The Color of His Blood

By J. F. Lewis

When commoner Adam Wat Tyler, the son of a smithy, is falsely accused of murder he sees no recourse but to flee the windy cliffs of Cornwall, England, and travel to the new colonies in America.
With the aid of a freed slave and two Iroquois, Adam and Lady Anne Danamoor, a British aristocrat, learn to survive in the rugged, colonial world and come to understand and respect the disappearing Native American way of life. As war clouds gather, Adam follows Benedict Arnold on an attack of the frozen fortress of Quebec, fiery battles on Lake Champlain, and bloody battlefields at Saratoga. When Adam learns of Arnolds betrayal, he joins George Washingtons master spy and returns to British-held New York City, risking his life to deliver Arnold to Washington and to justice. Anne also has returned to the city in search of her lost nephew, but an anonymous note leads her into a death trap.
As Adam and Anne draw closer to the British gallows, this story of love and hate, trust and betrayal, generosity and greed, recounts the struggle to survive, not only for Adam and Anne, but for the nation they are helping to create.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 14, 2009
• ISBN: 9780595625413

J. F. Lewis

J.F. Lewis lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He decided that he wanted to be a writer when a supposed creative writing teacher questioned his sanity and suggested therapy. The author spent eight wonderful years working in a comic and game shop, until financial considerations required him to become a corporate schmoe. He abides with his patient wife, two adorable sons, and an Akita.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Artificer

T he artificer, Adam Wat Tyler, counted lead-lined barrels of chalky white saltpeter, charcoal, and sulfur as they thundered down the gangplank of the English merchant ship, The Sparrow. Drenched in a freezing rain, Tyler directed his men to stack the barrels next to smaller powder kegs on the pier. Ice was forming, and he slipped along with his men; the work was treacherous. Adam could feel the co-owner of the ship, Charles Bacon, watching him, judging him, through the window of his second-floor office. Tyler felt more concerned for the safety of his crew than the time it took to unload the cargo. He called out, Careful lads!

Tyler helped the men load the wagons. Five younger lads and one older sailor were warming themselves beside hot coals in a metal pan. Fire of any kind was forbidden because of the incendiary nature of the cargo, but it was such a raw day that Adam had relented to their pleas. He saw the youngsters shivering, their faces blue. The London piers were saturated, and the chances of the powder exploding were slim. As long as the coals were far away from the barrels, Adam felt it was worth the risk.

Take care on the gangplank! he called again toward the ship, but the men didn’t answer. He realized his words didn’t carry because of the sleet’s incessant needling. The ice was stinging the back of his neck and hands, and he could see it biting into the lads who were thinly clad. Adam looked up to see Mister Bacon’s bushy gray eyebrows frown as he pointed to the warm glow of the coals on the pier. Though a chill ran deep in his bones, Adam reluctantly nodded and walked toward the lads to tell them to move the coals. Adam didn’t like being bullied. Even though it was five months beyond his contract date, Mr. Bacon had not released him from seven years of indentured service.

Mister Bacon stared down at Adam as the sailors continued to stack powder kegs on board the ship. Adam then saw The Sparrow’s second owner, Sir John Denby, appear on deck. He snapped a few commands at the men, and then headed for the gangplank. A cry cut through the frigid air. Adam snapped his head toward the sound and saw that one of the men had slipped on the new ice and had fallen against the powder kegs. The kegs rolled down the gangplank and splashed into the frigid water. Others spun out of control. A keg rolled directly toward the pan of coals. Adam raced toward it, trying to stop it. Here men! he shouted as the men scattered in every direction, trying to stop the rolling kegs. An enormous boom shook the pier. Adam stumbled back, as a waves of heat, iron nails, shards of wood, and hot coals spun around him.

The fire jumped from the first keg to a second resting closer to the wagon. A second explosion shook the wharf. The wagon shattered. Wood, metal, and flames burst into the air. Ash and burning debris landed on Adam, scorching his skin. A black cloud of fiery smoke surrounded him.

