The Messenger Page 6

  Sally’s hand crept into mine beneath the cover of our skirts. I shook my head in reply to Mother’s question. Nothing was wrong that could be fixed, and knowledge of the colonel’s abuse would only cause her pain. It wasn’t long after we had turned the corner onto Third Street that I thought to ask where we were going.

  Father answered with a scowl. “To Aunt Rebekah’s.”

  Aunt Rebekah’s? “I didn’t think . . . they aren’t . . .”

  Mother shook her head. A warning to be silent.

  Father’s paper manufactory had provided overabundantly for our family’s needs, yet even the finest wove paper in the colony could not command the wealth of my uncle Edward Pennington’s fleet of merchant ships. And since the British had occupied the city, even the most ragged of linen and cotton cloths had been commandeered for use in the hospitals. There were none left for the superfluous making of paper; the manufactory had long since locked up its doors. Father had been cautioning thrift and patience, and I knew he looked on the vain pursuits of the city’s wealthy Loyalists the same as I did: uncharitably.

  It didn’t take long for us to reach Pennington House on Front Street. For good reason it had been called the finest mansion in the city. Built of handsome red brick with double chimneys, it was pierced with a multitude of windows on each side of its central door. As the carriage rolled up the drive, Aunt Rebekah stepped out to greet us. My uncle joined her a moment later and stood beside her, an arm about her waist.

  It wasn’t often that Mother visited her sister. Upon her marriage to Uncle Edward, an Anglican, Aunt Rebekah had been disowned by our Meeting. It might not have had the effect of separating her from the rest of the family, only they had taken to worshipping with the Anglicans. It’s not that we never saw them; I noticed their carriage often on its trips about the city. And it’s not that I didn’t know my cousins; I knew who they were. It’s simply that they didn’t move in the same circles we did. And since Friends didn’t celebrate Christmas or birthdays, there wasn’t much call to spend time with those who did not believe as we did.

  I’d seen enough, however, of my aunt to love her. And perhaps rather too much of her daughter, Polly, to say the same. We were of an equal age, ’tis true, but I doubt any would accuse us of having the same mind or soul.

  “Come in, come in!” Aunt Rebekah was kissing Sally’s still-plump cheeks and caressing little Jonah’s bright curls. She enfolded Mother in a loving, if fierce, embrace. “Come have tea while your things are put away.” As we’d been standing on their front porch, a small army of Negro servants had begun to port our trunks from the carriage into the house.

  “I’ll see to those.” Father tried to relieve a boy, who staggered under the weight of a trunk, but the youth somehow managed to dodge Father’s outstretched hands and continued up the stair unaided. He appealed to Uncle Edward. “They shouldn’t bother with our trunks. Our own man will be along in a few minutes’ time.”

  Aunt Rebekah was looking at Father as if she didn’t quite understand what he was saying. “Bother? It’s no bother.”

  Uncle Edward was frowning. He placed a hand at my aunt’s back and escorted her inside.

  “I cannot allow a slave to—”

  Mother laid a hand upon Father’s arm and gave her head the tiniest of shakes.

  He scowled but said not another word about trunks or hired men or slaves. The Philadelphia Yearly Meeting had begun disowning those who insisted upon keeping slaves. Though our members had hoped those who were not Friends would follow their example, none had. Indeed, none seemed to have noticed.

  “Thee must seek not to offend, Elias.” Mother’s concerns were spoken in a low, firm voice.

  “If I see an injustice, must I not try to right it?”

  “Aye. Of course thee must. But ’tis not our home. We are but guests here.”

  We followed Aunt Rebekah, Uncle Edward, and the children into the parlor, where the walls had been painted a vivid coppered green and where yellow upholstered chairs kept company with a settee done up in brilliant coral. Atop the mantel, crystal vases glimmered in the morning light.

  Father paused in his entering, as did I. “Not so much guests, perhaps, but prisoners in a cage of gilt.” He sounded just as miserable as I felt.

