on a wrapper, took a candle, and crossed the shadowed passage toward the narrow back stairs, pausing at their foot. Talk wafted from the other end of the house. Lydia and Papa, their words indistinguishable. She started to climb the steep treads when Papa’s voice rose.

  “Lydia…let it bide now.”

  Lydia’s softer reply held a note of pleading. It struck Anna that though they’d freely spoken to her and William, Lydia and Papa had exchanged no more than polite words all evening. What was the matter between those two? And where was William? Not in his room abed, she hoped.

  She reached the top of the stairs to find the door open, the room within dark. She slipped inside and held the candle high. William’s coat draped the straight-backed chair where she’d sat to compose many a letter to him, but aside from its furnishings and William’s trunks, the room was empty.

  She pushed the door aside, snatched the linen cap off the peg behind it—then turned and caught her breath.

  William leaned against the doorframe, undressed to shirt and breeches, neckcloth hanging loose. It might have been Two Hawks standing there looking at her…if Two Hawks had been born white.

  “I forgot my nightcap,” she got out, holding it up as if he couldn’t see it clutched in her hand. His blue eyes swept from the braid hanging over her shoulder, half-unraveled now, to her bare feet. She made for the door, meaning to edge past him. “I’ll go—let you rest. You must be tired—”

  “Anna.” His hand on her arm froze her, though his touch was warm.

  She looked down, and the hairs on her forearm rose. Even their hands were alike. The candle shook in hers.

  William released her with a smile that bespoke a shyness they’d never known as children. “Do you remember what we discussed in our last letters?”

  Her mind was a blank.

  “About going to the waterfall together. Not the first hour of my arrival, plainly. But…the first hour home at the farm? You still wish to, don’t you?”

  Of course, Anna started to say, then knew she couldn’t. What if Two Hawks were there waiting for her? She wanted him to be, needed him to be. But not with William, whose eyes in the candlelight were a darker blue, his cheekbones thrown into sharper relief. One second doubting her eyes, the next believing them, she bit back half a dozen things she wanted to say.

  “Are you truly glad to see me, Anna?” Uncertainty shadowed William’s gaze, and suddenly it didn’t matter about Two Hawks, or Papa, or who or what William was. He was William. Here, with her.

  “Very glad. Oh, I’ve missed you so. But…are you glad to be home? Are you still quite angry with Papa over it?”

  William’s mouth stiffened. “There is a subject to spoil a moment. Can we let it bide?”

  Papa’s words to Lydia, or nearly so. “But—”

  “For now?” William’s expression softened. “I’m more than glad to be with you again.”

  Eyes flooding with warmth, he raised his hand to grasp the braid that fell across her shoulder and gave it a tug.

  “Anna, I—” Whatever he’d begun to say, he changed his mind, and with a glance toward the stairs said, “Best go on down. Good night to you.”

  “Good night, William.” She bit her lip, added, “See you in the morning,” and smiled, for in spite of everything it was wonderful to say.

  29

  Three days in the lad’s company, and Reginald found himself still unable to quell the impulse to stare.

  They’d spent the better part of yesterday in the workshop, Reginald giving William a taste of the boat-building craft. He meant to give it another go today. On the way he’d paused in the office and opened the ledgers, explaining his decision to step up production to aid the Continental Army. William listened with glazing eyes and pinched brow, clearly preoccupied, or bored. Thus far he’d shown no more than polite interest in any aspect of the boatyard. Absent was the passion Reginald hoped to kindle.

  But one didn’t always get a catching spark on the first strike of steel to flint.

  At the dinner table, plied with questions by Lydia and Anna, William spoke animatedly—about English law, his tutors, pranks he and his fellows had played, lectures of particular interest. Even if he’d resigned himself to being in New York, William’s heart remained in Oxford. And who had Reginald to blame for it but himself?

  Shame washed its sick tide through him at the jarring reminder. Whatever blood flowed through his veins, William was—had been since Reginald carried him out of that hospital casemate—an Aubrey. As Welsh now, by raising if not birth, as Reginald. His son, whom twice he’d plucked up and replanted in soil not of the lad’s choosing.

>   Hoping resignation wasn’t the best he could expect, Reginald glanced toward the office window and saw, out on the quay, Ephraim Lang arriving with a loaded bateau, back from Fort Dayton at German Flatts. He left William frowning at the books and went to the bubbled glass to watch the crew make their nimble landing on the quay.

