Five
By noon the next day, the Pembroke household had ceased to be a household and become a battlefield of linen, silver, beeswax, and opinions, most of which belonged to Mrs. Pembroke. Mr. Pembroke declined to comment, which didn’t surprise anyone. Half the time no one knew where he was.
This left Mrs. Pembroke to handle things. “This is not a ball,” she said at one point. “It’s an invasion! How am I to throw together a ball in two days?”
Anna stood near the sideboard with an armful of table linens and knew it was wisest not to agree aloud.
Mrs. Fenwick, sporting flour on one cheek and murder in her eyes, planted both hands on her hips. “The man said a supper. Not a ball!”
“Captain Whitby says many things,” Mrs. Pembroke replied with a heavy sigh. “He said he would require only two rooms. He also said his officers were men of discipline.” She frowned. “Tell that to my petunias.”
Mercy, who was polishing spoons at the far end of the table, winced. “Perhaps he admired them before he trampled them.”
Mrs. Pembroke pointed a finger at her. “I am in no mood for accuracy. Besides, he plucked them, not trampled them. That is far worse.”
Mercy bent over the spoons, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Yes, ma’am.”
Anna lowered the linens onto the table and smoothed the top cloth to hide a smile. She’d thought the house was busy before, but with Captain Whitby and his officers forever coming and going, and now a ball in the planning, the place was going to be nothing but chaos.
The captain informed Mrs. Pembroke he intended to host a small gathering in her home, “something cheerful,” he’d said. “To encourage loyalty and raise spirits. And of course, remind the local families that His Majesty’s officers brought order and civility wherever they went.”
Mrs. Pembroke had nodded and smiled until he left the room. Then she’d called him a plague in polished boots.
Now half the household was in motion. The dining room table had been stripped and reset twice.
The good candlesticks had been brought down.
Elias was sent to fetch additional candles from the storeroom, then sent back because he’d fetched the wrong ones.
Though Anna suspected all candles looked much the same when they were unlit.
Through it all, one thing stood out to her. The brown cloak was gone.
Anna noticed before breakfast. She’d gone to the sewing room, her stomach in knots, but the cloak was no longer where she’d folded it over the chair. Mrs. Pembroke hadn’t said a word. In fact, she’d not so much as raised an eyebrow to suggest whether the hidden pocket had done its work.
Anna spent the entire morning wondering whether Martha Washington’s locket was still inside it, if it had been carried elsewhere, and of course, if she’d be hanged before supper. With any luck, it would be after supper. The servants were having roast chicken tonight.
Currently Mrs. Pembroke was worried about which dishes to use for the ball. “Anna,” she said.
Anna straightened. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Count the blue-edged plates again.”
“I counted them already, ma’am.”
“Then you should be able to count them more quickly this time,” Mrs. Pembroke snapped.
Anna nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” She moved to the sideboard and began counting plates stacked in piles.
The dining room door opened, and Captain Whitby strode in with Lieutenant Rothborne at his side. Nathaniel Reed followed a step behind; a leather folder tucked beneath one arm.
Anna nearly dropped the plate in her hand. Merciful heavens, did the man have to appear every time she was trying hard not to think about him? She set the plate down and lowered her gaze.
“Mrs. Pembroke,” Captain Whitby said, sounding pleased with himself, “I trust preparations are proceeding.”
Mrs. Pembroke turned toward him with a neutral expression. “Proceeding,” she drawled. “Yes. Peacefully? No. Efficiently? Debatable.”
Whitby chuckled. “You are a marvel, madam.”
“I know,” Mrs. Pembroke replied, “which is why men keep borrowing my house.”
Lieutenant Rothborne’s jaw tightened, and he pressed his lips together. Captain Whitby simply laughed. He seemed the sort of man who believed every insult was a compliment if delivered by a woman with good silver, of which Mrs. Pembroke had plenty.
Nathaniel’s gaze flicked toward Anna just once. She stared very hard at the plates and realized she was thinking of him by his Christian name in her head. When had that started?
“I have the list of expected guests,” Captain Whitby said. He took the leather folder from Nathaniel and opened it. “I’ve made a few additions.”
Mrs. Pembroke froze. Her face contorted into something resembling a gargoyle before quickly smoothing again. “Additions,” she said.
“Only a few.” The captain waved a paper in the air.
Mrs. Pembroke stiffened. “Captain Whitby, a few additions to an invasion is how one loses the war.”
Lieutenant Rothborne made a sound suspiciously like a snicker under his breath.
Mrs. Pembroke’s head turned slowly his way. “Did you cough, Lieutenant?”
