The Tory Widow

by Christine Blevins

  “Jaysus!” O’Keefe startled. “Bloody unnerving—him sittin’ there in the dark like that.” The sergeant’s eye darted to the bottle on the provost’s desk. Sweeping a furry tongue over fleshy lips, he asked, “How about givin’ yer fellow countryman a scoof—a little hair of the dog, eh?”

  “How about I give you a big boot up your arse?” Cunningham growled, and waved him off. “Get going. I’ll finish up here and meet you at the gallows behind Bridewell.”

  O’Keefe herded Richmond toward the door and Cunningham snatched up his quill and called after them, “Put each to the test—I don’t want any stoic bastards on my gallows, aye?”

  “Aye . . .” The sergeant dragged Richmond along by the sleeve. “We know full well how ye like ’em.”

  The provost double-checked his tallies and scrawled a signature across the bottom of his report. He dusted the whole document with a sprinkle from his pounce pot, and set it aside. Propping his boots on the desktop, he upended the bottle of rum, gulping and swallowing until his eyes watered and his throat stung, sucking the bottle dry of every drop.

  Leaning over in his chair, he set the bottle on its side, and sent it rolling with a gentle push. Like faraway thunder, the bottle rumbled over the seams and knots in the floorboards, ending its long, slow roll with a dead thunk against the wall. Cunningham closed his eyes and fingered the smooth patch of scar tissue above his right ear, lips hardly moving, his whisper barely audible.

  “Repay in kind . . . and then some.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  How trifling, how ridiculous, do the little,

  paltry cavellings, of a few weak or interested men appear,

  when weighed against the business of a world.

  THOMAS PAINE, Common Sense

  Wednesday, June 4, 1777

  Up in the Garret, Making Ready for the Ball

  STARTING with a knot at the top, Sally looped the cording from eyelet to eyelet, tugging up the slack, and lacing Anne into her stays with a firm double bow at the small of her waist.

  “Now where’s our bum roll gone to?” Hands to hips, she glanced around the room.

  Though it was the larger of the two garret rooms, her mistress’s bedchamber was overcrowded with furnishings, and so it seemed much smaller than Sally’s spartan quarters. She cast about for the errant roll, rifling through the mayhem of petticoats, kerchiefs, stockings and ribbons strewn over the servant-sized bed pushed into the corner.

  “There it is, Sal.” Anne pointed to the floor near the Dutch stove where Bandit lay, tongue lolling, his head resting comfortably on the moon-shaped pillow.

  “Imp! Off wi’ ye!” Sally rousted the dog with her toe, and sent Bandit scurrying across the room. He bounded onto the padded chair squeezed into the corner near the open window, and hopped up to sit on the wide sill, surveying the garden. Spongy black nose set a-twitch by the aroma of the beef stew wafting up from the chimney, it seemed he seriously pondered the six-foot leap from the garret window to the kitchenhouse roof.

  “Down, Bandit!” Sally lurched forward and shooed the dog back onto the chair. After nosing through the clutter of books, teacups and saucers on the side table, Bandit huffed, and settled into a compact curl, muzzle to tail.

  Sally pried the jaws of the bum roll apart like a pair of calipers, and caught Anne’s waist within the opening, settling the bulk of the padding on her rear end, centering the crescent tips to point to her navel.

  “Yer such a skinny-malink as it is, maybe no one will notice ye lack panniers.”

  “I couldn’t give a fig whether anyone notices,” Anne replied, tying the two ends together.

  Loath to invest thought, effort or money in attire suitable for attending a gala to honor King George, Anne resisted preparing a wardrobe for the event, so Sally shouldered the burden. Over the course of the week they spit and argued over every trifling detail.

  “It’s not a proper ball gown without hoops . . .” Sally insisted.

  Annie would not relent. “I absolutely forbid you to waste good silver on such fribbles and geegaws. Panniers indeed! Make do with what we have.”

  Earlier, when Sally tried to dress her mistress’s hair to a fashionable height, Annie snatched the hairbrush from her hand and would have none of it. After a bitter exchange, they compromised on a modest upsweep with a few long curls draping down over one shoulder. The ostrich plume adornment Sally offered was rejected out of hand.

