Sons of Liberty (17 page)

She was awakened by a sharp tap on the door. “Raechel,” Irene called. “It’s time to get up, if you don't mind.”

Raechel sat upright, convinced Irene was right next to her. It took her long bemused seconds to recall that they were in New York - and that Irene was on the other side of the door. Not that it mattered, she reminded herself as she slapped her mental shields into place. Irene could probably read her thoughts from the other side of the wooden door.

“
I’m awake,” she said, as she climbed out of bed. “Can I have a moment to get dressed?”

“
Come downstairs when you’re ready,” Irene ordered. “We’re going to be going out later, so make sure you have your trousers and shirt handy.”

Raechel groaned - that meant male guise, she was sure - but pulled a robe over her head before opening the door and heading down the stairs. A smell rose up to greet her as she reached the bottom and peered into the kitchen. Irene was standing behind the stove, stirring something in a large pot. It smelt of meat, potatoes and carrots.

“
Raechel,” Irene said, without looking round. “Do you know how to cook?”

“
No,” Raechel said. “Do I need to know?”

“
It can be a very useful skill,” Irene said, dryly. She jabbed a finger at a small wooden table, barely large enough for two eaters. Raechel took the hint and sat down. “Girls of your social class are rarely taught anything practical, beyond simpering at men and ordering the maids around.”

“
They’re useful skills,” Raechel protested, without heat. She was growing used to Irene’s snide remarks, if only because she had to admit the older woman was right. “You spent far too long teaching me how to simper yourself.”

“
They leave you dependent on others,” Irene pointed out. She didn't bother to rise to the bait, merely ladled a little stew into a bowl and placed it in front of Raechel. “Through extreme carelessness, I have failed - alas, me - to hire staff for our lodgings. A truly terrible oversight.”

Raechel frowned. Hadn't there been a maid in the house earlier? She must work for Lady Sofia, the poor girl. “Won’t that look a little odd?”

“
It will look a lot odd,” Irene said. “I’ll be hiring a handful of servants tomorrow morning, of course, but I thought we could fend for ourselves tonight. Servants have eyes and ears, as you well know, and they may not have our best interests in mind.”

“
Joy,” Raechel said. She took the spoon Irene held out to her and tasted the stew. It was surprisingly nice, although a little bland. “Can’t we cope without them?”

“
Not without causing too many eyebrows to rise,” Irene said. “It’s lucky that no one, save for Lady Sofia, has visited us yet.”

She sat down, facing Raechel. “What were your first impressions of Lady Sofia?”

Raechel scowled. “A bore.”

Irene nodded. “Do you feel that’s accurate?”

“
She was boring,” Raechel said. The mere memory of the oversweet cakes and pastries made her teeth hurt. “But she did know a lot of the good gossip.”

“
She knew everything,” Irene said. “Or she certainly believed she did.”

“
She was telling the truth?” Raechel asked. “Or what she thought was the truth?”

“
There’s no difference, unfortunately, when mind-reading is concerned,” Irene said. “Lady Sofia never actually lied to us, not intentionally. How much of what she said is actually true ... well, we’ll find that out when we attend the ball, tomorrow. Lady Sofia was good enough to drop off our invitations before she left.”

“Finally,” Raechel muttered.

Irene gave her a sharp look. “You find that that appalling?”

“
She’s a ruder version of my aunt,” Raechel said, bluntly. There was no point in trying to lie to Irene. “If she wasn't wealthy and well-connected she wouldn’t be welcome anywhere.”

“
She's the way she is because she’s scared she’ll lose everything,” Irene said. There was no condemnation in her voice, merely quiet understanding. “Her husband is very much a hen-pecked man, yet he uprooted her from London and brought her to America when his job moved overseas. She had to fight her way into a whole new social scene from scratch. If she goes back to London, she fears everyone will have forgotten her.”

“Not a chance,” Raechel muttered.

“
Perhaps not,” Irene said. She cocked her head. “But just because someone is annoying doesn't mean you should hate them.”

