“Suspicious?” Elizabeth asked.
“He means it makes it look more meaningful,” Robert clarified. “The prisoners like to see a cheery female face as it reminds them of their wives and daughters.”
Brewster covered up his guffaw by stretching his arms overhead and pretending to yawn.
Elizabeth did not tell them that she was also acquainted with Dame Grant, a corpulent older woman. Although Dame Grant’s patriotic blood ran deep, Elizabeth questioned whether her face, with its deep-seated frown lines and heavy jowls, would be considered cheery. There was definitely something the men were not telling her. “And William Scudder?”
“One of my crew,” Caleb Brewster drawled.
One of your smugglers, Elizabeth corrected him silently. “And what happens when you arrive at the prison ships? Do you go aboard?”
“No,” Higday answered. “It’s too dangerous—many of the men have the pox. We anchor next the accommodation ladder and a guard lowers it for us.”
“I am familiar with the dangers of the hulks,” Elizabeth said, forcing a vision of an emaciated Jonathan out of her mind. “But how do you know your supplies are actually getting to the prisoners?”
“Well…” Higday gestured toward Robert, who answered, “They have to make sure the guards on duty are His Majesty’s soldiers and not American loyalists. Our fellow countrymen are much crueler than their British counterparts. And we have a note from the commissary to prisoners, Lewis Pintard. He is charged with making sure our men receive decent care. As much as can be done in those rotting hulks, anyway.”
“The guards will open the letters and read them, but we usually pick up an unsealed reply from the prisoner on the next visit,” Higday added.
Elizabeth nodded before remembering the blanket behind her. “Please include this in your next delivery.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Burgin.” Higday took the proffered blanket and folded it under his arm.
Brewster hefted a box off the counter. “I’ll help transport this to your carriage.”
“Until next time, then, Mr. Higday,” Robert told him.
Elizabeth watched as the two men exited. She was about to demand that Robert explain to her whatever it was Higday was trying to cover up, but the silver bell rang again as a blond man entered the shop.
“Robert!” he exclaimed heartily.
“William?” Robert inquired. “What brings you here?”
The man named William leaned his muscular body over the counter. “Just visiting New York City.”
“How did you get past the sentinels near the ferry?”
William grinned. “I have my ways.” He turned smoothly to Elizabeth. “And who do we have here?”
“Mrs. Burgin,” Robert replied, an emphasis on the Mrs. as William extended his hand.
“And you are?” Elizabeth asked.
“William Townsend.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it as Elizabeth studied him. He had the same blue eyes as Robert but where Robert’s were often guarded, William’s were wide and friendly. William was shorter than Robert, but with broader shoulders and a perfectly proportioned face. All told, he reminded Elizabeth of the story of the Greek Adonis that her mother used to read to her.
William turned back to Robert. “Mother and Audrey send their love.”
Caleb Brewster reentered the store. “And what about your loveliest sister, Sally?” he asked before embracing William.
William threw his head back and laughed. “Sally’s all up in the boughs because of Major Green.”
“Major Green?” Brewster asked.
“Of De Lancey’s regiment,” Robert said tersely. “He’s quartering with my family for the winter.”
Brewster laughed nearly as loud as William had. “I’ll bet Sally is spitting mad.”
“Why?” Elizabeth could not help but ask.
Brewster turned to her. “Sally Townsend’s as much of a Whig as Washington himself.”
“A Whig?” She turned to Robert. “Are the ties that bind you so loose that you and your sister could be on different sides of the war?”
William opened his mouth to say something, but Robert held up his hand. “I told you Mrs. Burgin. I am neutral.”
Although she was facing Robert, out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth could see Brewster and William exchange a quick glance.
Wary of the undercurrents that stirred beneath these obviously veiled conversations, Elizabeth took her leave of the brothers and Brewster. As she ascended the stairs, she couldn’t help but hear Mary’s warning. Indeed, there was something about Robert Townsend that ran much deeper than what was discernible on the surface.
