

# Newgate Prison

# Copper Mines

# and the

# Irish Lass

### A 1700s Colonial America

### Sweet Romance Novella

### Book One

### of the series

### Connecticut Revolutionary War Historic Romantic Tale

# Lisa Shea

Copyright © 2020 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Lisa Shea

Book design by Lisa Shea

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

The bulk of this book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The sections based on real individuals and locations are researched to the best of the author's ability.

~ v2 ~

Visit my website at LisaShea.com

Kindle ASIN: B08D89KP31

Paperback ISBN: 9798675777884

Trust and Believe

# Newgate Prison

# Copper Mines

# and the

# Irish Lass

# Author's Note

In 1707, an intrepid group of businessmen in northwestern Connecticut tried their luck at copper mining. They dug a 25-foot shaft straight down and then began mining sideways from there. Wherever the copper veins ran, in whatever twisting direction, the miners followed.

By 1773 the copper had been depleted and the meandering mine tunnels lay empty. In the meantime, rebellion was fomenting throughout the colonies, and along with it, new lofty ideals. Rather than lopping off hands of criminals or killing them outright, the thought arose to simply lock them away from society for a while.

The mines seemed the perfect solution.

A tavern lay right across the street from the mine entrance. John Viets, the owner, had worked the mines himself in his younger years. Now he offered to act as guard for whatever miscreants would be tossed within. After all, it shouldn't be that hard. You send a man down the shaft, lock the top, and in he stays.

And thus begins my story.

A number of the characters mentioned in this tale are based on real people. The Newgate copper-mines-turned-prison are real and can be visited in person, with the benefit of modern stairs, too. I highly recommend making the trip to experience those twisting tunnels for yourself.

What follows is a fictionalized tale of what might have happened back in these vibrant, tempestuous times, based on contemporary accounts, newspaper reports, court records, and a healthy dose of my own imagination. I grew up in Connecticut and now live right next door in Massachusetts. I adore these wooded rolling hills with a deep-seated passion.

To learn more about the Newgate mines-turned-prison and their history, be sure to check out my Appendices.

Now, on to the story!

I support battered women's shelters.

# Chapter One

You never miss the water

until the well has run dry

\- Irish Proverb

Simsbury, Connecticut Colony  
October 31, 1773

Christina kept a steady hand on the reins as the wagon made fresh tracks through the ever-deepening snow. The pale afternoon sun was barely visible through the gray clouds and tumbling flakes around her. She tucked her flame-red hair back beneath her cap and pulled her cloak in against her fawn brown hemp dress. In all her twenty-four years, she'd never seen a storm come up as quick as this. There'd been no hint of it when they left the house for church this morning.

And now on their return trip, only four hours later, here they were, deep in the thick of it.

Beside her, her father pulled his blanket more tightly around his frail body, his rheumy eyes barely peering out through the folds.

She pressed her lips together. Somehow they would make it home.

She wished for the hundredth time that Seth had been with them at church. Her fiancé knew well that he could be fined for non-attendance; the rules here in Connecticut were more stringent than they were in his native Rhode Island. She had no doubt that it was his overseer at the copper mines who had violated the Lord's Sabbath and forced Seth to work.

She offered her gratitude to God that the mines were finally closing down. Seth would be free of Mr. Richardson for once and for all. And then, in a few weeks when they were married, there would be plenty enough to keep Seth busy.

After all, the roof needed mending before winter came on full force. The barn could use its share of repairs, too. When spring finally arrived, they'd have his strong hands and back available to properly plow the fields. To plant the tobacco. To turn the farm back into a healthy, solvent enterprise.

The wagon skidded, and her heart hammered against her ribs. She gently called out, "Careful there, Esther. Mind your footing."

The mare whinnied and moved back on course.

Christina willed her shoulders to relax. One more mile. One more mile and they'd reach the two-and-a-half-story saltbox which her grandfather had built with his very own hands. She'd get the horse and wagon into the barn, get her father settled in his chair by the fire, and at last she'd be able to ease. She'd read to him his favorite passages from the Bible. Maybe of the Exodus. He always enjoyed that, perhaps because it mirrored his own parents' flight from Ireland.

Or maybe, on a snowy afternoon like this, he'd prefer the Song of Solomon. It always brought back memories for him of her mother – his beloved wife, who had died in childbirth along with Christina's stillborn younger brother.

Christina had only been five. Still, she remembered how joyful the family had been up until that moment. How she and her older brother had eagerly looked forward to the arrival of the bairn.

And now she was the only one left.

She squinted against the snow and kept a steady hand on the reins.

Just one more mile. They were close.

The mare stepped steadily through the deep snow, each hoof leaving a deep furrow in its wake.

The oak and maple glistened as the weight of the snow pulled them curving across the width of the road. Many still had their autumn leaves on them, providing surface for the flakes to gather on. The arch was almost magical in its appearance. It was as if she were entering a passageway to the realm of the _aos sí_.

They crested a rise.

The world held its breath -

A jet-black raven burst out of a nearby oak, startling Christina, and she cried out in alarm at the dark portent.

The horse shied, fearfully twisting on its straps.

The wagon jerked, bumped, slid down the hill, slid for an eternity ...

Its back end caught hold on a stump, jarring to a stop, its frame tilted up at an angle. The forward left wheel was up off the ground.

The wheel spun ... spun ...

At last Christina breathed again. She put a hand on her hammering heart, willing it to slow. She looked over to her father. "Are you all right?"

He nodded to her. "I'm fine. I'll come down to take a look."

She tenderly put her hand on his arm. "You stay here, Father. Hold the reins. Talk with Esther; ease her fear. She listens to you more than me."

To her relief, her father nodded and began to speak in soothing tones to the steed.

She climbed down into the thick snow to examine the challenge.

They had slid half off the road into a ditch. The lower wheel was caught up against a thick stump. She could see where the axle of the wheel was braced against the wood. If the horse simply pulled against that friction, it could yank the wheel clean off.

And then where would they be?

Christina braced herself in the snow alongside the stump and put her full weight into pushing the wagon sideways.

It did not budge an inch.

She looked up and down the road in growing desperation. They had been late leaving the church, as her father had wanted to make some arrangements with Reverend Miller about the upcoming wedding. The conversation had taken a while, meaning they had been the last of the congregation to finally leave for home. The chance of another soul coming upon them in this thick storm was slimmer than her elderly rooster's neck.

And yet, was that a shape in the distance, coming from the east?

She scrunched her eyes against the sea of gray-white.

Yes. It was a shadow. A ghostly form.

It was coming ever closer.

She gave a shiver despite herself. She was a modern woman, past such childish contrivances, but her grandmother had been a true daughter of Ireland. Nana had believed whole-heartedly in faeries and leprechauns, in banshees and changelings. After Christina's mother had passed in childbirth, it was Nana who had raised her and her older brother, especially when Christina's father had been away at war.

Christina had learned all of the rules. She put out a portion of food and water each morning, lest the house faerie feel disrespected. If ever she spilt salt, she would quickly toss some over her left shoulder to dispel the bad luck.

And here it was, All Hollow's Eve. The night when the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest.

The ghostly shape was approaching.

Christina quickly crossed herself, putting herself between the cart and the threatening form. If this were Death himself, coming at last for her sickly father ...

Relief coursed over her as the figure resolved into a man on a dark horse. She scolded herself for being silly; for allowing her Nana's stories to sway her. She waited by the back corner of the wagon as the man drew close. The moment he was within short distance he dismounted and strode over to her.

He seemed a few years older than her, with thick, dark hair which curled to his shoulders. He was in a dark brown waistcoat and breeches beneath a long, flowing cloak of similar color.

But it was his face which caught at her.

She had to guess that one parent had been Native while the other had been Black. For his skin was the beautiful color of rich tea on a calm, spring morn, while the strength of his jaw, the dark alertness of his gaze –

His eyes went from hers to the wagon in a quick, evaluative scan. His voice held a faint hint of the rough accent of the Abenaki. "Was anybody hurt?"

She shook her head. "It's just me and my father, and we're both fine. But as you can see from the position of the wheel here –"

He nodded in understanding, coming around her. "Yes, yes, it'll need to have leverage from the side to come free. All right, then. I'll hook my horse to your back axle. We should be able to draw you off."

She stepped back. "You are kind to oblige us."

He said automatically, "Carry each other's burdens."

She blinked in surprise. "Galatians 6:2."

He turned at that. "Yes. My mother always read that to me, each evening. Galatians. She said it would flavor my dreams with light."

"She sounds like a compassionate soul."

His gaze grew distant. "She was."

Her Samaritan brought his attention back to the wheel. "You go back on the wagon. Be ready to get the horse going."

She nodded and climbed up.

Her father glanced nervously behind him. His lips were drawn down. "What tribe is he?"

She took up the reins and gave her father a gentle look. "The war's been done ten years now," she reminded him. "We're at peace now. All of us."

He humphed back into his blanket. "Lawless heathens, all of them. As likely to scalp you for their pagan gods as pass the bread."

Her smile rose. "He knows the Bible, Father."

His brow raised, and for a moment she had quieted him.

She turned to look back. Her Samaritan was just finishing rigging his own horse to the back axle of her wagon. He stood by his steed's head, turning him. He looked over to Christina. "Ready?"

She nodded. "Ready when you are."

"All right. Go slow and steady when I count down to one. Three ... two ... one."

She gave the reins a shake, and at the same time she felt the back wheels skew toward the road. Her horse strained against the dead weight – strained - and then the wheels caught. They turned and brought the wagon in motion along the snowy road.

Relief coursed through her. Everything was all right now. The portent of the raven had been a mere happenstance.

Her Samaritan had somehow already gotten his reins free and mounted. He followed behind the wagon for a few steps, then pulled up alongside. "The wheel and axle look to be undamaged. Still, you should examine them more closely when you get home. I assume it's not far?"

She pointed. "Just a mile further, through that copse of trees."

"I'd be glad to ride alongside, to ensure you get there safely. The snow's coming down like bees to a hive."

"There is no need; I would imagine –"

The wheels squirreled again, and she focused on managing the horse.

A shadow came to the man's face. "If you're uncomfortable with me knowing –"

She waved off the statement. "Not at all. You don't have the eyes of a miscreant."

His shadows eased into a twinkle. "And you can judge a man like that? Simply from his eyes?"

She smiled. "Well, my Nana always said –"

Her father roused from his cocoon. "Christina! I won't hear you spoutin' no nonsense of that sort. My mother was a dear soul, but those pagan beliefs of hers weren't in accordance with God. You put those right out of your mind."

Christina gentled her tone. "Of course, Father. I didn't mean to upset you."

The wagon rolled on, its wheels hushed by the snow.

Her father folded back in on himself.

Her Samaritan rode easily at her side. His steed was a fine black and showed no trouble maintaining his footing in the growing drifts.

She asked him, "So, Sir, are you traveling for business or pleasure?"

His mouth gave a soft smile. "Surely one should always find pleasure in all they do."

"Of course. That would be a fine way to live, if not always practical."

"But what is more practical? We only have one opportunity to experience our life here on Earth. It behooves us to find a measure of joy in each day, whatever we face."

She thought of her older brother, Patrick. Her voice became soft. "Sometimes sorrows are brought to our doorstep, and pleasure can seem but a distant memory."

He nodded his head. " _In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world_."

Her father bowed his head. She knew that was one of his favorite verses.

Her Samaritan continued, "Loss will beset us. Even then, when the grief has become a too-familiar blanket in which we could wrap ourselves, the fond memories can still bring comfort to the shadows."

She thought of that. "Memories are precious gifts to be treasured. They, at least, can never be taken from us."

They rode in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Her father roused himself and looked over at the man, his eyes squinting. His voice was rough but not unkind. "What is your business in Simsbury, Sir?"

Her Samaritan nodded in acknowledgement to him. "I am merely passing through. I have a skill with horses which places me in demand. I am currently on my way to Windsor to perform a re-training."

Christina's interest was piqued. "A re-training?"

He ran a hand gently down his horse's mane. "A doctor there acquired a beautiful steed in fine form from an estate sale. Apparently its coloring reminded him of a favorite horse of his youth. Unfortunately, it seems the previous owner had cruelly mistreated this horse. The gelding is skittish and won't heed. The doctor is relying on me to bring the horse around."

"And you think you can do it?"

He gave a quiet shrug. "We will find out. I have learned that most living creatures react well to compassion and patience. I will certainly try my best to bring peace to a troubled heart."

Christina looked ahead to the thick snow draping their path. It was becoming as dense as a field of wheat in harvest season. "Windsor is a fair ride, and evening is nearly upon us. Are you going all that way tonight?"

He shook his head. "I've got a room waiting ready at Viet's tavern. It's –"

"Right across from the entrance to the copper mines," she finished for him. "I know it well." She shivered. "Thank God they're closing down those mines. Seth's worked them these past three years and it's no life for any man. The stories Seth tells ..."

"Seth?"

"My fiancé."

She blushed at the word. It was still all so new. At her age, and with her flame-red hair bringing so much disdain at every turn, she'd almost given up hope of being courted. But Seth would soon be out of a job, her father's health was failing, and the two men had come to an arrangement. Apparently Seth had decided he could tolerate her poor looks in exchange for the house and decent-sized farm.

The rider's eyes creased. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course it is," she replied, bringing a smile back onto her face. "Seth asked for my father's blessings last week. We'll be married in three weeks, once the banns are posted. And then he'll move in, and we'll get the roof repaired and the barn shored up."

His gaze was steady on her, but he said nothing.

For some reason she felt her flush run deeper. "And you, sir? Where do you call home?"

His gaze shadowed. "I have no home. Not any more. I travel and offer help where I can." He looked down. "Although I might walk in darkness, I strive to maintain His light within me."

Her father's mouth moved with silent words, and she saw respect season his gaze.

Her Samaritan looked up and forward. His gaze became more attentive.

She followed his eyes. She'd lost track of the time. They were already coming around the corner to the fence-edge. She gave a small smile. "And here we are, safe and sound."

A frisson of embarrassment coursed through her as she saw it as a stranger might.

The two-and-a-half-story saltbox with its sloping roofline was deeply weathered brown, the sills leaning, the chimney sagging. The barn on the far side had a distinct cant to it. Behind both, the empty fields, blanketed in snow, stretched behind into the distance. A gray stone fence edged the full perimeter.

There was no question about it. The house, barn, and land had all clearly seen better times.

That was back before Patrick, her beloved, smiling, quick-as-a-sparrow older brother ...

Her Samaritan nodded in approval. "Clearly this home was built with love. I can see its strong bones."

Her father puffed up with pride. "My father built these structures with his own hands, he did. It was the first thing he did when he arrived from Ireland with my grandmother. He created a legacy."

Christina pressed her lips. Her gaze went to the hundred things which needed to be fixed. The sagging frame of the door. The askew shutters which didn't quite close fully, letting in brisk wind on a winter's day like this unless the thick drapes were pulled shut. They couldn't afford glass, not on what the farm brought in.

She shook off the shadows. There was hope again in her life. Her father had made the arrangement with Seth. In a few weeks she and Seth would be wed. And then the fence gaps would be repaired. The failing gate would be mended. Their life at last, at long last, would lift and restore.

She knew what her part was in this tale. She would do whatever it took to play it.

Her Samaritan asked, "Did you need any help in stabling your horse? In looking to the wheel and axle?"

She shook her head. "You have done more than enough. We greatly appreciate your kindness, but we will be fine from here. And you probably want to get over to –"

His head turned, staring intently back down the road. His right hand moved to his hip.

She turned in confusion. There didn't seem to be anything ...

There.

A figure on horseback was coming down the road, moving quickly through the thick snow. She wondered what would drive a person to such a pace in these conditions.

Her Samaritan glanced at her. "Is this a friend of yours?"

"It's probably Seth," she told him. "He usually attends church with us, then comes over for dinner afterwards. He's lodging at Mrs. Carraway's, and her recipes are often more gristle than meat."

Her brow creased. "But that doesn't seem to look like –"

A shiver ran through her.

Her Samaritan asked, "Are you all right?"

Mr. Richardson was approaching on his high-strung bay. His sharp-edged face was in a deep frown as he drew up, and he glanced between her and the newcomer. His blond hair bristled in the wind. "What is this? Who is he?"

She found she was flustered, and she stuttered as fear coursed through her. "The wagon slid. The axle got caught. A trunk. Why are you here?"

His fingers flexed, and he looked toward the house. "I think we should –"

Her voice rose, as she knew, she knew, she knew. "Why are you here, Mr. Richardson?"

He blew out his breath, and he shot a glare at the stranger before driving his horse forward to get between her and the dark-haired man. Her Samaritan pulled his steed to move back a few paces. She noted his eyes were attentive, his gaze seeming to take in everything at once.

Mr. Richardson visibly settled himself, and when he spoke again, his voice was unctuous and low. "My dearest Miss O'Donovan, I regretfully find myself to be the bearer of bad news. I'm afraid there was an accident down in the mines."

The world swirled around her. It tilted –

Her Samaritan leaned forward –

Mr. Richardson turned with a growl. "Your services are no longer required, Sir. I will see her safely inside."

Her Samaritan turned his gaze to Christina, as if it was only her word which mattered.

The moment hung like a question which never gets asked. One which never receives its answer.

She breathed in and nodded to him. "I will be all right. Thank you again for your assistance, back there on the road. Good luck with all your travels."

