The Ninth Daughter Part 4

"I'll tell you what caught my attention," added John, as Abigail verified the wavery changes of line, the odd thicknesses and blots where the writer's hand had struggled to imitate angles unfamiliar to it. "Look at the two pieces of paper. No, Rebecca wouldn't use cold-pressed English notepaper for children's exercises, but would she have had any of it in the house at all? What did she write her broadsides on?"

"Common foolscap, like this. Sam arranges with Isaiah Thomas at the Spy Spy to provide her with as much as she needs." She glanced up. "You're saying Mrs. Pentyre was lured there." to provide her with as much as she needs." She glanced up. "You're saying Mrs. Pentyre was lured there."

"That's what it looks like."

"By someone who knows the code used by the Sons."

"By someone who knew that this code was used between Mrs. Malvern and Mrs. Pentyre."

"But Rebecca did wait up for her," pointed out Abigail. "She was still dressed-at least her day dress and her shoes were gone from the house-and the fire hadn't been banked, nor the candles extinguished. And they had had been snuffed and mended during the evening. She waited for been snuffed and mended during the evening. She waited for someone someone. And clearly, she let Mrs. Pentyre in at midnight."

"And the killer as well, apparently," murmured John. He folded the note and pocketed it. "I'll get that," he offered, as Abigail started to lift the heavy Dutch oven, to carry to the hearth. "What time did the rain start here? Ten?" He dumped a couple of shovelfuls of glowing coals onto the iron lid. "If it was coming down as hard as it was in Salem, it would have been easy for someone to follow Mrs. Pentyre's chaise from her house. As to how he would have gotten them to open the door-"

"He was known to one or the other," said Abigail. "He must have been. If he forged the note, he knew the code-"

"And if he forged the note, Mrs. Malvern would not have been still awake," responded John thoughtfully. He set the fire-shovel back in its place. "What time are the Tillets expected back, my Portia?" he asked, using the name they had used in their letters during courts.h.i.+p: she Portia, he Lysander, like heroine and hero of a cla.s.sical romance. "Do you feel able for a half-mile walk, to see what the Watch have left of Sam's handiwork? Or would you rather rest?" he added, scrutinizing her face more closely. "You look-"

"I look like a woman ready to faint away in your arms," replied Abigail briskly. "Yet in either case my conscience would not let me rest, after what I've done to poor Pattie this morning-and burdened her with entertaining that young lout of an Irishman . . ." burdened her with entertaining that young lout of an Irishman . . ."

"Oh, m'am." Pattie dimpled shyly from the table where she was scrubbing potatoes. "Sergeant Muldoon meant n.o.body harm. Not even Mr. Adams, I daresay. You go," she added. "Mrs. Malvern may even have come back, if what happened there didn't drive her into brain-fever, so that she's forgotten who and where she is."

"If she's forgotten," said John softly, putting on his wig again while Abigail took off her ap.r.o.n and stepped into her pattens in their corner by the door, "'tis a curious thing that none of her neighbors found her wandering and reminded her."

By this hour, Fish Street was a lively confusion of carts and drays coming up from the docks, of pungent smells and the clattering of hammers: shoemakers, coopers, smiths in silver and iron. The North End-technically an island, if you counted the little Mill Creek as a branch of the ocean-was a crowded jumble of rich and poor, of the mansions of merchant families and the tenements offering lodging to those who sailed on their vessels, of tangled alleyways and unexpected courts and yards. Shop signs and laundry, boat builders, hatters, soap makers, and taverns packed shoulder to shoulder like pa.s.sengers in a too-small coach as they had been for over a century. Among the waterfront taverns and warehouses the smugglers operated, bringing in cognac and linens and tea from France and Holland in flagrant disregard of the British Crown's stringent trade regulations; gangs of thieves, too, pilfering goods from the tall English s.h.i.+ps and slipping them out almost at once on the numberless tiny coastal traders that brought in hay and firewood, oysters and b.u.t.ter, from a thousand little towns along the coast. It was among the artisans, stevedores, and laborers of the North End that the Boston mobs arose, ready to hammer down Tory doors or launch themselves into b.l.o.o.d.y battle with the South End boys during the riotous celebrations of Pope's Day.

