“Mistress Wheeler?” Paul Revere prompted from the sidelines.
Ashley continued pacing, deeply absorbed in her thoughts now. “England still wasn’t satisfied with its money situation, so King George changed prime ministers, but he made a poor choice. William Pitt was a sick man and spent little time at his job. Younger cabinet ministers took over, namely, Charles Townsend, who was chancellor of the exchequer, or head of treasury.”
“Mistress Wheeler…” Revere prompted again.
Ashley paused, meeting the men’s stupefied expressions. “Yes?”
“Ur…mayhap you should sit down. The fall seems to have left you a bit…addlepated.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine. Please.” She dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand. “Go on with your meeting.”
The men exchanged alarmed looks as she resumed pacing. “In 1767, on Townsend’s suggestion, Parliament passed a new set of taxes for Americans to pay: import duties on shipments of paper, paint, glass, lead, and tea from England coming into American ports. Parliament also ordered suspension of the New York Assembly, which had rejected the order to pay the costs of keeping a few British soldiers in New York City. The colonists hadn’t minded the fact they were there, but they didn’t want to be ‘ordered’ to do it.”
“Mistress Wheeler!”
Having concentrated so deeply on recalling historical events, Ashley was startled once more by the sound of Revere’s thundering reprimand.
“Yes?” Paul didn’t look much like Ashley thought he would. The little silversmith was short and rather portly. Certain ly nothing like a man destined to father sixteen children.
“How do you know these things of which you speak?”
“I told you. It’s in the history books.”
Paul exchanged a grim look with Aaron.
“If I had my I-phone I could show you proof of my words.” She scanned the room. “You don’t get the internet here, do you?”
Church spoke up again. “She shall be taken to authorities immediately. They will deal with her.”
“No!” Ashley burst out.
“We cannot do otherwise,” Warren said firmly. “We cannot allow ourselves the folly of believing her denials. Even the knowledge that we have met together will be enough to put us under suspicion. We must protect ourselves at all cost.”
“Warren speaks the truth,” Revere agreed.
“Now wait just a minute!” These men truly intended to report her as a British spy!
“We can wait no longer.” Church seized her arm.
Kicking and screaming, Ashley could do nothing to prevent Church from dragging her across the room, pain shooting through her. Clearly he intended to deliver her to the proper authorities. Church. Church! What was it about the man that bothered her more than the others?
“Gentlemen, mayhap we are being hasty.”
Ashley went weak with relief when she heard Kenneman’s deep voice. But when she looked at him, it was obvious that he felt no sympathy for her predicament.
“Perhaps we should contemplate this further,” he said quietly. “Besides, who would believe any words from her lips? She insists on speaking of things only a seriously demented mind could conjure.”
“What thinking is there to do?” Church demanded. “She is obviously not a patriot. And if she is not demented, then she is a spy. Either way, we must rid ourselves of her. And immediately.”
“But in what manner?” Aaron asked calmly. “Are we to drag her through the tavern, drawing attention to ourselves? Are we to take her out and publicly stone her? There will be questions, gentlemen. She is not likely to remain silent of all she has witnessed.” His gaze swept over Ashley indifferently. “If we take her before the authorities, what will she respond when questioned? That she ‘fell’ in among a strange meeting? She will name names,” he warned.
“Yes…’twould be risky,” Revere conceded, stroking his chin as he thought. “We are in a critical situation. Mayhap we should allow time to consider this matter more thoroughly.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Church snapped. “She should be dealt with immediately!”
Ashley glared at him as she drew closer to Kenneman’s side. There was definitely something about the man she didn’t like.
“If only we had a place to restrain her until we knew her purpose for intruding,” Revere mused.
“Intruding!” Ashley cried. “I fell in here by accident. Believe me, it wasn’t something I planned!”
“Cease your useless grievances, wench!” Aaron snapped. “Your intent was to listen and observe, then carry back to whoever has employed you the information you gleaned. Falling through the roof was, I agree, unplanned, but it in no way alters your intent.”