Raechel scowled, resentfully. Her mother had been a distant presence in her life, but her aunt had spent years trying to control her, to shape her into a compliant little girl who would marry well and make the family proud. Lady Sofia was far too much like her aunt for Raechel ever to like her. The overbearing friendliness could easily turn to disdain in a heartbeat, shoving her unfortunate victim right out of polite society ...

“
Your shields are leaking,” Irene warned her. “Trying to understand someone is often more productive than mindless hatred.”

Raechel felt her temper snap. “I would be more understanding,” she said, “if people like her were more understanding to people like me.”

Her aunt would have exploded at her tone. Irene merely looked amused.

“
She is trying to do you a favour, by her lights,” Irene said. “And that isn't something to take lightly.”

She rose. “Get your street clothes on,” she added. “We’re going for a walk.”

Raechel scowled at her back as Irene led the way up the stairs, not bothering to try to hide her resentment. Irene must have picked up on her feelings, but said nothing as she walked into her bedroom and closed the door. Male guise gave her a sense of freedom, she’d admitted once, that Raechel didn't share. But Irene was small enough, she knew, to pass for a man easily, unless someone forced her to undress.

Or put his hand in her pants, she thought, as she donned her street clothes. But that isn't likely to happen, is it?

She hurried back downstairs and met Irene waiting behind the door, looking like a surprisingly dapper young man. Irene looked Raechel up and down, nodded curtly in approval and led the way out onto the streets. It was still warm, even though the sun was beginning its long fall towards the horizon. Irene picked a route at random and Raechel followed her, trying desperately to memorise landmarks as she moved. Some of Irene’s more practical lessons had concentrated on finding her way back home, after wandering through a random part of the city.

They didn't attract any attention, she noted to her relief; indeed, they blended in surprisingly well. The Americans came in all shapes, sizes and colours; she couldn't help noticing that the darker the skin, the more attention they received from other men. Being black had to be a social handicap, she realised, even though she’d found her uncle’s butler - Romulus - to be a very smart man, as well as a deep-cover agent. There was a strange tension in the air that was so thick she could practically cut it with a knife.

And the women are hurrying off the streets as night falls, she thought. For the first time, she understood why Irene liked wearing male clothing. That’s not a good sign.

“
Too many separate bars,” Irene muttered, as darkness fell over the city. “Do you know what that means?”

Raechel shook her head. She would never have been allowed in a working man’s bar in her old life. The men were drinking sullenly, pouring the beer down their throats as if it were water. They didn't seem cheerful.

“
Too many different groups, too little integration,” Irene commented. She kept her voice very low, although there was no one in earshot. “Everyone has their own bars. Do you know what that means?”

“
No,” Raechel said. The crew on the ship hadn't been allowed in the officer’s mess, but that wasn't the same ... was it? “I don’t.”

“
Too much dislike and hatred among different groups,” Irene said. She turned to lead the way back to the house. “If they can't even drink together at the end of a long day, they’ll find it easy to believe the others are all having special advantages, while they’re being put down and exploited. And that’s going to end badly.”

Chapter Fourteen

“
The Honourable Lady Gwendolyn Crichton,” the announcer said, his voice echoing through the ballroom. “Royal Sorceress of Great Britain and her Empire.”

Gwen kept her face fixed in a polite smile as she descended the stairwell into the ballroom, grimly aware of hundreds of people staring at her. She’d made the decision to wear her suit, rather than a fancy gown, even though it would shock the gathered crowd. But she needed them to think of her as a man, or something as close to masculine as possible, rather than a young girl.

It was a large ballroom, she noted as her swept the chamber, looking for names and faces she’d seen mentioned in the files. Nearly two hundred men and women had arrived ahead of her, the younger ones moving smoothly around the ballroom floor while their elders were standing along the wall, talking quietly in small groups. The real business of government would be done in private rooms, Gwen knew; the ball itself acted as an informal place to meet and relax before and after the private negotiations. She caught sight of the Viceroy, holding court near the foot of the stairs and strode towards him.