He brought his hand to his heart, gave a short bow, and then turned his horse. In a moment he had ridden out of sight.

The world fell away.

# Chapter Two

Christina focused all of her attention on creating small, even stitches. She was mending Seth's Sunday shirt by the light of the candle resting on the rough-hewn end table. It was midday, but the sitting room was swathed in shadows. The drapes and shutters were both pulled closed tight against the steadily falling snow.

He had been wearing this shirt when he'd fallen down the shaft. She'd washed it first, of course. Now she would fix it up as best she could.

He deserved to be buried in whole, clean clothes. He had almost been her husband, after all.

He had almost been a part of her life.

She wondered for the fiftieth time how Seth had managed to fall down the twenty-five-foot ladder which led into the mines. The man had the footing of a mountain goat. She'd seen him walk the top of the tumbling stone fence while examining the pastures. She'd seen him use a bare tree trunk to cross the swollen stream across the road in the meadows.

He'd worked those copper mines for three long years. For three years he'd been up and down that ladder many times every day. It was the only way in or out.

And now he'd fallen?

Slipped, Mr. Richardson had said. Slipped on the ice which formed between the chill of the late October surface and the relative warmth of the damp mines. Being that deep in the earth kept a glow to the caves which, according to Seth, had offered the gentler clime of mid-autumn air, whether the real world be frigid winter or broiling summertime.

Seth would not have slipped.

She wondered at herself, to be thinking so clinically about her fiancé's death. Should she instead be wracked with grief? So overcome that she could not get up out of bed?

But last night had passed as any other night. When morning had come, she had awoken with dawn's finger-stretches of crimson and gold. The chickens needed to be fed, as did sweet Esther. They knew nothing of grief or changes of fortune.

She'd then made a breakfast of gruel for herself and her father, not that either of them had eaten a bite. Other than that, the day had moved on like any other day.

She felt Seth's loss as she would the loss of a casual acquaintance. A person about town who was known but not much conversed with. For, after all, that is what they were to each other. Nearly strangers.

But on this stranger her father had pinned the hopes of his legacy.

And her father's grief was what hurt Christina the most.

The news had, indeed, struck her father deep. The loss had stolen his appetite and sapped his will. He had already been failing; now he appeared to be preparing for that final journey.

Her groaned and mumbled in his sleep.

She looked over to where he leaned in his chair by the fire. Once it was clear their gruel had gone cold, untouched, she had guided him to the more comfortable seat in the sitting room. He had not stirred since. The woven cap on his graying head was now askew; the quilted blanket on his lap was sliding loose.

She put down her mending and stepped over to settle the hat more firmly on his frail crown. Then she adjusted his lap-blanket to better cover his thin frame. She tucked it tenderly against his injured leg. He'd taken a musket-ball back during the French and Indian War, during the siege at Louisbourg, and it'd never quite healed right.

She settled back into her own chair. She went back to her mending.

This would be the last time she did mending for Seth.

This might be the last time she did mending for any other man, aside from her father.

It was still too much to take in. It didn't seem real. She expected Seth to come walking in at any moment. She'd hear that knock on the door –

A heavy knock sounded on the door.

The mending spilled down out of her hands, and she went running, tripping, her heart light –

She pulled open the door.

Mr. Richardson stood there, black tricorn hat in hand. His gray eyes shone bright. "Miss O'Donovan."

She involuntarily took a step back. Keen disappointment coursed through her. "Oh. Mr. Richardson."

His brow creased down. "Were you expecting someone else?"

Her mind went to Seth, and she blushed at her foolishness. "No, of course not. It's just, I'm just a bit atumble, is all."

He nodded and stepped in. "I've come to see if I can help with anything."

Her father gave a low snore.

She glanced around. "Please come through into the kitchen."

The house was small, but it provided all she needed. Downstairs had the front room for sitting and guests, with its two chairs and high-backed settle, long enough to seat three. All held cushions made by her mother, mended many times over the years. A chest of drawers on the far wall held her sewing and spinning supplies. The heavy spinning wheel itself, brought from Ireland by her grandmother, was tucked in the far corner.

The back room held the kitchen with its large, heavy work table which doubled as an eating surface. A long bench sat on either side. Shelves on the far wall held the plates, mugs, and jars of dried goods.

Upstairs held the two main bedrooms. When she was a child they had belonged to her grandparents and her parents, but now her father had one and she the other.

The third floor with its dormer windows held the children's rooms. They'd been for her and her brother. She had hoped one day that her own children would fill the spaces with laughter and song ...

Mr. Richardson frowned. "Miss O'Donovan?"

She led the way into the kitchen, guiding him to the long bench by the table. A pot of hot water hung on its hook alongside the fireplace. She brought out her blue and white porcelain teapot and cut off a segment of tea from the densely-packed brick to add in.

His mouth turned down. "Is that British East India Company tea?"

She tucked the brick back under its cloth. "My father is elderly, that is all," she nervously reassured him. "He is no Tory. It's just, he has been through so much. This tea is one of his few remaining pleasures in life."

Mr. Richardson harrumphed, but did not say anything further.

She set the porcelain teapot on the center of the table. The hot water was carefully added in, swirling out the tea. She gathered two matching cups and laid them out on either side.

She sat on her bench.

Mr. Richardson stood for a moment longer, and she almost wondered if he meant to come sit alongside her. But then he took the seat on the bench opposite.

The aroma of tea rose to her, and the familiar scent was soothing. Light trickled in between the drapes, sending shafts of light across the room. The fire flickered and danced.

It could have been any Monday. Perhaps Seth would have finished his duties early, and would be stopping to ...

She shook her head and looked down.

Seth would never be stopping by again.

Mr. Richardson put his hand on the table. "Miss O'Donovan. If there's anything I can do for you – anything at all, you have but to ask."

She shook her head. "The funeral is set for Wednesday. I'll bring the shirt over to Mrs. Carraway later this afternoon –"

"Oh, no need," he insisted. "I will stay with you while you sew. Then I can deliver it for you."

"I am fine to –"

He put his hand over hers. "I would not want you to have to see the body. It is not a sight for a woman's eyes."

She flushed and looked down.

She had been the one to tend to Patrick's body, when it was brought home. Her father had been broken, shattered by the loss of his only living son. There was only her left to do what needed to be done. To clean the body of the blood from fatal beating. To wash the clothes and mend them.

To make him fitting for his final trip to church.

If she could do that for her beloved brother, then she could have done it for a stranger who was intended to be her husband.

She was to have been his wife.

But now she was alone.

Without a husband. Without a prospect.

Mr. Richardson's face wrinkled and then smoothed. "Miss O'Donovan, it's best you know now. There is no estate to settle. Seth owed some money to the mines, for ... expenses. His final wages will just about cover that amount." His brow creased. "I hope this does not distress you further."

Christina found she didn't care one whit. It had never been about money with Seth. She and her father knew he had little. What he offered was his strength and his willingness to work. His agreement to raise their farm back to vibrant life.

And now he was gone.

She checked the color of the tea. It was just the rich brown of an oak tree's bark. She poured out the two cups. Her stomach wrenched at the thought of drinking it.

Mr. Richardson's eyes were heavy on her, almost a palpable force.

She gave a small smile. "If you're to stay, then I'll do the mending in here. That way we do not disturb my father. He took the news of Seth's passing quite hard, I'm afraid."

"Of course," agreed Mr. Richardson. "Whatever you need."

She went into the other room and took up the mending and candle, careful not to disturb her father. She brought it back into the kitchen and laid it down.

She set to work.

Mr. Richardson took another sip of his tea and looked around the room. "Lots of work needed here," he commented. "Won't be easy."

Christina pressed her lips. Seth had said nearly the exact same words. But he'd been prepared to do that very thing, to fix it up, to make it a solid home again that she could be proud of.

And then Seth had _slipped_.

Mr. Richardson sat back. "Well, while you're sewing, let me tell you of my plans for what's left of the mine equipment. You might find this interesting. You see, we have these buckets which, on first glance ..."

Christina didn't find it interesting at all, but she let him drone on. He seemed quite capable of talking about himself for as long a time as was provided to him. And the voice filled the empty space. For if Christina were left to her own thoughts, she might realize that Seth wasn't coming back to her... she might realize that the one slim hope left to her had been brutally snatched away ...

At last the mending was done, her tea sat cold, and she stood. Mr. Richardson stood with her, his gaze eager. "And now perhaps we could –"

She rubbed at her eyes. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Richardson, but I am feeling quite fatigued. I think I will lie down for a while. You said you could bring this shirt for me to Mrs. Carraway?"

He nodded, taking the shirt from her. "It would be my pleasure. And then, if you'd like, I could return back to –"

She put up a hand. "I'm so sorry, but I think with everything that has gone on that I am likely to sleep straight through the night. It is only two days until the funeral, after all."

"Tomorrow, then," he insisted. He took up her hand with his own and lowered his head to a kiss. "Until then."

She walked him to the door. "Thank you for your visit. I appreciate your kind thoughts."

He lingered for a moment, but at last he nodded. He turned and walked toward her barn. Another few minutes, and he rode out on his bay, his head held high, a smile on his lips.

She closed the door.

She went back to sit across from her father. His snores came slow and even. Time seemed to lose all meaning. It could have been five minutes ... or five hours ... or five weeks ...

A gentle knock sounded on the door.

She looked over. There was no confusion in her mind that it was Seth. Seth's knock was always forceful. Abrupt. As if he were annoyed that he had to knock at all.

She rose in curiosity, going to the door. Perhaps the reverend was coming to offer his condolences and discuss the upcoming service.

She pulled the door open.

Her Samaritan stood there. The large pottery bowl in his hands was covered with a wooden lid.

He said, "Miss O'Donovan?"

She blinked in surprise. "Yes."

He eyed her face. He said, as a statement, "You haven't eaten, have you. Since you received the news."

She shook her head.

"May I come in?"

She blushed and stepped back.

He moved past her and headed toward the kitchen. She closed the door and followed him. By the time she got there he had set the bowl out before her bench, along with a spoon.

He sat across from her. He gently said, "Just one spoonful."

She wasn't hungry. But she had to admit the rich aroma tickled at her. It was chicken stock soup, and not that thin kind that Mrs. Carraway made. It was fresh from Viet's tavern.

One spoonful wouldn't hurt. Her Samaritan had rescued her, after all. He'd gone through the trouble of bringing the soup to her, too. She could have a taste. She owed him that much.

She eased herself onto the bench. She took up the spoon and tasted a mouthful.

It was delicious. The warmth of it eased its way all the way down her center.

She found that she took up a second. And then a third.

The stranger found the teapot, emptied the dregs out into the compost pail, and then shaved in some fresh tea from the brick. He gave her a gentle smile. "Bohea tea. I imagine your father is quite fond of it."

Her cheeks tinted. "He's not a Tory. It's just –"

"It's all right," he assured her. "There are those who have the luxury of choosing Dutch over East India Company to make a political point. And then there are those who simply need comfort to make it through the long, challenging day."

She was grateful he understood. She nodded.

He filled the teapot up with fresh hot water and brought it over to the table. He emptied out her cup's cold tea and put her empty cup, ready, alongside her bowl.

He sat again, his gaze quiet on hers.

She ate, her shoulders easing.

At last he offered, his voice low, "I am truly sorry for your loss."

Her stomach was gratefully receiving the rich soup, and she nodded her thanks to him. "Seth was a good man," she said between spoonfuls. "They say he slipped on the ladder."

He tilted his head to one side. "They say."

"Seth was an acrobat," she murmured, still taking in that he was gone. "He could walk across an iced-over pond in mid-February without a slip. Dance it, if he had that sort of inkling. Not that he was a dancer, or anything frivolous like that. But you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean," he agreed. He paused for a moment. Then he asked, "Do you want to talk about him?"

She thought about that. Rolled the idea around in her head. She ate a few mouthfuls of soup. "I don't know what I would say. He was a decent man. He worked hard, from what he told me. I see no reason to question it. He delved in those mines for three years, so he must have been reliable. Mine work isn't easy work. Down deep under the ground for long stretches, only candle-light against the dark, no flat surface, all twists and angles. Like the very bowels of Hell, he used to tell me. But not as hot."

He quietly nodded. He checked the tea's strength and then poured her cup full.

She gratefully took a sip. "He was kind, in his own fashion. Brusque, but tolerant of my ways. He wouldn't'a minded me reading to myself in a corner, once the chores got done."

He murmured, "Tolerant, indeed."

The soup was about half done, and Christina was feeling pleasantly full. "Seth and Father had lists and plans for what they would do, once he and I were wed. The house's roof. The barn's central beams."

Her gaze drifted toward the sitting room. "It's hit him hard, the news. He had pinned everything on Seth, I fear. And now it's all gone."

His gaze gently held hers. "How do you feel?"

Christina blushed and looked down. "I ... well ... I didn't know the man beyond a greeting or two. But if he'd ... if we'd ..."

She twined her fingers and her voice grew wistful. "Children. I had so dreamed of having bairns of my own. They could gather by my feet, on a wintry day such as this, and I could tell them the stories of my Nana and Papa's Ireland. I could tell them stories of how my mother took the boat over when she was barely eighteen, all on her own. I could tell them ..."

Her eyes misted, and she wiped at them. She gave a small smile. "I suppose it wasn't only my father who sought to preserve our legacy. But it's time I face the truth of it. God's will for me clearly lies in another direction."

Her Samaritan blinked in confusion. "I don't understand, Miss O'Donovan. You are still quite young. Why would you feel all hope is lost?"

Her hand went idly to the red curls which even now escaped her cap. "They call it the _devil's color_. I've tried every manner of black soap and foul herb. I've even bought the lead comb from the traveling merchant and used it religiously for two years straight." She sighed. "But nothing will make it change."

He shook his head, wholly baffled. "Your hair is your crowning glory. It is the warmth of a campfire after a long day of travel. It is the glow of a sunset as the ship sails safely into the harbor."

She blushed. "Surely, sir, you are just saying that."

His response was steady. "I do not lie."

The certainty of it wrapped around her heart.

For a moment she was between breaths.

A coughing came from the other room, and she started as if she'd fallen asleep. "I forget myself. I should tend to my father. He has taken the news quite hard. Maybe he is at last ready to eat something."

He stood, his eyes showing a mix of emotions she could not name. He said, quietly, "Of course. If I can help in any way, you know where to find me."

For some reason the thought sent a glow through her. "I thought you were moving on, to Windsor."

"The storm has made traveling a risky proposition for now. It appears I'll be in town for a few days, at least."

"Thank you for bringing the soup."

"It was my pleasure."

He pressed his hand to his heart and gave a short bow. Then he walked with her to the door. She pulled it open for him.

He stepped through, then turned. He said, "Until we meet again."

She nodded to him.

And then, with a swirl, he was lost to the snow.

# Chapter Three

Christina sat by the large cast-iron pot in the kitchen, her heavy apron in place, carefully stirring the lye. She had been at odds and ends since she awoke, and with the bright sun now bringing a gentle warmth to the snowy landscape, it seemed the perfect time to get this chore done. She was glad she only had to make soap once a year, for the process was long and her hands often ended up raw as a result. But the efforts were simply part and parcel of maintaining the household.

The lye itself took all year to collect. All the ash from the house fireplaces was carefully gathered each Saturday night and put into the wooden hopper out back. She had spent the last hour pouring water through the container, separating the lye out from the ash.

Now it was time to refine the lye.

Preparing the lye was more art than science, but her Nana had been something of an alchemist in this regard. Christina wasn't sure which parts of the secret recipe passed to her were fact and which were steeped in faerie myth, but she diligently followed each step as if it were set in stone.

The lye had been slowly heating for several hours over flames just the color of her hair. And the perfect moment was approaching. She carefully stirred the mixture, watching for it to take on the proper viscosity. Thicker than river water ... thinner than full-moon cream ...

She had to be careful ... careful ... it needed to be just right. She had a fresh-laid chicken egg alongside her, for the final test. When the egg was able to float, the lye would be ready.

It was nearly there –

A heavy, preemptive knocking came on the door.

Christina sighed in frustration. Her father was asleep in his chair before the fire, and thankfully the rapping did not seem to have intruded on his sleep. Perhaps the caller would go away -

The knocking came again.

Christina put down her spoon and wiped her hands down on her apron. She hurried over to the door. The snow sparkled in the afternoon sun, the heavy drifts reaching her knees.

Mr. Richardson stood there, hat in hand, his gray eyes gleaming from his angled face. His blond hair had been slicked back. "Miss O'Donovan. Might I come in?"

She glanced to her father's sleeping form. "My father is indisposed, and I'm in the middle of soap-making, so if you didn't mind –"

"I don't mind waiting for him at all," Mr. Richardson smoothly said, stepping in and closing the door behind him.

Christina held in the frisson of annoyance and hurried back into the kitchen, taking up her spoon again. If she spoiled this batch of lye, she'd be forced to trade some of her best chickens to the Williams for some of theirs. And she'd been carefully planning the meat out to last her and her father the full winter.

Mr. Richardson followed her in to the kitchen, tossing his hat on the table. "It is All Soul's Day, Miss O'Donovan."

"Oh, is it? I'd barely remembered." She leaned over the pot and continued to stir. Indeed, she hardly knew what day of the week it was. All she knew was that the funeral was tomorrow, and her fiancé would be put down in the earth. Not in a temporary place like the mines, where he descended and emerged every day. But a permanent resting place, one from which he never could escape ...

