… it is uncertain how far the Enemy may attempt to pursue their Victory.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON
DECEMBER 24, 1756
Ten months had gone by since George swept Mary into his arms and she felt, for the first time in her life, whole. Now her eyes welled up. Sitting on a wooden stool feeling distraught, she slouched. The only light came from the window in her painting room in the cellar.
Live or die?
What would be the choice?
Mary begged herself to close the door on what had been, to say good-bye to the dark. She had grown tired of hiding herself away, of losing herself in loneliness. She wanted to finally put an end to the demons, put an end to the memories of that beast, before they put an end to her. She placed her fingers on the knife’s hilt and grasped it tightly. A primal anguish screamed out from the base of her soul.
“Die!”
The blade made its incision.
She pictured the powerful imagery in that story she read many times about the legend of the Phoenix. In the myth, the grand bird builds a nest of death and, with a clap of its wings, sets fire to itself, and burns in flames in the midst of an inferno.
Death was not the end, but the beginning.
From the ashes, the Phoenix rises, brilliantly rises. Feathers in the boldest peacock blue, eyes sparkling sapphire, the magical bird takes flight, illuminating the night sky in newfound life, one that is brighter, more radiant than before.
Renewal.
Rebirth.
With the paring knife, she tore into a rose, and into another and another, lashing the pile of flowers before her; they were bloodred, as were her fingers from the nicks of their thorns. The deepest red roses she chopped down to where only the blossom with a short stem survived. The stems with their thorns, she tossed away.
She arranged the roses in a radial fashion to make a full base in the low Delft vase. Bright blue irises, twenty in total, emerged from the center—tall, reflective of the rise to a new beginning.
She wished she could experience the same.
She heard footsteps.
She put down the knife.
She assumed it was Frederick coming to negotiate her surrender. Her siblings wanted her to attend the banquet hosted by Lord Loudoun. She hadn’t been to a gala since George left. Every day, he was in her thoughts. Every day, she waited for word from him. The only letter that arrived was to Beverley, from Beverley’s brother, asking whether Frederick would consider negotiation through letters, for Colonel Washington’s physical presence was not possible at this time. Mary was elated, for negotiation could lead to nuptials. Frederick balked, saying such was unheard of. “Any such discussion has to be done face-to-face,” he told her. She fought him on this, but in the end she relented, for she believed with certainty that George would return for her. He promised he would return to her.
She wiped her eyes as her visitor entered.
Sir Tenoe. He was silent. The first thing she noticed was the scar on his face, which looked even deeper in this light. She cast her eyes to the ground as she tried to regain some type of composure. Blood on her hands. Slits, small ones, covered her fingers.
“Sir Tenoe.” She used the fabric of her dress to cover them. “Forgive me. I knew not of your visit.” He was hired to serve as dancing master for the night’s grand banquet. She was glad of this. It was the only reason she even considered attending. Why he was here left her perplexed. “Was it Frederick who sent for you?” She blew out of her mouth to get the hair away from her eyes. It wasn’t like him not to speak. She wondered what it was that he wanted to say. From his long silence, she surmised it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.
He reached out to touch the floral garlands that lined the walls of the cellar room and his fingers lingered on the dried petals painted blue. “Each of us has a scar.”
That was not what she expected.
“Mine”—he gestured to his face—“mine is on display for everyone to see.”
Mary remained quiet as she listened to him.
“This wound, it is who I am.”
With her head, Mary motioned for him to take a seat at the empty stool in front of her.
