Sons of Liberty (33 page)

“
I have no idea,” the first man said. He looked at Raechel. “What do you think?”

Raechel flushed. “I don’t know,” she said. It was easy to push a hint of bitterness into her voice. “It isn't as if they told me anything.”

She listened as the discussion raged backwards and forwards. John and many of the younger men were looking forward to the fight, enjoying the chance to prove themselves, while the older men were more pessimistic. Victory would come at a very high cost, if it came at all, and the fighting would devastate the colony. If the Viceroy - or his replacement - refused to surrender, he could bring reinforcements from Boston or one of the other garrisons to continue the fight. And the French, looming ominously in the background, might take advantage of the chaos.

“
Rumour has it that the slaves have already revolted down south,” one of the older men said, darkly. “Do you want those bastards up here?”

“
Should send them all back home,” John said. “They’ll be taking our jobs after the war.”

“
And the Germans too,” another man agreed. “You just can't trust them.”

Raechel silently cursed the government under her breath. There was something ... honest about the Sons, something that called to her even as she planned to betray them. Gwen had been right - the Sons had no plan or ability to govern, after the uprising - but she couldn't help liking them. If the government removed a few of the petty restrictions, allowing men like John to open their own shops, who knew what would happen? Even allowing official settlements in the lands beyond the line would be helpful ...

“
It's time to get back to work,” the older man said. “A pleasure, Miss Raechel, as always.”

He rose. The other men followed him, dumping their empty dishes and spoons on the table by the door. Raechel had a feeling she'd see them again, once she went back to work. Joan definitely enjoyed making her do menial tasks, just looking for a chance to humiliate or hurt her. The fact Raechel hadn't uttered a word of complaint seemed to bother her more than any screaming fit.

Raechel allowed herself a smile, then listened to some of the other conversations as she finished her strew. The Sons seemed to be divided, something that had surprised her until she’d attended her first evening discussion. Older Sons talked about their ideals, younger Sons were encouraged to ask questions and hash matters out for themselves. Raechel had never seen anything like it, but she had to admit that the debates helped explain the ideology of the Sons and indoctrinate the newcomers.

But some of them want a war, she thought, and some of them want to take their demands to the Viceroy himself.

She sighed, inwardly. The demands weren't unreasonable - at least as far as she could tell - but she doubted the government would grant them. Showing weakness could be deadly, in politics. No one would call Lord Liverpool weak - she’d heard he was a stubborn reactionary - but he had enemies. A proposal to grant the Americans even modest concessions might be defeated in the Houses of Parliament. And then where would the Sons be?

Finishing her stew - making sure to use the remains of her bread to wipe the bowl clean - she rose and hurried out the door, back to where she was sure Joan was waiting. The wretched woman seemed to have nothing better to do, but torment her, even though she was technically responsible for the welfare of half the women in the camp. And yet, Raechel knew she was terrifyingly ignorant, compared to some of the others. In hindsight, it might have been better if she’d actually learned to sew from her mother.

“
Your Ladyship,” Joan said sarcastically, as Raechel hurried into the barracks. “The boss wants to see you.”

Raechel started. “Again?”

“
Again,” Joan confirmed. “Don’t you have a prettier dress you can wear?”

Raechel resisted the urge to snap at her. Of course she didn't have any pretty dresses! The only clothes in the camp for women were basic skirts and shorts, the kind of shapeless outfit a farmwife or milkmaid might wear as she went to work. She’d managed to tighten her shirt around her chest, just to make the men more talkative, but otherwise it was nothing like the gowns she’d worn to countless balls. She reminded herself, firmly, that Joan was just trying to get a rise out of her and merely shook her head. She’d endured worse from her aunt.

Joan looked irked, but strode past Raechel, beckoning for her to follow. There were more men in the camp, Raechel noted; striding around as though they owned the place. She looked from man to man, but didn't see a single one who wasn’t carrying a weapon. The Sons seemed to insist that everyone had to be armed at all times, a far cry from the normal laws in New York. But then, Raechel had to admit it might be necessary. The camp might be attacked at any moment.

