One #3
“Yes, Papa. Theo was asking about your return just moments ago. I’ll help Mama while you wash,” Lucy said, looping her hand around her father’s arm as they walked through the storage room into the kitchen, where the back door was wide open, letting in fresh air.
Although they didn’t have much space behind their building, they did have a garden and a henhouse for their chickens. An oak tree that had been planted before Lucy was born offered welcome shade, and a bench had been placed beneath it as an inviting place to rest on a summer day.
As Lucy entered the kitchen, the room felt uncomfortably warm from the fire required to cook the large midday meal.
“Papa! You’re back,” Theo said, giving their father a hug, then following him outside to the well they shared with their neighbors.
Lucy started to help her mother dish the meal, but the bells jangled as someone entered the shop.
“I’ll return shortly, Mama,” Lucy said. She kissed her mother’s rosy cheek that was flushed from the heat in the kitchen.
“Don’t dawdle, Luce,” Cleta Carlson warned, although she offered a sweet smile as she scooped mashed turnips into a bowl.
Lucy rushed into the shop and drew up short at the sight of the man who had stood across the street earlier, leaning against her workbench. Despite being so taken aback by his presence, she couldn’t help but admire his muscular form and his handsome features.
When he removed his cocked hat and nodded politely, her gaze fell on the sun-kissed golden hair of his head, traveled down to expressive brows that raised slightly at her perusal, and hesitated at soulful eyes the color of moss caught in a beam of sunshine.
His full lips and defined jawline added to his masculine allure.
As he straightened and stepped toward her, she had the fleeting thought that he moved with strength and purpose, as though he was in full control of himself and his surroundings.
“Hello, Miss Carlson,” he said in a soft, deep voice that made Lucy’s knees feel unexpectedly weak.
Or perhaps the weakness came from realizing she had stupidly left the ledger open and out in plain sight for anyone to read the entries.
Not that she nor her father had anything to hide, but she didn’t think the tall man with a commanding bearing had any right to know who purchased merchandise in their store.
“May I help you, sir?” Lucy asked in a crisp tone as she strode behind the workbench, closed the ledger, and slid it onto the shelf where her father kept it.
“I came to retrieve something my…” He hesitated just long enough for Lucy to grow suspicious of his intentions and motives. “… aunt left here. A pair of gloves. Aunt Patsy sent me to retrieve them.”
Lucy could have easily handed over the gloves, which were sitting next to her tools just inches from where she stood, but she didn’t. Surely, he had to know she had seen him lingering across the street, watching for Patsy.
Did the man mistake her for a complete dunce? Or did he think his attractive features and a voice that rumbled like a summer thunderstorm wrapped in velvet would leave her so captivated that she would bow to his every whim and wish?
Affronted, she stiffened and lifted her chin. “I will give … Patsy the gloves when I next see her. If that is not her preference, then please bring a note from her to indicate otherwise.”
“I assure you, Miss Carlson, I mean no harm. My aunt was quite distressed to realize she had misplaced her gloves. They were a gift from someone quite dear to her heart, and it would be a tragedy for her to lose them.”
“And I assure you, Mister …” She paused, since the man had failed to introduce himself.
“Barton. Burwell Barton at your service,” he said with a bow, then offered her a boyish grin that caused her stomach to flutter. “But my friends call me Branch.”
“Branch,” she repeated, wondering if the name had anything to do with the series of barely noticeable moles on his left cheek that were shaped like a curved tree branch.
As though he could read her thoughts, his fingers brushed over his cheek. “A mark from birth, I suppose. Now, may I please have my aunt’s gloves?”
Lucy shook her head. “No, you may not. I intend to place them into her hands myself, sir. Now, unless I can interest you in a set of buckles or perhaps a snuff box, then I’ll have to ask that you depart. My family is waiting for me.”
“My apologies, Miss Carlson.” He backed toward the door. “My intent was not to insult or upset anyone.”
“Yes, well, I …” When she looked up into his face and caught him smiling, it was as though all the words she had planned to say fell back down her throat. Mercy, but he was handsome with those sharp cheekbones and a bottom lip that seemed designed for passionate kisses.
Passionate kisses? Heavens above! What was she thinking? For all she knew, this man could be one of the king’s spies.
“Until we meet again, Miss Carlson,” he said, saving her from forcing her brain and tongue to work in unison. “Good day.” With that, he turned and walked out of the shop, settled his hat on his head, and strode off toward the wharf, not that she watched him.
She snatched Patsy’s gloves from the workbench, rolled them together, and stuffed them into her pocket with the locket, then hurried to the kitchen, sliding onto her chair and bowing her head as her father took his seat at the head of the table.
As they enjoyed the good food her mother had prepared, Lucy ignored the conversation of her parents discussing a new house being constructed by one of the Loyalists and focused on eating the meal, hardly able to stand the wait until she could look at the locket.
Something about it—about Patsy—made her beyond curious to know more.
Once everyone had finished the meal and Lucy had assisted her mother in washing the dishes, she scuttled upstairs to her room.
Her parents rested outside on the bench in the shade, and Theo played with a bandalore that their neighbor to the immediate east of them, bookseller Jonas Jones, had given to him for his birthday.
The toy had become a favorite of Theo’s.
