Victory at Yorktown: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich Page B

hours out of the saddle before pressing on. Therefore he did not feel any sense of guilt or dereliction of duty as he turned off of Market Street and rather than immediately barter an exchange with the military postal remount officer, who typical of their kind eyed the mount they were expected to replace sharply, and usually traded in kind, he rode on a few blocks up toward what some now called the Independence Hall, then turned onto a side street.
    The last half block he suddenly felt a tightening in his gut. There was part of him that chuckled inwardly with his reaction, going into battle seemed to hold less fear but he pressed on, dismounted, took a deep breath, went up to the door, and knocked. There was no immediate answer. He knocked again and saw a closed curtain in the parlor flutter, the sound of footsteps, and the door opened a crack.
    “Merciful God, Peter Wellsley?”
    He forced a nervous smile.
    “Good morning, Miss Elizabeth.”
    She opened the door wide but stood blocking the way.
    “Peter, pardon my rudeness for being so direct, but after two years, what in hell are you doing here?”
    Elizabeth, so typical of her, and he actually chuckled.
    “Well, for a weary soldier, perhaps beg for a cup of tea and toast?”
    She smiled, gestured him in, closed the door and then to his amazed delight actually threw her arms around his shoulders and hugged him tight.
    “By God, it is good to see an old friend,” she sighed.
    He nervously returned the hug, not wishing to soil her white linen morning dress with a muddy embrace, and then she slipped back from his arms.
    “My Lord, you stink like a dead goat, Peter Wellsley. Not to be too personal but when was the last time you bathed or had a change of clothes?”
    The question shocked him, but after five years of war, so many of the old and proper customs of conversation between the sexes had, indeed, slipped by the wayside. Change of clothes? The hunting frock and breeches had been issued to him before he set out. His now tattered ragged uniform from Washington’s headquarters would only draw unwarranted notice. But he had no idea when the previous owner, a man who died in the hospital after Guilford, had cleaned them. As to bathed? When? Fording that river in January might count.
    “Never mind, Peter, and yes, I think I can find some toast and tea for you,” and she gestured for him to follow her out into the kitchen. As he passed the parlor, once all so ornate, he was shocked. The rich carpet, imported all the way from the land of the Ottomans, was gone, while in the dining room to the other side, the heavy mahogany table, always properly set for the next lavish entertainment, was missing as well. As a boy he had remembered visiting here, the country bumpkin from Trenton visiting with his parents the home of a wealthy distant cousin who had made good in trade, even though some of that trade was in slaves.
    She looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes and blonde hair, the way she looked back at him, striking a near-visceral blow. She said nothing, gesturing for him to take a seat in a high-backed chair near the kitchen fire.
    Its warmth was luxurious after the cold rain of the day before and a sigh escaped him as he settled down. He could not help but lean forward, extending his chilled hands to the fire and rubbing them.
    She stood on the far side of the fireplace, now suddenly a bit distant it seemed, hands on hips, gazing at him.
    “All right, Peter. The truth. Why are you here?”
    “Carrying dispatches.”
    “From?”
    He hesitated. Regardless of his adoration at such a distance she had, indeed, been friends with the damned Peggy Shippen and was the center of Allen’s attention now as well.
    “Might I ask first what happened here?” and he nodded back toward the empty dining room.
    She did not reply for a moment. First going through the formality of pouring some tea, no fancy china, instead an earthenware mug filled nearly to the brim, but taking a