The Tory Widow (38 page)

“I think we're through the worst of the morning rush.” Anne untied her apron and hung it on the peg behind the kitchenhouse door. She filled a ewer with water, lit a beeswax taper and screwed it into a candledish. “I'm going upstairs to get my book work done . . .”

Sally put on a crafty smile. “There's a basket of laundry in my room. Would you be a honey and hang it out on the line?”

“I can do that!” Anne carried the water and the candle up to her room and set it on her desk. She opened the shuttered window, and a pleasant breeze blew in along with bright sunlight. She shut and bolted her door.

A puff of violet and cerulean silk sat in the middle of the room—a perfect circle—as if the woman who'd worn the dress had melted away. Anne gathered up the fabric and tossed it onto her rumpled bed, and eyed the rouge smudges on her pillowslip.

She and Edward had returned to the Crown and Quill just past midnight the night before. Unused to keeping such late hours, Anne did not need to feign exhaustion. All she wanted was to be up the stairs, in her room, out of her stays and into her bed.

A gentleman sees a lady to her door
—

The captain insisted. She had no choice but to allow a slightly worse-for-the-drink Edward Blankenship to escort her all the way up to her garret room door. It was a relief to see Sally at the ready, peeking through a crack in her door, ready to leap out and bludgeon the man with the iron poker she'd taken to keeping at her bedside ever since the Redcoats moved in. But Blankenship made no untoward advances. He bid Anne good night with a chaste kiss on the cheek, and a courtly bow. Even Sally had to agree, the captain was a gentleman.

Anne cleared the mess of rouge pots, pins and ribbons from her writing desk and sat down with pencil and paper to draft a simple letter listing the information she had learned from Mrs. Loring the night before—that Howe planned to take the fleet to Philadelphia sometime in mid-July, and that Burgoyne was marching his troops to Albany.

Anne proofed her draft to make certain she'd worded the intelligence correctly, and her heart began to thump in her head. Pushing away from the desk, she stared at the words she'd just scrawled across the page. She had not foreseen becoming a conduit to the British High Command months before, when she sought out Hercules Mulligan in his tailor shop on Queen Street. These words were no mumbled rumors overheard while pouring tea and serving scones—this letter was by far the most important and valid intelligence she had ever passed along.

Anne smiled, and set about making her ink. Her mother had taught her how to mix all manner of ink—writing inks, colored inks, India ink and as a lark—invisible ink.

She kept her supplies in the desk drawer—a tin measure, a clear glass tumbler, a silver butter knife and a quart jar filled with salt of hartshorn. Anne poured a stream of water into the tumbler, up to the mark she'd scratched in the glass with a sharp awl. She scooped up a measure of hartshorn, and cut the knife across the top, carefully scraping the excess back into the jar. She dumped the coarse powder into the water. With the blade ringing bright against the glass, she stirred and stirred, holding the concoction to the light, to make sure every last grain of hartshorn was completely dissolved. Once the ink was mixed, she conducted a test, to be certain the mixture worked.

Five reams of rose-colored foolscap wrapped in brown paper were stacked beside her desk. Anne opened one package, and peeled off a sheet. Dipping her quill into the tumbler, she thought for a moment, and wrote “Jack” across the top of the page. As the clear liquid dried, the word disappeared. Anne held the page close to the heat of the candle flame. Like magic, “Jack” appeared, as if written with thick black ink.

Anne took a fresh sheet and copied her draft exact. It had taken some getting used to—writing with clear liquid. She had found through trial and error that the invisible ink worked best on English-made tinted paper. Once the missive was thoroughly dry, the writing was undetectable, and the page looked no different than any other blank page in the ream.

She inserted her secret writing exactly thirty-six pages from the top of the pile, rewrapped the ream in brown paper, secured the package in a crisscross of the same blue grosgrain ribbon she used for her garters and tied it off in a pretty bow. “There!”

Anne burned the draft copy, and stowed her ink-making supplies. Three of Sally's blue petticoats and six plain white petticoats were sent flapping over the lane. She tucked the ribbon-wrapped package under her arm and skipped down the stairs.