Chapter 22
Meg
November 1776
The cold weather brought a halt to the fighting, and Captain Moncrieffe returned home. Mercy and Meg threw him a small party to welcome him back. Any Loyalist female would have been impressed by the guest list, which included titled lords and heirs to fortunes, not to mention Admiral Howe, his brother the general and, of course, his mistress Mrs. Loring. Standing among the handsome regimentals and gilly macaronis in the Moncrieffe’s parlor—and as conspicuous as a babe in the woods—was John Coghlan.
“How did he get invited?” Meg asked Mercy, peering at the corpulent fellow, now clad in a red velvet coat.
Mercy took a bite of cake. “He is of Irish nobility.”
“Him?” Meg sneered. “I understand the Irish as I can practically smell the whiskey off him from over here. But nobility?”
Mercy leaned in to whisper, “I hear his father trades African slaves.”
Mr. Coghlan spent most of the night trying to engage Meg in conversation, who likewise went out of her way to avoid him.
He followed her into the parlor corner between the refreshments and a potted palm. “So we meet again, Miss Moncrieffe,” he stated in an oily voice.
“So we do.” Meg’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an excuse to take leave of him.
As if he knew of her desire, he took one step closer. “What do you think of our men who now occupy this fine city?”
“Pardon?”
“There are many eligible bachelors in our ranks. I was just curious if you had set your eyes on one. Major André, perhaps.”
Meg giggled distractedly as she leaned backward, trying to put as much distance between her and Mr. Coghlan as possible without being obvious. “I’m not quite of marrying age yet.”
“And even those who are not so eligible are still an ocean away from their wives and more than willing to spend their wages on a worthy female. If she herself is willing.” At this he glanced deliberately at General Howe and Mrs. Loring.
Meg put her hands on her hips. “Why, Mr. Coghlan, are you implying that a maiden would cuckold herself with a man just for money?”
“Not necessarily money. For protection, status, or even just a supply of firewood.” Somehow he was able to keep that leering grin as he spoke. “War brings on difficulties only previously imagined.”
Meg raised her chin. “I’m perfectly fine under the protection of my father. And I would never marry a man for his money.” She thought, as she often did, of Aaron. She would have married him on the spot and lived on a soldier’s wages forever, if only he had let her.
“With these trying times, anything could happen,” Mr. Coghlan replied cryptically.
Meg bit back another retort as Mercy lived up to her name and appeared by Meg’s side. “Meg, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. I wanted to introduce you to Mr. Mulligan.” She turned and curtsied. “Why, Mr. Coghlan, how nice to see you again,” she said before pulling on her friend’s arm.
“That bracket-face always seems to be cornering me at parties,” Meg said as Mercy led her away.
Mercy hooked her arm through Meg’s. “You would think you would be used to it, being the most beautiful woman in the room and all. Any of these men would give their eyeteeth to be your husband.”
“I don’t think I e
ver want a husband if they are all like Mr. Coghlan,” Meg muttered under her breath.
“But you’d be a spinster!” Mercy leaned in conspiringly as she pulled Meg toward a group of men. “Even though I loved my husband dearly, it is not too bad being a widow—you are protected from sullying your reputation by the Mrs. preceding your name.” She paused in front of an impeccably dressed, portly gentleman. “Miss Moncrieffe, I’d like you to meet Mr. Hercules Mulligan.”
He bowed before taking Meg’s hand and kissing it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Moncrieffe,” he stated with an Irish brogue.
“He is the owner of a tailor shop on Queen’s street,” Mercy continued.
Mulligan, Mulligan, Meg’s mind raced. Where had she heard that name before? “Thomas Walcott!” The words came out before Meg had a chance to think about what she was saying. All three people—Meg herself included—seemed startled by her outburst.
“Why, yes,” Mr. Mulligan said hesitantly. “Mr. Walcott was my guest for a few days. How do you know of him?”
Meg thought fast. She couldn’t exactly state that she gave Thomas fortification plans to help the British attack the city. Or could she? After all, wasn’t this supposed to be a Loyalist affair? “The Walcotts are old friends of the family. I saw Thomas right before the Battle of Long Island. He mentioned that you were acquainted with Alexander Hamilton.” Meg hoped that the reference to the known rebel would take the heat off her in case Mulligan knew that Thomas was a spy.
