Sarah sat with her hands in her lap, pondering the headstrong audacity of the man she loved, the corners of her mouth curled in a secret smile. She must have said more about Philip than she had been aware of when the French brandy had loosened her tongue, making it obvious that she knew he had come to care for her during the voyage. And Bryne, seeing there was no time to waste, convinced—and rightly—that Philip would seize the first opportunity to come back into her life, had decided to wed her first and win her love later.
“Why don’t you have supper with Bryne in the parlor?” Lucy suggested. “You and he can be alone there. After I’ve had a few words with him I’ll go and sit with Mary Anne by the fire in her room. I’ll do nothing to spoil your parting this time, I promise.”
They ate their supper at the round table in the parlor, holding hands across it. Now that the hours were dwindling, they talked little, saying more with touch and with their eyes. He had no idea when he would be able to get back to see her again.
“I love you,” they said to each other as they lay in the wide bed. The clock ticked the minutes away. He buried his face in the spread of her hair on the pillow and longed for time to stand still.
In the bitter cold of early morning she stood on the porch to watch him go. He was wearing again the deerskin garments, the Indian blanket wrapped around him, with a fur hat pulled down over his ears. His booted feet plunged deep into a fresh fall of snow as he made his way down the drive to the gates, where his traveling companion waited on horseback, a second mount stamping hooves restlessly, its bridle jingling.
Bryne swung himself in the saddle, and turned to raise his hand in farewell to her. Careless of the snow, she rushed down the porch steps to gaze after him as he and the other rider sped away along the silvery-white street. When would she be in his arms again?
Eleven
Sarah took the children with her to gather wintergreen and cranberry branches to decorate the house for Christmas. It was a merry outing, following one of their favorite walks through the woods, and they were all excited and exuberant when they returned laden with greenery and scarlet berries at the end of the morning.
They brought the frosty chill of the day back into the house with them, the snow floating from their clothes to melt into tiny sparkling droplets on the hall floor. Mary Anne listened with a smile as Flora, Jenny, and Robbie all vied with each other to describe the outing to her while she helped them to remove their coats. Sarah, taking off her bonnet, stopped as she was about to shake her curls free and stared at a letter on the silver salver. It was Bryne’s writing!
The bonnet was flung aside. She snatched up the letter and ran with it to the bedchamber. There she sat by the window and read what was intended for her eyes alone. It was a letter of love that she would keep and treasure all her life. Only one small part of it could be shared with others.
She found Lucy in the kitchen. “Bryne has joined the Canadian militia!” Sarah told her excitedly. “A number of New Englanders have joined with him. There’s even talk of the New England states seceding from the Union if the war against us continues without a truce in the spring!”
Lucy’s eyes had widened. “Where is Bryne now?”
“In winter quarters at Montreal.” Sarah knew that it meant his mission had been successfully carried out. There was no longer any need for his secrecy on either side of the boundary. He could proclaim his loyalties.
“So far away!” Lucy made a little grimace. “It’s not likely that he will get to see us for a long time.”
“That’s what he says,” Sarah said regretfully, glancing at the letter in her hand again, “but he sends his affectionate greetings to you and the three children.”
“Mention that I reciprocate those greetings when you write back,” Lucy said dryly but amiably. Her tone made Sarah smile, and the girl smiled too. Their relationship was settling down into a fairly comfortable companionship that did much to ease Sarah’s loneliness.
In the days that followed, Lucy made good use of the news that Bryne had joined the Canadian militia. Since the cessation of fighting for the winter, her nursing duties had dwindled considerably and her social life had blossomed. Philip had seen to it that she was invited to a number of party balls, as evenings of dancing in private homes were called, and although he invariably escorted her, it was inevitable that younger men should start to compete for the favors of such a vivacious and pretty girl, in spite of the fact that their parents deplored the fact that she was the ward of “that notorious Bryne Garrett.”
But now Lucy had the chance to vindicate Bryne in everybody’s eyes, and to delight in removing the stigma that had been attached to herself through him. She wielded the few facts she possessed to bludgeon those who had snubbed her in the past, boasting wildly of Bryne’s previously unstated affiliation to the cause of the colony which was so closely linked to his fiercely New England attitude toward the war. He, who had never deigned to explain his actions to anyone, would have been infuriated by being made into a hero, and it was lucky for Lucy that he was too far away for any of it to reach his ears.
The ladies of the patriotic families of York, who had been tempted to pull their skirts aside whenever Sarah went by, soon set about putting right the wrong they realized they had done to Bryne Garrett’s wife. They remembered how she had asked them to join a circle to make bandages and other medical aids for the wounded, and they put their heads together to decide which one of them should approach her first.
Sarah, summoned from the nursery by a surprised Beth informing her that six ladies had been shown into the drawing room, took a quick look at her reflection to check that her hair was smooth and her gown tidy. They should not catch her at a disadvantage, whoever they were!
“Good afternoon, ladies,” she said, entering the drawing room, her tall grace impressive, her face composed.