Adam heard a wrenching scream pierce through the fiery smoke, followed by silence. Get water! Put out the fire! Adam yelled, plunging into the black smoke. He stumbled, and when he looked down, he saw an arm covered in soot. One of the lads, Billy Sterling, lay pinned under what was left of the burning wagon. His arms had been thrown above his head and torso. The wagon lay on top of his right leg.

Adam kneeled by Billy’s head. Billy? Can you hear me lad? he cried, but Billy did not respond. His chest fitfully rose and fell. Thank God, Adam thought, he’s alive.

Adam bent down under what was left of the wagon, near the boy, and tried to lift it, but could not.

We need men! Someone run for the surgeon! Adam ordered, as sailors and dockhands collected around him. One, two, three! Adam cried.

With an enormous, Heave! the motley group lifted the wagon, and Adam pulled Billy out. As he carried Billy into the warehouse, Mister Bacon’s figure disappeared from the window.

You can’t bring him in here! Bacon said, stomping down the stairs. Ignoring him, Adam gently laid Billy down on the wide oak planked floor. He pulled off his own shirt, tore it in half, and tied a tourniquet around what was left of Billy’s leg well above the knee.

Remove him! Bacon continued.

Adam spoke softly to Billy, stroking his forehead.

The lads ’ave run off to get the surgeon. I’ve tied the leg, stopped the bleeding.

Billy opened his eyes and tried to speak but couldn’t form words. Instead, he fixed a glassy gaze upon Adam.

You’re going to make it Billy. Hold on, Adam urged, brushing soot from the boy’s face.

Billy moaned softly. His head rolled to the side, away from Adam.

He is dead, Tyler! Bacon fumed, Due to your negligence. How dare you allow a fire on the pier.

It was a freezing rain! Adam said, staring at the dead boy.

Strictly forbidden! And you thought you were ready for me to sign your papers…artificer! No one in London will hire you. I’m taking the cost of the lost gunpowder out of your wages. Take him out of here and clean up the mess, Mister Bacon said, grabbing his walking stick and hat.

Adam continued to brush soot from Billy’s face. The four others who had been with Billy huddled around the open door. They separated to let Mister Bacon pass. He marched onto the pier to meet Sir John Denby who had not yet disembarked. Denby had been standing by the rail, passively watching as if it were an ordinary event.

The older sailor, Steven Miller, walked into the warehouse, bent down, and put his own gnarled hand upon Adam’s. Adam looked up into Miller’s wise, sad eyes.

There’s nothing more te do, Mister Tyler. Let me and the boys carry ‘im home. Mister Bacon is wrong as wrong can be. Ye’ve always done yer best to keep us safe and sound, and we’re grateful to ye for it. Kind man ye are. Wasn’t yer fault.

Adam rose to let Miller and the boys carry Billy away. Naked from the chest up, Adam followed them out into the icy March rain, watching them until they rounded the corner of the warehouse. He walked over to his horse, rummaged through his rucksack, and pulled out his only other cotton shirt. He slipped it over his head. His body was shaking from both the merciless sleet and the image of the dead boy. He pulled out his woolen cloak and threw that around his shoulders to stop the shaking. Adam looked up to see Denby, gripping the rail, as he gingerly stepped down the icy gangplank to greet Mister Bacon.

After seven years ye’d think Tyler would have learned something! Bacon shouted through the sleet to Denby, pointing an accusatory finger at Adam. Adam mounted his horse.

Where do ye think yer going, Mister Tyler! Bacon cried. Ye haven’t finished unloading the cargo. Leave now and I’ll never sign yer papers.