He followed her direction and took to staring out the window as he spoke. “I had just turned thirteen. I was poor, without a father. The day that left me branded I had scraped food for supper when I saw them—a group of men. They smelled of whiskey; they stumbled, with a little girl in their grip. She was no more than eleven, twelve, no more. I’d never seen her before. They slammed her down to the ground. They hollered things, horrible things, at her. ‘Pay no attention, boy. Move on,’ they ordered.” Tenoe spoke slowly. “Leaving would not be my option.” A rhythm of short quick breaths followed. “One of them put his hands over her mouth. Another held her down. I charged into their circle in the alley. ‘Release her!’ I shouted. I was enraged. I’d never been so angry in my life. I heard them snickering. That little girl’s eyes stared at me in fierce desperation.” Tenoe’s eyes shut tight. “My mother … she had faced that same fate; for her, I stayed; for her, I fought. One punch. Then another. I stayed. The six of them, they beat me bloody. I stayed. I fell down. I rose. I stayed. The child got up. She ran. I wouldn’t move until that girl was clear out of sight. I saw the broken bottle coming. A man struck me across the face with it. I stayed … until that girl was clear out of my sight.” Tenoe looked right into Mary’s eyes. “I wear this scar with pride.”
Tears burst from Mary’s eyes.
“Fate put me there that day, just like it puts me here today.” He reached out for her hand. She could see him looking at the bloody pricks on her fingers. “Destiny doesn’t care that we’re wounded. Destiny sees through scars. All that destiny sees is light.”
AN AWKWARD FIFTH wheel, that’s what Mary felt like in the carriage as Frederick and his new bride made goggle eyes at each other on one side. Beverley, whispering to Susannah, who giggled, sat next to Mary; the three of them were positioned quite close. Beverley was nearly covered in the fabric of their bell-shaped gowns, which spread out wide. Mary looked out of the window past the leafless elm trees, hoping to find a light to guide her destiny. Not a brightness flickered anywhere.
Her brother’s periwig took an unexpected bounce as the carriage moved off of the central thoroughfare of Broadway and onto Whitehall Street, where the banquet was to take place on the southernmost point at the tip of Manhattan Island.
Within the walls of the massive fort curtained in stone, inside the fort’s residential mansion lived the new general and commander in chief of all His Majesty’s Forces in North America, the governor and commander in chief of His Majesty’s Most ancient Colony and Dominion of Virginia. Why he had the longest of titles, Mary could only surmise. She wondered, too, why he decided to take up residency in New York rather than in Virginia.
As she stepped from the carriage to the ground, Mary could hear her brother say to Susannah, “Do you not think she should have worn a piece with her gown?”
Her brother was dressed in holiday ostentation from head to toe: a fully woolen greatcoat of a deep purple adorned with velvet trimmings and nearly thirty gold buttons down the front. His chain marking him Keeper of the Deer Forests was on proud display.
Mary didn’t answer him. She refused to wear anything fancy to the banquet, especially gems. Rosie made a last moment’s choice of a simple gown made of deep green Spitalfields damask, with an added brooch of a yellow flower; the costume was certainly less fancy than the usual wear for such an event. Her hair was wrapped above her head, high, but not high enough to be considered gaudy.
She was here for one person only. She promised Sir Tenoe that she would attend. How could she not? Here she was.
Mary relaxed a bit when she saw two belles approaching her. Cousins Eva and Margaret arrived at the same time. Not just the Van Cortlandts and the Kembles would be in attendance; the Livingstons, the Delanceys, and every other polite family in the colony were expected.
“Have you seen Lord Loudoun’s chariot?” Margaret appeared elated to be attending. “’Tis black and pure gold!” She did look lovely in her bold red gown, her blond ringlets flowing. “I hear he even brought from England his personal valet de chambre and maître d’hôtel. Groomsmen, coachman, footmen, postilion, as well!”
“We know. We know.” Eva stayed close to Mary’s side as they walked through the enormous entry door. “And who needs to import nineteen horses? Every one with green velvet housing embroidered with the coat of arms of the Loudoun family. I hear they filled an entire ship.”
Mary was glad she was arriving with these ladies. They took her mind off her worries. The crowds would be enormous. She could already smell them.
“What will be the reaction when the British officers see Miss Polly Philipse in attendance?” Eva took Mary by the arm. “Every military man will be wanting to join the regiment of your admirers.”
