The Liberty Flower

By Katie Hanrahan

Since the fall of Charles Town, Sarah Mahon has found success as a spy for the partisan militia, until Jack Ashford comes ashore. She soon learns that she cannot judge the enemy by the color of his uniform, because a willing man can be made to change his colors by the right woman. It is a discovery that her rebel father does not share. As she is courted by Lt. Jack Ashford of the Royal Navy, those she thinks are allies actively sabotage the relationship that would take Sarah away from the Low Country she longs to escape. A rash act of rebellion meant to cement an engagement will destroy her plans, but Jack is not so easily discouraged. Even after Sarah marries another to save face, the naval officer will not rest until he has claimed Sarah as his own...at any cost.

Spanning the closing decades of the Eighteenth Century, the novel presents the struggle of a woman to gain a small fragment of freedom in an era of enlightened thinking that did not extend to the ladies. Sarah and Jack are separated by politics over which they have no control, their lives diverging and intersecting as an evolving world order sees them wavering between despair and hope. When Sarah is granted a second chance to realize her dream, she will discover that the yearning of a sixteen-year-old girl is radically altered by life's experiences, and the liberty she has gained after years of struggle may be too precious to abandon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newcastlewest Books
• Release date: Apr 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983819578

Book preview

The Liberty Flower

A NOVEL

Katie Hanrahan

Newcastlewest Books

Copyright © 2014 by Katie Hanrahan

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Newcastlewest Books

Smashwords Edition April 2014

ISBN: 978-0-9838195-7-8

The characters and events in this book, though based on historical fact, are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

www. newcastlewestbooks.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

I long to hear that you have declared an independancy-and by the way in the new Code of Laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make I desire you would Remember the Ladies, and be more generous and favourable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of the Husbands. Remember all Men would be tyrants if they could. If perticuliar care and attention is not paid to the Laidies we are determined to foment a Rebelion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any Laws in which we have no voice, or Representation.

Abigail Adams, 1776

ONE

Accustomed to the oppressive silence of the siege, Sarah was startled by the cacophony in the harbor. All around her were barges loaded with artillery pieces, kegs of powder, crates of shot, munitions, and provisions of every sort. A flotilla of longboats packed with seasick soldiers covered the water like a swarm of red-coated flies, streaming from scores of troop transports bobbing at anchor. Her friends in the militia would welcome an accurate inventory, but to count so many men and so much materiel was to count the grains of sand on the shore. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the prison ship that was retreating into the distance.

Her mother’s cousin was bound for exile on that very ship, a fool perhaps for believing that ordinary men could defeat British military might. Words would not sway him, logic would not entice him to sign the loyalty oath and return to his family plantation. He vowed to cut off his right hand rather than accept such dishonor as the Crown offered the captured rebel militia officers. Better to trade the fetid atmosphere of the prison deck for the pestilent miasma of St. Augustine, to die like a man rather than live like a coward. Such fervor from one faced with unimaginable hardships drew Sarah under the same spell, until she found herself assuring him that the patriots would regroup, even though she knew full well that Granny Gates had run from Camden. High-tailed it all the way back to Philadelphia, by most accounts.

Her father sought a comfortable spot on the hard bench of the skiff, grumbled, and then swatted his knee with his hat. You might have done more to dissuade him, Richard said.

But Papa, how could Paul accept? Sarah asked. To sign would be to acknowledge the King’s authority after we declared our independence from British rule.

I heard his arguments, miss, and do not care to hear them repeated by you, he said.

Sunlight gleamed from row upon row of polished buttons on the chests of thousands of soldiers; sharp rays glinted from a forest of bayonets that washed over the docks. Sarah shaded her eyes with her hand. It was endless, the stream of redcoats, flowing into South Carolina to wipe out the last vestiges of liberty. Hard-headed, impervious to reason, Paul had still managed to convince her that the tide had yet to turn. Did that make her a fool as well?

Richard looked beyond her, to a group of barges weighed down with artillery pieces in a variety of sizes. A quartet of scarlet-coated officers passed to starboard and nodded in Sarah’s general direction. How clear the future appeared when you were born, he said. And now, in what direction should I guide you?

