“I have got to paint that floorcloth you asked for,” Bree said, not realizing that she’d spoken aloud until Angelina laughed.
“Oh, do,” she said. “I meant to tell you, Mr. Brumby says he prefers the design with the pineapples, and could you possibly have it ready by Wednesday-week? He wants to have a great dinner for General Prévost and his officers. In gratitude, you know, for his gallant defense of the city.” She hesitated, her little pink tongue darting out to touch her lips. “Do you think … er … I don’t wish to—to be—that is—”
Brianna made a long, slow brushstroke, a streak of pale pink mingled with cream catching the shine of light on the roundness of Angelina’s delicate forearm.
“It’s all right,” she said, barely attending. “Don’t move your fingers.”
“No, no!” Angelina said, twitching her fingers guiltily, then trying to remember how they’d been.
“That’s fine, don’t move!”
Angelina froze, and Bree managed a gray suggestion of shadow between the fingers while Henrike clumped in. To her surprise, though, there was no sound of rattling coffee things, nor any hint of the cake she’d smelled baking this morning as she dressed.
“What is it, Henrike?” Angelina was still sitting rigidly erect, and while she’d been given permission to talk, she kept her eyes fixed on the vase of flowers. “Where is our morning coffee?”
“Da ist ein Mann,” Henrike informed her mistress portentously, dropping her voice as though to avoid being overheard.
“Someone at the door, you mean?” Angelina risked a curious glance at the studio door before jerking her eyes back into line. “What sort of man?”
Henrike pursed her lips and nodded at Brianna.
“Ein Soldat. Er will sie sehen.”
“A soldier?” Angelina dropped her pose and looked at Brianna in astonishment. “And he wants to see Mrs. MacKenzie? You’re sure of that, Henrike? You don’t think he might want Mr. Brumby?”
Henrike was fond of her young mistress and refrained from rolling her eyes, instead merely nodding again at Bree.
“Her,” she said in English. “Er sagte, ‘die Lay-dee Pain-ter.’” She folded her hands under her apron and waited with patience for further instructions.
“Oh.” Angelina was clearly at a loss—and just as clearly had lost all sense of her pose.
“Shall I go and talk to him?” Bree inquired. She swished her squirrel-fur brush in the turps and wrapped it in a bit of damp rag.
“Oh, no—bring him here, will you, Henrike?” Angelina plainly wanted to know what this visitation was about. And, Bree thought with an internal smile, seeing Angelina poke hastily at her hair, be seen in the thrilling position of having her portrait painted.
The soldier in question proved to be a very young man—in the uniform of the Continental army. Angelina gasped at sight of him and dropped the glove she was holding in her left hand.
“Who are you, sir?” she demanded, sitting up as straight as she possibly could. “And how come you are here, may I ask?”
“I came under flag of truce, to bring a message. Lieutenant Hanson, your servant, ma’am,” the young man replied, bowing. “And yours, ma’am,” turning to Brianna. He withdrew a sealed note from the bosom of his coat and bowed to her. “If I may take the liberty of inquiring—are you Mrs. Roger MacKenzie?”
She felt as though she’d been dropped abruptly down a glacial abyss, freezing cold and ice-blind. Confused memories of yellow telegrams seen in war movies, the memory of siege guns, and where is Roger?
“I … am,” she croaked. Angelina and Henrike both looked at her, grasped the situation at once, and Angelina rushed to support her.
“What has happened?” Angelina demanded fiercely, hugging Bree round the middle and glaring at the soldier. “Tell us at once!”
Henrike’s hands tightened on Bree’s shoulders, and she could hear the whisper of a German prayer behind her. “Mein Gott, erlöse uns vom Bösen …”
“Er …” The young man—he couldn’t be more than sixteen, Bree thought dimly—looked flabbergasted. “I—er—”
Bree got control of her throat muscles and swallowed.
“Has he been killed in battle?” she asked, with what calm she could muster. Oh, God, I can’t tell the kids, I can’t do this … Oh, God …
“Well, yes, ma’am,” the soldier said, blinking. “But how did you know?” The note was still in his hand, half extended. She broke free of the women and snatched it from him, scrabbling frantically to break the seal.
For a moment, the words, written in an unfamiliar hand, swam before her eyes, and her gaze dropped to the signature. A doctor, dear God … And then her eyes rose to the salutation.
Friend MacKenzie
“What?” she said, looking up at the young soldier. “Who the hell wrote this?”
“Why, Dr. Wallace, ma’am,” he said, shocked by her language. Then, realizing, “Oh. He’s a Quaker, ma’am.” She wasn’t paying attention, though, having returned to the text of the letter.
Thy husband bids me give thee his best and tell thee that he will be with thee in Savannah in three days’ time, God willing. She closed her eyes and took a breath so deep that it dizzied her. He would have written to say so in his own hand but has suffered a minor dislocation of the thumb which prevents his writing comfortably.
He has departed on a brief but urgent errand for Lieutenant-Colonel Marion. In the meantime, he asks whether thee would come to the American camp at Savannah (the soldier who brings this under a flag of truce will escort thee), in order to perform an artistic service of generosity and compassion.
One of the most esteemed of the American cavalry commanders was killed in the battle, and General Lincoln is desirous of having some concrete memento of General Pulaski. Friend Roger offered consolation to the general’s friends, and upon hearing General Lincoln’s lamentation at having no lasting memorial, suggested that, as thee were close at hand, thee might be willing to come and make a drawing of the gentleman, prior to his burial.
At this point, astonishment began to overcome shock and she started to breathe more slowly. She was still light-headed and her heart was fluttering—she put a hand flat on her chest in reflex—but the words on the page had steadied.
Pulaski. The name was vaguely familiar to her; she must have heard it in school. One of the European volunteers who had come to join the American cause. There was something in New York named after him, wasn’t there? And now—now, today, not two hundred years in the past—he had died.
She became aware of Angelina, Henrike, and the young soldier, all staring at her with varying degrees of concern and anxiety.
“It’s all right,” she said. Her voice trembled, and she cleared her throat and shook her head to dispel the dizziness. “It’s all right,” she said again, more firmly. “My husband’s all right.”
“Oh …” Angelina’s face relaxed and she clasped her hands. “Oh, I’m so glad, Mrs. MacKenzie!”
Behind Angelina’s back, Henrike crossed herself solemnly, the fear ebbing from her eyes. The soldier coughed.