Adam ignored Denby’s stern gaze and Bacon’s warning. He slapped his chestnut mare and tore through the London streets. He had no intention of returning. He clattered down cobbled stones, skidding on rotted cabbage, apple cores, cracked chicken bones, dead rats, human waste. He raced out of the city into the open fields of icy grass bent low under the driving sleet, past dormant fruit orchards. The buds on the branches were coated with ice, threatening to squeeze the life out of them. Adam kept his head down against the horse, trying to gain some protection from the freezing rain. He sped south, toward Cornwall, to the crooked Camel River, which wove its way around the village of Danamoor to Tintagel Head. Danamoor was the one place in the world where he felt at peace.

Adam rode hard to reach Danamoor, stopping only for oats and water for the horse, and a few hours of rest under the open sky. He had no desire for food. He couldn’t banish Billy from his mind. His ghost stood beside a passing tree, around a bend in the road, on the far side of a field. Adam took only a few bites of bread and cheese now and then and drank water from streams to quench his thirst.

By the fifth day, he had left the London frost far behind, and as he closed in on his village, he felt more at ease. Billy’s image faded with the warmer air, the brighter sun, the bluer sky. When he finally reached Danamoor Village, he rode past it, up to the Parish Church of Saint Materiana, and tied his horse to a post. He entered. It was cool and dark, peaceful and quiet. He felt uneasy as he gazed at the crucifix, the sorrowful figure of Christ. He was not a religious man, but he needed to say a prayer for Billy. He wanted the lad to rest in peace. He knelt on the cold stone, near the door, and closed his eyes.

Please see Billy safely home, he whispered, the words little more than a thought choking his throat.

The lad’s death was his fault. Mister Bacon was right about one thing; no one would hire him as an artificer in London, nor anywhere in England. And, something he finally had to face—the most distressing of all—he’d never be good enough for the one he loved, not here in England, never good enough for Lady Anne Danamoor.

Chapter 2

The Lady

A dam stood, his head just clearing the wooden beams, and left the cool, dark church. He had to shield his eyes as he walked out into the blistering sunlight and led his horse up the goat path that wove halfway to the top of the Tintagel Head. He tethered his horse next to another, a magnificent dapple gray, which acknowledged them with a swish of her tail as she chewed on the long grasses next to the broken fence where she had been tied, Lady Anne’s horse. Adam sighed with relief; she was here. The climb and the anticipation of seeing her did much to lift a gloom threatening to drown him.

Adam was eleven when he had first met Lady Anne Danamoor, unexpectedly, near the ruins of Tintagel Castle. She was dressed in a fine woolen riding suit and stood near the edge of the cliff, silhouetted against the ocean and sky, like a fairy queen. She and her twin brother Richard were only a year younger, but she seemed so much older. Once they grew accustomed to each other’s presence on the cliffs, she told Adam about the legends of King Arthur, the tales from Canterbury, the plays of Shakespeare, one about the dark prince of Denmark named Hamlet, another about a king named Macbeth, and one about a Moor. When he listened to her wondrous stories of Shakespeare, Chaucer and so many other great British writers, some of whom he had never even heard, never mind read, he knew he could never be a part of her world. What had he learned in his six years in the local Danamoor schoolhouse, before his seven years of apprenticeship with Charles Bacon? to read and write, to calculate numbers.

But in spite of their vast differences, they formed a tentative friendship. He was the smithy’s son with wild ambitions to make his fortune as John Denby had done, but in some respectable way, and she, after the sudden death of her mother, was thrust into the role of Lady Anne Danamoor. Over the years, awkward and shy, they sat next to each other, Adam listening to her stories, and to the sounds of the ocean crushing the rocks beneath them, watching waves toss seaweed and foam, seagulls riding the wind or laboring against the petulant surf.

The first time Adam put his arm around Anne, she had been shaking. He didn’t know if it was from the cold mist or dark thoughts that sometimes seemed to consume her. She grew quiet with his embrace. Over the years, he’d repeat the gesture once in awhile. She never objected.