“Eva Van Cortlandt, you are aware I have no desire to meet a man this evening,” Mary muttered.
“Her heart is fixed,” replied Eva. “Any gentlemen who have demands on our Captain Polly are desired to apply immediately, as we have great reason to imagine the company will soon be broke!”
They placed themselves on either side of her as they entered. Mary took one last breath of fresh, chilled air. As the large doors opened, pine smacked with cinnamon welcomed her.
Everything in view was red. Red flowers were everywhere she looked. Upon pillar stands in every corner were vases filled with forced red blossoms. Long-needled garlands, with cinnamon sticks and red ribbons as decoratives, traveled about the winding stairwell’s balustrade in the center foyer. On the doors hung wreaths made from winter’s greenery with red-ribboned bows at their tops. The assemblage of redcoats parted to give the belles room to approach the host of the evening.
“Could that be London?” Margaret asked with burgeoning excitement.
“Loudoun,” Eva groaned. “Must be. I can tell by how high his chin is lifted.”
The gentleman of high rank seemed to hasten his conversation with the sheriff’s father, Lieutenant Governor Delancey, as they neared him. Costumed in bright red velvet with shimmering gold tassels, Loudoun stood high on his heel.
“The Dutch millionaire’s family,” Mary thought she heard an aide say as the man she assumed to be Lord Loudoun moved from his position to greet her.
“How is it that I may sufficiently thank you, Miss Philipse, for not only your polite acceptance of my invitation but also for the agreeable gift of your flowers?”
“The Philipse family wishes you a splended holiday,” she responded in an amiable manner. The floral arrangement of the Phoenix design clearly arrived.
“I am abundantly honored to have your presence at my gala this evening. You are welcome in my humble abode at any hour, always.” His voice was higher in pitch than Mary would have thought for a person in his position, his face so pale, it seemed he must have been powdered white. “And may I add all the compliments of the season to you, Miss Philipse.” His pure white hand, decorated with a ruby ring, brought her gloved hand up to his lips. He kissed it. She flinched.
The ladies escorted her to the reception line, where the salutations were endless, with one officer after the next awaiting Mary’s arrival. Her hands were kissed far too many times.
One colonel hastily licked his palm and smoothed thinning gray hair over his baldness as she drew near. He mumbled a few lines to her, which she forgot to listen to. She did catch his name: Colonel John Stanwix.
Then another colonel, Thomas Hickey, greeted her, followed by a lieutenant colonel, Hugh Mercer.
“Are you a relation of Captain George Mercer?” asked Mary.
“I’ve been asked the question before,” replied Mercer. “My family hails from Scotland, while the other Mercer hails from Virginia. However, as I understand it, I’ll be headed there in a week’s time and hope to finally meet the captain I am connected to, though in name only.”
“Pray be so kind as to present my regards to Captain Mercer … and Colonel Washington.” Just saying his name sent shivers down her spine. She felt a warmth on her cheeks.
“’Twould be my pleasure, Miss Philipse. My wish for a merry Christmas to you and your family.”
Mary noticed Margaret adjust her hair ringlets as they approached a strapping Englishman with dark eyebrows that stood out against his powdered hair. Thomas Gage was his name.
Eva’s face filled with giddy anticipation as they approached the next man. Mary always found him to be an interesting-looking fellow with waved hair that flared like a bell.
“It is he! It’s Scandal,” whispered Eva.
He spoke to them in rhythmic verse. “Let me sigh, for nothing can be more delightful to the eye, nothing more penetrating to the heart than seeing the glorious women of this colony from whom I’ll never desire to part.”
After Eva’s hand was sufficiently kissed, Mary had to pick her up from a curtsy that lasted longer than necessary.
“I understand congratulations are in order, Mr. Pownall,” Mary said to him.
“Lord Loudoun has been gracious to add Secretary Extraordinaire to my title,” he bragged.
This greeting was followed by one with Delancey, who was dressed in a showy and gay manner for the evening. Mary tried to move past him quickly or else be caught up in his stare, accompanied by a single lifted eyebrow.
