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“and so I take my
leave.”
    Charlotte cracked the letter’s wax seal as soon as the door
shut. She began to read:
December 6, 1780

    My dearest Dear,

    If you have this letter in your hands, it means that you have
reached Charleston and that my friend Ralph Braemar met
you. If such be the case, he will have told you the reason for
my absence. Your distress at not finding me waiting can be
no greater than my distress at failing you.

    By now you must have learned the news that the Loyalist
army raised and trained by Major Patrick Ferguson was
destroyed in a battle atop a place called Kings Mountain
on the 7th of October. Since then there has been greatpersecution of Loyalists, and it is feared that many have
given up. I am being sent to the backcountry to assess
morale and gauge what support for England remains.

    Despite continuing strife in the rest of South Carolina, you
are safe in Charleston. With eight thousand British and
Loyalist troops to defend it, the rebels will not dare to attack.
I trust that you will be comfortable in the officers’ quarters
and I hope that the pleasant society of others will divert you
until my return.
    She paused for a moment. If only he knew!
Before the end of February my assignment will be finished
and I shall join you in Charleston—if you are in Charleston.
Pardon me if I sound a little confused. The fact is, the letter
I sent to stop you from setting out may have reached you in
time. In that case, you aren’t in Charleston anyway, and it is
I who will be disappointed not to find you waiting for me.

    You see by my words the state of my uncertainty. But one
thing of which I am sure is my love for you. This separation
is painful, but I console myself with the thought that our
reunion will double and augment our joys.

    A thousand kisses from your ever-loving
    Nick
    Before the end of February. Only a few more weeks. That
wasn’t so long!
    Charlotte kissed the letter, refolded it, and then, reaching
through the slit in the side of her gown, thrust it into her
pocket. When she reached her new lodgings, she thought
happily, there would be time to reread Nick’s words, to ponder and to dream.

Chapter 4

    THE STREETS WERE EVEN more crowded than they had
been the previous afternoon. Posy led the way, pushing the
two-wheel cart ahead of her through the mire. Since the
trunk was longer than the cart bed, it stuck out in front like
a prow.
    Another ship must have recently docked, for a surge of
sailors, shouting and singing, was making its way from the
direction of the wharf, no doubt to the nearest tavern. Charlotte had formed a low opinion of sailors. Their daily grog
rations—four ounces of rum in the morning and four in the
afternoon—seemed to keep most of them in a perpetually
befuddled state.
    Posy ploughed right through the crowd, as if determination could compel the sailors to fall away on either side. But
they crowded even closer. Several ogled Charlotte in a most
alarming manner. They were so near she could smell their
sweat mingled with the rum on their breath. While she was
avoiding a tattooed arm that reached out to grab her, a
ragged boy bumped into her, and she staggered a little. The
boy ran away without saying anything.
    Once clear of the sailors, Posy and Charlotte soon reached
a side street lined by small houses. Posy stopped at a plain
front door. There was a window on either side of the door.
The window frames, like the door, were painted grey.
    â€œThis street’s called Stoll’s Alley. The Quaker lady lives
here.”
    These were the first words that Charlotte had heard Posy
utter.
    Charlotte rapped on the door.
    After a few seconds, it opened. In the doorway stood a
woman dressed in a plain black gown, without a frill or ruffle or any touch of lace. Her apron, too, was black. On her
head was a black bonnet shaped like a coal scuttle, its brim
so deep at both sides that it blinkered her eyes. Within the
shadow of the