I am extremely grateful for my wife's acceptance of my apology. Reflecting upon the last sentence of her chapter, I would like to note that I am indeed, and will always be, hers. She is my light and my love, and I cannot imagine a life without her. She is the one person I can trust with anything and everything that ever troubles me. I can count on her for an intelligent, rational conversation at all times, and I treasure here will all my heart and soul. 

Now that I have showered her with well-deserved plaudits, I will continue to write about our winter at Jockey Hollow. 

Christmas had come and gone. The chaplain made a good sermon out of it. It was almost the new year. Although most of the men's huts were finished by Christmas, some of them remained unsheltered and continued to work in snow up to their knees, just for a roof over their heads. As an officer, my cabin was not finished for days later. However, I was sheltered by the New Year. 

There were almost no supplies. The clothes and blankets given to the troops were insufficient. The men were forced to go without bread and meat, because the dollar had become so inflated that funds were inadequate to cover the cost of an army. It was evident that many of the soldiers who had joined up in 1776 for three years would gladly leave Jockey Hollow when their commissions were up.

As I stepped out of my cabin, the blindingly white world greeted me. It had snowed yet again overnight. Mercifully, there was no snow falling and the sky was clear, but the light reflecting off of the snow was almost worse. 

Only a few new inches had accumulated, so the paths we had trampled through the snow were still functional. As I walked down one of these paths, a man called over to me. 

"Hey there! There's snow comin'!" 

I responded, without turning, "There's always snow coming!" 

"Bad snow, this time. A storm, and lots of it!" 

I brushed this off as an old farmer's 'weather nose', but he would be right. 

Later that day, I was at headquarters. The sunlight outside the Ford house was fading into evening. The sun set quickly in the winter, and it was dark early. 

As I left the room where all the aides-de-camp worked, Mrs. Ford stopped me. 

"Major Tallmadge, I'd advise you not to go for any more nighttime strolls like that stunt you pulled earlier this month." She glared at me sternly.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm returning to the barracks now, ma'am." 

"I mean it. There's a worse storm coming. I feel it in my bones." She narrowed her eyes and set her jaw. "And a widow's bones never lie." 

I recoiled a little as she said this, surprised. Mrs. Ford never referred to herself as a widow, though we all knew that her husband had given his life for his country. It was clear that she was indeed very serious. 

"That's the second time I've heard that today." 

"That a widow's bones never lie? That seems odd."

"No, abou-about the snow. I'll stay out of the storm," I promised. 

"Good." Mrs. Ford looked at me, unsmiling, through narrowed eyes. "You'll make a wise enough man yet." 

We bid each other farewell, and I went on my way. 

"There's nary a cloud in the sky. It's cold, but it's hard to believe a storm of that magnitude is coming." 

As I walked past the Wick house, I saw Henrietta approaching a door to enter the house, 

"Good evening, Miss Wick!" I called. She turned quickly and looked around, seeming startled. 

"Oh! Good evening, Major Tallmadge!" 

I continued on my way, blowing into my hands and rubbing them together for warmth. The door closed and rushed footsteps crunched through the snow behind me. 

"Major Tallmadge." I turned around to see Henrietta standing a few feet behind me. "I have something for you." Taking a few steps closer, she continued, "I noticed that you had nothing to cover your hands, so I knit these." 

She handed me a pair of mittens. Her mittened hand brushed against my bare one, and a pleasant shock rippled through my arm. 

I took the mittens and smiled gratefully. They were simple, but the stitchwork was perfect. I slipped them onto my hands. Though they were not warming, because if gloves are to keep your hands warm you must put them on while your hands are warm, it was comforting to have a layer of wool between my skin and the freezing air. 

"Thank you, this was completely unnecessary. I didn't mean to make more work for you. I-" I took a deep breath so that I could form a cohesive sentence. "Thank you." 

"It was nothing, I assure you, sir. Is it not the duty of all women in this encampment to help stay off frostbite from our brave soldiers?" 

"Well, I-I suppose so." I knew it was doubtful at best that this was a display of any sort of affection, but my heart sank anyway as she told me that she was merely doing her duty. 

Her face fell as she watched my reaction. "I'm sorry, is there something wrong?" 

"Oh, no, no, nothing at all." I looked up at the darkening sky. "It's getting dark. We should go inside." 

Henrietta nodded, and she held my gaze for another moment. There was knowledge behind those eyes. Not the wisdom of an old woman, with all the experience in the world, or the understanding of children that a mother has, but the intelligence of someone who prefers the company of books to that of people. She had chosen the clearly superior of the two. 

A foolish smile spread on my face. Maybe there was something there after all.

Realizing that I was staring at this respectable young woman, and had been for a while, I looked down quickly. I cleared my throat and refused to look back at her. 

Henrietta muttered to herself in a foreign language. It sounded like French, and from what I could decipher, she said, "Non, non, Henrietta. C'est fichu. C'est trés, trés fichu. Tu es stupide. Arrêtes-tu!" (No, no, Henrietta. It's silly. It's very, very silly. You are stupid. Stop!) 

"Well, à bientôt, Major Tallmadge." She turned around and worked her way back over to the house. 

As she walked, I called out, "À bientôt, mademoiselle!" 

Then, to myself, I whispered, "Vous n'êtes pas stupide. Vous êtes trés, trés intelligente." 

I walked to my cabin, where I would not sleep for nights without fantasies of Henrietta present in my dreams. When I woke from these imaginings, they embarrassed me, but I continued to them every night as I sank into the bliss of sleep. I wouldn't see her in person until just before the approaching blizzard, but we met every night in my slumber. 

Though I woke every morning with lucid memory of my dreams, I assured myself that this was a mere infatuation. Like others before it, it would pass quickly. I was needed by the cause. I had no time to focus on this; I had to focus on my work and forget it. I reasoned that it would soon cease to exist.

I was wrong.