Mr. Richardson reached into his pocket and drew out a folded handkerchief. She could see a red R stitched into its top corner. He held the folded shape out to her. "I have brought you a gift. In honor of the dearly departed. We can pray together for the everlasting salvation for those we have lost."

The lye was approaching just the right point. She carefully tested it with her spoon. "You didn't need to bring me a present," she absently demurred. "I do appreciate the thought."

She poked at the surface ... poked ...

She reached over and carefully took up the egg. She placed it in the bowl of the spoon and gently lowered it down toward the surface. She eased it ...

There. Perfect.

It floated.

Mr. Richardson's brow came together. "Shall I open your present for you?"

Christina put the egg back onto the table. She went to the back door and propped it wide Then she took two thick rags from the shelf and went over to the cast iron pot. Carefully, attentively, she lifted the pot using the rags as protectors, carrying it slowly out the back door. She set it down on the ring of stones which waited there.

She stepped back and sighed in relief.

The lye was absolutely perfect. Now she could let it cool. While it did so, she could work on the other half of the magical combination – the animal fat. That was kept in pails in a back corner of the barn, the remnants of a year's worth of venison and wild pig. And once the two main ingredients were ready –

Mr. Richardson called from within the kitchen. "Miss O'Donovan? You've left the door open. I'm getting chilled."

She turned and shook out the rags. Then she stepped back inside and closed the door. She returned the rags to their shelf.

Mr. Richardson was still holding out the handkerchief to her.

She took it from him. She sat on the bench by the table and put the handkerchief on the surface before her. She slowly unfolded it.

Sitting within was a white porcelain thimble with gold edging. It was delicately beautiful. It was also wholly impractical, and could not possibly be used for actual sewing.

And, besides, she had three perfectly good brass thimbles. Seth had brought her one with her initials engraved within it, as his engagement gift to her. She had used it when she mended his Sunday shirt.

Mr. Richardson frowned. "Miss O'Donovan? Is it not adequate? I was told every woman appreciated such a thimble as a present."

She had a feeling that Mrs. Gilchester at the general store had told him that story, to seal the sale of the bauble. She nodded to him. "Yes, of course, it is a beautiful thimble. Thank you so much for your thoughtful gift."

He leaned forward, taking her hand. "We should speak of Wednesday. I thought it only fitting that I escort you tomorrow. To the funeral. I was Seth's overseer, after all. I'm sort of his family. He had no other here, you know. His distant kin are all out in Providence."

Christina nodded. He hadn't talked much about his family, but it didn't seem that any close relatives were alive any more. The wedding was going to be a small one – just him, them, and a few casual acquaintances.

Mr. Richardson said, "So, it's settled? I should come by at eleven to drive your wagon in?"

"Yes, certainly," she agreed. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to get the fat for the soap. It's out in the barn."

"Of course. I'll come with you."

She nodded in appreciation. The buckets of fat edgings would be heavy by now.

They went out the back door together, then around the side of the house to the gate in the fence. She opened it for him and left it open as they passed through. Then it was over to the barn.

The barn was small but serviceable enough. Esther waited patiently in her stall, her gaze on them with large eyes. The chickens clucked amongst themselves in the far corner beneath the wagon, the scraggly rooster barely bothering to lift his head. They'd had a pair of sheep, but they'd gotten ill last month, and had gotten so stringy by the time they passed that the mutton had been tough and nearly inedible.

She moved resolutely to the back of the barn. "Here's where the pails –"

He blanched and put a hand to cover his nose. "Does it always smell like that?"

She gave a low laugh. "Well, I hear some of the richer folk cut only the leaf fat from cows' kidneys, and then add in beeswax, to create a soap fit for the King himself. But here in our home –"

He stepped back. "I'm afraid I just remembered some final details I need to sort out with the reverend. I'm sure you will excuse me for the afternoon."

"Of course," she agreed. "I wish you safe travels."

Somehow he had saddled and bridled his horse in under five minutes flat. Then he was riding out the barn doors, heading back in the direction of town.

Christina shook her head. Mr. Richardson didn't seem as if he'd grown up in a home of silver pitchers and a salt cellar by every plate. Maybe he'd just worked at outdoor chores while the home itself had been tended to.

She shrugged. She turned back to her pails. There was a pungent smell to the fat, but it seemed almost comforting to her. It reminded her of all the times she and her Nana had worked together on this task. She could almost hear the stories her Nana would tell as they stirred the pots.

She hoisted up a pail –

A warm voice came from behind her. "Can I help?"

She turned in surprise. "I hadn't heard you come in!"

Her Samaritan smiled. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right," she assured him. "I'd welcome the help. My Nana always said, _Two people shorten the road_."

He smiled. "That they do."

He settled his horse into the stall alongside Esther's, and in short order he had the two pails well in hand. She guided him back through the gate and then in the back door.

She closed it securely behind him.

He put the two pails down by the fireplace, and pulled the bench over so they could sit before it. Then he hung his cloak on the post by the door.

She poured them both a mug of ale from the barrel and set them down on the table behind them. Together they set the cooking pot over the lower part of the fire, to give it a gentle heat.

He took out his knife, she took out his, and they sat side by side.

They got to work.

They cut the fat into inch-square cubes, whittling away any remnants of meat or gristle which remained. The fat went into the pot, where it slowly began to melt into liquid. The unusable parts went into a bowl by their feet.

Christina smiled. "It reminds me so of me and Nana. She would tell me wild tales of growing up in Ireland. She spoke of faeries singing to her from hawthorne trees. She spoke of how one Samhain – that's All Hollow's Eve – she carefully cut an apple peel from its apple all in one long piece. She threw it over her shoulder. When she turned, the peel had curled itself into a letter C. And, sure enough, her heart had already been caught by Charles! So she knew she would be his bride."

His eyes twinkled as he cut the fat. "She's lucky the apple peel didn't manage to twist itself into the letter X."

She pealed with laughter. It went on for a long minute. At last she said, "That would have put Nana in quite the pickle, wouldn't it! The letter X, indeed!"

His gaze glowed as he looked at her, and she self-consciously tucked her red tendrils back beneath her cap. She turned her head –

Her father was standing there in the doorway, his eyes distant. "My lass, you haven't laughed like that in over a year."

She blushed. "Father. I didn't know you were awake. I'm sorry if we disturbed you."

He waved a hand. "Not at all."

Her Samaritan stood. "Come, have a seat with us. I'll get you an ale." He took up another tankard from the shelf and went to fill it.

Christina's father settled himself in his seat and gladly accepted the offered ale. He drank down a swallow and nodded. "Thank you for bringing us the soup, and for lending yourself to this task. My daughter shoulders far more than she should need to."

Christina blushed. "I do my part, Father."

Her father put out his hand. "My name is Patrick O'Donovan. And you are ..."

Christina blinked. She realized she had no idea what the man's name was. He had been in her house; he had fit into her life as neatly as a spoon nestles against its neighbor. He was her Samaritan and nothing else had mattered.

The man took her father's hand with a firm grip. "My apologies; I thought I had said before. My name is William Johnson Crawford. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O'Donovan."

C. His last name began with a C. And if she could carefully peel an apple curl ...

She blushed at the thought.

Her father held William's gaze. He seemed to be evaluating the younger man. "Call me Paddy."

William stepped back. "I wish to thank you both for your kind welcome and hospitality."

"We should be the ones thanking you," responded her father. "You've been a grand help in a time of darkness." His voice lowered. "It's been quite a blow to us both, as you can well imagine."

William's gaze shadowed. "I can. I lost my own mother just a few years ago. My father, shortly thereafter."

Christina said, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

His eyes went to the mantle in the living room. To the pair of cameos which sat side by side. One was of her. His gaze remained on the second as he said, "Your brother?"

She nodded. "We lost him last year."

His voice was low. "God gives us burdens He knows we can shoulder. If we open ourselves to His love and strength, we will find a way through."

Her father quietly said, "Amen."

A long moment passed.

Christina took her seat again by the fire. "Well, the fat won't cube itself. And if I don't get this soap done, soon we'll be worse than the pigs in their summer slop."

William's shoulders eased, and he sat alongside her.

They went back to the careful trimming of the fat into small cubes. The attentive stirring and melting of the creamy substance.

Her father took another drink of the ale. He watched them without a word, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Then, brusquely, he asked William, "Were you in the war? On which side did you fight?"

Christina winced, but held her tongue. This was clearly a matter for the two men to resolve.

William calmly turned his gaze to her father. "I was six when the French and Indian War began. Even in its final year, as I turned seventeen, I was needed at home. It was my task to transport supplies for the tavern and to keep the stables. My mother and father could not afford to have me gone. It was only the three of us."

"But you _would_ have gone, if you were free," pressed her father. "Gone to war. You are Abenaki. You would have fought for the French."

William's dark eyes were serious. "My mother's people were of the Ossipee tribe, in what is now called New Hampshire. The Ossipee were great hunters and fierce warriors. Our central stockade was destroyed by colonists in 1725. My mother was born in a praying village. By the time I was born, in 1748, so much had been lost. She did not have our tribe around us. Our ways had been stripped from us."

His gaze shadowed. "You talk of the British or the French. But both are invaders to these lands. Both came without asking. Both have spread like an infestation, taking and taking. They cut down the trees. They slaughter the deer."

Christina paled. "William, I am so sorry."

He gave himself a small shake. "Those who came here often fled persecution at home. They thought of a better life. But they rarely gave thought to those they were displacing once they arrived. Once they claimed land and expanded and took hold."

Her father said, "God gave us the divine right of ownership over this land. It was up to us to make use of the soil and beasts."

"And yet your God did not bring you to victory in your native homeland," William pointed out. "And arriving here, you say that your mother had her pagan beliefs, while I was raised with a Christian god. Does that mean I should have my lands back?"

"Your kind often acts with violence," stated her father. "The very land we stand on – Simsbury – was burned to the ground by your Metacomet leader. They called it King Philip's War. He left death and destruction wherever he went."

"They were fighting back against outrage," returned William evenly. "Against their own tribesmen being slaughtered. Against the rape of their women. The destruction of their legacy."

He looked toward the front door. "Do you know what Captain Viet warned me, when I arrived that first night? He warned me that those of my skin – the Indians, the blacks – were to be kept under curfew. We could not be out between 9pm and sunrise. We, the ones who were here before the ships arrived from the oceans, who have walked these lands for countless generations, we are now the ones locked down. Treated as animals."

Her father pressed his lips together and looked down. When he spoke, his tone was more measured. "I don't condone those distinctions," he agreed. "We are all British subjects. We should all be treated fairly, with one set of common laws we all abide by."

William's jaw was still tight. "Why should I be subject to a King across the sea, one I have never met, never benefitted from? One who has stolen my lands and slaughtered my people?"

Christina turned to her father. "Father, Nana told me many stories about how horrifically the Irish peasants suffered under the rule of King George. Entire families were starved. Estates were dissolved and lost. Isn't the British rule the entire reason Nana and Papa fled their beloved pastures, abandoned their families, and came here?"

Her father was quiet. "I fought for the King at Louisbourg. I carry the wound of that. What of those who sacrificed at the siege of Fort William Henry? Who were massacred in our Majesty's name?"

Christina put her hand over her father's. "When you left for war, Father, were you truly thinking of your King?"

Silence fell across the room. The fire crackled and hissed, as the fat melted and smoothed.

At last her father nodded. "No. It was not searing loyalty for the King which had me leave these doors. Which had me leave my two young children behind with my parents."

His voice grew rough. "God, I missed her so much, Christina. My dearest Abigail."

His eyes shone. "We were about to have another son A third child. I was so happy. It was as if my dearest dreams were coming true."

Shadows fell into his face. "And then there were the screams, the awful screams, and the midwife came out, covered in blood. I knew what had happened and ..."

He folded his face into his hands.

Christina went to his side, wrapping her arms around him. He had barely spoken of it, in all these long years. It was as if the fresh grief of losing Seth, of losing a path to a future, had brought it all back to him.

William's voice was low. "Every item in the house brought your loss up fresh. The sight of the kitchen fire she would stir to life. The chair she would sit in. The bed she would lie in."

Her father nodded his head. "You know of what I speak."

"My mother's passing was recent, and my father, hard upon. I could not stay at the tavern. It was too raw. Every item within brought up fresh pain. I sold it and left. It didn't matter where I went, but I could not stay."

Her father looked up to her. "I'm so sorry, Christina. I know it was hard on you and your brother."

She held him close. "We still had Nana and Papa. But we missed you and Mother dearly. Every news report, every traveler, had us in fear for your life. Your letters only came sporadically. We would pore over them until they fell apart in our hands."

He tenderly ran a hand down her cheek. "If I had it to do over again, I would have chosen differently, my dearest. But at the time, it seemed the only way I could survive. The only way to find a path through the pain."

She held him. There was nothing else she could do.

William's voice was low. "I know well. It is tempting to try to run from one's shadows. But in the end they travel with us. They embrace us and become well worn. I am finding that the way through to the light is to turn and face those shadows. To find a way to come to terms with them."

Her father took in a long, deep breath. He swallowed the rest of his ale.

At last he looked up to hold William's gaze. "I believe you have the truth of it."

William's eyes were dark and deep. "Paddy, I would be honored if you would tell me about your wife."

A distant ease came to her father's eyes, one she had not seen in a long while. "You should have seen her, that first spring morning we met, William. Hair the color of burnished copper, it practically put the sun to shame. And when she laughed, she had this smile ... this smile that could take a man's breath away ..."

The afternoon rolled on in discussion and ale, in conversation and tales. Christina remained as quiet as she could, in awe at how her father was seeming to rekindle his long-lost glow under William's gentle touch. It was not anything specific which William said or did. It was simply that he listened. That he was present to hear the story. To understand.

The afternoon shadows lengthened and stretched.

At last the two pails were empty and the fat had thoroughly melted and melded. She brought both pails to the back yard, scrubbed them thoroughly with snow, and then took them back in, one snow-filled, to set by the fire.

William had yet again refilled their ale tankards. He'd also cut several hunks from the cheese sitting on the counter, for them to pass around.

She continued to stir the fat. She skimmed off the impurities as they rose.

And her father talked. He talked, shared, and it was as if ten years had lifted from his shoulders. As if the wrinkles creasing his face eased and smoothed.

The melting fat took on the glowing luminosity which Nana had claimed was gifted from the faerie kingdom itself.

It was time.

Christina went to the top shelf and drew down the wooden forms for making the blocks. She laid them out on the wooden table. She had twelve - enough to make about half of the total volume.

She pointed to the pail. "We'll need to pour half of the fat into the empty pail, to reserve it for now. Just keep it by the fire."

William nodded in understanding. He took the rags down from the shelf and, taking up the pot, carefully poured half of the melted fat out into the pail.

He glanced toward the back door. "And I assume now we go get half of that lye I saw in the pot outside?"

She nodded, her gaze glinting. "It seems you've done this before. Yes. However, we'll need to add the lye to the water outside. The fumes can be fairly dangerous."

He pulled the door open for her, then took up the pail of melted snow-water. She brought two spoons out with her. She handed one to him. "OK, carefully bring over a scoop of the lye. You'll want to sprinkle it on as if faeries were dusting a field with snow."

He smiled at that, his gaze going to the snow-blanketed pastures behind them. He nodded.

He took up some of the lye in the spoon and turned to the pail.

She said, "Remember, slowly. We don't want this to erupt like Mount Vesuvius."

His eyes twinkled, but he nodded.

She added, "And don't breathe the fumes. They're nasty."

He turned his head to the side.

He carefully lowered the spoon toward the water, and then sprinkled it over.

It was as if faeries had come to life within the pail. She stirred as he sprinkled, and the water was alive somehow, magically enchanted by the combination of their movements. A spell was being cast, and they were in its heart together.

At last the mixture was complete, and he brought the pail back inside. She moved to the pot of melted fat over the low fire. She held her spoon ready to stir. "OK, pour the lye water in slowly."

He poured, she stirred, and they were the perfect combination. It was as if they'd been making soap together for years.

Soon all the lye water was in, and he took the pail out to rinse it in the snow while she stirred ... stirred ... the mixture thickened, and soon it was approaching that just-perfect pudding texture.

She looked around. "Could you grab me the rosemary leaves in that green pottery jar?"

He reached out and brought it down. She continued to stir. "Just slowly pour some in."

He did, and the fragrance was rich and heavenly. The thin green needles melded into the soap-pudding, and it was as if the room had come to life. As if warmth and comfort surrounded them.

He looked over at the wooden forms. "Why don't I do the pouring?"

She nodded and stepped back. He took up the rags from the shelf, lifted the pot, and brought it over to the table. He carefully poured just the right amount of soap into each mold. They looked absolutely beautiful with their bars of fawn brown and green leaves.

She chuckled. "I might think you've done this before."

He smiled. "The son of an innkeeper? You wouldn't believe the amount of soap we went through, both for guests and for ourselves. We were making soap every season to keep up."

Christina shook her head at the thought of it. Once a year was more than enough for her!

He took up the molds and brought them over to stack against the far wall. "They'll be done curing tomorrow," he mused. "Then we make the other half?"

Her heart warmed at how easily the word "we" had come from his lips. "That would be lovely," she agreed.

Her father had been watching them work together all the while, not saying a word. His gaze was shining now. But all he said was, "Well, I'm starved. Is it time for supper?"

