CHAPTER 1

September 28, 1779

New York, New York

The staccato clip sounds like gunfire. I flinch with each sound, but it’s only my mother’s heels reverberating on the polished wooden floor of the hallway, and I know exactly what she seeks. Me.

“Elizabeth,” she calls to me while pushing open the door to the library, my haven. “I cannot believe you’re still in your day gown. Why aren’t you dressed for the DeLanceys’ party? Your father and I are waiting for you in the front hallway.”

“Mother, I’ve already told you that I’d prefer not to attend.” I gesture to the copy of John Locke’s Two Treatises of Government I’ve been reading by candlelight. While I don’t agree with all of Locke’s views, I certainly concur with his argument that the only legitimate governments are those that govern with their people’s consent. I particularly like his notion that patriarchalism approved by God does not exist. Not that my mother would care to hear my perspective. “Locke is company enough,” I say.

She glances behind her, to the front door of our house. I know she is ensuring that no one is within earshot—or eyeshot. “Put that away, Elizabeth. You cannot be seen reading John Locke. That text is practically heresy since the instigators of the Revolution cited it. I should never have let you visit your Aunt Floyd in Connecticut, filling your head with that nonsense about freedom and giving you unfettered access to my father’s old library. The ideas in that book will get you thrown on a British prison ship.”

She tsks at me, shaking her head. “Anyway, you must attend the party because we must keep up appearances. Now more than ever.”

“I doubt that anyone at the DeLanceys’ will notice whether your eighteen-year-old, bookish daughter is in attendance or not, Mother.”

She draws very close to me, the skirt of her maroon China-silk gown swishing along the floor. Lowering her voice to a sharp whisper, almost a hiss, she says, “Do you think that the officer quartering with us will be oblivious to your absence? Do you think that Officer Randolph won’t take note that you’ve chosen to stay home instead of celebrating the arrival of General Clinton and Major André into the city? You don’t have the luxury of refusing. None of us does. Not anymore.”

Knowing she will brook no more resistance, I hasten to my room and choose the buttercup-yellow silk gown embroidered with cornflower-blue vines and floral sprigs. It has a square bodice and a beaded, triangular stomacher that overlays a skirt of matching blue. Our maid, Susan, helps me into it and then sweeps my dark-blonde hair into a formal style before pinching some color into my cheeks. My parents greet me with silent disdain when I finally join them. Neither approves of lateness, even in less trying times.

Custom would typically require we travel by carriage to the party, but the DeLanceys live only one short block from our home near Bowling Green and the governor’s mansion, and my parents have determined to walk. We step outside, and I immediately wonder how they can bear this heat. Until recently, I’ve spent my summers at my mother’s family estate in rural Connecticut, now run by her brother’s widow, Evangeline Floyd, and her young sons. I was spared the wilting warmth and pungent smells of city summers. Family and friends alike are quick to mention that this summer is unusually warm and particularly foul because of the rise in population as Loyalist refugees continue to flood the British-protected city from nearby areas falling to the Continental Army. But I doubt this summer is very unique.

The moon is nearly full, casting enough light on the road that my mother and I can tread carefully. The British preserved this genteel section of the city throughout their battle so that they could enjoy it during their occupation, but even so, the cobblestones lining the street are uneven, and garbage litters the streets. I try to allow the noises of the city to distract me from the heaviness of my mood, but the sounds of carriage wheels on stone and horses’ whinnies do nothing to lighten the weight upon me.

My parents have never held any particularly strong political convictions—aligning themselves instead with whatever faction held control and supported my father’s import business—and so compulsory attendance at this social occasion honoring the British does not trouble them. But the sight of Redcoats amidst our friends, raising a glass to celebrate these times, enrages me. Have people obliterated from their memories the list of abuses the British heaped upon the colonies in the years leading up to the Revolution? Even more important, how can people forget the storming of New York, the retreat of General Washington and his Continental Army, the killing of so many New Yorkers, and the imprisoning of even more in the dreaded prison ships my mother just threatened? My mother blames my Aunt Floyd for my views. I confess to learning about the ideology of the Continental Congress through conversations with her and the books at her home, but I have arrived at my distrust of the British and their motives from what I’ve observed firsthand: their greed and arrogance as they help themselves to our homes and our land and our money through endless rounds of taxes and quartering, without offering even minimal representation in return.

