We have been assigned a Corporal Eastin to take his place in Bess' former bedchamber.

He comes with several references. Absurd; as though we had the wherewithal to refuse him. He came also with a paper announcing that he is regularly assigned to guard Whitehall, and frequently at night, and so during daylight hours the noise about his bedchamber is to be modulated accordingly.

Mama and I learned this but-shortly after bidding Bess, Papa and Cleopas farewell. The morning was chill. Even the horses liked it little enough. We parted by lantern, as the Spring has not yet welcomed the sun any sooner of a morning.

I hugged Bess, and hoped to present a brave face, so she need not remember me always as blurry and wrinkled with weeping. She had been jolly enough all morning. It was to be the first step of her new life, the excitement of York City, the adventure of travel upon the Coast Road between here and there.

Papa is to spend a fortnight with her at the Fisk's.

They are two brothers sharing one residence; the elder a bachelor of such an age no one expects he shall ever wed, who is teased about his old maid-ish ways. The younger Fisk, barely older than Papa, a married man with children (mostly grown and married as well). His youngest child with his third wife (God rest the souls of his prior brides) it is said happily runs rough-shod over their home, to his parents' delight. Mrs. Fisk is but some five years older than Bess, and with her stepsons and stepdaughers married and about in York City society, Bess' connections will in the instant of her arrival into their home be exponentially enlarged.

The Fisks no doubt continued to loom large in Bess' imagination even as she said goodbye to Mama and Setauket and I. Before she told me farewell, she hugged me close, and I hugged her back.

"Forgive me, Jenny," she said, so that only I could hear her. "And do not think badly of me when I am gone. I should not have stolen your letter."

It startled me to hear her call back to that item. She had seemed so distracted by other things I did not expect her to ever mention it, much less think of it, again. She pulled away from me, and must have seen my face (whose expression I cannot reliably report upon here).

"Goose," she asked (though perhaps she had not intended to pry further), and her brow furrowed deep. "What was it to? Who was it from?"

Rumors (or truths) had been snaking their way about town these last months that Samuel Tallmadge is captured and imprisoned on the prison ship Jersey. Bess already knew Bartimaeus, the Tallmadge's man had delivered the letter (if she cared but to again recall it). It would have taken nothing to tell her it was from Samuel, and she would have felt the ache of her conscience, then. Could have gone toward York City chewing over whether she had robbed me of some meeting or tryst with him.

But something in me decided to tell truth in that moment. "Ben," I said, aloud, "Benjamin Tallmadge." To me it felt like words not meant for such a cold morning and a chilly reception. To me it felt clandestine, confessional.

And instead of the reaction I had expected of her (that she would be appeased, but hardly see anything more in that answer)-a quite different reaction, more intense, more concerned, quite possibly, than had I listed the presently in-peril Samuel as its author.

"God forgive me," she said, "for being so petty. Jenny," she grabbed me back hard into her arms, "you're my best friend." And I felt the warmth of her face, and the wet of her tears.

But I didn't want her embrace to last a moment longer. I had been lying awake all night, unable to think straight between her leaving and Benjamin's letter arriving, finally, in my hands.

I wished to reply to him. To get word to him. To find a way to respond (no matter the distance of time) to what he had left behind for me. And yet I could not find my way around the danger of entrusting Bess on her journey with a letter addressed to a Captain in the Continental Dragoons. Not to mention the difficulty she might find in attempting to send it on its way, nor the fact that I should have to confess a certain number of things my heart has kept from her.

And yet, here I had. And she had understood. Understood well enough to be truly shamed for what she had done. And I realized all I had to do was pen a letter without salutation or specifics to Ben. Give it to Bess to address at such a time as she felt it was safe, and had located a reliable, discreet courier.

That this had only come to me now was outrageous. I could not get free of her arms. And the moment I did she would say farewell to mother, and the horses would be told to walk on and there would be no time, no time at all to cut a pen, to write that letter, to beg her to find a way to deliver it as penance for her actions against me, against my happiness.

I embraced her back. "Write me," I asked. It was all I could think of to say.

Mama and she took their turn, then.

As we walked back into the house, our wagon all but out of sight, the sky coloring up for the sunrise, Mama walked more quickly toward the door, and stepped to the side. In surprise I watched as she retched to the left of the stone step.

Her sickness passed in a few moments. She tells me she is, by her count, three months' gone, but she will wait to tell Papa when he returns in a fortnight.

It is after our noon meal. Mama and I ate, as we must, with the officers (now three). Corporal Eastin, it would seem, is not so keen on sleeping as he would miss a plateful of Cook's luncheon.

The officers have informed us that Abraham Woodhull, just recently departed for York City (not two days ago) was set upon whilst on the Coast Road, after Northport, robbed and beaten and left to die by some sort of scavenging Continental (so they are saying).

At this news, Mama's face turned ashen and she excused herself from the table.

I did not follow, but allowed for her dignity.

Lieutenant Williams expressed concern over her departure, which was gentlemanly, if unnecessary. He informed Corporal Eastin that those presently absent from our family had set out on the same road for York City just this morning. I saw Eastin incline his head as though this was sad news, but cannot shake the impression that something about such a bleak prospect appealed to him in some way, the way of those cruel individuals who rejoice in the news of another's suffering.

I am of half a mind to order Sally B. to remove the bulk of the feathers in his mattress one day when he is away on duty. But Mama would not permit such behavior, I know.

Mama and I may not agree on much, but neither of us will truly rest, I think, until we hear Papa and Bess have safely arrived in the arms of the Fisks.

And when that news might come, none can say.