  Anne stepped into the new petticoat Sally’d sewn of a cerulean blue tissue silk. Pulling it over the bum roll, she secured the drawstring at her waist. Sally held the overdress like a coat and Anne slipped her arms into the sleeve holes, groaning and shifting from one bare foot to the other as Sally struggled to join the front edges of the bodice with a series of straight pins.

  “Hold still!”

  Sal bumped her head on one of the sloping ceiling rafters as she scrambled back a few steps to put a critical eye to her creation. Anne stood inspection with a sullen slump to her shoulders, her brows meeting in an angry V.

  “Hmmmm . . .” Sally never laid claim to owning exemplary sewing skills, but she had done her best to refashion an old dress she’d found lingering at the very bottom of the bottom chest. The rich violet-blue figured silk had an excellent hand, and the bright new petticoat and matching silk ribbon trimming the edges of the square neckline enlivened the overall tone. The colors complemented Annie’s fair skin and chestnut hair and Sally was pleased with the results. Gesturing with a twirl of an index finger she said, “Turn about—so I can see if the hem is even.”

  Anne did not budge. “The hem is fine.”

  Sally cocked her head. “How about ye reach in and plump up yer bubbies a bit?”

  “How about you shut your gob?” Anne flounced onto the bed.

  Sally bustled about the room, scooping odds and ends into the chests—slamming the lids shut—first one, then the other. “Aye, ye can snap my head off at will, Anne Merrick, but yid best mind that sharp tongue among the Tories, eh?” She hefted the chests up to sit atop the other at the foot of the bed. “A bad-tempered, ill-dressed, ugly bitch willna make a single friend nor uncover the information useful to the cause ye claim t’ be willing t’ risk all for.”

  “Ha! There’s the pot calling the kettle black! Two British officers trail after you wagging their tails like lovesick puppies—Wemyss willing to sell his soul for a piece of your shortbread—and you won’t even give them the time of day.” Anne threw herself back on the mattress, eyes shut, fingers laced over her belly. She struck a death pose.

  “Yer right.” Sally sank down to sit beside Anne. “I canna keep a civil tongue with the Redcoat bastards, much less wheedle any information from them . . .”

  “It wears on me so . . .” Anne intoned to the ceiling over her bed. “Wears me thin as a razor’s edge . . .”

  Sally draped a pair of white silk stockings over her friend’s face. “What wears on ye? The lying or the sneakin’ about?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Anne sat up. She bunched a stocking down to the toe and slipped it up over her leg, following suit with the second. “Jack is out there somewhere—alive, dead, imprisoned—and here I sit, primping with bows and feathers to encourage the ardent attention of other men.”

  Sally cut two lengths from a reel of one-inch-wide grosgrain ribbon. “If we were men, we’d shoulder our muskets and answer the call to arms. Women have no such luxury, aye?”

  “No . . . we plump up our bubbies instead.” Anne wound the ribbon twice tight above her knee, tying the garters with a knot and a neat bow.

  “I give ye much credit, lass. Yiv devised a clever means to aid the cause and our country—I think Jack will be proud of ye.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Fluffing the delicate Mechlin lace flounce at her sleeves, she went to stand before the wall mirror. “This is nice, Sally. The old ruffle was very sad and tired.” She studied her reflection a moment, and then went in search of her rouge pot. Swiping a fluff of damp
wool over the red cake, Anne rubbed a little color into her cheeks, and applied a touch of lip pomade with a pinky finger.

  “D’ye think we might add the bows, Annie?” Sally ventured.

  “Alright . . .” Anne laughed, throwing her hands up in surrender. “Fetch the blasted bows.”

  Sally produced from her pocket the three puffed ribbon bows Annie had discarded with much disdain as “silly fribbles.” After Sally pinned them in a row centered down the front of the bodice, Anne slipped on her best black leather French heels.

  “Wait!” Sally fished a pink-and-white-striped silk bag from behind the writing desk and handed the package to Anne. “Frippery and geegaws. G’won—open it up.”

  Anne loosened the drawstring, peered inside the sack and gasped, “Oh my!” as she drew out a pair of carmine red brocade pumps, the silver buckles encrusted with rhinestones.