He gave a vigorous shake of his head. “No, madam.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Wise of you.”
Anna bit the inside of her cheek and counted the plates again, because numbers were less dangerous than laughter.
Captain Whitby cleared his throat and handed a paper to Mrs. Pembroke.
“Mr. Sloane will attend, as will Major Ellis, if his duties allow. Also Mr. Partridge and his wife, the Wilkinses, Lieutenant Rothborne, of course, and several officers from the harbor post. I expect no more than thirty. Well, perhaps thirty-five.”
Mrs. Fenwick made a strangled noise near the doorway. The sound caught Mrs. Pembroke’s attention, but not for long. She glared at the captain for half a second. “A supper for thirty-five.”
“A ball, madam,” Captain Whitby corrected. “A modest one.”
Mrs. Pembroke swallowed hard, closed her eyes, then opened them and stared him down. “Sir, a modest ball is like a modest flood. It may be smaller than expected, but the carpets are ruined all the same.”
Captain Whitby clasped his hands behind his back and smiled. “I knew you would understand.”
Mrs. Pembroke gave him a smile of her own. “Oh, I understand perfectly.”
Anna didn’t dare look at Mrs. Fenwick. Mercy, unfortunately, did. Her shoulders began to shake.
Nathaniel stepped forward and placed two folded papers on the table beside Mrs. Pembroke. “Captain, these are the musicians’ names and the order for additional wine.”
“Ah yes.” Whitby glanced at the papers, then at Mrs. Pembroke. “Reed has arranged the musicians. Was that not a fine thing to do?”
“How industrious of him,” Mrs. Pembroke said, her jaw going tighter by the minute.
Nathaniel inclined his head. “I do try to be useful, ma’am.”
Anna held the plate tighter. Useful. There was that word again. He wore it the way other men wore coats, neat and ordinary and meant to hide everything underneath.
Mrs. Pembroke studied him over the rim of her spectacles. “Usefulness is a dangerous quality in a man, Mr. Reed. It encourages other men to give him tasks, such as hiring musicians.”
Nathaniel glanced at the captain as if he expected him to help. Captain Whitby, of course, ignored him. Nathaniel returned his attention to Mrs. Pembroke and smiled. “I have found that to be true.”
“Yes. And yet you persist,” she groused.
“Perhaps I am tragically flawed.” He looked at the floor. Mercy made a small sound that might have been a laugh and turned it into a cough. Mrs. Fenwick stepped on her foot to silence her.
Anna, playing it safe, kept counting plates. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. No, that couldn’t be right. There were only forty. She started over.
Lieutenant Rothborne moved toward the window and looked out at the garden. “The patrols should be doubled tomorrow evening, do you not think, Captain?”
Anna’s hands stilled on the next plate.
Captain Whitby frowned. “That will not be necessary.”
“Major Ellis thinks otherwise,” the lieutenant said, facing him. “There have been too many delays on the roads. Questions from farmers who have suddenly developed a taste for patriot philosophy.”
Captain Whitby rolled his eyes. “Farmers develop a taste for whatever keeps their taxes low and their barns standing.”
“Even so,” the lieutenant said, “activity has increased. Riders have been seen near the north road, and two couriers were questioned west of town. There was even a supply wagon that turned back.”
Anna noticed that Nathaniel said nothing. She heard the silence around him more clearly than she heard the words.
Captain Whitby’s good humor faded. “Who told you this?”
“Ellis,” Rothborne replied. “He sent word this morning.”
Whitby’s gaze shifted to Nathaniel. “And you heard nothing of it?”
Nathaniel’s expression remained polite. “Only that Major Ellis had concerns, sir. Not the details.”
“Hm.” Captain Whitby tapped the folder against his palm. “Then we shall double the patrols, quietly, of course. I don’t want the guests alarmed.”
Mrs. Pembroke’s brows shot up. “How thoughtful. Nothing spoils dancing like the possibility of being searched at the gate.”
Captain Whitby flashed her another smile, though this one was thinner. “You will not be inconvenienced, madam.”
“Captain, I have thirty-five invaders coming to drink my wine, scratch my floors, and compliment my curtains while insulting my country. I passed inconvenience two hours ago and am now approaching martyrdom.”
Nathaniel lowered his gaze, his shoulders shaking. Anna was almost certain he was hiding a smile. Why she found that annoying as well, she didn’t know.
Captain Whitby closed the folder. “Reed, see that the musicians understand the hour, then take the wine order to Sloane. He’ll know what is required.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And the patrol matter,” Rothborne said. “Make certain the men at the east lane know no one is to linger near the grounds.”
Nathaniel nodded. “Of course.”