by Kit Sergeant
Her tongue finally clicked into motion. “But Father, I hardly know this man.”
“Most couples on the throes of marriage do not. That’s what your newlywed year is about,” he said with a wink.
He seemed particularly impenetrable this evening, as casual as though he were ordering a new suit, not planning a future she did not want. She bit back her panic to try a different tactic. “I’m not of marrying age.”
He waved his hand. “Mr. Coghlan has connections with Governor Tryon and seemed to think that getting a special license would be no problem. He wants to have the ceremony in haste as he might be ordered to leave the city with the army in the spring.”
Meg glanced at the chimney and imagined herself behind it, as though each statement from her father were another brick trapping her in. She felt as though she couldn’t breathe and jumped to her feet to loosen the pressure of her stomacher. “But Father, I don’t love him!”
Her father looked taken aback. “Love? What know you of love?”
Rather than confess her feelings for a rebel, Meg fled from the room.
She ran upstairs to her bedroom. Instead of flinging herself onto the bed and crying, she sat at her writing desk to compose a letter to Aaron, begging him to come rescue her. She wrote a whole page before she realized that she had no notion as to how he could receive it, and even then, he would have no way to get through the lines to save her. Despondent, she crumpled the letter and threw it across the room. After she dressed in her nightclothes, she lay in bed trying to find a way to avoid her new fate. She settled on the two best options—asking her Father to send her back to boarding school in England and politely but firmly refusing Coghlan’s offer to his face—before falling into a dreamless sleep.
Coghlan arrived early the next day and awaited her in the parlor. Athena, the maid, acted as chaperone. She held a feather duster but made no shame of the fact that she openly listened to their conversation.
“Miss Moncrieffe,” Mr. Coghlan said when she entered, dressed in a light blue gown over a cream-colored stomacher. This time he wore his red regimentals, complete with polished boots and sword.
Meg curtsied before settling herself in the loveseat. “Mr. Coghlan.”
“I suppose you might as well call me John, now that we are betrothed.”
Meg pasted on her best smile. “Mr. Coghlan,” she said sweetly, “I mean, John, do you not want a wife who is of equal mind to yours?”
Coghlan unbuckled his sword and placed it on the table before settling into a chair. “There is no woman of equal mind to me.”
“Of course not.” Meg fought to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “What I meant was, a woman who had as much affection for you as you have for her.”
“I am not in need of affection. I am in need of a wife with a good family name.”
Meg did not expect that answer. She paused for a moment before asking, “You do not wish to marry for love?”
Coghlan sat forward. “Margaret, I realize that you are very young, and new to matters of the heart, but a marriage does not necessarily spawn out of love.” That was something Meg could agree with. “But, given time, love might spawn out of a marriage.”
Not out of a marriage to you, Meg thought. She glanced at Athena, who stood near a corner bookshelf and pretended to polish the leather bindings of the books. Meg ventured to say, “John, I think you should know that my heart belongs to another.”
He nodded before sitting back in his chair. Meg sighed inwardly, thinking at last she had won, but then Coghlan replied, “Again, it does not matter. Love is fleeting, but you will take my name forever.”
“No!” Meg couldn’t stop herself from crying out. “Can you not do the honorable thing and give up your pursuit of me?”
“Honor?” Coghlan asked with a sneer. “It is precisely to protect your honor that your father agreed to my proposal. And,” he continued as he stood, “it is only your father’s approval that I need. The wedding will take place in February.”
Meg felt tears of defeat well in her eyes, but she would not let Coghlan see them. She blinked them back as he lifted her hand and kissed it before exiting the parlor. Athena gave her a sympathetic moue before turning back to the books. Meg wiped more tears with the sleeve of her dress. She sniffed and tried to gather herself. Obviously trying to reason with Coghlan did not work, but mayhap she could plead her case to Father. He was normally not so rigid in his views. Surely Meg could convince him to change his mind.
