by Becky Lower
She sighed and glanced at the broken, trampled shoe still in her hand. “I do love fashionable footwear.”
“Where are you staying?”
She gave him the name of the hotel and he barely controlled his grimace. Liberty Wexford had already cut into his day, and now he would have to get a horse hitched to a buggy to take her across town and back to her lodging. It was either that or toss her over his shoulder and march through the streets with her. When he landed atop her on the street, he had registered her softness and her essence of rose attar before he hauled himself up and then assisted her to her feet. Or foot, as it were. The image that followed flicked through his mind–his arm wrapped around her legs while she rested on his torso as he carried her through the streets. He barely controlled his grimace again. He had been too long without a woman.
“I will get a buggy and take you back.”
She pivoted on the tabletop and put her legs over the side. “There’s really no need, Mr. Gentry. I’ve taken up too much of your time, as it is. I will get myself back to the hotel.” She hopped down gracefully, but when she tried to put weight on her left leg, she crumpled and grabbed his arm for support.
“And I say there is a need.” Without giving a fig for decorum, he grasped her around the waist and lifted her back onto the table. “Stay there. I will only be a second.”
Hawk quickly hitched a horse to the small open-air buggy. The woman was giving him thoughts he’d rather not have. The sooner he got rid of Liberty Wexford, the better.
She played with his senses. Interrupted his all-important work. Had the bluest eyes he had ever seen.
He again put his hands on her, lifting her into the buggy for the short ride to her hotel. Her eyes were wide as she absorbed the scene. British soldiers in their bright red uniforms patrolled the streets alongside colonists who were shopping and doing everyday chores. It was noisy, lively, chaotic and music to his ears. Hawk wondered if Liberty Wexford had the same reaction. Somehow, he doubted it. She gave the impression of being more refined, more accustomed to enjoying high tea at Buckingham Palace in the afternoon rather than soiling her feet on the cobblestones of Boston. He flicked the reins over the horse’s rear quarters to speed him along as he clenched his jaw in reaction to his own thoughts. She had indeed soiled her feet on the cobblestones. And she had shivered when he ran his finger over the sole of her foot.
“Whoa!” He tugged on the reins to halt the horse in front of the hotel and tied it to the hitching post before he helped Miss Wexford down from the buggy. She held onto his arm, her broken shoe still in her hand.
“If you’ll just assist me inside, please, I’d appreciate it.” Her hold on his arm tightened.
“Shall I carry you?”
She shook her head, and her golden hair glistened in the sunlight. “No, I don’t wish to have you carry me in. If I could just hold on to your arm, it will suffice.”
He wrapped his hand over hers. “I am happy to be your ceconihikon, your support.”
She raised an elegant eyebrow. “Your native tongue?”
“Oui. I tend to mix French and Passamaquoddy together.”
Together, they entered the establishment slowly, side by side. When they got to the lobby, the proprietor waved them over.
“Mrs. Wexford, I’m glad you’re back. Your trunks have just been delivered from the ship and I’ve had them sent to your room.”
“Thank you so much.” She held up her broken shoe. “It appears I’m in need of a different pair of shoes, so the delivery is in the nick of time.”
Hawk’s mind spun in different directions. Liberty Wexford was married? Then where was the undoubtedly stiff and formal English fellow to whom she was wed? How had he allowed her to roam the tumultuous streets of Boston unaccompanied? What would be his reaction if he found out Hawk had touched his wife, however innocently? God, he needed to escape.
She let go of his arm and limped a few steps away from him. “I’ve got it from here, Mr. Gentry. Thank you for your assistance.”
“Aqanu. You are welcome. Au revoir, Madam.”
She nodded at him, glanced at the proprietor, and made her way to the stairs without a backward look.
The two men followed her slow, and Hawk was certain, painful progress as she mounted the stairs, one gingerly placed foot at a time. When she disappeared from view, the proprietor took a deep breath. “I guess now I’ll need to take meals to her room.”
