It looked like she had been the only visitor to the cellar for a good long while. Disappointment filled her. She caught no hint of the sandalwood scent. Had her phantom-Robert deserted her? Maybe he was afraid of spiders, too.
She returned to the main part of the cellar and walked in the direction of the stairs. Her flashlight flickered and died. No amount of fiddling with the batteries would get it to relight. Great. With a sigh, she thrust it into the pocket of her sweater filled with power bars. Next time, less snacks, more batteries, she thought.
Annoyed by her negligence, Mary felt her way with her outstretched hands but could not find the stairs in the dark. How could she have gotten so lost, so fast? She inched around the crowded floor and bumped into the something firm and flat. Glass rattled. A table. Please let me find the chambersticks, the candles, and a flint. Her hands slid over the surface of the table and bumped her fingers on the pile of candles which started to roll across the table. Waving her hands above the surface of the table, she bumped into a candle holder. Thank heaven. In the pitch dark she fumbled around all sides of the box, which rattled as she turned it. She hoped the things she needed were inside. Finding the front, she felt around the surface, discovered a knob, and pulled. A small drawer slid out. “Okay spiders, I’m coming in. Get out of there before it is too late. You have been warned.” Poking her fingers inside, she wished for matches or a lighter—even one of the old fashioned kind in the movies, but if she was in some funky time continuum after she climbed down the stairs, maybe matches and lighters didn’t exist.
No matches; no lighter. Instead she pulled out several items, each of which she identified by feel. First came a piece of metal shaped like a long, flattened “B”, then a chunk of flat rock with a sharp edge. A swatch of—she took a sniff—scorched linen fabric came next. Lastly, the drawer held a tin box, about the size of a four-piece box of chocolates. (Why did she have to think of chocolate, now of all times?) The box was filled with scraps of charcoaled punkwood. Halleluiah, a tinderbox. Not as quick as matches, but it beat rubbing two sticks together any day. All those days and weeks spent Revolution War camping with her re-enactor friends might pay off.
For the next few minutes, she worked to get the hang of the flint and steel, getting a good spark going and finally, lighting the candles. She lit three tapers and kept the rest for later. But now she needed to find her way to the stairs.
Mary walked in the direction of the stairs, but they were not there. Leaving two candles lit in separate chambersticks with chimneys, she took the third and strode through the darkened space. Nothing. She followed the four walls but found no staircase. Her walk turned out to be an exercise in frustration, and when she returned to her starting point, she threw herself into one of the Windsor chairs and rested her chin on her hand.
“This is just too weird for words. How did a whole staircase disappear? It sounds like a novel from that girl detective’s book series: The Case of the Disappearing Stairway. I refuse to panic, Robert, but I hope you know I’m not pleased with this mumbo jumbo.” Her stomach growled to remind her she needed to eat. “Is this some kind of cosmic test? If I pass, will the stairs reappear so I can get out of here? Am I even in Raynham Hall anymore? Can we be floating through the universe in a time traveling space ship disguised as a cellar, rather than a red British phone kiosk?”
She moved all three candles to the end of the table near the couch and pulled back the dustsheets, discovering a pile of old quilts folded neatly on the end cushion. “Okay. Thanks for leaving these for me.” She shook out three quilts and sneezed. They were clean, despite a little dust. Nothing was perfect. She tucked her bag of books at one end of the sofa to act as a pillow, and covered it with a quilt to soften the edges of the books. She sneezed again, and her stomach rumbled. Fumbling, she grabbed granola bars from her pocket and ate three. That frozen turkey dinner would taste good right now, but she wouldn’t starve, or freeze, despite the November snow outside. She felt comfortable and safe. Dawn would arrive eventually—someone would notice she was missing, or she would find her own way out in the daylight.
“Are you here, Robert? Will we ever be together again?”
A womb of comforting, sandalwood-scented tranquility closed over her. Mary lay down, covered herself with the quilts and slept.