Adam knew that soon she’d have to choose one of the gentlemen who courted her. Sir John Denby was at the head of that list. Adam thought of Denby now as he hiked up the cliff. He’d have nothing more to do with either Denby or his partner Bacon, trafficking with pirates for saltpeter, growing rich as kings. He’d make his way in the world, somehow, he just knew he would. He hurried along, hoping to have a few minutes with Anne. She haunted his every waking moment and her image followed him into his dreams. Whenever he’d find her on Tintagel Head, she was always standing too close to the edge, terrifying him. There was something so unsettled about her. But he had plans of his own, leave for India, take advantage of the rich saltpeter trade. War was looming with the colonies, and he’d be a part of it, make his fortune in gunpowder, as Denby had done, and then come home. He could buy a title, like Denby, and then maybe he’d be good enough for Anne. Adam hoped he’d have his artificer papers by now, but it was clear that Mister Bacon had no intention of signing them. As he trudged up the cliff, Adam faced the fact that his dreams were just that. He would never be anything more than the smithy’s son, and she would always be Lady Anne Danamoor.

When he reached the top, Anne was there, too close to the edge. He dared not move, breathe, for fear of frightening her, seeing her tumble. She never told him what she was searching for as she stared out to sea. Adam thought that perhaps it was her mother, long dead now. Lady Gwendolyn was found dead in her bed, not a mark about her body, no sign of struggle; her heart had just stopped beating.

Anne turned around. Adam!

She ran to him, but stopped short. She was so close that he could smell the salty sea in her black hair. He wanted to fold her into his woolen cloak because she was trembling, but he didn’t touch her. They retired to their favorite stones, still warm from the March sun. As the sky melted from blue to pink to rosy red, Adam took great comfort in having Anne next to him. He was glad he had left the icy rains of London far behind.

Did you secure your papers? Anne asked.

There was a terrible explosion. A lad died on the docks, Billy Sterling. Poor fellow, he said, his head drooping. It was my fault…I should never have allowed those coals…But it was an icy rain…the boys were freezing.

I’m sure you used good judgment.

My good judgment led to the death of a boy!

But it was an accident.

Mister Bacon will never give me those papers, Adam said, hanging his head low.

I’m so sorry, she said, her frame folding. She wrapped her arms close about her. It seems to me that after Mister Bacon reviews the facts, he’ll eventually give you what is rightfully yours. Haven’t you always watched out for the safety of the men?

Aye, ’tis true enough but some say Mister Bacon was never going to release me, he said. He took a deep breath and gazed into Anne’s dark blue eyes. I’m leaving England.

Where will you go? she asked, a tear staining her cheek.

He stood and walked a few feet away, his back to her.

To the colonies. This struck him as the only sensible idea. I’m just the smithy’s son, born to it, and will die the smithy’s son if I stay here.

Anne sank back against the rocky walls of Tintagel, looking grimly out to sea.

I’m going to ask Faith to come with me, Adam continued, the idea just rising to his consciousness, springing from his lips. He didn’t mean to say it. He loved Anne, only wanted Anne. His heart broke when he saw the disappointment in her eyes. But what about poor Faith? She would die if she stayed in that workhouse.

Sir John will never let her go.

I’m not asking for John Denby’s permission, Adam spat. What kind of father would let his pregnant, unwed daughter work in a silk mill, and ‘im with more money than Midas! Adam turned back to her, his large frame silhouetted against a now fiery orange sun.

Are you the father? Anne asked.

How can you ask me that? No!

Do you know who is? she asked.

A good guess, Adam said, his voice cracking with anger.

My brother?

Adam could see her shrink further into herself. I don’t know, he answered, slumping down next to her. As they spoke, he moved his hand next to hers, their fingertips touching. He could feel the small rays of heat. He wanted her more than anything else in the world.

But you don’t love Faith, she said, pulling her hand away.

I do in my own way, he said. At least I can offer her a warm home.

That kind of love will never be good enough for her! She curled her arms around her knees.

You mean, I’m not good enough for her.