Though she would not have wanted to hear that Johnny was playing with the boys from this part of town-or that her brother Will was gambling in any of its many taverns-Abigail liked the North End.

The gate to Tillet's Yard was closed, and-when they tested it-barred from within. Coming around the corner to the shop, the Adamses found not the prentice-boys Abigail had expected behind its counter, but Nehemiah Tillet himself, a stooped and flaccid-jowled man who reminded her of a spider. "Mrs. Tillet thought it best," he said in his whispery voice. His hands fumbled uneasily, straightening an already straight stack of his wife's ready-made s.h.i.+rts. "Every lad in the neighborhood-and men of full years who should have better tasks with which to occupy themselves-wanted to see the place, and broke the lock from the door even, to go in. I spent the best part of the morning turning them away!"

"How shocking for you," sympathized Abigail, who had never liked the man. "To return home to find the place full of soldiers."

"I was very much overset." He fiddled at the edges of the bolts that lay on the crowded counter: linen, cotton, Holland cloth. "Very much so."

"And you've heard nothing from Mrs. Malvern? She's not returned?"

Moist pale eyes regarded them warily under heavy, lash-less lids, then glanced aside. "No. No, she hasn't." Again his eyes avoided hers.

And little wonder, reflected Abigail, annoyed. From the first time she'd visited Rebecca here, she'd suspected that Tillet l.u.s.ted after her friend. This was no great surprise, given Mrs. Tillet's aggressively unpleasant nature-for the past eighteen months, every time she'd come by to visit, Mr. Tillet had found some excuse to knock on Rebecca's door, with advice, or to share some snippet from a newspaper or church business. "He's worse than Charles," Rebecca had said, more than once, exasperated. "He wants to know who my friends are, and whom I visit. I used to think Mrs. T. put him up to it, to see if she could squeeze another five minutes' work out of me, sewing those wretched s.h.i.+rts the customers pay her for. The way he looks at me-" She'd grimaced. "I can't well push him out of the house, since he owns it. And I would rather be here, and put up with the pair of them," she'd added, when Abigail had shown signs of walking across the yard and giving Mr. Tillet a piece of her mind, "than go back to Charles."

Reluctantly, Abigail had agreed. Between Charles Malvern's vindictiveness, and the general Boston att.i.tude that a woman who left her husband must have done so from a preference for profligacy, it had been difficult enough for Rebecca to find a place to live where she might ply any trade other than prost.i.tution. Sewing endless mountains of s.h.i.+rts for Mrs. Tillet and attending three sermons every Sunday at the New Brick Meeting-House were part of what she had to do, to go on living in her little house.

"May we go back there?" John asked now.

"There's naught to be seen," Tillet responded immediately. "The boys coming through after the soldiers, they've tracked all up, and carried away what they could, belike."

"Mrs. Malvern is our friend," persisted Abigail. "If nothing else, we'd like to-"

"There's naught back there." Mrs. Hester Tillet emerged from the back parlor of the shop, a woman of commanding height and substantial girth, with arms like a stonecutter's from a lifetime of carrying bolts of cloth. "Nor will there be. 'Twas the last straw, and I'd had enough of her weeks ago. Disobliging, lazy s.l.u.t, always finding some reason why she couldn't do a little of the work she contracted to do as part of us giving her the place so cheap. If I I can turn out a handsome s.h.i.+rt in an hour it's sure anyone can, who puts their mind to it, and n.o.body needs more than a few hours' sleep at night: I certainly don't. And now she's run off, and left me with twenty orders to fill. I've had enough, and will have no more." can turn out a handsome s.h.i.+rt in an hour it's sure anyone can, who puts their mind to it, and n.o.body needs more than a few hours' sleep at night: I certainly don't. And now she's run off, and left me with twenty orders to fill. I've had enough, and will have no more."