  “That’s him, is it? Your partner?”

  Reginald turned from the window. William was looking up from the ledgers with markedly more interest in the activity on the quay. “It is, aye. Captain Lang.”

  William’s brows puckered as he strained to see through the distorting glass. “He’s older than I expected. You’ve known him since Fort William Henry?”

  “Aye. Just after.” Reginald’s chest burned with the same amalgamation of relief and dread that had churned inside him upon seeing the lad off the sloop in Albany, gaze raking for signs he’d feared to see. Those he found—the darkened hair, the almost nonexistent hint of beard, the faintly tawny complexion—might evidence a truth none but he knew. Or not.

  Reginald had known Frenchmen more swarthy than this lad, and not for the first time found himself grasping at doubt. Had he taken up two orphans, not one? William had looked nothing like the other child, so clearly a half-breed…

  “That’s not Reagan’s crew, is it?”

  William was looking past him now, through the window. Sam Reagan, not due to leave upriver until the morrow, had come down to the Binne Kill to meet the returning crew.

  William’s annoyance was poorly concealed. “Does he always hang about so?”

  Reagan had engaged Lang in conversation, most likely about the river, with an eye toward his own imminent departure. In four years Reagan had proved himself dependable and was routinely put in charge of trading trips whenever Lang wasn’t along. The men liked him, deferred to him, sometimes without knowing quite how they’d been talked into it, which was fine as long as Reagan kept a sober head on his shoulders—and his mouth shut. More than once of late he’d fallen to fighting in the street over politics, but such lapses never resulted in harm beyond scored knuckles and blackened eyes. If there was a reckless edge to Sam Reagan—and behind the affable hazel eyes and ready charm, Reginald suspected there was—the young man minded himself on the Binne Kill.

  William, however, had taken an almost instant dislike to him. Little wonder, seeing as Anna had been present yesterday when the two met. Reagan lost no time in engaging in his usual flirtation with her, barely tempered by the presence of a glowering brother fresh off the boat from England.

  “He works with a cooper in town when he’s not piloting for me,” Reginald said. “But he’s free to come and go as he pleases.”

  William gazed darkly through the window a moment longer, then muttered something that sounded like, “Glad I am someone is.”

  Reginald hoped he’d misheard.

  Ephraim Lang entered the office, introductions were made, then the captain and Reginald fell to talking of the trip upriver, until behind them William said, “Father, here is Anna come down from—and there he goes pestering her again.”

  Reginald broke off conversation to peer through the window. Anna had arrived on the quay with Lydia nowhere in sight, though Reginald looked for her trim, dark figure with an eagerness he tried to quell. He’d turned in time to see his daughter waylaid by Reagan. The window glass distorted their expressions, but their body language had a predictable aspect. Anna, nearly as tall as the boat pilot, had no need to raise her chin to smile at him before making to move past with a half-playful, dismissive wave of hand.

  All might have been well had Reagan let her go. Instead he caught her waving hand, forcing her to check and turn back. In so doing she looked directly at the office glass. Her expression might have reflected impatience, amusement, or an appeal for assistance. Though the latter was unlikely, William was out from behind the counter and bursting onto the quay before Reginald could react.

  “William!”

  Almost lazily Lang said, “Let him go, Major. Reagan’s got brains enough not to damage his employer’s son.”

  It had taken only heartbeats for Reginald to reach the same conclusion—and for William to cross the quay to where Anna and the pilot stood, still bound by clasped hands. Surely they would break apart, Anna would diffuse the situation, William would—

  William struck, landing his fist on the point of Reagan’s chin.

  Reagan’s head snapped back as Anna cringed away. The river pilot kept his feet, and his cool, while William cradled his fist, no doubt regretting his aim.

  “He’ll know to pick a soft spot next time,” Lang said. “I like this boy of yours, Major. Many’s the time I’ve wanted to do that to Reagan.”

  Reginald was heading for the door before Lang finished speaking. Not on account of the brawl in the making but its unwitting cause—Anna. The office door stuck fast. Uttering an oath, he wrenched it free and limped onto the quay.

  He’d missed vital seconds of the confrontation. William’s posture had changed. Ignoring Reagan now and the crew who’d stopped work to watch the drama, he was looking after Anna, who was fast retreating, shaking the dust of the boatyard from her buckled shoes.