No, I didn’t say that, and don’t put words into my mouth, she said. After a long while, she asked, Do you think that it’s true, what they say about her?

What?

That Sir John fathered her by seducing a foreign princess who was forced to give up Faith after she was born.

Ha! Did you read that in one of your Shakespeare stories? Faith is as British as we are, he said, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. He leaned over to steal a kiss. When their lips touched, Anne pulled back. He wanted much more.

I wish you could love me, she whispered, leaning her head against his broad shoulder.

He didn’t move, afraid he’d frighten her, but stared at the sinking sun. He couldn’t tell her how he felt about her. Spending an hour with her made him feel as if he could accomplish anything he set out to do. It was a feeling he kept tight in his heart through all the dark times when he couldn’t be with her. He dreamed of her every night, could feel the velvet doe-like softness of her skin, smell the salty ocean spray in her hair, and wake to find his own bed soaked with his desire, his despair. But he dared not let the word love escape his lips.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a red admiral butterfly land on a clover. Its legs, as thin as a spider’s, began to dance. Adam leaned over and in a slow, careful manner offered his finger to the creature. Like a partner accepting a hand, the butterfly danced onto it. Ever so slowly, Adam brought the butterfly to Anne, but as she reached out to touch the tip of its wing, it flew away. Adam stared at her for a moment, their faces so close that he could see himself reflected in her eyes.

Don’t leave, she said.

Her breath brushed his face. He leaned over and stole another kiss.

You have to let me live my life, just as I have to let you live yours, he whispered, gathering her close to him. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

As the last of the sun’s rays create a red glow on the watery horizon, they heard twigs breaking with approaching footsteps.

It’s Richard, Anne guessed, standing, frantically pulling her cloak about her.

Adam turned to see Major Danamoor at the top of the trail, dressed in his officer’s uniform. His eyes were the same sapphire blue, his hair as raven black as Anne’s. Before that moment, Adam had not realized how much they looked like each other. To him they were so different. Adam drew back as Richard pulled out a pistol.

Get away from him! he ordered his twin.

Anne took a few steps away.

Richard, don’t! she cried, her voice cracking.

How many times have I told you to stay away from my sister, Richard said, gripping the pistol so tightly his knuckles were white. I’ll not let you ruin her.

The way you ruined Faith, Anne said.

Richard turned to Anne and grabbed her wrist.

I never touched Faith!

Then who did? she asked, trying to pry his fingers away.

Why don’t you ask him! Richard continued, letting her go. Adam saw the raw red mark on her wrist.

Faith is like a sister to me…you know that, Adam calmly replied as he stood. But I am going to ask her to be my wife.

Sir John will never agree, Richard said.

Adam’s face felt hot. He curled his hand into a fist. He has no rights. He’s not been a proper father. Not wanting to continue the conversation, he turned, brushed past both of them to hike down the path.

He always gave her money. What more can an illegitimate child expect? Richard called, anger rising in his voice.

Aye, what more could she expect, Adam said, disgusted, heading down the path.

I’m not done, Tyler, Richard said.

Adam continued on.

Stop! Richard ordered.

Adam stopped.

Richard, just let him go. He hasn’t harmed anyone, Anne said.

Turn around!

Adam turned to face him, startled to see that the pistol was still aimed at him.

If you ever touch Anne or Faith, for that matter, I’ll see you hang. Is that very clear?

Adam knew Richard wouldn’t shoot. He didn’t answer, but turned and continued to walk away.

Is that clear?

Adam kept walking.

Answer me or I’ll shoot! Richard said, cocking the loaded weapon.

Don’t! Anne cried, struggling to take the pistol from him. It fired, and Adam fell to the ground.

He was dazed, the bullet having torn his left cheek, but he felt Anne lift him into her lap. She pressed her hand to his cheek to stop the bleeding. Richard yanked her from the ground, and Adam fell back.

We can’t leave him here! she cried.

