Viviane de Chercy has eloped from France to join the American Revolution, and after the Battle of Brandywine in September 1777 she finds herself in Philadelphia with the young Marquis de La Fayette, who was wounded in the battle. He and his companions are waiting for counsel from Viviane's guardian, the Comte de Mirandol, who put a stop to her marriage but failed to prevent her coming to America.

When Viviane arrived to visit La Fayette, they were all so overjoyed to see her that her spirits lifted on the instant. Her friend lay in a large room, surrounded by the aides she told him, with a little laugh, that he was holding court like a monarch. He greeted her with his characteristic boyish smile and an outstretched hand. He was so pale that his freckles stood out like brown ink on parchment, but his voice was firm.
        "His Majesty would leap to his feet if such a vision as you were to walk into the room. My apologies, dear Mademoiselle de Chercy, for this shameful posture."
        She took the chair that Gimat had just vacated and smiled down at him. "You do not realize: I have become very used to sitting at bedsides in the last two days. And to making very pragmatic observations. Are you quite comfortable with that wig on?"
        "Not quite. But one must keep up appearances."
        "You may do that very well if I comb your hair for you. Doctor Franklin wears no wig, so while you are in his city you need not either. Gimat, Brice, will you each put a hand under his shoulders?"
        She gently took the wig away and Victor handed her a comb. The marquis lay back again and looked up at her in bright-eyed amusement as she coaxed his thick red hair off his brow and behind his ears. She said, "I am no coiffeuse, but it is astonishing how practical I have become since landing in America. I have not even found the need to engage a maid in Philadelphia, Mrs. Christie's servants are quite skillful enough for my present standards. There: you will do perfectly."
        He smiled and closed his eyes for a moment and she looked around the room. "Is it safe to stay on here? They say all the wounded who can travel will be evacuated in the next few days."
        "We're going to a place called Bethlehem," Brice said. "It is a Moravian town, the marquis will have expert care, and they can accommodate all of us."
        The marquis opened his eyes. "It was the general's recommendation. So of course I shall follow it. And the sooner I can rejoin him after that, the better."
        "Moravian?"
        "A religious settlement," Victor said. He looked at her anxiously. "Will you come with us?"
        "It depends when you leave. I am helping to look after two of the wounded, and ..." She found it impossible to say what would happen to the dying American she cared for, or repeat her pledge to him especially in these circumstances. "I have promised to stay in the house. Mrs. Redman has three small children. She cannot cope on her own, and none of her friends will help her; she is a Quaker."
        "We go as soon as possible. The Comte de Mirandol is arranging things for us, and when he arrives we shall decide." He had a sudden thought: "I know! If Chester is safe, why not go there? It is scarcely any distance, and the Ogilvys would be glad to receive you. They have already told me so, in fact Mademoiselle Abigail Ogilvy has heard so much about you, she says it is quite impossible to credit it all until she sees you in person."
        Viviane was not quite sure that she wanted to meet this young lady on her own account, but she was disarmed by Victor's admiring, affectionate look as he waited for her reply, and by his eagerness for her to share his new acquaintance. He was proud of her, and it warmed her to know it. She was thankful that she had been brave before him when he brought last night's news. Her friends respected her: they were all in this together, at the same level. The only person who knew how she had lost control was her guardian.
        "I shall make up my mind in the next few days."
        "Will there be anyone left in Philadelphia by then?" said Gimat.
        "Certainly. My hostess Mrs. Christie, for one. The Whartons, Judge Shippen and his family. None of them have any plans to abandon their great houses and leave their affairs to languish just because the future looks a little uncertain. This is their home."
        "A little uncertain," the marquis murmured. "I applaud your phraseology, Mademoiselle."
        "I have it from you. That is just how you write to your dear wife."
        "True!" Some of his animation came back. "Did you know I have received a letter? At last? Count Pulaski brought it to me from Paris. It is here." He moved one hand slightly and she realized what the gesture meant: it was under his pillow.
        Tears threatened: she hoped he would not see them. "That is wonderful. How is she? It would have been written before..."
        "Yes. Before her lying in. So I know nothing of that, or whether we are parents of a new baby daughter or a son." He smiled. "But she was well and in good heart when she wrote. When I think of the dozens of letters I have sent her, and so far only one of hers has got through to me. I suppose most of mine are in the hands of King George!"
        At that moment the door opened and the Comte de Mirandol walked in. Everyone greeted him warmly and he responded cordially to each, but Viviane could tell that he was most preoccupied with her. His first look on entering had been toward her where she sat by the bed, and the words he exchanged with the young men sounded mechanical, as though all his real attention were fixed on this one corner of the room.
        She rose as he approached, and after making a quick bow he said at once, "You are well? You look it."
        "Yes, thank you, Monsieur."
        So did he. There was no sign of fatigue: his face, with its strong lines and smooth skin, had its usual color, and the black hair, tied neatly back, was clean and glossy. He had on a fresh shirt, a soft leather one this time, and someone had even polished the worn belt that caught it to his waist, and the sheaths that held the knife and tomahawk on each hip. She wondered momentarily who there might be at Vine Street to help him to this military readiness. And at the same time she was hit by the memory of the night before when he held her for a moment against the tattered, filthy shirt he had worn on the battlefield, and she felt his arms tight around her and the pulse in his throat beating against her forehead.