  Grabbing William by the coat sleeve, Reginald yanked him around. “Explain yourself, sir!”

  “Father, she—he…” William faltered, as though uncertain himself what had just transpired. Reagan, self-possessed as always, watched Anna disappear around a corner, then slid a look at William, cool and assessing.

  Anger flared in Reginald’s chest. “She’ll be away to Lydia. Do you go after her—the pair of you—and make your apologies.”

  William shot him a rebellious look. “No sir. I mean, yes sir, but—not him.”

  “You’ll both go,” Reginald said. “And sort yourselves out between you on the way, see. If word gets back to me you’ve laid so much as a finger on the other, you,” he said to Reagan, “will no longer have a place with me. As for you…” He met the blue blaze of William’s eyes. “For Anna’s sake you will make amends. And when you’ve done so, we’re going home.”

  He shoved William in Anna’s wake, leveled a gaze at Reagan as good as a shove, and the pair trudged off along the quay, refusing to look at each other.

  Lydia was minding a syrup on the hearth when she heard Anna come in off the street. She gave the kettle’s contents a stir. Sweet, medicinal steam rose up to curl the hair escaped at her temples as, behind her, Anna’s footfalls came through to the kitchen.

  “Did you find someone to home—to explain the dosage for Mr. Jansen?” Spoon in hand, Lydia turned as Anna plunked herself down onto a worktable bench, breathing hard, face clenched in fury.

  “What is it? Mr. Jansen?” The old man could be difficult, but she doubted Anna would be in such a state over his querulousness. “Has he worsened?”

  “No,” Anna said shortly. “I went to see William and Papa after.”

  Lydia stiffened at mention of Reginald and the hurt that inevitably came fast on its heels. She moved the syrup away from the heat, then sat at the table across from Anna.

  “Did something happen at the Binne Kill?”

  With a spate of angry tears, Anna told her about William hitting Sam Reagan in her defense. “As though I’d ever need defending from Sam. Then Papa came onto the quay—yelling at William—but by then I’d run away. I’m always running away!”

  She reached for a square of linen from a pile on the table, leaving Lydia groping for understanding. Always running away?

  “What was William thinking?” the girl demanded.

  “Oh, Anna. You’ve grown into a lovely young woman.” She doubted William felt anything of a romantic nature toward Anna, but certainly it had seemed the two of them were stunned by the other’s altered appearance. That alone would take time to sort itself out. “He was just being protective of you. Figuring out how to be your brother again.”

  Lydia couldn’t fathom the look Anna gave her at that. Was it startled? Dismayed? What was going on? Everyon
e she loved was behaving themselves as if she’d never known them at all. Was it only to do with William’s reluctant homecoming, or something more?

  “Whatever his feelings,” she went on, “they’re surely running high right now. Think of all he’s had to adjust to in the past few weeks.”

  “I suppose so…” Anna sighed. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been so angry.”

  So why did the girl appear unassuaged? Lydia hesitated, then ventured, “Is something else the matter, besides what happened on the quay? Something to do with William?”

  “What do you mean?” Alarm—and comprehension—registered plainly on Anna’s unguarded features.

  Lydia was stunned. She’d given no hint, hadn’t mentioned Reginald at all, yet…there it was, staring from Anna’s eyes. She knew.

  But she couldn’t…not that.

  For an instant Lydia was back at the farmhouse, in the room where Reginald lay fevered…the heat of the fire…the grip of his hand. His broken confession.

  “Lydia? What is it?” Now Anna was staring at her, looking every bit as stunned as Lydia felt. “Is there something about William you know? Something to do with…Papa?”

  The question jarred so, Lydia thought she was going to be sick. She’d kept Reginald’s secret for years, thought never to let it pass her lips, yet it seemed…she was almost certain now…that Anna knew it too. Or did she only suspect?

  Why should she? How?

  Did it matter how? William was home, and unhappy, and if Anna knew…

  “Yes,” she said. “I know about William. I’ve known for a very long time.”

  30

  For the third time in as many days, Anna felt the world slide out from under her like a rug yanked from beneath her feet. Her mind swirled around Lydia’s tale of Papa’s confession—one he’d no memory of making all those years ago, as far as Lydia knew.

  “It’s true then. William is…” She clapped her hand over her mouth in time to prevent Two Hawks’s name slipping out.