In every bedchamber, the hangings were taken down from the rods of the bedsteads to be shaken out of doors, all the linens washed, and the mattress and pillows plumped and turned. The clothes in every cupboard and chest were likewise taken out, aired, and refolded.
The last room in the house to be cleaned was the tiny room that belonged entirely to Mistress: her closet, she called it. This was where she spent more time than anywhere else in the house, and we all knew better than to disturb her when she was within.
Here was her mahogany desk, placed before the single narrow window for the best light, and scattered with stacks of papers and letters kept in place by stones her sons had found for her in the fields. Here, too, was a porcelain vase filled not with flowers, but with the tall, pointed feathers of pheasants. This desk was where she wrote, her pen furiously racing across the page as she composed letter after letter after letter. For every acquaintance who called at the house, there must have been another half dozen in other places with whom she’d correspond.
This was where she read, too, with a large standing shelf, or case, for her books. Some were bound in leather and stamped with gold, some in humble, worn cloth, some many pages long and others as slender as a pamphlet. It didn’t matter to her. She loved them all. I could tell by how she’d take a book from the shelf, sliding it gently forward until it tipped into her palm, and how she’d open the pages with infinite care, as if to do so was both a pleasure and an honor. Plutarch, Herodotus, and Pliny were among the names on the spines, and sometimes it seemed that these men were her only true friends, or at least the ones she most respected.
In a way, her books were like strong drink could be to others. Ignoring all else in her household, she could sit in her dressing gown and read by the hour and long into the night, absently twisting a strand of her dark hair between her fingers as the candles guttered and burned low.
In my youth, I mistook these retreats of hers for a kind of unhappiness, an unhappiness that I could not comprehend. How could a free English woman with a handsome family, a sizable home and property, and the regard of many friends dare to be unhappy? Only much later did I understand it for what it was: not unhappiness, but restless dreaming, and yearning for more than what her life already held. I understood, for I came to share her restlessness.
It was my task to dust Mistress’s books. As she instructed, I knelt and spread a clean cloth on the floor, and placed the books from the bookcase upon it, one shelf at a time. Then each book was wiped with another, softer cloth along the spine, followed by the end pages. Finally the shelf itself was cleaned and the books replaced in the exact order in which they’d been before. Mistress watched me do several books before she returned to her desk, and whatever letter she was writing that morning.
As I took each volume down from the shelf, I longed to open the covers and read them for myself, and if Mistress hadn’t been nearby at her desk I would have. Since Lucas had been away, there’d been no fresh newspapers for me to read, no broadsides or pamphlets, and I was fair starved for words and knowledge. I wanted to know what was written in these books that so held Mistress’s attention. Lucas had told me that the books English people read could be filled with stories or histories or politics, or explanations of the world’s ideas and mysteries. I ran my fingertips lightly across the volume in my hand, the brown leather burnished from wear and the binding loose.
“Take extra care with that one, Mary,” Mistress said from her desk. Of course she’d seen me; sometimes it felt as if she saw everything. “It’s one of my father’s old lawbooks. Modern Reports, Being a Collection of Several Special Cases in the Court of the King’s Bench. Isn’t that the title?”
There were no words on the spine or cover, and I paused, unsure of what to do or say.
“Open to the title page, Mary,” Mistress said. “You can read that much. I’m curious to know if I’m right.”
Gently I opened the book, the paper soft and velvety to touch. The first pages were blank, but then came a page with the title she’d just spoken, and every line a different size of letters.
“Yes, Mistress, that is right,” I said. “Though there are more words written below it. ‘In the last years of the reign of King Charles II, in the reign of King James II. And in the two first years of his present Majesty, together—’”
“That’s sufficient, Mary, thank you,” she said, chuckling. “What dry, dull stuff the law is! How fortunate I wasn’t born a boy, or I’d have been doomed to follow in my father’s vocation, instead of merely inheriting his name.”
“Yes, Mistress.” On the page opposite the title was a small pasted label with her father’s name: Theodosius Bartow.
“I’d no notion that book was so old,” she mused, idly tapping the barb of her pen against her wrist. “The two first years of his present majesty must have been from the time of George the First, and now we’re sixteen years into the reign of George the Third, though I wouldn’t dare venture to say how much longer we’ll have him.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I murmured as I set the book aside and moved on to dusting the next.
But Mistress wasn’t done.
“So which party do you favor, Mary?” she asked playfully. “Do you consider yourself a patriot, or a Tory? Would you drink a bumper to General Washington, or His Majesty?”
I sat back on my heels. This would be a game for her, but a game I couldn’t play in return. My world was filled with people like me who’d let themselves become too easy with their mistresses and masters, and had the scars on their back to show for it.
“I’ve no right to speak on such matters, Mistress,” I said carefully. “But if I must choose, I should follow the beliefs of this house and my master, and be a Tory.”
“Hah!” she exclaimed, pleased, and sat back in her chair with her arms folded over her chest. “Cleverly said, Mary, and wisely said, too. They should send you to their Congress instead of—Now who can that be?”
She slid from her chair and peered from the window, keeping to one side so that whoever was riding toward the house wouldn’t see her.
