She admired Derek’s cool reserve and clear thinking. She’d also liked the gentle circle of support his arms had offered when she’d buried her face in his chest and cried her heart out, relieved to finally be able to share her pain with someone who was willing to stand by her. When she’d lain in her bed last night, cradling her tiny bump, she’d longed for him to hold her again and tell her everything would be all right. She wouldn’t be able to hide the truth from the Wilders for much longer. Already Hannah was giving her sidelong looks, probably wondering why she hadn’t asked for rags to use during her time of the month, or why she still felt sick in the mornings.
“I’ll be glad once he’s gone,” Ben said, his expression serious.
“Why is that?”
“Because then maybe you’ll finally see me,” Ben said, his gaze warm on her face. “I want you to see me, Alice.”
“I do see you, Ben,” Jocelyn said. “More clearly than you imagine.”
“I’d give anything to have you look at me the way you look at him, even once,” Ben continued, moving so close to her, she was forced to take a step back.
“Ben, I’m not in love with Derek,” Jocelyn said with more heat than she’d intended, probably because Ben had hit a nerve. He was making her feel cornered and angry, and she wished he’d just leave her in peace.
“You just keep telling yourself that. He loves Lydia, you know,” Ben said snidely. “She’s got more to offer, and that matters to our Derek.”
“But it doesn’t matter to you?” Jocelyn asked, offended on Derek’s behalf. Would you still want me if you knew there was another man’s child growing in my womb?
“I would take you as you are, Alice, because you are enough. You would always be enough.” He looked so earnest, Jocelyn almost wished she could muster some feelings for him. Ben would cherish her, would protect her. Ben would offer her a home.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Ben asked again, undeterred by her vehemence.
“Not just now,” Jocelyn replied, desperate to be rid of him. She did, however, feel the need to walk, to be alone.
Jocelyn finished hanging the laundry, returned the basket to its proper place, and grabbed the cloak off the peg, heading out.
**
It was a bright November day, mild for the time of year. Jocelyn walked across the fields, inhaling the wonderful earthy smell and enjoying the vibrant hues that made the world look so lovely, just before it shrugged off its colorful mantle and everything turned a shade of gray. Already a carpet of fallen leaves softened her steps, and the clear blue sky was visible through shedding branches, winter just around the corner.
Having walked off her initial frustration, Jocelyn slowed her steps. She had to set her feelings aside and consider her position in a rational manner, like a man, or like a general going into battle. Except for Greg, with whom she was usually at loggerheads, she was alone in the world, and she needed to make a place for herself, a home. She had nothing to her name, not even the cloak on her back. Whatever meager possessions she’d brought with her were now at the bottom of the sea, as was the tiny purse containing her life savings. She hadn’t had much, but now even that small bounty was gone. She couldn’t go back to New York City, not as long as the British were still there, but Milford was safe. This sleepy little town was the best refuge she could have asked for.
If she were free to follow her heart, she might allow her budding feelings for Derek to develop, but she had no right. Derek was in love with another woman. He planned to marry her and start a family. Jocelyn had already started a family, just not in the way she might have hoped and not with a man who’d be there to love her. Her only alternative was Ben, whose possessiveness and need to be loved could be just the tool she needed to protect herself and her unborn child.
Jocelyn stopped and stared up at the cloudless sky, watching several crows take flight as something spooked them. Would Ben still want her if he knew she was with child? Would he be able to get past the circumstances surrounding its conception? As with Greg, she could tell Ben her husband had drowned, legitimizing her pregnancy, but the truth had a way of coming out. She couldn’t build a life on a lie, nor could she repay Ben’s love with counterfeit coin.
She tried to imagine Ben’s hands on her body, his lips on hers. She harbored no romantic feelings for him. Could she grow to love him for the sake of her baby and their future? Funny how she was so protective of this child. Would she love it once it was born? Would she be able to see it simply as her baby, and not his child? Would she be able to mold it into a good human being, someone kind and noble? Someone like Derek, her mind unhelpfully supplied.
Ben is kind and noble, Jocelyn argued with herself. Ben will love us. She knew she was trying to convince herself, to justify an act of indecency against another human being, one whose weakness she would be forced to exploit if she grew desperate enough.
“God forgive me for what I mean to do,” Jocelyn said into the silence around her.
She turned for home, having made up her mind. Her steps were plodding, her heart heavy. Some part of her wished she’d told Derek the whole truth rather than the scrubbed version she’d offered up to protect those she’d promised not to betray. But in the end, it didn’t matter. She was responsible for what had happened to her, and now she’d have to pay the price.
Chapter 41
October 1776
New York City
It was about a week after the theaters had been shut down by the occupiers that Richard Kinney came to see Jocelyn at her lodging house. New York was still recovering from the great fire that had consumed a quarter of the city only a few weeks before and had resulted in numerous injuries and deaths. There was an acrid smell of soot in the air that turned Jocelyn’s stomach, not only because the stench seemed to cling to just about everything but because it reminded her of how close she’d come to losing her own modest home. She had watched in horror, too frightened to go to sleep, as an orange glow lit up the sky, the hungry, crackling tongues of flame reaching ever closer and devouring everything in their path. Thankfully, she still had a place to call home, but she was acutely aware of the impermanence of her position.
