Rowena stirred clothes in boiling water and lye in her aunt’s large tub. She wore a voluminous apron over an old stained and snagged silk gown—a material that seemed but a frippery now. Flames licked around the copper in the basement’s wide kitchen hearth. The caustic fumes watered her eyes. She swirled the linen with the washing bat as her thoughts from the previous evening churned. Mr. Pritchard hadn’t laughed at her, but would he be true to his word? Or dismiss her as a silly girl to be flattered and forgotten? Her hands tightened on the oak handle.
“You don’t have to do this, dear.” Aunt Joan entered, still in her Sunday closed-robe gown of lavender-colored muslin. They’d attended the early service. “I don’t know why my laundry girl didn’t show herself yesterday. But we’re supposed to rest today.”
“I don’t mind, Aunt, and dislike being idle. I helped at home.” Rowena wiped sweat from her upper lip with her arm. Her gown sleeve was also moist. The vapors curled her hair even worse, and the tendrils squirmed out from under the edges of her white cap. “We lost many servants as well.”
“General Howe’s abandoning us caused much frenzy two years ago. He’d hoped to disrupt the rebel capital, but the scoundrels moved it to Baltimore—and now they command my Philadelphia once more.” Aunt Joan stepped onto the greenish-gray kitchen flagstones. Through the high window, early June sunlight painted a narrow rectangle on the floor.
“My staff said they feared repercussions for being loyalists, though I suspect a few joined the revolutionary cause.” Her aunt shook her head. “I suppose I can’t blame the poorer people for wanting change. And many prominent men are involved in what they insist is Independence. But will we Tories be safe or flounder?”
Pulling out the paddle, Rowena flexed her fingers to ease a cramp. “That’s the confusing and frightening part.” She hesitated, then dared to voice what few loyalists would admit. “What if England doesn’t win the war? The rebels could march us to prisons, or worse.”
“Though I live under constant threat, we must stay optimistic.” Her aunt’s smile wavered. “Sadly, the revolutionaries have gained much ground this year.”
“Why do you stay, instead of moving to New York with the majority of loyalists?” Rowena’s shoulders drooped. It seemed to her that the people who served the king were cornered like rats up in that city.
“This is my home. I raised my daughters here. Charles and I shared our love here. I refuse to be scared away. I’ll assist you with the rinsing and wringing through the mangle when you’re ready.” Her aunt opened a cupboard and began to count jars of preserves. “The long winter, so much colder than usual, has cut deep into my supplies. I pray my garden produces well.”
“I can help you with the garden,” Rowena said. How long did she intend to stay in Philadelphia? Always, she had to depend on men to decide her actions. Would Pritchard allow her to join them? “If I’m not otherwise occupied.”
Her aunt closed the cupboard door. “How will you proceed after your contentious meeting with James and his Welsh friend? Never leave your back unprotected as you did in the alley.”
Pritchard wouldn’t dare condemn her since she was James’ cousin—and they fought for the same side. However, he could easily agree with James about sending her home.
Rowena considered her aunt’s other observation about not guarding her back. She could have been killed if it had been the enemy. She speared the paddle back in the tub with a splash. She had much to learn. “You’re right, I was careless. I’m waiting to hear from Mr. Pritchard, but if I don’t—”
Aunt Joan pressed her shoulder. “While I’m proud of you, I won’t deny I’m very concerned for your welfare.”
Mrs. Baily appeared at the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Quinton, pardon me, you have, ah, visitors. Two Rebel women I wouldn’t permit inside, but they refuse to leave the portico.”
“Oh, la, what’s amiss now?” Aunt Joan sighed, picked up her skirts, and mounted the basement stairs. “Very well, Mrs. Bailey. I’ll handle it.”
Curious, Rowena pushed the burning coals away from the copper, to the back of the hearth, and followed. At least it wasn’t soldiers out to arrest them.
Aunt Joan confronted a pair of well-dressed women, thirtyish in years, on the front step. Rowena moved beside her. A soldier, maybe the burned one, stood not far off, his musket shouldered.
