Free The Rebel's Return by Susan Foy

could catch herself from interrupting. “When was he captured?”
    The two men turned to her, surprised by her outburst.
    “Lord Stirling and his men were caught in a very bad spot on Brooklyn Heights, trying to hold open the road for the army’s retreat,” Mr. Jones explained gravely. “They were trapped between the British and the Hessians; many of them were slaughtered, and the rest were taken prisoner.”
    Phoebe blanched in horror as she recalled George’s stories of the Hessians. “Merciful heavens!”
    Mrs. Kirby gave her a sympathetic look from the other end of the table. “Are you thinking of your brother, Phoebe?”
    “Nay,” Phoebe managed, “we have heard from George, so we know he survived, but—” she broke off.
    “Lord Stirling will be exchanged,” Mr. Jones added, “which is fortunate for Washington. He needs all the good officers he can find.”
    Phoebe tried to frame the question in her mind. “Will all the officers be exchanged?”
    The men glanced at each other, and Mr. Jones spread his hands. “It depends on the agreement with the British. They exchange officers of equal rank. Sadly, we are more desperate for men than the enemy is.”
    The conversation moved on at that point, but Phoebe heard none of it, for her mind was riveted on the calamity that had befallen Lord Stirling’s men. The words continued to haunt her, playing round and round in her mind over the next days. Many of them were slaughtered, and the rest were taken prisoner. Maybe Nicholas was the Yankee who had been pinned to a tree with a bayonet and left to writhe in agony for hours. Nay, George had described him as a boy. Either way, he might very easily be lying dead now, or rotting on a stinking British prison ship, which was in itself nearly a death sentence. Or he might have been wounded; he might have lost an arm, or a leg, or an eye. How would Nicholas manage to live, being so horribly maimed?
    Of course, Nicholas’s fate was nothing to her. He had admitted that he was only sporting with her, and it was only sensible for her to learn to match his indifference with her own. Still, they had been friends of a sort; wasn’t it natural for her to care about his ultimate fate?  To care if he were alive or dead?
    If George were to die, the family would probably learn of it eventually from his commander or a fellow soldier. But if Nicholas were to die, they would likely never hear at all. They had no mutual friends, and the Fuller family had had no contact with the Teasdale family in several years. It would never occur to anyone who knew Nicholas that any of the Fullers would want to be told of his death.
    For a moment Phoebe considered asking Mr. Kirby for information about him. But Mr. Kirby was not acquainted with Nicholas and might not know how to find out, and the awkwardness of such a request deterred her. On the other hand, if she were to write to Lavinia—she wouldn’t actually need to ask about Nicholas, but if he had been killed or captured, and Lavinia answered her letter, she would certainly mention it, wouldn’t she?
    For several days she pondered the idea, dismissing it several times, only to have it recur an hour later. Writing to Lavinia seemed like such an innocent, natural thing to do. No one would read any ulterior motive into a letter—would they? After all, she didn’t want to actually see Nicholas, only to know if he was alive and well. And her friendship with Lavinia had always been a source of pleasure to them both. What could be wrong with it?
    One afternoon as all these doubts and questions revolved through her mind, she sat down at her father’s desk and, on an impulse, grabbed a sheet of paper and a quill. She prepared her materials, uncertain all the while whether she actually intended to use them, then dipped the tip into the inkwell.
    My dear Lavinia,
    It has been so many years since I have heard from you, and I hope you will pardon my presumption in renewing our correspondence after