It is Sunday.

Sunday, and as a family we have lost count how many Sundays it has been since Reverend Tallmadge's church was taken from him and his parishoners, the pulpit removed, and made into what we are told is a barracks for the officers here in Setauket, but which we know better is a stable for Major Hewlett's prized horses.

But of course the Outerbridge family would no longer consider attending any service led by a Tallmadge. It would not be safe. It would, in all likelihood, be illegal. We are meant to forget the pride Mama had in that church, in the notion that some day Bess would be wed to some deserving young man inside a church and not just in our parlor - or backyard.

It had been a symbol to us all that Setauket was growing into a fine place, a proper sort of place with nice things. And now it is of course full of horse shite.

And Bess - should she find some man to marry - is no more imagined trothing inside that structure, her nuptials being blessed. And the name of Tallmadge is not heard here within this house.

It is Sunday, and Papa is ill. What nature his illness, I cannot say. He labors often indisposed anymore it seems.

It is his business, of course, this source of indisposition. We have no farm to support ourselves: but a large garden (for it being inside the village proper). There is the house, and then Papa's office. If he were to offend or run afoul of the wrong person, his business would be compromised, and even the shunning of a few, the loss of several clients, and we would be ruined. We are not self-supported. We depend greatly upon the opinion and goodwill of others, in keeping ourselves attractive to those of Setauket wishing to transact business. The loss of those good opinions, of important recommendations, and we shall come to naught.

As for Papa's infirmity, such is the outcome, one must intuit, from working so very hard to show the British how much you wish to please them, and frown upon their enemies. There is, after all, no respite from them. No way to wish them absent - neither from town, nor parlor.

Lieutenants Davis and Williams - for we are presently given two to quarter here, as our house is a larger one in the village - seem everywhere among us. If not them, then their clothing, their few possessions. They have either just left a room or are shortly to return to it. The scent of soldier about our home ebbs and flows but never wholly abates.

I cannot seem, even, to practice at the spinet without one of them showing up wishing to share a duet: Davis (also on the spinet), Williams on his flute.

It is Sunday, and they have gone. Where, I do not know, nor for how long.

It is Sunday, and Papa is ill and the Lieutenants are gone and Bess feels she had best sit with Mama and Papa.

It is Sunday, and I am for church.

It is our Sally B. who first told me Reverend Tallmadge still made an attempt to gather parishoners for services.

Not at his home - that would be too bold, too easily sniffed out. But at the homes of various others, on random Sundays. And not always within the homes of suspected Patriots.

For the Reverend was always well-liked and respected by the people here, whether they shared his convictions: religious or political.

Sally B. knew where he was to speak this Sunday. She had not meant to tell me, but her tongue slipped and I had it out of her.

Outerbridges were not invited, naturally. It seems likely Tallmadges speak of us as infrequently as we do of them. Even so, I meant to attend.

I was careful to leave the house in time for the usual service we attended. And I was doubly careful to dress as modestly and indifferently as possible (some I never wish to do): I wore nothing new or striking, I had Sally B. dress my hair as uninterestingly as possible. I must not appear memorable in any way. I did not need anyone recalling my being out, nor where I might be headed.

I did not expect to be, but I found myself frightened as I stood for a moment before knocking upon the door of the Waite's house. I had not time yet to lift the knocker when the door opened, for I had been seen.

I was let in, and paid my respects just as an invited guest might to Mr. and Mrs. Waite and their daughter, Constance. None of the guests (and there were more than several) remarked upon my lack of invitation - nor my unchaperoned appearance. Several appeared to kindly inquired about my father's health.

Reverend Tallmadge was there. I saw him from across the room. I suppose I have always been used to seeing him across long distances, as from pew to pulpit. I did not approach him, but waited.

I wanted to hear him speak. Wanted to listen to his voice, as I had as a child. For him to form words of comfort about our present position - the tone and timbre of his speech had always made me feel quite safe, as though things were right in the world when he spoke of them.

I wanted to know everything he had to say. (Certainly I would not be able to repeat this absconding act another Sunday.) What God had to say about what was going on in Setauket - and in these colonies as a whole. What the Reverend thought it was our duty to act upon. What he might know about - what he may have heard about -

I had not moved toward him, but he was abruptly (I must have looked away) in proximity to me and several others close to the front door. He was only milling among the small crowd, greeting guests. As he did so, I caught Mistress Waite out of the corner of my eye consulting with a house slave and I realized the Waites meant to serve their guests before the Reverend would be asked to speak, and I realized I had not the time to wait. Through a meal, through the men smoking after. Not time to wait a moment longer.

I took two steps until I was very near, very near the Reverend. I could have placed my hand within the pocket of his coat, so close was I. He took note of me, then, and his gaze came down (for he, like his son, is a tallish man), and he spoke some bland pleasantry to me.

"Reverend," I had planned to say, and certainly I stammered out some greeting, but none that even mine own ears could translate. My mouth grew instantly dry under his attention to my speech. "I greet you this Sunday. We have not had occasion to meet in - " and as I managed to push this out of my mouth, I saw his face pinch. Not in the way of a man that was angry with me as an Outerbridge, the daughter of (frightened-into-being) Loyalists, but as a man who...who was having difficulty placing who I was.

He did not recognize me.

Perhaps I had grown since last we were in close company together, perhaps I am so changed from the girl who used to attend his church, who hung shyly back as a child when her father shook hands with the Reverend on a Sunday following services. Perhaps his son had never thrown off his customary discretion and commented upon a favorite frock of his I wore, the fact I was also to attend a particular gathering in the village. Perhaps.

In the Reverend's reaction, I knew two things in that moment: that he would never share with me any news he may have received from behind Continental lines, and that I had made a serious miscalculation in coming to the Waites.

I stammered a moment more (which I did not have to pretend at), and then feigned needing a drink to regain my voice. He turned, most attentively, to acquire one for me, and I left the house without taking my leave or turning back around to see if and when he returned. I opened the front door myself and after two steps off their porch made for the rear of their yard and ran.

Ran through overgrowth on the back edge of their neighbors' property, stumbled several times, but never badly enough to stop my progress. Tall weeds and grasses tried to grab at me, and tangled into what they could of my hair and kerchief. I paid them no notice.

I arrived home and used our back door, slinking upstairs to my bedroom and hoping (once again) to avoid notice.

I had gone (foolishly, I knew it was foolish) wanting to hear Reverend Tallmadge speak as he would feel moved to do so. Hoping (foolishly, again) that he might have received some news of his son, and that he might (how ridiculous of me to think it) share it with me were we to share a conversation.

But I have instead left his company with an understanding that chills winter into my veins. Understanding that a man I knew once - a young man - might be now so changed, so altered by the passage of time and the aging of experience, of war, that he and I - should we again meet - would be little more than strangers. For while I, in my solitude, in my constancy, have cherished our moments, recalled and catalogued them here, Ben Tallmadge may well have forgotten them, and me, altogether. May have outgrown Setauket, outgrown his youth, outgrown any thought he may have ever had for me.

And in any future meeting, we may prove unrecognizable to one another.

It is Sunday, and I have never been so vexed to realize that I have placed my heart where it can have neither satisfaction nor peace.

Were I wise, I should burn these pages that outline my folly, keep myself from further indulging in it.

And yet, it is these very pages that prove my foolishness, and show the content of my misguided character, and so I know I shall not do so.