And now she had passed again. And smiled. At me.
I waited until she had gone and then returned to the bookseller’s. Asked for Aeneid.
“Don’t know why it should be so popular today.” He took it down from a shelf and slid it across the counter toward me.
“I’ve always been partial to the Greeks.”
He watched me as I turned the pages. I could feel the message, but I couldn’t take it while he stood there. I flipped past it.
“It’s a very fine volume.”
“Indeed, it is. You wouldn’t happen to have the Iliad?”
“No. Sold my copy the day before yesterday.”
“How about . . . how about . . .” What? What could I possibly ask for? “Do you have anything by Homer?”
“I do, in fact. I just . . .”
As he turned around to look, I plucked Hannah’s message from the pages. Dropped it into my pocket.
The bookseller laid a volume by Homer on the counter.
I picked it up and admired it long enough not to be rude. Set it down beside Aeneid.
“Not to your liking?”
“Perhaps another day. For now, I’ll just take the Aeneid.”
As soon as I gained the privacy of my room, I took the message from my pocket. Read it once. Then again.
Is there any possibility to delay the escape?
The Pilgrim’s Progress
If the prisoners wanted to be captured! Or be placed on a prison ship instead. The British would not evacuate the city before the Meschianza. That much was certain. But I did not know how long they would stay after the new general took command.
I sighed as I took up a piece of paper. Tore a corner off the sheet. Wrote a message back.
No.
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded
I did not have to pass the message up to headquarters. There was only one answer to give. And he would have said it just the same as me. The men would simply have to dig faster.
As I came down the back stair, I heard a commotion in the kitchen. I veered toward the public room to avoid it, but the cook’s voice made me stop. “I’ve had about enough of you as I’m prepared to take!”
She was probably yelling at her daughter again. She wasn’t the hardest working server I’d ever hired, but she certainly wasn’t the worst.
“Weren’t you I came to talk to anyway!”
But— That wasn’t the girl’s voice. It was Bartholomew Pruitt’s. I reversed my steps and went toward the kitchen. The cook had the boy by the ear and she was giving him a good shake.
“Here now!” I’m afraid I was none too kind in my tone.
As she let go the boy’s ear, he ran toward me. “It’s Ma. She’s gone and died and now they’re turning Fanny and me out of the place.”
“Who is?”
“Those redcoats. They say they’re going to tear it down to burn.”
That’s about all it was fit for. “Where’s Fanny?”
The cook closed the distance between us, threatening Bartholomew with her spoon. “She’s out in the back with that brat of hers. Like no good girl should be!” Her pronouncement on the matter was punctuated by the shake of her spoon.
I leveled a look at her. “The Pruitts are family friends, and their misfortunes need no comment from you.”
“I’ll not have my kitchen dirtied by the likes of them.”
“Mrs. Phippen, your food is abominable and your daughter is lazy. If you don’t find things to your liking here, then please don’t feel obligated to stay.”
“If you don’t like my cooking, you might of said so before now.” She pulled her apron off, stepped to the door, and yelled for her daughter.
The girls came slinking through the door from the hall.
“If we’re not appreciated here, I’ll take us off. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” But she did not actually leave. I suppose she thought I might change my mind if I had a chance to think things over. All her delay brought was time for me to calculate her pay. And her daughter’s as well.
I showed them out the back door and then ushered Fanny in once they had gone.
Bartholomew took her by the hand and led her over to a stool. “He fired the cook for you. I told you he would help us!”
Fanny settled the babe on her lap as she looked at her brother in horror. “He fired—but—” She looked at me. “I didn’t mean any harm. Bartholomew told me you would help us, but I didn’t mean—I didn’t know . . .”
The baby began to cry.
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” She looked as if she was going to cry herself.
I hated it when girls cried. “The cook had been working herself out of a job for a while.” That’s why City Tavern had been doing such brisk business. Though I hadn’t really much cared until I saw her scolding the boy. But now I was a tavern owner with no cook to run my kitchen. And no daughter to wait on the customers.
“You need to feed it.” Bartholomew directed the pronouncement toward his sister as if he was knowledgeable about such things. “She needs to feed it.” He was looking at me now as if he expected me to do something about it.
“Fine.”
“She needs a place to do it.”
“To . . .” Oh. Oh! I strode toward the office to grab my ring of keys. Gave them over to the boy. “Show her up the stair. To the fourth room on the right.”
It wasn’t long before Bartholomew came right back down. “Fanny told me to ask you what I can do.”
“What you can do . . . with what?”
“She says the cook probably left before she’d made supper. So she told me to let you put me to use.”
“Well . . .” I surveyed the mess that had been left behind. Most certainly Mrs. Phippen had been in the process of making something, but I had no way of saying what it was. “I suppose there’s something to be made here.”
