long ride and out of temper that Abigail had not been there to greet him. It wasn’t until supper was over that he recovered his good humor enough to relate the facts, as he’d gathered them, of his case in Haverhill: Mary Teasel’s prickly independence of spirit that had alienated most of the men who would sit on her jury, Ham Teasel’s irruption into the local inn one night to seize John by his coat-lapels and promise him a beating out of hand if he continued to
“Good Heavens, John, what did you do?” Abigail asked, alarmed, and John turned a little pink in the lamplight.
“Oh, just leaned to the side to put him off balance and hooked his foot.” For all his verbal pyrotechnics when out of temper, John was not a violent man, and she could tell that the thought of something that even came close to a tavern-brawl scratched his touchy dignity. “By the time he got to his feet again the innkeeper’s brother and nephews were on him and put him outside, but I shall have to watch myself, when I go back up for the trial at the end of the month.”
Still, with one thing and another, it was breakfast the following morning—mellowed with the fresh bread that she’d tucked into the oven just before bed—before he asked after the events of her week and heard what Matthias Brown and the Heavens Rejoice Miller had had to say about Sir Jonathan’s activities on his return from Maine. “That note that was waiting for me when I came in yesterday evening—when you, sir, were so high-handed as to suggest that my wifely duties ranked above the call of my country’s need—”
“I said I was sorry.”
She mouthed a kiss at him. “Well, the note was from Lieutenant Coldstone, saying he’s arranged to meet Thurlow Apthorp at four this afternoon at the Pear Tree House”—she produced the communication from her apron pocket—“and would the both of us care to join them there and see what there is to be seen?”
“Good Lord, woman, why didn’t you speak of this last night?”
She paused with raised eyebrows in the act of handing Johnny his coat—at six, the boy refused all assistance in dressing and preparing himself for school—and returned, “Because I know better than to poke at a snarling bear, sir, for fear of getting my hand bit.” Johnny also had reached the age of refusing maternal kisses as “babyish,” so waited patiently while she kissed Nabby and straightened the girl’s cap and cloak, then held out his hand to be gravely shaken by both his parents.
“Acquit yourself well at school, son,” instructed John.
“And keep your sister’s hand,” Abigail added, though she knew her son would dispense with this badge of infancy the moment he and Nabby were out of sight of the front door. Besides, Nabby would fall back to walk with her friends, and Johnny dash ahead to run with his.
But knowing how busy were the town’s ice-slick streets in the first flush of daybreak, she couldn’t leave the words unsaid.
As soon as the children were out of the kitchen, John rose from his chair and put both arms around Abigail’s waist from behind. “I shall bite you, m’am, and to good purpose.” Smiling, she held up her hand to him to let him do so, stepping apart from him with the skill of long practice as Charley came charging into the room, with Pattie— leading Tommy—at his heels.
John helped her with the dishes, then retired to his study when Thaxter arrived, to sort through the conflicting stories and rumors about the conduct of the Teasels, and parse out what should be done about the half dozen other Essex County cases that would be decided at the same session. Only after the kitchen was clean, and Abigail had swept and mopped and dusted abovestairs—not that any house could be kept clean of soot-smuts and the smell of smoke, in the shut-up months of winter—and sent off a note via Pattie to Dr. Warren and another to Paul Revere, did she return to her husband’s study, to finish her report on what she had put together of Sir Jonathan’s nature and activities.
“According to our fine lads from Maine, Cottrell kept himself much to himself while he was there,” she said. “He went once to Georgetown Island, to confer with Mr. Fluckner’s agent there, but he habitually went about with a couple of Mr. Bingham’s hired men for escort. Eli Putnam—who, Mr. Revere tells me, is in hiding with Ezra Logan out on Hog Island—has further reported that there wasn’t the smallest whisper of scandal about Cottrell while he was there. Evidently either he didn’t fancy the ladies of Maine, or they didn’t fancy him.”
“It doesn’t sound like that’s ever stopped him before,” sniffed John.
“Perhaps they weren’t helpless enough. Or maybe the black eye Miss Fluckner gave him served him as a reminder every morning when he looked in the mirror.”
“Hmm.” John settled back in his chair and with his penknife scraped a thin paring from the edge of his quill-tip to adjust the flow of the ink. “And nothing from Miss Fluckner herself?”
“A quite remarkable list of every dance that was played at His Excellency’s ball that night, the order in which they were played, and the men Miss Fluckner danced with, delivered yesterday by Philomela. Mrs. Sandhayes’s tally of who was in the cardroom when—if the woman keeps count of other peoples’ aces the way she recalls who was present around the table, she must be an absolute demon at vignt-et-un—is rather less complete, I gather because she had promised not to let Miss Fluckner alone to face Sir Jonathan and kept returning to her side.”
“Little realizing that neither had a thing to worry about,” muttered John, “because the guest of honor had the best of all possible reasons for being late to his own ball. Has a vessel come in to take Harry to Halifax yet?”
“Not yet.” Abigail prodded the study fire grimly and hung the poker back on its hook at the side of the grate. “Not in weather like this. John—Mr. Fenton spoke yesterday of seeing some actors who had been in Bridgetown at the same time as Sir Jonathan here in Boston. Does that sound as odd to you as it does to me? What would actors be doing in Boston?”
“On their way to Halifax, perhaps?”
“But there’s nothing
“You’re right.” John laid down his pen. “ ’ Tis odd. I’ll be at the Green Dragon tonight”—he spoke the name of the tavern where the Sons of Liberty often met in the evening, sometimes only to drink ale and talk politics in the long upper room, sometimes for darker purposes—“I’ll ask Sam and Revere if they can find out who these men were, and when they left town. Did Fenton speak to them, did he say?”
Abigail shook her head. “It didn’t strike me as curious until after I’d left him. But I think he’d be agreeable, for me to see him again.”
“Do that,” said John. “Ask him when he saw them—it has to have been sometime before he took sick on the twentyfourth—and if he spoke to them. God knows, Sam has informants all along the waterfront, and if there’s a tavern-keeper on the docks that’s a Loyalist, I’ll—I’ll leave you and marry him. Sam can learn, quick enough, if these actors were still in Boston on the fifth. ’Twill give me something to say to him when he begins to pester me about what we’re to do to keep young Knox from being sent to the gallows.”
By dint of concentrated exertion, Abigail had the beds made, at least some of the mending done, and dinner ready at three when Nabby and Johnny came in from school and John emerged, ink- boltered and cranky, from his study. Thanks to Abigail’s message to Revere, when Lieutenant Coldstone knocked at their door promptly at four, he was followed by a gaggle of stevedores and layabouts who presumably had instructions to keep freelance patriots from molesting him and Sergeant Muldoon. Coldstone looked as annoyed about this as Johnny did when Abigail told him to hold his sister’s hand, but the last thing anybody needed at this point, Abigail reasoned, was for a British officer to be beaten up in the street.
The impromptu bodyguard fell back when she and John, cloaked and scarfed to the eyes, emerged from their front door, but she was conscious of them trailing at a distance as they followed Treamount Street to the Common.
Thurlow Apthorp—a youngish man whose name Abigail recognized as connected with real estate speculation both here and in the countryside around Cambridge—met them on the ill-graveled drive. “I sent word to Mr. Elkins —both here and at his accommodation address—of your request to see the house, sir.” He bowed to Coldstone, then, upon the officer’s introductions, shook hands with John and bowed over Abigail’s hand. “It is Mr. Elkins who has leased the house, for a year at fifty shillings the quarter. He gave me to understand that he travels a good deal,
