A World Apart (The Hands of Time: Book 3)

by Irina Shapiro

  “What’s that building over there, Mr. Mallory?” Finn asked, pointing across a stretch of grass.

  “Why, that’s the Governor’s Palace, son. Impressive, isn’t it?” Mr. Mallory smiled at Finn’s enthusiasm, slowing down the wagon to let him have a better look.

  “Is the Governor there now?” Finn asked, trying to imagine what it must be like to live in such splendor. The palace was large enough to accommodate a hundred people, if not more.

  “He’s not been there for some time,” answered Mr. Mallory cryptically. Now that he mentioned it, the palace did seem somewhat quiet. The building looked more like a mausoleum than a residence that must house dozens of people. There didn’t seem to be sentries at the gates and the large yard in front of the palace was deserted. Finn shrugged his shoulders, turning his attention back to the busy street.

  Looking at the passersby, Finn was once again grateful to Mrs. Mallory for giving him some clothes. He would have looked decidedly out of place in his leather doublet and knee breeches with garters. Thankfully, he hadn’t been wearing a ruff when he activated the device. No one wore those anymore. Finn liked the style of dress popular during this time. The triangular hats were kind of ridiculous, but the narrower breeches worn with waistcoats and coats looked manlier in his opinion. He spotted a few men wearing wigs. These wigs weren’t like the ones he saw back home. They weren’t long and curly, but rather more coifed and usually white; the hair tied back with a ribbon at the back. Why would anyone want to wear a wig when they had perfectly good hair of their own? Mr. Mallory didn’t wear one, but then he was a farmer and not a gentleman.

  Finn transferred his attention to the ladies. The modern gowns weren’t as radically different as the men’s attire, but he did notice that most women wore a tucker like the Mallory women, using it to cover the flesh above the bodice. The wealthier women had ones made of lace, but the poorer ones wore simple cotton. They also wore wide-brimmed hats with shallow crowns, sometimes right over their mob caps, which looked kind of odd in his opinion. Most of the white women were followed by Negro slaves as they did their marketing. The slaves walked respectfully behind their mistresses, carrying the shopping baskets and keeping their eyes fixed on the ground. The ladies barely paid attention to the slaves, going about their business as if they were alone.

  Mr. Mallory reined in the horses in front of an inn, a wooden sign depicting a fat man flanked by a ham and a chicken and reading Shield’s Tavern, creaking in the wind. He threw the reins to a young boy, and bid Finn to follow him inside. It was close to noon, so the taproom was swarming with patrons, drinking large tankards of ale, and sharing news and gossip with relish. A thin man of middle years sat in the corner, surveying the scene with interest. His graying hair was tied back with a ribbon, his clothes austere, but clean and well-made. He had a plate of something in front of him, dipping pieces of bread into the gravy and slowly putting them in his mouth, his dark eyes never leaving the door. John Mallory slid onto a bench across from the man, smiling in greeting.

  “Sorry we’re late, Alf. Jonah took a bit of a spill, so Finn came with me instead. Finlay, this is my brother-in-law, Mr. Alfred Hewitt.” Finn bowed to the man, instantly recognizing his voice. He was the man with John Mallory the other night. Now that he saw his face, he could detect a slight resemblance to Mrs. Mallory, but her face was much kinder; her dark eyes full of warmth and humor. Alfred Hewitt made him feel as if he was looking straight into his soul, trying to extract every wicked thought and possible sin. The man should have been a minister.

  “Finlay, Mr. Mallory and I have some urgent business to discuss. Would you do me a kindness and run to the print shop down the street? Just tell the printer to include the following announcement in next week’s Gazette.” Alfred Hewitt spoke with quiet authority, obviously used to being obeyed. He handed Finn a folded sheet of paper before he even agreed to go, already turning his attention back to his brother-in-law.

  “Shall I tell him it came from you, sir?” Finn asked, glancing at Mr. Mallory. He didn’t like this man treating him like a servant.

  “No names are necessary. He’ll know what to do. Just tell him it’s for the Committee, and to put it on our account.” There it was again – the mention of the committee. He’d have to find out more, but he couldn’t ask outright. He’d have to steer Jonah in that direction and see if the lad would divulge something useful.

