It was at the start of October that the letter from Vanessa arrived. It was addressed to John Master, as usual. It informed him, in her bold hand, that she was leaving London, being obliged to go to France. She didn’t say why. She expressed regret that she was unable to come to New York to see Weston, and her usual gratitude that he was in his grandfather’s safe hands. But it was the postscript that caused Master to cry out in utter astonishment.

The news in London is that Grey Albion was last week married.

Abigail found her brother at West Point. Hudson took her there. She was directed up to the ramparts, where, as soon as she reached him, she handed him the letter.

As he read his wife’s plans to leave London, and her words about their son, James’s face remained grave, but impassive. As he read the postscript, Abigail watched him closely. He gave a start. Then he frowned, and read it again. But he did not look at her. Instead, he stared out from the ramparts, over the River Hudson far below, for a few moments.

“They told me he was dead,” he said tonelessly.

“You did not ascertain?”

“There was so much going on. Washington sent me across the river to where the other British forces—Tarleton’s men—had also surrendered, the very same day. By the time I returned, I heard that several prisoners had been buried. I assumed …” He shrugged.

“Surely you would have heard that he lived?”

“Not necessarily. I had little to do with the prisoners after that.” He continued to stare out into space. “He must have recovered, then returned to London, perhaps on parole. That is possible.” He frowned again. “His father said nothing in his letters?”

“No. That is another mystery.”

James pursed his lips. “Under instruction from his son, perhaps. Who knows?”

“I find the business very strange,” she said.

“So do I.” James glanced at her, then looked away, apparently deep in thought. “All manner of strange things happen in war, Abby,” he said slowly. “In war, as in matters of the heart, none of us can be sure how we’ll behave. We do not know ourselves what we may do.” He looked back at her gravely. “But whatever caused Grey Albion to leave without a word, let us hope that he has found happiness now.” He paused. “So many unexpected things happened in this war, Abby, that I have learned that it is useless to question why they fell out as they did. It is destiny. That’s all. I don’t think,” he added, “that we shall see him again.”

“No,” she said, “I don’t suppose we shall.”

On November 25, 1783, at the head of eight hundred Continental troops, General George Washington came peacefully down the old Indian trail from the village of Harlem, and entered the city of New York. Riding slowly down the Bowery and Queen Street, to the cheers of the crowd, he turned into Wall Street and crossed to Broadway, where he was greeted with a fulsome public address.