You will come with me, Richard said. He dragged her down the trail. Anne wept as she tripped after her brother.

Chapter 3

Severing the Ties That Bind

O nce inside the Castle Danamoor courtyard, Anne and Richard cantered up to the stables and dismounted. Their hounds were barking, jumping, nipping.

You did yourself no honor today. He’ll probably carry a scar on his face for the rest of his life! Anne said as she dismounted, not looking at Richard.

He grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the stone wall. One of the dogs growled, but Richard ignored him.

How dare you continue to meet him, all alone, in the latest hour of the day! he raged. How can you compromise yourself like that? What if a villager had come along?

And what will they say when they see Adam, coming off the cliff, bleeding?

I didn’t intend to shoot him, just scare him away…

You cocked the trigger!

Yes, and when you grabbed me, it went off. Well, one thing is certain, your name, my name will not cross his lips!

She wrenched free, ran through the courtyard, and pushed open the enormous oak door to the castle.

Anne…Anne…Stop!

He caught her at the stairs. Grabbing her arms, he turned her around, but Anne wouldn’t look at him.

Anne…I’m sorry. But how could you…how could you let him touch you?

Let go of me!

He let go, shifting his weight back and forth, staring at her. She stood, trembling, shaking, not looking up.

Anne, look at me…

Gathering some inner strength, she stared into her brother’s eyes, the same exact jeweled blue. She always thought they saw the world in the same way because they looked so much alike, but she was beginning to realize, that no, they had grown apart, and were very different. She was afraid that his nightly games, constant gambling, and bad company, particularly with John Denby, were having a dangerous effect on him.

In her fury over Richard’s action, her worried thoughts of Adam lying there, bleeding, as he had dragged her away, she sank down onto the steps of the main staircase and buried her head in her hands. How could you be so cruel? She looked up to see him hanging his head as if he were a naughty child. Do you know, Richard, that today was the first time I’ve ever kissed! He turned away. She tried again, I’m twenty years old, and I had never been kissed.

To be kissed by a lout is not the same thing as being honored and loved by a husband, surely you know that, he said, slumping down next to her on the step.

It seemed to her that he was trying to reach out to her too, but was he implying that John Denby was more honorable than Adam?

To be loved and honored by whom? John Denby? Is that what you want for me, Richard? Or is it to have me tending father until his dying day so that you may have the leave to come and go as you please, to ride out whenever it takes your fancy?

Denby can offer you a fortune, more than enough to care for the estate.

Father despises the man.

Yes, he may, but Denby has been a good friend to me. I will be leaving much sooner than any of us imagined. Ever since those so called ‘Indians’ dumped chests of tea into Boston harbor, I’ve had no rest. I’d feel much better leaving you if I knew that Sir John was taking care of you and father.

Oh, yes, take care of us the way he takes care of Faith! She was losing all the good will she had tried to muster.

He stood. Leave Faith out of this.

And you are giving her pieces of silver whenever she comes calling. How many other mouths do you have to feed?

How dare you! You know nothing. Father has ordered me to look after Faith if John doesn’t! He flexed his hands as if to strike but didn’t. I’ve already said more than I should. Stay out of it! Richard turned on his heels, walked out the door, and slammed it shut.

They had never fought beyond childhood squabbles. She loved Richard, her twin, her friend, her ally. But she wasn’t sure she would ever be able to forgive his shooting Adam, his lack of care for poor Faith, and that troubled her greatly. There was something about her bond with him that could not be easily broken. She knew when the wrong word wounded him, when he needed to be coddled, when he needed to be left alone to brood, but she had never seen this fury, this rage, and suddenly she felt she didn’t know him at all. She had never seen him so angry as he had been with Adam. This was a side of him that she hoped never to see again.