They chorused their greetings in return amid a fluff of bonnet feathers. Sarah seated herself in the large wing chair that Bryne had preferred to all the others, and seemed to gather something of his immense and powerful presence into herself, for the lady chosen as spokesman cleared her throat twice before speaking, as though quelled by the steady look directed at her.
“Er … Mrs. Garrett. I … we … that is, the members of the recently formed Loyal and Patriotic Society of Upper Canada would be honored if you should join us in our work to provide comforts for our brave soldiers. We knit and sew for them, and also do everything in our power to help financially any of their families that are in need—many of them, in fact, are in dire straits and near starvation. May we count on your support and invite you to become a member?” The last words ended on a rush, and the lady sat down abruptly.
Sarah’s eyes went from one face to another round the room. They were offering her an olive branch and she would take it. They were not to know that she had already donated anonymously to the funds of the society, knowing that Bryne would have wished it.
“I shall be very pleased to join the society,” Sarah answered evenly.
Her acceptance brought forth a buzz of delighted voices. Their consciences had been cleared, and now the occasion could develop socially, all embarrassment lifted. They were not to be disappointed. Sarah offered them tea, which turned out to be the real thing and not the hemlock tea or any other of the substitutes that so many were forced to serve in these wartime days, for supplies in the city’s stores had been affected by the capture at sea of a number of English trading vessels by United States privateers.
By the time the ladies left, each one had invited Sarah to some social function being held in their own homes. When she had closed the door on them she leaned against it, and allowed a grin to spread across her face. How Bryne would have laughed to see her holding court! She must write and tell him all about it.
The highlights of Sarah’s existence during the winter months were not the social events that she attended, or the Loyal and Patriotic Society meetings, but the letters that she received from Bryne. She wro
te him pages in return, telling him all that had happened, pouring out her love for him.
But when the hard grip of winter was finally broken by the coming of spring his letters stopped. The whole of March went by, taking the last of the snow with it. April brought patches of wild flowers in the woods and warm, soft rain that turned the streets to liquid mud, but no letter from Bryne.
She went to the post office every day. Finally a letter was taken from a compartment and handed to her, but it was not from Bryne.
“This is addressed to Mrs. Hannah Nightingale,” the postmaster said. “It was slotted under N some time ago by my assistant, who was new to the job and didn’t know that any mail for this deceased lady was to come to you.”
She took it with trembling hands. It was from Will Nightingale! The children’s father was alive! Alive! Quickly she sat down on a bench by the wall to read it through. The address was that of a fur company in the far north, and it had been written before Christmas!
The tone of the letter was one of desperate anxiety. As she read it soon became obvious to Sarah that poor Will had been swindled by tricksters who had taken advantage of his simple country honesty.
Dear Wife,
This is the first communication I have sent by the mail carrier, but many letters have been dispatched to you, sweetheart. In case none of these has come into your hands, I am obliged to recount my unfortunate experiences yet again. My first great folly was to try to gamble myself a fortune in York. Instead I lost everything. I was told that the best way to amend my fortunes was by trapping in the north, but the rewards are only high for those familiar with this savage part of the colony. It has been my experience in the New World that all the far away fields are greener until a man gets there. My failure at trapping forced me to seek other employment with the fur company, and although I turned my hand to many a menial task, my greatest misfortune was to come. You see, I fell ill with the sweating sickness at the time I thought to ride south to meet you. For a long time I lay at death’s door, and so much did the sickness addle my brain that many weeks went past before I was able to write a letter to you. This I sent with a wagon driver, an obliging fellow, who promised to deliver it into your hands. To him I also entrusted a purseful of money, as I was indeed anxious for your welfare. He assured me on his return some weeks later that he found you comfortably installed at Mrs. Cooper’s, and that you had obtained a post as seamstress. The message you sent back was that I must keep sending money, but you would not write—nor did you wish to see me—until I had enough saved to move you in comfort to the piece of land that had been allotted to me. This I knew to be forfeit by lack of claim, and did not know how to confess this matter from so far away, nor yet how to come to face you empty-handed. The failure of the wagon driver to come north again after his last delivery to York has caused me to fear that the messages he had brought from you were lies of his own invention, and that he has been pocketing the money himself. Let me see a letter in your dear hand soon, if only to tell me that all is well with you, no matter if your heart is hard against me for seeming to have deserted you and our own dear children, which I would never do.
Your faithful Will
Sarah folded the letter and rose from the bench. She must write to Will as soon as she got home. There were so many plausible rogues about, and many were the tales that immigrants had to tell of being tricked out of their possessions, but this was the worst case of all. Poor man. Already it was a long time since the letter had been written. He would be completely distraught.
Her thoughts were so full of Will that she paid little attention to the ranks of green-uniformed soldiers marching into town on their way to the garrison, some officers on horseback at their head. Reaching the corner, she stopped to wait as they went by, intending to cross as soon as the street was clear. She despaired a little at the mud she had to face, for the planks put across for pedestrians were of no use, having been pressed down into the quagmire long since.
