Recently widowed, Rebecca Parcell is too busy struggling to maintain her farm in Morristown to care who wins the War for Independence. But rumors are spreading in 1780 that sheâs a Loyalist sympathizer who betrayed her husband to the Britishâquite a tidy way to end her disastrous marriage, the village gossips whisper.
Everyone knows that her husband was a Patriot, a hero who died aboard a British prison ship moored in New York Harbor. But âeveryoneâ is wrong. Parcell was a British spy, and General Washington â who spent two winters in Morristown â can prove it. He swears heâll safeguard Beccaâs farm if she unravels her husbandâs secrets. With a mob ready to exile her or worse in the winter of 1780, itâs an offer she canât refuse.
Escaped British prisoner of war Daniel Alloway was the last person to see Beccaâs husband alive, and Washington throws this unlikely couple together on an espionage mission to British-occupied New York City. Moving from glittering balls to an underworld of brothels and prisons, Becca and Daniel uncover a plot that threatens the new countryâs future. But will they move quickly enough to warn General Washington? And can Becca, whoâs lost almost everyone she loves, fight her growing attraction to Daniel, a man who always moves on?
An exciting Revolutionary-era thriller with a twisty mystery, great characters, and historical accuracy to boot.
– Eleanor Kuhns,author of the Will Rees mysteries
Chapter One
Morristown â January 1780
There was a nervous rustling in the white-washed meeting house, a disturbance of air like the sound of sparrows taking wing.
Becca Parcell peered over the balconyâs rough, wood railing, blinking away the fog of half-sleep. She had been dreaming of the figures in her account book and wondering whether there would be enough money for seed this spring.
âI didnât hear what âŚ.â she whispered to Philipâs mother.
Lady Augusta Georgiana Stokes Parcell, known simply as Lady Augusta, covered Beccaâs hand with her own. âPhilip. Theyâre speaking of Philip.â
Becca couldnât tell whether it was her hand or Augustaâs that trembled.
âThe Bible says, if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and cast it from thee, does it not?â The preacherâs voice was soft, yet it carried to every corner of the congregation. âTheyâre here. Amongst us. Neighbors who toast the King behind closed doors. Neighbors with no love of liberty.â
Philip was a Patriot. He had died a hero. Everyone knew. Minister Townsend couldnât be talking about him.
The minister raised his eyes to hers. With his long thin arms and legs and round belly, he reminded her of a spider. She twisted her lips into the semblance of a smile as if to say âyou donât scare me.â But he did.
âWhich of your neighbors celebrates each time a Patriot dies?â Townsendâs voice rose like smoke to the rafters, took on strength and caught fire. âTheir presence here is an abomination.â He rapped the podium with a flat palm, the sound bruising in the quiet church. âThen cast them out. Now.â
Men pounded the floor with their feet.
Becca flinched. It wouldnât take much to tip the congregation into violence. Everyone had lost someone or something to this endless war. It had been going on for almost five years.
Townsendâs thin arm rose, pointing to her.
Beccaâs breath caught.
âAnd what of widows like Mrs. Parcell? Left alone, no longer guided by the wise direction of their husbands.â
Guided? Becca pulled her hand from Augustaâs. She rubbed her thumb along the palm of her hand, feeling the rough calluses stamped there. She had learned the rhythm of the scythe at the end of the summer, how to twist and swing low until her hands were so stiff that sheâd struggle to free them from the handle. Sheâd fallen into a dreamless sleep each night during the harvest too exhausted even to dream of Philip. She, Augusta and their servant Annie were doing just fine.
âHe hardly slept at home, as I hear it,â a woman behind her sniffed to a neighbor.
Beccaâs spine straightened.
âNo wonder there were no babes,â the second woman murmured.
Becca twisted and nodded a smile to Mrs. Huber and Mrs. Harrington. Their mouths pursed into surprised tight circles. Sheâd heard them murmur, their mouths hidden by fluttering fans: About her lack of social graces; her friendship with servants; her awkward silence in company. âWhat else could you expect from her?â they would say, snapping shut their fans.