“I didn’t hear anything!”
“Your protests are meaningless,” Church said.
“What are you going to do?” Ashley asked softly, ignoring Church and meeting Aaron’s eyes now.
“Drowning you like a cur pup comes to mind. It would be the simplest and most effective.”
Anger firmed Ashley’s lips, but she bit back the sharp retort that came to mind. He was an arrogant son of a…“You wouldn’t dare!”
His eyes grew colder. “We have dared much already.”
Ashley swallowed nervously.
“We must rid ourselves of her immediately,” Church urged. “I will take her to the magistrate.” He reached for Ashley’s arm again.
“Silencing this spy is of the utmost importance if we are to maintain our secrecy.”
“I agree, but exposing her may expose us as well,” Aaron repeated.
“Then what do you suggest?” Revere prompted.
Aaron studied Ashley for a long moment. Finally he spoke, regret evident in his tone. “I will assume guardianship of her for the next few days, until we are more clear on what the British are planning.”
Yes! Ashley thought jubilantly. At least for now she would be spared a terrible fate, though Kenneman looked as if he’d rather have seen her hanged.
“You are certain you want to assume this unpleasant task?” Revere inquired.
Ashley chanced a glance at Church, who seemed none too pleased about the turn of events.
“It does not please me,” Aaron admitted, “but it is the only recourse at the moment if we are to avoid jeopardizing ourselves and our goal.”
“It is decided then,” Revere said. Ashley could almost see him dusting his hands off on her. “Dr. Kenneman will take charge of Mistress Wheeler.”
“Until you ride to warn the minutemen,” Ashley quickly added. Once that happened, even in a dream, the men would be too busy to worry about her.
“Cuss it, but she is unnerving!” Warren sputtered.
“You needn’t worry,” Ashley said. “I can’t do anything to keep you from warning the people that the British are coming.”
“You know they’re coming?” Revere blurted out. The men were so easily unnerved by proclamations that she was tempted to tell them all she knew, but she didn’t dare risk any more of their anger.
“Then mayhap you might be so kind as to tell us when and how they shall come?” Aaron said calmly.
“Well,” Ashley began modestly, then stopped. If she told them how the British were coming, she would only confirm their suspicions that she was a Tory spy, and they would hang her. By her heels. At dawn.
“Well…no, I can’t tell you how they’re coming.” If she told them, it might alter history, and who knew what the ramifications of that might be? If something went wrong, it wasn’t going to be her fault!
Exasperated by the wench’s refusal to cooperate, Paul spotted her key chain lying on the table. He pondered it for a moment, then said, “What manner of trinket be this?”
Of course being a silversmith he would be interested in the key chain, Ashley realized. The sterling silver initial had been a birthday gift from Joel.
“It’s a key chain.”
“Interesting.” Paul’s fingers caressed the metal
thoughtfully. “Remarkable workmanship.”
“And what be this?” Adams asked, picking up a small zippered bag.
“A makeup bag.”
He looked up blankly.
“Cosmetic bag…a bag to carry blusher, lipsticks, collagen cream for my face?”
Adam sent Aaron a mute apology, clearly pitying the poor man who had been elected to care for Ashley’s demented soul.
“And what manner of device be this?” Hancock’s slim fingers toyed inquisitively with the zipper.
“A zipper. Here, it works like this.” The men leaned forward as she ran the zipper open and closed two or three times.
“Zounds,” Revere breathed. “Amazing implement.”
“Yes…most amazing,” Adams agreed.
“And these other trifles?” Warren prompted, poking around inside the cosmetic bag.
Ashley removed her compact, then eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lipstick. Many of the objects were familiar to the men but the packaging had them stumped. “Here. You want to know who I am? Here’s my driver’s license and credit cards.” She shoved the plastic coated driver’s license into John Hancock’s hand.
