The Messenger (16 page)

“Oh, I’ll help you. It’s the funniest thing I ever heard, you being a spy an’ all.”

“Hush!”

“Don’t you worry none. No one would believe me if I told them!”

“Thee can’t tell—”

“I won’t. You with your proper ways and your strange ideas. And besides, you don’t know the difference between what’s true and what’s truth. I’ll help you. Someone gots to. If you want to keep alive.”

I didn’t know whether I should be insulted or encouraged at her words. But I put aside my feelings for more important matters. “I need to get them more food.”

“More than you been carrying beneath those skirts?”

I nodded.

“Now you talking crazy! How many people in there?”

“Not for everyone in the jail. Enough for everyone in the room. There are twenty of them.” Even as I spoke the words, I knew that I would never be able to deliver enough food for twenty people, at least not on any regular basis. But I could deliver some. Anything would be more than they had now.

We walked down the street, Doll and I. Me trying to figure out how to come by enough food and her muttering about some people having a good case of the crazies.

Jeremiah

Evenings at Pennington House had become a weekly ritual. But this night an invitation to supper had been extended for Saturday evening as well. The meal was interminable. I much preferred to eat where none could see me. That way I didn’t have to worry about cutting meat with a knife or trying to keep peas from rolling off a fork.

The courses dragged on, one after the other, as I tried to avoid eating the food. But the sights and the scents were making my stomach beg for recourse. I could not be ungrateful. At least the Penningtons begrudged their guests no good thing. Indeed, I did not know how they could keep such a large table and host so many guests. But while there was no lack of food, there did seem to be a regrettable lack of manners.

All John and his compatriots could talk about was the war and how the army planned to crush the patriots in the spring. Mr. Pennington seemed rather pleased by the prospect, though his wife kept decrying talk of such violence. Hannah’s father and mother were distinctly uncomfortable.

Hannah herself was decidedly cool.

She wanted nothing to do with me. She did not look at me. She did not talk to me. She seemed, in fact, to try to keep as far from me as our two chairs would allow. But why would she do that? When she knew that our plan depended upon people assuming that we fancied each other? I already knew she did not have the ability to lie, so it was quite apparent how she felt about me.

She despised me.

After supper we repaired to the parlor, where pretty Polly was to give us a concert.

Hannah was seated next to me. I disgusted her so much that she did not even want her skirts to touch me. She kept pulling them back over her knees whenever they began to slide in my direction. And then, quite politely but unmistakably, she turned from me entirely.

After the concert, the evening was given over once again to dance. All these people did was dance. I discovered something then that I had not known about myself: I had begun depending upon Hannah Sunderland to be my companion at these functions. I had, dare I say, almost come to enjoy our time together.

It seemed that she, however, had not.

And suddenly I could take no more of being poor Jeremiah Jones who nobody wanted to be with and everybody pitied. I walked to where Hannah sat in a chair along the wall. Bowed and sat down beside her. “If my arm distresses you overmuch, then please, do not feel as if you have to suffer my presence any longer.”

“Thy . . . arm?”

“You’ve done nothing this evening but try to place yourself as far from me as possible. It’s quite plain that I disgust you.” I didn’t know why I had hoped for—or expected—anything else.

“Disgust me!”

“I can reach no other conclusion.”

Her mouth dropped open, her eyes began to blaze. She rose, one hand outstretched as if to beseech me, but then she let it drop to her side and stepped back. “Follow me.” She hissed the words before she walked past me toward the front hall.

I fully expected to meet her at the door where she would show me out, but she took us in the opposite direction altogether. After purloining a taper and a lantern, we went out the back door, into the garden, and then down into the depths of a root cellar.

I was three or four stairs behind, my steps slowing as I leaned against the side of the cellar wall for support in descending.

She stood against the far wall, the fury in her face magnified by the lantern she held beneath her chin. “Thee must cease thy pigheaded foolishness!”

“
My
pigheaded foolishness?”

“Not everything has to do with thy arm!”

“No. It doesn’t. It has to do with those men in Walnut Street Jail and how to get them out!”

“I can’t worry that every time I see thee, I will say something that might offend thee.”

“Me? Offended by you?” If my voice had risen, it was only because hers had as well. “I’m trying to pretend to court you, but you rebuff me at every turn. All I require—all your brother’s escape requires—is that you play along in this charade. But if you find me so offensive that—”

“Nothing about thee offends me!” It was good that we were in the root cellar, otherwise her words would have been quite clear to all and sundry.

“So it’s just my imagination that you cringe at my every approach? That you turn from every advance? Scowl at every joke? I didn’t have such bitter lovers’ quarrels even when I had lovers.”

