Liberty's Call: A Story of the American Revolution

By Donnell Rubay

Thirty-seven years before Scarlett OHara and Gone With the Wind, Janice Meredith juggled suitors, struggled to survive and watched a sweeping war transform America. Her story was the subject of a best-selling novel, in 1899and the most expensive movie made to-date, in 1924. Now, Libertys Call gives Janices story to modern readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 27, 2009
• ISBN: 9781477166550

Donnell Rubay

Donnell is a former lawyer and high school English teacher. Her first book, Stickeen: John Muir and the Brave Little Dog, was a Scholastic Book Fair selection and has sold over 180,000 copies. She lives in the historic waterfront-city of Benicia, California.

Book preview

Prologue

Blinded by rage, he stumbled through the morning darkness. Ship masts creaked, sailors called, a dog howled, while smells swirled—of salt and sea but also of molasses and tar.

His hands ached, desperate to close around that wretched throat. To kill that enemy, though, would be to maim himself. Well, then, the country could no longer hold them both.

Leaving meant going to a place he could only imagine. Was he ready for the pain he was sure to feel?

His foot caught, his knee scraped the street.

Yet to stay meant his hands would take him back to that throat.

A glow lightened the eastern sky; he took a breath. Around him men moved with swift efficiency—loading barrels, adjusting sails. A woman wept as a man touched her cheek. A boy, his face smeared with dust, slammed a dirty pack against a piling.

Yes. He must leave—this place with an unbearable future.

Leave, to find a new life, in a new world.

PART I

Chapter One

A Heroine of Many Possibilities

September 1774

The ocean’s rolling waves were wafting Alonzo towards his haven of bliss, towards Amaryllis. Still, his heart was anxious, his breathing, fast.

Janice had to pause. She’d been reading aloud to her friend, Tibbie—about Alonzo’s efforts to return to his beloved, Amaryllis—when she’d been shaken by a throb of longing. Oh why were all the truly romantic men only in books?

Well go on, Tibbie urged, bending her blond curls over the page. What happens next?

With a sigh, Janice adjusted herself on the window seat in her bedroom, where the two were huddled. Since it was a Sunday morning, they should really be readying themselves for church, but this novel Tibbie had brought from Trenton was just too engrossing.

She resumed reading: "At any moment, an angry Neptune could disrupt all of Alonzo’s plans.

Wait. There on the horizon, something worse than churning seas—for growing larger, as it moved closer, was a Spanish fighting ship dressed in the black flags of Moorish pirates—"

Janice Meredith!

Oh no. Her mother was just outside the door.

A moment later and the woman was standing in front of her, glaring. Janice. What is going on in here?

She felt herself trembling. Her mother’s voice was like a thorn scraping her skin.

She’d been reading. A novel. With Tibbie. And while that may not seem the most serious of crimes, in her mother’s mind—

Mrs. Meredith—her blue eyes sharp, her high-piled light-brown hair heightening her stern expression—was staring at the small leather-covered book Janice held.

The older woman touched the gold lettering on the calfskin spine, breathing the title: "The Adventures of Alonzo and Amaryllis."

Janice stiffened as if being still would protect her from what might come next.

Oh. My. Lord. My daughter—was reading a— Mrs. Meredith stopped, shaking her head as if struggling to compose her self. On a Sabbath morning. When one has a duty to set one’s mind to thoughts of church.

She swirled towards Tibbie. And you, Tabitha Drinker! With your Quaker upbringing, left in my care, what will your father say?

Like a startled deer’s, Tibbie’s gray eyes widened as she gripped Janice’s arm. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Meredith. Yet please don’t be angry with Janice. I’m the one who suggested we read this morning.

The youth of today, Mrs. Meredith shook her head. Lord, please forgive them, they know not what they do.

Waving the book at her daughter, she scolded: "You must be punished. This afternoon you will recite the entire catechism and tomorrow you will spend six hours practicing the spinet. And as for you, Tabitha—"

Janice bent her head, should there be any defiance in her eyes. It hurt, to be treated like a criminal, when all she’d done was steal a few precious moments with a romantic story.

But Janice was not the only one in trouble, for her mother was now waving the book at Tibbie. Janice knew her mother ached to punish Tibbie as well because Tibbie had no mother—only a kindly father and a maiden aunt—neither of whom, in her mother’s mind, as Janice had heard many times, were capable of mastering the fine art of punishment so necessary for bringing up a well-bred, God-fearing daughter.

Mrs. Meredith let her arms fall in frustration. "Well, Tabitha, I shall urge your father, most strongly, to consider the serious consequences of your behavior."

With a swish of skirts, the book held to her chest, she turned towards the door. Now hurry, girls, we depart for church within the hour.

Janice closed her eyes. Finally, her mother was leaving. Finally, peace would return to the room.

Suddenly, panic shot through her—her mother had the book! Within those calfskin covers clutched to her mother’s breast, was the end of the story: Would the pirates stop Alonzo? Or would he claim his throne and return to Amaryllis?

She ran her tongue over her dry lips. This was too much. The spinet practice, the catechism reciting, she cared nothing for that. But to take the book—she touched her mother’s arm.

Please, may I keep the book?

Mrs. Meredith stared as if she hadn’t heard correctly. Shaking her head, as if further words on the subject were simply too difficult to speak, she pushed through the door, letting it slam behind her.