But just then her father burst into the parlor and marched toward her. “Margaret! What is this?” He thrust a crumpled piece of paper in her face. Meg recognized it as the letter she tried writing last night. “Who is Major Aaron Burr?”
“Father…” She reached for the paper but he crushed it in his fist.
“A rebel? You fall in love with a rebel and then refuse to accept the husband I wish to provide for you?”
Meg stood. “Father, you don’t understand. Aaron’s a good man.”
“No rebel is a good man.” Meg had never seen her father so angry. His face was as red as his uniform and spittle flew out of his mouth when he spoke. “I order you to your room to think very carefully about the choice I am about to give you: marry John Coghlan or I will disown you.”
Chapter XXIII
Sally
January 1777
Robert returned to Oyster Bay bearing supplies for the wedding reception of Major Green and Hannah. It had only been a few months’ time, but it seemed to Sally that her brother was thinner, his cheeks more sunken, the circles under his blue eyes darker.
Papa led his son to the dining room so Robert could tell him the updates on New York City. Sally polished the pewter as Robert solemnly relayed the news of Washington’s army. Since the evacuation of Manhattan, the Continental Army had suffered great losses, including the forts of Lee and Washington. The disheartened rebels, pursued endlessly by Redcoats and Hessian mercenaries, had fled further into New Jersey and, according to Robert, were cornered on the east side of the Delaware River near Princeton. “The talk in Manhattan is that the war will not last much longer. Many of my Tory contacts predict Washington will yield early into this new year.”
“He cannot concede yet,” Papa said. “What of our cause?”
Robert let out an ironic guffaw. “Hordes of our soldiers are deserting every day. The recruitment attempts are disastrous: no one wants to be on the side of the failing army.”
Papa sighed audibly. There was a few moments’ pause as Sally continued in her work, rubbing the cloth endlessly across a fork. Finally Papa changed the subject by inquiring about the Townsend family business.
Robert stated that sales had been good. He had partnered with a woman who had recently become a widow. “Her husband fought for our cause,” he continued in his quiet way. Sally saw a dimple on his cheek play in and out as it occurred to her that her normally stoic brother might actually have feelings for this woman, whomever she was.
“And your cover?” Papa asked.
“I enforce my neutrality whenever I can,” Robert replied. “I have Caleb Brewster running supplies past the blockade.”
“Caleb Brewster? That old smelly whaler?” Sally asked, setting down the fork. Caleb had been a childhood friend of her brothers’, and therefore, to Sally anyway, a nuisance.
Robert turned to his sister. “You will probably never meet a man more loyal than old Cal.”
Papa stood, gripping a candlestick in one hand and his gold-tipped cane in the other. “It is time for me to retire.” He looked wearily at Sally and Robert. “Do not stay up too late, my children.”
After she had put away the silver, polished to almost appear new, Sally joined her brother in the parlor. He was brooding, staring somberly into the fire.
“You care about this widow, don’t you Robert?”
He did not turn away from the fire; the look on his face was as impassive as always, as though he hadn’t heard her. She studied him, looking for any sig
n of emotion. Finally he stated, “I don’t think she holds me in high regard. I maintain my Tory contacts. I know she does not approve of the British soldiers always coming and going in her husband’s shop.”
“Why Tories?”
He turned to her. “It’s good for business.”
“Hog wash,” Sally said. Sally and Robert had always been unfailingly honest with each other. Theirs was the type of relationship in which they could tell the other anything and know they would not be judged for it. But whatever it was laying under the surface, Robert didn’t let on.
After a few more moments, Sally got up to close the door. When she came back to her chair she stated simply, “If I could find out where General Green’s battalion is to be placed this spring, do you think you could get it to the right person?”
Robert coughed as a log crackled and sparked. “Like who, General Washington?” The ridiculing big brother was back.
“I’m just asking.” She was even not entirely sure she could provide Robert with that location, but something in her compelled her to ask, even if it was just to get a reaction out of him.