“It’s the
putrid fever
!”

I blinked. It was—it was . . . what?

“It’s Robert. He has the putrid fever. I tended him today. I tended many of the men. And I don’t want that any more should fall ill on account of me.”

All my pride and vanity poured out of my depths as if from a sieve. “What a dolt I’ve been.”

Her chin crumbled. She began to cry.

“I—” Across the expanse of the room I could only watch as all composure left her.

“They’re so hungry and so cold and so . . . so. . . . wretched! They haven’t even started digging. And now there’s the fever.”

“Wait. What?”

“The fever!” She wailed the words.

“No. The other. The part about them not having started.” How could they be expected to finish their tunnel before the British left in spring? “What are they doing down there?”

At this she began to cry even harder as she clutched the lantern’s handle in her fists. She looked so angry, so alone, and . . . so scared.

I knew exactly how she felt. I closed the distance between us, even as she retreated, trying to wave me off. “Don’t. Thee must not. Please. I don’t want thee to fall ill.”

“Just—if you turn.” I put a hand to her shoulder and turned her to face the wall. “And if you don’t touch me . . .” With her not facing me or touching me, my intent was to pat her on the shoulder. But all my precautions were for nothing. She turned back around, burrowing into my shoulder as if it could provide some comfort.

I took the lantern and held it out from us. “You are the yellingest Quaker I have ever had the displeasure to meet.”

She pulled away from me and wiped at the tears still streaming down her face. “I know it. My temper has always been my weakness.” She stilled. Looked up at me. “Thank thee for that word. ’Tis true. I had forgotten my testimony. God sent thee to remind me of it.”

“I have nothing at all to do with Him.”

That coaxed a smile from her, even though tears still glistened on her cheeks. “There is that of God in everyone, Jeremiah Jones. Even in thee.”

I strongly doubted it. I stalked to the stair. Held the lantern high, gesturing her forward.

As she passed me, I saw the trails tears had left on her face. This would never do. Not unless we wanted the whole party to wonder what we’d been up to. “Hold this.” I passed the lantern to her, then fished a handkerchief from my pocket. I dabbed at the streaks on her cheeks.

She was of a height with me, having stepped up onto the first stair. As I attended to her, she looked at me, unblinking. “Thee are not the unfeeling man thee would like people to believe thee are.”

“You know nothing at all about me.”

“I know enough. Only . . . why are thee doing this? With the prisoners?”

“Because there is no one else. And because I can’t
do
anything else.” And it irritated the devil out of me! “I should be out there fighting with them this minute! But I can’t hold a musket. I can do nothing at all.”

She laid a hand on my arm. “Thy nothing is going to save twenty men. I doubt that thy presence on a battlefield would guarantee anything other than someone’s death. This is not some second-rate service that thee are doing. It is noble, Jeremiah Jones. It is the right thing to do.”

How desperately I wanted to believe her.

As I came down the stair Monday morning, my barkeeper motioned me over into the office. “There’s a man out there waiting for you.”

This was it. I’d been found out. “Where is he?” Maybe I could sneak out the back through the stables.

“Out in the public room. He’s one of those Quaker fellows.”

A Quaker? “Out . . . ?”

“There. In front of the fire.”

I didn’t know if I wanted to speak to one of those people so early in the morning. But if he was anything like Hannah, he wouldn’t leave until he was done saying whatever it was he had to say.

In fact, it was Mr. Sunderland himself, standing by the fire in a dark-colored, impeccably tailored coat, an uncocked hat on his head.

I nodded. “Mr. Sunderland.”

“Elias. Sunderland.”

I didn’t understand why these people got so upset whenever anyone tried to be polite. It just made me want to be . . . impolite.

“I am here to speak to thee about my daughter.”

“Your daughter.”

“My daughter, Hannah Sunderland. Thee are not of our faith. And even if thee were . . .” He tried, but failed, to keep his gaze from drifting toward my arm. “I am here to tell thee to keep thyself away from her.”

“I assure you, Mr. Sunderland—”

“Elias.”

“I assure you, my intentions are nothing but honorable.” After all the girls and all the affairs, the one father that warned me away is the one that had nothing to fear. At least not in that way.

He looked at me as if he could not bring himself to believe me. “Be that as it may, a relationship with those who are not Friends can only bring Hannah dishonor.”

“Frankly, I’m not—” I was about to say that I had no intentions regarding Hannah at all. But that would make me seem even more disreputable than before. Before I was merely misguided. If I admitted to a complete lack of interest in her, I’d be nothing but a rake.

“Do thee understand what I have asked?”

