The Tory Widow (32 page)

Jack groaned, and the quiet kiss exploded like a sail unfurled in a hurricane wind. Pulling Anne tight, he bent her back in the kind of kiss she'd been dreaming about for weeks. Off balance, feet tangled on the gunnysack, they stumbled, tripped and toppled onto the bed. Anne found herself under Jack, pressed into a froth of petticoats and bed linen.

“Jaaaaack!”
Titus shouted once again.
“Let's go!”

“Another promise—” Jack said, a merry sparkle in his brown eyes. “One day, we'll finish this kiss properly.” Planting a quick peck on her lips, he leapt to his feet, took Anne by the hand and they raced down to meet the others at the foot of the stairs.

“What were you two up to?” Sally teased, tucking a bundle of food into Jack 's gunnysack.

“Not enough,” Jack replied.

Titus passed small flask around, each man taking a good swallow and splashing a bit around the ears. “That's the last of your rum, Mrs. Anne.”

“Good friend Titus, I don't know how I'll ever repay you.” Anne gave him a hug, then turned to kiss her brother on the cheek. “Take care of yourself—and don't be a ninny—give yourself time to heal . . .”

Sally threw her arms around David's neck for one last kiss. “Mind what yer sister just said . . . and send us word, when ye can.” She stepped back, sniffing, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. “Take care, lads.”

“Listen . . .” Jack grabbed Anne by the shoulders. “A man by the name of Mulligan keeps a tailor shop on Queen Street—call on him for help, should you need it. He's a friend of mine.”

Anne nodded, pulled the hanky from her bosom and pressed it to Jack 's hand, with a quick kiss. “Till next we meet.”

Jack put the hanky to his nose, smiled and tucked the favor inside his shirt.

Sally peeked out the door to make certain there were no Redcoats lurking about. With the all clear, she swung the door full open and the threesome spilled out into the lane, arms about each other's shoulders, stumbling toward the wharf.

Anne and Sally ducked back into the shop and shut the door.

“Well,” Anne said, putting fists to hips. “We have our work cut out for us, don't we?”

KI-KI-RI-KU-DOO
. A five-toed rooster flew up to perch on the ladder leaning up against the shop front, and crow up the sun with great gusto.

The front door swung open and Sally propped it with the tin of lead slugs. “Off wi' ye, noisy creature,” she said, shooing the cockerel away with a flap of her apron.

Anne lugged the unwieldy sign by the chains. “You climb up first—then I'll hand it to you.” She muscled the sign up, and Sally hooked the chains onto the iron bracket jutting out at a right angle into the lane.

Sally scrambled down, and they took a few steps back to stand with arms folded, admiring the new sign. The words ROYAL COFFEEHOUSE encircled the image of a gray goose quill curved over a golden crown.

“Sign of the Crown and Quill . . .” Sally said with a wicked smile, “open for business.”

“Come right in, Captain.” Anne waved a pair of grenadiers across the threshold. “Welcome to the finest cup of coffee and tea in all of New York City . . .”

PART TWO

Occupation

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THOMAS PAINE,
Common Sense

 

 

 

 

 

A
NNE stepped out from the sweltering kitchenhouse and drew a pail from the cistern. She splashed cool water on her face and neck, and ran wet fingers over hair swept up in loose curls at the back of her head. Removing her stained apron, Anne smoothed and admired the skirts of her new day dress—very pleased with her choice of fabric—the twining leaves and tiny forget-me-nots on a pale ivory background seemed especially lighthearted in the morning light.

Sally followed Anne into the garden, a clean, pressed apron in hand. “Ye should wear an apron—ye dinna want to dirty yer pretty dress, do ye?” Arms raised, Anne turned around and Sally tied the apron sashes into a sprightly bow. “There ye go, madam!” she said, giving Anne a pat on the bum. “Bring out the trays and ready the teapots. I'll go pull the drapes and open the door.”

Dust motes danced along the gleaming shafts streaming in through the diamond-shaped windowpanes, along with customers through the open door. Bandit barked a greeting as regulars bustled in to take their usual seats, and the sleepy shop was suddenly awake with manly laughter, cheery voices and the scrape and squawk of chairs and benches being dragged across the floorboards.

Anne placed three trays filled with the day's baking on the compositor's table at the back of the shop, covering each with a large napkin to protect the muffins and scones from flies. She brought out a wicker hamper filled with two dozen small pewter teapots, all rinsed and polished for the day's use. After arranging the pear-shaped pots in rows of four on the countertop, she scooped a generous amount of black tea into each one.

Sally set two heavy urns onto the counter—one filled with hot coffee, the other, boiled water. Hands at hips, she turned to glare once again at the half-assembled printing press and clutter of tools occupying a good amount of floor space between the compositor's table and the front end of the shop.

