“What you are telling me is that Father has been spying? For General Washington?” Jenny whispered, glancing toward the door to the back of the house.

An imperceptible nod.

She tried to sort through the questions that tumbled through her brain. How had she not known this before? She tried to find her voice, but words would not form. Leaning back against the winged chair, she stared at the ceiling. Heaviness closed in around her. Finally, she spoke.

“And that is why he was attacked by a British soldier?”

“Not a soldier. A Ranger. One of Rogers’s men.”

Jenny frowned. “Roger who?”

“Robert Rogers. He earned his reputation during the war against the French, who were aided by the Indians. Their tactics were … unusual. When the colonies decided to break from the crown, he tried to join the Continental Army, but General Washington did not trust him. As suspected, he had British sympathies and is now an officer in the Queen’s Rangers, though everyone calls them Rogers’s Rangers, for he is the undisputed leader.”

“How did Father encounter him?”

“He was on a mission from Boston to Manhattan. At a stop at an inn, he encountered this Ranger, disguised as a minister, who engaged him in conversation. The ‘minister’ expressed views in support of the Patriot cause, and they talked until late into the evening. When all other patrons had retired, this man removed his robe, revealing his green uniform and allegiance to the king. Brandishing a hatchet, he attacked your father.” Swallowing, she paused.

Jenny waited for her to continue. Outside, silence was cloaked in darkness. Only one candle, glowing on the table before them, lit the room, its flame still in the summer air.

Mother stirred in her chair.

“Your father had sensed something amiss, and the attack was not a complete surprise. He was able to fend off the first blows, but the Ranger hacked at his leg and then delivered a blow to his temple. Your father did not lose consciousness.” Her voice dropped. “He was aware enough to feel the Ranger pull his hair back … he was about to scalp him …” Mother was shivering despite the warm evening temperature.

Jenny ran to her side. Kneeling beside her, she took Mother’s hands in hers. “Hush. You do not have to relive this.”

“You must understand the importance of this cause to your father, Jennifer. And the peril.” She took a deep breath. “The innkeeper heard the commotion and came into the room. He fired a shot toward the Ranger but did not hit him. He told him to leave, and the Ranger ran out. The innkeeper saved your father’s life. He tended to his wounds and sent word back to me in Boston. When I arrived …” She shuddered. “I thought he was dead.

“When he could be moved, we brought him here. Your father often stayed here when he traveled to Manhattan. The house belongs to his friend in Boston who comes here when he has business on Wall Street.”

“Is this what Father wanted you to tell me?”

Mother stroked her ebony curls. “No, Jennifer. He wanted me to tell you that there is work that must be done. I cannot leave him, and I believe he wants you to complete it.”

Jenny stifled a shiver as a chill snaked down her back, the same sensation as when Jonathon handed her the blue shawl. The blue shawl that was tucked in her wardrobe upstairs. Just as with Jonathon, she knew there was no turning back once she complied.

Timothy Morley brought Andrew a slab of rye bread and a tankard of ale. With seven children, the Pennsylvania farmer had little food and no room to shelter Andrew in the house, so he would sleep in the barn. Andrew was grateful for the bread and ale and whatever shelter Timothy could afford.

He didn’t mind the solitude of the barn, for he sorely missed Jenny tonight and would rather think of her than make conversation. How he longed to hold her. Perhaps he would very soon. With luck, he would reach New York in a few days.

He lay back, hands tucked beneath his head. Through a window high in the loft, stars dotted the pitch-black sky. Jenny loved lying in the grass, gazing at the stars. He would lay on his side to drink in her face, lit in the moon’s glow as she pointed out constellations. All the time she spoke, he had one thought: to kiss her soft, full lips. The dimple that faded then showed itself as she spoke drove him to madness. Finally, he would cover her mouth with his, tasting her sweetness, hearing her laugh.

These thoughts aroused him rather than bringing the rest he desperately needed. Lying on his side, he wished Jenny were beside him. He must have drifted off, but suddenly his senses were alert. Something or someone was moving along the exterior wall of the barn.

