Jenny stared at the gaping hole at her feet. Pastor Farr’s voice droned on, the indistinguishable words flowing over her like a cold stream. Soon they would lower Father’s body into the earth. Never again would he tease her. Never again would his strong arms embrace her, chasing away her fears. No tears moistened her face, for she was beyond shedding them. She stood tall, determination a sturdy rod running through her body, solid and resilient.

Mother’s soft weeping brought her back to the present. Two men lowered the coffin into the ground as Pastor Farr recited the final blessing. Mother picked up a handful of dirt and tossed it in. The clump broke up into recoiling bits that scattered along the top, sounding like the skittering paws of mice.

Jenny shuddered then pulled herself more erect.

The people who had attended the service murmured their condolences as they stood with them in the heat of August. Now their friends began to shuffle off. She followed as Pastor Farr took Mother’s arm and escorted her to their carriage. Jenny stopped. Standing beneath a tree, Laurence Montclair stood, watching.

Of course, he couldn’t attend the service. He flew the Union Jack above his door. He had to maintain the appearance of a Loyalist. But he could linger nearby, for Father was his patient. He risked his life with every message he conveyed, with every Patriot contact he allowed. Just as Father had. She scanned the people in the churchyard. And who else here was taking such chances?

If she and Mother fled to Boston, a chain would be broken. Father left her with a dilemma: protect Mother or continue his work.

A group of British soldiers approached carrying rifles and bayonets, Lieutenant Ashby among them.

“You people must disperse,” shouted the captain.

Pastor Farr moved to the front of the crowd. “Please, Captain, this woman has just buried her husband.”

The captain looked past the minister. “Move along now.” He nodded and one soldier shifted his rifle from his shoulder to present arms.

People moved apart and walked away. Mother stared, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed. Pastor Farr gently guided her to a bench.

Jenny seethed. How dare they interrupt Father’s funeral? The soldier angled his rifle in her direction, just an inch or two, just enough. Ashby stared straight ahead, never meeting her gaze. Eventually, the mourners dispersed, so the troop moved on.

She approached Montclair. “I will do whatever you ask.”

He studied her, his hazel eyes boring into hers. He nodded, put on his hat, tipped it, and left.

She stood motionless and let the sun soak into her skin. There was no warmth.

Jenny sat in the dark parlor, the shutters closed and tied with black crepe. Neighbors had brought food enough to last the week, and Sarie once again encouraged her to eat something. Jenny picked at some fruit, cutting a melon into smaller pieces, to mollify her, but she soon gave up that pretense and Sarie cleared the plates.

How could she eat? She was hollow. Father was dead, and Andrew was gone from her life. She sighed and sank back into the cushion, resting her head. She didn’t have the strength to worry. She didn’t have the strength to hope.

The sharp rap of the knocker at the front door startled her. She moaned. No more food, please.

But it wasn’t food that Sarie brought in. It was Lieutenant Ashby.

Good God, no.

He bowed. “Good day, Miss Sutton. May I offer my condolences on the death of your father?”

Did his eyes glint?

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” She held out her hand, and he bowed over it. Though his lips did not touch her skin, his warm breath did. She forced herself not to flinch. “Please, have a seat.”

She rose and pulled the bell cord signaling Sarie, who appeared immediately with a tray of tea and cakes. Ashby ignored the servant as she poured his tea. She kept her gaze downcast, but her lips were drawn taut. She glanced at Jenny as she filled her cup. Jenny sent a faint smile.

“Thank you, Sarie.”

Sarie curtsied and left.

“I also wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding at your father’s funeral. I, that is, my captain, was under orders to disperse any crowd of … people. It was most unfortunate. I hope you will allow me to offer any assistance you may require.” Sitting on the edge of his chair, spine rigid, Ashby sipped his tea.

Did he ever relax? Was there a pole thrust through his body that prevented him from easing back into the chair?

“Thank you, Lieutenant …”

“Please, call me Nigel.”

“Thank you, Nigel.”

Silence fell as he waited for her to reciprocate.

“How long have you been in Manhattan?” Jenny asked.

“Four months.”

“So, you were not here when the fire burned much of the city?”

“No.” His eyes flashed. “I wasn’t here when the rebels set torches to many buildings to prevent the king’s troops from having housing and food.” His nostrils flared.

She sipped her tea to hide her trembling. His disdain for the Patriot cause was evident in his sneer. The cause Father had just died for.

“Do you know the circumstances of my father’s death?”

Nigel frowned. “I assumed he was ill.”

The crease between his brows and his puzzled look lent veracity to his statement. How naïve does he think I am? He may appear innocent, but surely, he has been informed about Father. She stood.

“Thank you for stopping by to convey your sympathy. I feel a need to rest now.”

He clambered from the chair, tipping the small, three-legged table beside it. Reaching out, he caught it before it toppled, but the teacup and saucer crashed to the floor, shards of blue and white porcelain shattering against the dark, pine floorboards.

His scarlet face matched his coat. He fumbled, trying to brush the slivers of the tea set into his hands. Jenny knelt beside him, stopping his hands. At her touch, he halted and met her gaze. Dark eyes sprinkled with golden flecks held warmth, perhaps passion. Whether or not he was sincere in his sympathy about Father’s death, she was certain he was sincere in his interest in her.

She stood. “Please don’t bother. We will clean this up.”

“My deepest apologies for the destruction of your china.” He looked at the floor, still flushed. He bowed. “I can show myself out.” Donning his hat, he hurried to the front door.