Tibbie brushed back yellow curls as she flopped onto the bed. Turning to Janice, her thin face looked pinched. Oh Jan, I could hardly sleep last night because I was so afraid Amaryllis wouldn’t be able to tell Alonzo that she really loved him.

I know, and we were almost finished. Janice hung her head. She knew her face looked as pained as Tibbie’s. In fact, she knew just how she looked, as if she could see herself in one of the clear pools that caught in the eddies of the Raritan River that ran behind the house: a face framed by dark curls, her mouth a fierce line beneath angry black eyes.

She shook herself. The image was disturbing.

Janice! It was her mother, calling from below.

With a sigh, Janice began unfastening her dressing gown. It was no use. In any contest with her mother, she would lose. We’d better get ready. We don’t want to make Mother any angrier.

Nodding, Tibbie slipped off the bed and began fumbling with the buttons on her own gown. Perhaps if we dress quickly, she’ll let us have the book back and—

The voice called again: Are you dressing, child?

Yes, Mother, Janice answered, then turned to Tibbie. All we can do is be as well behaved as possible then, maybe, she might give us back the book. There had to be a way to get the book; not knowing how the story would end had left Janice feeling as if she were facing a closed door—unable to open it yet unable to leave it behind to try another.

With a second sigh, she stepped out of her dressing gown. Wearing only pantaloons and an under blouse, she tugged open the doors of her mahogany wardrobe. Staring at the mass of gowns stuffed inside, she shifted her thoughts from Alonzo and Amarylis to the colorful silks and laces in front of her. Which to choose? More to her self than to Tibbie, she murmured: The blue chintz? The purple and white striped silk?

Tibbie wrinkled her forehead. "What about the green cotton you wore the day I arrived? All the Trenton dressmakers say that cut is the style for 1774."

Janice shook her head as she saw a vision of herself in the plain lines of her green cotton gown. That dress may be stylish, but it makes me look like an old maid. Today we will see much of the town. I need something—something more becoming.

More becoming? Tibbie repeated, confusion in her voice. Why it was fine for my arrival and then you wore it to visit the Van Meter children— Suddenly her tone changed. "Janice, is there a man you’re trying to attract?"

Silently, Janice chastised herself for using the word becoming. No, there was no man, but of course Tibbie would suspect one.

Tibbie’s face puckered, as she grew thoughtful. Why it must be Philemon Hennion.

Janice grimaced. Logically, Tibbie would suspect Philemon. Not only was the young man a far too frequent visitor, but he was the only young man in an around Brunswick, New Jersey, who shared Janice’s social station.

Why just last week, Tibbie continued. You were complaining that Brunswick held but oafs and ploughboys.

Janice winced at the memory, but it was the truth. The flesh and blood romantic possibilities in her life were less than meager, in fact, non-existent.

Perhaps, though, there was a way to show Tibbie how she felt.

Tibbie, would you like to know what I think of Philemon Hennion?

Of course, her friend replied, primly, settling herself on a spindle-backed Windsor chair near the fireplace.

Janice glanced about the spacious room. A multi-colored rag rug covered the plank floor between the white wood fireplace and her mahogany four-poster. The bed, covered with the patch work quilt she’d made when she was thirteen, loomed beside her dressing table, trimmed with a silk ruffle. On top of the table rested a small looking glass and a brightly polished silver hairbrush.

Janice grabbed the brush. This would be her hat.

Gallantly, she swept the brush from her head as she made an awkward bow. Molding her voice to form Philemon’s rough speech, she said: Yer servant, marms. Havin’ nothin’ better ter do, I’ve made bold ter come and drink a dish of tea with you.’

Tibbie giggled, but Janice wasn’t finished.

Tucking the brush under her arm, she pretended to put her hands behind some coat tails, causing the brush to fall. Stiffly, she bent to retrieve it, while mumbling something inarticulate as if to cover embarrassment—but then she could stay in character no longer, collapsing on the rag rug in a fit of giggles.

And that was how she felt about Philemon Hennion.

Tibbie had to wipe tears from her eyes, she was laughing so hard. Janice, you must become an actress.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened.

Do I hear giggling in here? scowled Mrs. Meredith. Janice, how often must I tell you—laughter is not appropriate? Stop, this moment.

Janice bit back her glee. There would be no point in telling her mother that laughter was such a wondrous experience that surely God intended people to laugh. Such a speech would only make her mother angrier than she was already, which would not help Janice learn the fate of Alonzo and Amaryillis. So, without a word, she reached for the bodice of her blue chintz and slipped it over her head.

Tibbie, appearing to sense the urgency of the moment, jumped from her chair, lifted her friend’s lacing strings and began to tug.

That’s better, Mrs. Meredith nodded into the silence.

As Tibbie tugged, Janice struggled to hold her composure; but then she felt a tickling, forcing her to shriek and jerk about.

What ails you now, child? grumbled Mrs. Meredith.

Tibbie’s lower lip jutted forward. Well, I’ve tickled her, she admitted. But that’s the only way I can make the edges of the bodice meet. You see, when she squirms—

Mrs. Meredith waved a hand. Go attend to your own dressing, Tabitha. I’ll attend to Janice.

I want that book back, Janice told herself. So, as Mrs. Meredith lifted the lacing strings, obediently, Janice gripped a bedpost, sucked in a stomach full of air—then let it out with a whooshing sound.