Mr. Mulligan glanced at Mercy. “Captain Hamilton boarded with me while he attended King’s College. That is, my wife and I.” He nodded at a thin dark-haired woman across the room. “She is the daughter of Admiral Sanders of the Royal Navy,” he said pointedly.
Mercy gave a twinkly laugh. “We must judge on people’s declared loyalty, not necessarily on their past actions.”
“Or their past acquaintances,” Mulligan cut in.
“Right,” Mercy said quickly.
Mr. Mulligan held his hands out to Mercy, who grasped them. “We all know our little Mrs. Litchfield here is one of the biggest Tories there is, even if her father is a known Son of Liberty and former member of the New York Congress.”
As she regarded Meg, Mercy’s smile faded slightly. It then grew to unnatural proportions as her friend gave her a quizzical look. Meg barely heard Mr. Mulligan apologize as he took his leave of them.
“You never told me your father was a rebel,” Meg said accusingly as soon as Mr. Mulligan was out of earshot.
Mercy shrugged. “What does it matter?”
“Does he fight for the Patriots?”
Mercy tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “Yes.”
“What battles?”
Mercy’s eyes darted around the room before focusing back on Meg. “He fought with General Putnam at the Battle of Brooklyn.”
Momentarily stunned, Meg regained enough composure to ask if she still had contact with him.
“No,” Mercy shook her head vehemently. “I gave up my ties to that side when I married my late husband.”
Meg nodded. She had half-hoped Mercy would have been able to write to her father and asked about Old Put and Aaron. “I see.” Meg wanted to ask her more about it, but Mercy gave another of her laughs. “We all do what we have to for love, don’t we?”
After the party, Meg had trouble falling asleep. She kept hearing Mercy’s voice saying so matter-of-factly that she had given up her father to marry her husband. She wondered if Mercy ever regretted that move now that her husband had died. Did Mercy, a Whig by upbringing, ever feel alone in a room full of Tory strangers? The opposite could have been Meg’s fate, if only Aaron had agreed to marry her. Would it have been worth it to be Aaron Burr’s wife, even if only for a short while?
Captain Moncrieffe was already seated at the table when Meg made her way down at midday the next afternoon.
“You’re up late today, my daughter,” he said by way of greeting.
Meg smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Father. I think my feet are still exhausted by all the revelry.”
He peered at her from above his bifocals. “I didn’t see you do much dancing. It seemed you and Mercy spoke to Hercules Mulligan for a long period of time.”
Meg pretended to be confused. “Oh yes,” she said loftily. “The tailor.”
Captain Moncrieffe steepled his fingers. “There is something about that man I do not trust. I am suspicious of anyone who can change their loyalties so easily.”
His meaning was clear: stay away from Mr. Mulligan. “Yes, Father,” Meg said.
“You missed our morning visitor,” Captain Moncrieffe went on to state.
“Oh?” Meg perked up. Mayhap Aaron was able to get through the lines to deliver a message declaring his undying love.
“Mr. John Coghlan. He asked if he could call on you. I invited him to dine with us this evening.”
Meg couldn’t help wrinkling her nose.
Her father took notice. “That is enough now, Margaret—he is a fine gentleman.”
Meg did not reply in lieu of saying what she was thinking, that he was a fine durgen but no gentleman.
Mr. Coghlan arrived promptly for dinner dressed in a similar velvet coat as the previous night, but this time in a garish purple.
After he was announced in the dining room, he immediately went to Meg, who was standing next to Mercy, waiting for permission to be seated. He lifted her limp hand to his lips. “Good evening, Miss Moncrieffe.”
“John,” Captain Moncrieffe said. “We’ve set your plate next to Margaret.” He nodded at his daughter, who took her usual place at the table, adjacent to her father at the head. Coghlan sat on her right.