Hawk glanced at the slightly annoyed man. Or maybe he was not annoyed at all. Perhaps he looked forward to entering her room under the guise of delivering her food. Either way, it was not his problem. He would leave it to Mr. Wexford to fend off the man’s advances to his wife. He tipped his hat to the man in the lobby and returned to the street and his buggy.
It may have been his imagination, but the scent of rose attar stayed with him the entire ride back to the blacksmith shop.
• ♥ •
A few days later, Libby once again prepared to venture onto the cobblestone streets of Boston. Her ankle, thanks to the quick work of the blacksmith who had saved her, had swelled little, and the soreness had nearly disappeared. This time, though, her shoes were more serviceable, made from leather and with a wider heel. But serviceable didn’t have to mean ugly.
She glanced at the dark blue pumps with the bejeweled buckle which added the right dash of style. Even though on most occasions no one cared what she graced her feet with, she always got an extra dose of confidence when she wore fine shoes. Her broken brocade shoe, and the man who had seen it, and had seen her ankle, flashed through her mind. Mr. Hawk Gentry had been the most unusual-looking man she’d ever encountered. His mix of cultures made his speech melodic and his appearance striking. If she could ever find the blacksmith shop again, she’d stop in and thank him for his assistance. Right now, though, she was on a mission of another sort. She needed to find something to do, or she’d lose her mind.
A short time later, she arrived at her destination–the headquarters of the Boston Gazette. She’d picked up a copy of the broadsheet at the hotel while she recovered from her injury and the masthead, with its image of a bird being freed from its cage, appealed to her. She resembled the bird. She took a breath and smoothed the blue polonaise gown in patterned silk. The bodice was tight but not revealing; the skirt opened from the waist and looped up to show the underskirt, comprised of a lighter blue fabric. It struck the right note between fashionable and serviceable, a most appropriate frock to wear when applying for work.
A little bell on the door signified her arrival, and a man bustled into the room from a back office.
“May I help you, madam?” He ran ink-stained fingers through his bushy hair.
She rewarded him one of her winning smiles, which had reduced many a man to his knees, and replied, “I was hoping to help you, sir.” She held out her hand to him. “I’m Liberty Wexford, and I’m looking for employment.”
He grasped her hand briefly and got a crooked grin on his face. “Nice to meet you. I’m Benjamin Edes, editor of this paper. I won’t say I don’t need help. Just look at the place.” He waved a hand over the counter, piled high with stacks of invoices and papers. “But I can’t afford to hire you.”
Libby nodded at the stacks of paper. “It appears as though you can’t afford not to hire me. If your objection is because of my strong accent, rest assured. I may have a British accent, but I’m no Tory. I hold no affinity for the country of my birth.”
Mr. Edes scrutinized her, and Libby controlled the impulse to squirm under his gaze, as she had with so many others before him. She maintained eye contact. Finally, he brushed a hand over his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Can you read and write?”
Libby’s heart sped up. “Yes, sir. And I love working with numbers.”
“I can’t pay you with coin, but I do have a room over the office, if you need a place to stay.”
Libby quickly calculated how much she’d be saving each week by not having to pay for a room and caug
ht her breath. She’d been prepared to work for nothing, but this was so much better.
“I’m interested, but I’ll have to see the room before I take you up on your offer. And, I will propose something else, too.”
Mr. Edes’s eyebrows rose, but he stood quietly.
“If I can straighten out your correspondence to the point where you see an increase in either circulation or advertisements, you can compensate me accordingly.”
“You’re offering to partner with me?” Benjamin Edes shook his head. “I don’t need another partner.”
“I don’t wish to be a partner, but I’m very good at growing a business. All I ask is to be compensated fairly if you see an increase in your bottom line.” She smiled at him. “Now, if I could take a look at the room...”
He shook his head again and rubbed his jaw. “I may be making a huge mistake, but I do need help. Follow me.”