We were still staring at the pots and pans and sundry ingredients when Fanny joined us. The babe was all smiles now. “Is there something to be seen here or is there supper to be made?” Fanny handed the baby to her brother and tied on the apron that Mrs. Phippen had discarded. “Looks to me like she was going to make a stew, though she’s a bit thin on the meat. Bartholomew? Put that baby down in that basket over there. Then chop me up these onions.”
Fanny bossed her brother around with such aplomb that I didn’t see any need to stay. I took the daybook from the barkeeper and had a look. Asked him to write up the bill of fare for the night on the slate. Helped pour some drinks when he got busy. And after a while, John arrived with his coterie of Meschianza organizers. He came up to order a round of drinks. Planted an elbow on the bar and leaned close when the barkeeper went to deliver it.
“I need to beg a favor. And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”
I raised a brow.
“We’ve spent all of the money brought in from our subscribers. And all the money raised through tickets. Those buntings and flags and costumes cost a small fortune!”
Just as I had imagined they would.
“The problem is, we’re only half done planning the banquet.”
“And?”
“And I’m in desperate need of a supplier for the wine.”
How kind of him to provide me with exactly the entrée I had been looking for. “I’m pleased you thought to ask.”
“You . . . are?”
“Indeed I am.”
“I’ve nothing to pay you with. That’s the other problem.”
Ah, but that’s where he was wrong! There was one thing he had which I desperately needed. “I think we can come to terms.”
I wrote up an order for the fete’s wine. And secured an invitation for myself and a guest. No one could accuse Jeremiah Jones or Hannah Sunderland of having anything to do with a prison escape if we were attending the party of the year the night that it happened.
I didn’t think to check back with the kitchen until after business had slowed. I hadn’t heard any com
plaints about the food and I was starting to hunger for some myself. As I stepped through the door, Bartholomew gave me a fierce look and jerked his head toward the basket where the baby was sleeping.
Fanny dished me up a plate.
I took it out into the back even though I was more than certain both Bartholomew and Fanny had eaten their fill tonight. It wasn’t half bad. In fact, I could honestly say that it was quite good! I needed a cook. They needed . . . everything. Maybe we could come to an agreement.
As I was working over what that might be, I heard the door open. Heard the padding of feet against the earth. Bartholomew soon sidled up to me. “Fanny told me to ask, did you want us to come back tomorrow.”
I put my plate down. Looked at him. “When was it that your mother died?”
“Back a week ago. Or so.”
“And you didn’t tell me? I might have been able to do something about your place.”
He shrugged.
“Did you have her buried?”
“The rector did. At potter’s field, in Southeast Square.” He kicked at a stone. “Did you want us back then? In the morning maybe?”
“Back? Are you going somewhere?”
He shrugged.
“You can stay up in that room I showed you earlier. If you want.” I was making more money than I had a right to be. And the Pruitts—what was left of them—had nothing at all.
“I suppose I could ask Fanny if she wants to.”
“I’m stuck without a cook. I could pay her what I paid Mrs. Phippen. And I could pay you what I paid her daughter.”
“You paid her daughter? But she hardly—”
I ignored him. “And you could take that room upstairs, the two of you, as your own.”
He thought on it for a minute or two. “You’d have to give us board as well.”
“I suppose I could do that.”
“And I won’t chop onions and such forever.”
“No. You probably wouldn’t.”
“Just so we’re agreed.”
“I think we’re agreed. Why don’t you go tell your sister?” I could see her peering out at us through the doorway. I let Bartholomew go ahead, lingering to collect my plate and my spoon. As I neared the door, I could hear them.
“He says he’ll let us stay!”
“Truly?”
“As long as you cook and I help. And we can have that room upstairs.”
The silence that followed was so long that I began to worry, but as I stepped up onto the stair, I could hear Bartholomew speaking. “It’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine now.”
And I could hear Fanny weeping.
35
Hannah
It was sixth day, the sky was clear, and there was a pleasant breeze. It was a fine giving day and yet Polly was crying as she entered the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s General Howe. He’s decided to send men out into the countryside. And Major Lindley’s to go with them.”
I wondered if Jeremiah had heard about this. “I’m sure he’s not leaving for good.”
“It’s just that Father finally agreed to let me attend a play. There aren’t many more left this season, and Major Lindley was going to take me. But now we can’t go!”
“I’m sure it wasn’t meant for thy inconvenience.”
“No. But given the chance, Father might change his mind. I hope they kill all those rebels! They’re ruining all the fun.”
That was a sentiment with which I could do nothing but disagree. “Kill all those rebels? My brother among them?” Someone ought to feel sorry for his death. Someone ought to be shamed by it.
A flush lit her cheeks. “Not him. I meant . . . the others. I don’t see why they don’t just give up.”
“Because they’ll be treated the same way as the prisoners at the new jail. Mocked for being colonials. Despised for having dared to resist the king. They can’t give up.” And I knew it now more than ever.
“They won’t win. They can’t. Not against the King’s army.”