Despite his earlier comment about the rebels, a tinge of sympathy for his distress stilled her antagonism, at least for a moment.

“Do not be fooled, daughter,” Mother said from the door leading to the back of the house. “He knew exactly what he was doing.”

Mother had never been cold. This cynicism was an attribute that she wore like a cloak … like the cloak of grief she wore for her husband.

Jenny shivered.

Once again Jenny slipped her hand into her skirts to ensure the letter was still in her petticoat pocket. Satisfied, she hurried her steps to the apothecary. Casting her gaze about, she studied the street looking for anyone who seemed interested in her movements. Satisfied, she willed her heart to halt its pounding. Her promise to Montclair had set into motion activities that now included her in the fight against Parliament’s oppression. New York was a mix of Tory and Patriot sympathizers. She must be extremely cautious, because she did not know who was friend or foe.

Whenever possible, she stole glances to the right and left, scanning the street for anyone particularly interested in her destination. Just last week two men had been arrested, one because he lingered too long outside the British battery, one because he bumped into a passing British guard. Both were in the gaol, awaiting trial. The jeopardy mounted every day, making Jenny extremely cautious.

She surveyed the street once more before she entered the apothecary and was enveloped in the spicy aroma of herbs and oils. She inhaled, relishing the smell.

“Good day, Zachariah,” she said, greeting the young boy who was sweeping the floor.

“Good day, Miss Sutton.” The boy finished his task. “I’ll get me mum.” He disappeared into the back room.

In a moment, Lucy Carter appeared, accompanied by a man who stood a half-foot shorter than she and sported a day’s grizzled stubble on his face. Smiling at Jenny, she introduced him. “Good day, Miss Sutton. May I introduce Mr. Ephraim Carter, my dear husband?” She beamed at him.

He smiled warmly as he bent over her hand. “I am your most humble servant, Miss Sutton. My sympathy for the loss of your father. He was a brave man.”

Jenny detected the aroma of rum as he spoke, but his twinkling eyes gave no hint of its influence.

“Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Carter.” She couldn’t help but return his warm smile.

As they spoke, Lucy crushed herbs, sending out a pungent aroma of lavender that covered any scent of rum. “Miss Sutton, I thought perhaps my latest delivery had arrived, but I see I must wait until next week. Have you come for your elixir?”

Jenny nodded, hearing the words that signaled Lucy was ready to receive the letter.

“I’ll leave you ladies to your business, then. Good day, Miss Sutton.” He disappeared into the back room.

She chose her words carefully. “Yes, Mrs. Carter. I’m here to pick up my mother’s elixir. Father’s death has been extremely difficult for her.”

Lucy blinked in recognition. As she turned to reach for the bottle on the upper shelf, the door to the apothecary opened and Lieutenant Nigel Ashby entered. She froze, her hand stopping in midair.

Jenny swallowed down her panic. She had to think quickly. Lucy stood still as a statue behind the counter

“Good day, Miss Sutton.” Ashby bowed slightly. “Mrs. Carter.” He touched the brim of his tricorn.

Lucy simply stared at him.

Jenny held out her gloved hand. “Good day, Lieutenant Ashby. How nice to see you again.”

Ashby bent over her hand. As he did so, Jenny lifted her foot, catching the leg of a table near the entry. Sweeping her foot to the side, she toppled the table, which sent the silver snuffboxes that had been displayed on it tumbling before his feet.

“Oh. My word,” she exclaimed, stooping to retrieve them. As she did so, she reached into her pocket and grasped the letter.

“No, let me, please.” Ashby bent to gather the containers.

“My goodness. You and I seem to have difficulty near small tables,” Jenny said.

While he was thus engaged, Jenny slipped the letter across the counter to Lucy, who tucked it into her apron. In turn, Lucy retrieved the amber bottle from the top shelf and handed it to Jenny. Lucy’s eyes were bright with fear, her cheeks flushed. Jenny wanted to warn her, to calm her, but there was no opportunity.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carter. Your elixir eases my mother’s sorrow. You mix the most effective tinctures in all of New York.” Hopefully, her praise would be cause enough to explain Lucy’s heightened color. She glanced at Ashby, who had completed his task and was observing this exchange. He looked from one woman to the other then nodded toward the bottle in Jenny’s hands.

“Perhaps you would allow me to sample this renowned curative.”

She faltered. “Oh, that I could, Lieutenant Ashby. But it is most potent. I must return immediately, for my mother worries when I am about town, and she is in need of her afternoon dose. Since we are in mourning, we cannot receive guests at present.” The bottle burned in her hands. Did it send out a signal that hidden within was a message … a message that could bring her to the end of a rope?

He bowed. “Of course. At the least, let me escort you to your home.”

“You are most kind.” Jenny nodded slightly. “Good day, Mrs. Carter.”

Lucy stood mute, gaping. Jenny widened her eyes at her.

“Oh—good day, Miss Sutton.” She stirred as if waking from a dream.

Ashby opened the door, and Jenny swept out of the shop. He turned to look at Lucy once more before he followed Jenny out into the street.

Jenny stilled the trembling in her arms as she carried the bottle.

“Allow me.” He took it from her. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her gloved hand through to rest lightly on his forearm. “How is your mother?”

“She is—” Jenny stumbled, and he steadied her.

“Are you all right, Miss Sutton?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Lieutenant Ashby. I just caught my heel on a stone.”

And caught sight of Andrew slipping around the side of the building. There was no doubt in her mind.

Andrew was here.