  “Finn, we don’t have to leave for some time yet, so you can visit some of the shops if you like,” suggested Mr. Mallory kindly, obviously aware of Finn’s displeasure at being treated like an errand boy. “Just don’t take too long about it. Now, off with you.”

  Finn quickly left the inn, glad to have a little time on his own. He’d drop off the notice, then take a quick walk around, taking in the sights. The print shop was just down the street next to the Post Office, as Mr. Hewitt said. A bell tinkled somewhere above the door as Finn entered the premises, announcing his arrival. Finn gave the note to the man behind the counter, waiting patiently while the printer read it, and enjoying the smell of paper and ink. He wondered what kinds of things were printed in the back room of the shop. All the pamphlets and tracts on the counter looked highly respectable, but they must be printing seditious articles as well, judging by Mr. Hewitt’s patronage and association with the mysterious Committee. Finn expected some questions, but the man just pushed his spectacles to the top of his bald head after he finished reading the notice, and nodded in understanding.

  “Very good, young man. It will be in the next edition.” The man gave him a curt nod and retreated into the back room, their business obviously concluded.

  Finn left the shop and turned right, eager to see what interesting shops the street might have. He didn’t have any money, but that didn’t matter. He just wanted to see what new and wonderful things this century had to offer. He wished he could find some books on astronomy. It had always been a favorite subject of his. He couldn’t pay for a book, but maybe they’d let him look.

  Finn walked the length of the street, stopping into a few places. He didn’t find a book shop, but there were plenty of other things to see. He eventually turned back, walking briskly back to the tavern. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee from Carlton’s Coffeehouse reminded him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and he hoped that Mr. Mallory would offer him something to eat before they left for the farm. It was hours till supper, and he was already hungry.

  “There you are,” exclaimed Mr. Mallory as he spotted Finn entering the tavern. “Come and have some dinner. This beef is rather good, but don’t tell Mrs. Mallory. She likes to think no one can make boiled beef as good as hers.” Mr. Mallory winked at Finn as he pushed a plate of beef and half a loaf of bread toward him. The beef was good, and he enjoyed his meal as John Mallory talked of the family and Martha’s upcoming wedding. Whatever private business they had was obviously concluded. Mr. Hewitt appeared somewhat less frosty than before, thanking Finn for delivering the notice and asking him a few questions about himself. He told Finn about his own sons, clearly proud of them for joining the army.

  “We’d best be off now. Good to see you Alfred. Keep me informed, and thank you for the meal.” John Mallory put on his hat and made for the door. The place was getting more crowded by the minute, patrons coming in for their dinner and a drink. “I just have to fetch a few things for Mrs. Mallory, and then we’ll be on our way. I’d like to get back before nightfall. With both of us gone all day and Jonah laid up with his ankle, I’m sure there’s lots to do before supper.”

  “Yes, sir,” Finn mumbled as he followed Mr. Mallory out of the tavern. He had to admit that he was glad Jonah twisted his ankle. Coming to Williamsburg had been an education, and Finn hoped that maybe Mr. Mallory would bring him again. He only wished he had some money so that he could get something for Abbie; just a little trinket or a ribbon to show his affection. Then he suddenly remembered the bracelet he brought for Minnie. He still had it, wrapped in his old sh
irt and hidden under the bed with his tomahawk. He’d give it to Abbie next time he got her alone.

  Thinking of Abbie made him smile. She was the only bright spot in this incomprehensible adventure that had befallen him. Without her, he would be totally desolate, despite the kindness of the Mallorys. He glanced down the street, noting a tall man stepping out of the Post Office. He was too far away to see his face clearly, but something about his posture, coloring, and profile reminded Finn of his father. If only. He sighed and looked away, suddenly miserable.