Instantly, Mrs. Meredith pulled the strings as tightly as she could, then ordered:

Again.

Janice took a second breath, let it out—her mother pulled—and the edges of the bodice touched.

But now Janice was panting, struggling to breathe, the upper part of her chest rising and falling rapidly, making up for the inability to use the lower lungs. Before she could stop herself, she gasped: It hurts.

Tying the strings into a neat bow, her mother shook her head. Sometimes I lose all patience with you, Janice. Here when—at the age of 15!—Providence has given you a figure that would be the envy of any New York woman—well, it’s simply a sin that you object to clothes made to set it off to a proper advantage.

Though Janice was thinking—What does it matter how a person looks, if she can’t breathe?!—she said nothing. She must behave. She wanted that book.

Mrs. Meredith brushed her hands together. Now, put on your slippers and overshoes and be quick about it, for I’ve told your father about that novel reading and he’s waiting to speak to you.

After Mrs. Meredith had gone, Tibbie turned wide eyes towards Janice. Oh, Jan, if your father is to scold you, I should be there too; remember, I brought the book.

Janice shook her head. How would her father react? She wasn’t quite sure. Still, should he be angry, there was no need for Tibbie to suffer as well.

Less than ten minutes later, Janice was greeting her father in the parlor. Squire Meredith was not tall and rather thickly built, his head covered by a curled gray wig. Dressed in his Sunday clothes, the dark broad cloth of his jacket barely crossed the expanse of his belly.

He cleared his throat. What’s this I hear from ye mother, Jan? Reading a novel on the Sabbath were ye?

Janice bent her head. She knew her father would take care to sound stern to please her mother, but was he also angry? Hoping her own voice sounded hurt and repentant she said: I’m sorry, Poppa. Truly. It’s just that Tibbie and I were very much interested in the story. Don’t worry, though, it won’t happen again.

The squire placed his hands on his stomach, and smiled. That’s my girl, I knew ye’d see reason. Come now, and give us a kiss then.

Her heart skipped at her easy victory.

Touching his arm, she stood on tiptoes, breathing the smell of horse and tobacco that always clung to him. As she brushed her lips against his rough cheek, she couldn’t help but think: how much easier life would be if her mother were as easy to handle as her father.

Tibbie and Mrs. Meredith were already in the big black coach, when Janice and her father emerged from the house. With her parents present, Janice could only flash Tibbie a surreptitious smile as she sat down beside her friend. A moment later, Thomas, the groom, snapped his whip over the backs of Joggles and Jumper, the matched reddish-brown bay horses harnessed to the coach, and the vehicle rumbled forward.

Soon the family was being jolted and shaken over the four miles of pitted dirt road which separated Greenwood—the seat, as the New York Gazette described it, of the Honorable Lambert Meredith—from the village of Brunswick.

Since she visited the place at least every Sunday, Janice knew Brunswick well: a growing collection of wood and stone buildings, clustered on the south side of the Raritan River. One of these buildings—an unpainted, barn-like structure on Albany Street—was the Merediths’ Sunday destination. The building served as both a home for the Reverend Alexander McClave and a meeting house for his Presbyterian parishioners. Near the meeting house was the village green, bordered on the west by the court house—a stone building notable, primarily, for the new set of stocks displayed prominently in front.

One other building of note was the wood and stone George the III Tavern, across Albany Street. It was here that the Merediths, and many of the reverend’s other parishioners, would spend the three hours between the morning and afternoon services. The men would gather in the public room, while the women would chat together in the nooning room.

After the coach lurched to a stop in front of the meeting house, Mrs. Meredith eyed the girls. By the way, you two can stop thinking about that book I found today, she said casually. I put it in the kitchen fire.

At her mother’s words, Janice dug her nails into her palms, while she heard Tibbie stifle a gasp.

Once the four were down from the coach, Mrs. Meredith smiled as she and her husband joined a group of townspeople standing in the shade of a poplar tree. Unable to be in her mother’s presence another moment, Janice hooked her arm through Tibbie’s before hurrying to follow the coach as it was taken to the shed.

Tibbie groaned. "Oh Janice, why did I make you read to me this morning? Now we’ll never know if Amaryillis gets the chance to tell Alonzo that she loves him."

Tibbie, please don’t blame yourself. You were so generous to bring the book. To have you punish yourself for that, well I’ll not have it.

She released Tibbie’s arm, stepping away from her. She was so angry with her mother she was shaking. Of course she longed to know the end of the story, too. Yet what really galled was the fact that she truly hadn’t expected her mother to act so severely. Yes, she knew she was not to read novels on Sundays, but to burn the book? Though Mrs. Meredith frowned upon novels in general, far preferring that Janice read histories, biographies, even poetry, as strict as Mrs. Meredith was, novels were not forbidden reading any other day of the week. On top of all that, the girls had dressed as soon as they’d been asked, and stopped their laughter as best they could—well, surely any normal mother would have taken pity upon them.

She sighed. The book was gone and that could not be changed. At least, though, she’d had the chance to enjoy what she’d been able to read. And the story had been so very enjoyable.