“A drink!” Coghlan said, holding up his glass. The sudden movement caused powder from his wig to shower the air around him before landing on his shoulders. “To new acquaintances and the hopes they will become more.”
Meg lifted her goblet half-heartedly before putting it back down on the table. No one noticed that she hadn’t drunk from it.
Coghlan seemed pleased by the quality of the wine—he slurped from his glass and set it down before smacking his lips. As the Moncrieffe’s serving girl, Athena, entered with the first course, Coghlan tapped his empty goblet and then turned to Meg. “Is that frock not in last year’s style?”
“It is,” Meg replied pointedly, laying her knife down with the blade on the plate, the way she’d been taught at boarding school. “I find that new dresses are hard to come by presently.”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps you need someone who will gladly keep his girl in new clothes. A pretty girl deserves equally charming outfits.”
“I am perfectly fine wearing last season’s clothes,” Meg said as Mercy raised her eyebrows from across the table. Meg turned her head as Coghlan dug into his meal with enthusiasm. Her former headmistress would be shocked at the number of etiquette rules Coghlan was breaking, including making small noises in his throat as he ate.
“Mr. Coghlan, why don’t you tell us a little bit about yourself?” Captain Moncrieffe asked before setting his fork down.
“Well, let’s see.” Coghlan sat back and folded his hands over his wide belly as the servants cleared the table in preparation for the next course. “My father made his wealth as a merchant in Bristol.”
You mean made his wealth selling slaves, Meg thought as the serving girl set down a plate of seafood in front of her.
Mr. Coghlan leaned over to sniff his food before he continued, “My mother is descended from Jones family. My great-great-grandfather was a member of Oliver Cromwell’s Parliament.”
The only person this served to impress was Captain Moncrieffe, who nodded enthusiastically before glaring at Meg as she picked up an oyster and then set it down again without eating it. The thought occurred to her that Coghlan was not that much different from the shellfish: slippery and likely to leave a fishy taste in one’s mouth.
“I also sailed with Captain Cook on the Resolution.”
> At this, Mercy gave Coghlan a polite smile as Captain Moncrieffe asked, “You sailed around the world?” before taking a drink of his Madeira.
Coghlan eyes shifted to Meg, who once again pretended to be absorbed in her meal. “Well, nearly so. Life at sea can be challenging.”
Captain Moncrieffe nodded. “I’m sure that it must have been quite an adjustment, given your background.”
Coghlan slurped down an oyster before saying, “And then I joined the Loyalist militia to help suppress this rebellion.”
“And your plans for the future?” Captain Moncrieffe asked.
“I’ll be returning to Bristol when the war is over.” He glanced again at Meg. “Hopefully with a wife and a babe in tow. Maybe two, depending on how long the rebels hold out. I need to find a fertile wife to beget me heirs.”
Mercy covered her gasp at his brash words with a sip of water. Meg returned her friend’s gaze with wide eyes.
Coghlan and Captain Moncrieffe spent the rest of the meal discussing the Howes’ next possible move, whether it would be to follow the rebel forces into New Jersey and engage them or turn north to Philadelphia. Mercy appeared to be listening intently, but Meg tuned out, pushing her dessert of berries and cream around the bowl with her spoon.
After dinner the gentleman took leave to go into the parlor and drink their brandy. Mercy went off to bed while Meg sat staring at her embroidery in the living room. An hour or so later, Mr. Coghlan and the captain emerged from the parlor, along with a cloud of smoke. It seemed to Meg that Mr. Coghlan was ogling her as his customary smirk returned. She imagined the expression he wore was probably similar to that of his relatives as they sized up a slave to sell.
“Miss Moncrieffe, I must take my leave.”
Her father frowned at her until she got up to bid Mr. Coghlan farewell. His lips seemed to linger on her hand as their servant, Noah, opened the door. “Until tomorrow, then,” Mr. Coghlan said before donning his hat and exiting the house.
“Tomorrow?” Meg asked as Noah shut the door. “What does he want with me tomorrow?”
The Women Spies Series 1-3 Page 12