She looked into the faces of the men marching by. Mostly young, but there were some older, hard-bitten men of the backwoods among them who looked less at home under the brims of their tall, cylindrical headgear trimmed with the regimental flash of the Canadian militia than they would have done under the weathered hat of the settler or the fur cap of the trapper.
Her eyes followed them, passing on to the backs of the officers who had ridden by before she had halted there. Her heart leaped. There was Bryne! And judging by the bonnet brims turning toward him, he was grinning back at those deliberately catching his eye.
Happiness soared within her. She broke into a half run to catch up with him, dodging past people on the pavement. Soon she came level with the glossy haunches of his horse.
“Bryne!” she called, breathless with excitement.
His handsome head jerked round, and she experienced the intense bliss of seeing his whole face become transfigured in his joy at the sight of her.
“Honey!” he exclaimed. He could not break rank, but he reined in slightly and leaned down to touch briefly the gloved fingertips that she held out to him.
“Are you well?” she asked eagerly, hurrying to keep up, her bonnet ribbons fluttering behind her, pelisse fringe dancing. “It’s weeks since I had a letter.”
“We’ve been traveling and training. I’ve been starved of news of you, too.”
“Shall we meet soon?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll be with you tomorrow.” The look he gave her was deep enough for her to have drowned in the love she saw there.
She nodded, slowing her pace to a standstill. Twice he turned in the saddle to look back and wave to her before the contingent turned the corner and he was lost from her sight. Tomorrow. Only a few hours to wait and they would be together again. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as she made her way homeward.
But setting sail on the far side of the lake was an armada of ships with the Stars and Stripes flying at the mastheads and seventeen hundred American soldiers on board. The great onslaught aimed at York and its fortifications was under way.
Twelve
Out of her early morning sleep Sarah was thrown into wakefulness by a great rumbling crash that shook the house to its foundations. She sat bolt upright, her heart pounding, to see a glow brighter than dawn rising against the window.
The children had started to cry. As she ran from the bedchamber, making for their room, another crash made the house tremble, and somewhere a window tinkled into falling glass. She met Lucy, white-faced, on the landing.
“What is it?” the girl cried.
“The city is being bombarded!”
Sarah reached the nursery as a volley of answering cannon thundered forth from the garrison. Jenny and Robbie flung themselves at her. Stooping to gather them close, she held out one arm to include Flora, who had come running too, terror on her face.
“Is it de end of de world?” the child shrieked, burying herself in the safety of Sarah’s reassuring embrace.
“It’s only a few guns being fired,” Sarah said calmly. She glanced up as Mary Anne appeared, her features ashen. “Collect the children’s clothes together. We’ll get them dressed in the cellar. Lucy—you fetch my things with yours.”
“Dose Yankees is coming to slit our throats!” Flora squealed. “Dey’s going to take me and put me up for sale again! Dey’s going to murder every one of us!”
“They’re not going to do any such thing,” Sarah stated evenly, disentangling Jenny’s little arms that had tightened in a stranglehold about her throat at Flora’s words. “Most of them are good men who have little children at home like all of you. There’ll be some more big bangs, I expect, and then they’ll go away.”
The explosions continued to resound as Sarah shepherded her little flock down to the cellar. When they were all dressed she left Lucy to get them some breakfast from the kitchen, and she herself went to check the doors and windows, thankful that she had never once relaxed her rule that the shutters on the ground floor must be faste
ned at night.
But at her bedchamber window she stood and stared with dismay in the direction of the garrison. It seemed to be entirely ablaze, a long stretch of flame flickering skyward above the intervening woodland. She put a trembling hand to her throat.
“Bryne! Bryne!” She reiterated his name in a whisper that was a prayer. Where was he in that blazing inferno? Oh, God, let him be safe!
A rattling and shouting in the street drew her attention. Some people were fleeing the city already, household possessions thrown into carts, most of which were overloaded, and the muddy surface of the street, softened to a fresh morass by a shower of rain in the night, was hindering the wheels.
Even as she watched, a volcano of an explosion seemed to lift the whole city, causing her to fall back, her arms upflung instinctively to protect her face as the glass of the window shattered.
“Whatever was that?” Lucy cried from the bottom of the stairs. Without waiting for a reply, she came rushing up to find Sarah standing motionless, broken glass glittering about her feet, staring out through the broken panes. Following Sarah’s gaze, she saw a great black pall of smoke darkening the sky. It told her what had happened.
“The main magazine at the garrison has gone!” Turning, she noticed a trickle of blood on Sarah’s arm. “You’re cut!”
“Am I?” Sarah looked dully at the wound. She had felt nothing. Perhaps her frantic concern for Bryne had dulled all her other senses.
When Lucy returned with a bandage she found Sarah sitting on the bed with her head bowed, and despair struck into her. She was not used to seeing Sarah crushed by events. In the past it had given her great satisfaction to use Bryne’s wife as a kind of kicking post for all her ill humor, but not anymore. She had come to look to Sarah as the pivot around which the house turned.
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