CHAPTER 4

October 14, 1779

New York, New York

“How agreeable you’ve become lately, Elizabeth.” The pleasure in my mother’s voice is obvious.

After the DeLanceys’ party, I decided to become fully immersed in my mother’s world for the first time in my life. I began to join her in her daily circle of activities—from mornings overseeing our three servants and the cook, the menu, and the household’s laundry and cleaning schedule; to afternoons making social calls to our neighbors, attending services at church, and taking walks in Bowling Green; to evenings attending dinners and parties or undertaking needlework projects. The sameness of her days, with the lack of time alone in restorative solitude, simultaneously numbs and exhausts me. But I have a plan.

“I’ve been resistant for far too long, Mother,” I answer, and she squeezes my hand in delight. I feel guilty feigning interest in the activities of my mother’s realm, but there is no other way.

“It’s good to see you interested in acquiring the skills necessary to please a husband.” She smiles. “Perhaps we’ll see you work on modesty and delicacy next.”

On a typical day, the errand at hand wouldn’t have merited my mother’s personal attention. She would have left the pick of meats and fishes to Cook, merely approving them—or not—when they arrived in the kitchen. But tonight, we are hosting a dinner for several friends and their quartering officers, and she insists on making the selection herself at the market. A successful event is key to my father’s business.

The vestiges of summer heat have finally left, and the day is refreshingly crisp and bright, so we decide to walk to the market. The city reverberates with the sound of hammers on wood and axes on stone, as the workers rebuild the houses and shops that were destroyed by fire from the fighting some time ago. The British blamed the Continental Army for the destruction, of course, but the damage could just as easily have emanated from a rogue cannon blast on the part of the British. Either way, with the surging Loyalist population, the city needs the additional housing that this new construction will provide.

Passing countless people with red badges on their hats as a token of their loyalty to the Crown, I trail after my mother down Maiden Lane until it ends at Front Street, facing the East River. There, we enter the Fly Market, where the city’s best produce, fish, and meat are sold by vendors under a covered roof. As my mother studies the offerings at the various stalls, I try to catch a glimpse of the shops bordering the market, and I finally spot it: Townsend’s Dry Goods Shop.

“Mother,” I say as she compares the cuts of meat at a favored vendor, “do you mind if I stop into a store we passed for some needlework supplies? I’ll return here right away.”

She waves at me, distracted. “Yes, but don’t tarry.”

I weave through the bustling market to the store I spied, hoping I’ll have enough time to carry out my plan before Mother seeks me out. It’s only as I approach Mr. Townsend’s store that I wonder for the first time whether my proposal will be well received. I have been musing on it for the last few weeks, so fixated on the means by which I could access Mr. Townsend’s store that I haven’t even thought of what he might say.

Nerves set in as I push open the door to the shop, especially when I see the back of a worker behind the counter, tending to the needs of a few older women. What if Mr. Townsend isn’t even at the shop today? I hadn’t thought through that possibility, either.

I wait as the merchant fetches a burlap sack of flour and hands it to his customer. Then he finally faces me, and I realize it’s Mr. Townsend himself.

“Miss Morris,” he says when he notices me, an arched eyebrow the only evidence of his surprise.

“I’ve come for some supplies, Mr. Townsend. I’ll be happy for your assistance once you’ve finished with your customers.”

He keeps his eyes on me as he completes the transactions and, one by one, the women leave the shop. When the door slams shut on the final customer, he turns to me, saying, “What a surprise, Miss Morris. I’m pleased to see you, of course, but I never expected we would encounter one another here. I thought I’d have to wait until I was covering another social occasion for the Royal Gazette.”

“Why should I not see you while I attend to errands in Fly Market? I accompany my mother as she undertakes her housewifely duties.”

“You don’t strike me as the sort of woman who relishes those errands …”

While a continuation of this exchange of pleasantries would typically be required, I don’t have the time. At any moment, my mother could finish her shopping and hunt me down. Squaring my shoulders, I come to the point in a hushed tone. “I visit you today because I feel certain we share the same views about the British occupation of New York. And elsewhere in the colonies.”

“You are correct in that assumption,” he answers warily.

“Good. I’ll get right to it then: I would like to serve the Revolution. I am so tired of watching as the British destroy our land and harm our citizens. I believe in the cause of freedom.”

“I appreciate your sentiments, but … how could you be of use?”

“Simply because I’m a young woman living an affluent life doesn’t mean that I’m without my own independent views, or without use. Surely a man of your background and proclivities understands that.”

He pauses, then says, “Fair enough. But I’m not certain why you think I might be the person to put your services to good purpose.”

“Well, you are a man with a demanding business to run, yet you have elected to spend your rare hours outside the shop writing articles for a Loyalist newspaper. All this despite the fact that you support the Revolution, your own family has espoused views against the Crown, and your family’s property has been subjected to destruction by the British occupying it. I can think of only one reason you would choose to spend your spare time writing for the Royal Gazette.”

“And what is that reason?” he asks, his posture rigid.

“Gathering information that might be helpful to the Continental Army,” I whisper.

Without directly responding to my supposition, he asks another question. “You do realize that having views that are aligned with the Revolution, and actually being of value to it, are two entirely different things?”

“Mr. Townsend, I believe that I could serve in a uniquely valuable capacity and deliver information to you—that no one else can assemble.”

“How so?”

Here, I know just how to prove my value. “You are familiar with Major André?”

“Of course,” he says, the surprise evident in his voice. “Officially, he’s General Clinton’s aide, but I’m sure you know there’s suspicion that he’s actually an intelligence officer. But why do you ask?”

“Have you ever actually spoken to the man?”

Mr. Townsend stares at me for a long moment, then concedes, “No. How could I possibly get access to a British officer of that rank? Even while acting on behalf of the Royal Gazette, I’m limited to asking questions of the host and hostess of these events, and making observations.”

“Well, I’ve conversed with him on several occasions, and observed him on many more. There are things I can report already: he is artistic, a favorite with the ladies, and hails from a monied background in Switzerland and England. Once he inherited some wealth for himself, he bought himself a position with the Fusiliers, but transferred to the Seventh Foot, heading to Quebec. He then became a staff officer and translator for General Howe, as his family background afforded him the opportunity to learn several languages. When Howe left, he joined General Clinton’s staff, and that’s when he began to experience real success. His friendship with Clinton led to his rise from simple subaltern to adjutant general, but that title is in name only—I can confirm that he serves primarily as the chief spy for the British.”

By the time I finish, Mr. Townsend’s mouth is agape. “How do you know all that?”

“By listening to conversations that no one thinks I’m able to comprehend. The British, like all men, speak freely in front of women. Invisibility has its benefits.”

He grows quiet, this already quiet man. Finally, he speaks. “You are an unusual young lady.”

“And these are unusual times.” I meet his gaze and ask, “Do you accept my offer?”

Mr. Townsend, the essence of solemnity, lets out an unexpected laugh. “I don’t think I could forestall your efforts, even if I declined. So, yes, Miss Morris, I accept.”