“I forgive them, considering the excellency of their tailoring.” Washington Faulconer could hardly take his eyes from his reflection in the window glass. The gray uniform was set off with golden spurs, gilded spur chains and golden scabbard links. He had a revolver in a soft leather pouch, the weapon’s butt looped to the belt with another golden chain. Braids of white and yellow ribbons decorated the outer seams of his breeches while his jacket’s epaulettes were cushioned in yellow and hung with gold links. He drew the ivory-hilted saber, startling the morning with the harsh scrape of the steel on the scabbard’s throat. The sun’s light slashed back from the curved and brilliantly polished blade. “It’s French,” he told Starbuck, “a gift from Lafayette to my grandfather. Now it will be carried in a new crusade for liberty.”

“It’s truly impressive, sir,” Starbuck said.

“So long as a man needs to dress in uniform to fight, then these rags are surely as good as any,” the Colonel said with mock modesty, then slashed the saber in the empty air. “You’re not feeling exhausted after your journey, Nate?”

“No, sir.”

“Then unhand my daughter and we’ll find you some work.”

But Anna would not let Starbuck go. “Work, Father? But it’s Sunday.”

“And you should have gone to church, my dear.”

“It’s too hot. Besides, Nate has agreed to be painted and surely you won’t deny me that small pleasure?”

“I shall indeed, my dear. Nate is a whole day late in arriving and there’s work to be done. Now why don’t you go and read to your mother?”

“Because she’s sitting in the dark enduring Doctor Danson’s ice cure.”

“Danson’s an idiot.”

“But he’s the only medically qualified idiot we possess,” Anna said, once more showing a glimpse of vivacity that her demeanor otherwise hid. “Are you really taking Nate away, Father?”

“I truly am, my dear.”

Anna let go of Starbuck’s elbow and gave him a shy smile of farewell. “She’s bored,” the Colonel said when he and Starbuck were back in the house. “She can chatter all day, mostly about nothing.” He shook his head disapprovingly as he led Starbuck down a corridor hung with bridles and reins, snaffles and bits, cruppers and martingales. “No trouble finding a bed last night?”

“No, sir.” Starbuck had put up at a tavern in Scottsville where no one had been curious about his northern accent or had demanded to see the pass that Colonel Faulconer had provided him.

“No news of Adam, I suppose?” the Colonel asked wistfully.

“I’m afraid not, sir. I did write, though.”

“Ah well. The northern mails must be delayed. It’s a miracle they’re still coming at all. Come”—he pushed open the door of his study—“I need to find a gun for you.”