The Tory Widow
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
PART ONE - Revolution
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
PART TWO - Occupation
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PART THREE - Epilogue
HISTORICAL NOTE
THE TORY WIDOW
Praise for Midwife of the Blue Ridge
“A terrific book! A riveting tale of love, struggle
and savagery on America’s colonial frontier.”
—Bernard Cornwell
“Love and adventure, pride and passion . . .
A vivid evocation of time and place . . . An unforgettable
novel that will capture your heart. There is simply no
way to put it down once you have begun.”
—Rosemary Rogers
“A splendid novel of passion and danger in the early Virginias
by a talented new author. I highly recommend it!”
—Bertrice Small
“Full of action, passion and period detail.”
—Historical Novel Review
“Blevins doesn’t soft-pedal the brutal realities of
women’s lot in the colonies, but gives strong,
skilled Maggie pluck and hope.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lavishly and minutely described . . . an in-depth and up-close
look at what life was really like in those times.”
—Booklist
Berkley Titles by Christine Blevins
MIDWIFE OF THE BLUE RIDGE
THE TORY WIDOW
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196,
South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2009 by Christine Blevins.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / April 2009
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Blevins, Christine.
The Tory widow / Christine Blevins.—Berkley trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-03244-2
1. New York (N.Y.)—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3602.L478T67 2009
813’.6—dc22
2008053564
http://us.penguingroup.com
For Brian
My Dearest Friend
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
From story conception to holding this real book in my hands, I have been fortunate to draw support from many quarters.
The sage advice goes, “write what you know,” and I would first like to acknowledge the many historians and writers whose diligent work enabled me to understand and “know” Revolutionary New York.
I must thank my fabulous literary agent, Nancy Coffey, for the boatloads of encouragement and advice, especially as the deadline loomed. I am grateful to artist James Griffin and art director Judith Langerman for the production of a beautiful and arresting cover. Thanks to copy editor Jacky Sach for her particular eye, and to diligent managing editor Crissie Johnson for pulling it all together and overseeing the details. Special thanks to my terrific editor, Jackie Cantor, whose keen insight and remarkable story acumen led me to write a better book.
It is hard to imagine finishing this novel without the kind and earnest advocacy of my good friend David Blinderman. I’m also quite grateful to my friend Farheen Dogar for finding time to offer valuable critique on my manuscript pages.
I thrive on encouragement from my wonderful family, and they have never failed to be there for me. For their constant love and support, I’d like to thank my mother, Anela Zownir; my sister, Natalie Frank; my brother, Robert Zownir; my sons Jason Blevins and Bob Blevins; my daughters Grace Blevins and Natalie Momoh; and my son-in-law, Lucky Momoh. I love you all very much.
I am grateful to all of my in-laws—Mary Ann Zownir, Darlene and Larry Kaplan, and Wayne and Jeannie Blevins—for cheering me on. I appreciate the support shown by my crew of nieces and nephews—Joey Morris, Aaron Frank, Madeline Frank, Lisa and Kurt McKenzie, Wes Kaplan, Rory Moore, Brad and Marnie Morris, Casey Morris and Zoe Morris.
And last—but never least—for helping me maintain the discipline and dedication it takes to research and write, I am most grateful to my husband, Brian Blevins. He is without doubt the finest story-brainstormer, first-reader, web-designer, foot-rubber and bolsterer- of-sagging-confidence-and-fragile-ego in the whole wide world. Nothing would be possible or any fun without you, honey.
—CB
May 20, 1766
St. Paul’s at Broad Way and Fulton Street, New York City
THE bright new chapel had yet to be furnished with pews, leaving the floor an uninterrupted chequerboard of gray and white stone tile. Anne Peabody stood centered on a single square—twisting and untwisting a damp handkerchief in her hands—a wretched pawn on this, her wedding day.
The old minister did not spare a glance at the worn book open on his palms. He faced the bride and groom and by rote recited the matrimonial service in a brisk monotone.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimo
ny . . .”
The words provoked a thrum in her head, and Anne felt herself go pale. She ached to reach back and loosen the taut knot of chestnut hair laying heavy at the nape of her neck. Blue eyes shiny with restrained tears darted maniacally from the minister, to the man standing at her left and down to her mother’s best lace-edged hanky wadded in her fists.
