CHAPTER 3

“Are you all right?” a deep voice asks me after the colonel has taken his leave. Not without a fair bit of shoving and protestations.

“I am, sir,” I answer in as steady a voice as I can muster, as we move away from the dark corner of the hallway toward a brighter area with a view of the dance floor. Smoothing my skirt, I square my shoulders and assume my full height, average though that may be. “I’m grateful to you for your aid.”

“It’s what any man would do in the situation,” my rescuer answers. I take a moment to study him. Tall and lanky, he has a long nose balanced by high cheekbones and a strong jaw, with soft brown eyes. But the most striking thing about him is the fact that he’s strangely underdressed for the occasion. While the other male guests are dressed in uniform, or wear waistcoats under long jackets so heavily embroidered that they resemble the women’s gowns, this gentleman wears simple black linen breeches and an unadorned jacket of tan cotton.

I gesture down the long hallway to the room where dancing continues, unabated. “I beg to differ.”

He shrugs, as if his intervention was nothing. But then his eyes narrow and his voice vibrates with anger, belying the nonchalance of his gesture. “I couldn’t allow a young lady to suffer at the hands of a brute, no matter what uniform he wears.”

“The uniform does seem to have emboldened him.” I pause, still shaken and angry at the soldier’s rough and presumptuous behavior, and I blurt out the belief I’ve long held but kept silent. “The British think they can take whatever they wish, even when it doesn’t belong to them. They overstep their bounds and abuse their power.”

Luckily, his tone softens, becoming compassionate. “My sister suffered similarly at the hands of a British solider, miss, and so I have an uncommon familiarity with your situation and, possibly, your feelings.”

My hand flies to my mouth. “Is your sister all right, sir?”

“Yes, fortunately. The lieutenant colonel who quarters with my family in Long Island made unwanted advances, but now that my father is aware, he has ensured that my sister is protected at all times. Of course, he would prefer that this officer not remain in his home, particularly after he destroyed the orchards and relegated the family to a few back rooms, but as I’m sure you know, any sort of objection is subject to punishment or—if the resistance is deemed traitorous—death.”

“I know all too well,” I reply, glancing at the British officer we have been forced to board. “I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Mister …” I hesitate, as the gentleman never mentioned his name.

“My apologies, miss. In the circumstances, I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself. My name is Robert Townsend, and I am at your service,” he says with a brief bow in my direction.

“I am Elizabeth Morris, and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I bob down in a half curtsy, wondering why his name sounds familiar. “Are you in the city from Long Island only for the evening, Mr. Townsend?” Perhaps an unexpected trip to the city from the countryside explains his casual attire.

“No, Miss Morris, I’ve made the city my home for some time. My father apprenticed me to the merchant house Templeton & Stewart in New York City when I was in my teens. I stayed until about two years ago. I loathed working in the district near the docks. It was good for business, but not for the soul.”

He doesn’t need to elaborate further. The area near the docks, on Barclay, Church, and Vesey Streets, services the needs of incoming ships, whose sailors require goods and services, the latter being of a … less savory sort.

He continues, “At that time, I started my own concern, a dry goods shop close to the Fly Market on Maiden Lane.” I recognize the name—our cook visits there regularly.

“How wonderful to have your own business, free from the involvement of others. But don’t you miss the family farm?” I ask, a bit wistful for my own summers in Connecticut.

“Well, I miss my family, but I never was much of a farmer.”

“Really? I miss being out in the fields and the freshness of the rural landscape. Most years, I live with my parents in the city only from autumn through spring. Until the war took hold of New York, I was fortunate enough to spend every summer at my mother’s family farm in Connecticut, ever since I was a small child. That all changed, though.”

“I would ask why, but I think I can guess at the answer.”

“I’m certain you can. My parents didn’t want me to stay in a region with so much support for the Continental Army. It could hurt my father’s business for their daughter to be seen living among rebels—as they put it—and they insisted I return to the city. As you know, a merchant’s success rises and falls with the British these days.” I pause before continuing, wondering how much more I can say aloud to this Mr. Townsend, even though he seems sympathetic to my views. But I dare to speak my mind. “I miss the freedom of the Connecticut countryside. In more ways than one.”

