Something stopped for a moment, I felt, in my bosom, and then proceeded to return-this beat of my heart-far stronger than it had been before.

I clutched the packet still in my hand, though with enough foresight not to crease it. I knew the handwriting upon it. Or, rather, I reminded myself I felt I knew it. Time changes memory, particularly when memory is not strong and vivid to begin with. I own nothing else in this hand, possess no other sampling of it. Why should it so call to me of familiarity?

And now, even in my distraction, activity out our upper-storey window caught my attention. Below, Abraham Woodhull had made a stop at Strong Tavern, his cart filled with hogs, facing the opposite direction of Whitehall.

It appeared he was setting out today for York City, where Papa has mentioned Judge Woodhull has contracted to sell off his hogs to the British Army.

Yet another person leaving Setauket for the world beyond us. For adventure and fate-chasing, and-and- But of course Abraham will be coming back. To his wife Mary, his son Thomas, his farmhouse.

He has strong ties, here. His place is here and he accepts that, takes comfort, perhaps, in that. He will travel to York City, but he is destined to return. No one will occupy his bed in his absence. Those who might miss him will be comforted by his homecoming; to village, to farm, to family and home.

The room in which I stood was by afternoon next to be assigned to a new officer. Recalling this I walked to latch the door, hoping to make the most of the last few minutes of privacy the space might afford me.

I broke the sealing wax, wondering at Bess' temperament. She had been cross enough with me to abscond with this item, and yet not hot enough to spy upon its contents? Sisters can be confounding girls. I squeezed my eyes shut as I broke its seal, as if a terrible goblin might pop out from between the sheets of paper.

The outer parchment had been used solely for packaging, an extravagance I had not witnessed since the earliest days of the King's Men arriving here in force.

Inside was not merely a note, but a letter.

The salutation was addressed to me, albeit quite plain and formally as, 'Miss Outerbridge'.

Because I mean to keep careful watch over the letter, I will not place it within this diary, but transcribe its contents here, in full:
"Miss Outerbridge,

I bid you good day, and entreat your utmost patience in reading to the end what I have set to paper, here.

I have tasked our Bartimaeus with delivery of this to your home once I am gone from Setauket, and most likely departed from Long Island and its environs. I have given also into his keeping a letter for my father, and Samuel. Bartimaeus is as trustworthy a man as I have ever known, and so I harbor no doubt that it will find its way safely into your hands.

I would not have made so secret my leaving had I not been well-aware of my father's hopes to keep Samuel, at his younger age, well out of harm's way. I know he greatly fears that my going to join with the cause for Liberty will inspire Samuel to do the same. And so secrecy seemed the best course.

My classmates as have gone to join up have had the luxury of their families hosting receptions and teas in their honor. Setauket, swung toward the Loyalists as it presently is, offers no such safety in opportunities for formal leave-taking.

However, as I made my final, private plans to bid Setauket farewell for the present time, I found I could not leave happily without writing to you (as there has been no time in the interim to share my thoughts with you in person) of your performance of Mr. Boccherini's Minuets last Thursday even in the home of the Smiths.

It was as fine a rendition of them as I have ever heard, and you triumphed over the poor quality of light their tapers gave out, seeming to know the sheet music well-to-heart. I can scarce recall a livelier, more jolly and bright interpretation of them.

Please know that I shall hold that night in my memory as the last, truest and most homelike of all recent social gatherings in our village.

As such, I must ask that you accept my apology that I am unable to render these addresses in propria persona.

It has long been my intent, rather I have long known, that the day of my departure was coming. Perhaps even before I left for New Haven and pursued my formal education. And yet I waited, even as my friends joined up. Waited, wanting assurance that my own ideals had not been swayed-nor immaturely formed-only by charismatic men capable of eloquent speech and persuasive writings.

I am certain now, and certain that the time has come. I shall take my wages from my work here on Long Island and travel to purchase my own commission. I do this knowing, sadly, that the actions my conscience requires of me may place those for whom I care-even those with whom I've merely socialized-in precarious positions with their neighbors and the King's government in my absence.

But I hope my leaving will not be seen as a failure in loyalty-to this country at large, nor to the village.

For years I have been in the employ of Long Islanders. And as I have, in the position of school master, tried to advance and defend the people of these parts, so I shall endeavor to continue to do in the Continental Army, to work toward the betterment and liberty of all.

Now, having made you aware of the admiration in which I held-and shall continue to hold-your recent playing at the Smiths, I must close, and settle my final arrangements.

I remain, yours sincerely,
Benjamin Tallmadge"

I had barely completed reading before Bess threw the latch off the door and re-entered, drawn again to the window, but (one assumes) seeing Abraham Woodhull no longer there, lost interest in the view, and turned toward me.

"I remember!" she said, pleased with herself. "It was the Tallmadge's man! Standing there at the door as dour and ancient as could be. What did you miss out on? A walk with Samuel? Cards of an evening?" she asked. "Oh, I hope it was something delicious. If not, my revenge will have been hollow." She chattered on as though we were still at playing a child's game.

And yet nothing within me felt of a child, save a flash of desire to find the good shears and snip at least one of her sidecurls before she snatched them away from me.

I left her company immediately and sought out Sally B.'s room (soon, also, to be mine), small and low-ceilinged, but empty, as Sally B. and Cook were still at Bess' disposal.

I report here that I have been crying, though I cannot make out if my tears are for the girl I am today, or the girl I was when you left here without a word to anyone; gone with no fanfare, no farewell to give or accept.

That girl I was has been hurt, and confused for such a long time. But perhaps Fate's hand in the matter was sure. Had Bess not hidden away your letter, Ben Tallmadge, what would there have been to stop me, like Samuel, from running after you?

Becoming yet another in the list of villagers vacating Setauket, going out to meet with the world.