You know, Tibbie, if I ever have the chance to tell a man I love him—well, I won’t wait as Amaryllis does…

Tibbie brightened; clearly eager to shift the talk from the loss of the book, to what had been in the book. Oh, Jan, wouldn’t it be delightsome to be loved as Amaryllis is? To be loved by a peasant, then find out he had an exciting past, that he was really a nobleman, or even a king’s son, as Alonzo is, and that he’d disguised himself to test your love?

Janice warmed to the topic. But don’t you think it might be even better fun to know he was testing you, then torture him by pretending you didn’t care for him? So long as you told him that you loved him before it was too late, of course.

Of course, nodded Tibbie, brushing back a curl from her forehead. Suddenly, her mind was caught by a new topic: Why Jan, there’s Philemon Hennion.

From across the small green in front of the meeting house, tall, lanky Philemon lifted his hat. As he bent his head, his pale, unpowdered hair looked almost white in the September sun. When he raised his eyes, they met Janice’s.

The goose, Janice whispered, lowering her eyes. Sometimes it seemed as if Philemon was her shadow: not only did he stop by for tea far too often; but also, whenever she went out, she was almost certain to see him. We better be careful or he may ask to sit between us during the service.

Well, if he does, Tibbie whispered back. I’ll sit with your parents so you can be alone with him.

You wouldn’t! Janice chilled at the thought of spending a three-hour service alone with Philemon.

Tibbie grinned. But Janice, you look so ‘becoming.’ Best not to let such beauty go to waste.

At Tibbie’s tease, Janice choked on a bead of laughter. She must not laugh! She must keep her decorum in this public place.

It was no use, though. Tibbie’s words acted like a match to kindling, and soon the two were consumed by giggles.

A shadow crossed Philemon’s face. Returning his hat to his head, he turned away.

Janice! Tabitha! hissed Mrs. Meredith, suddenly appearing beside the girls. "How dare you laugh upon the very doorstep of the church!"

With some effort, the two swallowed their laughter, composed their features and primly followed Janice’s parents into the meeting house. Once inside, seated in the middle of one of the long, wooden benches, the girls appeared to give strict heed to Rev. McClave’s sermon. A sermon later issued from the press of Isaac Collins, at Burlington, under the title: The Doleful State of the Damned, Especially Such as Go to Hell.

Chapter Two

Miss Meredith Discovers a Villain

September 1774

Squire Meredith slowed Jumper to a walk as he approached a stretch of field thick with corn stalks. The day was still too early for anything more than the soft glow that heralded a rising sun, while the air held a crispness—smelling of damp earth and dew-touched grass. The squire enjoyed these hours before the start of the day, when he could take pride in his 30,000 acres of well-working farm.

Rounding a clutch of trees, he saw his home on a distant rise. Greenwood—named for the green forests which, in spring and summer, ringed the grounds and embraced the white clapboard manor.

Inside the house, Mrs. Meredith was smoothing the quilt covering Janice’s bed. One day, she hoped, the child would learn to master bed-making.

Downstairs in the kitchen, Janice and Tibbie, wearing linen wash dresses well-covered by large aprons, were busy performing Janice’s favorite household task: helping to prepare deserts for dinner. While Janice mixed a ginger cake, Tibbie rolled out the crust for a pumpkin pie.

When the grandfather clock in the front hall chimed 7:00 a.m., the family gathered in the spacious, high-ceilinged, dining room. Sunlight flooded through the French doors on the back wall, which offered distant glimpses of the Raritan River meandering through fields dotted with stubble and corn stacks, broken by patches of forest and orchard.

The room was completely covered in painted or polished wood—polished chestnut gleamed on the floor while white paneling covered the walls and ceiling. On the wall across from the French doors hung a portrait of a white-collared Elizabethan noble woman and her young son. According to the squire, the two were distant relatives but Janice had never been able to master the specific links in the connection.

The dining table itself was covered, completely, by a white linen cloth. Four straight backed chairs were arranged around it, while eight others rested against the walls.

As the family members took their seats, they were properly dressed. The squire had replaced his rough riding coat with one of broadcloth and lace ruffles. While Mrs. Meredith, Janice and Tibbie were now wearing silk sack gowns—dresses which hung loose in the back and so did not require lacing strings.

At the center of the table, a silver tea service caught the sunlight, which bounced to the silver tankard near the squire’s place. Beside the tankard were two stone jugs, one filled with home brewed beer and one with buttermilk. At every place rested china plates of a plain cream color and knives, spoons and forks made of pewter.

Sukey was still bringing food to the table: platters of smoked herring, a comb of honey, bunches of watercress and Sukey’s own special smoking corn bread.

Though a slave, the ebony-skinned Sukey was both cook and Janice’s second mother. In fact, Janice had surely shed more tears on Sukey’s thin shoulders than in the presence of Mrs. Meredith.

Because Sukey had been with the Byllynge family before their daughter, Matilda, had become Mrs. Meredith—all of Greenwood was now under Sukey’s watchful eye. The outdoor servants respected her, while inside with the help of Peg, the Negro maid purchased shortly after Janice turned ten, the few house servants were careful and efficient workers.

The September morning was warm and the family lingered over their meal, as if hesitant to move in the growing heat. Janice reached for a second square of cornbread when she heard Clarion, the Meredith’s black Scottish terrier, yelping loudly.

A moment later, Peg approached the squire.

Young Marse Hennion wants to see you Marse Meredith.