The next officer was quite fashionable, buttoned up, light brown hair combed neatly and tied back, and smelling significantly scrubbed. His nose was large, shifted to the left, and had a serious mark on it. “In this moment, my heart takes flight.” He flashed his ivory. He fell to his knees, saying, “Genista triquetra,” with an animated expression as he merrily kissed her gloved hand not once but three times.
Mary winced and pulled her hand away. “Sir, please.”
He rose and spoke with a British accent. “When a lady possesses every grace and beauty as is possible to attain, do you not believe she should be praised for such a fine choice in flowers?”
Mary’s brooch—a yellow flower whose formal Latin name was Genista triquetra. The fellow was right. Genu, from the Latin word meaning of the knee. She was quite surprised he knew of it, but now she understood his reason for kneeling.
“Your charm alone affects me so.” Loudly he made this proclamation. “I do declare, here and now, if you deny me the pleasure of one dance with you this evening, you will send me to the grave.”
“Sir, I must present a nay in that regard, for I hardly know you.”
“My name is Roger Morris, captain in His Majesty’s Army and at the service of the finest belle of the ball.”
“It does not become me to bear witness to such public proclamations.” Mary hurriedly moved past him and right into Bernadette Clara Belle’s towering structure erected at the apex of her head. The entire circle of maidens by Bernadette’s side, including Emily Joyce and Elle Cole, was on a parade of pretension, showing off the mountainous monstrosities that called their heads home. If Mary could measure Bernadette’s hair, she presumed it would equal a yard high, being that it was buttressed with gauze, ribbons, and that feathered quill again. She had seen garish fashions before, but these heaps might very well take the cakes. She stood in amazement, gazing at the bigness that literally stood up on its own.
“You never afforded me a correspondence in response to my letter to you.” Bernadette emphasized the s sound in her speech with her usual coquettish tone. For years—it seemed forever—Bernadette had not had a kind word to say to Mary. Now, suddenly, she decided to attempt a connection.
Mary delayed a response, for she was still astonished by how such a pile could remain balanced upon Bernadette’s head. The letter, she had never read, assuming it a disingenuous attempt at friendship. She wondered whether Bernadette used the feather on her head to write it. “Yes, while my spirit had a willingness to write, the flesh would not guide my quill,” said Mary.
Eva and Margaret faked a smile to Bernadette and moved Mary into the hall. Once they were away from the crowd, Eva began to joke about the military men they met in the reception line.
“I surmise none of these lads has made an impression on our Captain Polly Philipse. Therefore, we shall now determine those killed, wounded, deserted, and discharged from Captain Polly’s regiment during this, the Campaign of 1756.” Eva pretended to write upon an imaginary scroll. “And what shall we make of that valiant nobleman who bows before his captain?”
“The Morris fellow’s forehead was nicely sized,” added Margaret. “I believe a sign of distinction.”
Mary laughed. She was surprised they didn’t comment on his nose.
“Our Earl of Loudoun?”
Mary shook her head.
“Very well. Although I believe he would be interested in mustering occasionally. He did offer you an invite to the mansion … at any hour. I shall give, now, the conditions of the others, and if you disagree, please acknowledge.” The two of them listened to Eva’s silliness. “What of Colonel Stanwix?”
“He nearly looked devastated by Polly’s reaction to him.”
“What was my reaction to this Stanwix fellow?”
“You hardly noticed him,” noted Margaret.
“I didn’t hear a word the man said to me.”
“I would say wounded and taken by surprise,” offered Margaret.
“And what of our sheriff, Captain Delancey?” Eva looked at Mary.
“Outlawed!” Mary couldn’t help but offer her assessment of him.
“Tell me where the charmer is on the list.” Margaret stared at the officers’ line.
“Colonel Gage?” inquired Mary.
“Colonel Gage. Just the name affects me so.”
“Let us place him in the regiment of Captain Margaret,” suggested Mary.
