Betsy had John’s red hair and my fierce gaze, but she had no interest in books or school. She was a talented weaver and Mrs. Paterson had dedicated an entire room in her house to a loom, though we had one at Paterson House as well.
“That loom is yours, Mother,” Betsy always argued. “The one at Grandmother’s never gets used by anyone but me. And I am making you something. A surprise.”
“You have blistered your hands.” John took the axe from me and embedded it in the stump.
“They are too soft.” I turned and stomped into the barn. He followed me. I grabbed the pitchfork and began turning the straw. It didn’t need to be turned; I’d just freshened it that morning.
“Where did you find those breeches? Those are not mine. They fit you too well.”
“I made them. Are you scandalized?”
“No. But you don’t look like a boy in breeches any longer, Samson.”
“That is because you know better.”
His eyes narrowed and my pulse quickened. It was always thus between us. Even after two children and almost two decades. The hunger and the wanting had never faded, much to my surprise.
“You are not shaped like a man.”
“Then I shall have to fashion a paunch to wear under my shirt to give my waist a little girth,” I said, though the general’s waist was as flat and hard as the barn walls.
“Your waist will thicken soon enough if we continue like we have. My mother had me when she was your age.”
He was teasing me, but I stilled. I could not continue like we had. I could not. I had been pregnant five times and miscarried thrice, very early on. I had been determined to be as good at having children as I was at everything else, but it had turned out that I had no control or say in the matter, and I had not gotten pregnant in many years. But if John Paterson put another baby in my belly now, I would never be able to go. The thought brought me up short. I raised the pitchfork at my husband.
“Stay away from me, John Paterson. I am in no mood for coupling.”
“Then you should not have donned those breeches.”
He shoved the door closed, lowered the latch, and tossed the pitchfork aside. The tumble that ensued, hands grappling to find flesh, mouths seeking, proved me a liar. I was in the mood for coupling. I was always in the mood for coupling, and unlike our earliest encounter, my breasts were unbound beneath my shirt and waistcoat. John stared at them as if he hadn’t seen them a thousand times—ten thousand times—before.
“You are so beautiful. They are so beautiful. They should never be bound.”
“Never again. I will ride naked through the town,” I challenged, sardonic even as I surrendered.
He groaned, grappling with my breeches and his own, and our heated conversation became a frantic conjoining that left us panting and loose-limbed in the straw.
“What has gotten into you, my wife?” he murmured, pulling me across his chest and tangling his hands in my long braid. I knew he did not speak of the tussle that had just occurred. That was not new. But my breeches were.
I pulled away and wiggled back into my clothes. “I want to make myself another uniform.”
“Why? None of us have need of our uniforms any longer.”
“I have need of mine,” I said, and sudden, fierce emotion welled in my chest. “But my old breeches are too tight in the hips and no matter how firmly I bind my breasts, I can still tell I am a woman beneath my shirt. I can’t even button the coat. You have made me fat, General Paterson.”
“Fat?” He laughed. “Not hardly. You simply aren’t bones and bandages anymore.”
“I cannot run, or even walk for long distances. And I’m not as strong. I could barely pull myself up to the beam when I tried. I have always been able to pull myself up to the beam.”
“What are you talking about?”
I climbed the ladder to the loft, but instead of climbing up, I swung out, clinging to the lower beam, just like I’d done in the Thomas barn with the brothers. John watched me from the straw where he still lounged, his head propped on his hand, his clothes rumpled and his expression sated.
I bellowed and strained, and managed to perform the maneuver once before I had to link my left leg around the ladder and swing back to safety.
“You’re a monkey.”
“I used to do ten of those without a thought.”
“Come down from there.”
“I am disappointed in myself,” I said, still clinging to the ladder. I could not look at him. I was too close to tears.