Her gaze fell upon an army officer attempting to disembark from a transport with grace, an ungainly little oaf who panicked when the launch rocked under his feet. Sarah had to stifle a laugh as he fell head over heels and then attempted to regain his balance, failing spectacularly. At the gangway above, a Royal Navy lieutenant caught her eye and smiled, sharing in the mockery of the landsman. His smile evaporated but he continued to gawk, as if he had discovered an exotic flower.

Stubborn family, your mother’s side. Richard Mahon, of stubborn Irish stock, tended to see himself as the light of reason in his enlightened home. All but put the noose around his own neck for the sake of some notion of honor.

A man’s honor has great value, Papa, she said. From under the brim of her bonnet, she peeked at the lieutenant. His dark eyes remained fixed on her, as if she alone existed in the world.

I grant you that General Clinton’s duplicity has hardened many a heart that was once open to accommodation, Richard said. But Paul is wrong to refuse the revised terms of parole. His family needs him at home before the plantation falls to ruin. And then where will he be? Buying his daily bread with a few pennies of honor?

To rush to Paul’s defense was a futile battle. Richard was an accomplished barrister who could talk circles around any argument. There was little logic in rebellion, in a declaration that demanded something as obscure as the right to pursue happiness. She could not rebut her father’s points when she had little solid evidence to present. He had only to remind her of the nightmare they had barely survived in May, when the British bombarded the city into submission. To believe that the South Carolina militia could conquer the mightiest empire on earth was to defy logic.

Another launch passed by, close enough for the rude comments of a dragoon to be clearly heard. Sarah turned her head away in a somewhat dramatic fashion, only to meet the stare of the lieutenant on the troop ship. One would think they’d never seen a female before, Richard barked. Insufferable. And with the audacity to style themselves gentlemen.

At the gangway, the lieutenant removed his hat and swept through an exaggerated courtier’s bow, displaying a thick mat of sweat- slicked black curls on the top of his head. He stood at attention, his hat over his heart, and called out to her, words that were lost on the breeze. In the depth of his unblinking gaze Sarah felt herself falling into the shadows, drowning in an abyss. She could almost imagine the strength of his embrace, the touch of his hand that would melt her knees on the dance floor. In an instant, she turned her back to him.

If you insist on dressing in homespun, Richard said. Do not pretend to be offended when you are treated with disregard.

I insist on dressing like a patriot, Sarah said, only to regret her sass before she finished the sentence. A reminder of the sentiment that landed the sons of Low Country planters on prison ships was the sort of thing that set her father’s teeth on edge. He felt that women should not make such public displays of their animosity, except when he was supportive of such public displays. Like everyone else in Charles Town, Richard wavered between patriotism and loyalty with the speed of a weather vane in a storm.

Be practical, my dear, Richard said. This is your first season in society. You should find enjoyment while you are young, with all who might bring you pleasure. Be pretty, be carefree, break hearts. A girl’s time is short.

While she did not wish to disobey, Sarah had found great enjoyment in a mixture of pleasure and politics, whether it was testing the limits of General Clinton’s tolerance of small acts of rebellion or engaging in espionage. Nothing was more intoxicating than flirting with British officers for the sake of gaining snippets of information that she passed on to the patriot bands hiding in the swamps. The threat of hanging failed to frighten her away from acting as a courier, and certainly no minor punishment her father might inflict would keep her from activities that set her heart beating with fear and elation in equal measure. Such secrecy forced her to hide from her own father, a fact that troubled her if she thought of it. She let the subject drop, and they reached the dock in silence.

Once they were back on land they were caught up in a madhouse populated by queasy redcoats trying to form ranks and march through the chaos of the planters and factors and stevedores who were moving cargo between ships and warehouses. Sarah bobbed her head to the left and the right as she acknowledged the greetings of her father’s colleagues, but she had no desire to stop for a chat. Waiting for her was a merchant ship newly arrived from Boston with a cargo of contraband that she was eager to claim. A set of Parisian fashion plates had been promised before the port was closed, a sheaf of brightly etched papers that would be her escape from the reality of an occupied city. A world of lush fabrics and exquisite laces, the court of Marie Antoinette, would erase the war for an afternoon of imagining.