Relief washed through Becca, nonetheless. This was merely the old gossip, not the new rumors.
âSome of you thought Mr. Parcell was just another smuggler.â The pastorâs voice boomed.
A few in the congregation chuckled. It was illegal to sell food to the British in New York â the âLondon Tradeâ some called it â but most turned a blind eye. Even Patriots need hard currency to live, Becca recalled Philip saying.
âHe only married her for the dowry,â Mrs. Huber hissed.
Beccaâs hand curved into a fist.
Augusta cleared her throat, and Becca forced herself to relax.
âPerhaps some of you thought Mr. Parcell was still a Tory,â the minister said.
The chuckling died.
âHe came to his senses, though. He was, after all, one of us,â Minister Townsend continued.
One of us. Invitations from the finer families had trickled away after Philipâs death.
âWe all know his story,â Townsend continued. âHe smuggled whiskey into New York City. And what a perfect disguise his aristocratic roots provided.â The minister lifted his nose in the air as if mimicking a dandy.
âThe British thought he was one of them, at least until the end.â The ministerâs voice swooped as if telling a story around a campfire. âHe brought home information about the British troops in the City.â
Becca shifted on the bench. She hadnât known about her husbandâs bravery until after his death. It had baffled her. Philip never spoke of politics.
Townsend lifted one finger to his chin as if he had a new thought. âBut who told the British where Mr. Parcell would be on the day he was captured? Who told the Redcoats that Mr. Parcell was a spy for independence?â
Becca forgot to breathe. He wouldnât dare.
âIt must have been someone who knew him well.â The ministerâs gaze moved slowly through the congregation and came to rest on Becca. His eyes were the color of creosote, dark and burning. âVery, very well.â
Mrs. Coddington, who sat to Beccaâs left, pulled the hem of her black silk gown close to avoid contact. Men in the front pews swiveled and stared.
âI would never. I didnât.â Beccaâs corset gouged her ribcage.
âSpeak up, Mrs. Parcell. We canât hear you,â the minister said in a singsong voice.
Townsend might as well strip her naked before the entire town. Respectable women didnât speak in public. He means to humiliate me.
âStand up, Mrs. Parcell.â His voice boomed. âWe all want to hear.â
She didnât remember standing. But there she was, the fingers of her right hand curled as it held the hunting bow sheâd used since she was a child. Becca turned back to the minister. âHogwash.â If they didnât think she was a lady, she need not act like one. âYour independence is a wickedly unfair thing if it lets you accuse me without proof.â
Gasps cascaded throughout the darkening church.
From the balcony, where slaves and servants sat, she heard two coughs, explosive as gun fire. She twisted. Carl scowled down at her in warning. His white halo of hair, fine as duckling feathers, seemed to stand on end. He had worked for her father and helped to raise her. He had taught her numbers and mathematics. She couldnât remember life without him.
âAccuse? Accuse you of what, Mrs. Parcell?â The minister opened his arms to the congregation. âWhat have we accused you of?â
Becca didnât feel the chill now. âOf killing my husband. If this is what your new nation stands for â neighbors accusing neighbors, dividing us with lies â I’ll have none of it. âFive years into this endless war, is anyone better off for Congressâ Declaration of Independence? Independence wonât pay for food. It wonât bring my husband home.â
It was as if sheâd burst into flames. âWhat has the war brought any of us? Heartache, is all. Curse your independence. Curse you for âŚ.â
Augusta yanked on Beccaâs gown with such force that she teetered, then rocked back onto the bench.
The church erupted in shouts, a crashing wave of sound meant to crush her.
Beccaâs breath came in short puffs. What had she done?
âNow thatâs just grief speaking, gentlemen. Mrs. Parcell is still mourning her husband. No need to get worked up.â The voice rose from the front row. She recognized Thomas Lockwoodâs slow, confident drawl.