Anne took in a long breath. To regain a modicum of composure, she began to mimic her betrothed. Standing stiffly erect, she focused beyond the scowling cleric’s shoulder, on the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams streaming in through sanctuary windowpanes.
The church door opened on squalling hinges. Without a by-your-leave, two men entered, struggling to carry a bulky section of ornate balustrade between them. The older of the two groaned when he noticed the ceremony taking place.
“Blood and thunder—now we’ll catch it.”
Anne’s groom kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but the minister paused and glared as the workmen shuffled past the spartan wedding party to drop their burden at the base of one of the columns supporting the vaulted ceiling. The carpenter and his apprentice were quick to swipe the caps from their heads.
“Beg pardon, Vicar.” The elder carpenter shoved his apprentice to take up positions behind the bride’s father and brother.
“Fine day to tie the knot,” the younger carpenter offered.
Satisfied with the comportment of the two unexpected guests, the minister resumed.
“Peter Merrick and Anne Peabody, I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you must now confess it . . .”
Any impediment? Anne suffered a sideways peek at her soon-to-be husband. He’s old. He reeks of cabbage and onion. His wig is in dire need of powder. His cuffs are frayed, his cravat stained . . . and there is hair growing out of his ears!
“Mr. Merrick, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”
Peter Merrick did not hesitate to answer. “I will.”
Struck by a sudden notion that her father might yet muster up a shred of paternal love and rescue her from impending doom, Anne cast a desperate glance over her shoulder. Standing beside her brother, Amos Peabody seemed oblivious to his daughter’s plight. He winked and nodded, quite puffed up by the brilliance of the match he’d engineered on her behalf.
“The man’s a respected printer, bookseller and stationer—can you imagine, Annie?” her father had boasted on the day he’d negotiated the marriage. “A two-press shop with a steady clientele—the carriage trade! Merrick has a fine suite of rooms above his shop to bide in, and servants to tend you when you call. Oh, daughter, you will not want.”
On the surface, the match was more than a dowerless eighteen-year-old of her station could expect. Merrick’s enterprise in New York City dwarfed the failing Peabody Printshop upriver in tiny Peekskill, where Anne and her brother, David, struggled with their father to produce third-rate work using worn type and a rickety old press that needed repair more oft than not.
Amos Peabody had negotiated a shrewd deal with his old friend, exchanging his only daughter’s hand for a complete set of hard-to-come-by Dutch-made type, much-needed replacement press parts and ten reams of quality bond. A boon to the Peabody family fortune, Anne’s marriage to Peter Merrick put an end to the unsettling talk of sending young David out to be bound as an apprentice and ensured continuance of the family business.
“Anne Peabody, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honor and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”
“I will.”
The moment she uttered the fated words forsaking her happiness, her future and all she’d ever known, a distant church bell tolled. The one bell was soon joined by another, and another, till it seemed every steeple and belfry in the city echoed in an unending, doleful peal.
The minister grew agitated and rushed to finish the service. Erratic bursts of musket fire and the far-off boom of a cannon added to the clamor coming from the street. No longer able to withhold curiosity, the two carpenters and David sprinted out the sanctuary door.
Pronouncing bride and groom “man and wife,” the clergyman clapped his book shut and also abandoned the wedded pair.
The father of the bride stepped forward. With a hurried, “Congratulations!” accompanied by an abrupt slap to the groom’s back, he, too, was quick on the minister’s heels, out the door.
Peter Merrick turned and faced his new wife. He bent awkwardly at knees and waist to plant a tight, dry kiss on her cheek. Without further ado, he rushed to join the others.
All alone, Anne Merrick gave herself over to all the self-pity, anger, loneliness and fear she’d suppressed for weeks. Sobbing, she wadded her tear-drenched hanky and scrubbed hard at the spot on her cheek where Mr. Merrick had sealed their union with a kiss.
Heaving a ragged sigh, she sniffed and fussed with the lace at her elbows and adjusted the gauzy kerchief at her neckline. Somewhat composed, Anne gathered the beryl blue silk of her best dress, and joined the men congregated near the northernmost stone column supporting the portico roof.
