smiling at her again. “Perhaps before one of these dinners, I can invite my wife.”
Surprised, Lydia glanced over at him. “Where is your wife?”
“With the other camp followers, back at Newport News.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. There was so much she didn’t know about what was happening in this war. “How many women are following your army?”
He shrugged. “A number of them, like my Gwen, came over from England, and then there are the women who do laundry, mending, and cooking, and . . . ah, other things.”
He dug a handful of dried fruit and nuts from the silver epergne before him and chewed them as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
She turned to look across the table and found Major Reed’s gaze resting on her. “Miss Caswell is not interested in the particulars of our camp.”
“On the contrary.” She set down her fork. “I am interested in the plight of all women.”
His eyebrows arched. “I do not believe our women are in any sort of plight.”
“But the rebel women—” her neighbor said.
Several of the men laughed. “Our enemy has their women fighting for them.”
Hannah gasped. “Fighting for them?”
“I heard one of the women was even loading the cannons for them.”
Lydia stiffened at the laughter around the table. If women believed in the rebel cause, what was wrong with helping?
“Perhaps she was using the heat to bake a cake,” one of the officers said.
“It probably backfired.”
Lydia watched her mother’s lips press into a straight line. If the men didn’t change the topic soon, it wouldn’t matter who they served. They would be spending the night outside.
“Gentleman,” Father silenced them. “You are in the company of ladies now.”
The laughter quieted, and Major Reed spoke. “I would like to apologize on behalf of my men. We have only the greatest respect for our women. We would never let them fight.”
Lydia glanced across the table at him. “Why not?”
“It is our job to protect the ladies among us, not put them into battle.”
“An admirable outlook,” Hannah said.
“The war is almost won,” the major said. “And when it is, my married men will celebrate the victory with their wives.”
Mother set down her fork. “Viney has prepared trifle with goose-berry jelly and fresh cream for dessert.”
The men nodded their approval, and Lydia smiled at her mother’s artful ability to steer a conversation in any direction she saw fit. The British could only wish women like her mother would fight for them.
Father scooted back his chair. “Shall we withdraw for sherry first?”
Lydia stood as well, for some fresh air on the back portico as the men drank their sherry. One of the officers trailed her out through the great hall.
“Your manservant never returned with our blanket,” the man named Captain Moore said.
Father waited by the entrance to the drawing room. “Which man-servant are you referring to?”
“The white man with a limp.”
Father looked back at her. “Has Joshua injured himself?”
“Not to my knowledge.” She forced a most genteel smile.
“But you said—” Captain Moore started.
She gave him a curt nod. “I shall make sure one of our men brings you a new blanket.”
Captain Moore looked as if he was going to say something else, but Lydia excused herself before he spoke. Leaning over the portico, she rubbed her hands over her thin sleeves as she looked out at the dark river and prayed that Nathan was safe, wherever he was.
Chapter Twelve
The Hammonds’ plantation house glowed like a beacon above the river, its warm light beckoning Nathan forward. He crept slowly through a grove of trees beside a field, scanning both sides to make sure no one saw him before he shuffled beside the wide trunk of an oak tree.
A chorus of song drifted across the field, emerging from a row of wooden shanties. He couldn’t see any people in the sliver of moonlight, but their song was a welcome companion to him on this dark night. His
Surprised, Lydia glanced over at him. “Where is your wife?”
“With the other camp followers, back at Newport News.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. There was so much she didn’t know about what was happening in this war. “How many women are following your army?”
He shrugged. “A number of them, like my Gwen, came over from England, and then there are the women who do laundry, mending, and cooking, and . . . ah, other things.”
He dug a handful of dried fruit and nuts from the silver epergne before him and chewed them as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
She turned to look across the table and found Major Reed’s gaze resting on her. “Miss Caswell is not interested in the particulars of our camp.”
“On the contrary.” She set down her fork. “I am interested in the plight of all women.”
His eyebrows arched. “I do not believe our women are in any sort of plight.”
“But the rebel women—” her neighbor said.
Several of the men laughed. “Our enemy has their women fighting for them.”
Hannah gasped. “Fighting for them?”
“I heard one of the women was even loading the cannons for them.”
Lydia stiffened at the laughter around the table. If women believed in the rebel cause, what was wrong with helping?
“Perhaps she was using the heat to bake a cake,” one of the officers said.
“It probably backfired.”
Lydia watched her mother’s lips press into a straight line. If the men didn’t change the topic soon, it wouldn’t matter who they served. They would be spending the night outside.
“Gentleman,” Father silenced them. “You are in the company of ladies now.”
The laughter quieted, and Major Reed spoke. “I would like to apologize on behalf of my men. We have only the greatest respect for our women. We would never let them fight.”
Lydia glanced across the table at him. “Why not?”
“It is our job to protect the ladies among us, not put them into battle.”
“An admirable outlook,” Hannah said.
“The war is almost won,” the major said. “And when it is, my married men will celebrate the victory with their wives.”
Mother set down her fork. “Viney has prepared trifle with goose-berry jelly and fresh cream for dessert.”
The men nodded their approval, and Lydia smiled at her mother’s artful ability to steer a conversation in any direction she saw fit. The British could only wish women like her mother would fight for them.
Father scooted back his chair. “Shall we withdraw for sherry first?”
Lydia stood as well, for some fresh air on the back portico as the men drank their sherry. One of the officers trailed her out through the great hall.
“Your manservant never returned with our blanket,” the man named Captain Moore said.
Father waited by the entrance to the drawing room. “Which man-servant are you referring to?”
“The white man with a limp.”
Father looked back at her. “Has Joshua injured himself?”
“Not to my knowledge.” She forced a most genteel smile.
“But you said—” Captain Moore started.
She gave him a curt nod. “I shall make sure one of our men brings you a new blanket.”
Captain Moore looked as if he was going to say something else, but Lydia excused herself before he spoke. Leaning over the portico, she rubbed her hands over her thin sleeves as she looked out at the dark river and prayed that Nathan was safe, wherever he was.
Chapter Twelve
The Hammonds’ plantation house glowed like a beacon above the river, its warm light beckoning Nathan forward. He crept slowly through a grove of trees beside a field, scanning both sides to make sure no one saw him before he shuffled beside the wide trunk of an oak tree.
A chorus of song drifted across the field, emerging from a row of wooden shanties. He couldn’t see any people in the sliver of moonlight, but their song was a welcome companion to him on this dark night. His
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