CHAPTER 11

October 25, 1780

New York, New York

The tiny stone chapel of St. Paul’s, tucked away in a field on Broadway, is beautiful in its spareness. Gleaming white walls glow in the golden, late morning sun, and the burnished oak pews and altar only heighten the illumination. The church is empty, save for us three, and it seems fitting that the minister will marry us in this place which was claimed by the early supporters of the Revolution.

Robert and I stand before the altar, hand in hand, the folds of my simple lilac gown pooling at our feet. We face the minister he knows from childhood, a man secretly sympathetic to the cause of the Revolution even though he leads a Loyalist congregation. Robert had once considered approaching him about undertaking intelligence work for the cause, but once he understood the breadth of the minister’s pacifist leanings, he abandoned the notion.

The minister has warned us that the ceremony will unite us before God, but not before the government, whichever one ends up winning this war. According to the law, my parents have the right to deny me permission to marry, and we had not the time nor consent to post the banns—our declaration of intent to marry—at any church, as is tradition and rule. It’s only been twelve hours since Robert’s proposal, after all. But we do not care.

I glance at Robert, who stares at me with a wide grin of disbelief, as if I might disappear in an instant, like a specter. I smile back at him, to assure him that I am indeed flesh and blood, and I am his.

The minister begins. “We gather here today in the sight of God to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony.” He continues with the familiar litany about the meaning of the sacrament, but I only half listen. I’m too transfixed by the glorious smile on Robert’s face and the happiness in his eyes; I can only imagine that I appear the same.

“Elizabeth Morris, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

“Robert Townsend, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife to live together after God’s ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will.”

He hands Robert a ring, a simple band of silver with a lovely flower design along its rim. As Robert slides it on my finger, he repeats after the minister, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow.”

After the minister’s final blessing, we exit by the side door of St. Paul’s, daring to hold hands as we walk down the lanes to Townsend’s Dry Goods Shop. The store, which I have visited often in both daylight and moonlight, seems different now that I am Robert’s wife. After he unlocks the door, he leads me upstairs to his rooms, which I have only ever visited at night. To my surprise, bouquets of blue asters, purple spotted bee balm, and goldenrod adorn the room, and their fragrant perfume fills the air.

As I turn toward Robert in delight, he says, “I cannot offer you much right now, but I wanted our wedding day to be as celebratory as I could make it.”

“What you have offered me is all that I have ever wanted.”

He pulls me close to him. “What you have offered me is more than I ever knew existed.” Wrapping me in his arms, he engulfs me in a kiss, then leads me to his bedroom.

The sun wanes by late afternoon when I am preparing to leave Robert’s shop, but the day is no less beautiful and bright. In Robert’s arms, I listen as he whispers, “I don’t want you to leave.” His voice is thick with desire and regret.

“Neither do I,” I whisper into his chest. Then, in an effort to sound more hopeful, I say, “But it will be only eight short hours until we rendezvous. And then we will be together forever.”

“Those hours will be endless,” he groans.

“I know. But you have much to do by way of packing for us. I’ll have to slip out with only a small bag to avoid detection, so you’ll have to prepare for us both. Then I’ll be yours for all time.”

“For all time,” he echoes, a note of wonder in his voice. And he holds me in a long farewell kiss.

I walk the distance home in a euphoric daze. As I stroll, the remains of Trinity Church—whose steeple was once the tallest structure in the city—capture my attention, and I wonder when it will be reconstructed after the fire that razed much of the city. I cannot help but think that, despite the unorthodox nature of our marriage, a benevolent God would look kindly upon our union today.

As I approach my parents’ home, I begin to worry. How will my parents react when they read my letter tomorrow morning, and they learn about my marriage and departure? Will they discover the hand I had in André’s arrest and the upending of Arnold’s plot? And what will the British do to my parents if their investigation reveals my involvement? Regardless of my worries, I know I cannot alert my mother and father too soon, or I risk ruining our plan. So I slide my wedding ring off my finger and hide it deep within a pocket in the folds of my skirt.

Pulling open the front door, I step inside to a scene I could have never imagined. My mother stands at the base of the entryway stairs, clutching the bannister, her cheeks wet with tears. My father’s usually perfectly styled hair is askew, and he is arguing with an unfamiliar British officer who is surrounded by at least six of his men. Officer Randolph stands behind them, his arms crossed and a self-satisfied expression on his face. The commotion halts when they see me.

My mother screams: “Run, Elizabeth, run!”

Before I attempt to leave, I meet my father’s gaze, and see within his deep blue eyes an excess of anguish and helplessness. I hesitate for a second, and in that momentary pause, one of the men grasps my hand just as I’m about to flee through the door.

As he grips both my arms and yanks them behind my back, the senior officer marches to my side and announces, “Elizabeth Morris, you are under arrest for treason.”