Chapter Fourteen
Mary woke, startled to feel the sun in her face. She’d fallen asleep on the old sofa in the cellar, but she lay in a soft bed, coddled and cared for by an unknown Good Samaritan. Had one of her staff found her and rescued her? How could she have slept through that? Lifting her hand, she squinted against the glare, and she recognized the Wedgwood-blue walls of an upstairs bedchamber at Raynham Hall. A new washstand stood in the corner, but the majority of the pieces looked familiar.
A moment later, dread speared her. The baby! She raised the covers. No sign of bleeding or other problems. Thank Heaven. Other than a faint headache, she felt better than expected. Her rescuer had dressed her in a new nightgown of soft flannel. Certainly no one would use a garment from the museum’s collection. With a sigh, she snuggled beneath the quilts and relaxed in the sunshine. Secure once again, she dozed.
A muffled squeak of a distant door woke her. From the darkening sky, she guessed it was early evening. Snow danced around the windowpanes, which rattled with a passing breeze. More snow, ugh.
Throwing off the covers, she swung her legs off the bed and stood—and immediately regretted the move. Her head thumped, and her unsteady legs would not hold her. She grabbed the post at the head of the bed and waited for a couple of minutes. She shuffled to the door and headed for the bathroom.
And stopped. A tiny study stood in place of the museum’s lavatory—the same spot where the mysterious stairs had appeared. With a distressed squeak, Mary shambled through the hallway, opening each door, only to discover the furnishings were quite different than she expected—and no washroom.
What on earth happened? Where was she? Or better yet, when was she? She scrambled back to the bedroom, and found the chamber pot stashed under the bed. Once she had taken care of her needs, she returned to the corridor.
The sound of footsteps on the staircase alerted her to another’s presence, and she turned to see Robert’s familiar, smiling face, his long brown hair tied in a queue. Could this be a trick of the light? A result of her blow to the head?
“Robert?” Her rough voice sounded as though she had not spoken for a couple of centuries. She reached out to touch him, certain he was an illusion created by her dreams, or her injury.
He took three steps to reach her and he lifted her off the floor. “You’re awake. Thank the Lord.” He covered her face with kisses, communicating his anxiety and relief with each one. “Oh, Mary, my love, you’ve returned to me, alive and whole. I’ve worried for days that you would never regain consciousness.” He set her down.
“Robert, are you really here? You’re not a dream?” She touched his face and kissed him with all the love she felt for him, then placed her head against his chest and breathed in his favorite scent. His heartbeat sounded steady and strong. “I love you, Robert. Now, forever and always. I’m back, sweetheart. Back to stay.”
“Welcome home at last, Mistress Townsend,” he whispered. “Welcome to the Homestead. Welcome to Raynham Hall.”
Epilogue
May 1785
“Mister and Mistress Townsend, before I begin the sketch, is there anything you wish to include in the portrait? An item of special significance, or perhaps the coat of arms of the Townsend family, sir?” The fashionably bewigged young man in a beige wool suit gazed at them, as if mentally planning the work in his mind.
Mary Banvard Townsend glanced at the young artist and then around the comfortable and familiar parlor. Happiness stole her breath for a moment. Even after five years, she found life in Colonial-era Oyster Bay more exhilarating than she had ever imagined. Raynham Hall, which she now thought of as the Homestead, had truly become her home.
He
r family was her most precious gift. Robert balanced their four-year-old son, Robby, on his shoulders. “An excellent notion, Mister Copley. But as we are free and independent Americans, and a coat of arms harkens back to our colonial status under England, I am of the opinion that a coat of arms would be inappropriate.” He gazed at her. “Mary? Have you an idea?”
She closed her eyes, visualizing the portrait in the future version of Raynham Hall. “Yes, I do. I’ll return in a moment, my love. If you will excuse me, Mister Copley.”
“Of course, m’am.” The painter bowed to her.
Robert and Robby sat on the blue-striped divan placed before the window and looked at a book from their library. Her precious books from the future lay undiscovered behind the locked door at the base of the bookcase. Who would believe an old portrait, a sofa found in the basement, and a sack of history books would play such treasured roles in her adventure?
Mary ran up the stairs to the bedchamber she and Robert shared and smiled at Tillie as she passed.