Leaving Richard to chat with a friend, Sarah hurried along to the dock fronting Mr. Beauchamp’s warehouse. Besides the fashion plates, the merchant master of the Liberty was certain to have correspondence from her uncle in Boston, and her parents would enjoy the respite from worry that would be found in letters filled with family gossip and news from the northern colonies. Perhaps her uncle had managed to include some newspapers, to share positive developments in the war, an episode that might gladden a partisan’s heart or turn a wavering loyalist to the side of the rebels.

Permission to come aboard, sir, Sarah called up to the master’s mate.

Permission, miss? Mr. Briggs drawled. I’ll have to be asking the master about the likes of you crossing my gangplank. As quickly as he returned her smile, his look darkened into a scowl that he aimed over Sarah’s shoulder.

If I were the captain of this ship, you would be most welcome aboard.

Sarah spun around, to see who was speaking to her, and found a wall of navy blue wool. Looking up, she met the arrogant gaze of the black-haired lieutenant from the the troop ship. To his left stood another naval officer, much shorter than his colleague but equally amused. Outraged over a grievous insult, she pulled at her skirts like a woman avoiding a collision with a steaming pile of manure. She began to march up the gangplank, nose high in a display of great hauteur, but the wind gusted at the wrong moment and lifted the brim of her hat. Letting go of her skirts to catch her hat, she stumbled on the hem. The lieutenant’s laughter roared in her ears while the blood rose in her cheeks, flaming up to the roots of her hair.

You there, is she the master’s daughter? the lieutenant asked Mr. Briggs.

Who, sir? Briggs asked. He waved his hand behind his back to shoo her away, but Sarah was not so readily dismissed.

The hold up, Mr. Briggs? Mr. Beauchamp stormed out of his warehouse in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, soaked with sweat. He was one of the wealthiest planters in South Carolina, but he kept his hands in every aspect of his many businesses, even if it meant rolling his own hogsheads across the wharf.

Miss Mahon, sir, paying a call, Briggs said. His hand waved with a certain violence, as if he were creating a strong wind to blow her into the master’s cabin.

I say, gentlemen, take care, Mr. Beauchamp said, nudging the shorter man out of the way of the stevedores who were making for the gangplank. In the process, he urged the officers within head-striking distance of the hogsheads of rice that were swinging aloft from the windlass. The tall one ducked as the shadow of the barrels caught his eye, inches from his temple. Mr. Briggs, if you would inform the master that I shall join him and Miss Mahon directly?

Safe behind the bulwarks, Sarah watched the British sailors hold a brief conference before they reached a consensus and continued on their way. The merchant master directed a curse at their backs before handing Sarah a packet of letters and a paper-wrapped package tied with coarse twine. Her precious fashion plates had arrived unscathed. With the bundle pressed close to her chest for safekeeping, she ran down the gangplank and nearly toppled Mr. Beauchamp, who had restored his wig and coat in preparation for a social call. She paused only long enough to wish her father’s colleague a pleasant day. The fashion plates had waited long enough to be unveiled.

Sarah reached the market before she remembered her father, who would have no idea where she was and was most likely fuming, being made to wait on her rather than the other way around. Her fingers itched to spread the colorful etchings out in a display of underskirts, mantuas and bonnets that were all the rage in Paris, but to court Richard’s anger was to risk losing the illustrations to the kitchen fire. If she hurried, she could find him and still have time to share the treasure with Beck, her dearest friend since they were infants. They often dressed in matching gowns, the better to get all the attention, and they would turn every head in Charles Town when they appeared in something never before seen outside of the court of Versailles. None of that would happen, however, if she kept her father waiting much longer.

Lost in dreams of sack-backed gowns, Sarah did not notice the redcoat at her side until he touched her elbow. Give us a kiss, he rasped, exuding a cloud of alcohol. You rebel bitch.

His fingers were surprisingly strong, his grip growing painful as she wrenched her arm away. The bundle of letters fell to the street and she dropped the colored etchings in a fumbled attempt to catch the letters and escape at the same time. The rank odor of cheap ale and old sweat turned her stomach; her only thoughts were of safety, of a door where she might find shelter. From the windows above, half-naked trollops leaned out for a better view, leering like theater patrons. An opening beckoned, the entrance to a back alley that was all dead ends and blind corners, places where she could be trapped. Sarah turned to her right, to take a step away from the stumbling redcoat. She had to stick to the street; she had to run, get to the docks and the safety of men who would protect her.