She ran up the steps to her chambers and quietly closed the door so that her father in the next room would not know that she had returned. Her hands shook as she filled a white porcelain basin with warm rose water. She splashed the water against her forehead and sat down at her dressing table. She didn’t recognize her face in the looking glass, so flushed, her hair so disheveled. This would not do at all. She sat up straight and thought about John Denby. She brushed her hair and felt a little calmer. She knew that it really was time to wed, but tears streamed down her cheeks when she thought of John. He was the most attractive of her suitors, but how could she marry anyone else when she loved Adam. She knew that she and Adam came from different worlds, she an aristocrat, he a commoner. She hoped that if she concentrated on John, her feelings for Adam would fade, and her anger toward Richard would ease. But when she pulled off her riding clothes and saw Adam’s blood spread like veins in a leaf, staining the soft brown velvet, she closed her eyes and pressed the jacket to her cheek. A terrible fear crept over her when she wondered if Adam had made it safely back to the village. What if he were still lying there? She felt a growing alarm, wanting to saddle her mare and ride down to the village to make certain that he was safe at home. She thought of Sarah Poppet, changed her clothes, and raced to the busy, hot kitchen.

_____________

Earlier that day, Richard had laid his prizes from the morning hunt, two pheasants and four quail, onto the cold marble slab in the center of the kitchen, and Sarah Poppet set to work feverishly cooking a memorable meal. Laughing with pleasure at her delight, Richard placed a kiss on her rosy cheek, stole an apple from a barrel, and asked for Anne. Sarah told him that she was out. Richard left to change into his uniform, and Sarah’s thoughts turned to Anne who was spending more and more time on the cliffs. Everyone knew she went, pining for her mother, or maybe a lover. Sarah also knew what would cure her. The young woman needed a husband. Sarah worried about Anne’s indecision. After all, there were so many handsome gentlemen who had asked for her hand in marriage. She guessed that Anne’s close relationship to Richard made her decision more difficult. And who could blame her? Sarah stared at Richard when he reappeared in his uniform but couldn’t get in another word before he dashed out the door. When Richard was dressed in his fine redcoat, with gleaming brass buttons, and his black boots brightly polished, he was a sight to behold. There was much talk of trouble in the colonies, and Sarah sighed, slumping down on the wooden stool next to the game, plucking the birds he had bagged. She guessed he’d soon leave with his regiment and not return home for a long time.

Sarah spent the rest of the day peeling onions, potatoes, carrots and dressing the birds with dried parsley and rosemary. She took her last jar of orange marmalade and simmered it with just a drop of Lord Danamoor’s Cointreau to create Richard’s favorite sauce which she would drizzle over the birds at the last moment. She delighted in stirring the sauce, basting the birds, tasting the stew, all for her darling boy. Sarah worshipped Richard, the son she never had.

Now, hours later, still hanging over the orange sauce, Sarah looked up to see Anne as if she had conjured her. But Anne was so distraught, and was that blood upon her cheek? Sarah carefully wiped the smudge away with a damp towel.

What is it m’lady? she asked, alarmed.

Please, go to Danamoor Village!

Now? Why? Whatever for?

Please don’t ask questions, just go…to the smithy’s house and see if all is well.

If all is well? Sarah asked. But Major Danamoor is home, she protested. He’s here so little. I’ve just made a wonderful supper for ‘im. I can’t go right now.

It’s urgent!

Sarah studied Anne’s face and could see she was holding back tears. She sighed, untied her apron, put on her bonnet, but before she waddled out the door, she turned to Rosie and instructed her on how to finish cooking the meal for her favorite of the twins.

_____________

At supper hour, Anne still could not face Richard. She did not go downstairs and ate little of the pheasant and orange sauce that Rosie left at her door. Anne brushed her hair a hundred times and knotted it at the nape of her neck, the way her father liked. She dressed in a simple cotton gown and draped her mother’s single strand of pearls around her neck. She was ready for the reading hour with her father. At that hour of dusk, when mourning doves nested in Danamoor’s great stones, dogs lapped at puddles in the brick courtyard, bats whispered in the tower, and the misty sea air coated the mullion windows, Anne left her chambers for her evening visit with her father. Just as she reached her father’s door, Sarah, quite out of breath and still wearing her bonnet, trudged up the stairs to Lord Danamoor’s chambers, carrying his supper tray.

