Sophia's War (10 page)

THAT EVENING A
frost came, along with damp cold that promised snow. Father, weary with pain, gave up waiting for the lieutenant and went to sleep. Mother and I stayed by the fire. We had been talking about William. Mother, having convinced herself that John André was going to provide assistance, was much more at ease. I was not about to share my forebodings.

There was a lull in our conversation, after which Mother suddenly said, “Sophia, there is something I need to say to you about Lieutenant André.”

“What about him?”

Mother made me wait while she appeared to shape her words. “You are twelve years old, a child, I would say,” she began. “But a young woman, nonetheless.” She paused, and in the interval I could feel myself growing warm—not from the fire, but with discomfort. “It is wonderful that the lieutenant will help us,” she said. “But, Sophia, you are showing a reckless infatuation with him.”

“A what?”

“A misplaced affection. I must say it's neither proper
nor intelligent. Consider your age. Our situation. His position.”

Even as I bowed my head, I knew my cheeks were crimson.

She patted my hand gently. “Though we will be extra grateful to him when he helps William, there will be a better time, place, and other persons upon which you can bestow your affections.”

“I assure you,” I spoke the lie. “I have none for him.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.” She took my hand and held it, as if to remind me that I was still a child. “But be careful,” she whispered. “Young women are severely judged.”

We sat there in quietude, during which time I thought of her words. Even as I knew she was right, I resented the notion that she treated my emotions as childish. I sought some gratification in that she used the words “young woman” to describe me.

In the midst of the stillness, there was a sharp rap upon the outside door. Next moment John André, along with his servant, entered the house.

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“LADIES,” CALLED THE
lieutenant cheerfully as he and his servant stamped their boots and rubbed hands together, “I wish you a good evening. It's pleasing to have a fire.” Snow was on his shoulders.

Both Mother and I had risen when they came in, and she dutifully replied to the lieutenant's greeting. Full of unease, I kept my eyes upon the ground but could not avoid peeking up at him. He was gazing only at Mother.
Is he keeping himself from looking at me?

He must have sensed our mood, for he said, “Is something amiss?”

“Mr. Calderwood would like to speak to you in the morning.”

“I shall wait upon him. But, ladies, I have some wretched news. Wretched for me, at least.”

I looked up, startled.

“I've been transferred to Staten Island. That's where most of the green-coated Hessian troops are. With my knowledge of German, I'm needed there. In short, I must be leaving your house.”

My release of tension upon hearing this news was
followed by pain and regret. Was the removal
his
choice? Was it because he had learned about William? In an instant, I told myself he had real affection for me, and that this was his way of removing himself from our painful situation. That he was being considerate. Next moment I was sure he was merely removing himself from any connection with rebels. Forcing myself to look at him, I smiled warmly the way all women are taught to do.

When John André glanced in my direction, I tried to read his eyes. He turned away, so I chose to think that had been his way of assuring me we had a secret and it was safe. It was so like the books I'd read: true affection always has obstacles to overcome.

Mother made a short speech about how sorry she was to hear his news.

André thanked her and said he was required to say that no doubt another officer would come and take his place. The housing shortage remained acute.

“Will you be leaving soon?” Mother asked.

“Very soon. I won't go without speaking to Mr. Calderwood. And I give you my pledge, if there is anything I can do for you, you need only ask.”

As he spoke these precise words, André glanced at me, which I chose to interpret as an offer to help William.

He made a chivalrous bow and bade us a good night. Just as he went up the steps, he paused to look to me again.
Significantly
, I thought.

Which is why, though in fact he
said
nothing, I had
bravado enough to call, “Lieutenant, is there anything that has made you regret your staying here?”

That wonderful smile. “I assure you, Miss Calderwood, nothing. Quite the contrary.” That said, he bowed toward me, and then he and his servant were up the steps and out of sight.

As soon as he was gone, Mother turned to me. “There,” she said with enthusiasm. “He's pledged to help William.”

I could only nod my agreement and turn away, so she would not see the tears of gratitude welling in my eyes. If John André did that, I would forgive him anything.

“It's time for bed,” she said. “Will you bank the fire?” She left the room, tactfully giving me time to compose myself. Ah, she knew me well.

Grateful for her consideration, I knelt to work the coals into a smoldering heap so that they would remain until morning. In my state, I hardly knew what to do with the emotions I had for John André. No wonder that I made a metaphor of what I was doing: I would bank my fires of affection for John André, and wait for such day and time that I could allow them to burst into flame again.

I retrieved my blue ribbon and poem from their hiding place, a tin box in which I kept old flower petals, flowers he had once brought. I meant to throw all into the fire. Instead, after gazing at each item, I returned them to the box.

Moreover, I promised myself that starting the next day I would do everything in my power to assist my
brother. As for John André, I would put aside—for now—any affection I had for him. If there is such a thing as pleasurable regret, I had it.

Ah, I blush to tell it so! But I have promised you honesty, Dear Reader, and I shall hold to it.

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IN THE MORNING
, not wanting to see John André, I left our house as soon as was convenient to Mother. Bundled in a wool cape against the frost, the rewritten advertisement papers clutched in hand, I headed for Hanover Square and Mr. Gaine.

Overhead the sky was gray, and an inch of white snow lay upon the ground. It softened the town's hard edges, hid the mud, and muffled sharp sounds. People on the streets walked in haste, hands pinked with cold, white mists of breath before their mouths. Footprints on the streets reminded me of black currants on a one-penny bun. But now and again a scarlet-coated soldier hastened by, which put me in mind of my brother's wound.

I had not gone far when I happened to meet a friend of Mother's, Mistress Lorenz, a harmless gossip. It would have been rude not to pause and greet her.

“Good morning, madam,” I said.

“And to you too, Miss Calderwood. Any news of your brother?”

Not aware what, if anything, Mother had told her, I said only, “Nothing.”

“I've heard say,” she confided, “that General Washington is retreating across Jersey. Perhaps William is with him. Let's pray he's not a prisoner.” She leaned closer. “They say conditions are shocking.” Perhaps I paled, for she showed smug satisfaction at having educated me. Pressing my arm and mumbling, “My compliments to your mother, Miss Calderwood,” she went off.

I rushed on, not wishing to study her words. As it turned out, Mr. Gaine was in his shop, working his press, concentrating so that he did not notice me when I stood at the door. I watched him with interest, wondering what duties he would give me.

“Mr. Gaine,” I finally said, “good day.”

“Ah, Miss Calderwood. I'm positively delighted to see you.”

“My father's compliments, sir. He's done these for you.” I handed him the revised advertisements.

Mr. Gaine wiped his ink-stained hands upon his leather apron, took the papers, and leafed through them. “Excellent.” Then he considered me with a look of expectation. “And you, Miss Calderwood,” he said. “Did you discuss my offer of employment with your da?”

“I should be pleased to enter your service, Mr. Gaine. Father said you should call upon him soon.”

“Good news indeed! I'll go today.” Mr. Gaine turned to a box, opened the lid, and took out some shilling pieces, which he handed to me. “Forgive me for presenting
you
with your father's payment, Miss Calderwood. But I know ready money is in demand.”

“It's appreciated, Mr. Gaine,” I said, hoping he would not always be so stiff and formal.

We made our farewells. Then, with the coins held tightly in hand, I headed north toward the King's College and, hopefully, William.

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