In a deft move, Sarah sidestepped a man passing by. Spying an opening between a saloon and a wagon, she sprinted up the cobblestone road. Her mother’s jewelry, sewn into her petticoat for safekeeping, pounded against her thighs with every painful step. An earring stabbed her repeatedly above her knee and she could feel the blood running into her garter, but she did not dare stop. She could never stop until she was far from the seedy streets near the wharf.

Miss Mahon. A voice cried out above the din, a man’s voice, the sound of salvation. Pausing for a moment, Sarah looked over her shoulder, ready to race to the side of this person who called her by name. It was him.

Please, Miss Mahon, the tall lieutenant shouted to be heard, his deep voice echoing off the walls of the dingy brick facades that lined the road. Over his head he held the sheaf of fashion plates, waving them, as if he had captured her flag in battle. At his feet was the drunken redcoat whose face appeared to have been smashed. Sarah would not be so foolish as to surrender for the sake of a few pieces of paper. Bidding a silent farewell to her beloved French etchings and Uncle Mahon’s correspondence, she lifted her skirts out of the muck and ran until her lungs threatened to burst through her stays.

Already she had been forced to give up the big house on the Ashley; the family plantation was taken over by the British and some drunken officer managed to reduce the place to a pile of cinders after setting the draperies afire with a mislaid taper. All of her clothes had been stolen by the Hessians who ransacked Charles Town, and she had lost half of her friends in a split over politics. Her father’s town house was like a prison, turned into a billet for officers while she had to sacrifice her self-respect and act the part of gracious hostess to the uninvited and unwanted guests. To lose a pile of brightly inked papers was as nothing.

TWO

Every time that the ship’s bell rang to mark the time, Jack touched, or rather fondled, the bundle of letters that he kept stored in his coat pocket.

Four hours of the afternoon watch seemed like four years, with the promise of shore leave a far distant dream. The invitation to some local dignitary’s dinner party would normally have been welcome, but it was a most unwanted interruption to his original plan. In his pocket he held the key that opened the door to the Mahon home, the introduction that would practically guarantee his future. There was no time to deliver the letters, engage Mr. Mahon in conversation, and wheedle an audience with the lovely daughter. Jack’s presence was required at another man’s house, to meet other men’s daughters, and it was all a ridiculous waste of time. He was going to marry Miss Mahon. At least make an effort, Tony said. The second lieutenant adjusted his neck stock, as if he could magically straighten out Jack’s wrinkled cravat through example. Your little rebel will still be in Charles Town tomorrow, and so will we.

Tomorrow is one day less, Jack said. You’re serious, aren’t you?

Dead set and in earnest. I’ll ship out of this devil’s furnace a married man. And my father can go to the devil. Jack pulled at his stock until he pulled it off, to start over and tie a proper knot. Good breeding doesn’t hide behind a cheap frock, Tony. I tell you, she’s the daughter of some reprobate, some gambler. Or a drunkard. Poor but of fine family.

She’s a rebel in homespun and tomorrow she’s likely to be in full mourning, Tony said. Or do you believe that this town is so filled with sorrowing women? Did you ever see so many females in black? Everything we’ve heard about this place is true and my eyes do not deceive me.

Leaving Tony to his prejudices, Jack turned back to the mirror and fumbled with his collar. Running into an old school mate at the wharf had been a blessing as far as finding the best brothel was concerned, but Butter Debeurre knew nothing beyond drinking and whoring. Butter claimed that General Cornwallis was living in a fantasy world where Tory supporters would pour into Charles Town at any moment, when it was clear to Jack that the cold shoulders directed at Butter had nothing to do with rebel sympathies and everything to do with his conduct. Any man with sense recognized that the colony was full of men who cared more about their purse than their government, once impoverished men who found success in America. Such a man he might become, Jack imagined, neither partisan nor loyalist but clever and therefore prosperous.

