The Turning of Anne Merrick

by Christine Blevins

  “I think you should lift your skirts—” Pepperell answered, a wicked twinkle in his eye. “At least until we cross over this muddy patch.”

  Like dipping a toe in bathwater, Anne hiked her hemline and tested her footing before venturing forth. Feeling the boggy ground yield under light pressure, she pulled back as if scalded.

  Pepperell took a few steps forward. “A quagmire. Your fancy slippers will not survive it. I must carry you over.”

  “Carry? Oh, no…” Anne spun around, but without a light, she could not figure an alternative route. “Such an imposition…”

  “Come…” Arms wide, Geoffrey said, “I’m happy for any excuse to sweep a woman off her feet.”

  With awkward hesitation, Anne moved in and placed her arms about his neck. The Captain dipped down and swooped her up with ease. Cradling her like a babe, his right arm supporting her legs was lost in a froth of skirts and petticoats, and his left necessarily supported her back. The tips of his fingers pressed into flesh inches away from her breast, setting her heart a-race. Wriggling to shift into a less intimate hold, Anne found she only incited the Redcoat to tighten his grasp.

  “Best not squirm, or we’ll both go tumbling into the muck,” Pepperell said. “Ready?”

  No! Anne thought, but she nodded and said, “Yes.”

  Geoffrey moved forward slowly on the soft and slippery ground, his hanger sword thumping against his hip. It was a warm evening, and Anne could feel the heat of the man’s body penetrating through the layers of linen and wool.

  Jack would not like this, she thought, with an audible groan.

  Pepperell paused. “Pardon?”

  “Nothing… It’s just…” She raised the timbre of her voice to mask the blatant pounding of her heart. “I’m—I’m so sorry my silly footwear is causing you to tote me about like a sack of turnips.”

  “Sack of turnips!” Without breaking stride, Pepperell gave her a little toss into the air. “You are no more than a bundle of feathers. I could carry you for miles.”

  Miles! Anne ached for the fan in her pocket. She was in the dark, in the woods, in the arms of a man—not Jack—and she was sweating.

  Take a breath… not much farther… Anne focused on the glint of rhinestones rising and falling beyond the hemlines of her skirts as her feet bobbed up and down.

  The Redcoat was not as tall or broad-shouldered as Jack, and he smelled different—not bad—just different. Sandalwood. That was the scent he wore.

  Jack is soap, leather, and ink, and Geoffrey is… Anne stopped herself. Jack would not like this.

  “Almost clear…” Pepperell murmured in her ear.

  Anne looked up at his handsome face scant inches away, and even though his features were lost in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat, she could somehow tell he was smiling, and she began to relax in his arms.

  “And there you go—” Pepperell stopped and set her on her feet. “Silly slippers safe and sound.”

  “Such an imposition. Thank you, sir.” Anne tugged at her stays, and smoothed her skirts. “Had I known, I might have…”

  “Shhh!” Pepperell cocked his head. “Do you hear it?”

  A faint melody hovered above the nighttime din.

  Anne nodded. “A flute!”

  Geoffrey hummed along for a bit before guessing, “Haydn, I think.”

  “Whatever it is, it sounds lovely…” Anne tugged the fan from her pocket and beat cool air onto her flushed face. “A respite from fife, drum, and the drone of those Scotch pipes.”

  They followed the melody to the area behind the marquee tent, where their fellow dinner companions mingled around a long table set in a clearing within a cathedral of tall maple trees. Off to the side, a quartet of mustachioed musicians dressed in Hessian green played a serenade on flute, hautboy, viola, and cello.

  The fact that Gentleman Johnny did not stint when it came to his own comfort was common knowledge in the camp. Rumor claimed Burgoyne’s personal baggage required no fewer than thirty-five carts equipped with special springs so as not to damage the delicate content he insisted on transporting along the rough and corduroy roads. Anne always assumed such camp talk to be gossip-fueled exaggeration, but she was struck dumb witnessing firsthand the level of elegance Burgoyne managed to drag into the wilderness.