  While Mother and Father were lodged in the guest room, Sally with our cousin Caroline, and the younger children in the nursery with young Edward, I was to share Polly’s room. It was just as much a spectacle as the parlor downstairs. Though the soft shade of blue in which it had been decorated was more restful to the mind, the number of flower-strewn flounces which bedecked the bed’s coverlet and hangings proved a remarkable distraction to the eye. And so did the amount of lace which frothed from Polly’s stomacher and dripped from her sleeves.

  “You’re to sleep there.” Polly pointed to a trundle bed, which had been made up on the floor in the corner.

  I unpinned my hat and bent to place it on the mattress. “It must be an imposition to be required to take in a stranger to share thy room.”

  She shrugged and looked at me. Or rather, at my gown. Her gaze flipped back up to my eyes. “Just as long as you aren’t set on sharing my beaux as well.”

  In the general confusion of our move and subsequent settling in, and despite propriety’s demands, I slipped away from Aunt’s house and walked up to the jail unescorted.

  Once the sentry guard had passed, I walked to the basement window. “It’s me!”

  “Who is it?”

  “Me. The one who asked after Robert Sunderland.”

  “Oh. You.”

  “How is he?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I had to leave when the sentry started back in my direction, but once he’d passed, I returned. “Are thee still there?”

  “You’d asked about Robert?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, he’s sick.”

  I felt as if I’d been struck in the belly. “With what?”

  “I’m no physician, miss! It wasn’t said. Could be dysentery or smallpox. There’s putrid fever going round. Could be anything. You want me to pass a word from you?”

  “Tell him . . . tell him . . . I’ve been given permission to visit. I’ll be coming to see him soon.”

  “He’s ill but he’s not that sick. Not yet. He’ll know you’re speaking lies. Word is, the general doesn’t let anyone visit.”

  “ ’Tis not a lie!” It wouldn’t be. Not by the time I’d finished talking to Jeremiah Jones. Though I had intended never to speak to him again, it seemed I would now have to count upon him to turn my fib into a truth.

  8

  Jeremiah

  I’d come upon Hannah, as always, as she was leaving the environs of the jail. She was looking at me this day as if she loathed me. But hate is a slippery sort of thing. Sometimes it can turn back on itself. Sometimes the thing people hate most is themselves; I knew all about hate and self-loathing. I bowed.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I will do the thing thee asked of me.” She spat the words through gritted teeth.

  I wished she would speak the words she was thinking. I had a feeling they would be most amusing. I smiled. “Then I shall get you a pass.”

  “When? I need it quickly.” Ill-disguised need burned in her eyes.

  “I’ll get it as soon as I am able.”

  “And how will I know when thee have come by it?”

  “I’ll find you.” I bowed once more and turned to continue on down the street.

  “But—we’re not at home. A colonel has been quartered at our house.”

  That stayed me. “If you’re not at home, then where are you?”

  “At my aunt’s.”

  “Though you might think that I know everything about you, I don’t. I only know you’re one of those Quakers.” And that your grandfather was one of those who provoked the Indian Wars. “It would be helpful if you would tell me the name of this aunt.”

  “P
ennington. We’re at Pennington House.”

  I felt my mouth drop open before I could stop it. “You’ve fallen into a remarkably soft bed during these hard times, then!” The Sunderlands had made a nest for themselves among the most loyal of Loyalists in the city. “On second thought, perhaps I should forget I ever asked you for anything.”

  “No. Please! I need the pass.”

  “Then I’ll find you once I’ve obtained it.” I’d not one idea about how to go about asking John for a pass, let alone delivering it to her, but it was better than the alternative. It was better than having some conspicuous Quaker girl gadding about town, asking after me.

  I returned to the King’s Arms in search of my barkeeper. I scanned the customers as I looked about. It was a terrifying sight, all of those redcoats. And grounds for a riot. At least that’s what it sounded like.

