A British Courtesan in America (Revolutionary Women Book 2)

by Becky Lower

  A fancy name was as close as she dared to come to her roots.

  • ♥ •

  Libby donned her most unadorned gown and ran her hand down the front of it, noticing the missing bead. The one Hawk had popped off to make his point about the bullets. She closed her eyes and reminisced at the feelings his mere touch had evoked. They’d come so close that night to a consummation of their feelings. Would she ever be able to have a similar reaction to someone else? The missing bead had been packed away somewhere and she would have to find it this evening and reattach it to the gown. Right now, she needed to pack away any memory of Hawk and find a job.

  The cobbler shop was the first business she entered. Libby stood at the doorway and inhaled the scent of leather. A man glanced up from his worktable when she entered.

  “How may I help you, miss?”

  “Good day to you, sir.” Libby picked up a fine, soft leather slipper and fondled it, noticing the quality of workmanship. “Did you make these yourself?”

  The man laid down his small hammer and stood. “You have a very good eye for shoes, miss. Yes, that is my design.”

  She held out a hand to him. “I’m Liberty Booker, and I’m new in town and in need of employment. I can sell your fine footwear to the women in town.”

  He took her hand in his for a second before releasing it. “I am Abel Yoder and pleased to make your acquaintance. But there is no room in my business to hire help.”

  She clutched the slipper even tighter. “What if I don’t take a salary immediately? I quite fancy these slippers. I’ll work for footwear. And, if you see more sales at the end of the month, you can pay me a commission.”

  Mr. Yoder assessed her from head to toe while he contemplated her offer. Libby was used to being stared at, while men assessed her as if she were a fine racehorse they were about to buy. She stood quietly, holding onto the slipper.

  “You must dress plain.” Mr. Yoder commented.

  She released the breath she had been holding. “I’ll buy some appropriate clothing this afternoon.”

  He hauled out a pair of rough black work shoes from under the table. “These look to be about your size. Consider them your first month’s pay. Come back tomorrow morning.”

  She nodded and picked up the ugly shoes. “Yes, sir.” She set the slippers back on the table and gave them a loving pat. “And at the end of the month, you’ll also give me these as payment for your increased business.”

  The man’s blue eyes twinkled, but his beard hid his mouth, so Libby couldn’t tell if he grinned. “Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”

  She smiled at him. “No, sir. Merely confident in my ability to tell a good pair of shoes from the bad. The feet of the women in Lancaster are about to be freed from inferior footwear.”

  “We’ll see. You should be able to find plain garments at the general store.”

  She took that as her dismissal. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” She started for the door, then swung back around. “Put those slippers in the back room for me, will you?”

  Mr. Yoder picked them up, gave her a long, appraising glance, and headed toward the back of the store. Libby grinned. She could still get a man to do her bidding. Some men, anyway.

  She made her way to the indicated store and purchased the same sort of clothing she’d seen on most of the women in town. A plain black muslin gown which was held together in the front by a series of straight pins, and a white head covering, made from a sheer material, comprised her new work uniform. The front band of the bonnet covered the top of the head and ears, and the back was translucent and shaped like a heart. Libby admired the workmanship as she fondled the ties. How appropriate. Hawk had broken her heart, but here she was, with a new one. She would never have chosen this type of attire on her own, but she would more easily blend into the other townspeople in Lancaster by wearing such. She’d become a chameleon once again.

  She would have to find more permanent lodging soon, but for the remainder of the day, she wished to be waited on. A fine meal, a ready bed, and cups of tea would soothe her, as would her pink satin night rail and wrapper. She smiled as she thought of what Abel Yoder would have to say about her regular clothing. Mighty fancy, he’d probably say. He had no idea how fancy she really was.

  The idea of dressing tomorrow in her black clothing and the heart-shaped headwear was fine with her, if she could come home in the evening and lounge about in finery. If Peter Sampson tried to find her tomorrow, he’d go right by her without realizing it. Sampson was the only man who might come after her. Certainly not Hawk. He had told her she would be safe and that he’d protect her, but his demeanor when the truth came out told her all. He had been totally judgmental.