In Jack’s eyes, America afforded him opportunities that England did not hold for the second son of a British peer. It was only a matter of time until the Whigs won their political battle in Parliament and the military war would end, at which time he would resign his commission and settle down in Charles Town with the green-eyed Miss Mahon. One glimpse of the bustling harbor told him that the shipping trade would make him wealthy, and he belonged in South Carolina. England, and his father, had seen the last of Jack Ashford.

Walking through the town, wearing his cleanest shirt, Jack marveled at the endless bustle, the hectic pace that was continuing from early morning well into the evening. The pursuit of commerce was the creed in this town, but he quickly realized that commerce did not make the city a loyalist bastion. Every cold glare that was leveled at the officer’s coat was a warning, that the pursuit of happiness was alive and well and another boatload of British regulars was not going to turn back time to the days before a shot had been fired. Wary of an ambush, wondering if Butter was not far from the mark, Jack let Tony take a slight lead while he kept a close watch.

For a shilling, they hired a street urchin to guide them through the darkness that was Charles Town at night, a boy who said little after laughing about the tight fists of them in charge, too miserly to pay for the oil to light the lamps. In contrast to the roads, the house they came to was illuminated in every window, light spilling out onto a covered porch and a garden so large that its boundaries were lost in shadow. Wrought iron gates stood open, the arrival of dinner guests anticipated. Jack marched smartly up the crushed shell path that bisected the formal planting beds, eager for the company of respectable women and decent food.

The tastefully appointed foyer was more elegant than Jack expected to find in the colonies, and he hoped that the daughter of the house was equal to it. Said to be of suitable ancestry, the young lady had been postulated as a potential match by her relations in England, who were on friendly terms with Tony’s parents. If her father’s home was any indication, she was likely to bring a respectable dowry to her husband, a point in her favor if she was not blessed with a pretty face. Miss Mahon, on the other hand, had only her beauty to offer, but for Jack it would be enough. With the opportunity that Charles Town offered, he would need nothing else.

How can anyone claim that the colonies are centers of degeneracy? Tony asked. This place is no different than any other gentleman’s residence.

I’ll have a home in Charles Town one day soon, Jack said. And won’t your father be pleased?

The rest of Tony’s implication was left to die on the breeze that set the candle flames to dancing in the polished chandelier over their heads. George Ashford, Baron Bransmore, was a Tory’s Tory, a man whose disdain for the colonists was legendary in the House of Lords, and in marked contrast to his second son’s fierce Whig support. There was a reason that Jack had been sent into the Royal Navy as a sharp-tongued lad of fifteen, and a reason that he had not returned to Hampshire for ten years.

Accustomed to the dreary scenery of a Royal frigate, Jack found the crowd in the drawing room to be painfully colorful, a spray of pastels and glitter that made him squint. In his naval uniform he felt almost bare, so undecorated was the dark blue wool, in humiliating contrast to the plethora of gold braid and brass buttons of the army officers who clustered around Lt. Col. Balfour. He questioned the cleanliness of his hose and the less than spotless shirt, feeling rather shabby with his cravat little more than a rumpled mess. With nothing left to parade than a well-formed leg and his family’s social position, Jack bowed with utmost grace to his hosts, using good posture to compensate for the lack of fripperies and silver buckles.

What luck, Jack. The nasal whine of Butter Debeurre lifted over the general murmur of voices. If it were luck that brought them together at this place, it was all bad. I was only just now telling our charming companions of our heroics this afternoon.

Two young ladies stood before him, arm in arm, dressed in matching indigo blue gowns, their hair pomaded and powdered into identical towers. Jack would have taken them for twins if not for the different embroideries of their underskirts, one of which featured an emblem containing a sheaf of rice bound with flowing blue ribbons. Warm green eyes peered over a fan that could not muffle the sound of giggling, the green eyes of Miss Mahon who did not yet know that she was destined to be Mrs. John Ashford. Like precious emeralds, her eyes held him transfixed, mesmerized, until a sharp stab creased his ribs.

Isn’t that right, Lt. Ashford? Tony said.

Another round of giggling lifted the fog, penetrated to his brain. Tony was carrying on a conversation that could have been running for the past minute or the past year as far as Jack could judge. At his side, Butter preened importantly, as if his likeness were being chiseled in marble by an unseen sculptor.

My apologies are utterly feeble, Jack said, speaking only to the beauty who watched him over the top of a lace-edged fan. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?