Is all well at the smithy’s? Anne asked.

All is not, Sarah said in a stern voice. But Adam is home, Lady Anne, if that was your concern.

Is he all right?

No, he’s raging with fever. Who shot ‘im, Lady Anne? Some blackard, I suspect. And how did you know that he was hurt?

God bless you, Sarah, Anne said, taking the tray from her before she entered Lord Danamoor’s chambers.

God bless us all, Sarah whispered, as she stood in the hallway.

Anne closed her father’s door without making a sound and shut her eyes for a moment. She said a little prayer for Adam and then braced herself before she faced her father.

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On March 25, five days after Adam was shot, ten days after Billy Sterling died in the explosion, Mister Charles Bacon retired to his townhouse, a mere seven blocks from Windsor Castle. His head butler, James Miller, helped him off with his heavy woolen cloak, sodden from the foggy night air. Mister Bacon washed his hands. His fat fingers unable to hold the fresh cake of wet soap, sent it flying into the air, skidding onto the floor. He did not bother to pick it up. He slicked down the few strands of gray hair remaining on his balding head, hummed a tune, and thought about his rapidly growing inventory of saltpeter, the most expensive ingredient of gunpowder.

Yes, 1774 was proving to be a most profitable year for him and John Denby. And with the rebellion steadily growing in the colonies, why there was no end in sight to the profits that could be made! Chuckling to himself, he sat on his favorite yellow brocade dining room chair, James helping him bring the chair to the table. James then poured Mister Bacon a glass of claret, meticulously wiping the bottom of the bottle before placing it on the mahogany table.

Will that be all, Sir? James asked.

Bacon waved him away as his eyes feasted upon the thick leg of lamb, two succulent squabs, peas swimming in so much butter they bobbed like fish eggs, stewed plums, peaches brandied to gold, and a freshly baked rye bread. James discreetly retired to the kitchen. Mister Bacon picked up a sharpened silver knife to slice a chunk of lamb off the bone. The juices ran down to the platter, whetting his appetite. He took a bite, chewing on the tender meat, savoring the taste, and then took a long sip of wine. As he wiped his lips, he looked straight ahead into the gilded mirror at the far end of the dining room. He began to choke on the meat and wine which had not yet cleared his throat. A figure in the mirror was pointing a pistol at his back.

One clean shot was fired. Charles Bacon slumped, his face landing in the sumptuous meal. When James returned to the dining room, he found his master dead. The murderer fled into the weeping London fog, leaving the large oak door of the fashionable townhouse wide open. James walked to the door and closed it with a subtle but very satisfying click.

Chapter 4

In the Company of Shakespeare

W henever Anne entered her father’s chambers, she felt the reassuring warmth of his love. On the night Charles Bacon was shot, Anne was basking in the warm glow of the fire crackling brightly on the hearth and candles flickering in the brass chandelier, reflecting the light against the oak paneling. Her mother’s silver tea service glistened, as always, on the small sideboard. Rosie had left two thick slices of gingerbread with dollops of whipped cream for Anne and her father. Lord Edmund Danamoor was sitting on his red velvet couch, his long stocking cap perched jauntily on his head. A leaded crystal glass filled with port was in his left hand, and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar in his right.

Now there’s my fine pet. Did you have a good ride today? He didn’t look up but calmly turned a page.

It hadn’t been a good day. Again Adam hadn’t been there. Pouring tea for her father and another cup for herself, she said nothing, trying to remain as calm as he seemed to be.

She handed him his gingerbread and tea and then sat opposite him in a matching red velvet chair.

I do know about your little escapades. He glanced at her over his spectacles. He laughed, and she was glad to see that Richard had not