"You can't turn her out for what happened!" protested Abigail, and Mrs. Tillet turned upon her, arms akimbo and jaw protruding like a bulldog getting ready to bite.

"So you're telling me what I can do with my own property now, Mrs. Adams? Well, I'm I'm telling telling you you, I can't and won't put up with a woman who brings such friends onto my property the minute our backs are turned, to murder one another and bring the whole neighborhood tramping through. We have a position to uphold in our church and in this community, and we won't stand for it." And, seeing her husband looking wretched, she added, "Will we, Mr. Tillet?"

"No. Of course not."

"The woman asked for what was coming to her and was asking for it for some time. I don't wish to seem coldhearted, but I think we all know the difference between the trials that G.o.d sends to prove the righteous, and the deserved punishment that befalls those who deliberately put themselves in the way of sinners."

"Do you, Mrs. Tillet?" The stuffy air of the shop made Abigail's head ache, and the woman's grating voice was an iron file on her nerves. "I honor your wisdom, then, because that's something I've never had the presumption to a.s.sume that I could determine-nor the callousness to withhold the benefit of the doubt."

She stalked from the shop, expecting John to follow her. He did not, and as the door closed behind her she heard his voice, quick and low, "You must excuse her . . . overwrought . . . closest of friends . . ." She was within an ace of turning back and asking how dared he take their side against her, but was too angry even for that. She strode as far as the corner of Cross Street, then stopped, her temper ebbing and leaving her feeling cold and rather drained.

A few moments later she heard John's step on the cobbles. In a marveling voice, he murmured, "You've never never withheld the benefit of the doubt?" withheld the benefit of the doubt?"

"Only from those who don't deserve it," she retorted. Then, blushed. "Thank you for covering my retreat. The woman never fails to enrage me, and I won't say my words were uncalled-for because they for covering my retreat. The woman never fails to enrage me, and I won't say my words were uncalled-for because they were were called-for . . . but I would shake poor Nabby to pieces if she'd said them. I don't know what got into me. I must go back and apologize . . ." called-for . . . but I would shake poor Nabby to pieces if she'd said them. I don't know what got into me. I must go back and apologize . . ."

"If you make the attempt I shall put you over my shoulder and carry you bodily home." John took her elbow, guided her firmly in the direction of Queen Street. "I stayed only to keep Mrs. Tillet from following you into the street and pulling your hair out. Send her a note tomorrow, when she'll have cooled down-except that I don't think she ever cools down. As to what got into you," he added grimly, "after this morning's events, I'm astonished you're not in bed with the vapors. I asked if I could come next week and collect Rebecca's things-"

"You can't let her-" Furious, she tried to turn back, and John's hand tightened on her arm.

"I can't very well stop her from doing what she is determined to do. What I can can do is keep her from selling them at a slopshop. She said she'd have them ready for me." do is keep her from selling them at a slopshop. She said she'd have them ready for me."

"After taking out what she considers she's ent.i.tled to ent.i.tled to in payment of rent," Abigail grumbled. "Secure in the knowledge that with so many strangers tramping through, the absence of this little thing or that, can be blamed on others and not herself. Who will miss a trifle?" in payment of rent," Abigail grumbled. "Secure in the knowledge that with so many strangers tramping through, the absence of this little thing or that, can be blamed on others and not herself. Who will miss a trifle?"

"If Rebecca returns safe to miss them," replied John, "I shall be on my knees, giving thanks to G.o.d. Now come home and rest."