“Good morning, Mrs. Quinton. My name is Mrs. Abigail Smythe, and I’m on a mission to collect money to help our suffering soldiers. I know you’re on the British side, as hard to believe as that may be, but we’re asking everyone.” She shoved a broadsheet into Aunt Joan’s hands. Rowena leaned close and read it too.
A Mrs. Joseph Reed in “The Sentiments of an American Woman” asked the prominent women of Philadelphia to help the Patriots who were suffering in ragged clothes, damp conditions, smallpox, lack of food; and not receiving their promised pay.
Rowena looked at her aunt; would she help the enemy to preserve her life here?
“Mrs. Joseph Reed?” Aunt Joan addressed Rowena. “Her husband is president of the Supreme Executive Council, and he calls himself the governor of Pennsylvania.” She stared back at the two women in their homespun Sunday finery, fingers crumpling the paper. “And your fledgling government can’t pay their own soldiers?”
Perhaps they’d mutiny, desert…flee back to the Crown and become loyalists. Rowena rubbed her knuckles along the door jamb.
“We’re all in dire need, Mrs. Quinton. Some more than others. If the King would’ve treated us fairly, we wouldn’t be in such hardship.” Mrs. Smythe’s scrutiny traveled the length of Rowena’s dishevelment. The visitor’s nostrils flared as if she smelled the strong lye.
“I’m her niece,” Rowena said archly, before she was mistaken for a laundress. Though wasn’t this revolution supposed to make everyone a little more equal in independence?
Aunt Joan handed the broadsheet back. “I have scant money to spare, but I might have some used clothes to—”
“No clothing, mistress. We need coin, gold dollars.” The second woman stuck out her fat chin, which wobbled. “We are making shirts for our brave men, at General Washington’s suggestion; and plenty of linen, it’s said, has been provided by this colony to our soldiers. Even Mr. Benjamin Franklin’s daughter is involved in our crusade.”
As if that would impress them. Rowena sucked in a retort and flipped a damp curl from her forehead. Mr. Franklin was the one who’d gone to France to plead for help—monetary and military—for the revolution. The French intervention had infuriated her father.
Her aunt also told her that Franklin had formed the Committee of Secret Correspondence, the rebels’ spy network. Pritchard must be aware of this.
“As you have to appreciate, Madam,” her aunt’s voice remained serene—a trait Rowena envied, “If I’m not allowed to aid the British soldiers, as I’ve been warned, I can hardly aid yours.”
“We won’t leave your portico until you contribute.” Mrs. Smythe thrust her snub-nosed face inches from her aunt’s. “You’ll be considered a traitor, as you already are I daresay, and perhaps forfeit the protection from your merchant that you now enjoy.”
The guarding soldier stepped closer to the steps, as if anxious for the chance to intervene.
“I beg your pardon? A lady should never threaten another woman of breeding,” Aunt Joan said, smooth as velvet. “It’s very unseemly. Even if we are at war, we must retain our good manners.”
“If a lady she be,” Rowena muttered. She wondered how their own soldiers fared, then jerked a hand behind her back, longing to slap the woman. She almost clapped at her aunt’s reply but decided that would be particularly unseemly.
The floor creaked behind her and she turned to see Sam.
“What’s the problem, Miss?” he whispered. She explained. “Just give ‘em a pittance to get rid of the harridans.” He tugged her away from the door, his voice low. “I went to meet with the Welshman as was planned. He still tried to discourage you bein’ involved but said he could use me.”
“I expected no less.” She frowned over the squeeze of her heart. Mr. Pritchard still didn’t believe in her, and why should he? She’d have to work twice as hard. “I trust you dissuaded him in the strongest way?”
Sam grinned. “Aye. I said you’d scrape me to the bones. Then throw my bones to the dogs to gnaw into pieces.”
“You are delusional, Madam, hoping the loyalists will prevail.” Mrs. Smythe’s indignant voice rang out. “Your position is doomed. We will have our freedom from tyranny. I don’t need to remind you that your husband could hang when captured.”
Rowena stared toward her aunt’s back. “How can I not slap that woman on the step?”