Richard Kinney was a stocky man with ginger hair and soulful blue eyes. In his mid-forties, he was married, had two teenage daughters, and owned a printshop on William Street. Being something of a theater enthusiast, Mr. Kinney considered himself a patron of the arts and had printed leaflets and posters for the various performances free of charge. In exchange for this service, he liked to have a drink with the actors after a performance and sometimes asked to be permitted to watch a dress rehearsal. Jocelyn had no idea what he might want with her now that the theater was closed.
She received Mr. Kinney in the tiny parlor reserved for visitors and invited him to sit, taking a seat opposite him in a worn armchair. “How have you been keeping, Mr. Kinney?” she asked.
“Very well, thank you, Mistress Sinclair.” He glanced toward the open door and lowered his voice. “What do you mean to do now that the theater is closed?” he asked.
“Look for a domestic situation, one that offers room and board,” Jocelyn replied, wondering why he should care. “I can’t afford to remain here past the first of the month.”
“What would you say if I offered to help you secure such a position?” Richard Kinney asked.
“Are you looking to hire a maidservant, Mr. Kinney?”
“Not exactly.” He glanced toward the door again, but the lodging house was silent, all the women currently at work, and Mrs. Blunt, who owned the establishment, at the market, as was her daily custom.
“Look, Mistress Sinclair, I won’t beat about the bush. I know you’re no royalist. I’ve heard you express your opinions on the current conflict.”
Jocelyn sank deeper into the chair, suddenly worried about what she might have said after a tankard of ale and the high of a successful performance. She’d thought she was among friends, but perhaps she’d been mistaken.
“The Continental Army is outnumbered and outgunned, so our only hope of defeating the enemy lies in outmaneuvering them. We need intelligence that comes straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
Jocelyn stared at Richard Kinney, seeing him in a whole new light. “Mr. Kinney, I’m no spy.”
“You don’t have to be. All you need to do is go about your duties as a domestic servant. If you happen to overhear a private conversation or find yourself on the receiving end of a careless comment, then perhaps you can report that to your contact. And if your employer happens to dispose of a letter or a report, throwing them in the wastepaper basket for you to empty, then he’d be none the wiser if that report wound up in our hands. We would never ask you to endanger yourself or others. Simply go about the tasks you’re assigned and report what you see and hear.”
“And you have someone specific in mind?” Jocelyn asked.
“Major Hector Radcliffe, a close personal friend of General Howe, will shortly find himself in need of a new servant. We would like you to fill the position.”
“And what makes you think I would be hired?” Jocelyn was secretly impressed with Richard Kinney’s confidence and persuasive manner, but conviction was rarely enough to get the job done.
“For one, you will have impeccable letters of recommendation. For another, Major Radcliffe is a lover of beautiful things. He has a keen appreciation for music, art, and beautiful women, particularly women who are young and fair. And you, dear Jocelyn, are young and fair. And an excellent actress to boot. Think of this as the defining role of your career.”
Jocelyn gave Mr. Kinney the gimlet eye. “And is there a Mrs. Radcliffe?”
“There isn’t, but Major Radcliffe is a perfect gentleman. He does not keep a mistress, nor does he visit brothels, as many of his compatriots are wont to do. If, at any time, you feel you’re not safe, you have leave to quit his employ and return to the lodging house, a month’s rent your compensation for your assistance. And, of course, you will be paid, quite handsomely, I might add. You will have an opportunity to put something by for when you’re ready to return to your old life.”
"You make it all sound so simple,” Jocelyn said, watching the man for any signs of deceit.
“Jocelyn, we’re desperate. We need information, and the British, who are accustomed to having a domestic staff, view their servants as part of the furniture. Who better placed to gather intelligence than a maidservant who goes about her business and often serves at dinner, where the highest echelons of the British Army are speaking openly, their uptight upper-class tongues loosened by the finest madeira and brandy? They mistrust men, but as a rule, women are completely overlooked, even though throughout history women have played a vital part in starting revolutions and toppling governments.”
“How glamorous you make it sound,” Jocelyn scoffed.
“There’s nothing glamorous about it. It’s hard, unpleasant work. You will be scrubbing pans and taking out chamber pots, but you will be ideally placed to help us. What do you say?”
“Can I have some time to think about it?”
“I’m afraid I’ll need your answer now. If you won’t do it, there are others who will, but the more operatives we have planted in the homes of high-ranking officers, the better chance we have of driving the British out. Would you not like to see that happen?”
“Yes, I would,” Jocelyn said with feeling.
“Then, what do you say?”
Jocelyn leaned back in the armchair and crossed her arms over her chest. A part of her wanted to ask Richard Kinney to leave and never bother her again, but she already knew she wouldn’t do that. What he was asking wasn’t so outrageous. She’d have to find a position as a domestic in either case; her meager savings wouldn’t last long. If taking out chamber pots and washing some man’s drawers was to be her life, she may as well do it for a good cause and feel a sense of pride. She could make a difference, help win the war. Well, perhaps that was a bit too optimistic, but even if she could provide information that would save one life, already it would be worth it.