Revere’s gasp caught her attention. “A most incredible miniature,” he breathed. “The workmanship is superb!”
Ashley glanced up to find him staring at her photo on the driver’s license. “No, that’s a photograph.”
The men looked at her blankly. “Photograph?”
“A picture, taken by a camera.” Now they were completely lost. “You know…you look through the lens and click the button, then print it, or take the memory stick to the store and have them print the pictures.”
“Nay, we know nothing of this,” Warren admitted warily. The men took a protective step back as if she had something catching.
The door burst open and the men whirled to find a young man entering the room. He closed the door quickly behind him.
“Is there trouble?” Aaron broke from the group to stride across the room and confront the boy.
“The Tories are moving.” The boy glanced questioningly at Ashley.
“Choose your words carefully,” Revere warned. Taking the boy aside, Paul conversed with him in hushed tones. A moment later he returned, his features grave.
“It is as we fear, gentlemen.”
“The storm clouds are gathering,” Warren murmured. “I feel the crackle of lightning in the air.”
Glancing at his pocket watch, Hancock said, “We must disperse lest we invite unwelcome comment.”
“It is imperative that we maintain our scheduled time of arrival and departure if we are to continue our pretense of a weekly game of five and forty,” Warren agreed.
“Aaron, you and Mistress Wheeler take your leave first, while the tavern is heavy with patronage,” Hancock directed.
“What shall we do about the hole in the roof?” Warren asked, gazing upward at the large opening.
Picking up his tricornered hat, Aaron viewed Ashley coolly. “Say nothing. I shall explain it.”
Her pulse jumped as his eyes skimmed her impersonally. He was handsome, she’d give him that. And it wasn’t hard to see that he found his assignment to escort her heartily disagreeable. Yet Ashley knew that a man like Aaron Kenneman would do what he must.
“You will go with me quietly,” he said. “Not one word, or I shall hand you to the first authority I see.”
The threat in his eyes was unmistakable. Ashley would do as he said, or she would be cast to the wolves. Her choice was obvious. Dream or no dream, she would cooperate.
Because she knew history, she knew there was a certain desperation in these men. A quiet desperation that led men like Aaron Kenneman to perform extraordinary acts.
Drawing herself up straighter, Ashley met Dr. Aaron Kenneman’s autocratic gaze. “I’ll do as you say.”
Aaron nodded.
Well. The British were coming. What choice did she have? The smell of cooking fat and scorched meat mixed with pipe tobacco and the odor of unwashed bodies made Ashley’s stomach roll as Aaron steered her through the small tavern.
Chapter Three
The air was filled with the babble and boisterous laughter of men sitting at small tables swilling rum from tall mugs.
Two buxom serving girls carried pots of hot mulled ale to a group of men settled in front of the large fireplace. Smoke whirled and circled as it drifted from the long-stemmed clay pipes that Ashley remembered were called, ironically, church wardens.
As they made their way across the room, a few men raised their hands to Aaron, calling his name in amiable greeting.
A man well into his cups lurched toward Ashley. Aaron pulled her in front of himself as he continued to guide her through the crowd.
“Who’s the wench, Kenneman?” shouted a well-dressed man in frock coat and breeches .
“She refuses to say!” Aaron called back good naturedly. Ashley stiffened as Aaron’s grip tightened around her arm.
A slovenly looking chap at a nearby table removed a chewed stick of snuff from his pocket and used it to massage his gums as he joined in the ribald laughter.
“What a terrible thing to say,” Ashley accused. He was making it sound as if she were a prostitute!
“You are to remain quiet, wench.”
“Stop calling me wench.”
He ignored her, hurrying her through the crowded room.
“I refuse to be treated this way,” she protested as she struggled to keep pace with his long-legged stride.
“Hold your tongue,” he warned softly. “And keep moving. The gentleman to your right seems to have developed an eye for you.”