“Sally, you know that’s treason talk. You’ll be hanged as a spy.” There was a hint of something serious behind the light teasing tone Robert’s voice took on. “And besides, how would you even find out that intelligence?”
Sally stretched her cold fingers toward the fire. “When people live together, there’s bound to be information to be shared.”
“You’d be surprised at how much information one can hide when one wants.”
Sally’s head quickly spun to catch his meaning, but Robert was staring once again at the fire, his face inscrutable.
The next day was set for the sewing bee to finish Hannah’s quilt top. As it was one of the most important rites of passage for an Oyster Bay bride-to-be, Audrey had been planning the bee ever since the engagement was announced. Eight girls fit comfortably around the quilt frame, so Audrey had to whittle her intended guest number down to only that. After the Townsend sisters, the bride and her sister, Almy, that left only three other girls: Mildred Underhill, Sally Coles, and Susannah Youngs. Although Sally had always been good friends with her, now that Susannah was married to a staunch Tory, she probably would have refused the invitation, but for the fact that the Townsend cousin was marrying an officer of the British Army.
Audrey had commanded her younger sisters to set up the frames in the parlor, which had the best light in the house. The morning of the bee, Sally and Phoebe hung the frames across low-backed chairs of similar height. They stretched the backing of the quilt in the frames as tightly as possible and then laid the cotton fill above it.
“Queen Charlotte’s Crown?” Sally asked when Hannah arrived with the top.
“Why, of course,” Hannah said, casting a curious look at her cousin. “Beautiful Queen Charlotte is a woman to be revered.”
Sally wanted to argue, but she supposed it wasn’t the queen’s fault she was married to a tyrant.
“What will your pattern be, Sally?” Susannah asked after the rest of the girls had arrived—dressed in similarly pastel colored dresses and all with their hair in casual updos—and were seated around the quilt. A maiden usually designed and pieced the tops of her future bedspread and then wrapped and put it away to await her engagement.
Sally shrugged. “I have not gotten many pieces together.”
Mildred looked up. “How old are you now?”
“Nineteen.”
The girls all exchanged looks. “I suppose it’s difficult to find a husband when all of the best gentlemen are away at war,” Mildred replied.
Audrey, temporarily forgetting about her betrothed, twittered, “Maybe there will be another handsome soldier when Major Green moves out.” This inspired giggles from the rest of the quilting bee.
Sally stabbed her needle through the three layers. During the jubilant talk of Hannah and Susannah regarding the British triumphs in New York and New Jersey, the warmth of the fire could barely keep out the cold and Sally’s fingers felt numb.
Sarah Underhill stated that she’d recently heard a story from Tunis Bogart, who had stayed at her cousin Amos’s boarding house in New York City last September. “They were witnesses to the hanging of Nathan Hale, the pretend Loyalist who was executed as a spy.”
Sally’s heart sped up. She too had heard the tragic tale of Nathan Hale, and every time she thought about it, she couldn’t help likening him to Robert. She recalled the clandestine conversation they had last night by the fire and suddenly realized what Robert’s undertone had been trying to conceal. He was courting those Tory contacts in order to keep abreast of the movements of the enemy. She felt a fleeting burst of pride for her brother before the unwelcome image of Robert hanging from a rope beneath a maple tree followed. She stood, dropping the frame off her lap.
“Sally!” Audrey cried. “What on Earth?”
“I’m sorry, Aud.” Sally put her hands above her stomacher. “Something is just not sitting right with me.”
“The beef stock from supper?” Phoebe ventured.
Sally nodded. It was more the fear of Robert being called out as a spy, coupled with the seemingly light, but still Tory banter, coming from her quilting partners, but she could not tell her sisters that. She rushed out of the room.
