The Turning of Anne Merrick (52 page)

Another masquerader came off the dance floor to join their group. He wore a formfitting black velvet suit to show off a manly build, and a clever full-face mask, half-white, half-black—the white side the smiling face of comedy, the dark, frowning in tragedy. His disguise was topped off with a wide-brimmed hat cocked on one side to accommodate flowing ostrich feathers of red and white. Anne turned to the man she guessed was Oliver Delancey and said, “I know you—do you know me?”

Delancey swept off his magnificent hat in a cavalier’s salute, and lingered over the kiss he placed on the back of her hand. “You, madam, are an
Enchantress
…”

“She’s
nothing of the sort,” Peggy Shippen said. “She’s Night, and I’m an Acadian Shepherdess.”

“Fair Night…” Pulling Anne so close, she could smell the Armagnac on his breath, Delancey’s whisper was provocative.
“All the world will be in love with Night and pay no worship to the garish sun.”

“Make way, Theater.” A half-masked Greek god wedged between the pair, dressed in a white toga leaving one muscular shoulder and arm bare; he was otherwise adorned with nothing more than a crown and belt of silk grape leaves and bunches of purple papier-mâché grapes. The god offered a toast with the enormous golden chalice he carried. “At long last, the coming of Night. I welcome her and claim, I know you—do you know me?”

Anne dipped a curtsy and answered, “You are Bacchus, of course.”

“I’m afraid you mistake me for my father.” John André raised a haughty chin, and rested fist to hip. “You see before you Comus, God of Excess!”

“Nothing but appropriate!” Anne noted, tapping her wineglass to his.

Leaning in, André whispered in her ear, “It will be a pleasure to dance with something other than a dreary shepherdess or milkmaid.” Taking Anne by the hand, he led her out to the dance floor.

Unfamiliar with the dance figures, Anne usually avoided the dance floor, but with face obscured, she was able to let such misgivings fly to the wind, and she hopped and skipped along with the free and easy crowd of merrymakers.

As the evening wore on, it was clear young Harlequin had laid claim on Night’s attentions, but even so, Anne never found herself at a loss for dance partners. She linked elbows with a winged Cupid, did
chassé
with a Quaker, and danced a staid
minuet
with a very roguish Scaramouche. When the orchestra broke for a drink, Anne followed suit, making her way to one of the alcoves where refreshments and sweets were offered. A Plague Doctor with a long beaked nose and spectacle eyes handed her a glass of punch, saying, “Strong port for beaux, weak punch for belles. In a turnabout, I bring
you
a drink.”

Full-face masks made identification difficult, but with a knowing
wag of the finger, Anne said, “I know you…” recognizing the voice of a Cup and Book regular, Lieutenant Silk.

“The Sultana beckons…” Lieutenant Silk said, pointing across the dance floor where Betsy Loring stood waving a feathered fan over her head. Anne made her way through the crowd to greet her with a hug and an, “I know
you
…”

Betsy held Anne at arm’s length. “Clever girl! Contriving a costume to show your lovely make and beautiful dishabille. You’ve caught many an eye, and one in particular. He hasn’t taken it from you since you’ve walked through the door.”

Anne smiled and nodded. “My Harlequin.”

“Not that panting puppy…” Turning to glance up over her shoulder, Betsy said, “The mysterious Domino in the gallery.”

Anne looked up to see the Domino Betsy spoke of, standing with one hand resting light on the rail. There were a great many Dominos at the masquerade, but this one was the most austere she’d seen. Attired in black from head to toe—plain tricorn, silken cloak, leather gloves and boots—the only dash to his costume was the unexpressive full-face mask, painted a metallic gold. From a distance his eyes seemed like gaping, black, malicious holes, forcing Anne to turn away.

“He’s not watching me at all,” Anne said. “I dislike Dominos, anyway. An uninspired costume suggesting a lazy, boring character.”

“Really? I find the Domino most mysterious.” The Sultana glanced back up at the gallery. “This one in particular is a cipher. Strong or timid? Friend or fiend? Saint or monster?” She beat her fan and with a sly laugh said, “I know this—tall and broad-shouldered—your Domino’s a man who would fill a woman’s bed.” Betsy leaned in to give Anne a kiss on the cheek. “I’m off to the gaming tables next door—they tell me the Faro dealer is using gold coins for checks. A most splendid party!”

