Five #2
Anna set the plate down and folded her hands. No one was to linger near the grounds. That sounded less like a ball and more like a trap. Or maybe a net. She wasn’t certain which possibility unsettled her more.
Mrs. Pembroke turned her way. “Anna, dear.”
She looked up. “Yes, ma’am?”
“You will see to the extra linens in the upstairs press. The good ones, not the ones with the mended corners. Then you will help Mercy polish the punch glasses, count the wineglasses, and tell Elias if he puts the crystal punch bowl on the edge of that table one more time, I shall put him in it and drown him.”
Anna gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And Anna,” Mrs. Pembroke said sweetly.
“Yes?”
Mrs. Pembroke’s gaze held hers a fraction longer than necessary. “At gatherings such as these, servants must be especially careful. Men in high spirits spill more than wine.”
Anna’s pulse picked up.
Captain Whitby laughed. “There speaks experience.”
“There speaks observation,” Mrs. Pembroke corrected dryly.
Nathaniel glanced at Anna again. This time, she didn’t look away.
His eyes held a warning, or perhaps concern?
Maybe it was both, which, under the circumstances, was entirely unfair of him.
He was smiling, trying not to laugh, and acting far too ordinary.
If she hadn’t known he was a courier for the British, she could easily have liked him a great deal.
Captain Whitby, satisfied that he’d turned another woman’s household into a staging ground for his own importance, tucked the folder beneath his arm. “Very good. I shall leave you to it, Mrs. Pembroke.”
“How generous of you.” She crossed her arms and stared at the stacks of plates.
The men started for the door. Nathaniel followed, then paused as if he’d forgotten something. He turned back toward the table and picked up the folded papers. Anna was certain he’d placed them there on purpose only moments earlier. It brought him near enough to speak without appearing to do so.
“Miss Turner,” he said softly.
She reached for the stack of plates again. “Mr. Reed.”
“Tomorrow evening will be crowded.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Crowded rooms are difficult places to move unseen.”
Anna slid one plate atop another. “I wouldn’t know. I am only a servant. I’m never seen.”
His voice lowered. “That is what worries me.”
She stiffened. Before she could answer, he straightened and gave her a courteous nod, the very picture of a useful man retrieving forgotten papers. Then he was gone.
Anna stood with one hand resting on the blue-edged plates as Mrs. Pembroke issued mor instructions again, and Mercy whispered something about whether custard could be served in a crisis.
They were going to have a ball with thirty-five guests and doubled patrols.
Anna began running things through her head. Mr. Sloane. Major Ellis. Officers from the harbor post. Wine orders. Musicians. The east lane. The south wharf. Too many delayed wagons and men suddenly worried about the roads.
She drew in a slow breath. She’d thought Captain Whitby’s occupation of Pembroke House dangerous before. Now he was inviting half the danger in Setauket into Mrs. Pembroke’s parlor.
Nathaniel left the Pembroke house with two sealed notes, one wine order, and a growing certainty that the ball was going to get someone killed.
Naturally, Captain Whitby thought it a harmless display of authority. Rothborne would see it as an opportunity to watch the local families more closely. Poor Mrs. Pembroke saw only an invasion coming into her home. Mr. Pembroke, didn’t bat an eye at any of it. Hmm, where was Mr. Pembroke?
At this point, Nathaniel was inclined to trust her judgment above the others.
Any gathering that brought British officers, Loyalist merchants, nervous neighbors, extra patrols, and too much wine under one roof was not what he would consider a ball. It was a powder keg with music. Unfortunately, there was already enough powder in Setauket.
He rode to the village and delivered the order for musicians, then turned down a road bordered by low stone walls.
It had grown colder since morning, and clouds were gathering along the horizon.
He kept his horse at an easy pace and rode past the cooper’s shed.
A little farther on, he circled back by way of a smaller path and dismounted near a stand of pine.
He led his horse through the trees until the cooper’s shed came into view from the rear.
Caleb stepped out from behind it with a piece of straw between his teeth and a musket tucked casually beneath one arm. “You’re late,” he said in a low voice.
Nathaniel smiled. “I had extra duties. Mrs. Pembroke is preparing for a ball.”
Caleb spat out the piece of straw. “There’s to be a ball?”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said, striding toward him. “Tomorrow night. Captain Whitby expects thirty-five guests, perhaps more. Sloane has been invited, and Major Ellis, if his duties allow. Also Lieutenant Rothborne, officers from the harbor post and several local loyalists.”
Caleb gave a slow nod. “That’s a fair number of redcoats and friends of the king under one roof.”
“Yes, it is,” Nathaniel agreed.
Caleb looked at him and shook his head. “You say it as if it’s merely annoying.”
“It is annoying,” Nathaniel said. “It is also dangerous.” He reached inside his coat and removed a folded scrap he had written in a hand no one in Whitby’s circle would recognize.
“Friday. South Wharf. Barrels marked as oil. Powder inside. Wagons delayed, not lost.”
He handed it over and sighed. “Sloane is handling part of it, and Rothborne is nervous.”
Caleb unfolded the paper and read it twice. “Powder?”
Nathaniel nodded. “Yes.”
Caleb looked up from the paper. “For the harbor post?”