When they left Bub’s room, Ben sent Ted downstairs while he checked on Caroline. The curtains in their room had been drawn, leaving the room dark and the air close. When he whispered Caroline’s name, she didn’t respond, though this didn’t necessarily mean she was asleep. He left the baby monitor on her side table and shut the door gently behind him when he left. He hoped she’d be out of bed by the time they returned: Even under the best circumstances, it was going to be hard to show Ted that he had everything under control.
Ted said that he wanted to see the lake before heading over to the farmhouse. They walked upslope from the Crofts until the land leveled out and they could see the wild fields stretch across the plateau to the forest and the mountains beyond them. It was a relief to leave the house. “The locals call this the Drop,” Ben told Ted. “The lawyer who showed us the place said that the fields used to go right up to the mountains, but the forests have reclaimed a lot of that territory.”
“How much of this land do you own, Benj?”
“All of it up to the mountains.” He pointed and spread his arm across the landscape. “The mountains are part of a state preserve. Then we own everything downslope until just before the county road. About a thousand acres is what they tell me,” Ben said.
Ted shook his head.
“We got a good deal on the place, though. It’s not as extravagant as it sounds.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“We can take this path to the lake.” Ben indicated a trail between two clusters of hardwoods that skirted the edge of the south woods. “Caroline has an idea that we could eventually grow all our own food up here.”
“That’s a lot for her to take on, isn’t it?”
“That’s probably a couple years away. But it’s something that’ll appeal to our guests, too,” Ben said. “You know, all organic, locally grown food. They can actually look around at the crops or maybe take classes on starting their own gardens. People love stuff like that these days, don’t they?”
“What’s that?” Ted had stopped walking and was shading his hand against the glare from the afternoon sun. Ben followed his gaze about a quarter mile to a tall and thin figure in white just inside the tree line on the far side of the lake. “What’s he doing?”
Ben realized that he was staring at his own son, standing on the high stump of a broken tree. He stood in a patch of sunlight, and its glare off the boy’s white T-shirt and the fact that he stood at the top of a four-foot pedestal of dead wood gave Charlie the illusion of height and ethereality.
“Just playing,” Ben said. “You know how kids are.” But he had no idea what Charlie was doing. His son faced the dark forest, utterly still, as if waiting for something.
“Is it safe for him to be there?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ben asked. They were far from the house, but Ben could still see the tops of the Crofts’s towers. Technically, this was still within the perimeter he’d confined Charlie to. “We make him carry a whistle in case he runs into any trouble.”
“Does he spend a lot of time out here on his own?”
“School starts in September.”
“Right, right.” Ted nodded and didn’t say anything else, but Ben still heard the things his brother left unasked. Charlie was too quiet for an eight-year-old. Too serious. They’d had him tested in the city, and while it seemed that every other kid they knew had an ADHD diagnosis or was somewhere on the autism spectrum, Charlie was never labeled as anything more than “unusually interior.” He’d even seemed oddly unmarked by the long night he’d been locked in the furnace room.
But at least he was interested in something up here. Spending all day in the forest had to be better than sitting alone in his room, as he had in the city.
Ben cast a last glance at Charlie, the white of his shirt just visible through the trees. So still, Ben thought to himself. He wondered how his son had ever learned to be so still.
November 24, 1777
Dearest Kathy,
The bitterest of cold weather has fallen upon us. Game is nowhere to be found, as the conditions are too severe for both hunter and prey. William White has lost two fingers, and Matthew Armfield may lose an ear after yesterday’s venture to the northern fields in search of deer.
The last of the horses has been slain and its meat eaten. Now we must make do with griddle cakes and porridge made from last season’s grain, but our stores have dwindled terribly.
George and Bennett Townsend set out for the ruins of Swannhaven at first light in search of supplies that the Iroquois might have overlooked. Father thought them fools, but it is true that, save for some strange sounds from the forest, we have not seen the Indians since their attack. Nevertheless, George and Bennett left hours ago and there has been no sign of them. The sun has fallen behind the mountains, and we fear they shall not return to us.
For our family, we have fared better than many. Emmett is sick, and you know how difficult the cold is for him. James has lost some weight, as we all have, but I now see beneath his childhood face the handsome man he will become. And our Jack is the bravest of the men, and no Iroquois hatchet can match the acuity of his wit. He keeps the men strong and can coax a smile from even Goody Smythe.
But as much as Jack keeps our spirits high, and Father’s sermons keep our resolve strong, we worry about the winter, and we worry about the war. The fall of the fort at Ticonderoga still weighs upon us, and before the snows we learned the ill news that the British army that took New York has now seized Philadelphia from General Washington. Does the general still live? The men whisper of old rumors that more of the king’s armies march on us from Quebec. I wonder if Boston has fallen, as well. I fear for you, sister.
The only solace is that it is difficult to think beyond the hunger that gnaws at us. Worries of the war pale beside the imperatives of our empty stomachs. The world has never seemed more far away. Pray for us, dear sister, as I shall pray for you.
Your Bess
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