“I do.” I couldn’t honor his wishes, of course. But I understood them.

“Then I expect thee to abide by my wishes.”

Another thing about people who were so scrupulously honest: they left so little room in which to be dishonest. But what could I say? I could plead no suit; I did not want to. And I could not admit to my true intentions. Having a daughter marry out of the faith was one thing. Having a daughter hang on the gallows for treason was another thing entirely.

He was still looking at me. Waiting, I suppose, for some sign of agreement.

I nodded. After all,
I
had no prohibition against lying, though I wished I could be telling the truth. It would be safer for Hannah not to associate with a man like me. But I couldn’t just quit all contact with her, nor could I write her out of our plans. I needed her too much.

Hannah

As I walked down Walnut Street with Doll on fifth day, Jeremiah Jones tipped his hat at me. I slowed. Stopped. “Good afternoon, Jeremiah Jones.”

There was a strange hesitation in his manner. And he stood far enough away from me that I was worried we might be overheard. “Good afternoon.” He frowned at Doll, who had come to stand behind me.

“Doll is enslaved at Pennington House.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Enslaved. Such a quaint way you have with words, Hannah Sunderland.”

“The way I have with words is nothing more or less than the truth.”

His lips lifted for a moment. “Be that as it may . . .”

He seemed to be waiting for—oh! “I’ve come by some lovely apples.” Doll had helped me take some from the pantry. “Would thee like one?” I drew back the cloth as I spoke.

He flashed a tight smile. “How kind.” His hand slipped into my basket. I saw him tuck a message between the bottom of the basket and the cloth. I would secret it in a small pouch sewn into the skirts that had been gathered up at my sides in a polonaise. He saluted with the apple. “Good day.” And then he turned on his heel and left so quickly that I might have been offended had I any reason to be so.

I let my gaze travel the street, trying to determine if any had seen us. As we walked on, I came to the conclusion that only one person had noticed that we had stopped and talked. But that person could place at great peril our plans. For that one person was my father.

When we returned to Pennington House, once Davy had relieved me of my cloak and basket, he told me my father awaited me in the parlor.

I offered a quick prayer for courage, reassured myself that he could not know of my visits to the jail, and then fixed what I hoped was a look of pleasant inquiry upon my face.

That I should have had to fix a look upon myself at all was the measure of just how far I had fallen from a life of simplicity and honesty. I knew I was useless in the ways of prevarication, for I had been trained up in truth. It was the only thing I could do well: speak plainly. I would just have to pray that the truth would not be demanded of me.

“He look none too happy, if you don’t mind my saying.” Davy mumbled the words as he passed me on the way out to the kitchen.

No. He would be none too happy to have seen me speaking with Jeremiah Jones, a man of war, a man of violence. A man who was not one of us.

As I walked into the room, I saw Mother sitting on the settee beside Father. Her hands were resting in her lap, but they were clenched about each other, the knuckles gone white with tension.

“I was told thee wanted to see me.”

“I saw thee speaking with Jeremiah Jones this afternoon. This has gone too far, daughter. He is not a Friend.”

And what could I reply with any sort of honesty? “ ’Tis not what thee think.”

“Well, then ’tis certainly how it must look. Thy mother had several Friends demand of her if she knew that thee were acquainted with him.”

My heart lay heavy within me. We had not been so discreet, then, as we had hoped. If our relationship had provided cover for our meetings in the eyes of his friends, it had done nothing but provoke distress in the eyes of mine. “I have no interest in him, Father.” None aside from his ability to help Robert escape from jail.

Mother looked as if she would rise to come implore me, but she did not. “I know thee have always had a soft spot for the weak and the wounded. But he is a man, not some docile beast.”

Weak and wounded. Most of the time those two words were a pair, but I could not reconcile them in the case of Jeremiah Jones. Wounded beast, that was the picture of him. “I would never fix my sights upon such a man.” That was the truth. But what I wanted to say next . . . that was rather tricky. “Most of the time our meetings are the doing of Polly’s major. He insists that the man has a fancy for me. And as Polly fancies him . . .”

Mother turned to Father. “ ’Tis difficult, Elias, living in a home not our own.”

He took up her hand in his. “I do not know what to do.” He directed his attentions back to me. “Thee think thee are being kind to the man, but thee do not understand.”

“I do understand.” I did. Truly, I did.

“I have already spoken to Jeremiah Jones about this matter.”

He’d spoken to Jeremiah Jones? I felt a flush creep up my neck to my face.

“I asked him to have nothing more to do with thee.”

I bowed my head at his words.

“And I must ask the same of thee. Let there be no more meetings arranged between thee.”