The squire set down his fork. Bring him in, Peg. I’m sure the lad’s hungry. Like as not he hasn’t breakfasted.

Janice choked on the bit of cornbread that had just passed her lips. Philemon was here. Now the meal she’d been enjoying would be marred by that foolish boy’s lovesick looks.

She heard the clump of heavy boots in the hall. Then Philemon was standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Yer servant, Mrs. Meredith, Miss Janice, Miss Tabitha, he said as he took off his hat, bent his pale head and struggled to bow to each of the ladies. Straightening, the loosely-built boy of eighteen, looked over-tall while his clothes rather hung about, than fitted, him.

Now he bowed to the squire. Yer servant, sir.

Good day to ye, grumped the squire. What brings ye here so early?

The young man coughed. I’ve just returned from sellin’ a bale of sheep shearings ta Mr. Hitchins in Trenton. Whiles I was there he asked me to give ye a letter from the Cauldwell firm an’ a bond servant, both had just come ter him on a hay-sloop from Philadelphia. So—

You offered to bring them to us? Janice had to interrupt, though she did so in her politest voice so as not to anger her parents. She knew that the young man could easily spend half the morning providing the details of his journey.

The boy’s face brightened. Why that’s it, Miss Janice; I’m obliged ta ye for sayin’ it better ’an I could.

She forced a smile. He was such an innocent, refusing to recognize how she really felt about him, which only increased her frustration when he was around.

Hast breakfasted Phil? asked the squire.

Struggling to remove a letter from his coat pocket, Phil replied. As for that—

Oh no, if the silly boy stayed for breakfast, Janice would be forced to endure his company for most of the morning. Her only hope was to interrupt him again: I’m sure that an important young man such as yourself, must hurry off to do important things. It was most pleasant to see you. We are, indeed, sorry that you can’t stay—

Janice! snapped her mother. Cease your chatter and get a chair for Philemon this instant.

She sucked in her breath as she was reminded that, though she was nearly sixteen, she was still the child in this family, still under the rule of her mother. With a sigh, she pushed herself away from the table then moved towards one of the spare chairs resting against the wall behind her.

Having removed a letter from his pocket, Philemon handed it to the squire. The next moment the young man was beside Janice, attempting to help her with the chair. All he managed to do, however, was to get in her way, resulting in a bang to his shins. As he yelped in pain, he dropped his hat, setting Tibbie into a fit of muffled giggles.

Eventually, Philemon was safely seated and Janice was, dutifully, placing the platters of herring and watercress before him. While the boy took, liberally, from all the dishes, the squire broke the seal of the letter and began to read.

Mrs. Meredith turned to her guest. Will you have tea or home brew, Phil?

Beer for me, marm, thank ye, he replied, his mouth full of herring. An I think it only kindly ter say I’ve heard talk concernin’ yer tea drinkin.’

Angrily, the squire looked up from his letter. Let there be talk. ’Tis nothing to me.

But Joe Bagby says there’s a scheme ter get the Committee of Brunswick Township ter take it up.

The squire shook his head. Not those lily-livered—it’s one thing to write anonymous letters, but quite another matter to stand up and be counted. As for that scamp, Joe—

Anonymous letters? questioned Philemon.

Aye, sputtered the squire, taking from his pocket a paper, which he first crushed into a ball and then smoothed out, before handing it to the younger man.

Anonymous letters? Janice repeated the question to herself. Suddenly her concern over Philemon was forgotten as a chill cut through her. She left her seat to look at the letter over Philemon’s shoulder.

With difficulty, for the penmanship was bad, and the paper old and dirty, Philemon read aloud:

MISTER MURIDITH,—

Noing that agenst the centyments of yunited Amurika you still kontinyou to youse tea, thairfore, this is to worn yu that we konsider you as an enemy of our kuntry, and if the same praktises are kontinyud, yu will shhortly receeve a visit from the kommitty of

TAR AND FETHERS,

Brunswick Township.

Anger, tinged with fear, erupted in Janice’s stomach. Her cheeks hot, her mouth dry, she sputtered: The villains. Who could have sent such a thing?

One of my tenants, like as not, snapped the squire.

No! she gasped. It could not be the tenants. They were grateful to the Merediths, weren’t they? Besides: They wouldn’t dare.

Dare? The squire shook his head. What daring does it take to write unsigned threats and nail ’em at night on my front door? They get more lawless every day, with their committees and town meetings and mobs. It’s next to impossible to make ’em pay their rents now, and to hear ’em talk ye’d conclude that they owned their farms and could not be turned off.

Philemon reached for more cornbread. Ye know Squire, ye’d find it easier ter get yer rents, if ye only sided more with folks, an’ weren’t so stiff. A little yieldin’ now an’ then—

Never! I’ll have no Committee, nor Sons of Liberty, nor Town Meeting telling me what I may or may not do at Greenwood any more than I let the ragtag and bobtail tell me what I was to buy in ’69. Till I say nay, tea is drunk at Greenwood. To emphasize his point, he slammed the table with his fist.

Folks say that Congress will shut up the ports, sir.

"Ay. But British ships will open’em. The people are mad, Phil, Bedlam mad with the idea of Liberty, as they call it. Liberty? Indeed! When they try to say what a man shall do in his own house; what he shall eat, what he shall wear—where is the liberty in that? And this Congress! We, A and B, elect C to say what the rest of the alphabet shall do, under penalty of tar and feathers, burned hay stacks, or—don’t talk to me, Phil, of a Congress. It’s but an attempt of the mob-ility to override the nobility of this land."

