Her Vanquished Land

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “An impressive piece.” Rowena, with Sam, inspected the flintlock as the three of them sat on the triple-backed sofa. The barrel was six inches in length, much longer than the two inches of her muff pistol. The gun felt heavy in her hand. She had practiced with the larger pistol Sam carried, but not as often.

  Aunt Joan’s gaze roamed over Rowena’s face, where she’d applied her lilac-scented facial cream to the splinter injuries. “You two are impressive. But foolish to be so close to flying ammunition and having to hit a British sentry. Alas, if I were one to swoon, I’d be a puddle on the floor.” She smiled wistfully. “Are you certain you wish to continue riding into battles? There must be easier ways to assist our people, my dear.”

  Sam smiled. “Pardon me, Mistress, but ’tis difficult to stop Miss Marsh when she gets an idea in her head.” He took the pistol from Rowena. “We’ll dismantle this gun, oil it, load it an’ perfect your aim, away from the city.”

  Rowena pondered if her aunt might be right, which echoed her own previous thoughts. Then her determination surged. She must defend her father and her home, the life she’d expected until the war, the death of her mother. Every night she also prayed for her brothers, who fought to the south. “As soon as we can, I will become proficient in shooting this pistol.”

  “A British soldier shot and killed a minister’s wife during that battle, right in her own home. She had children.” Aunt Joan shook her head. “This has caused much anger among the rebels. More men, especially in New Jersey, have joined in the fight against the British.”

  “I’m sad to hear of this decent woman, a mother, killed by our own soldiers.” Rowena’s determination started to lose its edge again. Such atrocities on both sides. Innocent people shouldn’t have to die—though they had from the war’s beginning. She rubbed the knotted muscles at her nape, her thoughts a swirl of confusion.

  Adjusting her kerchief, she was relieved to have bathed but uncomfortable in stays, a stiff stomacher, and flowing gown, after the freedom of men’s clothes. At least her small breasts were only squashed and not bound. Once more, that feeling of not fitting in anywhere crept through her.

  “My father told me that when the United Colonies signed the treaty with France to aid their cause, American independence would be the only outcome. Is there hope for us loyalists?” She felt constant worry over her family and the whereabouts of Pritchard and James.

  Aunt Joan squeezed her hand. “We remain in a precarious position. I’m reluctant to harbor doubts. I remain strong for Charles. We’re still fighting and must—”

  A loud thump sounded on the front door. All three of them sucked in their breath.

  Mrs. Bailey’s quick patter of feet headed for the front of the house.

  Sam stashed the pistol under a sofa cushion. The pounding continued. The door creaked open.

  “Oh, dear, who could be so impatient and rude? Stay quiet, both of you.” Aunt Joan stood, straightened her burgundy skirt, and left the parlor.

  Rowena rose, too. “Hide that pistol in a better place. I hope we haven’t brought trouble to my aunt’s home.” Could someone dangerous have followed them here?

  She picked up her green skirts and entered the hall. Her aunt and Mrs. Bailey were at the open door, speaking with someone outside. Rowena sidled along the wall to better hear, and not intrude.

  “I am sorry, sir, but as I already stated, you have come in vain,” Aunt Joan said, her voice full of regret. “She is not here.”

  “And I don’t believe you, Mrs. Quinton,” an angry male grumbled. “You should be expelled from Philadelphia as a traitor to our cause for liberty. Now tell me, where is your niece, Miss Rowena Marsh? I will speak with her on an important matter. Or I’ll be forced to search your house.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rowena flattened against the hall wainscoting. The man at her aunt’s front door demanded to see her. Had the rebels noted her foray into New Jersey? She had shot a Continental soldier—though someone else had killed him.

  “My niece is not of age, so you will not speak to her without a male relative in attendance, as is proper.” Aunt Joan’s voice was firm but not disrespectful. “Unfortunately, thanks to this war, we have no male relative available.”

  Sam joined Rowena alongside the wall—two insects pinned to the wainscot and plaster.

  “So, she is here? You said otherwise. The sentry on guard reported a young woman who arrived nearly a fortnight ago,” the man barked. “Zounds. Do you lie to me, Mistress?”

  “Becalm yourself, sir. Is it lieutenant? I didn’t say she wasn’t visiting me.” Her aunt put one hand on her hip, above the small hoop in her skirt. “What do you wish to discuss with my niece?”

