The Tory Widow Read Online Free

spin erratic and the ironclad pole loomed against dark clouds menacing the eastern sky. A pair of young boys poked at a crude, straw-stuffed figure hanging from the pole. Pinned to the effigy’s breast, paper signs scrawled with the words Rivington and Tory rustled on the breeze.
    Mr. Merrick ’s colleague, James Rivington, published the Loyalist leaning New York Gazetteer —the most widely read weekly newspaper in town. A good percentage of Anne’s earnings was derived from the odd jobs deemed too small by Rivington that he kindly sent her way. The effigy did not bode well for Mr. Rivington’s fortunes or, for that matter, her own.
    A large packing crate lay on its side at the base of the Liberty Pole. “Ooooh!” The young prostitute pointed with excitement. Two bulbous tick sacks marked H. MYER, POULTERER sat propped beside the crate next to a steaming pair of buckets caked with amber pine pitch.
    Off to the side of the packing crate, two men were held at bay by half a dozen cudgel-wielding sailors—one man was writhing and spitting in protest, the other stood stiff, defiant and stoic—neither of them James Rivington. A tight huddle of men some ten yards back broke and solemnly came forward to form a semicircle around the packing crate. The Liberty Boys.
    Laborers, tradesmen and artisans stood side by side with merchants, bankers and lawyers, representing New York City’s faction of the Sons of Liberty. Anne scanned the diverse group, recognizing a few faces—Mr. Tuttle, her banker, and her neighbor Walter Quakenbos, the bread and biscuit baker—but her breath caught in her throat when she spied the man at the far end. Arms folded across his chest, his stance wide, there stood Jack Hampton.
    Anne hugged her package tight. Ten years had past, and the kiss under the portico at St. Paul’s remained emblazoned in her brain—the only pleasant remembrance she treasured from her wedding day. With crystal clarity she could call up the defiance in Jack Hampton’s dark eyes, the feel of his strong hands gripping her waist, his soft lips on hers . . . This vivid recollection formed the inkling, the wild imagining of a life she might have had.
    He must have come to the Commons straight from his press. Jacketless, he was dressed in leather knee breeches and his linen shirt was open at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to elbows and his thick forearms were daubed with ink. In the years since she had last laid eyes on Jack Hampton he’d grown taller and broader through the shoulders—daily lifting wooden forms heavy with lead type tended to build strong arms and backs. Anne decided he must be prospering in his trade. His muscular calves were encased in fine clocked hose, and his leather shoes were not laced, but buckled with silver.
    He ought shave more often . The heavy stubble he wore put a dark, hard edge to an expression Anne had always recalled as being hopeful. He still wore his thick black hair parted and queued, and he still battled a stray lock that slipped the blue ribbon at the nape of his neck, but his angry eyes darted from the buckets of tar to the stormy skies, and two deep creases of consternation formed between his drawn brows.
    â€œCaptain Sears,” Jack shouted to a thin, graying man wearing a cocked hat and a brown suit. “If we’re doing this thing, then let’s get it done.”
    This irked and annoyed Jack Hampton did not mesh well with her fond recollection. Anne always imagined him happy.
    â€œAll right, Hampton, let’s get it done.” The captain mounted the crate and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Sears pushed the tricorn back on his head and began. “Brothers and Sisters of Liberty!” The crowd calmed. “With Patriot blood newly spilled on the fields at Lexington and Concord, we must all be diligent to expose and expel the Loyalist traitors lurking in our midst . . .” The captain