By Lindsey S. Fera
Jack and Annalisa are married only five months when, enroute to France, a shipwreck separates them. On different shores, each believes the other dead. But when Annalisa learns Jack is alive, she returns to America and discovers much has changed. After a betrayal, she flees town as her alter ego, Benjamin Cavendish, and joins the Continental Army.
Unbeknownst to Annalisa, Jack has also joined the Continentals, harboring shameful secrets from his days in mourning. Against the backdrop of war with Britain, façades mount between Jack and Annalisa, and the merry minuet of their adolescence dissolves into a masquerade of deceit, one which threatens to part them forever.
Abigail smiled, then looked toward her great stone mansion. “Charles can’t refute what I say, and for that, I’m thankful.” She paused. “But I’ve reason to suspect he’s not the man he says he is.”
A gust of chilly air lifted the hat from Annalisa’s head. She bristled as she grabbed it, though was unsure if it was the breeze, or her friend’s ominous conjecture, puckering her skin.
“Whatever do you mean?”
Abigail removed two letters from her pocket. “I’ve been meaning to show you these for weeks but could never find the time to steal them from Charles’s desk.” She unfolded the pages and handed them to Annalisa, who scrutinized the broken seal.
“The Prime Minister?”
“Yes. Lord North.”
“Why is Lord Essex in correspondence with Lord North?” Annalisa asked. “The Prime Minister is not a Whig.”
“It says here,” Abigail reached for the second letter and read, “My old friend, I will do whatever you ask of me, so long as I have your support in Parliament.” She scoffed. “Is it not clear enough? North is vying for Charles’s support in Parliament.”
Annalisa bit her lip. “In my time at Devonshire House, I learned from the duke’s Whig Party dinners, Lord North is wildly unpopular these days. Perhaps he’s merely trying to gain votes by whatever means possible.”
“La!” Abigail groaned. “But why write to Charles? Think you ’tis possible North’s written similar letters to other Whigs? Think you the Duke of Devonshire holds a similar note?”
“I know not. The duke is rather taciturn. But I should think Lord North, a man in danger of losing his popularity, and hence, his position of power, would do anything necessary to secure himself.” Annalisa reached for Abigail’s hand. “Be not too quick to render your husband a traitor to his party.”
Looking quite uncomfortable, Abigail diverted her gaze. “Perhaps you’re right. But I’ve a sour feeling about it.”
Annalisa glanced at the house. “Is Lord Essex hunting all day today?”
“Yes.”
They both stared at the mansion.
“Care to peruse his study with me?” Abigail asked.
Inside, they dallied on the first floor until the nursemaid ascended the stairs with Louisa, then slipped down the hall. Abigail led them through a wide, white painted corridor affixed with bronzed sconces, until she reached Lord Essex’s study. She lifted the latch and closed the door behind them. With floor to ceiling windows and white bookcases, natural light bathed the space in unusual brightness, far unlike the dark mahogany study Annalisa had imagined it to be.
“I’ll search his desk if you look through that ledger,” Abigail said.
Annalisa took the large leather book from his desk to an oak Windsor chair and sat, setting the tome on her lap. She flipped through the pages, all of which had written numbers upon them. “These are his accounts.” Her brows knit. “Wish you to know the expenditure of his estate and finances?”
“No. Charles assures me I may buy whatever I like—”
“He’s in debt.” Annalisa looked up to meet her friend’s anxious stare.
Abigail, seated at the desk, faced her. “I beg your pardon?”
Annalisa rose from the chair and took the ledger to the desk. “Look, his account can barely afford this house. Pray, who is his bookkeeper, his estate manager?”
“La!” Abigail cupped her mouth. “Whatever could he be spending his money on? He’s assured me countless times…how could I have been so foolish?”
“Don’t be too harsh on yourself.” Annalisa returned to her chair. “How could you have known? He probably wishes not to worry you.” She read another page and scratched her head. “But he may have to let this house. I can’t see how you can continue living beyond your means.”
“Let the house?” Abigail looked as though she would weep. Frantically, she reached for another letter from the pile upon the desk. “This estate has been in his family for hundreds of years…Mr. Darby has been the estate manager since Charles’s father was alive. I can’t imagine he’d lead Charles astray.” She unfolded another letter, and her gaze darted across the page. Her face grew wan.
“Abbie, what is it?”
The page wavered in Abigail’s hands. “A letter from George.”
Annalisa rose from her seat. “What does it say?”
“He wrote of his position within the Continental Army.” With a wistful upturn of her lips, added, “He’s a captain now…they’re in New York.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Zounds!”
“You frighten me. What is it?”
Abigail’s eyes rounded with disbelief, and she whispered, “Jack’s alive.”