  With a sigh, she sipped her last cup of tea for the day and shifted her thoughts instead to the fine slippers Mr. Yoder had crafted. It would not be long before they would be hers. Lovely shoes always made her feel better. Her heart would heal again, too, as it had when she lost Atticus. Bits of it kept breaking off, though, leaving her with jagged edges. The edges were still open wounds at this point. But those jagged remains would help her keep a rein on her feelings should another man come along. Unlike Atticus, Hawk hadn’t died. It would have been better if he had. Then, that little glimmer of hope wouldn’t be here, taunting her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Patterson bustled into the shop. “Another big battle coming up, Hawk. We need you, and your bullets, in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. We finally have the British on the run.”

  “Oui, for now, anyway.” Hawk poured some liquid lead into the well-used bullet forms. “But more British soldiers are arriving weekly. And my job is to make bullets and to keep writing for the Gazette. Not fighting.”

  “Has there been any word from Mrs. Wexford?” Patterson gathered up the bag of bullets Hawk had already prepared for him.

  “Non. It is as if she has vanished into thin air.” Hawk shrugged. “Just as well.”

  Patterson threw the bag over his shoulder. “She didn’t vanish. You have a good enough idea of where she might be. She got on the coach headed for New York town. But with the big influx of British troops there, and in Philadelphia, my guess is she didn’t stay.” He eyed Hawk. “You could track her if you wanted.”

  Hawk growled. “I do not want to. Drop the idea, Pat.”

  Patterson grinned. “Touchy subject, eh? My gut is telling me she’s somewhere in Pennsylvania, and the war is about to come her way. If she were my lady, I’d need to protect her.”

  Hawk delivered another ladle of hot lead to the worktable and started filling forms. “It is fortunate, then, that she is not your lady. She is not mine, either. Libby Wexford, or whatever her name really might be, can take care of herself, obviously, and has for years. She needs neither of us.”

  Patterson’s grin grew. “You’re turning into a grumpy old man, Hawk. You need to track her down and haul her home.”

  “Wolliwon. Thank you for your words of advice. But I do not need her, or any female, in my life right now.” Hawk replaced the ladle on the hook near the stove.

  “Females make life worth living, Hawk. It’s what gives us the courage to stand up against the Brits. To face their might. Otherwise, what’s the point?” Patterson bagged up the pile of bullets.

  “The risk is too great, with that one. She knows King George by sight. Possibly, she is working for him and against us.” Hawk threw some more metal into the pot on the stove.

  “Everything is a risk, Hawk. This war we’re fighting is a huge risk. But with no risk, the rewards aren’t quite so sweet. Unless I miss my guess, Libby Wexford is no spy. But she is a very sweet woman.” Patterson tied the bag and strode out of the shop.

  Hawk stared into the fire for a long moment after Patterson’s footsteps faded, letting his ire cool along with the flames. The man could really stir Hawk up. He ran a hand over his plaited hair and tossed the braids over his shoulders. Patterson’s gut feeling about Libby’s location mirrored Hawk’s own. She had n
ot gone too far, but she had made it difficult for him to track her. Aware now of her past, Hawk figured she would hope to stay as far away from the British soldiers as possible. Which left her somewhere in Pennsylvania. Somewhere beyond Philadelphia. Hawk told himself a while ago he owed it to her to at least listen as she explained her life choices. His father said everyone did what they had to in order to survive. Maybe this winter, once the fighting slowed, he would find her. He could listen to her story. Then, he could let her go.

  She had already disappeared from his daily life, causing his heart to ache. But she had not left his mind. His mind roamed from Libby to Elizabeth Loring and her involvement with Howe. Why had Mrs. Loring made the choice she had? Was she a Patriot in disguise, keeping Howe from fighting the rebellious Americans? Until you had experienced life in their shoes, who really could explain the why behind the choices people make? Yes, he owed it to Libby to listen to her explanation. To put a foot into her stylish footwear. He smiled slightly as he wondered what shoes she wore today. He would wait until the fighting eased off and go to her, listen to her.