The musicians found their seats and began tuning their instruments. Anne watched Cathcart and Delancey pushing through the crowd in a race to claim Anne’s hand for the next dance. Harlequin was the winner who led Night onto the dance floor.

In promenade toward the gallery, Anne looked up to see the Domino
leaning on the balustrade, black-gloved fingers like talons gripping the wooden rail with both hands. She asked her partner, “Do you know the Domino up there? In the gallery?”

Cathcart glanced up and shook his head. “Why?”

“I feel his eye upon me.”

Her Harlequin took her by the hands and they skipped back to their position. “I’d say most of the men here have their eye on Night.”

Whether dancing, having a drink, or sharing a sweet, every time Anne looked up, she found the Domino watching her from on high like a black hawk, as if he were waiting for the right moment to spread his wings, swoop down, and snatch up his prey. None of the other officers seemed to know who he was, but after several hours passed with the Domino never once leaving his perch, Anne tried to shrug off her unease.
Probably a local Loyalist. Most likely timid and shy… inept with women…

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the violinist announced. “This last dance of the evening is followed by a
feu de joie
at riverside.”

The words brought about an instant scramble for just the right partner. Anne spun around to the tap on her shoulder, expecting Harlequin and his slapstick, but instead meeting Domino, looming. With a brief bow, and in a low, graveled voice he asked, “May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

“I think not…” Anne shook her head, turning on her heel, searching the crowd for Cathcart, or Delancey, or anyone other than this Domino to share the last dance with. “I’m afraid this dance is spoken for…”

“It’s taken me hours to work up the courage to ask…” The thick golden mask kept the man’s eyes in shadow, but his gruff voice, though odd, seemed to carry a smile with it. “Fair Night could not be so cruel as to refuse me now?”

Anne rose up on tiptoes, scanning the crowd for a more likely partner. “I am sorry, sir, but I did make a promise… Another time, perhaps—”

“Alas, I doubt I’ll have another opportunity anytime soon—my company leaves on campaign at first light.”

Anne dropped down to her heels. “None of the other officers have made mention of any campaign…”

“Not common knowledge amongst the lower orders.” The Domino leaned in, whispering in her ear, “I’m with Clinton’s advance corps—at the vanguard of a new offensive.”

“You are correct, sir.” Anne smiled, and dipped a curtsy. “I cannot be so cruel as to refuse you this dance.”

They moved to take positions opposite each other, and the Domino’s silken cape fluttered open long enough for Anne to catch the briefest glimpse of his crimson red jacket.

Ripe fruit…

As they spun and skipped and twirled, Anne kept her eye on the movement of her partner’s loose cloak, hoping to spy a gorget, or catch sight of buttons or lacing—anything that might indicate the Redcoat’s rank or regiment.

He must be among Clinton’s High Command…

The music of the last dance ended all too soon to a chorus of groans and complaints, as many masqueraders crowded forward to beg the orchestra for one more song.

“The masquerade is over…” Anne reached up, as others did, to loosen the ribbons of her mask, but the Domino stayed her hand, grasping her softly by the wrist.

Head bent to hers, his raspy voice tickled her ear. “Like a covered dish, a woman masked increases a man’s appetite. Let us take the air.”

Nodding, Anne left her mask tied. For a man claiming to lack the courage to ask for a simple dance, there was suddenly little timidity in his manner, and something familiar in the way he pressed his hand to the small of her back, guiding her out the doorway.

Anne looped her arm through his and they strolled slowly, following along with other couples heading to the riverfront along a lantern-lit path. As they walked in silence she cast sidelong glances, studying the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, and the color of his hair in the lamplight, wondering how she might know this particular Redcoat.

“It’s a shame we did not meet earlier,” Anne ventured. “Will you be back to Philadelphia soon?”

His laugh was gruff and he shrugged. “One of the many unknowns of this soldier’s life…”

“I don’t envy your day in the saddle after a night of frolic,” Anne said. “Will you be traveling far?”

“Far enough. My turn for a question.” The tall Domino leaned to the side and in a playful whisper asked, “I know you… Do you know me?”

With a shake of her head Anne admitted, “You are too clever—the Golden Cipher I cannot figure.”

Stopping in his tracks, the Domino reached out to stroke her cheek with the back of his gloved fingers. “Yet you are clear as glass to me.”

Anne took a step back. “Were you with Burgoyne on the Hudson?”

