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Authors: Christine Blevins
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the second service emerged from the marquee to set groaning platters upon the table. Delicate poached trout fillets were garnished with a watercress salad dressed in sweet oil and vinegar. Thick slices carved from a charred saddle of venison swam in mushrooms and rich gravy. In the most fanciful presentation, a brood of roasted pigeons with beaked heads intact were glazed with maple syrup, stuffed with butternuts, and set inside a nest contrived of mashed sweet potatoes.
Lucy and Gordon Lennox took command of the dinner conversation, discussing the latest in theater, music, and literature, and no further mention was made of politics or rebellion. Every now and then, Geoffrey Pepperell leaned in to murmur in her ear about the food or drink. A misty fog floated in, hugging the trees, adding to the dreamlike quality of the evening. Sipping champagne from crystal, surrounded by cultured accents and the tink of silver on china, all overlaid with mellow notes played on cello and viola—if she closed her eyes, Anne could almost forget there even was a war.
Anne set her champagne glass to the side.
You are a soldier. This is the enemy.
“Attention!” Fanny Loescher began tapping a spoon to her glass. “Attention, ladies… Shall we all go and pluck a rose?”
The women were each supplied with a lantern, and Fanny led the way into the woods, weaving to and fro along a fairly straight path, until, succumbing to the quantity of spirits imbibed, she fell backward into a thicket of fern. Lucy and Anne tugged Fanny to her feet.
“I swan, I’m about to burst! This is as likely a place as any to water the garden.” Fanny proceeded to hitch up her skirts and squat.
Standing side by side, the Baroness, Lucy, and Anne turned their backs to Fanny, set lanterns on the ground, and extended their skirts outward, creating a curtain for modesty’s sake. The young Germanbaroness was the first to strike up the requisite small talk to disguise the shush of urine driving into the forest floor.
“It is worrisome, indeed, to see how lean the General’s table has grown,” she clucked. “Rattlesnake soup indeed!”
“The fare seemed very generous to me,” Anne said. “Wine and yeast bread—fresh poultry, fish, and meat—this is quality far beyond standard rations.”
“At Fort Anne we were regularly served eight courses with as many different wines, Mrs. Merrick,” Lucy explained. “It is clear this overland trek is taking a toll on the General’s larder.”
“Mrs. Loescher is certainly a drain on his wine supply,” the Baroness said, without even altering the volume of her voice.
“Your turn, Mrs. Lennox.” Fanny took Lucy’s place in line, holding out her skirts.
“The General seems less than his usual self tonight, Mrs. Loescher,” the Baroness said. “Is he not feeling well?”
“He has his moods.” Fanny heaved a sigh. “A courier arrived from Howe this afternoon, and Johnny’s been out of sorts ever since. Very upset, he was, upon reading that letter…”
Anne tempered her eagerness at this revelation. “Bad news, was it?”
Fanny shrugged. “He didn’t say, but it could not have been good news for all his huffing and puffing.”
“It must have been a long letter…” Anne probed. “I would think men of such import would have much to say to one another…”
“Not long at all,” Fanny said. “Written on the tiniest slip of paper folded into a hollow silver bullet—in case the courier needed to swallow it to keep the message from falling into enemy hands.”
“Very clever,” the Baroness said, “but can you imagine having to pass such a thing through your bowels?”
Lucy Lennox rejoined the line, and the Baroness stepped back to take her easement. Anne mined a new vein of conversation. “I suppose you ladies have heard the sad news of poor Jane MacCrae?”
Lucy nodded. “What a tragedy. Her beau went absolutely mad with grief…”
“Another reason for Johnny’s foul mood—he was
Lucy and Gordon Lennox took command of the dinner conversation, discussing the latest in theater, music, and literature, and no further mention was made of politics or rebellion. Every now and then, Geoffrey Pepperell leaned in to murmur in her ear about the food or drink. A misty fog floated in, hugging the trees, adding to the dreamlike quality of the evening. Sipping champagne from crystal, surrounded by cultured accents and the tink of silver on china, all overlaid with mellow notes played on cello and viola—if she closed her eyes, Anne could almost forget there even was a war.
Anne set her champagne glass to the side.
You are a soldier. This is the enemy.
“Attention!” Fanny Loescher began tapping a spoon to her glass. “Attention, ladies… Shall we all go and pluck a rose?”
The women were each supplied with a lantern, and Fanny led the way into the woods, weaving to and fro along a fairly straight path, until, succumbing to the quantity of spirits imbibed, she fell backward into a thicket of fern. Lucy and Anne tugged Fanny to her feet.
“I swan, I’m about to burst! This is as likely a place as any to water the garden.” Fanny proceeded to hitch up her skirts and squat.
Standing side by side, the Baroness, Lucy, and Anne turned their backs to Fanny, set lanterns on the ground, and extended their skirts outward, creating a curtain for modesty’s sake. The young Germanbaroness was the first to strike up the requisite small talk to disguise the shush of urine driving into the forest floor.
“It is worrisome, indeed, to see how lean the General’s table has grown,” she clucked. “Rattlesnake soup indeed!”
“The fare seemed very generous to me,” Anne said. “Wine and yeast bread—fresh poultry, fish, and meat—this is quality far beyond standard rations.”
“At Fort Anne we were regularly served eight courses with as many different wines, Mrs. Merrick,” Lucy explained. “It is clear this overland trek is taking a toll on the General’s larder.”
“Mrs. Loescher is certainly a drain on his wine supply,” the Baroness said, without even altering the volume of her voice.
“Your turn, Mrs. Lennox.” Fanny took Lucy’s place in line, holding out her skirts.
“The General seems less than his usual self tonight, Mrs. Loescher,” the Baroness said. “Is he not feeling well?”
“He has his moods.” Fanny heaved a sigh. “A courier arrived from Howe this afternoon, and Johnny’s been out of sorts ever since. Very upset, he was, upon reading that letter…”
Anne tempered her eagerness at this revelation. “Bad news, was it?”
Fanny shrugged. “He didn’t say, but it could not have been good news for all his huffing and puffing.”
“It must have been a long letter…” Anne probed. “I would think men of such import would have much to say to one another…”
“Not long at all,” Fanny said. “Written on the tiniest slip of paper folded into a hollow silver bullet—in case the courier needed to swallow it to keep the message from falling into enemy hands.”
“Very clever,” the Baroness said, “but can you imagine having to pass such a thing through your bowels?”
Lucy Lennox rejoined the line, and the Baroness stepped back to take her easement. Anne mined a new vein of conversation. “I suppose you ladies have heard the sad news of poor Jane MacCrae?”
Lucy nodded. “What a tragedy. Her beau went absolutely mad with grief…”
“Another reason for Johnny’s foul mood—he was
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