Once again, the plates on the table rattled from the squire’s fist.

Mrs. Meredith spoke up. Now Lambert, stop your banging and getting hot about nothing. Remember how you had the colonies ruined in Stamp Act times, and again during the Association? Yet that all passed, just as this will. Pour your father more beer, Janice.

Quietly grumbling, the squire settled back in his chair, took a long swallow of beer after Janice had refilled his tankard, and resumed reading the letter Philemon had brought from Trenton.

While her father had talked, Janice had managed to take several deep breaths, and so was feeling calmer. It had also helped that though the anonymous letter had angered the squire, it hadn’t frightened him. Then, as the squire had rattled on about the growing unrest in the country, she’d even let her mind drift. She’d heard those views far too often to need to listen to them again. Instead, her mind turned to the letter her father was now reading. That letter was sure to discuss the new bond servant. To Janice the servants and slaves at Greenwood were a family; that meant that this new person, whatever he was like, would become part of that family.

What does Mr. Cauldwell say, Papa?

"He says his brig the Boscawen arrived in Philadelphia, from Cork Harbor, Ireland, on Sunday. He had quite a shipment—tailors, barbers, joiners, weavers, sewers, laborers… The squire’s eyes skipped down the page. It seems the fellow he sent me boarded in Bristol, England. The squire read silently for a few seconds. The man signed a standard indenture contract. He’s 21 years old and is mine for five years if I pay the thirty pounds sterling for his passage to America—though Cauldwell adds that he will accept good pot ashes and bees wax."

He lowered the letter and looked at Philemon. What sort of a man did I get, Phil?

Before he could reply, Philemon paused to swallow an over-large mouthful, which almost produced a choking fit. Finally, he was able to say: The man hasn’t a civil word about him, Squire, a regular dog.

Cauldwell does write guardedly, insisting it was the best he could do. Where’d ye leave him, lad?

Outside, in my wagon.

Peg, bid the man come in. We’ll have a look at— the squire consulted the letter. Charles Fownes, heh?

A moment later, Fownes was standing in the doorway that separated the dining room from the front hall.

Janice sucked in her breath. He was a bearded, powerful looking man—tall, well-shaped beneath a ragged coat, with brilliant green eyes and thick auburn hair.

The man’s eyes scanned the room, glancing at each of those seated about the table. When his eyes reached Janice they rested, in a bold, unconcealed scrutiny.

Feeling her face flush, Janice shifted in her chair. Why this man was staring at her as if, as if he could see through her clothing.

At first she turned away but then, spurred by anger, she forced herself to look at him. Those eyes, sharp and piercing, were still staring directly at her.

She shivered, despite the morning’s warmth.

Well, Charles, the squire began. Mr. Cauldwell writes that ye know a little about horses though not much about gardening, but he thinks ye have a good mind and can pick it up quickly.

Fownes nodded, though he continued to look at Janice.

He also says that ye are a surly, hot-tempered fellow, who may need a touch of a whip now and again.

His eyes still on Janice, the man jerked his head—though whether he meant to agree with, or show his contempt of, the squire—it wasn’t clear.

Come, come, ordered the squire, testily. Let’s have a sound of yer tongue. Is Mr. Cauldwell right?

Still staring at Janice, the man sneered as if about to offer an angry reply. Instead, he shrugged and said: Ain’t vor the loikes a’ me to say Mister Cauldwell be a liar.

Well, what kind of work are ye used to? asked the squire.

Fownes hesitated, then muttered crossly: I’m indentured vor to work, not to bai questioned.

Then work ye shall have, replied the squire, hotly. Peg show him the stable, and tell Tom—

One moment, Lambert, Mrs. Meredith interrupted. Have you had breakfast, Charles?

Sullenly, Fownes shook his head.

Take him to the kitchen and give him some at once, Peg, ordered Mrs. Meredith.

For the first time, at least it seemed to Janice, the young man looked from her to someone else. With an easy, graceful, bow to her mother, he said: Thank you, Madam—apparently unconscious that, for a moment, he’d forgotten to use country dialect and a rustic manner.

If he was unconscious of the slip, he listeners were not. After he’d followed Peg to the kitchen, they exchanged glances in silent bewilderment.

Humph! the squire growled, finally. I don’t like the look of him.

Tibbie, who had remained largely quiet throughout the morning’s proceedings as the dutiful guest she was, spoke up. He holds himself like a gentleman.

The squire stabbed the air with his finger. This fellow will need close watching. Something’s going on here. Cauldwell writes the man marked his servant contract with an X, rather than a signature. Yet he’s no yokel. He moves like a gentleman.

Janice had to speak. She’d been unable to shake the chill the man had left her with. The way he’d stared, the way he’d mumbled his words, the way he’d appeared with that shaggy face and unkept hair. She took a breath. Poppa. I believe that man may have committed some crime. His face has a wicked look.

Mrs. Meredith rose, saying calmly: Janice, you are too young to have opinions of the slightest value. Now go child, it’s time for you to practice the spinet, and don’t let me hear any more such foolish babble. Charles has a good face and will make a good servant.