  Rowena slid closer, lip caught between her teeth. Sam put a hand on her arm.

  Mrs. Bailey, still beside her aunt, glanced back, her eyes wide with apprehension.

  “It has to do with the people who escorted her into the city. A Mr. Tobias Chandler and his wife,” the lieutenant continued. “Find your niece, then secure a ‘proper’ male to attend her, Madam. I will return tomorrow around ten o’clock.”

  Rowena shifted, her astonishment rife.

  “Very well. Good day, sir.” Aunt Joan closed the door, brows knitted. “Mrs. Bailey, tell cook to serve luncheon in the dining room now.”

  Mrs. Bailey nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Such a to-do.” She scurried toward the kitchen.

  Rowena darted her gaze to Sam, then her aunt, in shock. “The Chandlers? They’re but well-off farmers from Easton, here in Philadelphia to tend her sick mother.”

  Aunt Joan swept forward. She ushered Rowena and Sam down the hall. “Do you know anything else about these people?”

  Rowena shrugged. “They’re loyalists, and that might be enough to cause problems. I’ve heard nothing ill of them.” She regretted sounding unkind, but said, “Mr. Chandler is a terrible bore and his wife grins too much.”

  Sam hid a smile, then he frowned. “Aye, I’ve heard naught either.” He left them to eat in the kitchen as he always did.

  In the Chinese-papered dining room, golden birds on pale blue, her aunt sighed. “Rowena, dear, I appreciate candor, but you must curb your tongue tomorrow.” She tapped her chin; her nervous gaze reflected her worry. “I’ll ask my friend and protector, Mr. Thomas Fitzsimmons, to attend us when the officer returns. Thomas is a merchant involved in the West Indies trade. He was captain of the home guards. Against the British, sadly, but that might serve in your favor.”

  Rowena suppressed a quiver as her aunt bid her to be seated at the table to await their meal. “I pray you can trust such a person, no matter your friendship, Aunt.” She didn’t wish to be scrutinized by a prominent Patriot. But what had the stodgy Chandlers done? And now she was suspected for being with them?

  * * *

  Late morning light filtered through the bedroom window as Aunt Joan’s maid primped with Rowena’s hair. The poor girl tried to tame the brown curls with apple-scented pomade. She slipped on a borrowed white, lace-trimmed cap. “Will that do, Miss?”

  “You’ve managed well, thank you.” Rowena studied herself in her bedroom vanity mirror. Had her face lost some of its girlish roundness? She stood. In her prettiest open robe gown, the cotton material white with small pink flowers, she resembled an innocent maiden. The revealed petticoat was pale pink—and looked too childish. Yet the skirt no longer touched her buckled shoes, as if she’d grown an inch. Only her sharp green eyes betrayed her annoyance at this charade.

  Aunt Elizabeth, James’ mother, had insisted on her seamstress fashioning this confection last year. Where was James—and Pritchard? Her heart did a flip.

  “Your aunt awaits in the front parlor, Miss.” The girl dipped her head and left.

  Rowena straightened the three-quarter sleeves, also trimmed in lace, with sharp tugs. “And so does Mr. Fitzsimons,” she whispered to herself. How could such a man remain on good terms with her aunt, whose husband so openly fought with the King’s Army?
>
  She descended the stairs, took a slow breath, and entered the elegant front parlor.

  A gentleman of at least forty years stood. He had a long, handsome face with a cleft chin. He wore no wig, his powdered hair tied back in a queue. His frock coat and breeches were plain but an elegant buff color, his white kerchief in a perfect knot.

  Aunt Joan introduced them, her smile hopeful toward Rowena as if warning her to be on her best behavior.

  Fitzsimons bowed. “Good morning, Miss Marsh.” His speech held a trace of Irish.

  “Mr. Fitzsimons, sir.” She made her best curtsy. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “I understand you share your aunt’s misguided allegiances?” His eyes twinkled with humor.

  Rowena relaxed for a moment. “I do, sir.” She was cautious about admitting too much.

  “Such a shame. Shall we sit?” He motioned toward the sofa.

  Rowena sat, and Aunt Joan joined her. Mr. Fitzsimons took the upholstered chair that faced them.

