The Tory Widow

Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

Praise for
Midwife of the Blue Ridge

“A terrific book! A riveting tale of love, struggle
and savagery on America's colonial frontier.”

—Bernard Cornwell

 

 

“Love and adventure, pride and passion . . .
A vivid evocation of time and place . . . An unforgettable
novel that will capture your heart. There is simply no
way to put it down once you have begun.”

—Rosemary Rogers

 

 

“A splendid novel of passion and danger in the early Virginias
by a talented new author. I highly recommend it!”

—Bertrice Small

 

 

“Full of action, passion and period detail.”

—
Historical Novel Review

 

 

“Blevins doesn't soft-pedal the brutal realities of
women's lot in the colonies, but gives strong,
skilled Maggie pluck and hope.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

 

“Lavishly and minutely described . . . an in-depth and up-close
look at what life was really like in those times.”

—
Booklist

MIDWIFE OF THE BLUE RIDGE
THE TORY WIDOW

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2009 by Christine Blevins.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / April 2009

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Blevins, Christine.
The Tory widow / Christine Blevins.—Berkley trade paperback ed.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-03244-2

1. New York (N.Y.)—History—Revolution, 1775-1783—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3602.L478T67 2009
813'.6—dc22
2008053564

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

From story conception to holding this real book in my hands, I have been fortunate to draw support from many quarters.

The sage advice goes, “write what you know,” and I would first like to acknowledge the many historians and writers whose diligent work enabled me to understand and “know” Revolutionary New York.

I must thank my fabulous literary agent, Nancy Coffey, for the boatloads of encouragement and advice, especially as the deadline loomed. I am grateful to artist James Griffin and art director Judith Langerman for the production of a beautiful and arresting cover. Thanks to copy editor Jacky Sach for her particular eye, and to diligent managing editor Crissie Johnson for pulling it all together and overseeing the details. Special thanks to my terrific editor, Jackie Cantor, whose keen insight and remarkable story acumen led me to write a better book.

It is hard to imagine finishing this novel without the kind and earnest advocacy of my good friend David Blinderman. I'm also quite grateful to my friend Farheen Dogar for finding time to offer valuable critique on my manuscript pages.

I thrive on encouragement from my wonderful family, and they have never failed to be there for me. For their constant love and support, I'd like to thank my mother, Anela Zownir; my sister, Natalie Frank; my brother, Robert Zownir; my sons Jason Blevins and Bob Blevins; my daughters Grace Blevins and Natalie Momoh; and my son-in-law, Lucky Momoh. I love you all very much.

I am grateful to all of my in-laws—Mary Ann Zownir, Darlene and Larry Kaplan, and Wayne and Jeannie Blevins—for cheering me on. I appreciate the support shown by my crew of nieces and nephews—Joey Morris, Aaron Frank, Madeline Frank, Lisa and Kurt McKenzie, Wes Kaplan, Rory Moore, Brad and Marnie Morris, Casey Morris and Zoe Morris.

And last—but never least—for helping me maintain the discipline and dedication it takes to research and write, I am most grateful to my husband, Brian Blevins. He is without doubt the finest story-brainstormer, first-reader, web-designer, foot-rubber and bolsterer- of-sagging-confidence-and-fragile-ego in the whole wide world. Nothing would be possible or any fun without you, honey.

 

—CB

 

T
HE bright new chapel had yet to be furnished with pews, leaving the floor an uninterrupted chequerboard of gray and white stone tile. Anne Peabody stood centered on a single square—twisting and untwisting a damp handkerchief in her hands—a wretched pawn on this, her wedding day.

The old minister did not spare a glance at the worn book open on his palms. He faced the bride and groom and by rote recited the matrimonial service in a brisk monotone.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony . . .”

The words provoked a thrum in her head, and Anne felt herself go pale. She ached to reach back and loosen the taut knot of chestnut hair laying heavy at the nape of her neck. Blue eyes shiny with restrained tears darted maniacally from the minister, to the man standing at her left and down to her mother's best lace-edged hanky wadded in her fists.

Anne took in a long breath. To regain a modicum of composure, she began to mimic her betrothed. Standing stiffly erect, she focused beyond the scowling cleric's shoulder, on the dust motes dancing in the sunbeams streaming in through sanctuary windowpanes.

The church door opened on squalling hinges. Without a by-your-leave, two men entered, struggling to carry a bulky section of ornate balustrade between them. The older of the two groaned when he noticed the ceremony taking place.

“
Blood and thunder
—now we'll catch it.”

Anne's groom kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but the minister paused and glared as the workmen shuffled past the spartan wedding party to drop their burden at the base of one of the columns supporting the vaulted ceiling. The carpenter and his apprentice were quick to swipe the caps from their heads.

“Beg pardon, Vicar.” The elder carpenter shoved his apprentice to take up positions behind the bride's father and brother.

“Fine day to tie the knot,” the younger carpenter offered.

Satisfied with the comportment of the two unexpected guests, the minister resumed.

“Peter Merrick and Anne Peabody, I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment why you may not be lawfully joined together in matrimony, you must now confess it . . .”

Any impediment?
Anne suffered a sideways peek at her soon-to-be husband.
He's old. He reeks of cabbage and onion. His wig is in dire need of powder. His cuffs are frayed, his cravat stained . . . and there is hair growing out of his ears!

“Mr. Merrick, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”

Peter Merrick did not hesitate to answer. “I will.”

Struck by a sudden notion that her father might yet muster up a shred of paternal love and rescue her from impending doom, Anne cast a desperate glance over her shoulder. Standing beside her brother, Amos Peabody seemed oblivious to his daughter's plight. He winked and nodded, quite puffed up by the brilliance of the match he'd engineered on her behalf.

“The man's a respected printer, bookseller
and
stationer—can you imagine, Annie?” her father had boasted on the day he'd negotiated the marriage. “A two-press shop with a steady clientele—the carriage trade! Merrick has a fine suite of rooms above his shop to bide in, and servants to tend you when you call. Oh, daughter, you will not want.”

On the surface, the match was more than a dowerless eighteen-year-old of her station could expect. Merrick's enterprise in New York City dwarfed the failing Peabody Printshop upriver in tiny Peekskill, where Anne and her brother, David, struggled with their father to produce third-rate work using worn type and a rickety old press that needed repair more oft than not.

Amos Peabody had negotiated a shrewd deal with his old friend, exchanging his only daughter's hand for a complete set of hard-to-come-by Dutch-made type, much-needed replacement press parts and ten reams of quality bond. A boon to the Peabody family fortune, Anne's marriage to Peter Merrick put an end to the unsettling talk of sending young David out to be bound as an apprentice and ensured continuance of the family business.