  John Lindley hailed me from the crowd. Sauntered up to the counter. Firelight glinted off the gilded gorget that hung about his throat. He was just the type of dandy of which Hannah’s Penningtons would approve. I wondered if he’d met them. If he had, that connection might prove useful. “What do you know about the Pennington family? Have you fallen in with them yet?”

  “They’re the pride of your fair city, didn’t you know? I’m certain Mr. Pennington would kiss King George’s feet if ever given the chance.”

  So he had met them.

  “And it just so happens I’ve been invited to a ball at Pennington House.” He was preening like a goose.

  “You? What would they want with a devil like you?”

  He grinned. “I’ve heard they have a daughter.”

  Indeed they did. Pretty Polly Pennington. One of those fair flowers of Philadelphia with no shame and very little sense.

  Lindley grasped my good shoulder. “Come with me. What do you say?”

  “I’d say I haven’t been to a ball in years. And besides that, I wasn’t invited.”

  “Who cares about invitations! This is Philadelphia. Not London.”

  “Things have changed since we saw each other last.”

  “Please. Come.”

  And so, not because John sounded so desperate but because it would do my plans no harm to be noticed in the company of one of Howe’s staff officers, I said yes.

  “I shouldn’t have come.” I’d known it the minute I entered Pennington House the next evening. I knew by a certain telltale wobble in Mrs. Pennington’s smile. And from a look of consternation on the fair Miss Pennington’s face.

  I bowed. Began to apologize.

  John laid a hand on my arm. “I asked my good friend to see me safely to your lovely home.”

  Mrs. Pennington smiled charmingly. “Thank you, Mr. Jones, for your service. Of course you should stay. Please. Won’t you take some refreshment with us?”

  Refreshment was the last thing I was interested in taking. Truly I shouldn’t have come. I could no longer observe the expected proprieties. And I’d long since dispossessed myself of niceties. “I had not meant to inconvenience you.”

  “Oh, but it’s no indisposition at all.” Even a lie sounded pleasant, coming from that gracious lady’s lips.

  “I’ll just . . .” I put my hat back on my head, intending to leave.

  But at that moment, Hannah Sunderland appeared at the top of the stair.

  “You know our cousin, don’t you?” Polly had followed my gaze. “Please stay. That way she’ll have someone to talk to. She’s a Quaker, you know.” She’d lowered her voice as she spoke that indelicate word.

  “Oh, do stay!” Mrs. Pennington too was watching Hannah’s descent. “She and her family just joined us. This way she’ll have someone to talk to while the others—” She broke off. But I could finish her thought. This way Hannah would have someone to talk to while the others danced. It seemed we were both unfit for polite society.

  For her part, Hannah paused in her step as if she regretted descending. But she did not retreat fast enough. “Hannah, my dear, have you met Major Lindley?”

  Her shoulders had hunched as if she feared some violence from him. But as we watched, they straightened. She descended and came to stand between Mrs. Pennington and her daughter. Her face was grave, her eyes wary.

  “Major Lindley is on General Howe’s staff.”

  John bowed. “A pleasure.”

  Hannah inclined her head, though she did not extend her hand, she did not flutter her eyelashes, nor did she flash a smile. In short, she did nothing at all that her cousin had done.

  “And this is Mr. Jeremiah Jones.”

  It seemed she had not noticed me. To be fair, my hat had thrown my face into a shadow. She was a sight to regard as she looked at me. Her face went pale as the moon and then her gaze ricocheted between John and Mrs. Pennington and her cousin, as if she was frightened that they might discover our business. If she didn’t gain possession of herself, she’d betray our plans before we’d even begun to accomplish them.

  I removed my hat. Bowed.

  “Oh, but we’ve—”

  I didn’t want her to divulge our acquaintanceship. People might begin asking questions. “We’ve had the pleasure of passing each other on the street, but have never before been introduced.”

