1
WILLIAMSBURG, VIRGINIA
MAY 5, 1774
For as long as I could remember, my mama had told me that my life was a gift. But at the age of nineteen, I had yet to see how this life I was living—or rather, thelivesI was living—could be anything other than a burden.
“Libby!” My younger sister Rebecca slammed open the door to the office where Mama and I were working on the weekly edition of theVirginia Gazette. “It’s that horrid Mister Jennings and the lawyer, Mister Randolph.” She was breathless, and her cheeks were red from the heat. She pointed at the window. “They’re coming this way. They’ll be here any second.”
I left the article I had been editing and went to the window. Through the wavy glass, the detestable old merchant was limping with purpose toward our home, his dirty wig askew and his cane digging into the hard-packed soil on Duke of Gloucester Street. Beside him was the formidable Mister John Randolph, lawyer to the governor, and one of the most ruthless men in Williamsburg.
Mama fixed Rebecca’s white cap, then calmly laid her hands on Rebecca’s thin shoulders. “Did you speak to them?”
“Nay.” Rebecca shook her head, and for the first time, I saw that she was trembling. “I started to run the moment I saw them.”
I quickly opened my top desk drawer and pulled out the small drawstring bag I kept in the hidden compartment. There weren’t nearly enough coins to purchase the weekly necessities for our household of eight, let alone pay off our insurmountable debt. Mister Jennings was not the only person we were indebted to after Papa’s death.
“Mayhap we can stall him,” Mama said to me, her green eyes revealing the depth of her disquiet, though her voice was steady. “Tell him about the public printing contract we’re hoping to obtain.”
“We’ve put him off the last two times.” I counted out the meager coins, hoping and praying it would appease the miser for a little longer. “I doubt he’ll listen to our plea.”
“What will he do, Libby?” Rebecca’s large brown eyes filled with worry as she clenched the fabric of her too-small gown.
I put my hand under her chin. “Do not worry.” I forced myself to smile, trying to banish her fears. “Mama and I will take care of this matter.”
“Mistress Conant?” The men entered the front hall, one of them calling out to us. “We’ve come about the debt.”
Though Mama was only forty-one, she had aged a great deal during Papa’s illness. The weight of the debt and the responsibilities of supporting our family pressed upon her, as if she were carrying a physical burden.
I put my hand on her shoulder, wishing I could ease her cares. “This is my debt, as well,” I said. “I will speak to Mister Jennings.”
I left the office before Mama could protest and greeted the unwelcome visitors. “Good day,” I said to them. “How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak to your mother.” Mister Jennings lifted his chin with purpose.
“If this is business concerning the printing shop, you may speak to me.” I motioned for the men to enter the large sitting room across the hall.
Mama quietly joined us, closing the office door behind her to keep Rebecca out of sight. “We will both speak to you,” she said in her gentle way.
The men moved into the sitting room, taking off their tricorne hats as they turned to us. “I will curtail the formalities,” Mister Jennings said. “I have brought my lawyer to show you I am serious, since you have ignored my last two attempts to collect the debt you owe.”
“We have not ignored you, Mister Jennings.” Mama’s patient voice never wavered. She clasped her hands in front of her apron. “We simply do not have the money available. My husband was sick for many years and—”
“That is not my concern.” Mister Jennings pointed his cane at her. “He purchased printing supplies from me on credit for years, always making an excuse about his ill health.”
“We needed those supplies to operate our business,” I said in defense of my father, who had died just six months ago.
“If you do not have the money,” Mister Jennings said, appearing not to care about our plight, “then I will give you two options, which my lawyer is here to witness today. You can either be thrown into the public gaol until the sum is collected, or . . .” His eyes glowed with intent as he lowered his cane to the floor. “You can indenture your little moppet to me. The one with the dark hair.”
Revulsion climbed my throat as I saw the look in his eyes. “Never,” I said, clenching my hands together. “We would never indenture Rebecca to you or anyone else.”
“Then it will be the gaol for your mother.”
A shudder ran down my spine at the thought of the publicgaol. It was a rat-infested eyesore behind the capitol building, not to mention an embarrassment to anyone cast into shackles there.
Mama stepped forward, putting her hand on my arm. “We are awaiting the burgesses’ decision this very day. If we’re awarded the public printing contract, we will have your payment for you posthaste. You have my word.”
“Your word?” Mister Jennings spat. “What good is the word of a woman?”