  It was as if she’d stepped into another world. The dining table sparkled under a scattering of glass lanterns suspended in the tree branches overhead. Ten place settings of the finest china, crystal stemware, and cutlery she’d ever seen were laid out on lustrous damask cloth. At the table’s center, a silver bowl exploded with woodland blooms and was flanked by beeswax tapers burning in four-arm candelabra—the wavering candlelight dancing pretty among the maple leaves. Adding to the otherworld quality, plumes of scented smoke emanated from half a dozen cressets—the iron cages containing burning cedar knots situated just so around the perimeter, to keep mosquitoes and other pests away. After weeks of rough living under soggy canvas in the company of teamsters, sutlers, and camp followers, Anne could not help but be both enchanted and intimidated by the scene and the company.

  “A moment, Captain.” Anne stopped beneath the awning of the marquee to smooth her curls, fluff her skirts, and assess the quality of the waiting company.

  The three ladies in attendance were dressed in shining satin and taffeta. Two of the five men wore the blue coats of the German dragoons. The other three wore British red. With the exception of Geoffrey Pepperell, and the pretty brunette smiling at Burgoyne’s side, the men and women all wore their hair pomaded, powdered, and curled, as if dressed for presentation to the King himself.

  Anne assumed the young woman with Gordon Lennox to be his wife, Lucy. The older officer speaking with Burgoyne was dressed in the uniform of the 24th Foot. This man was very familiar to Anne, though she could not place him in her memory. The presence of German officers came as a complete surprise. Fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, Anne blotted her brow and the back of her neck.

  “I fear I’m underdressed…”

  “Don’t be silly. You are perfect.”

  “You’re kind, Captain, but I’m neither blind nor stupid.” Anne stuffed the hankie away and opened her fan to cool the flush from her cheeks. “Who is the brunette in blue?”

  “Ah! That would be Fanny Loescher, the General’s… companion.” Pepperell wagged his eyebrows. “They say she is part Huron.”

  Anne took heart in the fact that Burgoyne’s paramour did not bother to powder her black curls. “Miss Loescher is quite beautiful.”

  “The woman is no ‘miss.’” Pepperell kept his voice low. “There is a Mr. Loescher somewhere, but it seems he and the General have come to a… a mutually beneficial arrangement for the duration.”

  “Really?” Anne arched her brows. “Would you say Mrs. Loescher is the General’s ammunition wife?”

  Pepperell seemed disconcerted by the phrase. “Something of that nature.”

  Anne pointed toward the two men in blue. “Are those Hessian officers?”

  “Brunswickers. The tall man is Colonel Friedrich Baum. The portly fellow is his commander, General von Riedesel.”

  “And the tiny lady in yellow? The German general’s mistress?”

  “No, she is his true wife—the Baroness von Riedesel. A most dedicated woman, she follows the campaign with three children in tow—her youngest yet a babe in arms.”

  Tall, and very distinguished in his full Redcoat regalia, General Burgoyne noticed Geoffrey and Anne lingering on the outskirts and waved them into the circle. “Young Pepperell! Come join us!”

  All eyes turned and Geoffrey offered his arm. “Come along, Mrs. Merrick, and I will make you known.”

  Fingers light on Pepperell’s forearm, Anne swallowed back the tightening in her throat and resisted a strong urge to hide behind the unfurl of her fan. The quiet tone of this intimate party was a contrast to the lavish military affairs she’d attended with Edward Blankenship in New York, where it was easy to bec
ome inconspicuous in the hubbub. Here, with her plain hair and cotton dress, she was as flagrant as a sparrow in a nest of cardinals.

  “How do you do?” Anne smiled and nodded as one by one she was presented to the company.

  “…my commander, Brigadier General Simon Fraser of the Twenty-fourth Foot, Advance Corps,” Geoffrey completed the round of introductions. “And, last but not least, may I present Lieutenant General John Burgoyne, Commander of His Majesty’s Canada Army.”

  “A pleasure,” Anne murmured, dipping an abbreviated curtsy.

  Simon Fraser stepped forward with a slight bow. “Your name and visage breed familiarity, Mrs. Merrick, but I canna fathom the how or why of it…”

  His controlled Scottish burr combined with a close-in look at his features provoked an instant thud of recognition in her chest. This man had often frequented the Crown and Quill in New York, espousing a particular fondness for Sally’s scones and peach jam.

  Anne fluttered her fan, floundering for a response, when Pepperell offered, “Perhaps, sir, you’ve spied the lovely lady about the camp. Mrs. Merrick supplies the army with paper, ink, and quill, and her signboard proclaims ‘Merrick’s Stationery.’”