“There is no doubt he will have you on the dance floor this evening,” Eva assured her and turned to look at Mary.
“Pownall?” asked Eva with a glint in her eye. “Or shall we go by his pseudonym, Timothy Scandal. He is a Secretary Extraordinaire, indeed. The finest writer in all of the colonies. He is the scholarly author of the political letters printed in our newspapers. He’s proficient in Latin, as well, which clearly I am not, even in the English language.”
“Yes, but after seeing your minuet, Eva, he is ‘likely to desert’ the Captain Polly regiment and for certain join that of Captain Eva.”
“I only hope of it. And now we return to the condition of our Captain Roger Morris.”
“Discharged,” asserted Margaret. “No, no. Wounded.”
“Ah, yes, but the one who kneels, it seems, has an adoration for her which runs deep.” Eva’s lips went crooked as she put on her thinking face. “I will mark him down as ‘shot through the heart.’”
Shot through the nose would be more appropriate, thought Mary.
Attention was being drawn to the grand staircase as the Delanceys called for the crowd to enter the foyer.
The lieutenant governor, with his son the sheriff at his side, made the announcement. “May I introduce our Lord and Victor, John, Earl of Loudoun, our general, our commander in chief over all our forces, regular and provincial, and governor general of Virginia.”
“How many titles does one man need?” Eva whispered.
Mary tried to prevent a guffaw from being released from her mouth as Loudoun walked to the center of the room. After polite yet dull applause, he began to drone on about his dominions. He spoke in a patronizing tone.
Before Loudoun uttered his final word, the kneeler approached Mary. “I would be the most crestfallen officer in the world if you should not allow me one dance this night.”
The first chord was struck. She saw Sir Tenoe on the floor, leading as dancing master.
Mary found herself with Captain Morris in a moment’s time as the crowd moved them to the center of the room. She tried to separate from him; however, he became more emphatic with his requests. “You shall plunge me into a evening of wretchedness! I shall cry aloud as you banish me into a dismal abyss!” exclaimed Morris.
In order to not make the awkward situation worse, especially with the importance of the event for Sir Tenoe, she reluctantly began to move with him, although resisting conversation. His teeth were fully on display. The singer erupted into “Love’s but a Frailty of the Mind.”
“My first opportunity,” Captain Morris practically sang out, “to dance with the one on whom is fixed the chief happiness I wish to enjoy in this world.”
At least he wore no hair powder. She felt thankful for that. She caught Sir Tenoe’s eye; he nodded his approval.
She kept a distance between herself and the captain as the two of them moved about the dance floor. He had a gaiety to his step. Her eyes kept falling on his pinned flower. She didn’t recognize the species. She was curious to ask about it, but to question this fellow might lead to further conversation, which she wanted to avoid.
“If there’s delight in love,” the singer crooned, “’tis when I see that heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.” The final verse.
Mary decided to speak. “Please, give me leave to acquaint you with the fact that I have no intention of courtship. I am quite content with my present situation.” She hastily made her escape; the moment of release was liberating.
It wasn’t even a minute’s time that passed before a group of little boys grabbed hold of her. “Miss Philipse! Miss Philipse!”
What a pleasant surprise it was to find her young friends at the ball. She recognized the boys one at a time, nodding to each. “Mr. Livingston, Mr. Livingston, Mr. Jay, how do you do this evening?”
Henry Livingston Jr., with cute chubby red cheeks and hair so blond that it could be considered white, darted toward an adjacent parlor with his hand still in hers and sat her down on a bench near the fire. “’Tis the night before Christmas!” he said.
“Oh, Henry, it certainly is.”
“My cousins, Robert and John, have tired of listening to my rhymes.”
“Of what subject are you composing? Something that makes you happy?”
“Tonight. Tonight makes me happy, ’Tis the night before Christmas.” She could see his mind working hard. “And all through the house,” he continued, “nothing was astir. Not even a horse.”
“That doesn’t rhyme at all,” Robert interrupted.