  Chapter 27

  Satisfied with her drawing at last, Valerie handed it to Alec for his opinion. They’d retreated to the coffeehouse after purchasing the supplies, assuming it wouldn’t be too busy at midday. Valerie chose a table by the window, which gave her a flat surface to draw on and plenty of light. Alec had used one of his silver coins to pay for the paper and ink, and the clerk at the Post Office actually gave him change in the form of paper notes. Alec examined them carefully before stuffing them into his purse, having never used paper money before. All the same, it gave them a little cash and Valerie eagerly ordered some coffee to sip as she worked on her drawing. She hadn’t had proper coffee since she left the twenty-first century, and although this coffee wasn’t nearly as strong or flavorful, it still tasted like the elixir of the gods to her. She asked for a second cup as Alec studied the drawing carefully.

  “It’s a good likeness. I think it will help. Let’s take it to the print shop now. Maybe they can even print it today if they’re not too busy. How many copies do you think we might need?” Alec rolled up the drawing into a tube and tied it with a piece of string to prevent it from getting creased.

  Valerie hadn’t thought of that. How many copies did they need? Should they start small or plaster the whole town with broadsheets? “Why don’t we ask for fifty and then see if we need more later?” she suggested. Alec nodded, already rising from the bench, the rolled-up drawing under his arm. Valerie took a last gulp of her coffee before following Alec outside. The print shop had been right next to the Post Office and as they passed by earlier, it seemed to be empty. Hopefully, it wasn’t closed.

  They walked to the print shop, feeling marginally more hopeful than they had in the past few days. Valerie couldn’t help noticing how many boys Finn’s age passed her in the street. From a distance, so many of them could have been her son. How many people actually paid attention to their facial features enough to recognize them from a broadsheet? Her spirits sank somewhat, but she refused to allow herself to pursue such thoughts. All it took was one person to recognize Finn.

  A bell tinkled as they walked into the shop. The scarred wooden counter was cluttered with tracts and pamphlets scattered randomly, their topics varying greatly. A strong smell of ink wafted from the back and the steady thump of the printing press could be heard coming from the back room. Several faded broadsheets hung on the wall, more to illustrate the different types of print rather than to actually announce something. A heavyset, balding man came out in response to the bell. His glasses were sliding down his nose, his forehead glistening with perspiration. He wiped his hands on the leather apron tied around his rotund belly, smiling at them pleasantly.

  “Good afternoon, sir, ma’am. How can I be of service?” The man pushed up his glasses, leaving an inky smudge on his nose.

  “We were interested in printing some broadsheets.” Valerie handed the drawing to the man, who examined it closely.

  “You’re trying to find this lad?” the man asked, peering at them over his spectacles.

  “Yes, he’s our son,” Valerie said, confused by the man’s astonishment.

  “I hope I’m not mistaken since I wouldn’t want to mislead you, my dear lady, but this lad was here not an hour ago,” he stammered, lowering the drawing to the counter. “I’m certain it was him.”

  “Where did he go?” asked Alec. “What was his business here?”

  “He brought me a notice for the Gazette, then left. He didn’t give his name or address, and I didn’t ask. There was no need.” The man looked genuinely upset at his inability to help them.

  “Who wrote the notice for the newspaper? Was there a name? Someone we could contact?” Valerie fired off the questions, desperately hoping the man could answer at least one of them. Only moments before, she wanted one person, just one, to recognize Finn, and now someone had; only he seemed unable to help them.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but the notices are usually submitted anonymously.” The man was rubbing his forehead, thinking.

  “Come now, man. There must be something you can tell us. Someone pays for them to be printed, do they not?” Alec’s voice was becoming agitated, forcing the man to step back from the counter in sudden apprehension.

  “Look, Mister, there’s only one thing I can tell you, at a great risk to my own person, you understand. These notices are billed to the Committee.” The man looked scared, his voice almost a whisper when he mentioned the Committee.

  “What committee?” Valerie and Alec asked in unison.

  “The Committee. Where have you two been?” he asked, taking in their outdated attire. “The Committee of Secret Correspondence.”

  “How does one get in contact with this committee?” Alec asked, gentling his voice.