  Mrs. Pennington led the way into the parlor. The family’s fabled carpets had been taken up and the chairs and gaming tables pushed against the walls. In the corner, a cluster of musicians tuned their instruments. The sound of strings and the glow of a room lit by candlelight made me want nothing so much as to leave. To spend the several hours here that politeness now required would be certain torture. To be expected to watch others dance and flirt was too cruel a request. Which was why I rarely frequented polite society.

  The truth was that I preferred no society at all.

  “Please, Jeremiah Jones, would thee like to sit?”

  I turned my attentions from the dance floor to the person of Hannah Sunderland. She had decided, it seemed, to tolerate me.

  “We’re suffered to be here now, the both of us, until the evening ends. And while thy shoes look presentable, they cannot be any more comfortable than my own.”

  How I hated sensible people. They were always so . . . so . . . reasonable. And it was even worse when they happened to be right. I settled into the chair beside her.

  “Why did thee say that?”

  I cast a glance at her. “Say what?”

  “About us never having before met.”

  “I didn’t say we’d never met. I said we’d never been introduced.”

  Her lips folded into a careful, if moderate, frown. “I’m still not certain how I feel about our partnership, but one thing I will not do. I will not lie.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “And I won’t have thee lie on my behalf.”

  “I didn’t.” It was on my own behalf that I’d lied.

  She looked as if she wanted to say something more. Thankfully, she did not.

  It let me put my mind to work on the jail. John was our means of entry, but I had yet to come upon a way to request the pass. It would have to be on her behalf, of course. But why should an avowed Loyalist like me care about whether some Quaker’s brother languished in prison? I might as well just tell the truth: I’d like to organize a prison escape.

  I finally gave up in frustration and was rather surprised to find the girl still sitting beside me in apparent ease. Most girls would have taken my silence as an insult by now.

  “Would you care for some punch?” I found myself saying the words before I could think to stop them. A perfunctory courtesy—a relic from another time. A time when I’d been invited into all the most fashionable homes in the city. A time when I’d been the epitome of all that was genteel.

  She looked at me as if she suspected there was some trap hidden in my offer. Finally she nodded. “Yes. Please.”

  I excused myself and made my way to the punch bowl, where John was laughing with a captain. “Jonesy!” He leaned close to speak into my ear. “She’s quite a belle.
Or she would be if it weren’t for that gown.”

  “Who?” I turned to see who he was talking about.

  “The Sunderland girl.”

  It wasn’t difficult to make a pretense of admiration. She was a remarkably handsome girl. Hair the color of the ripest of barleys. Eyes the coolest shade of gray. You’d know it if she looked at you. There was no artifice in them. Just calm appraisal.

  “Does she interest you, then?”

  “Who—her?”

  “Aye.” His eyes were laughing at me. “That girl. The Quaker one.”

  I shrugged.

  He looked at me in a keen-eyed way. “You old dog! Why you’d settle for a provincial, I’ve no idea.” His eyes strayed to my empty sleeve and a flush overcame his features. “Though there’s nothing wrong with it, of course.”

  “Sometimes beggars can’t be choosers.” I didn’t know why I should correct his misconception about my interest when it was so amusing to see him flustered.

  “Of course. Of course. I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  He was pathetic, clearly not used to thinking before he spoke. Or thinking of others at all, in fact. I used to find that quality highly entertaining.

  “Of course not.”

  “Of course not. I mean . . . I meant the other one. Her cousin. The Pennington girl is quite a belle, don’t you think?”

  I might have found myself enamored of Miss Pennington had circumstances been different. She was exactly the kind of society girl I used to find so attractive. “She’s quite diverting.”

  “Very diverting. Yes! Might as well have a diversion if we’re to be stuck in this place for the winter.”

  “You would have found Philadelphia quite pleasant last summer, before all her trees were chopped down for firewood and all her houses requisitioned for quarters.”

  “Shame, that.” He spoke the words as if he had none at all.

  “Well. I’m to deliver up some punch.” I picked my way through the crowds to the relative seclusion of the chair-lined wall and then sat down and handed Miss Sunderland—Hannah—a bowl.