A bigail wasn't certain she would be able to close her eyes, after what she had seen that morning, and the anxiety about Rebecca's possible whereabouts that gnawed her; nor was she entirely willing to make the experiment. Finding Pattie still ( bigail wasn't certain she would be able to close her eyes, after what she had seen that morning, and the anxiety about Rebecca's possible whereabouts that gnawed her; nor was she entirely willing to make the experiment. Finding Pattie still (at three in the afternoon!) cleaning grates and emptying ashes-with the enthusiastic help of Nabby and Johnny, who were seldom permitted to get themselves that dirty-Abigail would have changed her dress to help her: "If you don't lie down on your bed and be quiet I shall dose you with laudanum and oblige you to be quiet," John threatened. Then, seeing her uncertain face, he added so softly that only she could hear, "I shall stay there with you."

"You don't have to."

"I have briefs to read. What I should have done this morning-and, G.o.d help me, what I should be doing tomorrow morning when I'll be out at the British camp."

So Abigail rested, and found herself, as she had feared, back in Rebecca's house, climbing the dark stairs with the stink of blood all around her; hearing Rebecca sobbing in her bedroom, with the door tied shut, and horrible sounds drifting up from the floor below. But when she unraveled the knotted clothes-rope, and got the door open, Rebecca's bed was empty, and instead of that tiny blood-spot on the pillow, the whole of the counterpane was soaked with gore.

Dinner over-dishes washed, pots scoured, scouring-sand swept up from the floor, floor washed, Tommy prevented from falling into the fire-Abigail wrapped up a few pieces of chicken and the extra potatoes she had cooked, added half a loaf of bread and a small crock of b.u.t.ter, and carried this meal to Hanover Street in her marketing basket for Orion Hazlitt. As she'd suspected she would, she found the shop shuttered and the young printer, haggard and distracted, in the keeping room, trying to get his mother to drink another gla.s.s of laudanum and water.

"You remember how we used to play in the marshes?" Mrs. Hazlitt murmured sleepily. "You'd pick daisies and mallows, and we'd make long strings of them, you and I . . . We'd both come to evening service wearing crowns of them, my little King." She pushed aside the cup, and framed his face with her hands. "You're still my little King."

"I know, Mother."

"Am I still your Queen?"

"Of course you are."

"And she"-she pointed an unsteady finger at Abigail as she stepped quietly through the rear door-"she is the wh.o.r.e of Babylon, the daughter of Eve . . . the worst of Eve's nine daughters. The Meddling Woman, going about the streets, asking what doesn't concern her. is the wh.o.r.e of Babylon, the daughter of Eve . . . the worst of Eve's nine daughters. The Meddling Woman, going about the streets, asking what doesn't concern her. She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house She is loud and stubborn; her feet abide not in her house-"

"Now, Mother," he said carefully (Abigail was well acquainted with what happened if one contradicted her), " 'tis only Mrs. Adams. Surely you know Mrs. Adams? It's quite dark, you just can't see well-" Which was true. Winter dusk set in at four, and it was pitch-black now, though six was only just striking from the tower of the Meeting House in Brattle Square. A few tallow candles had been lit, but their feeble glow showed Abigail that very little had been accomplished in the way of cleaning. "You shouldn't have," he said, when Abigail uncovered her basket, and she thought he looked ready to weep, with exhaustion and grat.i.tude.

"Nonsense. Even wh.o.r.es of Babylon can see when their neighbors need help. I can help you upstairs with her," she added, glancing toward Mrs. Hazlitt, who had subsided into a stertorous doze. Two of the flat, square black bottles stood on the table, one empty on its side; there was another on the chimney breast. How bad had she been, that he'd needed to dose her so?

"Thank you." He shook his head. "I think I'll let her go as late as I can-a few hours anyway. 'Tis easier-you'll pardon me saying so-taking her out to the privy in this state, than it is managing a chamber pot. She's just . . ." He flinched, the muscles in his jaw suddenly tight. "It has been a bad day."

"No word of Rebecca?"

He shook his head. "I was going to ask you the same. I haven't been out, but Mr. Adams-Sam Adams-must have sent word, if she had . . ." His words fumbled, and he looked aside. Flinching Flinching, Abigail thought, from the inevitable conclusion, that the man who has murdered Perdita Pentyre has killed her, too from the inevitable conclusion, that the man who has murdered Perdita Pentyre has killed her, too.