He rose slowly so as not to cause the hay to crunch. Creeping toward the window, he hunched beside it and listened. Night sounds met his ears—crickets, peepers, the breeze through the leaves. He waited. There it was. A low pssst. Someone was out there, and he was signaling a companion—or two. Andrew eased up to standing and peered out into the darkness. He cursed the crescent moon, which offered so little light. Squinting, he focused on the house, but all was quiet. Did he see movement under the tree near the barn? Yes. One man crouched there.

Andrew scanned the rest of the yard. Nothing moved. Slowly, he crept back to where his saddlebags lay, slipped the flap back, and eased out his knife. He picked up his rifle from beside the blanket he had been sleeping on and returned to the window. The man under the tree was waving his arm, motioning to someone. A shadow moved away from the barn, from just below the window where Andrew stood. The hunched figure scuttled to the protection of the tree.

“Drop your rifle.”

Andrew froze at the voice behind him. Slowly, he bent down, placing his rifle on the dirt floor. He tucked his knife up his sleeve.

With his toe, the man behind him pushed Andrew’s weapon across the dirt floor. The cold metal of a pistol pressed against his head. A cool circle that could end his life in a second. He swallowed. Perhaps he would never feel the hangman’s noose after all.

In that moment, Jenny’s face came to him, a look of horror on her face at the sight of his head blown away. He couldn’t desert her. He had to find a way. Ducking quickly, he pivoted, grabbed the man’s hand that held the pistol, and brought his right hand up, driving the knife into the man’s neck.

The man gaped at him, startled, eyes bulging. His mouth formed an “O” as if ready to speak. Then he crumpled, a ribbon of scarlet trickling into the hay beneath him.

Andrew’s throat stung with bile. He had never killed anyone. He trembled, unable to take his gaze from the man. Move! This is not the time for self-pity. The family that had sheltered him was in grave danger, for these men were obviously planning an attack. If he did not act immediately, Timothy, his wife, and his children would be murdered.

He wiped the blade of his knife on the man’s pants and yanked the green jacket from his body. A Ranger. He picked up the Ranger’s hat, a Scottish tam with a red band and tuft. Placing it on his own head, he took the man’s hatchet and pistol. Retrieving his own rifle, he propped it just inside the barn door.

Sweat beaded on his upper lip. What he was about to do could cost him his life. He glanced out the window at Timothy Morley’s farmhouse, where seven children lay sleeping. Tucking his knife into his belt, he grasped the hatchet in one hand, the pistol in the other, and took a deep breath.

The shadows shifted. One looked back, scanning the barn.

Andrew had to emerge. Now he was grateful for the crescent moon that hid his face from the men ahead. The man he’d killed had been his size, so he didn’t need to slouch. He slipped from the barn and stood against its wall, scanning the yard as if doing reconnaissance. The first man motioned him to join them, but Andrew signaled for quiet. He pointed toward the house. Both men turned to check what he was pointing at. As they did, Andrew reached back into the barn, retrieved his rifle, and put a bead on the first man. They turned back, puzzled, until the first man caught on and raised his pistol. Andrew fired. The man lurched up, clutched his face, and dropped to the ground.

A dog barked in the night. Shadow snorted, his hooves stomping in the stall.

Andrew leapt back into the barn, never taking his attention off the second man, who stared down at his companion in confusion, then glared at Andrew.

“Are you mad? What have you done?” he cried in a hoarse whisper.

A light flickered in an upstairs window of the house.

“Stay inside. Stay inside,” Andrew whispered.

The second man walked toward the barn, arms outstretched.

“What are ya’ doing?”

Andrew lifted the pistol and fired. The man was tossed up off his feet, then crashed to the ground.

The door to the house opened. Timothy ran out, brandishing his rifle aimed at Andrew’s head. Andrew dropped the pistol, held up his hands, then snatched the tam off his head, throwing it to the ground.

“Timothy, it’s me, Andrew.”

Timothy held the pose for a moment. Andrew shrugged out of the jacket. Timothy lowered his rifle and gazed about, baffled. Seeing the Rangers’ uniforms, his shoulders sagged as Andrew approached. Despite the darkness, Andrew caught fear in the farmer’s face.