She laughed with joy. It'd been a long time since he'd had a hearty appetite. Clearly William's visit and discussion had done him some good.

Her father's eyes twinkled. "Go, lass. Fetch some of the venison from the cellar. We'll have us a proper meal."

William's eyes lit up. "Oh? Do you have any parsnips and carrots? My mother had this recipe –"

"Absolutely," agreed Christina with a smile, and they were in motion.

With four hands preparing and her father's conversation moving them along, the meal was soon prepared and they were sitting together at the table, the candles glowing at its center.

Christina found that her own heart was glowing as well. She felt a lightness in her soul which felt as if she were being formed anew.

Her father looked to her with a fond smile, and then turned to William. "Sir, if you would offer the grace?"

William folded his hands and bowed his head. Christina and her father followed suit.

His voice became quiet. "My mother always liked to say grace in the words of Saint Augustine. For he said, _grace is given not because we have done good works, but in order that we may be able to do them_."

Christina's soul resonated with the words. She said, "Amen."

Her father echoed her.

They ate, they talked, they drank, and it seemed all too soon that her father was yawning. William nodded and stood. "That is my signal that I should leave. For you have a long day in front of you tomorrow."

Turmoil swept over Christina. Everything came tumbling back in on her.

They were burying Seth tomorrow.

They were burying a man who should have been her husband. And instead of being prostrate with grief, she had been relaxing, conversing, even laughing. Surely this was a sin ...

Her father's gaze lit with knowing understanding. He turned to William. "My son, you have done us a great service. You have eased our hearts in a time of trouble. Seth was with us for only a short time, and we will mourn his loss as a good and respected friend. He will remain fondly in our memories."

William nodded, and his eyes turned to Christina. He murmured, "Grief comes with many faces, and through many stages."

Christina nodded. Her father and William were right. She would miss Seth for what he had been – a stranger willing to embark on a business transaction. He did not deserve his death, and she felt sad for a healthy life cut short. But it did not make sense to pretend that they had been soulmates. She had barely known him. Barely shared sentences with him.

Seth.

She could never imagine him spending the afternoon making soap with her. She could not imagine him investing the time to ease her father's worries.

She turned to William. She took in again the strength of his jaw; the warmth in his gaze. "Thank you for all you have done, William. You have been a true friend to us."

He moved to the front door. He put his hand to his heart, and gave a small bow. "Until we meet again," he murmured, and his gaze held hers for a moment.

Then he turned, opened the door, and headed out into the deepening dusk.

Christina watched him go, and a twining ache blossomed within her soul.

# Chapter Four

Christina carefully drew her slate gray hemp dress over her white chemise. This was the most somber of the three dresses she owned, the other two being the fawn brown and the olive green. It was fitting and proper that she show her respect for the man who might have been her husband.

It was undoubtedly going to be a quiet funeral. Few people had seemed to know Seth, judging by the dearth of well-wishers. Only the reverend had stopped by in addition to Mr. Richardson and, of course, Mr. Crawford. The reverend had offered a sense that only a handful of townsfolk intended to join them this morning.

That was all right with Christina. She would rather not make a public spectacle of her private grief.

It was early, yet, and she sat on the edge of her bed, slowly brushing out her coppery hair, lost in thought. She carefully braided it, pinned it up, and then settled her cap in place. Then she moved to the window and drew open the drapes. She pushed aside the shutters.

She drew in a long breath at the beauty of the scene.

Her window overlooked the road and the meadow beyond. The meadow was ringed with woods of oak and maple. In the dawn light, the sun was glinting off of every branch and trunk.

It was a faerie wonderland.

Ice had come in the night, and it had coated every twig, every limb, as if it were made of the most delicate glass. It was as if a million skilled craftsmen had recreated her world in silver and white.

The soft light twinkled on it, gold, ivory, pewter, and it took her breath away.

She wondered if Mr. Crawford were awake. If he were looking out on this stunning scene.

A flutter of butterflies danced in her core as she thought the name.

Mr. Crawford.

He had been gifted a childhood she would have dreamed of. Parents who adored each other. Who kept their tavern busy with patrons due to their fine reputation. He had been loved and encouraged, nurtured and celebrated.

She wondered what had happened as he reached adulthood, to cause the shadows in his heart.

A faint hope tendriled around her soul, that he would choose to stay in Simsbury for a while. There were plenty of horses in the surrounding towns. Surely farmers and travelers alike needed guidance with their steeds. And Hartford was only a short distance away. The state's capital would undoubtedly provide customers.

He had implied he traveled with the wind, as a dandelion fluff circles and spins in a springtime meadow.

Was it unfair for her to wish for him to remain?

Her gaze went around her small room. The bed was pushed up against the wall by the window, which was shuttered closed and drapes pulled against the late autumn chill. Her pine dresser held every stitch of clothing she owned. On top were her comb, brush, and wash basin.

And on a lone shelf, mounted to the wall, were her five treasures.

Her books.

She smiled as she looked them over.

The first was her copy of the Bible, given to her by her father on her twelfth birthday. He had received such a gift from his own father, and his pages were so read through that the binding was failing. Christine had taken much pleasure in reading her own copy to her father in the ensuing years.

Next came a book of poetry written by Anne Bradstreet, the wife of the Massachusetts governor from the 1660s. Even though the book was over a hundred years old, Christina still drew inspiration from the woman's wise words. The book had belonged to Christina's mother, which made it even that more precious.

From her dearest Nana, she'd inherited a much-read copy of _The English Rogue_ , an adventurous tale by Irishman Richard Head. Its tales of intrigue were set in lands so distant from Christina to almost seem fantastical.

Her Papa had shared in his wife's love of the comical and unusual. His treasure was _Gulliver's Travels_ by Irishman Jonathan Swift. He could quote entire sections by heart.

The last book was fully her own. She had saved up a kitty of money, year after year, by taking on mending jobs for neighboring families. She had scrimped and saved. At long last, her father had been able to send to Hartford for her for her very own copy of Edmund Spenser's _The Faerie Queen_. He had written it, she had been told by her Nana, while staying at his estate in North Cork, Ireland.

Her gaze lingered on the worn spine. She had read the words over and over again, awe-struck by the layers of meaning. She wondered at the intricacy of the mind which could have brought together such a thing of beauty. Surely he had been inspired by God.

But her Papa had often railed against Spenser, for the man had been an Englishman who saw little value in the Irish common folk who supported his estate. Spenser had also written _A View of the Present State of Ireland_ which advocated the complete annihilation of Irish culture, language, and traditions. Spenser had felt that only by completely retraining the Irish in the British way of life could those inhabitants be taught to behave and respect their betters. Spenser had even advocated using starvation and violence as ways to convince the Irish to cower and give in.

Christina gave a small smile. Her Papa had quite a lot to say about _that_ idea.

In the end, her grandparents had sailed for the colonies, rather than suffer further under the British thumb. Her mother had done the same, traveling on her own when she was only eighteen and taking a job as a schoolteacher until she married Paddy.

But history had a way of turning to eat its own tail. For here they were in Connecticut Colony, and once again the British heel was descending ... merciless ... determined ...

Her father's voice called out, stronger than it had been for months. "Christina? Lass?"

She stood with a smile. "I'm here, father. Just a moment."

She found him already down at the table, dressed and bright-eyed. The sight brought a warmth to her heart. "I'll just get the eggs," she told him. She gave a quick stir to the fire in the fireplace, then took her cloak and headed out.

The chickens thought they were sneaky, but they tended to use the same hiding spaces, so it was only a few minutes before Christina was back again. The tea water was heating, the eggs were frying, and an ease came over Christina's heart. Her eyes moved to where the soap molds were stacked. By afternoon the rosemary-scented soaps would be ready to remove, to set on their shelf in the corner.

And then they'd be ready to make the second batch.

Together.

Her father looked over and caught her eye. "How are you feeling, lass?"

She blushed. She looked down.

He gently said, "It's all right, lass. I know you did the best you could to appreciate what Seth offered us. But I also know you didn't have the ... the spark ... that I had with your mother. That little jolt I would feel when I came home and saw her waiting at the door for me."

His gaze grew distant. "Even after all this time, I still remember the way her face lit up when she smiled. How she would sing to you in her bonnie voice."

"I wish I remembered more of her," Christina said with regret. "I was so young when she passed away."

He nodded to her. "It was a tragedy, that is sure. Every day I had with her was precious."

He put his hand over hers. "That is why I advise you to follow your heart."

She looked cautiously at him.

He nodded. "We will bury Seth today with respect and remembrance. He would have been a loyal husband to you. A provider for your children. But he is gone, now, and no amount of fervent prayer or gnashing of teeth will change that."

His gaze moved to look to the door. "And in the meantime we have a traveler who is only in our town for a short time. A man who seems built of compassion and honor. I sense from watching you two together that ... that you are fond of him?"

Her blush reached her eyes now. She was sure her entire face had become crimson.

She said, quietly, "He fits so easily into my life. It is almost as if he were meant to be there."

Her father gave her a gentle smile. "I see that as well. It is something I had always dreamed for you, dearest Christina, but had begun to think was not God's plan. And here it is unfolding before us."

He nodded. "God put us on this earth to find love. To treasure the ways in which we can lift each other up. If William seems to share in your dreams, then be open to that possibility. Know that God always has a plan for you, if you are willing to trust in His path."

Christina gathered up the plates, she swept the floors, she dusted the mantle, she prepared the house in case they had a visitor or two stop by after the funeral to offer condolences. Through all of her ministrations, her father's words rang out in her mind.

She had to trust.

She had to believe.

She had to know that this was all happening for a reason.

That perhaps, against all reason, against all hope, William might actually –

A heavy, quick knock came on the door.

She was startled by it, and it was a long moment before she came out of her stillness. Before she crossed the space and drew open the front door.

Mr. Richardson stood there, resplendent in his navy blue jacket with its bright silver buttons. His blond hair had been carefully slicked back. He jauntily offered an elbow to Christina. "Shall we go?"

She looked around. "I just need to get my father."

He came out of the kitchen, bringing their cloaks. "Here you are, my lass. All is ready."

She brought it around her shoulders, and then she stepped out the door, pretending not to see the arm presented to her.

In short order the wagon was hitched up, a comfortable berth was arranged for her father in the back, and she was side by side with Mr. Richardson on the front bench. It was strange to have him in her seat. She had been the one to drive the wagon for many years now, even before her Nana had finally passed away. Her father's injured leg had meant he preferred to be able to shift position to ease its aches.

The gray clouds swirled high overhead, but there was no sense of impending snow, just a stirring of the sky into textures and complexions. The snow drifts were thick all around, but the wheel tracks were well worn as they approached the town proper.

Mr. Richardson smiled contentedly as he looked over the collections of homes and small shops. "I'm bringing prosperity to our town," he informed Christina. "Soon I will be a man of means."

She looked over. "Oh? Due to the sales of the mine gear?"

He gave a low chortle. "No, no, that doesn't get shared with the town. I mean with our new venture for the mine."

Her heart fell. She had felt so relieved when it was closing down. Surely they were not going to subject another generation of men to its back-breaking work and its claustrophobic depths?

He looked over with a gleam. "It's even more lucrative than mining – and it will build our reputation across the colonies."

Now Christina was confused. "What will build our reputation?"

His face was full aglow now. "The prison."

Christina stared at him as if he had gone completely mad. "What prison?"

He grinned. "The mines. Don't you see? There's only one way in or out. It's a twenty-four foot shaft straight down. You need to lock someone up? Keep them away from honest, decent folk like yourself? You just throw them down into those mines. Throw them down, lock the grate at the entrance, and the world is safe."

Her mouth dropped open. "That's unchristian!"

His teeth gleamed. "We'll give them food, of course. And water drips down into the well of its own accord. Who knows, we can even force them to do some mining for us, while they're down there anyway. They'd probably work harder than those damned Indian and Negro slaves did. And with fewer stripes on the back required."

Christina pressed her lips and looked down. On some topics, she had far more in common with the small cluster of Quakers on the outskirts of town than with her own Congregationalists. She did not feel it right to own another human being. To be able to compel their actions from birth to grave.

His voice rose. "There's war coming to our lands, Christina. And war means profits. It means prisoners. It means a steady supply of money, for as long as we can keep it going."

She held in the shudder. She found herself saying, "Mr. Richardson? I would request some time for silence for prayer, as we prepare for the burial of my fiancé."

He nodded, patting her leg. "Of course, of course."

He blissfully fell quiet.

At last the road turned, the cart eased, and he drew in rein by the side of the two-story white wooden church. "And here we are. Come, my dear."

She climbed down and went around to help her father out of the back of the wagon. Together they went up the front steps.

Reverend Miller was there, his gaze holding the proper combination of compassion and concern. He was in his sixties, slender, with a gentle disposition. "There you are, my dearest Miss O'Donovan. How are you shouldering these burdens?"

She put her hands in his. "I know that God has a plan for me. I must trust in His wisdom."

Reverend Miller nodded your head. "You were always a dutiful daughter. Your father has taught you well to rely on God's strength."

Mr. Robertson puffed up and seemed to stand even closer to her.

Christina eased as they stepped into the large, white building. It had been begun before she'd been born, back in 1740, and it was still as yet unfinished. The Reverend promised he only needed a few more years before the finishing touches were complete. She knew he saw its construction as his life's work, and she wondered if a part of him was hesitant to see it end.

Only a scattering of pews held faces. There was Mrs. Carraway, who ran the boardinghouse. Her round face was as terse as ever. And then there was Mrs. Gilchester, from the general store. Her gaze was bright on Mr. Robertson's.

But there, in the second pew ...

Her heart eased as her eyes met his.

He was still here.

He hadn't left yet.

She'd known her fear was irrational. After all, he'd talked with her of coming back to help with the rest of the soap-making. But maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe he'd decided he'd rather be off working with horses in Windsor. Or that his passing interest in a red-headed Irish girl had run its course. There could have been a thousand different reasons for him to have been gone –

He was here.

Mr. Richardson moved himself to be between her and William as he walked her down the aisle. "Come, my dear, the family sits in the front pew, of course."

He motioned for her to slide into the front pew on the opposite side of the aisle from William. He then sat next to her, and her father was on his other side.

The reverend moved to the front of the church. "Let us begin."

Christina had always appreciated the reverend's talks. Where some other religious leaders in Connecticut shouted of fire and brimstone, of never-ending torments if the path were just strayed off for a moment, Reverend Miller spoke of justice and equality. Of being a true Christian and loving all fellow people.

His sermon touched on how Seth had been taken in the prime of his life; how so much had been before him. And how this lesson spoke to each person to make the most of what they had. To take advantage of every day. For one never knew when God would call them back to His arms.

Christina thought of her mother, dying in childbirth. Of her brother, Patrick, dying so young.

She vowed to heed the lesson. To make the most of every day she had presented to her.

When the sermon was complete, the small group of people made their way to the cemetery alongside the church. The reverend said some final prayers, and then Seth was lowered into the ground for one last time.

His story was complete.

Christina stared into that grave, thinking of what her life might have been like if he had not slipped. How her journey would have moved forward. She would have accepted it as all she was due. She would have found a way to come to terms with it.

But it seemed God had a different destination intended for her.

She had to trust in God. Trust in his plan.

She closed her eyes.

A voice sounded at her ear. William's tone was rough. "Christina. I would like to speak with you."

She nodded her head, still not looking at him. She walked with him a short ways to stand beneath a bare oak tree.

His voice was low. Quiet. Oddly restrained.

He said, "Christina, I need to leave."

# Chapter Five

Christina's eyes flew open with shock. She turned and stared at William. "You are leaving? When?"

His voice was tight. "Now."

She glanced to the side. Indeed, his strong black steed was loaded with his belongings. He could, at this very moment, mount and ride away, away, never to return.

Her gaze filled with the tears which had refused to come earlier. "You are leaving?"

He reached toward her hand, but drew himself back. "I must. I swore a promise to Doctor Sullivan in Windsor. It was my word."

Panic coursed through her. "Was it what my father said, about God giving Christians the right to these lands? He didn't mean that –"

William's gaze was steady on hers. "I understand your father, and he understands me. We have no quarrel amongst us. Be easy on that account."

"But you are leaving me still?"

His eyes caressed her face. "I must."

"But you could stay just a few more days ... just a week ..."

He was shaking his head before she finished. "The longer I stay, the more difficult it becomes to stay true to my word."

Emotions tumbled through Christina, and with them, a desperate flicker of hope. Was he saying that it was becoming harder to leave her side? The words burst out of her. "But surely you're coming back to me?"

His voice was a half-cry. "Oh, Christina." He drew in a long breath. "It could be that by the time I am finished, you may no longer be interested in –"

The insanity of what he was saying, the absolute ridiculousness of the idea of her coming across another man better suited for her, overcame her, and she wrapped her arms around her chest, tears bubbling up out of her.

Her father was at her side in an instant, drawing her into his arms. "Christina! My love! It is all right. I'm here."

Mr. Richardson strode over, his face set. He snapped, "What has this man been saying, to upset you? I swear, if he has insulted you in any way –"

"No!" she burst out, her panic cutting through her pain. "Mr. Crawford has been a perfect gentleman. It is only the stress of the funeral which has overwhelmed me."

Mr. Richardson's jaw set. "We should get you home. To the comfort of your kitchen."