The sound of violins and flutes grows louder, drowning out the noise of carriages as we near the DeLanceys’ house. It is similar to ours with its yellow Holland-brick exterior, three stories, and columned entry. My father turns toward us with a smile and says—in a rare, though oblique, acknowledgement—that war is in our midst. “It sounds lovely. My family deserves a bit of merriment after much turmoil.”

Laughter streams out the open windows along with the music, and I gather my skirts to climb the three steps to the front door of the house. Mr. and Mrs. DeLancey greet us in the entryway with warm embraces for me and my mother and a hearty handshake for my father. They direct us into the drawing room, presided over by the requisite John Singleton Copley family portrait, of course. Every good family seems to have one, for not only is he talented, but his wife comes from a family of well-known, staunch Crown supporters. We continue into the parlor, where the dancing has already begun.

The shock of red from the British officers’ uniforms disrupts the scene, drawing the eye away from the gentle flow of the dancers and the soft colors of their blue, yellow, brown, and green attire. The officer stationed with us, Officer Randolph, nods in our direction but doesn’t break away for a proper welcome. He’s too busy holding court with his newly arrived superiors, British Commander-in-Chief Gen. Henry Clinton and his Adjutant Gen. Maj. John André. After returning the nod of recognition, my parents enter the fold of revelers, but such a seamless entrée isn’t so simple for me. Not only have I never felt fully at ease with the women of my acquaintance, but I cannot mingle with the men with the same flirtatious ease. It’s one thing to greet the British at church on Sunday or to pass them at the high street, but to drink and eat and dance alongside them feels wrong. I must be careful not to let my sentiments show.

I walk to the dining room, where a sumptuous repast of ham, lamb, herbed potatoes, fresh bread, and a bounty of fruits and vegetables is spread upon the table next to Wedgwood china plates, silver implements, and crystal goblets. How did the DeLanceys manage this abundance of food? The British occupy most of Long Island and all of New York City—a blow to General Washington’s strategy of keeping these key geographic and financial regions in his control—and getting food into the city from the farms in the surrounding countryside is no easy feat. Battlefields are often crossed in order to feed New Yorkers.

I linger at the edge of the table, idly picking at a small plate of ham and potatoes and hoping I appear occupied enough to avoid an invitation to dance. Although, given the relative paucity of men compared to women, I suppose I should not worry. The DeLanceys’ party has girls aplenty—and they’re not only willing but excited to dance with the British soldiers. The arrival of the British into New York has resulted not only in martial law, but in the occupiers’ unquenchable thirst for gaiety, yielding an unprecedented whirl of parties, musical recitals, balls, plays, card tournaments, and weekends of fox-hunting, cricket, horse racing, and golf, the likes of which have never been seen before. With all this forced merriment, it can be hard to remember that we are a nation at war.

My back stiffens as a small cadre of officers enters the dining room, but I relax when they gather around the corner of the table farthest from me. They’ve come here to talk, not to find dance partners. So as not to draw any sort of attention to myself, I lean against the china cabinet with the chinoiserie fretwork and feign complete interest in my food, pushing it around on my plate with a fork. But in truth, I need not bother. I am invisible to these men. I know they don’t believe me capable of understanding their military conversations, and they presume my disinterest.

“With Major André here in New York, we’re certain to round up those damn traitors hiding in Connecticut and New Jersey and lay waste to their damned uprising in no time,” one of the officers mutters to the two others.

The darker-haired officer nods. “He’ll find a way to get his hands on Washington’s plans and rout those bastards before they can do further damage.”

“I hear that André has already assembled a team of spies to ferret out Washington’s schemes,” the first officer says. The men chortle, probably already envisioning their victory over the despised general.

So Major André is in New York City as a spymaster, not as adjutant general to British Commander-in-Chief General Clinton, as has been publicly claimed. Interesting. I have always loathed the way men have dismissed me in matters of government and intellect, but now I wonder whether it might be an asset. What else might an invisible woman be able to learn?