Would her aunt lose her protection? Would Uncle Charles hang? So much teetered in the balance of their lives.
“Mrs. Bailey, fetch me a dollar. I will generously give in the name of charity,” Aunt Joan called to her housekeeper. “Especially on this, the Lord’s day. But, alas, I can offer no more.”
Sam nudged Rowena’s attention back to him. “We meet tonight; he has a mission for us. If you’re prepared an’ ain’t afeared.” Sam winked. “Mr. Pritchard scoffed when he said the last.”
* * *
The sun long set, darkness draped the landscape just off the Old York Road north of Philadelphia. As James, Pritchard, Sam and Rowena rode along—she and Sam on a nag provided by Pritchard—the Welshman told her that the main road led all the way to Elizabeth Point in New Jersey. Past the flour mills, she and the others skirted the Rising Sun Tavern, a notorious rebel stronghold. In a copse of trees, the four of them dismounted.
Mr. Pritchard lit a lantern, reached into his saddle bag and held out a plain beige gown. “I need ye to dress as a girl tonight.”
A flush coursed through her body. “But I told you, I want to do a man’s duties. I haven’t come all this way to—”
“Shush and listen.” He pushed the gown into her hands. “Slip it over yer boy’s clothes, take off the hat, muss up yer hair. A courier from Philadelphia will ride up this road, which follows the Delaware River north, with dispatches for General Washington in Morristown, New Jersey. He should be alone, to remain inconspicuous. Ye will play a female in distress, distract him, and James and I will take his pouch.”
She fingered the wool gown, old and threadbare. She hated to resort back to a weak female; it seemed too much a surrender, but she must prove herself a keen participant. Perhaps she could switch from one to the other, when needed.
“Are ye not up for it?” Mr. Pritchard asked, his black eyes challenging. “Or just insulted?”
“We should put the dress on Sam.” James smirked at her, his tone annoyed. “She hasn’t the mettle. Let’s stop wasting time. She’ll only get hurt.”
“You’ll be surprised by my mettle, James.” Rowena handed Sam her cocked hat. She threw the dress over her head and wriggled it on, the pins already in place on the oversize bodice. It hung on her like a wool sack and stank of perspiration and onions. “I will do what’s required.”
“Any instructions needed? Do ye know what to say?” Mr. Pritchard bent down; his gaze measured her, or he was vexed. “Are ye sure yer able to manage?”
“I’ll concoct something that will stop the rider.” She pinched the cloth between her fingers. “I will say I’ve been held in a root cellar and made to peel onions until I cried.”
“Aye?” He seemed to fight a grin, then turned his face away into shadow.
“Don’t underestimate me.” Rowena took a slow, deep breath. “I can do this, sir.” She loosened her hair from its queue and accepted the lantern from Mr. Pritchard. She had the urge to impress him in a more personal way, then whisked such silliness from her thoughts.
“We’ll be here, in the trees, weapons at the ready. To protect ye.” He bowed to her and slipped like a ghost deeper into the copse of beech and oaks.
“Don’t take any unnecessary chances; behave yourself.” James entered the woods, continuing to mutter his disapproval.
“Be careful, Miss,” Sam said before following the two men.
She nodded, set the lantern at her feet, and pulled her fingers through her curls so they sprang in disorder about her face.
Night birds churred; a breeze ruffled the leaves above. Nerves twitched through her, but being anxious, off-balance, was perfect for this part. Another idea struck. She crouched, scooped up a fistful of dirt and smeared it on her cheeks and bodice.
Silent, long moments passed; too long, yet she stood fast. She stretched her fingers, hearing her own breath go in and out. Then distant hooves clopped up the road from the south. The sound grew closer. Muscles tense, she shut her eyes for a second. What if it wasn’t the courier? Would she be sending this person to their death?
A horse and rider came into shadowy view, hoof beats loud. The sound beat on her brain. Rowena stepped fully into the circle of lantern light.
She waved her arms and spewed out her most plaintive plea in a girlish voice. “Help, I need help. Please, good sir, I’ve been attacked!”