Christina remembered that there was the second half of the soap to mold. William was to have helped her with that. And now he was leaving ... he was leaving ...

A fresh round of tears poured from her, and her father's arms were strong around her; stronger than they had felt in quite a while.

She drew her gaze up to William. "You will ... you will take care, on your travels to Windsor?"

He nodded to her, his gaze on her, rich with concern. "I will be your obedient servant in all things."

Mr. Richardson's gray eyes lit with delight. "You're leaving? You're resuming your travels?"

William nodded. "I am."

Mr. Richardson's grin widened. "Then you best be on your way, before another storm hits. I'll be sure to get Miss O'Donovan home safely. She will be my charge now."

William's face grew still.

She turned to him. Her voice was soft. "Send me word, when you are safely to your destination. I will watch for it. I will wait."

His gaze eased, and he put his hand to his heart.

He gave a bow.

He turned and walked to his horse. He mounted, gave her one last look, and then rode off down the road.

Another moment, and he had faded from sight.

Mr. Richardson shone with glee. "And that is that! Now, my dear Miss O'Donovan, it is time for me to escort you and your father back home."

She settled her father into the back of the wagon, beneath his blankets, and then she climbed up into the passenger seat. Mr. Richardson bustled around with the harness, looking for all the world as if this were his very own wagon. His very own horse.

His very own family.

Christina blinked.

Mr. Richardson was courting her.

She should have seen it from the start, but for her entire life there had never been a single man who had shown an interest in her. For all those long years men had either been disinterested or actively looked down on her background, her looks, her relative poverty, or any combination of the three.

The negotiation between Seth and her father had been a business transaction between a nearly-out-of-work miner and an elderly farmer with few prospects for his lone daughter.

Why in the world had Mr. Richardson started this suit – and why had he begun it right when Seth had plummeted to his death?

How had she gone from having men actively avoiding her, to having one man reluctantly agree to a business transaction, to now having another one seemingly going through the paces of courting her formally?

Warmth flowed through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

And how had she somehow found the one man who seemed to truly be made for her?

Mr. Richardson climbed up into the driver's seat, and his gaze went over her with satisfaction. "You are looking much better, Miss O'Donovan. It is because that heathen is finally leaving our town, is it not? People like him should not be allowed to roam free. They have their uses, yes, but they should always be under the control of a good Christian man. For all of our sakes."

Christina turned her head away. It would do no good to get into an argument with Mr. Richardson. She was unlikely to change his mind, and he had the reins. She didn't want him to take out any anger on Esther's innocent frame.

Instead, she said, "I am feeling quite weary after this ordeal. Please, take me home."

Mr. Richardson set the cart in motion.

They had barely traveled twenty feet before he said, "Do you know that those thieving Indians did? It was before your time, of course. You Irish only arrived a generation ago. But back when white men had turned this wilderness into a veritable Garden of Eden, it was the false King Philip who came down after being kicked out of Boston. He fled here to Simsbury, and that is where his true evil nature released!"

Christina pressed her lips together. She knew her history. It had been Metacomet who had been wronged by the Massachusetts colony. Metacomet who had watched his fellow braves hung, who watched his villages burn.

It was no great surprise that they had risen up, desperate to protect what they had left.

Mr. Richardson's brow pulled down. "It was in 1676. Nearly a hundred years ago. But clearly the red men have not learned from their defeat. A curfew is too lenient for them. We should take any who remain within our borders as slaves. How can we trust them to walk free?"

He fell back into muttering. "March 26, 1676. The entire town was burned to the very ground. Dust and ash. That's all remained. Most of the people had fled to nearby towns for safety, taking what they could carry with them. The rest, they buried or it was lost."

Christina let him babble. For she was forming a new plan. And the further the wagon rolled, the more secure she was in its action.

At last they reached the fence-line of her home. She looked up at it, blanketed in the white snow, glistening as the sun eased out from the clouds.

A shaft of light touched the front door.

Her heart ached with the beauty of it. With the strength and love her grandfather had poured into its beams. Its walls. Her grandmother had brought it to vibrant life, with her herb gardens and quilted comforters.

And now it was hers.

Mr. Richardson looked over, and his leer grew. "You are regaining your strength, I see, Miss O'Donovan. That pleases me. Once we get inside –"

She quietly shook her head as he steered the wagon around to the barn doors. She eased down from her seat and went over to open them wide. "We shall not be going inside."

He blinked in confusion. "I do not understand." He got down to move alongside her.

She undid the straps and buckles of Esther's harness with familiar ease. She said, "I shall grieve for thirty days, until the time of weeping and mourning is over."

He stared at her in shock. "Thirty days? You wish to mourn for a full thirty days? What nonsense is this?"

Her father came up to stand alongside her, his back tall and straight. "That is from the Bible. Deuteronomy 34:8."

Mr. Richardson pressed his lips straight.

Her father added, "Matthew says to us, _blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted_. God will comfort my daughter as she invests herself in her prayers."

Mr. Richardson's hands clenched and unclenched.

She finished with the harness and hung it on its hooks. She walked Esther into her stall, laying down fresh hay. Then she turned to Mr. Richardson. "There is one thing I need to complete before I begin my thirty day mourning period."

Hope lit his gaze. "And what is that?"

"I have not yet finished my soap-making," she told him. "If you are able to –"

He was already moving over to the second stable, guiding out his own horse. "I am afraid I have business at the mines. We need to finish our conversion process. Make sure we remove every last stray bucket or screw. We are installing a few simple wooden frame beds with hay mattresses. Other than that, the existing metal ladder will serve the convicts well enough, and we have installed a grate at the top mouth of the shaft. Other than that, Captain Viet lives right across the street in his tavern. We'll have two locals guard the mouth during the day, and his alert ear should serve well enough at night. After all, they can hardly saw their way through the metal bars, can they?"

His eyes sparkled at the thought. "And then we will stuff the mines full of prisoners, and charge the state per head for their room and board. And in the meantime, the prisoners will continue to mine the copper for us. We can work them as hard as we please. It is perfect ... absolutely perfect ..."

He mounted and looked over at her. "Thirty days of mourning. All right then, Miss O'Donovan. You stay safe in this home for thirty days. Your father will look after you, I am sure. Pray and find solace. When your thirty days are up, I will return, and I will make my intentions known."

His gaze swept out over the house and land. "And then we will see what we see."

He gave his horse a nudge, and then they were off in the snow, heading back toward the village center.

She watched him go with a twisting of emotions. She had committed herself to this path now. Thirty days.

William had said he would write.

Joy coursed through her.

Thirty days of peace.

Thirty days of letters.

Thirty days of considering ... of planning ... of allowing herself to dream.

She took her father's arm. "Come, Father. Let me get you settled by the fire, and then I've the rest of the soap to finish."

His gaze was warm on hers. "Come, my dear. We'll finish it together."

# Chapter Six

Christina felt as if she'd worn a trench in the sitting room floor. The sun was shining warm through the cracks in the shutters, a stew was simmering in the kitchen, and the fragrantly fresh bars of rosemary soap were stacked on the shelf.

But all she could think about was William.

He had been in Windsor for a full day now, if all had gone well. Had he made his journey safely? Had he yet met his patient, the abused horse? What did he think of his chances to soothe the tormented creature? Was he going to be there several days? Several weeks? Several months?

She could not take the thought of that long of an estrangement.

A month. She'd arranged for a single month for herself.

He'd said he would write her a letter.

Her father smiled as he looked up from his newspaper. "Ah, lass. You know the Royal Mail takes a week or more, even from somewhere as close as Windsor. But, as it happens, it's barely three hours walking. And we do have sweet Esther ... perhaps we could go for a relaxing ride ..."

She crossed her arms before her chest in frustration. "As you well know, I can't walk it, or ride it, or crawl it. I'm declared in mourning for a month, in order to keep that strangely persistent Mr. Richardson at an arm's length."

Her father's eyes gleamed with amusement. "I've always told you you're a fetching lass, just as your mother was before. I don't know why it's taken the doltish men in this town so long to realize it."

She shook her head. "Mr. Richardson is up to something. I just don't know what yet."

His brow creased. "Do you think Mr. Richardson had something to do with Seth's death?"

She blinked in surprise and turned. "Do you mean murder?"

"I am not saying anything," cautioned her father. "It just seems odd with the timing. I had never heard hide nor hair of Mr. Richardson's interest. We would pass each other at the tavern or in the general store and I'd barely get a how'd-you-do from him. But the moment he brings the news of Seth's passing to you, and he is at our house every day since?"

"Maybe he is just feeling rightfully guilty about having Seth work on the day of our Lord," Christina pointed out. "If Mr. Richardson had not done that, Seth would still be alive."

"It could be," mused her father.

She strode over to him, her nerves jangling. "What is in the paper this week? Any news worth reading?"

He pointed. "The first two pages are the continuation of the tale of the Memoirs of a Captain. See this section, here. The captain is wooing a woman. It describes how they have a sweet conversation, such as lovers alone can know." His gaze twinkled. "Maybe you should read the full story and gain inspiration."

He turned the page and sighed. "Unfortunately we have to wait until next week for the end of the story."

Christina paced again. "Another week? Serial stories will be the plague of us!"

He chuckled. "There are also two different letters to the editor complaining about last week's article, where that girl was said to have gotten a pin stuck in her ear and it later came out her nose. One person swears it must have been made up. Another claims to have seen a similar case."

Christina shook her head. "Is there no actual news in that thing?"

Her father scanned the remaining two pages. "Hmmm, let's see. Farm for sale. Another farm for sale. Watch found. Then we have lost mare, lost bay gelding, lost mare, lost mare, and lost red gelding. Several of those are suspected to be stolen."

Christina shivered. "Horse thieves are viciously whipped and then put to hard labor. Some are even killed outright. A person would have to be in desperate need for a fast ride somewhere, to risk all of that."

He sighed. "Some lads simply do not think they will be caught or do not fully reckon with the consequences. Look here. It's about Levi, a twenty-one year old young man from Groton. He was convicted of burglary. They executed him. It doesn't even say what he stole."

Christina could not imagine that. Twenty-one years old, embarking on the foolishness of stealing another's watch or necklace or some such, and your entire life is ended.

A soft knock came on the door.

Christina raced to the door, her heart light. It of course might not be him, but maybe he had found a messenger ... a traveler ...

She pulled open the door.

Reverend Miller stood there, his quiet face gently welcoming.

She fondly smiled at him. "Reverend Miller. It is so lovely for you to stop by."

He stepped in. "When I heard that you had embarked on a period of prayer and contemplation, I knew it was my duty to lend my spiritual guidance to your efforts."

She waved a hand. "Please, come join us in the kitchen. It is warmer in there."

Her father rose, and the three of them moved over to sit at the table. Christina put out the cheese and bread, then poured three tankards of ale for them.

They settled into their seats.

She said to the reverend, "Your sermon yesterday was wonderfully touching. Thank you so much for your efforts. I know Seth is looking down from Heaven in contentment."

The reverend nodded his head. "Thank you for your kindness. Seth was a decent man. He was not prone to blasphemy or drunkenness. He was a simple man, but generally an honest one."

He shook his head. "It pains me that he was working on the Lord's Sabbath, and that led to his death. But I admit I put as much blame for that on Mr. Richardson. Seth did not have much choice in the matter of when to work, if he wished to keep his job. It is easy to say a good Christian should put God before all others in these matters, but a good Christian also has to pay his lodging costs."

Christina gave him a small smile. "Thank you for that kindness, Reverend. I know not all religious folk in our region would be as forgiving."

"It could be in part because the state's laws impose fines for non-attendance," pointed out the Reverend, "and also that fewer bodies in the pews means fewer coins for the collection plate."

She nodded.

Her father leaned forward. "Reverend, do you know if anything was troubling Seth recently?"

The Reverend blinked in surprise. "Troubling Seth? You mean as regards his upcoming wedding? Surely you do not think ... you do not think he took his own life?"

Her father put his hands in the air. "Oh, no, no, nothing like that. We were just trying to get a sense of his final days, is all. If he were happy."

The reverend gave it some thought. "Seth was not a man prone to excesses of joy or anger," he mused. "He was fairly resigned to life and took it as it came." He turned to Christina. "I do know that he was looking forward to this joining. He spoke about the repairs he was going to make to the roof. To the beams of the barn."

Christina nodded. It felt odd, still, to talk about Seth in the past tense. It also felt strange to distill his interests down into check-lists for house repairs.

The reverend held her gaze. "And you, my child. How are you taking all of this? Now that he's been gone several days? I know it can take a while to absorb."

"I have said prayers for him each morning and night," she told the reverend. "He was to be an important part of our lives. I had ... begun to allow myself to dream of a future."

His gaze held hers. "You still have a future, of course. You are still here, with your father on your family farm. You are still young."

Her cheeks tinted. "I suppose Seth awakened in me the ability to think a dream might be within reach ... and with him gone, the dream has still lingered."

His gaze held hers in curiosity. "I have heard that Mr. Richardson, the overseer, has been attentive to your grief."

Christina pressed her lips. He had certainly been _attentive_ in arriving each day, but she could not say that he had shown much interest in talking with her about how she coped.

She kept her voice even. "I imagine he feels some measure of guilt for the cause of Seth's passing, as you said, Reverend. I have done my best to assuage him that he should feel no concern in that area, at least on my behalf."

The reverend held her gaze with focus. "I have heard tell that a traveler to our parts has also displayed an attention to you these past days."

Christina's cheeks flushed. Just thinking of William could do that to her. She murmured, "Mr. Crawford has been exceedingly kind to me. To both of us."

He nodded. "Mr. Viets tells me that Mr. Crawford even ordered a large bowl of soup, suitable for travel, to bring to you. That shows me he is a man of understanding and compassion."

"He is that, and more," agreed Christina.

"Then, if he were to have sent a letter in your name, you would be agreeable to receiving it?"

Christina practically bounced up out of her seat in joy. "You have a letter for me? He sent a letter? From Windsor?"

The reverend gave a low chuckle. "I was not sure if the letter would be well or ill received, but I suppose I now have my answer."

He reached into his shirt and drew out the envelope. "Royal mail would have taken a week or more, but Mr. Viets has an arrangement with the White Eagle Tavern in Windsor to share supplies. It cuts on costs when they can buy together in bulk, and it's only two hours travel by horse. It appears the White Eagle sent this letter as part of their shipment today. Mr. Viets had gotten to know Mr. Crawford during his stay there, these past few days, and had a strong sense of his good character. Even so, he passed the letter to me, allowing me to be the final judge of your disposition in this matter."

Christina's hands were shaking as she took the letter from him.

Her father smiled indulgently at her. "Go on, lass, read it by the sitting room fire. The good reverend and I have plenty to talk about together, over our ales."

Christina did not need a second prodding. In moments she was curled up in her chair by the fire, carefully separating the wax seal and lifting open the envelope. A thin sheet of paper was folded within. The writing was sturdy, solid, with a forward slant and steady strokes.

Wednesday, November 3, 1773

My dear Miss O'Donovan -

It is with a grateful heart that I write you that I am safely arrived at the home of Doctor Sullivan. He warmly received me, fed me on roast chicken and greens, and then we went to see my patient for the first time.

Oh, Miss O'Donovan, I wish that you could see the steed. He is a thing of beauty. I can understand now why Doctor Sullivan was so eager to have him for his own. A full seventeen hands high, and a coat so glossy that it shines. His form could have been carved as a sculpture by the greatest artists of our time.

But, dear Miss O'Donovan, it is clear how sadly this horse has been mistreated by his previous master. The steed flinches at the slightest movement, and his eyes go white with fear. I cannot imagine what must have been done to him. We will work with him daily to bring him to a gentler state, but we cannot rush this. It must take its time.

I have been given a spare room in the doctor's own house, so I may have unfettered access to the steed. It is well apportioned with a writing desk and a window overlooking a beautiful meadow with stream. A willow leans over it all. I wish you could see it. It would appeal to your gentle notions of faeries and leprechauns.

I hope that your soap-making efforts were able to be finished without my assistance. I am sorry that I could not stay any longer by your side. I hope that you understand how challenging my decision was to make. It was not made lightly. However, it was the only choice I could follow.

I realize that we have only yet begun to know each other, and yet I find I have the temerity to request that you please send a response to inform me of how you are doing. Did the remaining soaps come out to your satisfaction? How is your father coping? What other projects will occupy you in the coming days?

I will not consign this precious letter to the Royal Post, for fear of facing the prospect of not hearing a response from you for two weeks or more. Instead, I am relying on the advice of Mr. Viets, who I had the pleasure of lodging with these past few days in Simsbury. He has an arrangement with the White Eagle here in Windsor to share supplies and carry letters between the two communities. So if you are able to provide your response to Mr. Viets, he will ensure it is delivered to me.

With that I will close, so I can bring this letter to the White Eagle this very evening. I hope you and your father are doing well, and I await your response with anticipation.

If shadows do come, please know that although I am absent from you in body, I am with you in spirit.

Your ever obedient servant,

William Johnson Crawford

Christina read and re-read the letter, her joy rising with each new pass. He had said – two different times! – that he wished she was there to share in what he was doing. He had expressed sorrow at the thought of not hearing from her. He was interested in hearing how she was doing!

He wanted to hear a response.