*=
Hannah would have preferred to hold her wedding ceremony in New York City at Thomas Buchanan’s townhouse, but her father declared that to be an unnecessary peril. The wedding took place early in the new year, on January 7, 1777. Sally was slightly buoyed by Robert’s news that Washington had finally crossed the Delaware and had successfully attacked twice: at the Hessian outpost at Trenton on Christmas Day and at Princeton four days before Hannah’s wedding.
The Tory Reverend Leonard Cutting conducted the ceremony at the modest Christ Church on Main Street. Hannah had chosen an ochre brocade dress while her husband-to-be wore his British uniform. Sally had to admit that both of them looked exceedingly happy, but she secretly still seethed at the match. She felt that, in marrying the enemy, Hannah was betraying her new country. To distract herself, as Hannah took Major Green’s hand in hers and began to recite her vows, Sally tried to picture herself at the altar. In only two years’ time she would be of age. Audrey was nearing twenty-two and set on getting married just as soon as her betrothed got enough leave. Sally supposed her own marriage would follow soon after.
But who would be the bridegroom? Sally’s eyes squinted, trying to imagine the man who would stand beside her at the wooden altar, but she couldn’t picture him.
After the ceremony, the wedding party descended upon the Buchanan’s fine home and feasted on oyster and duck. When the festivities had concluded, the Townsends returned home and Sally and Robert found themselves once again in front of the fire. As if reading her mind, Sally’s brother nearly asked the same question she had inquired herself that morning: who might she marry.
“It won’t be a British soldier, that’s for sure. Or a Loyalist, for that matter,” Sally added, thinking of Audrey and Captain Farley.
Robert nodded thoughtfully. After a while, he declared, “I cannot seem to imagine you marrying anyone.”
“Maybe I’ll end up a spinster.”
“There are worse fates,” Robert stated.
Sally, her thoughts turning again to Nathan Hale, silently agreed.
Chapter XXIV
Meg
February 1777
Captain Moncrieffe used his contacts to get the Governor of New York, William Tryon, to grant Meg a special license to wed John Coghlan. The wedding was to take place the last day of February 1777, at Saint George’s on Chapel Street in Lower Manhattan. Originally christened by Trinity Church to cater to their east side congregants, the church became the site for Dr. Samuel Auchmuty’s sermons after the main chapel burned down. A Loyalist, Reverend Auchmuty had fled to New Jersey in late 1775, but returned with the British occupation. Meg had once thought the building, with its arched win
dows and towering steeple, regal. Now that she was being forced into marriage, Meg saw the church as a prison, and the Reverend her condemner.
Although Meg’s robin’s egg blue wedding dress was low-cut, she felt as though the lace at her bosom was choking her. Mercy, clad in navy velvet, helped her get dressed in Meg’s room at the townhouse the morning of the ceremony.
She noticed Meg pull continuously at the bodice. “Are you nervous?” Mercy asked.
“Nervous?” Meg gave a hateful laugh. “No. Angry is more like it.”
“Why go through with this, then?”
Meg sat in her vanity stool and looked in the mirror. Despite the fact that she’d barely slept for months, the young lady who stared back at her looked clear-eyed and calm, the hue of the dress agreeing well with her fair coloring. “Father says I have to.”
Mercy sat down on Meg’s bed. “It’s probably for the best.”
Meg turned to her friend. “Would you have done things differently if you could do it again?”
“You mean not marry John because my father disapproved?”
Meg nodded.
Mercy folded her hands in her lap. “I’m not sure. I did love him.”
Meg lifted a pouf full of powder to her face. “Well, I don’t feel the same for Coghlan, that’s for sure. I love Father, but I don’t know if I can go through with this.”
Mercy hopped off the bed in a flurry of blue velvet. “Be right back.”
Meg continued to powder her face. When Mercy returned, she stuck a silver flask under Meg’s nose.
“What is that?” Meg cried, a delicate hand holding her nostrils shut. “It smells awful.”
Mercy leaned forward to look at Meg’s face in the mirror. “It’s what will help get you through the day: whiskey.”