And why not? If she had gotten out of the house, if he had run her down in the alley or the rain-hammered dark of the street, would would he have carried her body back to the house? he have carried her body back to the house?

Bracingly, she said, "If he left one body for all the world to find, he would have left two. We've learned who the murdered woman was, though: Perdita Pentyre."

He blinked at her, almost as if he did not recognize the name, then seemed to come to himself a little and said, "Perdita Pentyre? Colonel Leslie's-" He bit back the word mistress mistress , as if he thought Abigail had never heard the word and didn't know what one was, and cleared his throat. , as if he thought Abigail had never heard the word and didn't know what one was, and cleared his throat.

"I'll tell you of it later." She glanced at the slumbering woman by the fire. "Will that wretched girl of yours be back tomorrow?"

"I hope so. d.a.m.nation isn't so bad-"

"What?" Abigail blinked at the non sequitur.

"d.a.m.nation. That's her name. d.a.m.nation Awaits the Trembling Sinner." A smile flickered across his face. "I'm lucky my mother had me before joining the congregation I grew up in, or I'd be called something like Breakteeth or Doomed unto h.e.l.l. As I say, d.a.m.nation isn't a bad girl, just . . . lacking." He touched his temple.

"She will perish," observed Mrs. Hazlitt, waking and regarding them with jade green eyes that seemed very brilliant with the narrowing-down of her pupils. "Four things the earth cannot bear: A servant when he reigneth; a fool when he is filled with meat; an odious woman when she is married; and a handmaid that is heir to her mistress. Jezebel the Queen was the daughter of Eve, and the Lord smote her, and with her her handmaid that was privy to all her ways. Have you brought us supper?" she asked, with a sudden, dazzling smile. "How very sweet of you, dear, though not at all necessary. It won't take me but a moment to put together a green goose pie and some veal fritters; I'm sure my son has told you how well I cook. The prophet of the Lord says that my cooking would be sinful, if I were not so righteous myself."

And smiling, she fell asleep.

When Abigail returned to her house it was to find Sam in the study, talking quietly with John. "Has there been any word?"

Sam shook his head. "I've put out word to every patriot in the town," he said. "And I've been to see Hanc.o.c.k. He's having all his tea smugglers look in every cellar, every hidey-hole, every warehouse along the wharves-every nook and cranny throughout the town. Revere tells me that white-faced pup from the Provost's office found Pentyre's chaise sunk off Lee's s.h.i.+pyard, and the chaise was all they found. No word of the book, either."

His brow clouded further when John told him of their visit to the Tillets', and Mrs. Tillet's declaration that all Rebecca's things would be put out of the house. "I'll see what I can do, about getting one of our men to rent it," he said. "That way it can be searched properly."

"If you can find someone pious enough to suit Tillet," muttered John.

"Doesn't have to be pious, my boy." Sam grinned, putting on his hat. "Just an enemy of someone-like Charles Malvern-whom Tillet hates."

When Sam was gone, John put an arm around Abigail's shoulders. The kitchen was quiet: the children engaged in playing with wooden soldiers near the hearth, Pattie working at her tatting, a task which to Abigail's baffled disbelief gave her pleasure. The gray tabby cat, Messalina, purred by the fire, dreaming of the slaughter of mice. Precisely as things had been last night Precisely as things had been last night, thought Abigail: when she'd known her friend was safe, when the doors that looked into households of pain, and sourness, and distrust had all been shut. When she knew that she might sleep and dream of gardening, not blood.

"She'll return." John rocked her softly in the clasp of his arm. "If harm had come to her, they would have found some sign of it by now."

Abigail put her hand over his. "I think you're right," she replied. "Which leads me to wonder-Why has she neither been found, nor come forth? And I can think of only two reasons. One is that she received a concussion when she was. .h.i.t on the head-yet if that were so, would not the people who found her know her? Or at least, have heard by this time that she was being sought?"

