Sons of Liberty

by Christopher G. Nuttall

  He led Gwen off the dance floor, over to where the Viceroy was standing. Rochester looked irked, Gwen decided, although he was making a determined attempt to hide it. Being caught between two factions couldn't be fun, she knew; she’d certainly been forced to hammer out compromises in Cavendish Hall. And there was much more at stake in America.

  “Bruce will chaperone us,” he muttered, as he led the way to a private room. “Don’t want too many tongues wagging, do we?”

  Gwen concealed her amusement with an effort. Rochester was at least three times her age, perhaps older. The thought of his son chaperoning him was just absurd, although maybe the rules were a little different in America. If the women had more freedom, perhaps a man could serve as a chaperone. It wouldn't be the strangest thing she’d seen in her career.

  She nodded, shortly, once the door was closed. “Problems with the slaves?”

  “The French are trying to incite them to rise against us,” Rochester said. “Hardly a new problem, but all the worse when we don’t have the troops to spare to guard the slave plantations. Giving them all to the French would solve one problem at the risk of creating several new problems.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency,” Gwen said.

  “Lord Bristol is a Son,” Rochester added. “I’d bet my life on it.”

  Gwen looked up. “A Son?”

  “The Sons of Liberty,” Rochester said. “We thought we’d bested them after the Battle of New York, but they’ve recently begun to resurface. They want to separate America from the British Crown, even though it would be disastrous, if they can't get a joint parliament of their own. And to think they have a handful of MPs in London!”

  “America is a big place, father,” Bruce said. “And London is very far away.”

  Rochester snorted. “Anarchists, the lot of them,” he said. “Do they have any idea what will happen if they do manage to cut the links between America and the motherland? The French will invade!”

  “A long period of civil war would be equally disastrous,” Gwen mused. “It hasn't been that long since the Young Pretender tried to claim the throne.”

  “Exactly,” Rochester said. “There are too many seditionist factions, Lady Gwen. Any step I take to favour one of them, or even to impose a settlement, will anger the others.”

  He sighed. “Take Lady Gwen back to the dance floor,” he added, glancing at Bruce. “She has a busy day ahead of her tomorrow.”

  “I have a report,” Gwen said.

  “Right now, we have to look confident,” the Viceroy said. “A display of weakness now would be disastrous.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I’m not going to be far away,” Irene had said, just before they’d descended the steps into the ballroom. “But you need to move on your own.”

  Raechel had nodded in agreement. Irene would be her chaperone, as far as anyone knew; a chaperone who took her duties so seriously that Raechel had good reason to want to stay as far from her as possible. No one would question Raechel spending hours on the dance floor, moaning and groaning about Irene’s intrusiveness, or Irene herself quietly making the rounds of the older women. They’d assume Irene would have the final say in any developing relationship and, if things were what they seemed, they would have been right.

  She walked down the stairs slowly, taking the time to survey the ballroom. Her mother - and later her aunt - had compared formal balls to battlegrounds and, as absurd as it seemed, she had a point. The interactions between the great and the good - women as well as men - shaped politics. A decision taken during a meeting between two aristocrats, nominal enemies, could resolve a problem or end a pointless feud. The American ballroom was smaller than she’d expected, but in every other respect it was identical to the ballrooms she recalled in London, right down to the young folk enjoying themselves while the older folk talked politics.

  “Lady Raechel,” Lady Sofia said. She swept out of the crowd, wearing a long white dress that failed to hide her bulk. “You’re looking good!”

  “Thank you, My Lady,” Raechel said. In truth, the dress was naughty enough to give her a thrill, when she’d worn it for the first time. Even now, looking at hundreds of far more revealing dresses, she couldn't help feeling that she was dancing along the line. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

  “Of course it is,” Lady Sofia said, her smile growing wider. She took Raechel’s arm and pulled her forwards. “Let me introduce you to some friends of mine.”

  “I believe Raechel would prefer to speak freely,” Irene said, briskly. Her tone was friendly, but there was an underlying warning that Raechel had no trouble hearing. “You can introduce me to your friends first.”

  “Of course, of course,” Lady Sofia said. “Raechel will stay in view, won’t you?”

  “Of course, My Lady,” Raechel said, bobbing a curtsey. Perhaps it was wrong of her to be amused, but Irene had been quite rude ... and Lady Sofia had no choice, but to take it. “I’ll be sure to stay on the dance floor.”

  “See that you do,” Irene said, sternly.

  Raechel nodded. She’d thought she was learning how to disguise herself, but Irene took the art to a whole new level. She didn't look that different - Lady Sofia probably saw no real difference - yet she conveyed an impression of age and authority that would cow a dowager duchess. No one would dispute Irene’s right to assert her authority over her charge - and everyone would understand Raechel wanting to escape her. A chaperone, particularly one charged with escorting a wealthy heiress, was a power in her own right.