She ran back into the kitchen, where her father and the Reverend sat deep in conversation. She waved the letter in the air. "I must write him back! Reverend, will you stay until I finish it? I promise I will be quick. Well, as quick as I can be, for he wrote with such tenderness and intelligence that I must do my very best to respond in kind. To show him that I take our correspondence seriously. But I would not wish to hold you up on your travels today –"

The reverend laughed out loud, his eyes twinkling with pleasure. "My lass, take all the time you need, and I shall see it brought to Viet's tavern the moment the ink is dry."

Her father motioned a hand toward the stairs up. "I have fresh parchment in my desk. You are welcome to –"

Christina did not need one more word said. She raced up the stairs, her heart pounding nearly clear out of her ribs, and she went into her parents' room. The bed was draped with a green quilt made by her Nana's hand as a wedding present for her son. A pair of trunks on the far wall held her father's shirts and breeches. And in the small desk opposite –

She flung open the drapes and then shutters. A brisk chill eased in, but she didn't mind one whit. All that mattered was that she had the bright sunshine streaming to ensure her letter was as perfect as possible.

She took out the inkwell and the quill. Her father only rarely wrote letters, perhaps one a year. So the quill was in fresh, fine shape.

Her hands were shaking as she laid the fresh, unblemished piece of parchment down on the surface.

She willed herself to take in a long, deep breath.

Thursday, November 4th, 1773

My Dear Mr. Crawford –

I am so relieved that you made it safely to Windsor and to the kind care of Doctor Sullivan. I am gratified that he is treating you well. That sets my heart greatly at ease.

It is troubling that the deceased man could mistreat a simple animal to that extent. For it is written, a righteous man cares for the needs of his animal. It is heartwarming to know that Doctor Sullivan tends to his stables to this extent; that he brings on your skilled assistance to help him mend this steed whole. I have absolute faith that, with time and compassion, you will achieve your noble goal.

My father was greatly lifted by our conversation on Tuesday. Your attention and kindness did him a world of good. He is reading his paper again, and he even brought up the idea of taking a day ride. He has not shown that level of energy in many a month, and I am grateful for how you have awakened him.

I have declared to the community my intention to set aside a period of a month for reflection and prayer. Reverend Miller is with us now, talking with my father. It is he who brought your much-awaited letter from Viet's Tavern. He will bring my response back to the same the moment the ink is dry.

I wish I could see the fall of the willow over the stream outside your window. It does sound like a scene from one of Nana's tales of Ireland, brought to fresh life.

The rosemary soaps came out absolutely perfectly and are now neatly stacked on the shelf in the kitchen. I will think of you each time I use one.

I have not given much thought, yet, to what the coming weeks might hold. They were to be the final days of preparation for Seth arriving, so that the various repairs in the roof and walls could begin. Now I suppose we are in a pause. A breathing space. The wagon has slid off the path and needs to be set anew. I am not yet sure where this new path will lead.

For as it is written,

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways submit to him,

and he will make your paths straight.

I will put my trust in the Lord's care, and know that my way will become clear.

I hope that your time with Doctor Sullivan and his steed is fruitful, and that the horse is mended. What is his name? You did not mention. Please do write with his progress, and with any other thoughts which may come to mind.

I am,

Your ever obedient servant,

Christina O'Donovan

Christina stared at the carefully formed letters, her heart racing. She read and re-read the words. Had she expressed herself clearly enough? Had she shown her interest in maintaining the correspondence, without seeming too forward? Would he dismiss her writing as too silly? As too formal?

A thought came to her, and she dashed off a final line.

p.s. I shall enclose a bar of the rosemary soap with this, that you might better remember your time here with us.

A flush coursed over her face, but it was too late to undo it now. If she scribbled it out, it would look even worse. And she could hardly waste the precious paper by balling it up and starting over again.

It was done. There was nothing more but to put the parchment in its envelope, address it, and bring it downstairs.

She put away the ink and quill, and then, taking up her precious letter and envelope, she descended down to the kitchen.

The men were deep in a discussion of politics, something about the governors of the colonies and the taxes on tea. Both looked up with interest as she came into the room.

Both sets of eyes went to the letters in her hand.

Her father's eyes rose to hers –

She nervously handed the letters over to him. He would never explicitly ask to review her correspondence, but she also understood that they were all the other had now. If she made a poor choice, and brought a scoundrel into their home, he would equally be caused to suffer for it. She relied on his wisdom and judgement.

He quietly read William's original letter, then re-read it a second time. He lifted his eyes to her, and then nudged his head toward the reverend.

She sighed and nodded. The two were as thick as thieves, and she had no doubt that every word would be relayed to the Reverend in any case. He might as well get the content aright.

She eased as he read the words; as they swapped the letters. Both men seemed calm. Respectful, even. They seemed to be drawn in, as she herself had been, by William's compassionate words.

At last the reverend looked up. "Mr. Crawford has comported himself with the full level of honor that I have come to expect from him. I spent an evening with him myself at Viet's tavern. He seems educated, observant, charitable, and Christian. I have the sense that he came from a good family in New Hampshire."

Her father nodded in agreement. "I concur. In his time here in our home, he has always behaved with decorum and integrity. He is a man I would be proud to know further."

Christina absolutely glowed with relief and hope. She turned to the reverend. "Then you will bring my letter to Mr. Viets?" Her flush burned her ears. "And his rosemary soap?"

The reverend finished the rest of his tankard and stood with a smile. "Not only that, but I will do it at this very moment. The worker they share goes back and forth on alternating days, so I imagine your letter will reach Mr. Crawford tomorrow midday. Depending on his inclination, you might then receive a response as soon as the day after that."

Christina's heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

Two days. She could have a response from William within two days.

She didn't know how she would last until then.

# Chapter Seven

Christina knew she would have to keep herself occupied until Saturday came around. If she were very fortunate, at this very moment her letter was being carried, slowly but surely, the miles east to Windsor, to the Eagle Tavern. In a few hours, William might be opening the seal and smelling the rosemary soap's fragrance.

The thought brought a smile to her lips.

But it meant she had to be patient. Even if William immediately wrote her a response, even if he gave it right back to the messenger, she would not see those words until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

She had to distract herself.

It was the perfect time to make progress with the hemp.

Her family farm, like every other one as far as the eye could see, was engaged in growing hemp for the colonies. A hundred years ago, the crop was simply a general-use necessity for the sails, ropes, and other aspects of maintaining trade with England and Europe. But once Britain had slammed the door shut on the colony's lucrative wool trade, and forbidden colonists from selling wool or wool products to any but their designated buyers, the colonists had fought back.

They had turned to hemp.

Now, rather than buying clothing from England, every colonist did their best to use native-made help cloths and fabrics. Christina's Nana had thoroughly supported _sticking one to King George_ on this thoroughly domestic front, and her small, well-used spinning wheel now belonged to Christina.

Her father, in late September, had harvested the hemp, just before it went to seed, so it was supple and strong. They'd laid the stalks across the fields for a full four weeks to age, turning them regularly.

They had just dumped the hemp stalks into the water-filled pit alongside the barn on Saturday. And then had come the snows. But the sun had come again, the snows were melting, and the hemp in the pit looked perfect for splitting open.

She was ready.

She wore her work-dress of olive green with the apron over it. Her father stood alongside her in the bright November sun. He looked more full of energy than she'd seen him in a while.

She smiled at him. "You're sure you're up for this?"

He chuckled. "It's a fine way to work out one's aggressions."

They set to work.

The hemp stalks had split open, revealing the soft, strong fibers within. But there was a challenge. At the very core of each stalk was the hurd – the woody core. Her father gathered those up to sell down in Hartford, for paper-making. They needed to keep the hemp itself, for her to spin into thread for fabric.

Now that the hemp had been aged and softened, they just had to convince it to separate.

The air was fresh and clean, the sun was high, and it was nice to be out working side by side with her father. She knew some of the larger farms had equipment to manage this separation process, but she found she preferred the simpler approach. She had her hands on every step of the conversion of seed to finished product. It made her content.

They stopped for lunch, then worked long until the shadows stretched across the pasture. At last the wagon was loaded with the hurd, while the hemp threads were neatly stacked in a corner of the barn.

Her father smiled at her. "Ah, you're a good lass. That's the last of it."

She rolled her shoulders. "Aye, and I'll be combing from morning to night for the next week, to finish preparing the hemp for use. But that's tolerable work for inside by the fire. I find it almost meditative. It will be good work for me, while I am on this retreat."

There was a movement at the far end of the road.

She turned her head.

Was that a form there, sitting on a high bay horse? Was that a glint of blond hair in the setting sun's light?

Her father shook his head. "The damned fool seems to want to check up on you. To make sure you really are staying put."

She laughed. "Well, he'll be disappointed if that is to be his duty for the next twenty-eight days. And as long as he stays past the fence, I don't mind one whit where he chooses to ride."

But, still, when they went inside, she made sure all the shutters were drawn tight and barred. She ensured the drapes were closed tight.

# Chapter Eight

Christina quoted sentences of the letter to herself while she sat at the kitchen table, her tools spread out before her. Her father and the reverend had taken the load of hurd over to the mill at Hop Brook. The town's hurd was gathered up there for sale in bulk to buyers in Hartford, for use in paper and other goods. Her father and the reverend would then celebrate the fine harvest with a couple of pints at Viet's tavern, giving them an opportunity to await the arrival of the traveling messenger.

If she was lucky, if she was very lucky, they would bring home a second letter from William.

She smiled at the thought of her father and the reverend drinking together in the tavern, as they used to when they were younger. It was good to see him energetic again. To see him embracing life. For after he had lost Patrick ...

Her gaze went to the cameo on the mantle. He had been so handsome, her Patrick. He'd turned the girls' heads. Where her hair had come from her mother, all coppery and bright, his had matched his father's. Dark, glossy, and thick.

No wonder her mother had fallen so in love with her father, if Patrick had been a mirror image.

She pushed the thought out of her mind. Patrick was gone, and they needed to push on as best they could.

She looked down to the four hackles which she'd laid out alongside the fireplace.

Her grandfather had made this set for her grandmother, after they'd planted their first crop of hemp here, all those years ago. They were worn with use, but still as sturdy as the day he'd made them.

The largest had a square wooden base about eight inches on a side and about a half-inch thick. Into that was drilled vertical sticks in a grid – three across by eight deep. The sticks were solidly stuck in the wooden base. The sticks were square-sided in construction, with rigid edges and pointed tops.

She would drag this largest hackle through her strands of hemp, pulling free any remaining bits of wood or debris. This first pass would take care of any larger leaves or stalk pieces.

The second hackle was smaller. The vertical sticks were finer and closer together. This would be for the second pass, to take out smaller roughage.

Then, similarly, the third and fourth were even finer still. By the time she finished processing the hemp strands with that smallest hackle, the threads would be perfect enough even for making handkerchiefs from.

She set to work.

The fire crackled, the sun shone through the open window, and the juncos hopped merrily around her back yard, exploring her herb garden. The sage leaves were silvery against the snow, which was gently melting beneath the caress of the sun. It was probably only ankle-high by now.

The hemp strands were generally around six feet long, and she used the full length of the table to work on them. It was soothing. Relaxing. She had helped plant these seeds in the spring. Over the summer she had watched them grow strong and tall. Her father had handled the harvesting, as he always did, with the long, sharp scythe. The mown stalks fell in even cascades like a waterfall.

But now she was hackling ... hackling ... it was like combing hair. If someday she had a daughter of her own, she would have the girl sit before her at the fire, and she would brush her hair ... brush her long, glorious copper hair ...

Christina blinked. In the past, when she imagined her future daughter, the daughter always had dark hair. Dark like Patrick's. Dark like her father's had been, before it had gone gray.

William had said her hair was her crowning glory.

She blushed, and she put a hand to where a curl had escaped her white cap.

William thought she was pretty.

And if hair the color of a mine's treasure could ensure that lesser men were held at bay, until the worthy one was able to draw near ...

Her glow lit her entire body.

The hackled threads stacked higher, while the unprocessed section grew smaller ... smaller ...

There was a noise from the front.

She put down the hackle and went with curiosity to the front window. It did seem as if it should be time for her father to return.

She peered out through the slats of the shutter.

The meadows across the road were already shadowed with evening, but she did not see any ...

A cloud of blue jays rose up from across the way, as if disturbed by something.

Then, further down the road, she caught sight of the wagon. Her father and the reverend were side by side in the front seat, singing together. As they drew close, the song came across the crisp air to her ears.

"Being drunk and weary

I went to Molly's chamber

Takin' Molly with me"

Christina rolled her eyes and went to the back door. She took her time with her cloak, and by the time she was at the barn door, Esther was looking eager for her hay and stall. The two men were laughing and chortling as they climbed down to help her. The reverend's eyes shone, and he tapped at the front of his shirt.

Christina's heart raced.

Another letter had arrived.

She finished with the wagon faster than she ever had before, and then she herded the two men back into the house as if they were wayward geese. At last she had them in and settled by the sitting room fire. Clearly the reverend was not heading to his own home tonight. She had no doubt that within a half hour both men would be snoring, comforters draped over them, content in their day's work.

But she had a letter to read.

She moved in to the kitchen and sat in the very spot on the bench where she'd been when William had helped her with the soap. Her hands were shaking as she undid the wax seal. She slowly lifted the envelope flap, drawing out the moment. She slid the paper from within. Unfolded it.

She took in, for a moment, the steadiness of his hand. The care with which he had formed each letter.

Friday, November 5, 1773.

My dear Miss O'Donovan –

I cannot find words to express with what joy I received your letter. I had worried that you would have a full set of tasks before you for the coming weeks and there would be scant time to respond to a new acquaintance. To have your words reach me with such sweet thoughts is better than the richest concoction the doctor's cook could craft.

The doctor's steed is named Anemoi, after the Greek wind gods. And surely, when Anemoi is let loose in the pasture, he loves to run, run, run, as if his very soul is set free by the motion. It is when he is back in the stables that his hackles rise and his eyes turn wild.

But I have been working with him three times a day, these past two days, and already I can see progress. When I came into the barn on that first day, the mere sight of me would cause him to flinch back and flare his ears. But now his ears are attentive, but not flattened. He knows my scent. He watches as I put carrots into his feed bin and then step away.

It will take time. But I am patient. It is a worthy cause.

I am eternally grateful that you gifted me with one of your precious bars of rosemary soap. I have shown it to every person in the doctor's household and each admires it for its fine scent and form. I will use no other, and I will treasure every last sliver of it.

I am content to hear that your father is doing better. Loss can truly sap a soul. But as is said, _He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds_. We must allow God time to guide us through the pain to a state where we can shoulder it fully.

I hope your period of prayer and reflection is going well. I know, myself, how powerful it can be in forging the soul. I would gladly be a letter-bound companion with you on that journey. But if you would rather be left alone in your solitude, do not hesitate to let me know that as well. I would understand completely.

I would ask a small boon, if you did not find it impertinent. After my father's passing, the inn continued to receive correspondence meant for him, all addressed to Mr. Crawford. It was a constant reminder of my loss of him, and it was one factor in my decision to sell the inn. I would humbly ask if you could please address the letters to William instead. I realize this could be considered a breach of propriety, and if you feel uncomfortable with this request, then of course I understand completely.

My thoughts are of you each morning and night. I hope you are well. I know with certainty that God holds you in the palm of his hand. I hope you are finding your way. You deserve all the blessings this world has to offer. I count the days until I can once again see the crowning glory of your copper hair shining in the evening sun. Until I can feel the warmth in your compassionate eyes and hear the tender melody of your voice.

Your ever obedient servant,

William

p.s. I have been gazing at the willow while I wrote this, wishing you could be here with me to enjoy a walk beneath its branches. And so I have determined I will send a small clipping of it in this letter to you. Then, every time I look at it, I can think of you looking at your piece, and that in this way we gaze in the same direction.

Christina blinked in surprise. She turned the envelope upside-down and shook it. Sure enough, a slender stretch of willow branch was tucked within, the small knobs showing where the leaves had fallen in the autumn. She wondered, if she carefully planted it in fresh soil, and placed it in the window, that it might last the winter and bud again in the spring for her.

She raced pell-mell out the back door, not even stopping to put on her cloak. She made it to the barn and slipped within. There was an old pottery jar to one side, holding some rags, and she dumped them out. With her hands, she scooped up dirt from near Esther's stall and filled the jar part-way full. Then she was back in motion, closing up the barn.

The moonlight shone full on the glistening white snow. There was a movement from the road. A shape ... and then it was gone.

She shivered. Surely it was simply a raccoon or a fox.

She crossed behind the house and stepped back inside, closing and barring the door behind her. She put her jar on the table.

Carefully, reverentially, she took up the branch of willow as if it were the holy Mary's staff. She carefully placed the cut end into the dirt. She added in some water from the pail by the fire. And then she set it on the sill by the back window. It was dark now, but in the morning she would make sure to give it light before they left for church.

She sat down again with the letter, angling herself so that she could see the willow branch while she read.

He wanted her to call him William ...

# Chapter Nine

Joy flooded every corner of Christina's soul as they drove the wagon through the gentle sunshine to church. Reverend Miller rode easily on his horse at their side, talking with her father about the upcoming sermon, and the sound of their voices brought a lightness to her heart.

Her father was coming back to her. The father she had loved and adored, who she had thought all but a distant memory, was returning to her.

They reached the church, and she detached Esther from the harness, guiding her over to the barn to wait out the sermon in the company of the other steeds. Then she and her father headed toward the front stairs.