Robert purchased the freedom of Dwayne, Tillie, and their sons from Cousin Peter. Now, Tillie was employed at the Homestead as Mary’s maid, but in truth, she was more of a sister than a servant. Without Tillie to keep her organized and assist in overseeing the expanding Townsend household, Mary would be lost. Much of Mary’s work as a writer and historian, along with the family’s social obligations in Oyster Bay, would never be seen to without Tillie being there to keep track and get them all out the door on time. Dwayne had a small-but-growing blacksmith’s shop at the edge of town that produced the most sought-after wrought iron products in Nassau County. They had both grown to be accepted members of the community. Their three boys attended a Quaker school which Robby would attend the following year.
While Mary fished through her trunk, she heard muffled conversation and laughter in the distance. Upon her recommendation, Robert has hired a self-taught artist, Mr. John Singleton Copley, to paint the portrait. She refused to explain her reasons, keeping to herself the painter’s forthcoming reputation as the finest painter in Colonial America.
Robert agreed with her endorsement, as he usually did, with a nod and a kiss. Fortunately, the two men became friends from the moment of their introduction.
She selected a book from the bottom of the trunk, pulled a letter from between the pages, laid the book back on top of her clothing, and shut the lid. Returning to the parlor, she pulled a new, sharpened quill from the drawer in her writing desk by the window.
“I believe this is everything.” She handed the paper to Robert as she took her seat on the divan, straightened her elegant lace-trimmed floral gown, and pulled Robby into her lap. With her left hand draped over a stack of books, she held the quill pen, proud to announce her education and her writerly skills to future generations.
Robert opened the paper and winked at her. He wrapped his left arm around her waist. In his right hand, he held their secret cipher for the world to see: I love you, Agent 355.
Nodding to the artist, Robert said, “We are ready, Mister Copley. You may proceed to immortalize us in paint.”
Author’s Notes
C1PHER is a work of historical fiction, with the tale carefully straddling history and storytelling, but there are times that truth is stranger than fiction. Writing Historical Fiction is like making a fresh loaf of bread. Kneading facts into the story mix must be leavened with a healthy dose of imagination. If there is too much fact or fiction, it becomes something else: fantasy, alternate history, biography, creative non-fiction, etc.
The story begins for me in 1978, when I moved into a house located directly across the street from the Raynham Hall Museum in Oyster Bay, Long Island, New York, about thirty miles east of Manhattan. Over the years I never forgot my fascination with, and my visits to, the old house.
According to the Raynham Hall website (raynhamhallmuseum.org), the original property of six acres ran from the shoreline of Oyster Bay to the hill where Lieutenant Colonel John Graves Simcoe later rebuilt an old fort with the stolen wood from the trees of the prized Townsend apple orchard. The property included a four room house and was purchased in 1738 by Robert’s father, Samuel Townsend. He expanded the home to eight rooms, calling it “the Homestead.”
In the 1850s, Samuel’s descendant, Solomon Townsend, again expanded and refurbished the house in the then-current Victorian style, complete with a tower, renaming it “Raynham Hall” after the ancient Norfolk, England seat of the Townsend family. History had come full circle. The house was deeded to the Daughters of the American Revolution in 1933. In 1941, the house was given outright to the DAR. In 1947 the DAR offered the house to the Town of Oyster Bay, and the Town restored the building to its Colonial proportions during the early 1950s. Raynham Hall has been recently restored again and open to the public, and the grounds include an Educational building.
Robert Townsend and Mary Banvard were actual people who lived in New York during the American Revolution.
Robert was born in Oyster Bay in 1753, the third child, and the third son, of eight children. Though nominally a Quaker (a member of the Society of Friends), he was the product of his parents’ influence—his father was a liberal (aka: political) Quaker and his mother, Sarah Stoddard, was an Episcopalian (Anglican). This background gave me the freedom to make Robert a man of a wider worldview.
Religious Quakers often used the archaic thee or thou in their speech, refused to use titles because they were in contradiction of the concept of equality of all people, which the Friends held so dear in their religious precepts. These Quakers wore plain clothing, rejected bright colors and adornment with lace, gold or silver, and they did not wear jewelry. Other Quakers, those of more liberal thought, saw no need to forgo the luxuries of life. Though a Quaker, Robert seemed to be a man who appreciated nice things, though he was neither ostentatious nor pretentious in his dress or his manner.