A string wound around a thin center bar attached to two wooden discs.
The object of the game was to unfurl the string, then wind it back up using the force of the pulling action without touching the discs.
It took practice and skill, and Theo often played with it when he was restless.
Lucy glanced out the open window in her bedroom to assure herself of privacy, then took a seat at the small desk in her room where she sometimes read or wrote in a journal of an evening when the rest of the house was quiet.
She took a polishing cloth from a drawer, then removed the gloves and locket from her pocket.
Carefully, she unrolled the gloves and smoothed them out, setting them aside before she centered her attention on the necklace.
The silver chain that held the locket was new and sturdy, the clasp of good quality and not likely to break if it were yanked or tugged, which had probably saved Patsy from having the locket stolen earlier.
The oval-shaped locket, crafted from fine sterling silver, bore no maker’s mark on the smooth back.
The face of the piece fascinated Lucy, fashioned in an intricate repoussé arabesque design.
She traced her fingers over the raised delicate scrolls and leafy flourishes intertwined in a pattern that created a central knot.
The background behind the embellishments was darkened, most likely blackened with a sulfur process, to create a distinct contrast to the raised silver design.
Lucy opened the locket, uncertain what she might encounter. She smiled at a miniature portrait of a pretty child with dark hair floating about her head, rosy cheeks, and her lips curved upward in a slight smile. Did the little girl belong to the mysterious Patsy? Or perhaps she was a grandchild.
On the left side of the locket, opposite the portrait, the words In God We Trust were inscribed into the silver.
For reasons Lucy couldn’t explain, it put her in mind of the Declaration of Independence.
Her mother had procured one of the printed copies that were available the day they had heard the colonel read it.
Cleta, Lucy, and Theo had poured over the inspiring words of liberty multiple times, memorizing their favorite passages.
Lucy had no doubt her father would frown upon it, but she didn’t care.
The Declaration was too important to their future not to treat it with reverence and respect.
The locket appeared nearly new to Lucy, but she set to work polishing it.
With caution and care, she removed the little portrait to clean behind it only to discover a tiny clasp that had been hidden by the image of the child.
When she pushed on it, the back of the locket opened, revealing a hidden compartment.
A rolled scrap of thin paper fell out onto her desk.
Lucy ignored it and studied a barely visible maker’s mark of PR on the right side of the hidden compartment. Had the piece been crafted by Paul Revere, a Boston silversmith and one of the Sons of Liberty?
Marveling over that notion, she sucked in a gasp when she read the inscription on the left side of the hidden compartment.
Martha Washington
“Oh my,” Lucy whispered, wondering if Patsy, as the woman had referred to herself, was really the wife of General George Washington, Commander in Chief of the Continental Army.
Dozens of questions danced through Lucy’s mind while she finished polishing the locket. As she worked to insert the paper back into the hidden compartment, it slipped from her fingers and unfurled on her desk.
“I shouldn’t read this,” she said, even as she lifted the scrap and frowned at the unfamiliar text.
Amm trnspt shps LI Hbr frst Agst
“What on earth does that mean?” Lucy questioned aloud.
“It’s a code,” Theo said, speaking beside her and startling her so badly that she yelped in surprise and dropped the locket.
Thankfully, it fell onto her lap instead of the floor. She set it on the desk as she glowered at her brother. “Theo! What have I said? Just earlier today, in fact?”
“Not to sneak up on you, but I was sure you heard me come up the stairs. I made so much noise, you should have thought the whole army of Redcoats was storming upon you. Papa sent me to tell you it’s time to get back to work.” Theo pointed to the locket. “What’s that?”
“None of your concern.” Lucy covered the locket with her hand.
Theo retrieved the scrap of paper that had fallen to the floor. “It could be from a spy. I heard Tommy Dinsmore tell Miles Evans that there are spies everywhere. They pass notes back and forth.” He scrunched up his nose in thought as he read the message. “I think the first word means ammunition.”
Lucy stared at the child, shocked to consider he might be right.
It would certainly explain why Patsy—more likely known as Martha Washington—had been dashing down the street earlier, pursued by the men, and why the man who claimed his name was Branch Barton had been watching them and tried to intercept the gloves that had hidden the locket.
Had Mrs. Washington’s arrival at the shop put them all in jeopardy?
Surely not, or the woman wouldn’t have come inside.
For all Lucy knew, the words scribbled on the paper in the locket could be the writings of a madman, or a list for a servant, or … code words from spies.
Lucy carefully rolled the slip of paper and tucked it into the locket. She closed the back and the front, gave it another quick polish, and slipped it into her pocket.
“You mustn’t say anything about the locket nor the coded message, Theo. Not even to Mama and Papa. Do you promise?” Lucy asked, rising to her feet and holding out a hand to Theo.
“I promise!” Theo took her hand and accompanied her downstairs.
Their mother was in the kitchen kneading bread. From the puffs of air blowing through the room, Lucy assumed her father had returned to the shop and opened the door, allowing a welcome breeze to drift inside and create a cross draft.
Lucy fingered the locket and strode into the shop, intent on keeping Martha Washington’s piece of jewelry a secret, and finding out exactly what the words meant.
If it were something that would help the Patriots, Lucy would do everything she could to be of assistance.