  “I’ve wasted much argument in my effort to bring your aunt to the patriotic side. The king’s tyranny with his high taxation, and the atrocious Coercive Acts.”

  “But, Thomas, the Coercive Acts were in reaction to the tea destruction in Boston, which cost England a fortune.” Her aunt smiled sweetly at him. “There should have been a better way to negotiate.”

  Rowena knew the Acts tried to cut off Massachusetts from the rest of the colonies, to prevent them from joining together in protest. Also, they included the unpopular Quartering Act, which demanded citizens provide room and board for British soldiers.

  “Negotiations had failed, my dear.” Fitzsimons nodded to Aunt Joan. “The tea was highly taxed, which prompted its destruction.” They’d no doubt had this discussion before. “I commend the courage of the Sons of Liberty for disposing of it in the harbor.”

  “Despite your tendency to back marauders, I appreciate your being here today.” Aunt Joan touched the merchant’s sleeve. “Your and Catherine’s compassion toward me is beyond words. I don’t feel so alone with Charles gone.”

  He patted her aunt’s fingers. “The feeling is mutual. If only you could convince Charles to join the Patriots, the righteous cause for liberty.”

  “Is it too late to come to terms between Whigs and Tories?” Rowena used her softest voice. How odd to play the well-bred young maiden after masquerading as a boy.

  “I’m afraid it is. We want and deserve independence.” Fitzsimons’s tone remained thoughtful. “Now, what sort of difficulty have you gotten yourself into, young lady? It’s to do with the couple who brought you to Philadelphia, I heard?”

  Rowena gazed at him with what she hoped were innocent eyes. “I know not, sir. I’m baffled by this situation. The Chandlers are associates of my father and seemed affable people. I’ve only met them but a few times.” She twisted her hands in her lap. So far, she’d spoken the truth. She’d redirect the subject. “How do you, sir, and my aunt stay friendly when you are on opposing sides?”

  “Your aunt helped my dear wife through a grave illness. I’m forever grateful to her.” He smiled at Aunt Joan, then raised one finger. “But if I ever discover any untoward behavior…”

  A knock sounded at the door. Rowena tensed. Mrs. Bailey hurried to open it. Fitzsimons rose and straightened his buff frock coat.

  A soldier in a blue coat strode in, hat tucked under his arm. He was short, with chapped-red lips, and wore a leather neck stock and a gold epaulet on his left shoulder. Another, younger soldier followed behind.

  “Would anyone care for coffee? Sir, Ma’am?” Mrs. Bailey’s gaze flitted from person to person as if she were desperate to do something.

  Aunt Joan stood. “Yes, please, Mrs. Bailey.”

  The housekeeper curtsied then left.

  Rowena stood as well; she struggled with all the formality. She’d rather be riding through the woods, inhaling the clean smell of pine. These soldiers stank of pipe smoke.

  “I’m Lt. Putnam, this is Private Jones. I’d like to get right to business.” The officer turned to Rowena, red lips pursed. “Miss Marsh? The woman who accompanied you into the city, Mrs. Marion Chandler, has been arrested for passing messages to the enemy British.”

  Rowena swayed, her throat tight. She could hardly believe it. The silly, beaming Mrs. Chandler, a spy? “I’m…I’m genuinely shocked.”

  “What has this to do with my niece? You can see she knew nothing.” Aunt Joan slipped her arm around Rowena. “The poor girl is overcome.”

  “I had no idea, Sir.” Rowena shook her head. “Are you certain it was—?”

  Putnam stuck one booted foot forward. “Isn’t your father a loyalist barrister who resides in Easton? Neighbors of the Chandlers?”

  “He doesn’t practice much now, but they are clients of my father’s.” Rowena strained not to cry out, don’t drag my father into this.

  Fitzsimons moved closer. “Excuse me, Lieutenant, but what is your exact purpose in questioning Miss Marsh?” he asked in a calm tone, the voice of reason. “Do you have evidence she is involved?”

  The officer stared up at the taller man. “The young miss was with the Chandlers for two days, and her father is a loyalist.” He turned his slitted gaze on Aunt Joan. “Your husband, Madam, serves with General Cornwallis.”

  “I’m well aware of that, sir,” Aunt Joan said airily.