He led her outside to another doorway beside the newspaper office and up the steep flight of stairs to a small landing. There were two doors at the top of the stairs, and he opened the one on the right side. Libby entered a clean, but small, and somewhat musty, room, with one window overlooking the street and another overlooking the alley behind the building. A copper bathing tub was propped up in one corner alongside a narrow bed. A table and one chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. A wood stove was shoved up against one wall, to provide warmth and a hot surface for cooking or for heating up bath water.
She stood in the middle and slowly pivoted in a circle. “It’s perfect, Mr. Edes. I’ll have my belongings sent over this afternoon and begin work in the morning.”
He ruffled his hair with his fingers again. “Come back to the office and I’ll give you the key to the room.”
Libby exited the room, obtained the key to her new lodging and made her way back to the hotel with a lighthearted step. Her interview could not have gone better. Her mother always told her she had only one chance to impress someone, so she should present herself carefully. She’d done just that.
Now, she just had to convince Mr. Edes of her worth. But she’d convinced other men of her worth before and been quite successful at it. American men might be a bit harder to deal with, since they were focused on obtaining their freedom from Britain, but she always appreciated a challenge. And she was focused on obtaining her freedom, too. From Britain, and from her past.
CHAPTER THREE
Sweat sluiced its way down his body, but Hawk added more wood to the fire which already burned hot. He had managed to melt down the flank portion of the horse from the magnificent statue of King George sitting astride his favorite mount. The statue had been torn down last summer after the reading of the new Declaration of Independence in Bowling Green Park in Manhattan. It was disassembled, cut into pieces, and taken to his smithy shop in Boston by the Sons of Liberty. The Continental Army needed bullets with which to fight, and Hawk now had the metal to create them. At least, he did until he completely melted down the statue. He tossed a portion of the king’s arm from the statue into the cauldron as well, and it slowly melted into liquid.
So far, he had molded over 15,000 bullets, but summer was upon them, and Hawk had no doubt there would be an escalation in the battles. They needed more bullets, and quickly.
He slipped his shirt back on when footsteps warned him someone had entered the shop and stirred the cauldron once before the person arrived. Patterson Lovejoy, a fellow Son of Liberty, stood in the doorway to the smithy shop. His wheat-colored hair danced around his head as his brown eyes took in the scene.
“Bonjour, Pat,” Hawk nodded at him.
Patterson wandered further into the room and glanced at the slowly melting arm in the cauldron. As Hawk and Patterson stared at it, the arm shifted in the pot, as if it were waving at them.
Patterson let out a laugh. “Old King George isn’t going down without a fight, eh?”
Hawk grimaced. “But, for a change, he is being put to good use. I reckon with what is left of the statue, I can get perhaps another 15,000 to 20,000 bullets. And I have a feeling we will need that much and more before all is said and done.”
“True, and we have to keep our fellow Bostonians riled up. Let’s discuss what you’re going to write about next for the paper.” Patterson took a seat away from the fire.
“I do not feel right calling myself A True Patriot, though. The title should have died along with Dr. Warren.” Hawk rolled his shoulders.
“True enough,” Patterson slouched in his seat. “His contribution to the cause has been duly noted. His words kept people informed in the early days. They knew they would hear the truth when they read his byline.”
Hawk brushed a hand over his sweaty brow and grinned. “So, it is not my words as much as it is the byline?”
Patterson laughed. “Just keeping you from getting too cocky. At least you can do more than talk. You can lay down your words on paper in a way that makes sense. Not too many of us have that ability.”
Hawk grabbed a sheet of paper and a quill pen. “Shall I talk about how we will spend the summer using up my supply of bullets faster than I can make them?”
Patterson shrugged. “I’m sure we can find a better topic. One that will inflame all of Boston.” He glanced at Hawk. “Ben finally broke down and hired some help in the office. A woman. A very attractive woman. You need to take a look.”
Hawk took a seat next to Patterson. “I do not have time for a woman. I need to fight a war.”