Mr. Richardson was standing there, his Sunday best fresh and clean, and his blond hair was freshly combed. He gave her a sweeping bow. "My dearest Miss O'Donovan. You are looking more beautiful than ever."

She gave a small smile. She was wearing the slate gray dress with the dark cloak over it. Her hair was fully tucked in beneath the white cap. Nothing showed but her face.

He stepped forward with a flourish. "I know that you have been focusing on prayers these past days. I thought, perhaps they would go more quickly if you had something to inspire you. And so I have brought you this."

He drew from his pocket his handkerchief, embroidered with the red R in its corner. He presented it to her with a flourish.

She took it from him and carefully unwrapped it.

It held a small copper cross on a black thread. The cross was done with such sharp angles that it almost looked like a dagger.

Her hand went instinctively to press against her chest, to where, beneath her hemp dress and white chemise, her mother's simple wooden cross hung. It had been one of her mother's only possessions she had brought with her from Ireland. It had been her grandmother's on her mother's side – a grandmother she had never met. A grandmother who trusted in God to watch over her young daughter as she traveled three thousand miles by ocean for the hopes of a new life in a new land.

Mr. Richardson smiled. "You like it. I can see the emotion in your eyes."

Christina nodded. "Yes, it is ... it is quite a gift. Mr. Richardson. It is too much for me."

He shook his head. "You deserve that, and much more. Perhaps if I could come calling on you –"

She gently put up a hand. "I am so sorry, but I need to focus on my prayer. We are to have no visitors, other than the Reverend Miller, of course."

He eased back. "Of course. I wholly understand. No visitors."

He looked over to where the Reverend stood by the steps, greeting his parishioners.

A stocky man with a tousle of light-brown hair came up before the reverend. They shook hands and then the man went into the church.

Mr. Richardson frowned. "That's Abraham. I didn't take him for a church-goer."

Christina's father pointed out, "In Connecticut, it's legally required for every man, woman, and child –"

Mr. Richardson waved a hand. "Yes, yes, and children's parents are to be fined if their brats run, scream, shout, or make noise on Sundays, as it disturbs the penitent. Anyway, I've never seen Abraham go near a church before. He just goes back and forth between Viet's tavern and the White Eagle out in Windsor. I've been doing much of the same, myself, as I oversee the conversion of the mines into a prison. There's been a fair amount of supplies to sell off and then buy."

Christina's father gave a soft shrug. "Maybe Abraham has had a revelation of some sort. Maybe the hour has come for him to awaken from sleep."

Mr. Richardson scoffed. "Abraham is far more likely to sleep the Sunday through, after a Saturday night of excess."

He gave himself a shake and turned to Christina. "But I will think on that later. For now, I have a beautiful woman by my side, and my sole attention should be on her. Come, let us go in to hear the Reverend's powerful sermon side by side."

Christina could hardly tell Mr. Richardson that she preferred to sit alone, as the entire church would have fellow penitents in every pew. She quietly nodded, allowing Mr. Richardson to precede her up the stairs. They greeted the reverend and then found their seats.

Mr. Richardson sat a little closer than she found comfortable at her side, but she drew in a breath. She counselled herself to patience.

She thought with warm anticipation how William might react to her latest letter.

Monday. It would travel to him on Monday.

And then on Tuesday ...

# Chapter Ten

It was Friday.

Friday, Friday, Friday.

Christina sat listlessly at the kitchen table, absently hackling the hemp fibers with the smallest set of tines. The fiber was smooth, clean, and clearly ready to be wound on the spinning bobbins. But she could not bring herself to move on to the next step. Because to do so would be to firmly demark that time had passed. That nearly an entire week had elapsed since she had written her letter to William.

He had not responded.

She went over in her mind, again, for the thousandth time, what she could have said to upset him so. She had taken such care, such detailed, such infinite attention, in laying every word down with her quill to represent her heart. Her soul.

And he had closed the door on her.

Was it when she had thanked him for the precious willow branch, which even now sat in its pottery jar in the kitchen window? Was he upset that she had planted it? Was she supposed to have put it under her pillow or some such? But if she had, it would have truly died – it would have become a stick. Here it had a chance of life. But had William not seen it that way?

Had it been when she had tenderly accepted his request to have her write him as William, rather than Mr. Crawford, and in return she offered that he might address her as Christina? Maybe she had been far too bold with that statement. Maybe he had dismissed her as a hussy and shut down all contact.

Anguish rose up within her, and she took in long, deep breaths, drawing the hemp fibers again through the tall, narrow tines. They threaded their way with smooth ease, so well combed they were. They would make fine handkerchiefs and linens now. Her Nana would be proud of what she made. But did it matter one whit, if she only had herself and her father to make them for? If there would be no husband by her side ... no children at her feet ...

Her father was in the entry to the sitting room, his face lined with worry. "My dear, let me go over to Viet's. Perhaps today will be the day that –"

She waved a hand. "The Reverend has been there every day for us. Viet himself is well aware of what we are waiting for. There is no doubt that the moment the letter arrives, it will be brought. If it is to arrive at all."

Her father's gaze shadowed. "I would not have thought that Mr. Crawford would be such a man as to leave you without resolution."

She squared her shoulder. "Well, it seems we did not know him as well as we thought, after all. And perhaps this is for the best. It is better to know of his true nature early on, before our hearts were fully engaged."

Her soul ached at the lie behind these words, at the thought that she had not cared for him, cared for him, and built such dreams in her mind as could not cause searing agony as they tumbled into the dirt.

She reached again for her hemp –

A low, gentle knock came at the door.

Her hemp went a-tumbling as she leapt from her bench, flurried past her father, and reached the front door in two long strides. She pulled it open in eager anticipation.

Reverend Miller stood there, the afternoon sun shining warmly around him. The snow had all but melted, and there was almost a spring-like feel to the air. It was a good portent, surely. Because it must mean –

But his eyes were not a-sparkle. Instead, they were shadowed with a mix of emotions.

Behind him, on the road, Mr. Richardson sat on the small cart used by Mrs. Gilchester to deliver items from her store to her customers. There seemed to be several wooden boxes in its back.

Christina's face creased, and she looked to the reverend. "What is this?"

His shoulders tensed. "It seems that Mr. Richardson recalled your conversation with him about your soap-making. About how you wished you had leaf fat from cows' kidneys and beeswax to make a higher quality soap."

Christina barely remembered the discussion. What she remembered was that Mr. Richardson had fled from the smell of her rustic supplies, while William had gladly stepped in to be by her side. He had helped her stir the melting fat ... he had sprinkled in the rosemary leaves ...

He had cut off all communication.

The reverend was talking. "Mr. Richardson felt pained at the thought of you having to suffer with inferior soap. So he has brought you what ... what you needed."

Christina's mind was a complete whirl. "I don't understand. My rosemary soap is not inferior – William said that the doctor's household all found it wonderful."

A lightness lifted the shadows of the reverend's face. He asked, teasingly, "William?"

Christina flushed, and she dug a toe into the floor. "He did ask me to call him that, after all."

The reverend's smile was warm. "Yes, he did, lass. I remember it from the letter you shared with us Sunday morning."

Sunday morning. Sunday morning, and here it was Friday, and there'd been no response, no response ...

Mr. Richardson called out, his tone a bit sharp, "Reverend?"

Reverend Miller gave himself a shake. "Ah, yes. So, to the point, Mr. Richardson has brought you a supply of the leaf fat from cows' kidneys ... along with beeswax."

Christina's brain was still not connecting thoughts together. "He has done what? What in the world for?"

The reverend spoke slowly, as if to the youngest members of his congregation. "For you to make soap with."

Christina waved a hand toward the kitchen. "But I have the full year's supply made. William helped me with it. It's done and stacked and ready."

"And now you have more supplies," said the reverend evenly.

Christina threw up her hands. "And what am I supposed to do with them? Keep them in the barn for a full year, until I gather up the required wood ash and lye to create a fresh batch? And what of all the fat we gather along the way, from our normal meals? Now we will have to find another use for that. What was he thinking?"

The reverend went on smoothly, as if reciting from a psalm-book. "And, also, Mr. Richardson would like you to make a pair of soaps, one for you, one for him, for use."

Christina's mouth hung open. "He wants ... he wants for me to make two individual soaps."

The reverend nodded his head. "Yes."

"I don't have lye stored up. He wants me to buy a small amount of lye, and then take a tiny amount of this leaf fat, plus beeswax, and make a miniature little batch in my pot, to pour out two soaps."

The reverend again nodded his head. "Yes. And he thinks it would be nice if they were pine scented. I believe his words were that it would be a _strong scent for a proper man_."

Ire rose in Christina. "Is that what he thinks? Well, I think –"

A gentle hand came on her arm. Her father said to the reverend, "Why don't I come out with you to help Mr. Richardson put the supplies in the barn. After all, Christina here is on her prayer sabbatical and is not to be disturbed. We can then send Mr. Richardson on his way, secure in the knowledge that his items are now in our care."

The reverend nodded. "A wise course of action, Paddy. Come, let us get it done."

Her father stepped out past her, and then they gently closed the door.

Christina's hands clenched and unclenched. Of all the foolishness! That he thought he could just barge into her life and tell her what to do, how to do it, and with such nonsense! A tiny batch of soap? What in the world was he thinking!

She stormed back into the kitchen and stared up at the rosemary soap on its shelf. She had a full year's supply. Why in the world would she need to make more? There were the full twenty-three bars there, minus of course the one sent to William –

A thought struck her, and she sat down on her bench, her mind racing.

She had sent a rosemary soap to William.

He had shown it around to all the household members, praising her skill at making it.

And now Mr. Richardson wanted a soap of his own. Not just any soap, either. Not the rosemary soap that William already possessed. He wanted something finer. Better. To his own custom specifications.

She paled.

Had Mr. Richardson somehow seen the letters? Did he know of the correspondence?

A worse fear hit her, and her stomach gnawed tight.

Had Mr. Richardson interfered somehow in the letters? Had he stolen away her letter before it even reached William? Or had William written a response, and it had been intercepted before it arrived back safely to her hands?

If Mr. Richardson had done one single thing to interfere with their private correspondence ... if that man had touched one inch of her personal, confidential missives ...

The back door opened and her father and the reverend stepped in. The men's faces seemed amused, but there was also a hint of concern on her father's face. He said to her, "Well, Mr. Richardson is on his way. He had hoped to speak with you personally, so you could acknowledge his gift, but we explained that it was simply not possible. You are in your prayer period."

Christina drove to her feet. "He is interfering with my letters! He must be! William would not have taken so long to respond otherwise!"

The reverend put up a hand. "We do not know that, Christina. Abraham has been going back and forth between the two taverns as usual. He said that he delivered your letter to the White Eagle. He said that he has not received any response back to deliver here."

"Of course he says that," snapped Christina. "Seth used to tell me how Mr. Richardson operated. He would buy drinks for a man to get him pliable. Then he would twist and worm his way into getting what he wanted."

The Reverend frowned. "So you feel Abraham is lying to me?"

"I don't know what to think," shot out Christina. "We don't know, do we? Mr. Richardson says that he goes to Windsor on business. For all we know, he managed to take the letter from the White Eagle's shelf before William saw it there. Maybe William doesn't even know I wrote a response."

A worse thought hit her, and she blanched. "Maybe Mr. Richardson intercepted my letter and wrote a replacement. Something awful. Something horrific."

The reverend gently patted her arm. "Calm yourself, my child. I've seen Mr. Richardson's writings. He could never pass his own as yours. William would see through such a farce in an instant."

Relief coursed through her, and she sat back. "But, still, there is no way to know, is there? We have no idea what is going on. Where the letters are going. What is happening to them. I have to know. I have to know for myself."

Her father glanced at the reverend. "I suppose we could –"

She drove to her feet. "I must go to Windsor tomorrow."

Her father's brow creased with concern. "Now, Christina I think –"

"The weather's perfect, and the snow's melted," she pointed out. "It's barely ten miles away. Now that we have the money from the sale of the hurd, we'll be able to get some things we need from Windsor's better-supplied general store, before winter arrives for good."

The reverend said, "Now, Christina, you are only a week into your thirty-day prayer retreat."

She crossed her arms. "I can pray in the wagon," she pointed out. "And this is my reputation at stake. My reputation! If I lose that, then what do I have remaining to myself?"

Silence hung in the air.

She strode into the sitting room and went to the chest of drawers where the spinning bobbins were kept. She took out three of them and brought them back into the kitchen.

"Now, if you don't mind, I need to get all this hemp wound onto their bobbins, so that they are prepared and ready for spinning. The hemp stores better that way. And unless you two are any good with roving –"

Her father put up his hands. "We get the hint. We'll retire to the sitting room and let you have your peace."

She pressed, "And tomorrow we take a trip to Windsor?"

He nodded. "Yes. Tomorrow we drive out to Windsor, to find out for ourselves what is going on."

She settled herself down to work on the hemp, twining it and stretching it thin, then carefully winding it around the bobbin. Later in the winter she would spin this by the fire, but for now the hemp would be neatly tucked away and done with.

As she worked, she could hear her father and the reverend talking by the fire over the latest newspaper. News had come from Boston that the colonists were trying to have the local consignees who handled the British East India Company tea both resign their posts in camaraderie with the other colonies' actions, as well as ship all such tea right back to Britain.

She focused in on her roving. Surely the troubles had to end soon. They had already taken so much. They had taken her dearest brother from her. The governor of Boston had to see the truth of it. He should allow the commissioners to resign, send the British tea back, and ease the tensions.

The taxes and restrictions and rules were getting too much. The control over copper. Over wool. Over tea. Over every last tiny aspect of their lives.

Her father was talking again. A chestnut-colored horse had been stolen. And a bay mare. And a stallion colt. And a black-gray mare. Plus several notices about the horses still lost from the previous week.

She shook her head. She called out to the men, "What is it with young men stealing horses?"

Her father chuckled. "Here, I have the answer of it. Listen, now, to the poem of the week."

Christina put down her bobbin and turned her head.

Essay on Youth

How wild is youth! How wicked and profane

when savage nature only governs man!

and unreform'd by education steers.

How base to others! To himself unjust;

mad in his cups, and daring in his lust;

bold, stubborn, haughty, insolent, and pert,

slighting to age, and scoffing to defect;

wise in opinion, handsome in conceit;

rash in his judgement, foolish in his wit;

void of all care, and destitute of grace,

vain in his air, fantastic in his dress:

in talk, contentious, when provok'd a bear,

fickle in love, a tyrant to the fair;

hot in pursuit of all his fond desires,

makes vigorous onsets, tho' he quickly tires;

esteems no merit, but the worth that dwells

in some musician's hands, or dancer's heels:

in night adventures does his courage show

and sticks at nothing that a man can do:

breaks law, and gospel, bullies where he may,

revels all night and dozes half the day;

glories in all his madness, to his shame,

till age, death, want or wedlock makes him tame.

The reverend laughed out loud, and she could hear the men's tankards clank together. The reverend said, "That poet has it aright! That is exactly the plight of young men of our age. They feel the oppression of the British laws and agitate beneath that yoke. They want to do something about it, but are at odds and ends! It stirs their soul into chaos."

Her father's voice came low. "That was how it was with my Patrick. When news came in seventy of the Boston Massacre, he could talk of nothing else. One of the dead was Patrick Carr, an Irish immigrant like ourselves. My Patrick became obsessed. That it could have been him, shot in the stomach, doomed to lie in bed and watch his death come for him over those nine long days. My Patrick was only twenty-one at the time, and the news took firm hold in his head."

Christina held her breath. Her father had not talked of those days since her brother's death last year. It was as if to bring them up was to live them anew.

The reverend spoke gently. "Your son was a fine, brave lad. A good Christian, too."

Her father's voice was rough. "When he wished to go to Providence, to work with that printer, I let him go. I could hardly hold him back, now, could I? I thought it was a passing flame within him. A quest to speak out which would ease with time. But then, last June, that damned Gaspee incident. His agitator friends must have wound him up. Maybe it was his reporting, week after week, of how the British ship had been hunting down and harassing the local sloops. When the HMS Gaspee had then run aground, was it any surprise that the locals rose up in delight? That they swarmed on the ship and set it afire?"

Maybe Patrick had been swept up in the fervor. Maybe he had intended to observe, to be able to document it for his paper.

Maybe the Tories had objected to the language Patrick had used in is writings.

Maybe British patriots had taken offense at a bold statement Patrick had made in that tavern, late at night.

But it had only been two weeks after the Gaspee's burning, two weeks after that happenstance of ship and rock and fire, when her Patrick, her beloved, her brave, her honorable Patrick, had been brought home to them in a wagon, his body battered ... broken ... bloodied ...

The tears fell on her bobbins, and she let them fall.

# Chapter Eleven

Christina's heart thundered against her ribs as the wagon approached the massive Connecticut River. The sight of it always took her breath away. Simsbury had a few smaller streams and rivers, such as the Hop Brook which powered the mill, but nothing like this. Nothing of this grandeur and power.

There was no way to ford it. No way to bridge it. It was an insurmountable barrier, running all the way from Springfield to the far north, down to the very ocean itself.

She had never been to either, of course. Windsor was the furthest she had ever journeyed, and even then only a handful of times. There had simply been no need.

She thought of her mother, sailing nearly three thousand miles in the hold of a creaking ship for three long months, facing drowning, disease, and worse. Her mother had been just eighteen when she came; younger than Christina herself was now.