“I find your rhyme thoroughly enjoyable,” Mary encouraged Henry.
“I am now eleven years of age, Miss Philipse,” announced John.
“Mr. Jay, you just had a birthday?”
“I did.”
“And what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“A justice of the peace, just like your father, Miss Philipse.” John Jay stood up straighter.
“Me, as well.” Robert’s posture followed suit.
“A noble profession, sirs. I shall call you by different names from henceforth: the Honorable Robert Livingston, the Honorable John Jay, and the poet Livingston.”
“Thank you, Miss Philipse,” they chimed in unison.
“Have you seen my brother this evening?” asked John. “He has been looking for you.”
A shudder came over her. She turned quickly to look over her shoulder, scanning the room for the beast with the green eyes hard as glass. Her throat went dry as she turned back toward the boys. The day had come. She had to confront him. She had to bring herself out of this darkness. This was the only way. She knew now what had happened that night, the one that marked her life before and her life after. James Jay was responsible. Address him. Find a release from the weight of it, she encouraged herself. There was no other way forward. She thought of how Sir Tenoe fought and fought when evil confronted him. She had to do the same … for herself. With that, she got up and straightened her stance. “And I am looking for him as well.”
It didn’t take long for her to find the subject of her fears. He was standing alone in the corner of a hallway just outside the room where she had been with the boys. Her hands trembled. She clasped them together to stop them from shaking. She remembered the pain of that day so long ago, in the room of the cellar at the manor, as he pulled her hair and wouldn’t let go. “You will be my queen, and I your king” had been his words to her. The smell of his hair powder—she could never get his stench out of her. She was just a little girl at the time. She remembered running from him, his spurs sounding as he chased her. She had closed the door to the cellar, holding tightly to the knob. He fought from the other side of the door.
Now she approached him with purpose in her walk, and she pointed her finger into his face.“YOU! It was YOU who caused the nightmare that lives with me every day of my life,” Mary cried out to him. She finally found the voice to put an end to his tyranny over her. “You who made me fear the water, fear the dark, fear the unknown. It was you. You tormented me over and over again. I was just a little girl. Then, the day you dragged me into the room in the cellar. Held my face into the floor for so long I could not breathe. I had to run for my life, until I found myself outside, alone on the south porch. You caused me to run. My mother would be alive if not for you. I lost her because of you.”
“Oh, my dear Polly, I am deaf to your words, for I hear only a yearning in your voice.” James Jay lifted a hand to her face, and with the other, he placed a tight grip about her waist. His hair powder was thick and crusty at his scalp as he grabbed her and pushed her into a darkened room. “You affirmed it, my darling.”
IT HAD BEEN dark then, too. So dark. She was scared. Her little arm hurt when he pinched her. She held the doorknob as tightly as she could. Keep him away. He was coming for her. The door pulled open. She tried to close it. He won. He grabbed her and dragged her down the cellar stairs, into the tiny room with the small window. He pushed her down. She covered her eyes. She wanted him to disappear. He yanked her hair back as he held her down into the hard ground and repeated the words to her: “You will be my queen, and I your king.” She was too scared to yell. He said it again, then screamed at her, “Affirm it! Affirm it!” His face covered her face. She breathed in his hair powder. She gasped for breath, taking in dust; it covered her tongue and throat. She couldn’t yell. “You will be my queen, and I your king. Affirm it!” “Yes,” she whispered. He let her go. She ran outside, where Elbert found her, and by the river he picked a flower to make her happy.
NOW A FOG BEGAN to envelop her. Her body shuddered. She struggled to get free. Tears flooded her eyes and shut her throat. Her vision blurred. Her hand fought him, pushing him from her. She fought until she couldn’t breathe. His hand was over her face. The darkness won. The drag of his spur upon the floor followed as she felt him lift her up. The shutting of the door was the next sound she heard, until he spoke in a wet whisper close to her face. “Whether it be in life or in death, you are mine and always will be.”