An hour later, Hawk and Patterson had come up with a few ideas he could work on, as soon as he poured the hot lead into the forms to create bullets and musket balls. Once he completed his important work, he needed to work on the part of his business that resulted in some money and craft some horseshoes for the animals coming in tomorrow to be shod.
Patterson had been right, as usual. No one, other than the Sons of Liberty, was aware the editorials from A True Patriot were being penned by someone other than the originator. As long as the colonists had a cause to fight for, editorials supporting it would appear in the Gazette, whether they were penned by Hawk or by someone else. Too much was at stake to let pride get in the way. He would let the British be prideful instead. It would be their downfall.
He raised his head from the bullet forms he filled up, a ladle at a time, and stared at the face of King George from the statue. It may have been folly to keep the head intact for so long, since the British would undoubtedly punish him if they uncovered it. But Hawk enjoyed a perverse pleasure making the statue head watch every bullet and musket ball being created.
“Well, George, we have finally put your arm to good use.” Hawk carefully filled the last form with the hot lead. “Hopefully, some of these 500 bullets will find their mark, and your troops will get the message they are not welcome here.”
He set down the ladle, strode to the bin alongside the stove where the rest of the statue was stored, spit in the king’s eye, and then covered his face with a piece of burlap.
Late in the evening, after he had gotten some horseshoes made, completed his editorial, and fed the stabled horses, he finally allowed himself the luxury of relaxation. He took the stairs two at a time and climbed to his private quarters over the stables. He opened the window in his bedroom and inhaled deeply of the fresh air. The scent of the roses he had planted in front of the stables assailed him, and he wondered what had become of the lovely woman who had carried a similar scent. Was she still at the hotel, or had she returned to England by now? The colonies were no place for a gently bred woman to be living. Freedom was a long way off.
His mind wandered as he lay on the mattress filled with straw. Liberty Wexford, with her fancy shoes, had made him smile, once he got past the horror of his runaway horse nearly killing her. His fingers, as he had assessed the damage to her ankle, had registered her soft skin, even with the layer of silk stocking, the beautiful, almost porcelain look of her complexion. He had glanced up at her face as his fingers grazed her skin and had imme
diately been drawn to her intelligent blue eyes, which narrowed in pain as she hissed out a breath.
Merely thinking about their encounter made his body react. His heart raced as his shaft swelled. He was so tired he had thought he would just fall into bed and be asleep immediately. But Liberty Wexford had other ideas. Hawk reminded himself she had a husband. The proprietor at the hotel called her Mrs. Wexford. Even though she wandered the streets alone, there was a Mr. Wexford somewhere. She would probably be frightened if she ever were privy to Hawk’s wayward thoughts. And Mr. Wexford would have every right to beat him to a pulp. With a grimace, he flipped to one side and willed his body to relax. Liberty Wexford should remain her husband’s problem. Hawk had bigger battles on his mind.
• ♥ •
The next morning, Hawk wandered into the newspaper office, hoping to spend a few minutes with Ben Edes and discuss what topics to consider for future editorials. But Ben was nowhere to be found, only a woman whose head was bent over a ledger book with her back to him. This must be the woman Patterson mentioned. The one he’d told Hawk to take a look at.
Hawk’s moccasined feet had muffled his arrival, and the woman did not glance up from her work, so Hawk studied her unnoticed. Something about the curve of her neck, the scent of roses, and the golden color of her hair set off warning bells in his head.
“Excuse me, madam.” His tone had been soft, but the woman jumped, regardless, and dropped her quill. She spun around. It was indeed Mrs. Wexford.
“You startled me, Mr. Gentry.”
His lips canted upward. “Oui, I noticed. Je suis désolé, madam.” He tipped his hat in her direction.
She rose from the desk. “That’s the second time you’ve apologized to me in less than a week. And both times, you’ve spoken in French. How do you say ‘I’m sorry’ in your other native tongue?”