“Can it be so bloody difficult to assemble a press? The lazy-arse grubshites ye hired have accomplished less in three days than Jack and Titus did in three hours.”

“I know . . . I know . . . I've already decided to give them the sack—if they bother to show up—the drunkards.”

“Och!” Sally groaned. “An' what are we to do with all this mess?”

“I'm posting another notice today.” Anne pulled a folded sheet from her pocket and showed it to Sally. Written in her best hand in neat block letters:

 

Sally eyed the advert with no little scorn, whispering through clenched teeth. “It's bad enough havin' t' smile and scrape t' these Redcoat bastards always lurking about, aye—without havin' to press ink to paper promoting their Loyalist treachery.”

Anne slipped the notice back into her pocket. “I'd be a fool not to take Mr. Rivington up on his offer.” She began pouring hot water into each teapot. “What with publishing the
Royal Gazette
and printing all the Crown business, Rivington has more than he can handle, and he is kind enough to direct some work our way.”

Sally came up behind Anne and hissed in her ear. “Rivington prints th' most vile Tory swill, and I for one wouldna wipe a shitten arse with the
Gazette
for fear of offending the arsehole.
I
wouldna have
anything
to do with him or his disgustin' rag, not for all the gold in Christendom.” Feathers in a ruff, she strutted off to slam an assortment of cups and saucers onto her tray.

Anne grabbed Sally by the arm, and dragged her out into the garden. “You think I don't know Rivington is a tool of the Crown?” she scolded, her brows meeting in a bump above her nose. “Yes—reviving the press and stationery will add to our pocketbook—but that is not our aim, as you should ken. Doing business with the likes of James Rivington lends us a great measure of protection, and will provide opportunities . . . protection and opportunities that will aid us in our
important
business.”

“I'm sorry, Annie.” Sally puffed out a breath, rubbing her arm. “I sometimes canna bear the loud smell that rises from some of what we do . . .”

“It will help if you try to remember there are others who, for the same cause, bear far worse than we.”

Mutual feathers somewhat smoothed over, Anne and Sally went about the business of distributing tea, coffee, scones and muffins to a full house of customers.

“Good morning, Mrs. Merrick,” Captain Blankenship called as he came trotting down the stairs with red jacket thrown over one shoulder and helmet cradled in his arm.

“Tea and scones today, Captain?” Anne smiled up to him. “I saved you some clotted cream . . . and we've strawberry jam . . .”

“You know me too well, Mrs. Merrick. Tea and scones it is.”

Edward Blankenship took a seat at a table near a front window, joining lieutenants Wemyss and Stuart, the other two British officers Anne had been forced to quarter.

Exactly three days after Jack and Titus spirited David away, Edward Blankenship showed up on her doorstep—most apologetic—in possession of a writ commandeering three rooms in her home in service to the Crown.

“It was bound to happen—we are not alone in being forced to quarter soldiers,” Anne had said to Sally as they made the many trips up and down the narrow stairs, moving all of their things to the two garret rooms. “Blankenship has done us a favor, actually. I'd rather quarter three agreeable British officers than house a whole horde of Hessian grenadiers and their cabbage-cooking wives.”

“Lobster scoundrels! Soddin', thievin', bloodyback bastards!” Sally did not hesitate to pile on the adjectives as they bumped Anne's heavy chest up the stairs. “I'm only glad the lads took our David safe away—just in the nick, too.”

Safe away . . .
Anne mused as she arranged little covered glass pots of jam and clotted cream on the tea service she prepared for Captain Blankenship.

Not a note, not a message passed
. . . No word in the eight long months since the three drunken fishermen went lurching down the lane—nothing to indicate whether or not Jack and Titus had succeeded in getting themselves and David out of harm's way.

After Washington ordered the evacuation from the works at Brooklyn Heights, the Patriot army moved in an almost constant retreat. From Long Island to New York City, stretching up the entire length of Manhattan, across King's Bridge and then across the Hudson to the southern half of New Jersey—the British gaining ground with very little effort or loss.

Patriots were left to bemoan the sad, sorry state of Washington's draggle-tail army. With thousands of soldiers and militiamen either captured, deserted or unfit for duty, most considered Washington's defeat and surrender to be impending and inevitable.

But cautious General Howe failed to deliver the felling blow before the campaign ended with the approach of winter. Washington performed a miracle and managed to somehow keep his dwindling army intact. The Continental forces slunk across the Delaware to regroup, and General Howe settled in New York City to enjoy the whirl of gaieties Loyalist society had to offer, and seemed more than happy to remain there through the spring as well.

Using a pair of sharp nippers, Anne clipped chunks from the cone-shaped loaf of fine white sugar, telling herself for the hundredth time it must be nigh on impossible and very dangerous for Jack to get a message delivered.