Janice bent her head. She was still the child, powerless before her parents. A frightening man was to join her family, and there was nothing she could do.

She pushed away from the table. A hard knot of fear was growing in her chest and forcing her to move. Standing up, she headed for the parlor and, with a rustle of skirts, Tibbie rose from her chair to follow.

The parlor was cool as the sun had not yet reached it and no fire burned in the marble fireplace. Clarion entered the room a step ahead of the girls. Hopping onto the white silk loveseat across from the fireplace, he curled himself into a ball.

Tibbie sat down at the embroidery frame, a hunting scene stretched across it, set up near the front window that overlooked the lush lawn and gravel drive. Across from her, Janice took a seat at the mahogany spinet, above which hung three small etchings of horses.

Picking out a few notes, Janice said: Tibbie, what has my father done? You saw how wicked that man looked, didn’t you?

Oh Janice, chided her friend. We don’t know if he’s wicked, we know nothing of him. Besides, he was quite polite to your mother.

We know nothing of him? Isn’t that the problem? Why he could be an escapee from England’s laws, hoping to become lost out here in America.

Tibbie looked thoughtful. It’s true. Such men are known to be in this country, but are you really being fair? You haven’t given this man a chance, and he’s such a handsome man, in case you hadn’t noticed.

Handsome? Perhaps if one is attracted to thieves and villains! Janice rippled the spinet keys in frustration. Even Tibbie was not on her side. But then Tibbie was only a visitor and when she returned to Trenton she’d leave the Meredith’s new bond servant, behind.

Suddenly Janice had a chilling thought: Tibbie, don’t you remember that bond servant out in Bernardsville, the one who killed the family he was working for, then stole the silver and a horse?

Tibbie sighed. Janice, that was an unusual situation. Besides, if you insist on focusing on the worst that could happen, you’ll just make yourself miserable.

So maybe Janice was focusing on the worst, but if she didn’t plan for it, then how could she forgive herself if it actually happened?

Fumbling with the sheet music, aimlessly rearranging hymns and folk songs, spring dances and reels, that hard knot of fear in Janice’s chest grew stronger—yet to whom could she turn? It could be that no one else even understood why the fear was there.

Chapter Three

An Apple of Discord

September 1774

During the following week, Charles Fownes was the topic of much discussion, and not a little controversy. The squire insisted that: the fellow is a bad-tempered, lazy, deceitful rogue, in need of much watching. In contrast, Mrs. Meredith praised the young man and silenced her husband whenever the squire railed against him. To Janice, who had been watching the new servant cautiously—peering at him through the dining room windows when he worked in the garden, observing him with the horses when she passed the stables—he appeared cold and hard. Her fears, coupled with her observations, and the man seemed to personify the Damned who were sure to go to hell whom Reverend McClave so unmercifully thrashed to tatters every Sunday. As for Tibbie, she appeared to have developed an affection for the young man that Janice could not understand.

In reality, Fownes soon proved himself to be an expert rider with real skill around horses, but an entirely ignorant and by no means eager laborer in the little farm work there was to do. In his interactions with others, he was largely silent, though easily angered by anyone other than Mrs. Meredith; and so clearly above his station that he was not well-liked, and a bit feared, by house-servants, field hands and even the squire’s overseer.

Most of the time, he spoke in a rustic dialect and attempted to act like a country peasant. Whenever he became interested in what he was doing, though, the dialect disappeared while his actions became smooth and skillful. The ease of his movements and the straightness with which he held himself, led his fellow laborers to believe he had once been in the British Army. If he had been in the army, since the man looked too young to have completed a full term of service, he was now probably a deserter.

The possibility that Fownes was a deserter prompted many winks and shrugs over the tankards of ale consumed at the King George Tavern in Brunswick. And each time a stray copy of the London Gazette drifted into the public room, the loungers eagerly scanned the deserter columns, looking to read a description of a young man close to six feet tall with broad shoulders, auburn hair, straight nose and green eyes.

Given the lack of new topics in the little community, Janice and Tibbie also often discussed the young man during their long hours of spinet practice, embroidery and sewing. All their talk, though, brought them no closer to agreement. Janice continued to insist that Charles was a villain, or at least a potential villain. While Tibbie had decided that Charles had been disappointed in a love that he still cherished. She’d even created several romances in which he was the hero. In all he was of noble birth and wrongly treated. In fact, Tibbie was so taken with her view of Charles that she’d developed an intense hatred for the woman—a woman very real to her—who had scorned his love and sent him across the ocean to America.

Janice scoffed at each new tale.

You know, Janice, Tibbie argued one afternoon as the girls were sewing in the parlor. The Earl of Anglesey was kidnapped, then sold in Maryland, so it would be perfectly possible for Charles to be a nobleman, yet now a bond servant.

The Earl of Anglesey is a single example.

Well, Jan, you were the one who was ready to call Charles a potential killer—just because some other bond servant was a killer.

Janice struggled for a response. It was true that on the day he’d arrived, Janice thought Charles might want to rob and kill as that bond servant in Bernardsville had done. She wasn’t sure she thought him quite so dangerous now, after having lived with him on the estate for more than a week, but she still didn’t think he could be trusted.

Before she could answer, though, Tibbie continued. Besides, what’s more logical for a man disappointed in love than, in desperation, to indenture himself?