  “You don’t get in touch with them; they get in touch with you. The names of the members are kept secret to protect them and their families. Your best course would be to join the Militia. There’s always someone who is in contact with the members, or so I would presume.” The printer looked as if he would like nothing more than for them to leave. “Do you still want the broadsheets then?”

  “Yes,” Valerie said, putting a silver coin on the counter. “Will this cover it?”

  The printer looked at the coin, then at the two of them, shrugging his shoulders. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll have your order by noon,” he said, palming the coin.

  **

  “Shall we go back to the inn?” Valerie asked, taking Alec’s arm as they left the shop.

  “Let’s take a walk. I’m too agitated to sit right now.” He pulled Valerie along, his stride chewing up the pavement. Alec was muttering something to himself, making Valerie nervous. In her opinion, this was good news. The printer had seen Finn, so at least their search wasn’t in vain.

  “Alec, slow down. Why are you so upset?”

  Alec stopped abruptly, facing Valerie, his face a mask of confusion. “I don’t understand it, Valerie. I don’t understand any of it. Just over a week ago, Finn was at home, hunting, fishing, doing his best to avoid learning Latin and Greek, and pilfering tobacco from the storehouse to trade with the Indians.”

  “So, you knew about that?” asked Valerie, offended that he’d lied to her.

  “I didn’t know, but I suspected. Anyhow, he was just his usual self. If the boy the printer saw had indeed been Finn, then nothing makes sense. Why did he choose 1775? Why did he come to Williamsburg? Who is he with? What is his connection to this Committee? What does he think happened to him? I don’t understand any of it. Do you?” He obviously expected Valerie to shed some light on all this, but she was just as lost. Alec was right -- nothing made sense. If Finn was delivering notices for the Committee he had to be working with someone. How could he have gotten his bearings so quickly and managed to affiliate himself with a committee that was probably the first known agency of espionage in America? How did he explain being transported to the eighteenth century, and was he looking for a way to get back? Of course, there was no way to get back, but did he realize that?

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” Valerie answered with considerably more optimism than she felt. She followed Alec as he started walking again, turning off the main street into a quieter lane.

  “The only explanation I can think of is that the printer saw the wrong boy,” said Alec quietly. “He might not have had his glasses on, or was distracted by something or someone. He might think it was Finn, but it might have been some other tall,
dark-haired boy. We mustn’t get our hopes up, Valerie.”

  “That’s right. Ye mustn’t get yer ‘opes up,” a gruff voice came from the mouth of the alley. “My, isn’t that a nice, posh British accent I ‘ear? Do ye know what we do to Royalists in these parts?”

  Two men were advancing on them slowly, cudgels in hand. The one who’d spoken was in front, his ruddy face split into a vicious grin. He was short and barrel-chested, with thick arms that strained the fabric of his dirty shirt. His sleeveless coat was covered with dust, and his beat-up hat was low over his face, obscuring his features. He was slapping his club menacingly against his palm in an effort to intimidate his prey. He was obviously enjoying himself very much, having found an opportunity not to be missed. The second man was taller and thinner. He was hanging back slightly in anticipation of what was to come, evidently more of a sidekick than a leader. Valerie noticed that he had only a few teeth left in his mouth as he grinned at her, sliding his tongue over his thick lips.

  “Get behind me, Valerie, and stay there no matter what,” Alec said quietly.

  “What is it you want with us?” he asked, his voice clear and calm.

  “Hmm, let’s see. ‘E wants to know what we want, Bobby. Should I tell ‘im?” The man was slowly advancing on Alec, his dark eyes full of intent. “We want yer kind to go back where ye came from. Go back to yer King with yer tails between yer legs and leave us to rule ourselves as we please. That’s what we want. Any more questions?”

  “You are not revolutionaries – you’re just thugs,” Valerie said, stepping forward. “If you are so worried about your independence, join the army and fight like real men.”

  “Thank you, Valerie. That was very helpful,” whispered Alec.

  “Real men, eh? We’ll show ye what real men are made of as soon as we’ve finished with yer lily-livered ‘usband. I reckon ye’ll ‘ave trouble walking for a few days after we’re done with ye, yer ladyship,” he grinned at her, his smile full of lewd intent.