  And then, he would let her go. From his life, and hopefully from his mind.

  If anyone could find her, it was Hawk.

  • ♥ •

  Libby drew out a long sigh as she sank her feet into the warm water in the basin. She didn’t object to wearing the serviceable black gown held together with straight pins. Nor did she object to winding her long hair into a bun each morning and donning her white bonnet. But she did object to the unforgiving black shoes Mr. Yoder expected her to wear. Why couldn’t he craft some work shoes that were not only functional, but cradled your feet rather than punishing them? There was no reason why function should have to create blisters. In the weeks she’d been working for him, not a day had gone by without some blister or another popping up on her toes.

  A pair of serviceable shoes that were also pliable might wear out faster, but wasn’t Mr. Yoder in the business of selling shoes? She’d have to discuss the matter with him. See if there was any way to work with the hard leather to make it softer. Maybe some of the cream she put on her face and hands each evening to soften and plump her skin would have the same effect on leather?

  Mr. Yoder was pleased with her work, and how she could talk those wealthy English ladies into buying the most expensive shoes in the shop. It was funny, how even with her British accent, the ladies never thought twice about the oddity of her being Amish, yet British at the same time. As if by wearing the clothing of the Amish, she had become one of them; at least, in the eyes of the wives of the officers. If she could fool them, she could fool anyone. She had faced the ire of women like these in London, where she pretended their slights had no effect on her. These women did not differ from the highbrow ladies of London. Except for the fact these ladies were living in America with their husbands. Women who spent their days wishing they were anywhere but in the uncivilized colonies, with their inferior merchandise. The only blessing to be had was the fine footwear available at Mr. Yoder’s shop.

  It had been nearly two months since she left Boston, and no one had followed her. Neither Mr. Sampson nor Hawk showed up at her door. She was safe, yet disappointed. Of all people, she had thought Hawk would be accepting of why she made the choices she had. Once again, a man she’d given her heart to had left her to forge her own life alone.

  “Ironic, isn’t it, Atticus dear?” She whispered to herself. “I made my living pleasing men, and now, in order to please myself, I must live alone. Without a man, for the first time in my adult life.”

  The water in the basin had grown cold, so she dried her feet, tended to her blisters, and tossed the water out the window. She blinked away the sudden tears and bit her lip, tasting the metallic drop of blood, as she prepared for bed. No one in Lancaster was aware of her past. She could probably find a handsome-enough Amish man to marry, should she choose. But he wouldn’t be Hawk. No, he’d be more pliable than Hawk. Of course, she could never, ever, reveal her past to him. Would that be so bad?

  She tugged the night rail over her head and sighed again as she sank into the cold, uninviting bed. Despite what she’d just whispered to the ghost of Atticus, the prospect of living alone for the remainder of her life was not at all acceptable. When she’d started working for Mr. Yoder, a number of young men had wandered in under the guise of speaking to him, but really, they were there to inspect her. At the time, she’d not paid any attention to them, since she was still lamenting her failure with Hawk.

  She should start paying attention to them now. While the rest of the men in the colonies were fighting the war with the British, Amish men didn’t participate. They were non-violent, as were the Quaker sect, and stayed to themselves. What would they say if they discovered she had helped make bullets for the Americans? That might be harder for them to accept than her past profession. She smiled as fatigue set in, and flipped onto her side.

  She’d let the others fight for their freedom from England and would give serious consideration to becoming an Amish wife. At least if she married among them, she wouldn’t live alone. And, there was the possibility of having children. Even if her chosen mate didn’t make her heart dance wildly, she’d have the security she craved. The security she’d almost had with Atticus.

  Almost had with Hawk.