The Domino chuckled. “Were you?”

Anne wagged her finger. “Then you must be a customer at the Cup and Book…”

In a voice suddenly less raspy he said, “She’s pretty—the half-caste you have working for you now…”

Now?
The word—the tone—froze Anne to the spot. Multiple rockets whistled up into the moonless night, shattering the star-strewn sky in fractured bursts of gold and silver.

“Feu de joie!”
The Domino tossed his tricorn to the side and reached to loosen the ribbon at the back of his head. “I know you…” he said, in a clear voice, sweeping the mask from his face. “Do you know me?”

Anne went cold, as if an icicle had been drawn down from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. Dancing at the outer edges of her awareness since she’d first glanced up to the gallery, his name escaped from her lips like a puff of frosted air.

“Edward.”

The fierce saber slash Jack Hampton dealt Edward Blankenship had left a thick pink scar, beginning just above his left brow. It wormed over his eye, coursed across his nose, and cut the corner of his mouth, giving his smile a downward twist. His left eye was sewn shut, and there was a gaping dent at the bridge of his nose, where sharp steel had ravaged bone and cartilage.

“You must recall,” he said, touching the tip of his middle finger to
the circular scar centered on his forehead, “the tender remembrance you left behind.”

Anne grabbed up her skirts and ran as fast as she could. She checked over her shoulder, and though Edward Blankenship did not give chase, she continued with all the speed she could muster, to reach the hired carriage.

The liveryman sat on the driver’s seat, eyes to the sky, watching the fireworks as Anne threw herself against the side of the carriage. “Go now! Go! Go!
GO!
” she shouted, climbing up onto the driver’s seat.

Surprised, the German fumbled for the reins and slapped the horses into movement. Anne turned to see Edward Blankenship standing in a beam of lantern light, tying the golden mask back onto his face.

“Schnell! Schnell!”
Anne screamed, pounding on the driver’s back with her fist. She looked again to see the caped silhouette with arm raised, waving good-bye.

“My God…”
Heaving a sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut and held tight to the edge of her seat as the carriage sped through the gates and careened out onto the road back to the city.

Slamming the shop door shut, Anne grabbed the candle dish, hiked her skirts, and went tearing up the stairs screaming,
“Sallyyy! Piiiiink! Wake up! Get up!”

Sally and Pink shuffled into the hallway in shifts and braids, blinking at the sudden light.

“Get dressed. Time to fly!” Anne breezed past them to her room, setting the candle on her desk. The bleary-eyed women followed in after, and Anne waved them off. “Go! Pack your necessary pockets… I’ll ready the guns.” She kicked off her slippers and turned her back to Sally. “Can you loosen these laces?”

Pink scrubbed her eyes. “Guns?”

“Yes. Guns. Hurry!” Anne gave Pink a little shove to the door. “We have to move fast…”

“
Why are ye in such a swivet?” Sally asked, yanking Anne’s laces loose. “Where’re we goin’?”

“Back to Valley Forge—I sent the liveryman for fresh horses and a wagon.” Anne spun around, shrugging out of her gown, and, seeing the two of them still standing there, she threw up the lid on the chest at the foot of her bed and shouted, “Do as I say!
Go!
”

“Stop and take a breath,” Sally scolded. “Yer not makin’ any sense.”

“There’s no time!” Anne tore through the bed chest, tossing items onto her bed. “He knows we’re here… He’s alive and he’s coming…”

Sally grabbed Anne by the arm. “Who’s comin’?”

“Edward Blankenship!”

“God almighty!”
Sally ripped off her nightcap, and went running to her room.

Pink threw up her arms. “And who’s Edward Blankenship?”

Anne stepped into her skirt. “The Redcoat I thought I killed in New York.”

“Lord in heaven!” The answer sent Pink flying off.

In a matter of minutes they gathered back in Anne’s room, dressed in common skirts, stays, and blouses, wearing sensible shoes and woolen shawls. After Bede’s hanging, they worked together to devise a plan to slip away quickly if the need arose, taking only bare essentials with them. Sally carried a small gunnysack with her letters from David. A purse with all the money she’d earned as a free woman was tucked into Pink’s cleavage, and she pinned her lucken-booth brooch to the inside of her stays. Anne added to her pocket a heavy bag of coin, the bottle of sympathetic stain, the mourning brooch containing a lock of her son’s hair, and the wooden heart Jack had given her.