"I agree," said John. "Furthermore, if she had been so severely injured, she could not have got far. And the second?"

"Barring the romantical chance that she hid herself in the hold of a s.h.i.+p that is now on its way to China . . . She is hiding because she recognized the man who did it. And he knows she did."

Eight

From Griffin's Wharf it was a voyage of about half an hour to Castle Island. Dozens of small skiffs and sloops made the trip daily over the choppy gray waters of the harbor, bearing provisions for the men and fodder for the horses, firewood to heat the brick corridors of the squat fortress of Castle William and tailors, boot makers, wig makers, and wine merchants to make sure its officers had everything they needed for a comfortable stay. These little craft bore also the friends of the Crown, who were likewise friends of its representatives: the customs officials who relied on the soldiers to enforce His Majesty's duties, the clerks who surrounded the Governor (a large number of them his relatives), the Royal Commissioners who carried out the King's decrees. And, most recently, they carried the consignees to whom the Crown had given the monopoly on the East India Company's tea.

"The Company's on the verge of bankruptcy, from paying for its own troops to take over land in India," said John, as he handed Abigail down into the sloop of a farmer named Logan, who had agreed to carry them to the island. "The King's lowered the customs duty on the tea, so that he can put the smugglers-like Mr. Hanc.o.c.k-out of business . . . it'll barely be three pence a pound. Once it arrives here, there is no way it will not be sold-and then the King and Parliament will have their precedent, that it is legal for the King to tax goods that come to us, without our consent to the tax."

"And who cares about their const.i.tutional right to consent to be taxed," murmured Abigail, "if it means cheap tea?" She gripped the rail as the cold wind caught the Katrina Katrina's sails, fixed her eye on the pine and granite tuft of Bird Island, the nearest of the small eyots that dotted the harbor's deep channel. The clammy cold seemed to seep into her joints, and the pitching of the sea turned her stomach.

"Are you all right?" John pulled his own scarf higher and tighter about his throat. "I will be quite safe, you know." As Abigail had feared, she slept little. When John had come to bed after midnight she had been lying with open eyes, fearing what she would see when she closed them.

"I know you can slay any number of British troopers with your bare hands," she replied gravely. "Yet you may need someone to untie the boat, while you battle your way to the wharf."

John slapped his forehead. "I had forgot, we might have to fight our way out." His eyes danced as they met hers. But there was a sober worry in them, that answered the fear in hers, and neither needed to speak of what they both knew. On Castle Island, there was no chance that Sam could summon up a convenient armed mob to outnumber the available British troops. The only thing that might prevent Lieutenant Coldstone from arresting John the moment he set foot on Castle Island would be the fact that if he wished to do so secretly, he would have to detain Abigail as well.

Exhausted as she had been by the time she'd lain down last night, Abigail had remained awake by the light of her single candle, picturing over and over in her mind every room of Rebecca's house, both before and after Sam and the others had gone over it. What did they forget? What could Coldstone have found that convinced him of John's guilt? What did they forget? What could Coldstone have found that convinced him of John's guilt? No list, no fragment of paper . . . Had she, Abigail, dropped her handkerchief, for someone to deduce John's presence from? Yet why (her overtired mind had picked endlessly at this detail) would John have been carrying his wife's handkerchief? No list, no fragment of paper . . . Had she, Abigail, dropped her handkerchief, for someone to deduce John's presence from? Yet why (her overtired mind had picked endlessly at this detail) would John have been carrying his wife's handkerchief?

If they had found the brown-backed "Household Expenses" book, they would have gone to Sam, or Revere.

The same could be said if their only ground for suspicion was that Richard Pentyre-that wealthy and fas.h.i.+onable friend of the Crown-was one of the consignees to whom a monopoly of the East India Company tea had been granted. John had always held himself aloof from the darker doings of the Sons of Liberty. Even his pamphlets argued in terms of reason and the Const.i.tutional Rights of Englishmen, not Sam's flamboyant demagoguery.