“By all that’s holy, it’s Mr. Hendrick, riding like the devil himself is on his tail,” she said. Swiftly she gathered up the letter she’d been writing and tucked it deep inside one of the books on the desk. From the bottom of another pile of books she pulled out a ledger and placed it in the middle of the desk, spreading the pages wide so that anyone might read the columns.
She ran her hands over her hair to smooth it and took a deep breath, folding her hands neatly at her waist.
“Go, Mary, and greet Mr. Hendrick,” she said. “Bring him here to me.”
“Here, Mistress?” I asked, unable to keep back my surprise. I’d never once shown any gentleman to her closet. I glanced down at the cloth on the floor with the books and my half-finished dusting. “Should I gather this up first?”
“Leave it as it is,” she said, “and when you bring Mr. Hendrick here, I want you to resume the dusting. Your presence will keep him from lingering overlong.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, visibly composing herself, and then smiled quickly.
“Don’t fear, Mary,” she said. “I know what I’m about.”
I hoped she did, for Mr. Hendrick was already knocking at the front door, loud and purposeful. I curtseyed, and hurried through the front hall, smoothing my own apron as I went.
Mr. Hendrick was no stranger to the house. Once a merchant in New York, he’d become sufficiently prosperous in trade that he’d bought himself a gentleman’s estate not far from the Hermitage. Because Mr. Hendrick was considered a staunch Whig and patriot in the valley, he visited Mistress less frequently than he once had, and it was unusual for him to call now, so early in the day.
“Is Mrs. Prevost at home, Mary?” he asked as he came striding into the house. He was a heavyset gentleman, and he was breathing hard from his ride with the bottom of his wig damp and drooping with sweat. “I’ve news for her that cannot wait.”
“She is at home, sir, yes,” I said. “This way, if you please.”
I led him back to Mistress’s closet. She hadn’t been idle in the short time I’d been away. From another room she’d brought a spindle-back chair that would be uncomfortably small for a man of Mr. Hendrick’s size and set it beside her desk: welcoming, but not. She herself was sitting bent over the open ledger, scratching away with her pen, and only looked up with a great show of surprise.
“Mr. Hendrick, good day,” she said, managing to look both sheepish and vulnerable. “You catch me at my household reckonings, I fear. With Major Prevost away, you know it all must fall to me.”
“I know your husband must follow his duty, but he has left you with a considerable responsibility for a lady,” Mr. Hendrick said solemnly, his hat in his hand and ignoring the offered chair. “Yet if any lady can manage, I’m sure it’s you, Theodosia.”
“Oh, it isn’t the vagaries of accounting that fuddle me.” She sighed as if all the worries of the world rested upon her slender shoulders. “It’s how very dear everything has become since the patriots took over New York. There are many Whig merchants who will raise the prices of their goods for me, or refuse to sell to me outright. Mary, come continue your work.”
I slipped past Mr. Hendrick and did as I was bidden. I was glad not to be dismissed, for I was curious to see what exactly Mistress was planning.
Mr. Hendrick’s expression shifted from solemn to grave.
“I regret to hear that,” he said. “No matter what your husband’s allegiances are, you have always been a good neighbor. I’ll speak to others in the valley to make certain you’ll be spared.”
“I appreciate your kindness, Abraham.” Mistress smiled. “Do not put yourself at risk on my behalf, I beg you.”
“Not at all,” he said gallantly. “I’ve just received several pipes of excellent Madeira from my warehouse in the city. I hope you’ll permit me to have some sent here to you.”
She gave a genteel little gasp. “I can’t possibly—”
“I insist,” he said. “Consider it a small gift between friends. But I fear I’ve come here on much less agreeable business, Theodosia. This morning I’ve word—reliable word—that there are over a hundred British sail moored inside Sandy Hook. Most are troopships, alive with thousands of redcoats, and they’re putting those men ashore on Staten Island.”
I bowed my head over the book in my hand so they wouldn’t see the shock that must surely be on my face. The last word I’d had of Lucas’s whereabouts had placed him with Captain Vervelde’s militiamen on Staten Island—the same Staten Island that was seemingly now the destination of thousands of British soldiers.
“So Admiral Howe does indeed intend to invade New York,” Mistress said. She’d abandoned the role of a fluttering, genteel lady, her shoulders now set and her voice all seriousness. “Are there any rumors as to when he might act?”
Mr. Hendrick shook his head. “Not yet, no,” he said. “But some of the ships are sailing to the north as well, and have put down near Haverstraw Bay.”
Mistress nodded, once again absently tapping her pen. “Haverstraw isn’t so far from here,” she said. “Thirty miles at most.”
Until now, the war had been something that happened far away in Massachusetts. The Hermitage had been an island for us who lived here, green and peaceful and safe. Now that could change, and change quickly. I swept the cloth over the book, trying to continue as if my hands weren’t shaking.
“Be honest with me, Abraham,” Mistress was saying. “Do you think Howe’s troops mean to concentrate their forces on New York, or will they come ashore on this side of the river as well?”