  “Put them on! Put them on!” Sally bounced and clapped her hands.

  Anne slipped her feet into the slippers, hiked her skirts to admire her new footwear, then threw her arms around Sally and nearly squeezed the stuffings from her. “What in the world would I do without you, dearest friend?”

  “Let’s have a look.” Sally spun Anne around by the shoulders and they contemplated the mirror. “Th’ slippers are brilliant . . .”

  Anne touched fingers to her throat. “Maybe I should wear something round the neck?”

  “How about tha’ pinchbeck and paste pendant ol’ mumblecrust Merrick give ye?”

  “Ulch!” Anne shuddered. “I’d rather string a dead fish about my neck.”

  “How about a simple ribbon necklet t’ match yer dress? There’s a bit of the blue ribbon left in my room . . .”

  “I know!” Anne snatched something from her bedside table, and ran across the hall. Back with silk ribbon in hand, she sat down on the bed and artfully tied it to the broken bit of cast-iron Jack had given her.

  “Och! Nooo . . .” Sally moaned.

  Anne rushed to the mirror, her eyes alight. “Help me tie it on.”

  Knowing there would be no dissuading her mistress, Sally tied the ribbon in a pretty bow at the back of her neck, allowing enough slack for the little half-crown—now half wrapped in ribbon—to lie flat, just below the hollow of her throat.

  They both studied the mirror, and Sally had to admit she liked the black crown slightly askew against Anne’s pale skin—the contrast of hard metal supported in a delicate cradle of blue silk, ironic, and curiously beautiful. “It suits,” she approved with a nod.

  “I love it!” Anne proclaimed. “And it gives me a good story to tell.” Clasping the necklet in one fist she declaimed, “One small remnant of our precious Monarchy—rescued from the hands of the ruinous Rebels! ”

  The women giggled in delight.

  “Miss Sally!” Lieutenant Stuart’s voice called from the garden.

  Sally leaned out the window, her mobcap instantly swept up in a gust of wind off the bay. A riot of fiery curls tumbled free as her cap danced away on the rooftops.

  Stuart cupped a hand to his mouth. “Please inform your mistress: Captain Blankenship awaits the pleasure of her company down the stairs.”

  Struggling to contain her loose hair in the breeze, Sally snapped, “Well, ye can tell yer captain he can bloody well . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath. Pressing her hands to the sill, she leaned way over and let her hair blow wild.

  “Inform Captain Blankenship my mistress will be down in a tick—and, Lieutenant . . .” Sally called up a saucy smile. Dropping down to rest on her elbows, she tucked a curl behind her ear. “Maybe efter, if yer hungry, ye can join me for a bite to eat in the garden.”

  BENEATH a massive white marble mantelpiece, two plump cherubs hovered on minuscule wings, sharing a bunch of grapes. Anne pretended to contemplate the hungry angels as she waited for Edward Blankenship to return from braving the mob at the punchbowl.

  Several hundred warm bodies crowded into the ballroom, adding to the heat of several hundred candles burning bright in wall sconces, floorstands and brass chandeliers. Anne slipped around to stand beside one of the Greek columns supporting the mantelpiece, and pressed her hand to the smooth marble. She opened her fan—the thin wooden slats painted with a cool blue-green landscape of rolling hills and cypress trees—and she imitated the artful fan flutter on display in the room.

  Anne was surprised the abandoned Kennedy Mansion at #1 Broad Way had survived the exchange of armies with its magnificent appointments intact. As designed, the two enormous parlor rooms on the first floor converted into one long ballroom by means of an ingenious set of folding panels. Gilded acanthus leaves twisting up from skirting board to cornice framed a series of enormous mirrored panels that by trick of the eye added to the glitter and size of the room.

  Women were far outnumbered by men at this gathering, and men in splendid regimentals far outnumbered the more soberly clad Loyalist citizens who were important enough to garner an invitation. Least in number, but highest in demand, a coterie of young unmarried women giggled and whispered behind fans unfurled, thrilled and eager for the opportunity to mingle with dashing British officers.

  How different her life was in comparison to the privileged ones led by these cosseted daughters of New York’s Loyalist society. While Anne had learned to set type and mix ink, these women were schooled in the arts of social seduction—taught to play the harp and spinet, and master the latest dance steps.