The air was alive with bells clanging and sporadic gunfire. Across Broad Way, a sizable crowd formed on the green of the Commons, and people spilled from shops, houses and narrow alleyways onto the dusty road. Her brother, David, stood at the far end of the chapel stoop in a glum huddle with the two carpenters, the minister and Peter Merrick.
“What news?” Anne asked.
David shrugged. “Father went to find out. He bade us all stay put.”
The minister lamented, “It takes some time for word to make its way here, to the edge of town.”
“There come the newsboys now.” Peter Merrick nodded, folding his arms across his chest.
Several young men in shirtsleeves and leather aprons ran down Broad Way armed with thick sheaves of paper. Fresh off the press, the broadsides being distributed were greeted with rousing cheers. One of these fresh-faced young men ran up to St. Paul’s, handing his last pages to Merrick and the minister. Breathless he blurted, “Arrived on the express from Boston . . . the Stamp Act’s been repealed!”
“Huzzah!” David and the two carpenters leaped up and punched the air. “We did it! We did it.” The ridiculous trio of instant friends ran out to the crowded street in a tumbled camaraderie of backslapping and jovial shoving. They linked arms and marched onto the Commons to join with the singing and dancing celebrants.
“I-I don’t believe it!” The minister patted his pockets for his spectacles.
Grim-faced Merrick held the paper at arm’s length, squinting at the news. “Our King would never accede to the whim of Whig radicals.” He rattled the sheet at the messenger. “Who is your master? Which Whig press manufactured this flummery?”
Unflinching, the young man squared broad shoulders. “I’m Jack Hampton, sir, apprenticed with Parker’s Press, and that”—Jack tapped the broadside in Merrick ’s hand—“is excerpted word for word from the London Times, that is.”
“Parker’s Press? A rabid dissenter—he is no friend to the Crown.” Peter Merrick crumpled the broadside into a ball and flung it to the ground. “Your master ought think twice before publishing lies that excite the rabble into disobedience and sedition.”
Dark brows knit, jaw tight, fists clenched, Jack Hampton mounted the stoop. “John Parker is nothing but a true Son of Liberty, sir, and he publishes only the Truth.” The young man turned and noticed Anne and the minister, standing off to the side. He stepped back
, took a breath and brushed back a shock of black hair that’d escaped his queue. “But I think this is neither the time nor place for a debate on the rights of freemen and the merits of civil dissent, is it?” A white-toothed grin flashed and with a brash wink he turned to Anne and said, “Cheer up there, lass. We stood toe-to-toe with Parliament and we showed ’em what’s what!”
Jack stepped forward, grasped Anne round the waist with ink-stained hands and swung her up through the air, shouting, “Joy to America! Huzzah the Liberty Boys! Huzzah the King!” Setting her back to her feet, he pulled her close and kissed Anne full on the mouth.
Peter Merrick sputtered, “Why . . . I . . . you—you . . .” But before he could enunciate his outrage, one of Hampton’s likewise apron-clad cohorts called from the street.
“Hoy, Jack! Quit sniffin’ after petticoats—the lads are a-waitin’ on us . . .”
Bold young Jack took Anne by the hand and raised her fingertips to his lips in a gesture so suddenly genteel as to take her breath away. In that moment, Anne’s life seemed in her grasp—the bells rang bright, the world was happy—then Jack Hampton bounded down the stair and out onto the street to join his mates.
“Scoundrel!” Peter Merrick shouted, with fist raised. “I shall make a report to your master!”
Jack turned and thumbed his nose. “Take heart, you ol’ Tory! Meet me at Montagne’s—bring your pretty daughter . . .” He blew Anne a kiss. “We can all toast our good King’s health!”
While Merrick cursed and grumbled, Anne marked Jack and his friend dodging their way across Broad Way onto the Commons. She so wished she could drum up the courage to shed her misspoken vows and forced-upon obligations—the courage to run after the wild lad and take him by the hand. As Jack Hampton disappeared amid the raucous throng, Anne felt her heart spin away and clatter, like a bucket lost down the depths of a deep, deep well.