To that I had nothing to say, because I feared the very same thing. I didn’t see how they could win, but could quite vividly imagine many ways for them to lose. “I just wish . . .” There were no words for what I wished. I wished for a new earth, a place where people did not destroy themselves through violence. And I wished for a new heaven, one from which God would deign to speak.
“Anyone can see how this will end. And I wish it just would!” She slid a glance toward me. “Without any more people having to suffer.”
Without any more people having to suffer.
All of the prisoners in Walnut Street Jail suffered, though not all of them had died. Why had Robert had to die? And why hadn’t I told Jeremiah? I’d almost done it. I’d almost written it on the note I’d placed in Aeneid.
So why hadn’t I?
That was the puzzle.
The memory of Jeremiah’s comfort that night down in the cellar had kept me calm through many a storm. The thought of his presence made me feel safe in this world where I feared I would never feel safe again. So why had I not told him?
Perhaps because of exactly those things.
I’d woken from the fever quite certain that he was sitting right beside me. When I’d discovered he was not there, when I’d cried, Mother and Father had assumed it had been for joy at being alive. I hadn’t told them it was out of distress. I’d been so sure of his presence that his absence felt like being . . . abandoned.
The fever had changed everything.
If he knew Robert were dead, he might force me from the plan altogether. The prisoners knew the date and time. There wasn’t anything complicated about it. They would either be finished with the tunnel on the night of the Meschianza and they would escape . . . or they would not.
But I could not allow Jeremiah to dismiss me. There was too much left undone and too much that was still unresolved in my heart. And until I arrived at some sort of solution, I would not be set aside.
During dinner that afternoon, Davy came into the dining room, walked up to Uncle, and held out a silver tray. Uncle took an envelope from it and then set it on the table beside his plate and continued eating.
Polly’s face was a tempest of emotions. Finally she put down her fork and her knife and pushed away her plate. “Aren’t you going to open it, Father?”
He looked at her over the rim of his goblet. “Later. After we’re done with dinner.”
“But it might be something important.”
“Even important things can wait for cook’s pudding.”
Polly began to say more but was silenced by a look from her mother. She poked at her food in a desultory manner for the rest of the meal, sliding dark looks at her father as she did so.
After the dessert had been served—and eaten—and after the table had been cleared, Uncle took up the envelope. He bowed it back and forth between his hands.
Polly watched with impatience clearly written upon her face.
Finally he asked Davy to bring him a knife. After prying off the wax seal and opening the envelope, he pulled a card from it. He read it and then frowned, turning it over and then back again.
“What does it say?” Polly nearly shrieked the question.
“It’s an invitation.”
“To what?”
“Tsk.” Aunt Rebekah admonished her with a glance. “ ’Tis none of your business, Daughter, I’m sure. And in any case, ’tisn’t proper to conduct business at dinner.”
“It’s not business. Papa said it was an invitation.”
“Which is none of your business.” She said the words with a smile that brooked no reply.
“I don’t see why Papa wouldn’t speak of it.” Polly was complaining as we climbed the stair that night to bed. She’d been disagreeable all afternoon.
“If it wasn’t meant for thee . . . ?”
“It was.” She was both definite and firm in her opinion.
“How can thee know it?”
“But how can thee be so certain?”
“He told me he was going to send it. And Peggy Shippen received her invitation this morning. If Papa didn’t tell me, it’s because he hasn’t decided yet whether I should go. I’m going to have to make him understand that it’s imperative.”
Polly launched her campaign the next morning as we were all sitting in the parlor with our handiwork. “Did you know that Major Lindley is the third cousin to the Earl of Warwick?”
Aunt Rebekah looked up from her work. “Is he, dear?”
“His family has a country seat in Wiltshire.”
“Do they?” Aunt embroidered on for several minutes while Polly fairly boiled with impatience. Finally, Aunt looked over at Polly and smiled. “I’m sure it can’t be nearly as lovely as the Fairmonts’ country home down near Germantown. Or the Mortons’.”
The Fairmont and Morton sons had joined the Queen’s Rangers just that autumn.
“It’s an ancestral home.” Polly spoke the words through her teeth.
“Perhaps when the major retires out of the military, he’ll finally be able to return to it. Life as an officer is not as genteel as it might seem.” She set down her work, directing her full attention to her daughter. “It’s not all picnics and plays and dancing.”
“Of course it isn’t.”
“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of military men.”
“I haven’t.”
Aunt took her work back up. “Good.”
It was plain to me that neither of them believed the other. Polly suddenly uttered a cry and popped her finger into her mouth.
“What’s come over you, child? Where’s your thimble?”
She shrugged.
“If your head is in the clouds now, how am I ever going to get any work out of you once I tell you that you’ve been invited to that fete the officers are all carrying on about?” Her eyes were on her handiwork, though she shot a glance at her daughter in between stitches.
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