“They will come for me again,” Timothy’s voice quavered. He caught sight of the hatchet. “My wife and children …”

Behind Timothy, a woman and several children huddled at the door. Andrew clapped Timothy on the arm.

“Let’s take care of these bodies.” He lifted his chin toward the house.

Turning, Timothy nodded. “Indeed.”

“There’s one more in the barn,” Andrew said.

The two of them put the bodies in a wagon and drove it into the woods north of the house. They spent the rest of the night digging and filling a large grave. As sunrise lit the edge of the eastern horizon, they tossed their shovels into the back of the wagon.

Andrew had never felt so tired.

Jenny stood before the looking glass. Raven curls swept high on her head with two ringlets teasing her neck, resting against the blue shawl that wrapped her shoulders. Something about this simple errand made her tremble, perhaps the knowledge that there was nothing simple about it. While she did not know the purpose of her task or the contents of the letter, she presumed getting caught would be deadly.

She had selected a pale yellow dress of lutestring, the light silk comfortable on this sultry morning. Smoothing her skirt, she took a deep breath, her hand moving up to the stomacher of her dress, behind which butterflies flitted. Another deep breath. She must do this. For Jonathon. For the fledgling nation. For Father.

Picking up the letter, she turned it over in her hands. Jonathon had combined both messages into one to facilitate her transfer to Laurence Montclair. The crimson seal imprinted with “B” stared back at her. What did it contain? What consequence lay in her simple act of responding to an inquiry and handing over this letter?

She had not confided her mission to Mother, for she suffered enough tending to Father day and night. While Sarie helped with his care, Mother remained with him as much as possible, and Jenny did not want to add to her burden. But, this morning, she had informed Jenny that she would accompany her to church that day.

“I have missed you, Jennifer. Any moment I can spend with you is a gift.” She had kissed Jenny’s forehead. “Your father will be fine for the hour we will be away. Sarie will sit with him.” She’d fluttered her hands, arranging Jenny’s curls.

Was she trying to convince me or herself?

She adjusted the scarf in the mirror.

Mother’s presence would complicate the mission. Would this Laurence Montclair even approach her then? Of course, she needed a chaperone to attend the church service, but she had assumed one of the household staff would accompany her. Wandering from one of them would be simpler, but not from Mother. While she was grateful to be back with her parents, Mother had circled around her like a bee around honeysuckle since her return. Discretion, perhaps artifice, would be required today if she were to fulfill her promise to Jonathon.

At that moment, Mother swept into the room. Jenny slipped her hand through the opening in the side seam of her skirt and tucked the letter into the pocket in her under-petticoat.

“You look lovely this morning, Jenny.” Mother lifted the corner of the blue shawl running the fabric through her fingers. “This is charming. Did you acquire it in Williamsburg?”

Feeling exposed, Jenny snugged the scarf closer. “Uncle Jonathon gave it to me.”

Mother’s fingers stopped moving. “Uncle Jonathon?”

“Yes.”

She held Jenny’s gaze. “How kind of him.” She fingered the fabric. “How very kind.”

Jenny studied her own hands, her face flushing. “Well, we must be off if we’re to be punctual for the service.”

Mother took her hand. “We need to pray for your father. We need to pray for many things, especially in these times.”

As they rode to the church, Jenny turned over several options to escape Mother for a moment to allow Laurence Montclair to approach her. She didn’t know anyone in Manhattan, so she couldn’t pretend to meet up with a friend. She could drop her glove in the pew and return to the church to retrieve it. But, most likely, Mother would accompany her. Oh dear, this was complicated.

“Serious thoughts hold your mind,” Mother said.

Jenny reached for her hand. “These are serious times. I worry about Father.”

Mother nodded, pursing her lips. For a moment, the fear held, then her brows drew down, two fierce lines above her darkening eyes, as a line of British soldiers marched by. Composing herself, she adjusted her skirts and lowered her gaze. Their carriage stopped to allow the soldiers to pass.

One young man caught Jenny’s attention. His posture was more erect, more rigid, than any other soldier’s. His face was intent, jaw set. Upon seeing her, he smiled, and touched the brim of his cocked hat. Shocked at his boldness, she turned away.