        She thought he might remember too. Breathless, she found she had sat down again.
        He turned from her, however, to speak to La Fayette, examining him from the foot of the bed. Eventually he said, "We must not tire you. I have a map here. Are you up to seeing it, or shall we all decamp to the next room?"
        "Show me," the marquis said eagerly.
        Viviane collected herself, rose and moved away so that they could gather around the bed and discuss the journey to Bethlehem. It became clear that her guardian had arranged for the party to be taken by water to Bristol within days, and thence on to Bethlehem, a distance of about twenty leagues, but he would not go with them himself. While they talked she realized what a difference he had made to the company, from the moment he walked into the room. La Fayette was their inspiration and, at the same time, though not one of them needed to say it, the count was their strength. She was seeing him with new eyes: she valued that firm, unruffled resolve, and realized exactly what it meant to the young men they could depend on him. And so could she.
        Yet there was more: depths that none of the others could guess at. She recognized his strength, but she had also seen his calm reserve swept away in an instant by her nightmare scream in the dark; she remembered his voice shaking with emotion, his desperate plea for her to speak, to let him help her.
        She turned away and pretended to look out a window as her neck and cheeks grew warm with a blush of confusion. In one sense, she was acutely ashamed: what a way to greet a man returning from action! A mature woman, full of joy that he had been spared, would have known how to receive him, how to welcome and cherish him, how to rescue his mind from the horrors he had just escaped. Would her aunt have shrieked at him like a madwoman? Displayed such weakness of mind and spirit that he was obliged to comfort her? She doubted it. But still she could not regret that encounter in the middle of the night, for it had destroyed so many of the barriers between them. They were more vulnerable to each other from now on. Because they were closer.
        Trying for more composure, she half-turned to look at him once more. At this slight movement the green eyes flicked up to observe her. His gaze was intent and he did not smile. In a moment he returned to the matter in hand, and it was then that she realized with a jolt that they had finished deciding what the rest of the company were doing, and had begun to talk about his own departure. Somehow she had thought that he would be in the city for days, perhaps longer; the relief of knowing he was alive meant that it had not occurred to her even to wonder why he was not with his regiment. She supposed she would have to accept it if he were about to return to duty but, absurdly, she had a wish to shelter him, just as she now recognized his wish to protect her.
        He was saying, "I leave in half an hour. Two of us go, given the importance of the dispatches. I have Washington's from Chester, and they're to hand me the others at the State House."
        He rose to his feet as Victor said, "We wish you a safe passage, Monsieur. You have the advantage of knowing the territory."
        "And those at journey's end," said Gimat. "You have fought with Daniel Morgan, have you not?"
        "Yes, though I have never met General Gates."
Gates?
They all turned to look at her. Why had she not been listening? Gates was the commander of the northern armies, beyond New York, far up the Hudson. "North! Is that where you go?"
        "Yes." He stepped towards her. "There was no opportunity to tell you last night."
        She gazed at him, going cold inside. Just as things had altered between them, just as she had learned at last to value his support, he was taking it away. She could guess why: this swift ride with dispatches would take him in the direction of the only place in the world he really cared about Canada.
        Her dismay was so great that she could not keep it out of her voice. "I wonder that you choose to do this now."
        "I am ordered to do it. By General Washington."
        He drew nearer and the others, guessing from her exclamation and his controlled tone that they would prefer the conversation to be private, began a discussion of their own. But it made her upset and uncomfortable, to be tackling this momentous subject within their hearing. Once again, she longed to talk to him alone. Yet he obviously felt differently, since he had made no attempt to manage anything of the kind. Perhaps he actually preferred to have this conversation in company.
        Before she could say any more he spoke again. "Nonetheless, I could not go without first making arrangements for you. There is a coach leaving for Chester tomorrow, with an escort. Friends have checked for me: I have every confidence you will be conveyed safely. I have booked a place for you."He took an envelope out of his pocket. "Here are the details, with a letter from me to James and Constance Ogilvy. You will be kindly received."
        She took the envelope without looking at it. She could scarcely credit the dispassionate way he was handing her these instructions. "I thought I had made it clear I would choose my own time to leave."
        "But circumstances have rather caught up with you. I am sure this is your best course."
        "And if I would rather direct my own?"
        As she looked up into his eyes she remembered suddenly how they had seemed in the dim kitchen before he embraced her dark, forest green. Now, as they widened in the light from the window, they were the color of mountain snow water. He said, "I am sure you have reasons. May I know them?"
        "I have made a promise and I must stay to fulfill it."
        "To whom?"
        "To ..."she glanced towards La Fayette, and faltered. Her friend had closed his eyes in exhaustion, but that did not mean he was not listening. "To someone at Mrs. Redman's."
        "I see."