“
Raechel,” Adam said, as she was escorted into his office. “How are you enjoying life in camp?”

“
It’s different,” Raechel said. She wasn't quite sure what to make of Adam. Sitting behind his desk, he looked like a clerk - he certainly seemed to be in charge of the paperwork - but other officers, seemingly more dangerous, deferred to him. “I’ve never been anywhere quite like it.”

Joan snorted. “She make a right dog’s dinner out of the stew, sir,” she said. “She’s not used to doing anything for herself.”

Raechel scowled, but resisted the urge to snap at the older woman. It wasn't as if she was one of those girls who needed a maid to do everything. She could wash and dress herself with the best of them. But then, if she was being completely honestly, most aristocratic dresses were designed to require assistance to put on ...

“
I doubt anyone really cared, Joan,” Adam said. “Did it get eaten?”

“
Of course it did,” Joan said. She shot Raechel a nasty look. “There’s no wastage here!”

“
Thank you,” Adam said, shortly. “You may leave us.”

Raechel expected Joan to snap at him, or at least to point out that he was acting more like an aristocrat than a Son of Liberty, but instead she merely nodded and retreated out the door, leaving Raechel alone with Adam. She felt an odd thrill of excitement, mixed with fear and trepidation. Being alone with a man - one she assumed to be unmarried - was a slap in the face to society’s conventions ... but, at the same time, she knew she was in his power. A scream wouldn't bring help ...

Or perhaps it would, she thought. Joan had told her - and the other girls - that they had to scream, if they felt threatened by any of the men. But it would be disastrous.

“
Have a seat,” Adam said. “I have some more questions for you.”

Raechel groaned, inwardly. Did Adam suspect? He’d asked her questions when she’d first arrived, perhaps hoping she’d trip up at some point. The other girls had bombarded her with questions too, mostly demanding to know what it was like to be an aristocrat. Had they been primed to ask questions that might blow her cover? Or was Adam playing at something else?

She sat down and glanced around the tiny office, trying not to meet his eyes. There was little elegance in the room, none of the gilt-edged furniture she recalled from her father’s office, but it did look neat and tidy. Adam was definitely a clerk at heart, she decided; he’d organised the paperwork into something anyone could comprehend. And ...

“
I believe you met the Viceroy,” Adam said. “What did you make of him?”

“
I only met him once for more than a minute or two,” Raechel said. “I was presented to him at the ball ...”

“You were a debutante, I suppose,” Adam said.

“
I came out in London,” Raechel said. “It was just a formal presentation to New York’s social scene.”

She winced as the memory caused her a pang of grief. Her mother had presented her to the ton, knowing her daughter would become one of the most sought-after hands in London. Queen Charlotte had been in attendance, too; Raechel had almost tripped over her own dress when she’d curtseyed to the Queen. And if she’d known her mother would die, later that year, she would have been more appreciative of the chance to spend time with her. What she’d said, after the ball, had been unforgivable.

Adam shrugged. “And when the Viceroy wanted you to marry him?”

Raechel choked. “He wanted me to marry his son,” she corrected. Viceroy Rochester was old enough to be her father. Indeed, he’d married young, but waited nearly a decade before fathering Bruce. That was odd, amongst the aristocracy. Every family needed a male heir and at least one spare before disaster fell. “I wouldn't have married him!”

“
He’s hardly likely to take your feelings into account,” Adam pointed out. “Or is he?”

Raechel gathered herself. “My honest impression of him, sir, is that he is a little overwhelmed by competing problems,” she said. “But he didn't bother to confide in me.”

“
A shame, that,” Adam grunted. “Do you know anything of use?”

“
I am a girl,” Raechel said, tartly. What was Adam playing at? “Do you imagine I was meant for anything, but marrying and producing children?”