 

 

“CANVAS Town they call it.” Mrs. Day poured them each a cup of coffee, and pulled up a chair. “A desperate place—the poorest of the poor live in those crumbled ruins, on cinders under canvas stretched over charred beams. Their children roam the streets in packs, competing with dogs for the meanest scraps.”

Mr. Day dropped a large lump of sugar into his cup. “By night Canvas Town's a haven for thieves, whores and the most wicked and depraved—not a morning goes by but they don't find some poor sot with his head stove in, stripped clean of valuables—”

“—or some poor unfortunate woman ravaged with her throat slit,” Mrs. Day added with a sad shake of her head. “The Watch won't even patrol there.”

“I don't blame them. Not when Canvas Towners will murder a Redcoat in a trice for his buttons alone! You mind what I say.” Mr. Day shook a knobby finger. “Stay far away from there, lads. It's a desperate place.”

“The reek of it's enough to keep me away,” Titus said. “I never in my life smelt anything as awful.”

“Like burnt hair, fly-blown corpse and pigpen all rolled into one.” Jack made a face like he'd been force-fed a spoonful of manure, and shuddered. “We only walked down Broad Way, and I still can't get the stench to leave my nose.”

Mrs. Day nodded. “When the wind's wrong, the smell from Canvas Town poisons the entire city.”

Jack and Titus had spent the morning wandering up Broad Way from the Battery, unable to believe their eyes or their noses. Montagne's—once a home to the Liberty Boys, and one of Jack's favorite haunts—had become the Red Lion, and was overrun with Redcoats.

Day's Tavern proved to be an oasis in a desert of depression and disappointment. Mrs. Day was famous for her soups and stews, and Jack used to frequent the tavern at the end of Murray Street back when he kept a room on Barclay Street. There were only a few customers left from the midday crowd—none of them British military—but because “you never know who's who these days,” the Days led Jack and Titus to a very private table in the garden.

Mr. Day leaned forward. “You know, there's a handful of us stalwarts left behind, and like you lads, we do what we can for the cause—keep our eyes and ears open, we do.”

“Sometimes I wish we hadn't stayed.” Mrs. Day laid her hand upon her husband's shoulder. “The city is that much changed.”

The Liberty Pole on the Commons had been torn down, and a gallows, ironically, erected in its stead. “I knew the pole would not stand once the Redcoats marched in,” Mr. Day said. “But the very day after the fire, a man was hanged for a spy on the new gallows, and the devil Cunningham left the body to swing for three full days.”

“A fearful, disturbing warning . . .” Mrs. Day brought a full tray to the table.

The hospital at King's College and the sugarhouses were converted into inhumane prisons, from where emaciated bodies were collected daily and stacked like cordwood in wagons heading up the Post Road.

“Starved to death, they are—and not given any kind of a burial, our poor lads. Cunningham's henchmen dump the bodies into ditches and ravines.” Mrs. Day ladled a fish stew into four bowls, and set out a basket filled with chewy brown bread and a crock of sweet butter.

“And with Canvas Town—a full quarter of the city, mind you—reduced to misery, filth and abject squalor, the British bastards hold horse races, cricket matches and gala dancing parties with ice creams and fireworks!” Day banged his fist to the table. “Why it took us this long to revolt, I don't know.”

“Mr. Day! You are too loud,” his wife admonished.

The door adjoining the tavern room to the garden opened and Patsy Quinn popped her head around. “It
is
you!” She came over to the table, talking very fast. “Hildie said she saw you in Day's, and at first I said, ‘You're a daft old purse,' but then I ran over to see if she might be telling true. Oh, Jack!” Patsy threw her arms around him and pressed a cheek to his. “It does my heart good to see you!”

“It's good to see you, too, Pats.” In daylight, with her fresh-washed face framed by a straw hat, and wearing a modest dress, Patsy Quinn might be anyone's sister out for an afternoon stroll, instead of an “unfortunate woman” employed by Mother Babcock.

“Sit down, Patsy,” Mrs. Day urged. “Have a bite to eat—I swan, you are as thin as a rail.”

Mr. Day brought a chair and Patsy sat beside Jack and latched onto his arm. Not able to endure Titus's withering glare, Jack extricated his arm from Patsy's grip. “I suppose Mother Babcock's was spared by the flames.”