He lowers his voice. “I appreciate your candor, Miss Morris, and I echo your perspective. But I urge you to be judicious in sharing your opinions here.”

I glance down at the floor, momentarily embarrassed. How foolish, I think. This man could be anyone, even a British spy. “You’re the only person with whom I’ve shared them,” I answer honestly. Well, mostly honestly, as I do converse with Aunt Floyd on the topic of the British.

“And I’m honored. But after tonight’s encounter, I feel unusually protective of you.”

“I appreciate your chivalry, Mr. Townsend.” To bring the conversation onto safer ground, as he has requested, I ask a more innocuous question. “From where on Long Island does your family hail?”

“Their farm is near Oyster Bay, as is their shop and fleet of trading ships. My family resides on the property.”

“Ah, that’s why the Townsend name is familiar! Distant cousins of mine, the Floyds, live on Long Island—not too far from Oyster Bay. Or least they did, until the British confiscated their home and they were forced to flee to Connecticut. Are you familiar with William Floyd and his family?”

He nods in recognition, but drops his already low voice to a whisper to reply. “I am indeed. Although I don’t know that mentioning his name here will make you very popular. William Floyd is a signer of the Declaration of Independence, and he fought against the British when they first attacked Long Island.”

“I know,” I whisper back with a smile. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

“What do you mean?” he asks, his eyebrows arching.

“Your father is Samuel Townsend, if I’m not mistaken?”

“You are correct, Miss.” His voice is wary.

“I’ve heard stories about Samuel Townsend of Oyster Bay, and I understand he has a history of disagreements with the Crown’s policies.”

“So you do know my family.” He nods reluctantly. “My father’s willingness to challenge the British when he believes they’ve abused their power is one reason why the detestable Lieutenant Colonel Simcoe I mentioned decided to take up residence in our family home along with his troops. It was a form of punishment, I believe, even after my father reversed his position and took an oath to support the Crown.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Townsend.” I give him a half smile. “But it does seem as though you are following in your father’s footsteps.”

“I did have a good teacher.” He smiles back at me, a subdued grin that I suspect he bestows only rarely, and never falsely. Then he says, “Well, Miss Morris, it seems we’re in accord. Of course, I agree to your request to keep each other’s secrets.” For a long moment, we share that grin, having made this unexpected connection.

But then, a thought penetrates this pleasing synchronicity. What is this gentleman doing at this Loyalist gathering? In his dress and in his views, he seems the most unlikely of guests. I, at least, have reasons for my attendance—my gender and the insistence of my parents.

I ask, “What brings you to the DeLanceys tonight? Are you friends with our hosts?”

“No. I’m actually here in my capacity as a writer for the Royal Gazette. I occasionally cover social occasions if they’re particularly newsworthy, and since this event honors the newly arrived Major André and General Clinton, it’s of interest.”

How peculiar, I think, is this occupation for a man of his temperament and beliefs, particularly since he’s undoubtedly busy running his own establishment. But I don’t say so. Instead, I say, “Oh, my. I’ve been very frank with no less than a writer for a Loyalist newspaper. You’re a man who wears many hats.”

“I find it keeps my body busy and my mind occupied in these troubling times,” he says, without addressing the incongruity between his views and his work.

“I wish I could do the same. We women are constricted to our limited cycle of activities and our small sphere, especially here in the city. A broader view prevails in the countryside.”

“Not always. It’s much the same for my sisters, even though they live on a farm,” he says.

In the corner of my vision, I see my mother gesturing to me. I’m reluctant to leave this unusual man, but I know my mother will tolerate only a modicum of independence. “I must take my leave, Mr. Townsend, but I thank you. And I hope our paths cross again.” While these words constitute a common enough farewell, I mean them most sincerely. I have some ideas about exactly why Mr. Townsend is in attendance tonight. And after experiencing the British mistreatment firsthand tonight, I can be complacent no more.