  “Ink and quill…” Fraser repeated, eyeing her with a furrowed brow. “Aye… that must be it…”

  “Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen!” Burgoyne ordered. “Dinner is served.”

  John Burgoyne claimed one end of the table, and Simon Fraser the other. Anne did not want to encourage any more recollections, especially one that might link her to the British officer she left dead on the floor of the Crown and Quill. She scurried to the chair on Burgoyne’s right, as far as possible from the scrutiny of the 24th’s commanding officer.

  Fanny Loescher settled languid in a chair across the table from Anne and Geoffrey. Moving together as if fastened with buttons, the three German guests sat beside Mrs. Loescher. Once Lucy and Gordon Lennox took the remaining seats beside Geoffrey, the musicians struck up an energetic allemande, and four red-jacketed waiters capped with feathered turbans marched out from the marquee, each carrying a green bottle swathed in white cloth.

  “Oh, dear Johnny! More champagne?” Fanny squealed and clapped her hands. “I swan! You are aiming to see me tipsy!” Set off by the pale blue satin of her gown, the woman’s olive skin glowed in the candlelight, and her rouged lips parted in breathless anticipation as the orderlies reached in to fill the crystal flutes.

  “An excellent vintage,” Burgoyne assured his guests. “Mrs. Loescher and I sampled a glass while waiting for everyone to arrive.”

  “Now, tell the truth, Johnny.” Fanny Loescher smiled and snapped open her fan. “You know very well we sampled more than one glass.”

  Anne and Lucy Lennox hid their smiles behind their fans. With a roll of her eyes, the Baroness von Riedesel did not bother to conceal her disdain for the General’s paramour.

  Burgoyne stood with glass raised. “I give you His Majesty, the King! God bless him!”

  “The King!” The response came in a clatter of crystal, and everyone partook in a sip from his or her glass.

  General von Riedesel rose and, in clipped, precise English, said, “To my patron, Charles, the Duke of Brunswick and Luneburg.”

  “The Duke!”

  Colonel Baum popped up to his feet in a click of boot heels, his accent heavy. “To Braunschweig—ze home auf fightink men. Prost!”

  “To Brunswick!”

  Simon Fraser rose, his glass held high. “To Caledonia—the nursery of learning, and the birthplace of heroes.”

  “Caledonia!”

  Geoffrey Pepperell leapt to his feet and put a diplomatic end to the nationalistic sparring. “A toast to honest men and pretty women of all nations!”

  Anne raised her glass, and smiled. To these United States.

  “Hear, hear!”

  The waiters returned bearing the first service—rattlesnake soup ladled into shallow, wide-rimmed bowls. Each diner was served a miniature loaf of bread along with a dish of fresh-churned butter.

  “Lennox and Pepperell have provided the soup course tonight,” Burgoyne announced. “The wonderful bread is supplied by the courtesy of Baroness von Riedesel.”

  “Proper wheat loaves!” Lucy Lennox marveled.

  “And it’s still warm!” Anne tore her crusty roll in two. “What a special treat, Baroness.”

  “I am simply the intermediary,” the young Baroness acknowledged. “A clever countrywoman of mine has contrived a portable oven from bricks she salvaged at Fort Anne. General Burgoyne supplied the flour and sponge. It is wonderful, no?”

  Geoffrey and Gordon’s rattlesnake soup proved to be more of a stew—chunks of tender snake meat in a brown broth thick with onion, carrot, beans, and potatoes. Other than the Baroness, who seemed to approach her bowl with the same trepidation Anne was feeling, everyone else seemed to relish the dish. Anne screwed up her courage and took a taste, surprised by the flavor. “It is delicious…” she assured the Baroness. “The taste of it puts me in mind of something…”

  “Much like frogs’ legs, I think,” General Burgoyne offered.

  “Exactly,” Anne agreed, though she’d never in her life consumed a frog leg.

  “Is it true, Mrs. Merrick,” Lucy Lennox chirped between spoonfuls, “that you hunted down and killed this very snake with your own two hands?”

  “I fear the tale is growing in the telling.” Anne laughed. “There was no hunt. My maid and I simply reacted as anyone might when faced with sharing a campsite with a venomous pest.”