  “Moskeyin, Hawk. I’m sorry. I must take care of myself and not waste my time dreaming of what might have been.” Her smile faded as she let her memories of Hawk take over. After a few minutes, she elbowed those thoughts away. It was not healthy to dwell upon the past.

  Yes, an Amish husband and a comfortable pair of shoes comprised her wish list going forward. Simple, plain. The exact opposite from Fancy. She’d discuss the shoes with Mr. Yoder tomorrow.

  The husband, she could find on her own.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Hawk’s autumn droned on one ordinary plodding day after another. He shod horses; he made knives and bullets; he rented out carriages to Bostonians; he wrote columns under the pseudonym A True Patriot. But even though his days were full, his mind wallowed in a fog which never cleared. He gritted his teeth every time Patterson wandered into the shop.

  Like right now.

  The man actually had the nerve to whistle! Hawk’s teeth unclenched and he growled out a greeting to the too cheerful man.

  “Bonjour. What has you in such a great mood?”

  Patterson slapped Hawk on the back. “What always puts me in a great mood. I’m going to be a father again, by spring. My lovemaking sandwich in August paid off.”

  Despite his foul mood, Hawk grinned at the reminder. “So, the new one will arrive by April or May? How is Margaret holding up?”

  “A little sick in the mornings, but otherwise, she’s fine. A really strong woman, she is.” Patterson glanced around the room. “How are the bullets coming along?”

  “I am keeping up with the lead and silver coming in, but there is never enough.” Hawk motioned to the pot on top of the stove. “I wish we had another statue to upend and melt down.”

  “Well, hopefully, the fighting will taper off when winter really sets in. Just a few more months.” Patterson gathered up the bag of bullets that were finished. He shot a glance at Hawk. “There’s talk of the battle shifting from New Jersey to the Philadelphia area.”

  Hawk rolled his shoulders. Patterson did not need to state the obvious. Libby was somewhere near Philadelphia. His heartbeat sped again, for the first time in months. “When you get ready to head to Philadelphia, I will join you.” Patterson grinned and Hawk grimaced again. “It is not what you think. I am not going after her. Things tend to slow down here in the winter. That is all.”

  “Right.” Patterson slung the bullet bag over his shoulder. “After our string of losses in New Jersey, we finally got a victory, which will carry over, hopefully, to Pennsylvania. We’ll be happy to have you along. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “And congratulations on the new little one.”

  “Children mak
e everything worthwhile, Hawk. You need to have some.” Patterson whistled again as he left.

  Children. The fighting now might be done by grown men, but children were America’s future. Perhaps Patterson was correct, and Hawk should not wait for the fighting to cease before taking a wife and starting a family. But the only woman who had captivated him was a former courtesan. She had sampled many a man. Sold her favors to the highest bidder. Lived in a lap of luxury before coming to the states. Would she be satisfied with a man who was half Passamaquoddy? Who worked as a blacksmith and would return home each night sweaty and exhausted? Would he be able to measure up to the quality of lovemaking she had been used to? Could he swallow his distaste for her previous profession? Perhaps she had a plausible excuse for living the life she had. For surely, no one would willingly choose to become a courtesan.

  He chewed on his thoughts as he continued to fill the bullet forms with the last of the hot lead. Was there another statue or bench he could take down from Boston Common and turn into bullets? He would scour the area later tonight to find something. Anything to keep from obsessing over Libby. But now Patterson had made him open that can of worms, and Hawk could not keep the questions from forming.

  “Wolliwon, Patterson.” Hawk pounded his forehead with his hand. Thanks to him, Hawk would find no rest tonight. There was only one way to determine if he and Libby could have a future together, could create children of the Revolution. He had no doubt he could track her, if he wished to find her, and air his many questions. But he was not sure he was ready to find out the answers.

  • ♥ •

  “Mr. Yoder, may I ask a question?” Libby glanced up from the shelf she had been dusting. She held a finely embroidered pair of ladies’ pumps in one hand, admiring the intricate detail.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Booker. What are you wondering about?”