        She did not like the way he said this. He was making it very difficult for her to explain, but she had to try. "You do not understand. Ever since I came to America I have been no more than an observer. Here, for the first time, I have a chance to help. That is why I do not want to leave, not yet. You do not understand what it is like when someone really needs you."
        His expression became harder. "I understand two things: you refuse to accept my arrangements for your welfare, and you expect me to spend God knows how long in the north without having the slightest idea where you are or what you will do next."
        She gasped. "But you said you were only carrying dispatches. Do you not return, at once?"
        "No, I am to serve with Daniel Morgan's rifle corps."
        It was a blow. It was a worse blow that he said it without a flicker of emotion. She put a hand on the window sill and looked out at the blank wall of a neighboring house. He had no regrets about leaving. There was only one minor matter that he needed to clear away beforehand, and that was his duty to her.
        She straightened and gave a tight and unconvincing smile. "I apologize. It ill becomes me to interfere with your plans. I can see it would be much more convenient for you if I were pigeon-holed in Chester."
        She did not meet his eye, so she could not see his expression, but his voice had an edge that she well remembered when he said, "If you are pleased to be sarcastic on such an issue, there is nothing more I can say to you."
        She flared up. "I am not being sarcastic: I leave that to you!" Then she looked at him in despair, knowing that he had no idea how much it hurt her to be returning to the old opposition, to be wielding the weapons she foolishly believed they had put aside for good. And now those weapons were sharper, capable of inflicting much keener pain. Before he could reply she took a deep breath and tried to soften her voice. "But please, I do not want you to think I am not grateful."
        He grimaced. "I do not seek your gratitude, Mademoiselle."
What then, my obedience? But she did not say it. "I am sorry to question your decision, but I am not yet ready to flee this city. I have grown very fond of Philadelphia; I feel as though I belong here, and I shall find it hard to leave. But of course I shall, if and when it becomes necessary. You have my word on that."
        She was trying to reassure him, but his face showed only that he was baffled and angry. Not with the cold fury she once used to inspire in him; instead there was a bitterness that she had never seen before, and which for a moment or two he could not conceal.
        Then his expression closed completely and he turned to address the others. "My time is up. I must be going. I wish you all a safe journey and the best of health until we meet again. I shall send word to you as often as I can, and hope to have good news of you in return."
        The young men were solemn as they said farewell. They heard nothing in his deep tones but the unspoken thought that they shared themselves, who knew when and where they might meet again? But to Viviane, watching him move amongst them to say goodbye, the mood of this leave-taking was unbearable. His dark frown, the veiled eyes and frosty profile told her that he had withdrawn to a place more remote than ever, where no word or action of hers could reach him. When he stopped before her at the last his face did not change at all, except for the hard compression of his lips as he bowed over her hand, his fingers barely touching hers.
        She murmured, quietly enough for the others not to hear, "Is there nothing more we can say?"
        "You have already made yourself quite clear, Mademoiselle. And I must go." There was a fractional pause before he said quietly, "God bless you." Then he turned on his heel and left the room.
        Faint with disbelief, Viviane leaned against the embrasure of the window. For some time she was bereft of movement, paralyzed by what had happened. This was a quarrel far more wounding than any of the others, and it had happened at the very worst time: it was as though she had cursed him before he turned to leave, perhaps forever.
        She came to her senses after a moment, to realize that all the young men were gazing at her in alarm. Next second she was running across the room. She wrenched open the door, darted into the corridor and flew down the main staircase. Her breath sobbed in her chest as she tore open the front door and rushed out onto the steps.
        He was already in the saddle. When he turned and saw her, his hands tightened on the reins, so that the gelding tossed its head and did a little dance on the paving of the street. She darted forward, oblivious of what the horse was doing, but he brought it under control, and at the same time he bent and took her outstretched hand.
        She cried, "we cannot part like this!"
        No. His grip was so hard it hurt. "Forgive me. It's just I cannot help being afraid for you."
        "I shall take care, believe me. But what about you?" Her voice broke.
        He said in rough mockery, "If you cry, Mademoiselle de Chercy, I shall not be able to leave. And they will shoot me for disobeying orders."
        Still holding his hand tight with both of hers, she said breathlessly, "They would not do that to a Frenchman, surely?"
        "I should prefer not to find out."
        The impatient gelding plunged sideways and their fingers slipped apart. Terrified that he would ride off before they could mend things, Viviane said with firm clarity, "I want never to quarrel with you again. And never to disappoint you again. When you return when we rejoice at your return you will not receive the kind of greeting I gave you this time. I swear it."
        Something happened in the green eyes that held hers so intently, a shift, a change, that was like a sudden movement in still water, hardly visible on the surface before it sank again into the shadowy depths.
        He gathered the reins up and sat erect in the saddle. Taut-backed, with its neck arched, the gelding took a few quick steps backwards, widening the gap between them.
        She saw rather than heard him say the word adieu, and as she cried the same farewell after him he wheeled the horse, to put it straight into a canter and then fast into a gallop. As he tore away from her down the wide, echoing street, the gelding's hooves beat on the stone paving like the rattle of distant gunfire.