  At the far end of the ballroom, a tall, slender negro man in a yellow silk turban settled a violin beneath his chin, and the band of string and wind musicians struck up a lively gigue. The crowd fell back and couples paired up for the first dance of the evening.

  She could see Captain Blankenship holding two silver cups high above his head, plowing a path through a sea of red coats and navy jackets, smiling and pardoning the whole long way. Her escort drew much attention among the husband hunters in attendance. A handsome man, Edward cut a dashing figure in the cropped regimental jacket worn by dragoons, and Anne liked how he’d tied his hair back in a simple black ribbon, without the powder, puffs and curls his fellow officers favored.

  “I couldn’t get near the punchbowl,” he said, offering Anne both cups. “But I was lucky to snatch these from a tray on its way to the sweet table—hurry and choose before they melt.”

  One cup held a portion of pink ice cream molded in the shape of an open lily—the other, a pale yellow lemon adorned with a green silken leaf. Anne chose the lily. Edward handed her a small spoon from his pocket.

  “Mmmm . . . strawberry!” Anne offered her cup to the captain for a taste. “Years back, I saved my pennies and took my son to the ice-cream shop on Nassau Street—the shopkeeper was from Italy—Jemmy chose vanilla. That was my first ice cream—this is my second.”

  “An ice-cream shop! We must go there and I will treat you to your third.”

  “I’m afraid when Mr. Washington quit the town, so did Mr. Bosio and his ice cream.”

  “Here, then—you must try some of mine.” Blankenship fed Anne a generous spoonful of lemon flavor, and they finished the treat in an exchange of smiles and tiny grunts of pleasure.

  Edward set the empty cups on the mantel. “Let’s dance!”

  “I don’t know the steps,” Anne explained with an apologetic shrug. “Feel free to choose another partner—I can amuse myself . . .”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He took Anne by the hand. “Come along—I’d like for you to meet some of my friends.” Blankenship led her through the throng, across the entry hall to the withdrawing room. Music from the ballroom filtered into the comfortable salon. Much less crowded, the room faced the bay, its windows thrown open to a refreshing sea breeze.

  Anne swam in a thick soup of regret as they approached Edward’s fellow officers and their wives, suddenly aware she should have paid heed to Sally’s good instincts. The wives were all dressed in the latest pastel silk and painted floral frocks, hooped and trimmed with all manner of ribbo
ns, ruching and furbelows. Rather than melt into the background by wearing a dress so dark and sadly unadorned, Anne stood out like a crow pecking at a snowdrift.

  “I would like for you all to meet my dear friend Mrs. Anne Merrick . . .” Edward made the round of introductions. She could see disapproval in the female eyes coursing the tops of elaborate fans—their men uncomfortable and filled with pity for their friend to have brought such a drab bird into their midst.

  The conversation turned immediately to a not-very-subtle discussion of the latest London fashions, and Anne knew right then the evening would be a wasted effort. Nothing of value could be gained by congress with these callow beings. Anne feigned interest in their meaningless babble about horse-racing on Long Island, and cricket matches at the ropewalk, and she squelched an overwhelming desire to shout, “My God, but we are at war!”

  Drawing out her fan, she mumbled, “I feel the need for a breath of fresh air . . . Please forgive me . . .” And she went to stand by an open window.

  Edward followed after, his forehead ruffled with true concern. “Are you unwell?”

  “I’m fine.” Anne sighed. “But I am sorry to be such an embarrassment for you . . .” She plucked at one of the bows on her dress. “I’ve been in mourning-wear for so long, this actually seemed rather gay to me.”

  “Anne”—Blankenship placed a hand at the small of her back and bent to her ear—“I think you are quite the most beautiful woman here.”

  Anne smiled. “You are very kind, Edward . . .”

  “Excuse me, Captain, sir,” a young cornet squeaked and tapped Edward on the shoulder. “General Howe invites you and the lady to join him for a glass of wine . . .” The cornet indicated an older officer in powdered wig and a uniform heavy with galloon trim and military decoration engaged in conversation with a group at the opposite end of the withdrawing room.