  She smiled at the young men as Lady Sofia led Irene towards the wall, where a number of older women were gathered, chatting quietly amongst themselves. A young man, barely two or three years older than her, detached himself from the crowd and came towards her. He was definitely handsome, Raechel decided, although there was a nasty scar on his right cheek, suggesting he’d fought in a duel at some point. She’d heard that American nobility preferred swords to pistols when it came to settling matters of honour. It made no sense to her.

  “Lady Raechel,” he said, with a smile. “Would you care to dance with me?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Raechel said, lowering her gaze demurely. The young man wore a suit and tie, but the way he wore it suggested he was more used to a uniform. A soldier in the regulars, perhaps, or a militia officer? “I haven’t danced for months.”

  She allowed him to lead her onto the ballroom floor and guide her through the steps of an unfamiliar dance, listening carefully as he chatted about his career. Rupert Vincent - he didn't give her his name until they were halfway through the dance - was a militiaman, as she’d guessed. New York’s defences needed bolstering, he explained, and the young noblemen had responded by forming the militia. They drilled every day in fancy uniforms, preparing to repel the French.

  “You must be a pretty sight,” Raechel said, trying to sound admiring. “Does everyone wear fancy uniforms?”

  “Only the officers,” Rupert said. “The common soldiers can't afford uniforms for themselves, you see. So we give them a basic uniform ...”

  The dance came to an end. Raechel half-expected Rupert to try to keep her for the next dance - there didn't seem to be any dance cards in the Viceregal Palace - but another young man jumped in and asked her to dance with him instead. Raechel smiled at Rupert, who didn't look pleased, then allowed the second man to guide her onto the floor. Polite society - or whatever passed for it in America - would understand. If she showed too much interest in one young man, it would be seen as the start of a developing relationship.

  Good thing I’m not here to marry, she thought, as the second dance came to an end. I’d be spoilt for choice.

  The third dancer turned out to be an merchant, although he wasn't clear on who actually owned the family business. Unlike the other two, he was refreshingly honest about what he wanted from her; respectability and an end to the industrial restrictions enacted by the British Crown. Raechel had heard that
certain types of manufacturing were only permitted within Britain itself, but she had never considered the implications. Losing Britain wouldn't just tear the heart out of the empire, it would cripple whatever was left.

  “Right now, costs for all kinds of machinery are high because they have to be made in Britain and shipped over here,” Christopher Wiggins explained. “Just shipping something over the ocean is a major hassle. And then there’s the import duties. The Tories get fat, everyone else gets thin.”

  “And no one tries to make it over here,” Raechel mused. She doubted her guardians would have considered Christopher Wiggins as a potential husband, not for one second, even though he and his family were clearly wealthy. “Not at all?”

  “Of course not,” a cross voice said. She looked up to see a grim-faced young man carrying a glass in one hand. “My father gets richer through denying the right to build factories than building factories.”

  Raechel frowned. “And you are?”

  “Hamish Tarleton, My Lady,” the young man said, in a tone that would probably have been taken as a direct challenge back in Britain. He wanted to humiliate Wiggins, Raechel suspected, either by daring him into a challenge or putting him in a spot where he couldn’t defend Raechel. Either one would be disastrous. “My father is a member of the Viceroy’s Council.”

  “My uncle is a member of the Privy Council,” Raechel said, pitching her voice to suggest she was bored. If she was lucky, it would defuse the situation before something went badly wrong. “What do you think of the industrial restrictions?”

  “My father favours the farmers and slaveowners,” Hamish said. He snorted rudely. “I don’t think the old man realises the problems lying in store.”

  “He doesn't see the shortage of gunpowder as a problem,” Rupert said, coming back into the group. “I think we may run short if we have to fight a major battle.”

  “It’s all those bloody Germans,” Hamish said. “No one really trusts them.”

  Raechel leaned forward. “The Germans?”

  “Germans fleeing the French and Russians,” Rupert said. He shrugged. “The Viceroy was kind enough to allow them to settle, if they took an oath to the crown, but they don’t fit in very well. They only speak German, they don't know our laws ... half of them might even be working for the French. What’s going to happen to America if the German population keeps growing?”

  “There won’t be an America left,” Hamish grunted. “We need to kick the bastards into shape or into the water.”

  Raechel kept her face impassive as the conversation darkened, slowly putting the pieces together. The Viceroy had convinced London to accept a large number of German refugees after the French started to clamp down on the tiny German states. It was a way to boost the white population, he’d said, and he might have been right. But he’d also alienated the original settlers of America, who saw the influx of Germans as a potential threat. There were, apparently, a number of towns that were so strongly germanised they might as well be in Germany.

  Divide and rule, Raechel thought. There was enough seditionist sentiment within the group surrounding her to create a major problem. The Viceroy might have thought he could balance the Germans against the Americans.

