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into an
alley or doorway rather than face him. Each time, she returned to
the shop more determined than ever to be true to her vow to Morgan.
Raveneau was dangerous. Hadn't he kissed her and then never sought
her out to apologize or even say good day? But Morgan was real and
honest, and through the long, dull days working beside her mother,
she forced herself to think of security and sincerity.
    Curiously tense, Devon pulled back her quilts
and swung her feet onto the wide-planked floor. She poured water
from the pitcher into the ewer and splashed her face.
    "Devon? Are you awake?" Deborah called from
the next room.
    She made a face. There would be no chance to
read the next scene of The Taming of the Shrew this
morning.
    "Yes, Mother."
    "I think I heard a noise a few minutes ago.
Did you hear it?"
    "No, but perhaps that's what woke me."
    "We will get an early start," Deborah
decided. "You can churn the butter before we open the shop."
    Devon was pulling a clean yellow cotton dress
over her head and was glad that her reply would be muffled in the
material. "I can scarcely wait."
    "What's that?"
    "Nothing." Quickly she fastened up the front
and reached for her hairbrush. Her mother was stirring in her room,
and they emerged into the kitchen almost simultaneously. Devon
started a fire and greased the griddle while Deborah stirred the
batter for buckwheat cakes that had been rising during the night.
While Devon put the kettle on over the fire, Deborah produced a
small amount of butter along with a pitcher of maple syrup, payment
from one of their customers for a bolt of linen.
    "I wonder what Morgan is doing this morning?"
Devon mused aloud while they were eating. "I'll wager he has had
some wonderful adventures this past year."
    "I'll wager he wishes he were back in
Gadwin's Drug Shop where he belongs!" Deborah replied
sarcastically. "When will you learn that that boy doesn't have your
wild nature? I wish that he were my daughter and you were
Gadwin's son!"
    "If that means I would be off fighting for
independence in his place, then thank you very much!"
    Deborah stared at her coldly, and she felt a
twinge of sadness to see how shadowed her mother's blue eyes had
become. She could still be pretty! she thought, taking in the pale
hair drawn severely back from Deborah's face. If she would only smile now and then!
    "Get on with your breakfast. There's butter
to be churned."
    * * *
    Less than a half hour later, Devon began the
tedious job, having first moved the churn to the window so that she
might watch the street below and the river beyond. The sunrise was
spellbinding, and she lost herself in the growing beauty of the
eastern sky and thought idly about her life.
    In normal times, there was little doubt that
she would have been married by now. Was it possible that she was
nineteen years old? Devon sighed, wondering where the future would
take her. She had received a letter from Morgan a few days ago—the
third communication since his departure. His regiment was preparing
to march to Virginia. "It seems that everyone is going to
Yorktown," he wrote. "Something big is in the air, but no one is
quite sure what it is." He went on at length about the weather and
his passion for Devon. She yearned to hear stories of the war,
tales of Morgan's thrilling adventures and narrow escapes. Still,
it was wonderful to read his thoughts and to know he was well.
Perhaps the war would toughen him.
    Devon sorely missed Morgan, yet this last
solitary year had changed her. Their daydreams in the meadow and
his urgent kisses seemed part of a long-ago past. She was anxious
for him to return to New London so that they might renew their
bonds before time dissolved them entirely. The future they had
planned was the only ray of hope that she could cling to during the
long days in the shop. It was increasingly difficult to escape
Deborah's watchful eye.
    Cannon shots suddenly echoed from Fort
Griswold. Devon listened—three shots, the signal for a