“And who would be my contact?” Jocelyn asked.
“I can’t reveal his identity now, but I can tell you that he would come to see you once a week, as your only living kin should, and join you for a drink and a walk on your afternoons off. It would all be perfectly innocent. Just two young people spending an hour together before returning to their respective homes.”
“You have it all figured out, don’t you? How many operatives are you running, Mr. Kinney?”
Richard Kinney smiled in a way that suggested he was flattered by the question. “What’s it to be, Mistress Sinclair?”
“Yes, Mr. Kinney. I’ll do it.”
Chapter 42
November 1776
Jocelyn stood in front of the imposing brick mansion, the satchel containing her earthly belongings in her hands, her heart in her mouth. Once she went inside, there’d be no turning back. When she’d first agreed to work for Major Radcliffe, she’d been excited, energized even, but then Nathan Hale had been captured and executed, and everything changed. Spying for the Continental Army was no longer a lark, an act of bravery; it was a suicide mission if you were caught. Nathan Hale had been committed, brave, and clever. No one would have expected him to fall into the trap Robert Rogers of the Queen’s Rangers had set for him, but he had, because deep down he had been a trusting, idealistic man. He’d been only twenty-one, the same age as Jocelyn. Only she was more world-weary, she’d told herself as she lay sleepless last night. She wouldn’t fall into the same trap. She was prepared.
“Don’t do anything foolish,” Richard Kinney had told her when she’d stopped by the print shop to tell him she got the position in the major’s household. “You got the job, now just do it. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. Become invisible,” Richard had said. “Or as invisible as a beautiful woman can be in a man’s household. And don’t, under any circumstances, get chatting to a kindred spirit. It might be a trap.”
“What if I must send an urgent message?”
“If there’s something that can’t wait, pass a message to John Carver, the publican at the Spyglass Tavern. He’s a loyal man and will see the information gets where it needs to go.”
Richard had taken her by the shoulders and looked down into her upturned face. “If you need to get out, don’t wait. Go to your friend Anna Reid’s house. She will look after you until we’re able to get you safely out of the city. Promise me, no heroics.”
“I promise,” Jocelyn had said. “You can count on me, Richard. I won’t get caught.”
“That there is your first mistake,” Richard had said angrily. “Never get cocky and think you’re smarter than those who came before you. Always think, I will get caught if I let down my guard. It’ll make you more mindful of the danger.”
“I understand.”
“And no confiding in your brother,” Richard had added as an afterthought.
“My brother is a royalist. I’d hardly confide in him.”
Jocelyn had written to Greg, as she did every month, but had left out the bit about the theater closure. If she told him the truth, Greg would instantly demand that she give up her lodgings and join him in Williamsburg, where he would no doubt try to introduce her to every eligible male under the age of sixty-five. He thought it unseemly that she lived on her own and paraded herself on stage as only a harlot would. He’d always been something of a prig.
There was some small comfort in the knowledge that she could turn to Greg in a time of crisis and he’d do his duty by her, but she was nowhere near having reached the point where she’d turn to her brother for help. In return for his financial support and protection, Greg would watch her every move, try to censor her every thought, and do his utmost to convert her to his view that the Rebels in the American Colonies were no better than a dog biting the hand that fed it.
Jocelyn supposed she could understand his position. He was a man who liked order, tradition, and c
ontinuity. He valued loyalty and honor and believed that a man should never question his allegiance to King and Country, no matter the circumstances. He was sure the rebellion would end in blood and tears and the men who’d risk all to rid themselves of the yoke of British rule would come out of the conflict much worse off than they had been when it had begun. Perhaps he was right. Richard Kinney had admitted that it wasn’t a fair fight. It never would be, but it was too late to turn back now. The Rebels would see it to its bitter conclusion, and she’d be proud to say that she’d done her part.
“All right, then,” Richard Kinney said gruffly. “Off you go. May God bless you and keep you.”
“And you as well,” Jocelyn replied, knowing deep down that Richard was putting himself in a lot more danger than she’d realized.
Her heart beat like a drum and her knees threatened to buckle as she finally approached the servants’ entrance and knocked on the door, ready to report to Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, who would introduce her to Major Radcliffe.
Chapter 43
Despite her nervousness, Jocelyn settled into the household fairly quickly. Mrs. Johnson was a pleasant woman who wasn’t too exacting in her demands, as long as the work got done. With her graying hair, florid complexion, and rotund figure, she was the epitome of a kindly grandmother and behaved like one. Because of her dodgy knees, she kept mostly to the ground floor rooms and the kitchen and asked Jocelyn to take on the cleaning of the bedrooms, the weekly laundry, and the serving of meals.
A taciturn man in his forties named John Wilcox looked after the horses, brought in firewood, and fetched water. He spent the rest of his time outdoors, pruning the bushes, sweeping the leaves, and performing any odd task that needed doing. He slept in a small room off the kitchen, which he kept neat and clean but rarely spent any time in, regardless of the weather.
The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9) Page 18