The Tory Widow Read Free Page B

her crimson mouth. “A rally on the green. Them Liberty Boys put out the word.”
    â€œLiberty Boys!” the eldest prostitute sneered from behind. “Liberty Brutes is what I calls ’em. I wouldn’t give ’em the time o’ day, exceptin’ I’m likely to garner some custom in a crowd this size.” This clearly mercenary pronouncement earned the woman many baleful glares.
    Anne, for one, agreed with the old whore. The Liberty Boys lost all check and reason the very day the British Garrison shipped out to quell the rebellion in Boston. They immediately formed a militia and commandeered the munitions in the armory. They marched about town provoking incidents, harassing Loyal citizens and vandalizing Loyal businesses. In the name of Liberty, these men manufactured much mischief and mayhem when times were troubling enough.
    Sighting St. Paul’s steeple over her shoulder, Anne realized she had overshot her destination, and she strained to get a bearing on her position. Above the many heads and shoulders before her, she could see the upper half of the Liberty Pole—a red ensign fluttering beneath the gilt weathervane affixed at the very tip of it spelling out the word LIBERTY.
    The first pole erected to celebrate the repeal of the Stamp Act had been a simple affair, an old ship’s mast haphazardly planted in the ground with a board affixed at the top inscribed George III, Pitt and Liberty. The display was an affront to the British soldiers quartered in barracks facing the Commons, and they hacked the pole to pieces. The original pole was soon replaced, and soon destroyed. The back and forth continued for years, escalating to violent mob action on more than one occasion.
    On the day the Liberty Boys with much pomp and circumstance installed this fifth and enduring pole, her Jemmy had been no more than three years old. Together they watched the sixty-foot mast being drawn by six draft horses bedecked in ribbons and bells, as it was paraded up from the shipyards with drums drumming and tin whistles whistling—how Jemmy had laughed and clapped! She had held tight to his little hand that day.
    Anne slipped her hand inside her pocket, and fingered the little brooch she kept pinned there. It had been three years since Jemmy’s passing, and the simplest recollection could still bring on a sting of tears.
    Overcome by the press and stench of the crowd, Anne pulled a hanky splashed with lavender water from her sleeve. Holding it to her nose, she rose up on tiptoes to catch a bit of the same fair wind that turned the weathervane taunting her with the word liberty .
    â€œI can’t see nothin’ either.” The youngest prostitute complained and grabbed Anne by the hand. “C’mon . . .”
    The girl ducked down; tugging Anne along, she wriggled, wormed, bumped and nudged toward the front of the throng. “Move away! Step aside! Comin’ through . . .”
    Anne tucked her head and joined the effort. Paying no heed to grunts and complaints, they bullied forward and broke onto the green to the right of the Liberty Pole.
    â€œBetter, aye?” The prostitute gave Anne’s hand a little squeeze before letting go. “We’ll be able to see everything from here.”
    This girl was much younger than her well-worn companions—Anne judged her to be no more than eighteen years. Despite her youth, or perhaps because of it, she seemed to be a bit more astute and subtle in regard to the presentation of her wares. Eschewing the heavy makeup and high-styled wigs her sorority sported, this girl wore her thick raven hair swept up, with a fringe of loose curls framing her pretty face. A tiny black heart-shaped patch on her right cheek drew attention to the girl’s best features—a clear complexion and wide blue eyes.
    A gust of wind blew across the Commons and lifted Anne’s starched cap from her head to flutter away. The gilded weathervane began to