The Courier of Caswell Hall (13 page)

Hannah gave a coy smile. “That is because he is not fighting for the British.”

“Hush, Hannah,” Mother hissed.

Lydia hated the glee in her sister’s words, the deviousness in her smile. It was as if she were trying to destroy their entire family along with Seth.

The major’s eyes flashed. “He is a rebel?”

“He would not call himself a rebel,” Lydia said.

Major Reed set his tumbler on the table, directing his question to Lydia. “Do you communicate regularly with this man you are to marry?”

“Oh, no,” Lydia replied, trying to ignore the familiar ache in her heart. “I have not heard from him since he left for the army two years ago.”

“We have no communication with rebels or their cause,” Father insisted.

Hannah tilted her head. “Except with Seth’s sister.”

Father filled the major’s tumbler with more sherry. “Seth’s father and his daughter are as loyal to the Crown as our family is. And my father was murdered because of his allegiance to the king.”

Major Reed shifted his weight, leaning back against the paneled wall. “No one can be certain of another’s loyalties.”

When could they return to being neighbors again, without worrying who was on which side of this war?

Mother nudged Hannah toward the door, her lips set in a firm line. “It is time for you to retire.”

“But I wanted to play another song!”

“To your chamber,” Father commanded.

With a dramatic sigh, Hannah slouched from the room.

An officer sat down at the instrument, and as he played, Lydia heard her father change the topic to one she preferred even less than the topic of the Hammonds.

“What are your prospects for marriage?” he asked the major.

Major Reed stole a look at her again, and she felt a wave of heat creep up her face. She quickly fanned away her embarrassment.

He turned back to Father. “I have none at the moment.”

“There are some fine young ladies on this side of the ocean who are quite devoted to our king.”

Lydia stepped toward the fireplace and shuddered, pretending she couldn’t hear their low voices over the din of singing.

Did Father really want her to marry this man? It seemed to her that Major Reed was much too pompous to be a planter. A man who didn’t love this land would probably squander it, along with the house Father had worked so hard to build.

Of course, Father was getting desperate. Most of the local men of marrying age had joined General Washington’s army, and Father was determined that neither of his daughters would marry one of them.

Her father and the major stepped closer to the fireplace.

“When do you intend to make your loyalties known?” Major Reed asked.

Father sipped his drink. “When the British have secured their win.”

The major’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowering. “Are you a coward, Lord Caswell?”

Lydia had never heard anyone imply that her father was a coward. With a quick glance toward her left, Lydia saw anger flash across Father’s face and the twitching of his left eye.

“The rebels killed my father when he made his loyalties known, and they chased away my son.” The sharp edge in her father’s voice sounded like hail pounding their slate roof. “Many of our former friends already treat my family with disdain.”

Mother moved toward him, and when she circled her gloved hand around his arm, his eye stopped twitching. Lydia admired the way her mother could diffuse her father’s fury by a simple touch—the reminder, perhaps, that he wasn’t alone.

“My husband is a survivor, Major Reed. A survivor and a protector of our family and plantation.”

Father’s tone calmed as he continued. “If I declare my loyalties now and your army is set back, the next time you come to Caswell Hall, there may be no house to host you.”

Major Reed straightened the lace on his sleeves. “I suppose there is wisdom in that.”

“It is common sense, my friend. If I speak up, I fear my punishment would be swift. I would be forced to return to London with my wife and daughters, and there would be one less family in Virginia loyal to the Crown.”

“We knew your father when he was much younger, Major Reed.” The soothing lilt of Mother’s voice broke through the tension. “But I did not have the pleasure of knowing your mother well. Where is her family?”

Major Reed looked startled at the change in direction of their conversation. “She is from Canterbury.”

“I visited Canterbury when I was a girl.” Mother’s tone remained soft, her smile demure. “It was a charming village.”

Major Reed mirrored her smile. “Aye. It is a beautiful place.”

“You can understand, I suppose, how Caswell Hall means so much to all of us.”

“I understand your sentiments, Lady Caswell, but my superiors may not.”

“We are on your side,” Father insisted.

Mother didn’t mention Grayson, but Lydia knew the plantation meant so much to her mother in part because her son had grown up
within these walls. He’d walked the fields and worked alongside Father. She wanted to protect her memories as much as Father wanted to protect his kingdom.

Lydia didn’t want to return to London either. This colony was her home, a place where her father had prospered. She loved the beautiful landscape around Caswell Hall and their view of the river. Father had given much of his life to the building of this house and to the planting and cultivating of the seven thousand acres that surrounded it. If they took Caswell Hall from him, if they burned it like they had so many houses . . . she feared her father would never recover from such a loss.

As Major Reed continued to ask questions, her mother urged Lydia to sing again. She moved to the pianoforte. Her heart wasn’t in it, but she joined the men in a song about God saving their king.

Sarah packed hard cheese, a small bottle of cherries, and two slices of bread in a small basket. She buckled her oldest pair of shoes and wrapped herself in her light-brown cloak. It was already after eight in the morning, and the letter seemed to be burning a hole in the pocket under her petticoat. With the horses gone, she had no choice. She must walk the three miles to Williamsburg.

It might not be safe on the main roads with the British so close, but she would have to risk traveling over the footpath to deliver the letter.

She’d finished the weekly inspection with Thomas yesterday, walking the grounds to check on the buildings and the work of their Negroes. Winters weren’t nearly as taxing as the summer planting and harvesting—nor were they as profitable—but the workers stayed plenty busy with maintenance and care for the livestock. The field slaves and house servants alike would be occupied for most of the day.