  She shook her head, inwardly, and kept listening. If the group surrounding her, which included young women as well as young men, was representative, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of seditionists in New York alone. And if the same was true in the rest of America, Viceroy Rochester was sitting on a tinderbox. Rupert the militia officer might not be shooting in the right direction, when the fighting finally started. There was a very nasty sense in the air.

  “The Tories can count on the slaveowners for support,” a young man said. He hadn't introduced himself, which suggested he was already married. “They won’t change as long as they have their votes.”

  “The slaves are a major problem,” Christopher Wiggins said. “What’s to stop the slaveowners from training their slaves to do everything done by white men?”

  “Or from taking over the farms,” an older man added. “That’s what happened in Ancient Rome.”

  Raechel blinked, then turned as she felt someone poke her in the side with an elbow. A young woman was standing there, with jet-black hair and an impish smile that reminded Raechel - helplessly - of Irene. The impression was so strong that she glanced over to the wall, where Irene was holding court, just to make sure she was still there. But the newcomer was definitely younger, with none of Irene’s experience or cynical view of the world. The dress she wore was low-cut enough to make Raechel blush. Being topless in a secret club was one thing, but in public?

  “You have quite a formidable chaperone,” the girl said. She stuck out a hand. “I’m Jane, by the way.”

  “I’m Raechel,” Raechel said. “She’s a very controlling chaperone.”

  Jane gave her a sympathetic look. “What got you sent over here?”

  Raechel frowned. “What makes you say that?”

  “Oh, come on,” Jane said. She smiled. “I looked you up in Who’s Who. The daughter of Lord Slater, his sole heir ... you shouldn't be here unless London was too hot for you. My mother got into trouble and that’s why I’m over here.”

  “You don’t sound angry about it,” Raechel observed.

  “I’ve met enough Londoners to know I don’t want to live there,” Jane said, seriously. “My mother was pushed into a marriage she didn't want, with a man she didn't love, because of money. And it wasn't even her money. Here ... I can reject a man, if I don’t want him.”

  She smiled. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

  Good thing we talked about this ahead of time, Raechel thought. Someone was bound to ask, sooner or later ...

  Jane eyed her, expectantly. Raechel wished, just for a moment, that she had even a fraction of Irene’s power. Jane had to have a ulterior motive for asking, but what? And who, if anyone, had put her up to it? Her mother? Her brother? One of the society matrons surrounding Irene?

  “I had a major fight with my aunt,” Raechel said, finally. It was true enough; she’d often had fights with her aunt. “There was a ... scene ... at a house and a great deal of very expensive soothing was required. My uncle decided it would be better if I spent the rest of my minority in America.”

  “A minority at your age,” Jane said. “That must sting.”

  Raechel nodded, curtly. A common-born woman enjoyed far more freedom than any noblewoman, even though she was sure - thanks to Irene - that many of those women would have happily changed places and accepted life in a gilded cage. Raechel’s parents were dead, but she was still obliged to consult her guardians on everything until she turned twenty-five and gained her freedom. By then, she was sure, her uncle would have married her off to some doddering old fool who’d waste her father’s money on wine, woman and song.

  “Can't go anywhere without her,” she said, nodding sharply in Irene’s direction. “Can’t even use the facilities without her hanging around.”

  “Pooh,” Jane said. “Sounds like you’ve had some really rotten luck.”

  She leaned forward. “But you’re in America now,” she added, lowering her voice. “And there are people who will take your side.”

  “Lady Raechel,” Hamish said, breaking away from the original group and coming to join them. “Would you care for another dance?”

  “I’ll see you again,” Jane said, cheerfully. “I’m sure you’ll be visiting my house sooner or later.”

  “You probably will,” Hamish said, as he pulled Raechel back onto the dance floor. “Her mother knows everyone in town.”

  Raechel nodded, slowly. “Does anyone here really care about London?”

  Hamish gave her a considering look. “In what way?”

  “Jane was saying her mother was exiled from London,” Raechel said. “But that doesn't seem to be a problem here.”

  “You might be surprised at just how many people have c
ome here after being kicked out of London,” Hamish muttered. He glanced from side to side, then nodded to a tall man wearing a military uniform instead of a suit and tie. “That’s General Paget, the bigamist. He couldn't stay in London, but no one cares about that here. And over there is Lady Parkinson, who was tried and convicted of criminal conversation. Over here, no one cares.”

  Raechel frowned. “She had an adulterous affair?”

  “No one cares, not here,” Hamish said. “This country is a land for fresh starts, not for continuing old grudges from England.”

  “A fresh start,” Raechel mused. “I think I’d like that.”

  Hamish laughed. “Could you give up your wealth?”

  Raechel shrugged. It wasn't her wealth and never would be her wealth, unless she managed to avoid being married off until she turned twenty-five. Now, with the British Government owing her a favour, maybe she could escape such a fate ... but even so, it would cause problems. If she died young ... she wasn’t quite sure what would happen in that case. It wasn't as if anyone would respect her post-mortem wishes.