“You should come and see for yourself.” Patsy winked.

“Ah, no . . . we're only here for the day—on business—right, Titus?”

“Yup.” Titus dug into his bowl.

Patsy took a piece of bread, and used Jack's knife to smooth a thick layer of butter over it. “Business with the Stitch, right?”

Jack grabbed a spoon. “This stew looks delicious, Mrs. Day.”

“You're among friends here.” Patsy leaned toward Jack, dropping her voice. “We all work with the Stitch—tell 'em, Mr. Day.”

“Eyes and ears,” Mr. Day said.

“I know!” Patsy clapped. “You're working with the engraver, right?”

“Engraver?” Titus hitched his chair in closer.

Jack took a bite from his bread. “Patsy.” He chewed. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Don't play coy.” Patsy gave Jack a nudge. “The Stitch said he might bring you in on it.”

“Honest, Patsy, I haven't heard from him . . .”

“We only came in for the day,” Titus added. “To fetch the widow.”

Jack shot Titus a look that could cleave stone. Poor Patsy looked as if her bread had just fallen buttered side to the ground. “What widow?”

Jack locked eyes on his bowl, stirring his stew.

Patsy turned to Titus. “What widow?”

Titus grinned. “The Widow Merrick, from the Cup and Quill. Jack fancies her.”

Patsy spun around. “You
fancy
that Tory bitch?”

“Keep that evil tongue within your teeth, Patsy Quinn,” Mrs. Day warned. “You know I don't like that kind of talk in my place.”

“She's as much a Tory as you are.” Jack bristled. “Not that it's any of your business, but yes—I care for Anne Merrick—and I am here to get her out of the city.”

Patsy sat back in her chair. “You'll first have to pry her off that handsome dragoon she lives with.” She broke off a little bit of bread and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, you didn't know about him? A big man—a full-handed man, by the look of him . . .”

Jack slammed his hand to the table. “That's enough!”

“. . . I'll wager he gives the widow a good hard ride on his sugar stick.”

“Good lack, have you no sense?” Mrs. Day took Patsy by the arm. “It's time for you to go.”

Patsy waved as she was led away. “I know I'll see you soon, Jack!”

Jack sat with half-hooded eyes, fists balled in his lap.

Mr. Day broke the silence. “Everyone is forced to quarter soldiers these days.”

“Pay no mind to Patsy,” Titus said with a flip of his hand. “I always thought she was head over heels for you, and there's the proof. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

“Handsome dragoon,” Jack repeated. “Dodd said as much—Tully, too.”

“You know, Jack,” Mr. Day said. “You can sit here and stew in a dark cloud, iffing and wondering over the whore's gossip, or you can go to your woman and find out the truth.”

“How am I supposed to go to her?” Jack slumped in his chair. “The Cup and Quill is crawling with Redcoats. They
live
there.”

“Write a note—arrange a meeting place—talk to her,” Mrs. Day suggested.

Mr. Day agreed. “Titus can deliver the note. No one pays any mind to black folk . . .”

“That's a plan.” Titus stood and swung his gunny over his shoulder. “Write the note.”

 

 

THE Crown and Quill did a brisk business all day, and the afternoon flew by. No one came by to purchase paper.

Anne and Sally worked around the handful of customers still finishing their tea—sweeping and wiping down tables, making ready to close up shop for the day, when an odd little man wearing blue glass spectacles began to hover near the open doorway. Anne grabbed Sally by the arm before she could shoo him away.

“Wait . . . that might be him . . .”

The man seemed at a loss. He finally stepped inside, turning one way, then another, going back out to check the sign. He finally settled in a seat near the window, and commenced to drumming his fingers on the table's edge.

“Naw, Annie . . .” Sally said. “That one doesna seem right in the head.” The women leaned on their brooms, scrutinizing the strange customer from a distance.

But for a fringe of brown hair running around the back of his head from ear to ear, the man's pate was as hairless and smooth as an ostrich egg. In combination with the round-colored lenses masking his eyes, he looked like some kind of queer bug. He wore plain wool and linen, and Anne thought he might be a Quaker. She went to take his order.