Quakers were sometimes slaveholders. Census records show that Samuel Townsend, Robert’s father, and the later Townsends at the Homestead, owned at least seventeen slaves between 1749 and 1795, who were housed in the Homestead’s attic. I do not know if Robert held slaves either in New York City, or when he moved back to Oyster Bay. I also have found no information as to whether or not Robert’s cousin, Peter Townsend, held slaves, but it worked in the storyline, so there it is. I apologize to him and his descendants if I have maligned his character by calling him a slaveholder.
The effort to end Quakers slaveholding began in the mid-seventeenth century. Eventually, those Quakers who remained slaveholders were given a choice: slaveholding or their religion. Most opted to free their slaves. In 1785, a delegation of freed slaves, led by the black abolitionist and former slave, Olauidah Equiano, thanked the Quakers for their efforts to stop slavery in the New World. With the inclusion of the characters of Dwayne, Tillie and their sons, I wanted to show slavery in practice in Colonial America, even by Quakers, despite the practice was becoming very controversial in the Society of Friends by that time.
The Culper Gang was based on fact. (Many of you may be familiar with the Gang from the AMC television series TURN: Washington’s Spies.) Washington was desperate to get information from New York City, once the British took the city in 1776.
Robert Townsend was originally a pacifist but became influenced by another Quaker, Thomas Paine, whose pamphlet, Common Sense, spoke to the conflict of spirit Robert must have felt upon seeing the damage of his family’s property, the open flirting of the officers with his younger sisters, the loyalty oaths imposed upon the family, and the various insults suffered by his family while “hosting” Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe and his cohorts. Though Robert wished to help the Patriot cause, he could not become a combatant due to his Quaker beliefs.
Operating a dry goods business in the red-light district—ironically called “Holy Ground”—and working as a businessman and freelance journalist in British-occupied New York City, Robert was ideally situated to gather information for the leaders of the rebellious Colo
nial army. Beginning in June 1778, and working with several other native Long Islanders who were interrelated by friendship and family ties, Townsend passed his information in code, and/or invisible ink, to others in the chain, which eventually made its way to General Washington. It was the information discovered by Robert that revealed the truth about Major Andre, Benedict Arnold, and the plot to sell the fort at West Point to the British.
Toward the end of the war, Townsend made a special request of his handler, Colonel Benjamin Talmadge, to never reveal his identity either to Washington or the public. Spying was not considered respectable, no matter the importance of the cause. The secret of Culper Junior’s identity may never have been discovered, but fate intervened, as it so often does. In 1929, a request was made of Morton Pennypacker, a local state historian, to examine some papers discovered during a repair of Raynham Hall. A handwriting expert compared Robert Townsend’s handwriting with that of the more familiar hand of Culper, Jr., and Pennypacker realized Townsend and Culper were one and the same. He contacted a handwriting expert to confirm the findings. General George Washington’s most important spy, Samuel Culper, Junior, aka: Agent 723, was quiet, unassuming Robert Townsend.
On Mary Banvard there is considerably less information. She was not born of a noble or notable family, but instead she was a Canadian-born housekeeper at Robert’s New York City apartment, which Robert shared with his brother William and another relative. Mary is attributed to be the mother of Robert’s natural son, Robert, Jr. Others believe William was the actual father of the child, but Robert accepted responsibility, gave the child his name, and paid for his schooling.
Another woman said to possibly be Robert Jr.’s mother was the mysterious female spy, Agent 355, who worked with Robert. Others say Agent 355 is simply the code book designation for a “Lady,” or a “woman of means,” as opposed to 701, an ordinary woman. After the Revolutionary War, somehow the stories about Townsend and 355 became conflated, suggested that a female agent 355 worked for Robert Townsend, bore his child, was arrested as a spy, and was confined, then died, on the British prison ship Jersey. A dramatic story, but questionable for many. So far we do not know the answer, which made the writing of my heroine, Mary, that much more fun.
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