The Crafters Book Two by Christopher Stasheff, Bill Fawcett Page A

you.”
    The letter was from Mrs. Arnold.

    My Dear Mr. Crafter,
    I received your very kind letter on the death of my dear husband, General Arnold. He thought very highly of you, and I, too, remember you as a kind young man.
    When General Arnold died on June 14th, we were all devastated. He was, however, in constant pain from that wound in the leg he suffered at Saratoga.
    His funeral was attended by many notables of the Kingdom. The Prince of Wales sent his personal condolences. The General thought highly of you and in his will has left you the sum of 100 guineas ‘ ... for a good and brave young officer,’ he wrote. It will be forwarded to you by his bank.
    I want you to know that the General spoke of you often in the kindest terms.
    Your Friend in Sorrow,
    Peggy Shippen Arnold
    (Mrs. Benedict Arnold) Number Ten, Portman Square, London

    “Perhaps all is over,” said Eben. “Lord Cornwallis is sure that Ireland is cursed for at least a hundred years. He is sure that Catholics will battle Protestants and Protestants battle Catholics, forever.”
    Maeve said, “We’ll live for a better Ireland for our children and our children’s children.”
    Eben held Maeve close as the day drew to an end.

England
    Anno Domini 1804

    While life on the American frontier was dangerous, the civilized society of England could be no less hazardous. London society was rich, full and enticing to young Delilah Crafter when she was sent from Boston to live with her aunt in London and gain some “polish.” Beyond the hazards of living in the land against whose army her family had fought, there were also darker dangers. While easily capable of protecting herself and her honor under normal circumstances, the excitement of London society could be overwhelming. Even more ominously, none of social or magical skills could save her from losing her heart to the right man.

    Huntingdonshire
    Near London
    April 1804

    My dearest Caroline,
    I trust that you and your dear parents have enjoyed an uneventful journey to Bath and that the waters will help your papa’s gout. But oh! Had I but some magical power at my command capable of simultaneously relieving that good man’s afflictions and whisking you back to my side this instant, I vow I should employ it at once, though the use of sorcery is reputed to cost the user thereof her very soul.
    For it has happened. Disaster. I am undone.
    It came to pass almost to the letter as you predicted when last we were together. Do you recall it? We had wheedled a modest tea from Cook and conveyed it to the river bank, there to feast with equal relish upon sweetmeats and the exquisite poetry of Lord Byron. I can still see your sweet face, smiling around a mouthful of jam tart, as you said to me: Mark my words, Delilah, once your father moves that woman into your house, she will set about finding the swiftest way to move you out of it. (You also dropped a goodly portion of tart onto my copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. You will recall to purchase me that promised replacement at Bath, will you not, darling?)
    O evil prophecy! O more than Sybilline foresight! O Caroline, how badly I now require the comfort of a friend! I face the abyss, the nadir of all Fortune, torments unspeakable from which every gently bred lady must pray most earnestly for deliverance or death.
    She wants me to marry.
    Yes, yes, I know what you will tell me. To marry, it is written, is better than to burn. Yet I swear to you, I do not feel at all subject to spontaneous combustion. Marriage is not for me. I have seen the beast at too close quarters to desire intimate acquaintance with the nuptial state. I do not, of course, refer to the marriages of our own blessed parents—Papa’s first marriage, I mean. Exceptions prove the rule.
    Have you forgotten the many visits you and I paid to the homes of our school friends? In every case, the wife was a shabby, mousey, lackluster sort of creature. Though she decked herself with a rajah’s ransom