Mother tapped her knee. “It would be best to be civil, if not kind, daughter. There is much to lose by defying the king’s troops.”

“More than a father who lies near death because of a British sympathizer’s hatchet?”

“We do not want to draw any more unfriendly attention to the Sutton family. Not if we are to escape arrest.” Mother nodded slightly toward the young man. Taking a deep breath, Jenny turned back to him and nodded. She was rewarded with a broad grin.

“Lieutenant Ashby, mind your path,” shouted the captain.

Lieutenant Ashby turned to see where he was going just in time to avoid running into a cart full of vegetables. The angry farmer cursed and waved a rake at him. The lieutenant seized the farmer’s arm and shoved him to the ground, tipping the cart and spilling produce along the road. Sitting forward, Jenny leaned out the window, ready to call out to him, but Mother pulled her back.

He glanced back at her, his face as crimson as his coat, and nodded curtly.

When their carriage arrived at St. Paul’s Episcopal Chapel, they stepped down and were greeted by the priest. Mother introduced her.

“Welcome, Jennifer. I am sure your presence brings great comfort to your parents.” Pastor Farr’s gray hair and kind blue eyes reminded Jenny of Mr. Gates. His easy movements belied his burly size, and Jenny’s hand was enveloped in his welcoming handshake.

“Thank you, Pastor Farr.” While she smiled at him, she desperately wanted to search the people entering the church in an effort to identify Laurence Montclair. But the priest held her gaze while he held her hand, and etiquette dictated she keep her attention on him.

“How is Edward, Mrs. Sutton?”

His shift in attention to Mother allowed Jenny a surreptitious glance around the yard, but no one fit the description Uncle Jonathon had given her. Would Montclair approach her before the service or afterward? She suspected later, but her entire being was on alert. Finally, Pastor Farr graciously swept his arm toward the church, ushering them in for the service.

Jenny fought the urge to fidget throughout the service, her nerves jumping like frogs hopping through her body. Sitting still was agony, and Mother placed a hand on her knee more than once to still her feet from jiggling. Finally, the refrain of the last hymn echoed and faded. They joined the others as they departed down the aisle.

Outside, the August sun beat down on the congregation as they visited in the church yard. Several people approached Mother to inquire about Father’s condition and wish him well. This was the perfect opportunity for Jenny to slip away from Mother’s side. She strolled to a leafy elm, seeking its shade.

“Miss Sutton?”

Jenny turned. A middle-aged man with thick, white hair and lively, hazel eyes smiled at her. He was not much taller than she, his clothes meticulously tailored. The layers of his white cravat cascaded between the double-breasted, russet long coat, the brass buttons gleaming. His tan breeches were tucked neatly into shiny leather boots. She detected a faint aroma of cloves.

“I do not believe we have met. I am Laurence Montclair.” He bowed. “I am a friend of your father’s, and I would like to inquire as to his health.”

Dear God. Did the earth just tremble?

She thought she was prepared for this, but her stomach churned with fear. She did not know the ramifications of this meeting. She did not know what information she was passing or what would be the result. But deep within, she suspected it would involve life and death decisions and events. All she had to do was hand over a letter and she would be finished—that is, if he added the words Uncle Jonathon had related. If he did not say the second phrase, she was to go home and burn the letter immediately.

“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Montclair. Unfortunately, Father is not faring well. His wound has become infected and he suffers for it. Thank you for your kindness.”

He had not said it. Perhaps he would not. Perhaps she would simply walk away and be done with this favor she had promised to fulfill.

“May I be so bold to say your shawl is lovely? It’s as blue as the water off the cape.”

Jenny stiffened, staring at him. His gaze scanned the yard then returned to her. He nodded slightly.

Jenny’s hands trembled. She fumbled as she tried to find the slit in the seam of her skirt. Finally, she reached into the pocket for the letter. Her palms perspired, so she handled it gingerly. As she was about to extract it, he raised his hand.

“Patience indeed is a virtue, but it must be a difficult one to embrace when you so fervently hope for your father’s recovery.”

Jenny stopped. This was not part of what she had rehearsed with Uncle Jonathon. Each muscle throughout her body felt stretched to its limit, as though, if she moved, she would shatter. Her hands froze in place. Then she understood. A couple walked past them, the man tipping his hat. She smiled and nodded and Laurence Montclair bowed.