Her mother had stepped foot in a foreign land. She had trusted that God would set the path.

The reverend was riding alongside them on his own steed. He pointed down the street. "Over there. That's the White Eagle."

The tavern was a two-and-a-half-story saltbox structure painted white, with a covered porch across its front. A sign hung by the front door showing a white eagle against a dark blue background.

The reverend climbed down from his horse. "You two stay here. I'll go in and check."

Christina wanted desperately to go in and hear for herself, but she nodded in understanding and stayed with her father. She had a sense that the barkeep might be less willing to talk openly with a young woman present in his establishment.

The traffic around them was busy, shoppers, pedestrians, travelers enjoying their day. All seemed to relish the bright, sunny Saturday with the knowledge that true winter was not far off. This was the stuttering gap of the season, the breath of warmth before the snows came back for good. Soon the snow would blanket the ground thick, up to her knees or higher, and it would not fully abate until spring warmed the earth again in March.

The reverend came back out from the tavern. His gaze seemed to be shadowed.

Christina's heart leapt up into her throat. "What is it? Is William all right?"

He mounted his steed. "The doctor's house overlooks the river, some ways to the south. Follow me. I'll guide us there."

Now Christina could barely breathe. Clearly something was wrong. The reverend set his horse in front of theirs, rather than alongside, and Christina wondered if it was to forestall any conversation until they reached their destination. It made her worry rise to even more staggering heights.

The thicker density of tavern and shop fell away to houses and farms, and there to one side was a small, white schoolhouse with stables alongside. And still they rode. Across the wide river, the woods were thick and lush. Seabirds called out as they sailed on the air high above.

One thought beat in Christina's mind.

Something had happened to William.

Had the horse been spooked by something during their training, and kicked out? Maybe shod hooves had found forehead and William had been left unconscious. Maybe he had been trampled, his ribs crushed. Maybe, like her beloved brother Patrick, his body had been broken ... broken ... and there would be no repairing him ...

They came up a rise.

The house was stunning.

It was a full three stories high, white, with ebony black shutters on all windows, even the dormers in the roof. It had two separate chimneys, one on each end. The front porch was elegantly covered and had a lantern hanging on either side. The land was cleared for a good space on all sides, and the split-rail fencing demarking the land was in good repair.

To the side, Christina could see the stables were if anything even more grand. They were larger than any she had ever seen. There were several out-buildings, and the pastures alongside stretched all along the river.

It was a thing to be talked of in Nana's tales.

A curvy black woman in her thirties hurried out, her dark blue dress and white apron finer than any Christina had ever owned. Her curly hair was carefully tucked in beneath her white cap. "Beggin' your pardons, but the Doctor wasn't expecting any visitors today."

The reverend waved a hand. "We apologize for arriving unannounced. We are here to speak with William Johnson Crawford."

The woman's face twisted with worry. Her gaze glanced to the barn. "They would all be in with the horses," she murmured, pointing.

Christina could barely breathe now. Clearly something had gone drastically wrong.

The woman turned to Christina, and she blinked. "Why, you must be Miss O'Donovan, that Mister Crawford spoke so highly of. He was oh so proud of the rosemary soap you made. We all agreed that it was of fine quality. It is an honor to meet you in person."

Christina flushed. "You are sweet to say so."

The woman's eyes shadowed. "You musn't believe what they are saying of him, Miss. He is an honorable man. A decent Christian. I can't be believing ..."

She glanced again at the barn, and then hurried back into the main house.

Christina grabbed up the reins and drove Esther down the lane and through the open gate. She drew up at the front edge of the barn. She could see now that a number of people were gathered within, and that several horses had been tied up alongside.

Her father cautiously took her arm. "My dear, let me and the reverend do the talking. Please. It is for Mr. Crawford's sake."

She flushed, and it took all her strength to nod. She understood all too well how low her own position would be considered in any situation with strangers.

Her father and the reverend flanked her on either side, and they stepped from the bright sunlit day into the relative shadows of the barn.

Christina had never seen a barn as fine. The woodwork glistened with polish. There were at least three black men, young and fit, standing to the side of the entryway, watching the proceedings with attentive concern. Their clothing was well-tailored and mended. But something about their eyes, about the careful lack of emotion in their faces, made it clear to her that these were slaves and not free men.

Her eyes adjusted ... she saw ...

William was standing by an open, empty stable. He had been conversing with a trio of men as she came in, but now his gaze moved to latch on to hers. His eyes went wide with shock. "Miss O'Donovan!"

The room went quiet, and all faces turned to stare at her.

Her father stepped before her. "My name is Patrick O'Donovan. With me are my daughter and the Reverend Miller. We have just arrived from Salisbury to inquire after our friend, Mr. Crawford. We had not heard from him in several days and grew concerned."

A beefy man stepped forward.

He was in his forties, with graying hair tied back in a ponytail. His waistcoat was embroidered in red and gold, and his knee-length breeches were black. His wool coat was also red, with gold buttons all down the front. A white silk neck cloth billowed at his chest.

His lips pulled down. "I am the High Sheriff Barklay of Hartford County."

Christina couldn't help it. Her voice burst out of her. "What is it? What has Mr. Crawford been accused of?"

The sheriffs steely gaze rounded to stare at her.

"It seems that Mr. Crawford here is a horse thief."

Thank you for reading _Newgate Prison Copper Mines and the Irish Lass_. The next book in this series is live!

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# About Newgate

I have wanted to write about the Newgate copper mines for many years now. I grew up in Connecticut, the daughter of a genealogist, and we spent weekends roaming through old woods and cemeteries, looking for house foundations and documenting the headstones. I read book after book about Native Americans and our colonial ancestors.

Simsbury was one of the original towns in the colony of Connecticut. During the King Philip's War with the local tribes, Simsbury was targeted for attack. The population was forewarned and fled, most to nearby Windsor. The entire town was burnt to the ground on March 26, 1676. Once the conflict came to an end, and King Philip had been slain, Simsbury slowly rebuilt.

By 1707 the Simsbury locals were eager to get their hands on the copper beneath their town. They put together a plan and, on a beautiful hilltop overlooking the rolling landscape, they delved straight down a full 25 feet. The shaft was just wide enough to fit a man climbing; if he put his arms out to the side, he could touch all walls. They found their copper in twisting veins. They burrowed out a few cave-like areas, and a well provided water. But mostly the tunnels were small, barely man-high, and they twisted and turned to follow the veins. There was no sense of 'flat' or 'ground'. Paths were carved at angles and slopes.

The ore was not hauled up the shaft which the workers used. Instead, a shaft was delved at the back end of the mine, where most of the ore was. This was a far deeper section, and the shaft went a full seventy feet. Ore was put into baskets or buckets and pulled up to the surface.

Local free men worked the mines, but the mining company also used Native American and Black slaves. We sometimes think of slavery as a "southern issue" but Connecticut had a very high slave population at this time. Many if not most doctors, lawyers, and other well-to-do colonists had a slave or two to help with household tasks. Slaves were specifically brought into the state to help with labor such as in these mines.

British rule in the 1700s was becoming onerous to many here. The restrictions touched every aspect of life. One such issue was that the colonists were not allowed to smelt their own copper. Instead, the raw copper ore had to be loaded onto wagons, driven the rough roads all the way to a ship in New York City, and then sailed back to England for processing.

Colonists chafed under these restrictions. Every year made things worse.

Slowly the mine was tapped out. Especially with the cost of shipping the ore, it just wasn't worth it to pull out the little that was left. Miners like John Viets found other work. He had turned his house, sitting right across the street from the mine entrance, into a tavern.

The mines were picked at – but by 1773 a new purpose came to mind. Until now, colonial law tended to be fairly brutal. If you did something wrong, you were either injured or killed as a penalty. The colonists (and the British before them) had a bloodthirsty point of view toward people making wrong decisions. Take someone's possessions? Your hand is lopped off. Do it again? You're incorrigible. You're killed. Next.

In a world view where there were too many peasants and not enough bullets, this seemed perfectly reasonable to those in charge.

But in the colonies, where the land stretched into infinity and every person was a critical cog in the community, simply killing off those who made mistakes was coming to seem extreme. Especially when many of the offenders were young men in their late teens or early twenties who hadn't quite found their way in life yet.

And so came the idea of temporary imprisonment.

If someone stole a horse for a joy-ride, they no longer needed to face death or brutal whipping and hard labor. Instead, they could be locked away from society for six to ten years. By the time they came out again, their passions would have cooled. They would have matured. They could become a functional, helpful part of society.

The Newgate Copper Mines were perfectly situated for this task.

The mines had the one main way in for humans – the 25-foot shaft with a metal ladder down its length. Miners had used it daily for decades. They added a locking metal grate at the top of the shaft. John Viets knew the mines well, having worked there, and his tavern was right across the street. He was sixty-two by this point and quite content with the idea of keeping an eye on the mines.

By December of 1773, they were ready to receive their first inmate.

That is where we are in this story so far.

If you'd like to see the photos I took of the Newgate Copper Mines and Prison when I visited there, you can see them at:

<http://lisashea.com/newgatemineprison/>

I also link there to the full prisoner listing, a 3D virtual map of the mines, and much, much more. Just be cautious about reading the background material I provide there, since if you read too much you could end up with spoilers about this storyline.

Everything I mention about the Newgate copper mines and prison in my series is as authentic as I can make it. This is the real sequence of events for these mines. They really did have people using that ladder to get in and out of the mines – it was the only way in.

You might think I'm over the top with some of my descriptions of the mines, but newspaper reports about the mines in those times were far, far worse. One newspaper article warned: "free-booting horse jockeys beware, for a gibbit is comparatively a toy to the inexpressible Horrors of that Den of Death!"

Talk about florid writing ...

The Simsbury Mill at Hop Brook still exists, too. Now it's a historic restaurant. I've eaten there – they serve amazing food!

I'm always open to editing and revising my stories. If you find new information about Newgate, I would love to hear it!

# William Johnson Crawford

William Johnson Crawford was a challenging person to research – and I say this as a genealogist who has done a fair amount of research through land records, newspaper articles, and other documents of the 1600s and 1700s colonial America.

The Connecticut State Archives, along with the newspaper articles following this storyline, say little about him. I will give more details in later books, but to avoid spoilers here I will simply say he is at this time age 24, height 5'8", with black eyes and black hair. In the particular records of this time, indicating black eyes always went with the person in question being Native American, Black, or some combination thereof.

William was said to originally have been from New Hampshire. He would have been born around 1749.

That is pretty much all we knew about him.

I did research on both Crawford lines in New Hampshire at the time. Yes, there were only two. One was extremely well documented because they were down in the Haverhill Massachusetts / Hampstead New Hampshire area. This land was contested by both Massachusetts and New Hampshire and went back and forth. The Crawfords in this area were active in the arguments. There does not seem to be anyone who could be (or could have fathered) William Johnson Crawford in this time period.

The other group of New Hampshire Crawfords is a bit further north and west, in Cheshire. This group is less well documented.

Their arrival in the colonies begins with a Scottish man, William Crawford, who sometime before 1730 comes to Cheshire with his father-in-law, Robert Graham and his young two-year-old son Robert Crawford.

There's all sorts of documentation about this eldest son, Robert. Robert inherits his father's grist mill. Robert has 9-10 children of his own and their genealogy can be traced. Robert was a Captain.

But there's also a tantalizing hint that Robert was not an only child. The mother's side of the family, the Grahams, was also in Cheshire. In 1747, William Graham of Chester passed away. He divided his land up amongst the next generation. Two recipients of land were Robert and William Crawford.

In the "History of Old Chester", compiled by Benjamin Chase in 1869, he reports, relating to the older William Crawford:

"Children:

I. ROBERT.

II. WILLIAM, mentioned in Graham's will in 1747. WILLIAM, Jr., had a road laid out from his lot No. 129, 2d P., 2d D., near Clark's mill, in Auburn, to the main road, in 1749. He probably died, as we hear nothing more about him."

The book goes on to discuss Robert.

So the researchers back in the 1800s, who had more direct access to family Bibles, wills, and first-person accounts, knew well about Robert. They also had this sense that William was a brother and he was at least thinking about building a house and barn.

But then ... what? I'm trying to track down the land records for that lot, to see when and to whom it changed hands. But if this William Crawford Junior was alive building a house in 1749, and given the age of his father and brother, he himself would have been of age to have a child. We know that William Johnson Crawford would have been born in New Hampshire around 1749 to someone probably named Crawford.

It's also unusual for a person in these times to have two names. Maybe the reason he has the name both Johnson and Crawford is that the family line was not straightforward. Something unusual happened.

We know William Crawford Junior didn't just stay around Cheshire with his family. He didn't get documented in with the many records and census that began happening in 1776 as the United States formed. He was simply "gone".

Where did he go? Did he now have a young son with him? Why did they feel the need to leave their family homestead with the grist mill and many nieces and nephews?

Any invention of characters in a documented past is a challenge. I did my best to give William Johnson Crawford a past which fits in with the known documentation I could research. If information comes out in the future which contradicts the path I chose, I apologize for that. This is, in the end, a work of fiction, integrated as best I could with the facts I could find.

Mr. Viets, the miner-turned-tavern-owner, is a real person. He is very well documented, as his life was so entwined with those infamous mines. The tavern still stands and can be visited.

Most other characters in the story, including the O'Donovan family, Mr. Richardson, the Reverend, and the like, are wholly of my own fabrication.

I will hold off on other revelations until we get deeper into the story, to avoid spoilers.

# Windows in Colonial Times

OK, I love windows and their history. I just have to bring this up.

In modern times we sometimes think of window glass as being universal. After all, didn't churches have stained glass in medieval times?

But the art of making sheets of glass wasn't figured out until the late 1600s / early 1700s, and even then it was generally for wealthier families.

Most people simply left the window-holes open until inclement weather struck. Then they would close up the wooden shutters outside and pull closed heavy drapes on the inside, to seal the space as best they could.

Part of what fascinates me about this is that I grew up in New England. I was surrounded by historic saltbox homes. I've lived in a traditional "colonial" style house these past twenty-plus years.

Most houses around here have decorative wooden shutters.

It's just the way houses look. They have shutters. But in nearly every case here, nobody USES their shutters for their stated purpose any more. They're something pretty to put around windows.

These pieces of wood used to have an actual function :). And, heck, given the kind of damage that windstorm and hail can cause, it wouldn't be a bad idea if we did have functioning shutters on all of the houses around here again, to close them up when storms came through.

Instead we just replace the glass and consider it a quick, easy fix.

We don't consider that, a few hundred years ago, people didn't even have glass windows.

# Glossary of Terms

Gibbit / Gibbet – Gallows, used for hanging and killing criminals

Hackle – a wooden square-ish comb with long tines, used for separating out debris from hemp and flax fibers

Hemp – a fiber which the Colonial government required farmers to grow, as it was critical for ship sails, ropes, and other uses.

Quill pen – in the 1700s (and for centuries before) the way people wrote on parchment was generally with the use of a feather molted from a bird. The preferred birds were swans and geese.

# Dedication

To Morgan Bengel, site manager for Newgate Copper Mines and Prison. She personally toured me and Bob through the entire prison complex on a private, personal tour. She was incredibly helpful and knowledgeable about all aspects of the prison's history and use. Thank you, Morgan!!

Susan Bigelow at the Connecticut State Library was also amazingly helpful. She found wonderful records about William Johnson Crawford in the state archives and scanned them for me.

To my father, George Waller, genealogist extraordinaire, who helped me with my research.

To my stepmother, Bunnie Frye, who got me contacts at the Connecticut State Library to do my research.

To my Sutton Writing Group and Boston Writing Group. Both groups support and encourage me in all of my projects. Eva Kaman provided great beta-reading help.

Most of all, to my loyal fans who support me on Goodreads, Facebook, Twitter, and other platforms. It's because of you that I keep writing!

# About the Author

I grew up in various towns in Connecticut – Willimantic, West Hartford, and Glastonbury. My parents lived in Connecticut for long decades after I moved to Massachusetts, so I was back regularly. My sister lived near Simsbury for a while.

I absolutely adore Connecticut. Any time I would drive out of state, down to Florida or out to Missouri or up to Canada, a soothing, enveloping feeling would wrap around me once I got back into those rolling hills. It is simply beautiful here. The gentle streams in a mossy glen. The tumbling ocean against a rocky beach.

My grandmother was a genealogist, and my father became one in turn. I, too, adore the research of genealogy. Many a weekend was spent following the Nipmuc trail, looking for old stone foundations of buildings, doing research in cemeteries, and visiting old churches.

I've always enjoyed researching Native American culture. Studying the past. Visiting buildings from the 1700s. When our family was more central, we would love to meet up at the Publick House in Sturbridge, Massachusetts, an inn which dates back to 1771. I've eaten at the Simsbury mill mentioned in this story. Having this living history around us was a treasured, normal part of life.

I am thrilled to be able to write an entire series set in this absorbing time period. A period when our entire culture was in flux.

If we think life is chaotic now, just imagine what it must have been like for colonists in Massachusetts and Connecticut that 1773-1775 time period. When the entire world was turning upside-down.

I'd love to hear any feedback or comments you have on the story. Feel free to contact me!

# Free Books

I may have added more free books since releasing this list here. For the most up to date version, be sure to visit:

<http://www.lisashea.com/freebooks/>

Thank you for supporting the cause!

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