"He a victim of a lost love? Janice squeezed the coarse linen shirt she was sewing. Tibbie, how many times must I tell you: I simply can’t believe any woman ever loved him. Any female of taste, any female at all, would refuse him. Haven’t you seen how coldly he acts if we pass him in the garden or when we are out riding? And then there’s the fact that he has simply taken possession of Clarion."

Clarion? Tibbie sounded puzzled. But Clarion loves you more than anyone, he is the most faithful of pups.

Janice tugged at her needle as she felt hot tears prick the edges of her eyes. For it was the taking of Clarion’s affections that she now saw as Charles’ primary sin. The shaggy terrier had been devoted to her since she was a child. Since Charles had arrived, though, she’d barely seen the little dog.

Thomas says the two sneak off together every chance they get, and sometimes aren’t back til’ eleven or midnight.

Tibbie looked thoughtful. That must be the way Charles got those rabbits for Sukey.

See? The man’s a poacher as well; oh my poor Clarion. She ran a quick hand across her eyes before laying aside the shirt she’d just finished.

Tibbie leaned forward. Are you done with that shirt?

Janice focused her eyes on her friend. "Yes. Finally. It’s the third one I’ve made for that—that creature—since he’s arrived, and mother has two more cut out."

Tibbie was silent for a moment before saying: Janice?

What?

Do you think— she bent her head as a blush crept across her cheeks. Do you think that, perhaps, we could take the shirt to the stable—?

Tibbie Drinker!

Tibbie’s blush deepened. Well, would you rather sit in here sewing shirts?

Janice sighed. A break would be nice. They’d have to change the sack dresses they were wearing of course, and suffer through the ordeal of lacing each other into more respectable gowns—but that wouldn’t take all that long.

Besides, after we drop the shirts, Tibbie continued. We can take Clarion on a walk. Then you’ll see, you still have his affections.

A half-hour later the girls were properly laced and dressed in light silk gowns cut short for walking—pink for Tibbie, yellow with an underskirt spattered with blue and yellow flowers, for Janice. Broad brimmed straw hats were tied with ribbons under their chins, while on their feet were low cut kid-leather slippers, setting off the neatly turned ankles that, as recently noted in the Pennsylvania Gazette, the men so greatly admired.

The afternoon was warm and sunny, though thick clouds were gathering in the distance.

Approaching the stable, a white wood frame building with hay spilling from the opening above the front door, the girls heard a clanging. In the gloomy interior, they found Thomas in the feed and harness room, pounding a bridle.

Though only slightly younger than the squire, Thomas had a roughness about him which did not suggest fatherly. That, and the scar that ran from the base of his right eye to his chin, and Janice was wary of him. He’d been a good groom, though, having served the family for ten years and always with respect and courtesy.

That Fownes, Thomas grumbled after the girls had asked the whereabouts of Charles and Clarion. He was ta’ clean the stalls after dinner, but he’s gone off and the dog with him.

How like Charles, Janice couldn’t help thinking. Abandoning his work to go off gallivanting with Clarion.

Forced to set off with out the dog, the girls wandered through the freshly cut cornfields near the house, past the apple trees, and found themselves by the river. Descending the sloping ridge that led to the fringe of willows and underbrush that hid the water, a sudden loud splashing froze them where they stood.

Someone was swimming.

Clarion’s excited yelps served to tell the two whom it probably was. This probability was soon confirmed by Charles’ voice:

This is good sport, old man—wouldn’t you say? Oh to get the dirt and sweat off! What a climate. Between that scorching sun and those coarse shirts, my skin feels as if I’d been tied up and whipped a hundred times.

The girls exchanged a quick glance, before turning to run back up the ridge.

When they’d reached the top, Janice’s first thought was—what nerve to bathe so near the house, in the middle of the day, when anyone might stumble upon him. While her second thought was—all my work sewing those shirts, and he complains about them!

Before she was able to voice any of her thoughts, though, Tibbie gave a muffled scream. Oh Jan look!

She looked to where Tibbie was pointing, and saw but a pile of clothes under a bush.

Not the clothes, silly, Tibbie had followed Janice’s gaze. "There, in the middle of the clothes."

Something glinted from within a crumpled shirt.

Tibbie bent down.

No, you mustn’t, Janice gripped her friend’s arm.

Tibbie paused. But Jan, don’t you want to know what it is?

Janice was burning with curiosity, but her mother’s upbringing was taking control. It’s none of our concern.

By now, though, Tibbie had retrieved the glinting object and held it in her hand. Why it’s a gold chain, with some jewels attached. Oh my! How beautiful!

Janice bit her lip, her curiosity flaming. What are you talking about? Are the jewels so beautiful?

It’s not the jewels, there was an awe in Tibbie’s voice Janice had never heard before. It’s the miniature painting. It’s of such an elegant creature Jan, and such—

A crashing in the brush and small trees near the water, stopped her.

Seconds later Tibbie was running, with Janice just behind. The two ran until they were both hidden by a thicket of bushes and gasping for breath, their lacing strings pressing tight against their heaving lungs.

Gasping, Tibbie held out the chain and miniature towards Janice: Oh no—Jan—I’ve still got it. What shall I do?

Good gracious, Tibbie! exclaimed Janice. How could you?

I was scared. I was afraid he’d see me.

"You must take it back—that’s all there is to it."