His gaze returned to hers; again, an imperceptible nod. She withdrew the letter, keeping her shawl draped over her hand to shield the exchange. He efficiently took it while bowing over her hand then slid it into the pocket of his long coat. Tipping his hat, he turned and left.

“I see you’ve met Mr. Montclair.” Mother was beside her.

Jenny continued to stare in his direction, hoping Mother would not detect the flush that heated her face.

“He is a good friend of your father’s … and your Uncle Jonathon’s. He is a brave man, but you must be careful.”

Mother linked her arm through hers as they strolled to their carriage. Jenny felt the tightness of Mother’s grip.

Mother’s fear was palpable.

Lieutenant Ashby stood, as if at attention, beside their carriage. His crimson coat cast a robust aura to his face; his crisp white breeches accentuated long, muscled legs. Removing his hat, he bowed.

“I am your most humble servant, madam.” Though he addressed Mother, his gaze never left Jenny. Steel-gray eyes below his white powdered wig lent a coolness that reminded her of an icy January day.

“Good day, sir,” Mother said, her fingers pressing into Jenny’s arm.

“Pray, good madam, if I may be so bold to present myself. I am Lieutenant Nigel Ashby in service to His Majesty, King George III.”

Jenny wanted to blurt that he stated the obvious, but she bit her tongue.

“Good day, Lieutenant. I am Mrs. Constance Sutton, and this is my daughter, Miss Jennifer Sutton. How may we be of service to you?”

“By allowing me to help you into your carriage and escort you home.”

Mother shuddered, but her smile never faltered.

“You are very kind, sir. We would accept your offer of assistance, but we have our driver to see us home.”

Mathias, Sarie’s husband, turned in the driver’s seat and nodded at the soldier. His expression was blank.

Ashby ignored him and stepped forward, extending his arm to her.

“I insist.” He glanced at Jenny.

“You are very generous,” Mother said as he assisted her into the carriage.

He pivoted and held out his arm to Jenny. His gaze held hers, as if daring her to look away. With one hand, he held her elbow as she climbed into the carriage, his other hand resting on the small of her back.

The spot burned.

Turning to him, she forced a smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He bowed then clambered up beside Mathias.

“We must play along, Jennifer.” Mother whispered above the noise of the horse’s hoof beats. “I am unsure of the lieutenant’s intentions. He seems quite taken with you, but it could be a ploy.”

“I will comply with his wishes, Mother. At least, as long as I am able. My blood boils at his closeness.”

“Keep that humour under control. Our lives might depend on it.”

When they arrived at the house, he jumped down and opened the door. Offering his hand to Mother, he braced her step from the coach. Turning to Jenny, he held out his hand. She wanted to slap it away, but she forced down her anger and accepted his help. I can get out of this carriage myself, you ass. She smiled, and dropped his hand.

“May I call on your daughter, Mrs. Sutton?”

His words were a bolt of lightning striking her. Her eyes widened as she caught Mother’s gaze. A steady gaze, a polite gaze. Not a gaze that said, my husband is grievously injured because of one of you. She stood erect, a smile pasted on her lips. The picture of serenity.

“Of course you may, Lieutenant Ashby.”

Jenny began to speak, but Mother placed a hand on her arm, pressing firmly. Almost pinching.

“Good day, madam. Miss Sutton.” He tipped his black hat, his smile broad as he turned and retreated toward the southern end of town.

“Mother, how could you …?” Jenny crossed her arms.

“Come inside, dear.”

Sarie met them at the door, taking their parasols and shawls, folding Jenny’s sea-blue shawl over her arm. What a day this had been, and it was just noon. She followed Mother into the parlor. Finally, alone, Mother took her hand.

“We must act with utmost caution, Jennifer. We cannot afford to offend Lieutenant Ashby, nor can we allow him into our confidence. But he seems quite enamored with you, and that could work to our advantage. We can trust no one.”

“Even Mr. Montclair?”

Mother stared out the window, silent. She finally said, “Be very careful of Mr. Montclair.”

Mother had not answered her question.