Now, in the gray daylight, with the walls of Castle William bobbing ahead of them, Abigail s.h.i.+vered at the thought, What did they find in Mrs. Pentyre's room What did they find in Mrs. Pentyre's room?

In addition to the four hundred men of the Sixty-Fourth Foot, and the some sixty female "camp followers" supported on regimental half rations, Castle William-the brick fortress on the island to which the British troops had retired after the Ma.s.sacre three and a half years ago-housed an a.s.sortment of servants, sutlers, animals, munitions, and supplies. These in turn engendered the need for offices and service buildings, so that what had originally been a castle indeed on the round-topped green island now had more the appearance of a grubby village, complete with cattle, chickens, children underfoot, and laundry hanging between the rough wooden dwellings of the men. The office of the Provost Marshal was in the fort itself, but as Abigail had feared, she and John were kept waiting for nearly three hours, on a bench in the chilly brick-paved corridor that circled the parade ground. Through a wide archway they watched the men come and go: clerks, grooms, batmen carrying officers' bedding to air. A couple of soldiers edged by them with a crate of wine bottles. Another, brisk and military despite a rather unsoldierly smock, bore a brace of ducks toward the kitchen.

Did Perdita Pentyre have her own rooms here at the fortress? Was that a perquisite of the Colonel's mistress? Abigail wondered who she could decently ask. Abigail wondered who she could decently ask.

Of course, Rebecca will know . . .

And her momentary, reflexive cheer at the answer to her question turned instantly to the haunted pain of dread.

While she'd washed in the icy predawn cold, gone to the stables to milk Semiramis and Cleopatra, she'd strained her ears, listening for footfalls in the yard, for Young Sam or Young Paul: Mrs. Malvern's at my Pa's, safe . . . Mrs. Malvern's at my Pa's, safe . . .

Nothing. Orion Hazlitt will be listening, too Orion Hazlitt will be listening, too, she thought. Waiting as she had waited, in that dark little house as he got his mother up, dressed her for the day, made coffee to go with the bread she'd sent . . . How well I cook How well I cook, forsooth! Mrs. Hazlitt could barely boil an egg. Rebecca had often shaken her head and laughed at Orion's tales of his mother's accounts of her skills as a housewife. The Lord smote her, and with her her handmaid that was privy to all her ways . . . The Lord smote her, and with her her handmaid that was privy to all her ways . . .

Abigail frowned as that soft voice snagged in her mind. The handmaid that is heir to her mistress . . . The handmaid that is heir to her mistress . . .

She watched the servants come and go. The more smartly dressed looked haughtily down their noses at the mere camp cooks and herdsmen, as was the way, Abigail had seen, of upper servants almost everywhere. What had Perdita Pentyre's handmaid been heir to? To what ways, what secrets, had she been privy?

Her mind turned from the dead woman's hypothetical servant to the known reality of that plump, giggling, sloe-eyed girl who followed Tamar Malvern into the coach in King Street. She would be after Rebecca's time. Abigail recalled, over the five years of their acquaintance, how often her friend had spoken or written of Catherine Moore, her own maid.

She would go to her. If for whatever reason she could not flee to me, or Revere, or Orion-because the killer would know us three as her likeliest refuge-she would seek sanctuary with the woman who was her only friend in that household of anger and lies.

"This is ridiculous," muttered John, face reddening as those who'd arrived after them-town merchants and contractors in victuals, an elegantly clothed Tory judge, and a widow of the town notorious for the gambling-parties held at her house-were admitted to the office almost as soon as they presented their cards to the subaltern who answered their knocks. When that young gentleman finally emerged from the Colonel's office and said, "Mr. Adams?" Abigail rose as well. "I beg your pardon, m'am." The young man stepped, if not into her path, at least enough closer to her to make his point. "The Colonel has said, Mr. Adams by himself."