“I’ve learned a lot about the village from the Preservation Society, but I still feel like there’s so much I don’t know.” The more Ben found out about Swannhaven, the more he realized how much remained to be discovered.
“I’d guess Lisbeth Goode and the Preservation folks know all there is to know,” Jake said. “The Goodes have kept the records for this place as long as there’ve been records to keep. Lisbeth’s father, old August Goode, ran the Swannhaven Dispatch until he died.”
“Right, the Dispatch.” Before he’d decided that his book would focus on the Revolutionary War period, Ben had been interested in tracking down back issues of the old town paper. “She must have an archive or something. I’ll have to ask her about that.”
“The village’s history means a lot to us,” Caroline told Jake. “I think its backstory will really help distinguish the Crofts from the inns and hotels in Exton. It’ll make great copy on the website and in promotional materials. And it’s exactly the kind of thing that appeals to travel magazines.”
“Sounds good,” Jake said, putting on his jacket.
If that was the pitch she planned to use on the villagers at dinner, Ben thought it could use some work.
“It must have been shocking for the village when the sisters died, what, two winters ago now?” Ben said. “Had they been sick?” Ben and Caroline had speculated about this since they first visited the Crofts.
“Nothing like that,” Jake said. “That winter was colder than most, and the whole house couldn’t be heated. Such a big old place. That’s why you had to go and get a new furnace and all the rest. The aunties spent most of their time in the kitchen.” He pointed to the stone fireplace on the far wall. “Story is that one night the fire wasn’t enough.”
“What do you mean it wasn’t enough?” Caroline asked.
“The cold,” Ben said. He leaned back in his chair. They’d imagined a dozen scenarios but nothing like that. “They both froze right here in this room.”
25
Ben had been in bed for an hour, and still sleep did not come.
When he closed his eyes, he saw the face of Mrs. White. Her lips mouthing something he could not discern. The news that the Swann sisters had died in the kitchen also troubled him. He’d assumed that they’d died in their home; that was where old women died. But to think that this family had survived sieges and depressions, wars and pandemics, only to be finished by a cold night…
He threw himself onto his side and tried to stave off thoughts of the old sisters, imagining in their place Swannhaven against the blank slate of fresh snowfall near the end of the blood-soaked year of 1777.
At the time of the Revolution, there had been no more than a handful of buildings clustered around the village square and a dozen farmhouses spread throughout the valley. The snow on the fallow fields gave the view from the Crofts an unfinished look, as if the artist had been retained only to depict the valley’s human contributions.
Just before dawn, the air cold and still, the Iroquois came from the south. Most arrived on foot, but some rode horseback along the flanks. By the time the sky had ripened, a group had detached for the southmost farmhouse, while the rest surged for the village. The snow began to mirror the amber sky. A beautiful morning.
Ben decided that the Swanns had woken at first light. By then, two of the farmhouses had been set alight. The Iroquois went from building to building along the village square, their guns shattering the morning. Up at the Crofts, where they could see but not hear the attack, the Swanns stood at their windows and watched their valley burn. The only daughter at home, Elizabeth, would have comforted the twins, James and Emmett, while Jack, the eldest son, would have grabbed his musket and run to rouse the tenant families on the Drop.
Their father, Henry Swann, had woken in the still of that morning knowing something of the day that awaited him. His grandfather Aldrich Swann had once told him that he had seen the Drop in a dream and known from that moment the wealth of land and family that God would grant him. Henry Swann had also dreamed in the restlessness of the night, but it had been no vision of comfort. And so he sat on the edge of his bed in his nightclothes for a time, feet stung by the floor’s cold, praying for the courage to stand and walk to the window. He peered beyond the rime of ice and saw dark figures walking across the stark white fields with otherworldly grace. In a moment Henry imagined the full arc of the thing. He knew the horrors that flashed through him were a promise. The bill for his grandfather’s dream had come due, and Henry wondered if God had played any part in it.
A noise tore Ben back to his own bedroom. A scream came from the attic.
The wind played all sorts of tricks when it found a way in. He and Jake had worked hard to seal the upper floors, but they could locate the drafts only when the wind was brisk. It was an odd sound, a warbling whistle. He stared at his ceiling, listening to the rhythm of the noise. It tapered to almost nothing, and just when it had nearly disappeared, it came surging back.
He closed his eyes again and searched his mind for the snowy village that burned in the valley, but the attic noise had pulled him too far out.
“Okay, I’m up,” Ben said to himself. He swung his legs off the bed. Caroline turned over and muttered something. He remained motionless until her breathing settled.