MARCH 1770

I closed the door of the officers’ house and burrowed farther into my go-to-market cloak, a basket clutched at my side. From across the street, the giggles of two girls reached my ears. They were about my age, and I smiled at them before realizing I was the target of their laughter. They whispered to each other, then turned away without bidding me a good day.

I tried not to take the snub to heart. I knew they believed I warmed the captain’s and lieutenant’s beds with more than warming pans of coals. In truth, most of the advertisements posted at the Royal Coffeehouse for housemaids stated rather boldly that virtue was not a requirement. I stared after the murmuring girls.

I envied them. Carefree, no doubt living beneath the roof of a loving parent. Not so very long ago I was in their place. ’Twas not my fault Providence had dealt me so difficult a hand. And yet, mightn’t I have looked harder and longer for a respectable employ? Spent more than one night on the cold town streets? A stronger woman would have refused the help of the enemy.

On my way to the apothecary, I dodged the women bustling to market, chimney sweeps vying for jobs, piles of horse and donkey manure, and red-coated sentries.

Just ahead stood the brick Town House, the gold unicorn and lion of the royal crest standing proudly on top, a whipping post before it and the town pump not much farther. Toward the horizon and between brick buildings, I just glimpsed Long Wharf, packed with warehouses, counting houses, and the great naked masts of ships at port. I craned my neck for a sight of blue sea. With the hum of spring, the wharf would soon be filled with casks of wine from the island of Madeira and hogsheads of fruit and sugar from the West Indies and Canary Islands.

A crude word cut through the busyness of the streets. At the Customs House, across from the Town House, a red-coated sentry, not much older than me, stood guard. His musket was planted firmly over his shoulder, and he walked back and forth, turning smartly on his heel with each change of direction even as a nearby boy called obscene names at him. I thought to shoo the boy away but lost my courage at the prospect of a South End mob turning against me.

The apothecary shop was just beyond on Royal Exchange Lane. I would pick up the cloves and perhaps some catnip for the lieutenant’s tooth as well as some camphor, linseed oil, headache powders, and beeswax, as my supplies were running low. On the way home I would visit the Customs House and see if news of James’s ship, Defiance, had come in. While ships were not required to be registered upon their arrival, my best hope of finding news of James was here. Yet even as I held on to the hope I’d felt that morning, the scent of snow thickened the air, reminding me that ships traversing from the West Indies didn’t often pull into port in early March.

A crumpled newspaper swirled at my feet. The rattling of a cart came from behind, and I stepped aside, turning to see a boy wheeling a load of firewood. He rushed past, and out of the corner of my eye I caught a figure leaving the print shop of Edes & Gill, publishers of the Boston Gazette. Something jumped in my belly. Even with the tricorn hat and cape, I’d know that form anywhere. I’d cleaned up his toddler hands caked with mud after playing in a summer rain. I’d watched his eyes light up at the sight of seedcakes, warm from the oven. I’d hid those same eyes from our parents’ corpses, riddled with smallpox sores. At sixteen, he might no longer need me, but I desperately needed him.

James turned in the opposite direction, and I half skipped, half ran after him. When I drew closer, I called out, “James!”

The man didn’t turn, and for a moment I doubted myself. But certainly I wasn’t wrong—no one could walk with such a step as my brother, who’d had the lung fever at age ten and who still suffered his breaths when he walked, taking deep cleansing lungfuls that arched his back with each draw of air.

I quickened my pace, not entirely missing a manure pile. “James!”

He stopped, tilted his head, and turned. I couldn’t deny my joy at his surprise, his jaw open and his eyebrows raised. “Liberty?”

I drew closer, ignoring the manure now, and flung myself into his arms. “I can’t fathom it. You’re here. You are truly here!” I pulled back, examining him. “You look wonderful. No doubt the sea air agrees with you, little brother.” He’d filled out since I last saw him, no longer the scrawny boy whose clothes I’d pressed.

His hands stayed on my arms. “How did you come to be in Boston, dear sister?”

“An old farmer took pity on me on the King’s Highway from New York. I gave him the last of my shillings.”

James blinked. His nose twitched. “Why did you not stay at home? What of Grandmother Caldwell?”

“Mayhap we should exit the streets. . . .”

He nodded, his mouth firm, and offered me his arm, which I took gladly. Though I was the elder by more than a year, he was now the man in our pitiable family of two. I would have to put myself under his protection—and willingly I would. No longer would I be criticized for serving the redcoats, however charming one could be. I now had a family, a place to belong.

James led me several blocks away from the main thoroughfare. The Common loomed before us, and he ushered me to the Old Granary graveyard, where a high stone wall hid us from view of the street. A lone woman stood at the grave of the Seider boy—perhaps his mother? The Liberty Boys had ensured a magnificent funeral for the twelve-year-old boy, shot by one of the king’s customs officials in the middle of a violent row. Standing there, looking at the grieving woman, I could understand the vehement passion of those who called themselves Patriots. After all, what sort of suppression led to the needless death of a child? Why didn’t they just let us alone to run our own land?

The woman brought a handkerchief to her nose, her mouth moving. I wondered how many of the five thousand funeral attendees would come to visit the boy’s resting place over the coming days. Likely only a handful. The funeral was more a show of Whig loyalty, meant to incite the Patriots’ fervor for their Cause. I swallowed a lump of empathy for the woman at the boy’s grave. She was the one who would truly mourn.