She craned her neck to watch Thomas, with his wheat-colored hair and wide shoulders. His broad stance reminded her of a captain at the wheel. He was a gentleman, a friend of General Washington. Theyâll listen to him, she thought.
âOur minister doesnât mean to accuse Mrs. Parcell of anything, now do you, sir?â
The two men stared at each other. A minister depended on the good will of gentlemen like Thomas Lockwood.
The pastor blinked first. He shook his head.
Beccaâs breathing slowed.
âThere now. As I said.â Lockwoodâs voice calmed the room.
Then Mr. Baldwin stood slowly. Wrinkles crisscrossed his cheeks. Heâd sent his three boys to fight with the Continental Army in â75. Only one body came home to be buried. The other two were never found. He pointed at Becca with fingers twisted by arthritis. âMrs. Parcell didnât help when the women raised money for the soldiers last month.â
A woman at the end of Beccaâs pew sobbed quietly. It was Mrs. Baldwin.
âYou didnât invite me.â Becca searched the closed faces for proof that someone believed her.
âIs she on our side or theirs?â another woman called.
The congregation quieted again. But it was the charged silence between two claps of thunder, and the Assembly waited for a fresh explosion in the dim light of the tired winter afternoon.
With that, Augustaâs imperious voice sliced through the silence: âSomeone help my daughter-in-law. Sheâs not well. I believe sheâs about to faint.â
Becca might be rash, but she wasnât stupid, and she knew a command when she heard one. She shut her eyes and fell gracelessly into the aisle. Her head and shoulder thumped against the rough pine floorboards.
Mrs. Coddington gasped. So did Becca, from the sharp pain in her cheek and shoulder.
Women in the surrounding rows scooted back in surprise, their boots shuffling with a shh-shh sound.
âLady Augusta,â Mrs. Coddington huffed.
Independence be damned. All of Morristown seemed to enjoy using Augustaâs family title, her former title, as often as possible.
âLady Augusta,â she repeated. âIâve had my suspicions about that girl since the day she married your son. I donât know why you havenât sent her back to her people.â
âShe has no âpeople,â Mrs. Coddington. She has me,â Augustaâs voice was as frosty as the air in the church. âAnd if I had doubts about Rebecca, do you think Iâd live with her?â
Becca imagined Augustaâs raised eyebrows, her delicate lifted chin. She couldnât have borne it if her mother-in-law believed the ministerâs lies.
Augustaâs featherlight touch stroked her forehead. âWell done,â she murmured. âNow rise slowly. And donât lean on me. I might just topple over.â
âWe are eager to hear the rest of the service on this Sabbath day, Minister Townsend. Do continue,â Thomas Lockwood called.
Becca stood, her petite mother-in-lawâs arm around her waist. The parishioners at the edges of the aisles averted their eyes as the two women passed.
As they stepped into the stark, brittle daylight, one last question shred the silence they left behind: âDo you think she turned her husband over to the British?â
Someone else answered. âIt must be true. Everyone says so.
***
Excerpt from The Turncoat’s Widow by Mally Becker. Copyright 2021 by Mally Becker. Reproduced with permission from Mally Becker. All rights reserved.
Mally Becker is a writer whose historical suspense novel, The Turncoatâs Widow, will be published in February 2021 by Level Best Books. She was born in Brooklyn and began her professional career in New York City as a publicist and freelance magazine writer, then moved on, becoming an attorney and, later, an advocate for children in foster care.
As a volunteer, she used her legal background to create a digest of letters from US Supreme Court Justices owned by the Morristown National Park. Thatâs where she found a copy of an indictment for the Revolutionary War crime of traveling from New Jersey to New York City âwithout permission or passport.â It led her to the idea for her story.
?A winner of the Leon B. Burstein/MWA-NY Scholarship for Mystery Writing, Mally lives with her husband in the wilds of New Jersey where they hike, kayak, look forward to visits from their son, and poke around the regionâs historical sites.
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