She found Morah dusting the banister over the main stairs, Alden playing with his crutch at her feet. Sarah assumed that Elisha had made the crutch for his son, but she never asked. Alden needed his father, but Lord Caswell refused to sell Elisha to her. Now Sarah simply pretended that she didn’t know Elisha paddled down the back river every Sunday night to visit his wife and son.

“When Thomas returns, please tell him I have decided to picnic this morning.”

Morah stared at her as if she’d gone mad, and Sarah knew she must have a hundred questions about one picnicking in March, during a war.

“Yes, miss,” Morah replied instead.

The gray skies threatened weather, but it was too warm for another snow. As long as she returned by nightfall, she would be fine.

Sarah walked the path along the riverbank east before turning north toward Williamsburg. In the distance she saw one of the few Patriot ships moving toward the ocean, probably going out to defend the Chesapeake Bay.

Not too many years ago, her heart had swelled with pride at the strength of the Royal Navy. At the time, her father hadn’t been on a ship in many years, but he still regaled her and Seth with stories about his years traveling the world, before he and Mother came to run his father’s plantation. Mother had neither the strength nor the interest in traveling with him, but he’d seemed to settle well into the life of a planter until Parliament petitioned him to travel to the West Indies.

When Seth joined the Continental Army, it seemed that Father had been proud of his son for fighting. Father had once spoken out in favor of liberty, before the colonies wrote their declaration for independence, but he had withdrawn quickly, growing more dispassionate even as the world grew passionate around them. When he received his orders to sail, it seemed a mercy for him to escape all that confused him and his family.

She wondered if he still believed in any of the foundational blocks of freedom.

The path led her into a labyrinth of mud, leaves, and branches with snow quilted like patchwork between the trees.

Father would never approve of what she was doing. It was too risky to allow a messenger from either side to come onto their property, and he would fear for her life. On the other hand, Seth wanted her to be safe, but he also wanted to win this war. Her brother had given his life for freedom; he would never be satisfied with defeat. Sarah would rather die than live under oppression, with the punishment that would inflict all those who had rebelled.

If she could fight on the battlefield, she would. She’d heard the story of Mary Hays, the woman who’d served as a “water girl” to cool down the cannons as the Patriots battled the British. When Mary’s husband was injured in battle, she took his ramrod and kept loading the cannon.
General Washington designated Mary Hays a sergeant for her courage, but Seth said General Washington would never allow Sarah to fight—her role here as a courier was even more vital.

Or it had been, until they stole her horses.

She heard the sound of voices through the thickness of the trees, and she stopped walking. There were two or three men speaking, and they were close.

“No one must know of our intent,” one of the men said.

“We will search everyone who comes this way.”

Sarah swallowed and then held her breath. Who were these men?

Then she heard the language of a German man, probably one of the Hessians the king had hired from taxes inflicted on the Americans. She wouldn’t be able to pass without them hearing her, searching her. She shivered, her hand over the pocket that held a small book with the letter. It wouldn’t be hard for them to find it, but the thought of them searching . . .

They might not be able to read the contents, but she couldn’t risk it. The letter was still sealed and must remain so until it arrived.

She sat on a stump and waited, wishing the forest would swallow her. There would be no moving in any direction until the men were gone.

Blue and green threads on the canvas formed the path of a river. After weeks of work, the scene was finally finished, and Lydia took an old sampler off the wall by her bureau and replaced it with her new one. If she ever left Caswell Hall, the embroidered river would remind her of home.

Stitching usually calmed her nerves, easing her to sleep, but it hadn’t worked tonight. The thought of having to leave Caswell Hall haunted her.

The officers had retired for the night less than an hour ago, enjoying their time of refreshment to the fullest. Their household staff was showing signs of weariness at the men’s demands. Lydia was exhausted as well, but she hadn’t been able to sleep.

The officers talked tonight of the plantations they’d burned around Charles Towne and New York, and they told of a man—a Loyalist—who’d
burned his family’s plantation home even as his rebel brother looked on. It seemed outlandish to her, burning the places they were trying to secure. What would happen if the British did win this war?

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the shutters that folded behind the window seat. If the Patriots won, her family would have to leave Caswell Hall, and the thought of leaving her beloved home terrified her. This place was her sanctuary, her fortress. Some people, like Grayson, wanted adventure, but she had never felt the need to explore far beyond their plantation. Their trip to England when she was a child had cured her of any longing to travel. For the entire two months overseas, she had begged her parents to return to their plantation.

Unlike her, Grayson had loved their trip to Europe, especially the ride on the ship. He’d spent every waking moment Father allowed him on deck with the crew.

She and Grayson did have something in common when they were younger. Both of them preferred peace to conflict, like their mother. Lydia still craved peace in their colony, but it seemed as if it was much too late for that sentiment.

Grandfather’s desire for peace had ultimately gotten him killed, and the irony of it still angered her. She didn’t understand why anyone would condemn peace, but in the days after his funeral, she decided it was better to keep one’s opinion to oneself than end up dead because of it.

She opened her eyes and looked out at the darkness.

Where had Nathan gone? Instead of choosing peace, he was risking his life for a freedom that seemed impossible to secure, especially now that the British seemed poised to take Virginia.

She didn’t know what real freedom was like. Even though she’d been raised in the Commonwealth of Virginia, she’d always been a servant of the king. She never dared to wonder what it would be like if the colonies were independent.