“A few already have,” he admitted. “Across the line in New York, in Orange County. They seem more intent on foraging than attack, with parties from the ships looting as they please the farms that decide, rightly or wrongly, to harbor patriots, and then setting fire to the houses and barns as they leave. It’s a dirty, dangerous business all around.”
“That is the nature of war, isn’t it?” she said. Mistress had been an officer’s wife for many years, and the hazards and losses of battle were not new to her. “What do you suggest I do to preserve my family and my property?”
Mr. Hendrick rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, uncertain of what to say.
“You are most likely safe here,” he said at last. “I expect Howe is more determined upon New York than to scatter his forces by sending them here into our valley. But I’ll be blunt, Theodosia. The British will know of your husband, and that this is his home. The knowledge should be sufficient to keep you safe for now.”
“Perhaps.” Her smile was quick, with no humor to it. “We both know how often soldiers from any army will act without pausing to ask whether friend or foe.”
He nodded, his expression grim. “Take care, Theodosia. For now you’re safe enough, but guard yourself well. Trust no one. These are perilous times for us all, and I fear they shall only grow worse before we dare hope for freedom, and victory.”
Soon afterward, I showed him from the house, and returned to find Mistress sitting at the desk, her face buried in her hands.
“Should I leave the books until another day, Mistress?” I asked softly.
She raised her head slowly, her face taut with strain.
“Most likely we should now prepare for a visit from one of Colonel Faulkner’s men,” she said, closing the ledger that had gained so much sympathy from Mr. Hendrick, as well as a gift of Madeira. “If the Continental Army is in disarray over a coming invasion of New York, then I expect the Colonel will send one of his men to warn me, too. Fetch my husband’s old coat from his dress uniform, Mary, the one folded in the chest by the bed.”
I did, while she found her hussif, the small kit in which she kept her sewing needles, pins, and thread. Exactly as she’d predicted, a young lieutenant from Colonel Faulkner’s staff did arrive later in the day, bearing the Colonel’s compliments and a letter for Mistress that assured her continued protection. The lieutenant was given a small glass of wine for his trouble, and returned to his camp to tell his superiors of how Mrs. Prevost was the ideal of a dutiful Loyalist lady, sitting in her parlor and mending the uniform of her officer-husband.
I hadn’t realized until now exactly how elaborate her lies had become as she played one side against another. The prize, of course, would be her own survival in the middle of a war, but I wondered how long she could keep the game going, and what would become of all of us if she couldn’t.
* * *
In the coming weeks, the news that came to us in our little island of peace grew only complicated. In early July, Mistress told us in her household that the Continental Congress, to the south in Philadelphia, had voted for independence and officially declared the colonies free of British rule. Afterward she retreated to her bed with one of her headaches, one that was so grievous that it left her retching over a chamber pot.
I shared her fears. I lay awake long into the night, staring up at the sliver of a new moon through the narrow gable window. When I finally slept, I dreamed of Lucas, proudly reading this declaration aloud from a newspaper in the kitchen as he doubtless would have done had he not been with the army. In the voice I missed so much I heard the magic words of freedom and liberty and how all men were made equal, and with all my heart I wanted to believe they were meant for me, too.
But before my dream-Lucas could finish his reading, I was jerked away by the screams of a dying rabbit as it fell prey to some fox or owl in the fields beyond the house. My heart pounded painfully, willing for an end to the poor creature’s agony. The rabbit took a long time to die, the screams growing more shrill and weaker until, abruptly, they ceased. I couldn’t return to sleep, but lay curled in a tight knot on my pallet, trying not to think of this as a fearful omen of what might come.
In late August, the British first attacked Long Island, on the far side of New York, forcing the overmatched Americans to flee and retreat, flee and
retreat. Other battles swiftly followed that fall, one after another, and with each costly American defeat my hope for Lucas’s return shrank a fraction more. By Christmas, the Continental Army had been pushed so far back that the Hermitage now lay on the edge of the British lines, with only a few American troops left to guard the west in the low mountains called the Highlands.
Mistress’s Jersey Dutch neighbors were helpless to stop the soldiers who stole away the grain, hay, and other crops they’d put by after harvest, cut down trees and fences for firewood, slaughtered their hogs, drove away their horses and cattle in the name of forage, and then, with local Tories, looted and burned the barns and houses of known Whigs. Many from both sides left with their families, heading to the safer north. Still Mistress remained, determined to trust in the goodwill she’d so carefully cultivated.
Most terrifying to me were tales that slaves owned by Whigs were claimed like more cattle, and carried off as well to be sold or kept as officers’ prizes. None of Mistress’s guests explained further, because the fate of these poor people mattered much less than the fact that their owners suffered their loss. Yet for me it was one more worry, one more fear, in a time where every day seemed to bring tenfold.
In December, the British raids came to Hackensack and Hopperstown, so close that we smelled the smoke of the fires. The only guests who called on Mistress now were those who proudly called themselves Tories, or British officers themselves. They also brought Mistress food and other supplies as gifts; she accepted them graciously, and ignored how everything had likely been plundered from another neighbor. As hers was a household of three women and two children, she could not afford to do otherwise.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 13