The ladies exchanged glances that suggested his earlier transgression of form had become an item of girlish gossip and feminine mockery. With relief, Jack offered a slight bow. She could have cut him right there in the drawing room, but she did not. Holding out a lifeline, she treated him like the lovesick puppy that he was, toying with him and waiting to see if he would whimper at her feet or snap at her hand. This was not the attitude of a woman suffering from a grave insult. There was yet hope, if he could come to his senses and take advantage of the opportunity she presented.

The fan moved, down to neck level, to reveal porcelain skin and rosy cheeks, perfection in the form of a woman’s face. Languid and desultory, the folded silk pattern waved to and fro, to move the humid air about and send a light cloud of perfume adrift. Here in a room that was as hot as the lobby of Hell, he grew very conscious of the trickle of sweat that was rolling past his ears. Suffering miserably, he tried to maneuver within range of her fan, to steal a hint of the breeze she created.

Will you take some refreshment, Miss Mahon? Jack offered, snatching a glass of punch from a tray that floated by on the arm of a liveried servant. He was surprised by the chill, and then humbled as he realized he was the guest of a very wealthy man who could afford to buy ice in a land that never knew cold.

Miss Sturbridge, Tony said. As he handed a glass to the young lady he had been intended to meet, Tony shot a glance that was as pointed as the elbow he had thrown earlier. Another breech of etiquette, and Jack could not understand where his mind had gone, to forget every rule that was second nature to him.

On and on Butter jabbered, controlling the topic of discussion and doing an excellent job of boring everyone within range. In a fortnight, Jack would set sail and he could not afford to waste a minute of courting time. The situation called for action, quick and decisive.

I can make no excuse, he said to Miss Mahon, to draw her out and command her attention.

There can be no excuse, she said.

She could not be older than twenty, yet she had the bearing of an experienced woman of thirty. The standard nonsense that passed for flirtation would never win her over; she was beyond the trivial. To win her heart would take a battle of wits against a formidable adversary. Jack had no doubt that Miss Mahon was a master, as fond of a contest as he was, and equally determined to triumph. The half smile she gave him was a gauntlet thrown down, a challenge offered.

More guests arrived, a mixture of officers and young ladies who represented the cream of Charles Town’s loyalist society. Each one was greeted with Butter’s ongoing rendition of the afternoon’s street brawl, the actual location glossed over since they were at the door of a brothel when Miss Mahon raced

Reviews for The Liberty Flower

[cianoh · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sarah Mahon is wrapped up in the sentiments of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but she soon discovers that the American revolution is not going to emancipate the women. Not one to be defeated, the plucky heroine goes about a personal rebellion that puts into motion a host of unintended consequences.Her determination to marry Jack Ashford, a British officer, is sabotaged by her partisan-leaning family. While Jack wavers between hope for a different outcome and despair that it is too late, Sarah struggles to carve out a little independence in a face-saving marriage. The author does a brilliant job of showing how small amounts of liberty can be abused, as the less-than-perfect Sarah falls from grace.The novel spans the close of the Eighteenth Century, and over the course of the narrative Sarah matures into a woman who has gained a level of freedom that she does not care to relinquish after she is widowed and thus free to marry Jack.A thoroughly enjoyable work of historical fiction with strong romantic elements, I highly recommend this book.

[P. L. O'Sullivan · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sarah Mahon is wrapped up in the sentiments of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but she soon discovers that the American revolution is not going to emancipate the women. Not one to be defeated, the plucky heroine goes about a personal rebellion that puts into motion a host of unintended consequences.

Her determination to marry Jack Ashford, a British officer, is sabotaged by her partisan-leaning family. While Jack wavers between hope for a different outcome and despair that it is too late, Sarah struggles to carve out a little independence in a face-saving marriage. The author does a brilliant job of showing how small amounts of liberty can be abused, as the less-than-perfect Sarah falls from grace.

The novel spans the close of the Eighteenth Century, and over the course of the narrative Sarah matures into a woman who has gained a level of freedom that she does not care to relinquish after she is widowed and thus free to marry Jack.

A thoroughly enjoyable work of historical fiction with strong romantic elements, I highly recommend this book.