“I cannot control the things that Polly does. Nor the major’s actions.”

“Then I shall explain to thy aunt that thee are not to partake in these endless evenings of frivolity. We can be grateful for their generosity in providing shelter without succumbing to their inveterate ways. Do I make myself understood?”

Oh yes. Quite plainly, just as always.

It was one thing to warn me away from further meetings with Jeremiah Jones, but I did not think that one last conversation would be that great an indiscretion. Though Father had spoken to him, I suspected that he might not fully understand the import of my Father’s request since he had been bold enough to greet me in the street. I kept our plan to walk out the next afternoon. Only when I saw him I turned quick into an alley, hoping he would follow me.

He did.

I did not waste any time in repeating my father’s request.

“Aye, he did tell me that.”

“Then thee must not speak to me again.”

He threw up his hand. “You can’t be—! You know that your father’s concerns are unfounded! He would have no worries at all if he knew what was really happening.”

“No worries? He would be even more distressed!”

“It’s not that I want you to tell him. It’s just that we have to keep meeting. And I don’t see any reason not to since there’s no danger to your virtue.”

“But he
has
asked, and I must honor his request.”

“No, you don’t. Are you a spy or some sniveling child?”

“Thee cannot bait me with thy silvered tongue. I am simply a girl who wants to see her brother freed from prison.”

“You seem to suffer under the misconception that you’re involved in some polite undertaking, which requires only halfhearted commitments. If the British catch you, they won’t be swayed by the fact that you took pains to obey your father. They’ll hang you for a spy whether you’ve obeyed his rules or not!”

I knew that. I had pondered that terrible fate every night since I’d agreed to his plans. I had nightmares of being taken by the same kind of men who had arrested my father. The fact that I had to associate myself with one who had invited them into his tavern still rankled. “Lower thy voice. Someone might hear thee.”

“What do you think we’re about here?”

“Freeing prisoners from jail.”

“Aye. Through devious means.”

“Just because I’ve agreed to such deception does not mean that I have to lie or cheat or attempt to deceive everyone.”

“Everything about you is deceptive! You look like some—some charming, respectable, noble, decent woman, but here you are being cantankerous and obdurate. And exceedingly mulish!”

“If thee want my help, then thee will have to honor my ways.”

He stared at me for one long moment, anger snapping in his eyes. “Fine.”

“Thee understand, then, that I must not see thee anymore.”

“That’s not what your father said.”

“He did too!”

“He said that you must not
arrange
to meet me anymore. I understand the words, but I don’t understand why you insist on observing them.”

Now it was he who was being exceedingly stubborn. “He told me not to see thee. What do thee expect me to do?”

“Expect you—! I expect you to keep your part of our agreement.”

“I will.”

“I need you to keep delivering the messages.” His tone suggested that he was threatening me.

“I shall.”

“Then . . . ?”

“I will deliver thy messages, but there can be no meetings arranged between us.”

“If you don’t want to be part of this, just say so.” The words came out in a snarl.

“I do. But I can’t—
I won’t
—if it requires me to violate my beliefs.”

“Do you believe your brother has any chance at life at all if he stays in that jail?”

“There must be no meetings arranged.” I bobbed my head, gathered up my skirts, and walked on. But I was quaking with the knowledge that though I’d been faithful to my father’s demands, Jeremiah Jones was right. I might have just guaranteed the failure of the escape. If we could not speak and could not meet, then there was no way to conduct our business. Robert was as good as dead.

Polly had another party that evening. She nattered on about it all afternoon. I told her I would not be attending, but she only scoffed at me.

“Of course you will. Mr. Jones will be there. Major Lindley practically promised.”

“I have a presentiment that he won’t be attending.”

“A presentiment.” She put her hand mirror down and turned to look at me. “Are you? . . . oh!” Her eyes grew wide. “You’ve had an argument, haven’t you? A lovers’ quarrel. Do tell me what it was about!”

“We’ve had no quarrel and we are not lovers.”

She rose from her chair and pattered over to me, the hem of her caraco jacket flapping around her knees. “Only those who are quarreling protest that they are not.”

“I’m not protesting. I’m simply stating a fact.” Although in truth we had rather quarreled, hadn’t we? Yet it had nothing to do with being lovers.

“But you did. I can tell.”

“How?”

“By the way you’re holding that book. As if you’d like to tear it in two.”

I relaxed my grip and watched as the color seeped back into my knuckles.

“Do tell. It will make you feel better about the whole thing. I promise I will agree that you were right. We shall both curse the stubborn foolishness of the man and then you can help me get dressed without all that dreadful scowling.”