“I’m a fool,” he muttered.
“Why?”
“I treated you badly. Poked fun at the way you looked.”
“You treated me exactly the way I wanted to be treated, like every other soldier on the Point. You were my friend.”
“We are friends, aren’t we, Bonny?” He released a pent-up breath. “Is it all right if I still call you that?”
“Yes, Agrippa. We are. And Bonny’s just fine with me.”
“That’s good then. I gotta get used to Deborah. To Mrs. Paterson.” He shook his head like the shock still hadn’t worn off.
“I lied to you about who I was, Grippy. I’m sorry. But I never lied about anything else.”
“The general told me most of it.” He shook his head again. “You are some kind of woman, Bonny. Didn’t I always say there was more to you than meets the eye?”
I nodded, and for a moment we fell silent.
“You’ll be going to Lenox now. That’s good.” He didn’t sound convinced. I wasn’t convinced either, but encouragement was not what I sought from Agrippa Hull. I needed promises.
“You’ll take care of General Paterson, won’t you? You’ll keep his spirits up and make sure he eats and sleeps and comes back from those long walks he takes?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I will.”
“And you’ll protect him, and his reputation, from those who might have heard about me?” I added in a rush. “I’m no Benedict Arnold, but I won’t have the general tarnished by my name. Any of them. I clean up my own messes.”
His eyes softened, and he began to smile. “Your secret is safe with me, Bonny. Remember what I told you? You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re one of us now, and I protect my own.”
28
CONCLUDE PEACE
June 12, 1783
Dear Elizabeth,
The house in Lenox is just as you described it, even down to the flowers on the rugs and the colors on the walls. When I touched the railing, I remembered how you liked the way it felt beneath your hand as you ascended the stairs.
The outside is John, stately and solid with classic appeal, but the inside is a place created by and for women. John’s presence is nowhere to be found in the furnishings and the decor, but his absence—eight years of absence, marked only by brief furloughs—is deeply felt.
You are here in this house. You are present in your daughters’ faces. They are not little girls anymore. Ruthie is nine years old. Polly eleven, and Hannah is almost thirteen. Hannah is tall. When John said she favored you, I thought she would be small. But she is dark and long and lovely and almost as tall as me.
Ruthie does look like John, just as he said, though she is loud where he is reserved and demanding where he is dutiful. She is the life of the household and wants all of my attention. Perhaps she, like Jeremiah, needs it the most. I think Polly must be the most like you in looks and demeanor. She is determined to do everything well, but struggles with poor health. She is all the more resolved because of it, and I have begun to teach her to weave.
Poor John will come home to daughters who have grown up without him.
I miss him desperately, but I am beginning to think this best, this time I have to adjust to your home and your walls and your footsteps still lingering on the floors and in your daughters’ hearts. It makes me cross to think the general was right that I come here, to Lenox. He is infuriating that way, isn’t he? Always making good choices, always knowing what is best. One might say his decision to fall in love with me was the one exception.
We have returned to our preexistence, John and I, to the days of our letter writing and letter reading. He is new and old and mine and yours when he is on the page, but I have loved every iteration of John Paterson.
I can see John in his mother and his sisters, Mary, Anne, and Sarah. They have the same pale eyes and generous brows, the bow-shaped lips and red-brown locks, though Mrs. Paterson’s hair is snowy white. They are handsome people, well-made and well-mannered, and they welcomed me with open arms. In that way too, they are just like him.
Anne and Reverend Holmes brought me all the way from Society Hill in Philadelphia to Paterson House in Lenox, Massachusetts. It took us two weeks of travel in a ridiculous carriage, and had I not still been weak and trussed up in uncomfortable gowns, I would have begged to walk or ride Common Sense, who made the journey with me.
The general was responsible for many arrangements, privately and publicly. Morris, Maggie, and Amos Clay reached Lenox even before I did, a letter in hand from John Paterson declaring them freemen, along with a small contingent of returning local soldiers entrusted with escorting them safely there.