Ashley darted between two tables to avoid contact with the burly seaman who was clearly ogling her.
A stooped, white-haired man with a stained apron encasing his slim hips straightened from a table where he had been talking with two others. “Aye, Doctor! A trophy from th’ game?” he called out
“Aye, and a fine one,” Aaron called back. “Oh, Loyal? I’d do something about that hole in your roof. It looks like falling weather.”
The innkeeper frowned, scratching his head. “Hole in me roof?”
“Yes, and a rather large one,” Aaron said. “Should be repaired immediately.”
“A hole in me roof?” Loyal was still scratching his head as the good doctor pulled Ashley out the front door.
A large, ornately dressed man was just about to enter the tavern as Ashley and Aaron emerged. The man paused, tipping his hat to Ashley as she sidled around him and down the steps. Drawing a deep breath of fresh air, she tried to rid her nostrils of the tavern’s stench.
Moving her along briskly to a dark bay tied at the hitching rail, Aaron said, “Not a word as we ride through town. Understand?”
“Perfectly.” Did he think she was daft—well, yes, he did, but she wasn’t. “Where are we going?”
“That needn’t concern you.”
Ashley viewed the horse anxiously. She’d never ridden a horse before and wasn’t especially eager to start. “I don’t ride.”
“You do now.” After swinging easily into the saddle, he extended his hand to her. Ashley placed her foot into the stirrup and groaned as he pulled her up awkwardly behind him.
Grasping his waist, she gasped as the horse lurched forward. “Slow down! I’ve never even been on a horse!”
“This is not a pleasure ride. Try to bear that in mind.”
The horse galloped off, and all Ashley could do was hang on, praying that she would wake up and be done with this ghastly dream!
Boston in 1775 was an awesome spectacle. The gathering twilight bathed the bustling town in a mellow coral glow as the horse galloped through narrow, winding dirt streets. The odor of fish hung heavily in the air, and Ashley could hear the muffled throb of ships laying at anchor in the harbor.
Gazing about her in bewilderment, she found the skyline flat, not the Boston she knew. The flurry of activity was far removed from the midtown traffic to which she
was accustomed. She could see candles being lit inside quaint brick homes, and men carrying lanterns strode alongside the road.
To the right lay the harbor where she saw a tubby British vessel with a hornlike head projecting from its bow. A smaller American craft, built mainly for fishing and coastal trade, bobbed beside it in the water. Ashley noticed the American ship had fewer square sails and more of the handy fore and aft sails, which hung parallel to the keel.
Shouts suddenly drew her attention. Two ruffians were engaged in a fistfight where a crowd was gathering. Street vendors ignored the rowdy cutpurses as they went about crying their wares.
Ashley turned, gaping over her shoulder at what appeared to be a pickled pirate’s head perched upon a pole for exhibition. As she grasped Aaron tighter about the waist, she felt him urge the horse into a faster gait.
Curiosity mixed with wonder, astonishment, and apprehension made her head swivel like a top as she took in the sights and sounds of eighteenth-century Boston.
Ships were being unloaded at the docks and freight wagons rumbled past, carrying what few goods were allowed to the merchants. Recalling history again, Ashley knew the ships contained everything from turtles to chandeliers. In 1775 the port of Boston had been closed to all commerce since June 1 of the year before, until the city paid for the tea that the colonists had dumped into the harbor. The tea had been worth thousands of dollars. The boycott had been a great sacrifice for the colonists, for it meant that they had to do without a great many things they’d thought necessary for living.
Ashley suddenly wondered if Aaron Kenneman had been involved in the Boston Tea Party. She sat up straighter, about to ask him, then didn’t. Paul Revere and the others had accused her of being Gage’s spy, and the question would only arouse more suspicion. General Thomas Gage, she remembered, was the new governor and commander-in-chief of the British forces in North America, and he was assigned the task of enforcing the Boston Port Act.
Forever Ashley Page 4