  “All of this is true, Lieutenant. But it doesn’t necessarily condemn Mrs. Quinton’s niece.” Fitzsimons turned to Rowena, eyes fatherly. “Miss Marsh, did you witness Mrs. Chandler in any subversive activities?”

  Mrs. Bailey came in, the items on the coffee tray rattling. She set it on a low table. She clinked cups and saucers together and poured the dark, fragrant beverage. “I forgot the cream, I did.”

  A headache throbbed behind Rowena’s eyes. The coffee smell turned bitter and soured her stomach. “No, I never saw her do anything ‘subversive.’ To be honest, I thought her a flibbertigibbet of a woman.” But that might have been Mrs. Chandler’s façade. She prayed the soldier wouldn’t ask about her activities.

  “I trust you’re telling me the truth, Miss Marsh.” Fitzsimons leaned down, his tone firm.

  Rowena rubbed her temple. “I swear, sir. I’m indeed flummoxed by this news.”

  The officer didn’t look convinced. Mrs. Bailey shoved a cup of coffee into his hand. He glared at it as if she’d handed him a snake. “Miss Marsh, Mrs. Chandler sits in a dank cell, awaiting a possible hangman’s noose. No one wants to face such a fate.”

  Fitzsimons tutted. “Lieutenant, please remember we have a delicate female here.”

  Rowena lowered her eyes, like a delicate female. “I do understand, sir.” Had she considered the ramifications?

  “I pray you do. I will accept your word for now, Miss Marsh.” Putnam turned to the merchant. “And count on your good reputation, Mr. Fitzsimons.”

  Aunt Joan received a cup of the brew, held it tight but didn’t drink. “Are we finished, Sir? My niece looks like she needs to retire.”

  Rowena waved away the coffee. “I think I’m going to be indisposed.” She faked a deeper sway of her body.

  “I’ll be on my way, this time, miss.” Lt. Putnam shoved the cup at his private, sloshing coffee into the saucer. The man winced. “But your home will be under stricter observation, Mrs. Quinton.” He crushed his hat on his head “Your servant. Good day to you all.”

  Putnam spun and marched out. The hapless private handed the cup to Mrs. Bailey and followed like a dog. The front door opened and closed.

  “Oh, my. Rowena, were you telling the truth?” Aunt Joan asked in a nervous voice, obviously a show for her patriot neighbor.

  Fitzsimons arched a brow. “I’ve staked my reputation on this, Miss Marsh. You heard the officer’s threats.”

  “I swear again that I knew nothing of Mrs. Chandler’s actions, sir.” Rowena needed to untangle this information, her own actions. “I believe I’ll lie down. Please excuse me
.”

  She headed for the stairs, ashamed she’d brought further scrutiny onto her aunt, if only by association. Stricter observation would hinder her machinations as well. Should she continue?

  Skirts lifted, she rushed up the stairs, dizzy with frustration. On the landing, she paused to catch her breath. Should she contact Mr. Chandler, or was he arrested, too? Her reaching out might cause more problems.

  Sam strode from the direction of the servants’ stairs. He glanced about them and whispered, “A dirty urchin come to the rear door with a note for you, Miss.”

  “What have I caused now? We may have to leave this house to protect my aunt.” She took the note and read the scribble: How are ye, child? Need language lesson. P.

  Her heart soared and she almost swooned with relief—then scolded herself for it. She must continue her ‘mission’ now.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rowena stood on the bank of the Delaware River, away from the city’s main harbor with its brick warehouses, just past Vine Street in what her aunt called the Northern Liberties. A not very picturesque area of manufactories and mills that comprised Philadelphia’s north edge. With the help of Sam, she’d arranged to meet with Mr. Pritchard.

  She glanced around. Her frippery of a rose-budded cotton dress ruffled in the breeze. Was she trying too hard to impress the Welshman? Instead of sneaking from the house dressed as a boy—since further scrutiny had been threatened two days before—she’d arranged for a ‘day outing’ with her aunt. They chose this less popular spot though a few other people were present.

  The wide river flowed by with the scent of damp and fish, and the water sparkled blue in the sunlight. A borrowed parasol shaded her from the sun high overhead.

  Aunt Joan set the food basket on a large crate. “I’ll stay close until you see the person you intend to confer with.” She flipped aside the cloth and pulled out a loaf of bread and tore off a hunk.