  “To enlighten the diners,” Lennox piped in. “It should be noted that the ‘pest’ Mrs. Merrick faced was almost five feet in length and, in girth, the thickness of my forearm.”

  Geoffrey added, “My native scout claims it is one of the largest timber rattlers he’s ever seen…” And with that preamble, he launched into an animated recounting of the adventure. “… and then Miss Sally Tucker replied,” Pepperell concluded, putting on an exaggerated brogue, “A’d sooner eat ma weight in coo patties, than nibble on th’ meanest morsel of tha’ poisonous viper…”

  Laughing along with the company, Simon Fraser clapped his hands together. “Now I recollect! You were the proprietress of the Crown and Quill, Mrs. Merrick, were you not?”

  Anne forced a calm smile. Careful.

  “The Crown and Quill, sir?” Geoffrey asked.

  “A tea shop in New York town. A Scots lass by the name of Sally Tucker was at work there, producing the finest scones this side of the Hebrides…”

  Undone by his recollection, Anne chose her words with care. “Sally is with me still, sir, baking her scones, bannock, and shortbread for the camp. She suffers no difficulty in selling her wares. I shall have her deliver a batch to you in the morning.”

  Fraser lifted his glass. “Grand!”

  Geoffrey Pepperell shifted back in his chair. “So you own a tea shop in New York?”

  “Actually, I own a printshop in New York.” Anne’s heart beat as fast and furious as the drum call to assemble. She took a slow sip of champagne and gathered her wits. Jack had advised it was best to keep to the truth as much as possible when put to any question—especially a question she’d rather not answer.

  “You see, I come from a printing family—trained to set type and mix ink since I was a small girl. As is common in our trade, I was married off to a printer, bringing my skills to benefit his business. When Mr. Merrick died of the pox five years ago, I inherited Merrick’s Press and Stationery.”

  “And the tea shop?” Pepperell persisted.

  “The tea shop is merely an offshoot enterprise wrought by the rebellion. When the Sons of Liberty took control of the city, rebel mobs ran rampant and Loyalists were persecuted—some tarred and feathered. Those Loyalists who did not leave of their own accord were being run out of town. As Merrick’s had always catered to a Loyal clientele, my shop was stormed by a mob who ruined my press and stole my types. I did not cotton to the notion of be
ing forced to leave my wherewithal, so, digging in our heels, Sally and I took to selling coffee and scones in order to survive.” Anne put on her best smile. “As you can imagine, we did not actually serve any tea until General Howe regained control of the city.”

  Lennox held his glass high. “To India tea and the restoration of civilization!”

  Everyone laughed and touched glasses.

  “I visited New York with Mr. Loescher this winter past.” Fanny held her glass out and one of the waiters stepped forward to renew her supply. “It is a dirty, smelly place.”

  “The city has seen better days,” Anne agreed.

  Fraser said, “It’s a wonder, Mrs. Merrick, that you survived to see Lord Howe’s army regain control of the island. It must have been difficult for you during the rebel occupation.”

  Anne gave a little shrug. “As my girl Sally would say, needs must when the devil drives.”

  “We welcome you to our cadre, Mrs. Merrick,” John Burgoyne said, “but I have to wonder what has compelled you to leave the safety of our British bastion in New York town and join this army on its journey?”

  Anne looked the General straight in the eye. “I am bound for Albany, sir, to begin a new venture with my brother. At his suggestion, I took along my stock of wares and joined the army as a purveyor, and it is proving to be a safe and profitable means of transport for a widow alone.”

  Much to Anne’s relief, her answer seemed to satisfy the General. He called for red wine to be served prior to the second service, and attention was diverted while bottles were uncorked and glasses filled.

  “A new wine requires a new toast.” Burgoyne rose to his feet once again. “May the enemies of Britain be destitute of beef and claret!”

  “Hear, hear!”

  General Fraser contemplated the red liquid in his glass. “Perhaps, Mrs. Merrick, you can refresh my memory. I seem to recall an incident—some recent tragedy at the Crown and Quill…”

  Fluttering her fan at high speed, Anne could feel her face go red. “An awful, awful tragedy. It pains me so to even think on it…” Angling toward General Burgoyne, she put her wineglass to her nose, breathing deep.