James and I strolled the crude paths between mottled headstones.

“Grandmother fell to the throat distemper last autumn. We had little in those final days, littler still as we laid her in the ground. I could think of nothing but to find you.”

My brother’s stubbled face showed the distress the news brought him. “I—I’m sorry, Libby.”

My bottom lip trembled at the sound of my childhood nickname. “There is naught to be sorry for. I miss her terribly, but she passed to the next life with her unwavering faith as her comfort. And we are together now, James; that is all that matters. Tell me, when did your ship finally arrive?”

“Finally? I have been here all winter, sending word to New York for news of you and Grandmother. Now I see why I have had no reply.”

I stopped walking and stared at a chipped headstone. James had been in Boston the whole of winter? While I stooped to serve the enemy—while I near lost my heart to one—my brother had been within arm’s reach? “W-when? I checked the Customs House registers every day. I saw no sign of the Defiance.”

“I was not on the Defiance. At the last moment I switched to the Hawk. I was certain you’d have received my letter.”

I wanted to crumple atop the graves and sob. What waste! What ridicule I could have escaped. What guilt I would have been able to spare myself. Yet I could not let on with my brother watching me so intently. I drew in a large breath and fixed my chin firm.

“We are together now,” I reiterated. “That is what matters. Where do you stay, James?”

“In a back room of the Gazette. Captain Morton is a friend of Benjamin Edes. I am looking for a way to make a living on land.” His face turned a faint shade of green. “The ocean did not agree with me as I would have liked. Delivering papers suits me better.”

My hands began trembling, along with the rest of my body. I ordered them rigid. There would be no coming beneath James’s protection. Would I make a home in the back of the Gazette? Hardly. Would my brother soon be able to support us delivering papers? Likely not.

James’s warm hands grasped my own. “Don’t be glum, Libby. I feel I am a part of something—something important—at the Gazette. I may only ride for them, but I’m helping the Cause of liberty. It is a worthy Cause, one you can be proud of.”

“Cause . . . Oh, James, do be careful. Please don’t put yourself in the midst of the Liberty Boys’ troubles.” Once again, I very much felt the older sister, my task at hand to set my wayward brother straight. While one might inwardly support the Patriots, it was another thing entirely to risk one’s life for them. After all my loss, I could not bear to lose the last precious family member I called my own. “Have you seen the handbills posted in the streets of late?” They informed the “rebellious people in Boston” that the Crown’s 14th and 29th Regiments of Foot were determined to join together against the rabble who opposed them.

James stared at a spot to the left of my shoulder, his lips pressed together, his eyes unblinking.

Though I didn’t see him waver, I continued. “A boy died last week because of this Cause you speak of. The Sons, they stir up trouble for all of the town. Perhaps all of the colonies, even.”

James dropped his hands from mine. “And why should we be content to be ruled by a king thousands of miles across the sea? Why should we be content to give him our money without a by-your-leave, without a say in the matter?” My brother’s voice rose with fervor, his cheeks red. “He sends these bloodybacks over here to intimidate us. What do they know of this land that is ours?”

I put my face in my hands. “Oh, James, you talk treason. I fear for you, is all.”

He sighed, put a hand on my shoulder. “I am well able to look after myself. Now that I know you are here, though, I must look after you as well. Tell me, Libby, where do you stay? How have you fared?”

“I—you will not be happy should I tell you.”

“Have you become a camp woman, then?” He smiled, his joke attempting to lighten the mood. It failed miserably.

I straightened my posture, prepared myself for my brother’s condemnation. “I am the housemaid in one of the officers’ homes. I make their meals and keep their rooms in exchange for room and board. I am also paid a shilling a day.”

James clenched his fists. He took a particularly deep breath and I heard the wheeze in his lungs. “For those lobsters? You stoop to serve them? You must stop this at once, Liberty.”

“You shan’t tell me what to do. I came here to find you. I am a single woman in a strange town—what else am I suited for?”

“You must find something else.”

I released an unladylike snort, fury whirling in my chest. If James had found me earlier—if I had found him—we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We would have discovered a way, together. Now . . .

“I am suited for nothing else.”

“There must be something. I will ask around at the Gazette. I’m certain there are plenty of Patriots in need of housemaids. Or perhaps a midwifery assistant. . . . How did you come by the position for those lobsters anyhow?”

I continued walking, not willing to look at my brother as I told my story. “I was accosted my first night here. One of the officers I now work for came to my rescue.”

James stopped my steady gait, grasped my arm a mite too hard. “Were you harmed?”

“No.”

“And now you are expected to repay your debt to the king by living with those fools.”

I snatched my arm from his grasp. “You’ve no right to speak in this manner, James. You do not know this man—and yes, he is a man, just like you. He fights for a cause, just as you do. If not for him, I would be left for dead on the streets.”

As I defended the lieutenant, I gave little thought to the captain’s too-close, rum-soaked breath, his overly familiar gaze, the way he took snuff and then sneezed into a white kerchief I would later have to launder. All I saw was the lieutenant, the folds of his cape and tall form protecting me the night I first met him. His strong fingers, adorned with a single signet ring, holding out a precious book of poetry to me. His bold words, vowing to protect me from the man from whom he took orders.

And I thought James was wrong.

All British officers were not fools.