The dance music changed, becoming something lighter as more couples flowed onto the floor, watched by prowling chaperones. Gwen couldn't help noticing that, while the young men wore suits and ties, the young women wore dresses that would have attracted very stringent comments back in Britain. The American noblewomen seemed less concerned about displaying the shape of their bodies, or the tops of their breasts; one dark-haired girl who danced past was wearing a skirt that didn't fall past her knees. Gwen dreaded to imagine what the society matrons in Britain would have said about her, if they didn't have a collective heart attack on the spot. The older noblewomen didn’t seem so concerned about what the younger ones wore, even the chaperones.

They’re rebelling, Gwen thought. They’re wearing those clothes to say they don’t care about our social conventions.

She shook her head grimly. After Jack - and Raechel - she wasn’t naive enough to believe that the genteel surface of the ton was anything more than a facade, but most rebellious urges were satisfied out of sight and mind of the social matrons. Raechel’s club had been shocking, yet it had been hidden away in a side street, officially ignored by those in power. But there, the signs of open resistance and rebellion were all around her. It boded ill for the future.

“
Lady Gwen,” Rochester said. The Viceroy wore a resplendent uniform that made him look like a senior officer, right down to the sword on his belt. His cronies, the men surrounding him, looked hardly less magnificent. “Thank you for coming.”

“
Thank you for inviting me,” Gwen said. It wasn't entirely truthful, but she was starting to think that she’d learn a great deal by attending the ball. “This is very much like London.”

“
Isn’t it just?” The Viceroy said. He motioned her forward, pitching his voice so low Gwen could barely hear him. “We’ll be talking a great deal over the next few days, I shouldn't wonder, so I’d like you to take this opportunity to relax and mingle. We have to make a show of confidence.”

“
I understand,” Gwen said. She’d found the time to read a couple of broadsheets while working at the Sorcerers Hall, which - just like their British counterparts - had a nasty habit of reporting rumours as fact. “Rumours are spreading wildly.”

“
True,” Rochester said. “Let us see who we have here.”

He nodded to a number of men as they gathered together, allowing their wives and children to seek the fun of the dance hall. Gwen listened, silently grateful for her mother’s lessons, as the Viceroy pointed out the movers and shakers of the American political scene. She wasn't surprised, not really, to discover that a number of Whigs had been invited to the ball, along with the loyalist Tories. Like in Britain, families were rarely solidly Whig or Tory. The oldest families had always bet on both sides in any political dispute.

“
And this is my son, Bruce,” Rochester concluded. “My wife’s greatest gift to me.”

Gwen frowned, inwardly, as Bruce gave her an uninterested look. He was a year or two older than herself, she recalled, but it was clear he lacked his father’s skills. Rochester was a talented soldier and a gifted administrator; Bruce had simply never had the chance to make anything of himself. Gwen would have been sorry for him, if he’d been a woman, but as a man he had ample opportunity to make a life for himself out of his father’s shadow. Going to sea would definitely make a man of him. The howling seas didn’t care if a man was the highest of aristocrats or the lowest of commoners.

He was handsome enough, she supposed, but his face lacked character. His brown hair was long, framing a face that bore no hint of struggle or wisdom. Indeed, there was a hint of powder on his face, a French fashion that had never really caught on in Britain. Gwen couldn't help mentally comparing Bruce Rochester to Sir Charles and finding him lacking in all respects. Sir Charles might have been a traitor, a murderer and a cad, but no one could say he’d been lacking in character.

“
I say, Your Excellency,” a loud voice barked. “When are you going to do something about the slaves!”

Gwen turned. A florid-faced man was standing behind the Viceroy, holding a large glass of wine in one hand. Gwen would have bet good money that it wasn't his first, judging from his flushed face. Behind him, a young man was looking embarrassed. His son, she guessed, resisting the urge to shoot him a look of sympathy. David and she might have been lucky with their father, but some fathers were just hideously embarrassing.