She felt another stab of ... something. If she’d been a boy, she would have been involved in maintaining her father’s estate from a very early age; she would have inherited, without any cavorts, as soon as her father died. The Slater name would have opened doors at the very highest levels of society. She could have bought herself a commission, joined the civil service or even walked into Parliament. But for a girl ... she was at her aunt’s mercy for another six years. The prospect of being married off was all too real.

“
Maybe,” Adam said. “I understand you can read and write?”

He passed her a sheet of paper. “Read this.”

Raechel took the piece of paper and scanned it, thoughtfully. The handwriting was awful, but she’d spent enough time parsing out her aunt’s crabby writing to know how best to decipher it.

“
Two men were arrested in Brooklyn for handing out warning notices,” she read. “Franklyn has withdrawn from Theta.”

“
Very good,” Adam said. Raechel glanced at him, but there didn't seem to be any mockery in his tone. “You’ll be amazed at how few people here can read.”

He passed her a pen and a sheet of paper. “Write down the following,” he said. Raechel hastily dipped the pen in ink, then bent over the desk. “Franklyn is to meet George at Freedom Five. No further action is to be taken.”

Raechel scribbled it down, word by word. She’d been taught to write in cursive, but she had a feeling it would be better, here, to write as simply as possible. Adam took the paper as soon as she had finished, reading it carefully. She wondered, absently, just who had taught him to read and write. There couldn't be that many differences between British and American writing, could there?

“
Anyone can read that,” he said, finally. “Very good.”

“
Oh,” Raechel said. “How many people can read?”

Adam shrugged. “It isn't seen as a desirable skill in many places,” he said. His lips curved into a smile. “It might give people ideas.”

Raechel frowned. “And you don’t try to teach them?”

“
We do,” Adam said. “But it takes time.”

It made sense, Raechel supposed. She’d been taught to read by her tutors - she assumed Gwen had been homeschooled too - but she’d never heard of a maid learning to read. Irene had warned her that certain classes rarely had the chance to learn. Even a merchant’s daughter might not learn more than basic arithmetic.

He smiled. “I need someone to assist me,” he added. “Interested?”

Raechel blinked. “You want me?”

“
We can't use you as a soldier,” Adam pointed out. “And you do have skills that will be wasted, if you spend your time cooking and cleaning. You would make a very useful assistant.”

And, Raechel asked herself, what else do you want from me?

It was a tempting offer, almost too good to be true. And that bothered her. Adam’s logic was sound, too sound. He needed an assistant who could read and write ... and she’d see everything crossing his desk. And yet, why her? She was new to the Sons of Liberty ...

But she knew she couldn't let the offer pass. “I would be honoured,” she said. If he wanted her personally, she’d just have to endure. “But what do you actually do?”

Adam gave her a toothy smile. “Someone has to organise everything,” he said. “And someone has to make sure we have something to fight with, when all hell breaks loose.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gwen sat on the roof of City Hall, staring into the distance, as the sun slowly edged above the horizon, casting a shimmering light over Amherst. The city was quiet, but she knew it wouldn't remain that way for long. Jackson had imposed a curfew, warning that anyone caught on the streets after sunset would be arrested, yet it hadn't been enough to stop people from sneaking about. There just weren't enough redcoats - and militia - to keep the curfew in place, not when panic was bubbling below the city’s surface. The entire city was on edge. It wouldn't be long, she was sure, before there was an explosion.

Those damned rumours, she thought. If I ever get my hands on the person spreading them ...

She shook her head, knowing it would be pointless. There had been witnesses, of course, to her brief clash with the rogue magician. By now, everyone in Amherst believed that she’d been brutally thrashed to within an inch of her life by the rogue. They'd seen her patrolling with the other sorcerers, or flying over the city, yet they still believed she’d been beaten. Far too many of them wanted to believe it. And the news they were cut off from the rest of America hadn't gone down well. The French might not need to storm the city to destroy it.