“Why are you still in town?” I asked.
His smile was teasing. “Why does your question sound like an accusation?”
Had it? Warmth filled my cheeks. What would he think if he knew my suspicions? “Pray, forgive me. It just seems odd, is all. Last we spoke”—I faltered, thinking of that night—“I-I thought you were returning to the sea after the first of June.”
“Aye.” His face became more serious. “I planned to take a schooner to New York for my father, but Governor Dunmore requested I stay through the summer to aid him in his work.”
Was his work spying? I longed to know but could not ask him with the others present.
“It’s been good to stay in town, with all the plans we are making for the Virginia Convention,” he went on. “As the clerk, I’ve been tasked with communicating with the other colonies to let them know our intentions. It’s kept me quite busy.”
“Does Governor Dunmore approve of your involvement in the unlawful meeting you’re planning?” Sophia asked, interrupting our conversation.
“The meeting is not unlawful,” Henry explained, his voice calm and unhurried. “’Tis not unlawful for British citizens—and elected burgesses—to peacefully assemble.”
“Will this be a closed meeting?” Thomas asked.
Henry shook his head. “If you’d like to attend the convention, you may. It will be open to one and all.”
One and all, if you were a man. I tried not to let my thoughts show on my face.
Mama came out of the kitchen with a tray in her hands. “Supper is ready.”
She’d come at just the right moment, as I could sense growing tension. Sophia’s father was opposed to the taxes imposed by England to pay for the French and Indian War, but he was not in support of independence. He was a loyalist, and thus Sophia was a loyalist. At some point, she, like everyone else, would have to choose where they stood on the fight for independence, and I prayed she would side with us. But that day was not today.
It was after seven o’clock, and my stomach was growling. “Shall we sit?” I asked my guests with a bright smile.
I took a seat at the head of the table, and Henry sat at my right, with Sophia to my left.
Mariah exited the kitchen with a tureen of green-pea soup and gracefully served each of us, smiling when she caught my eye. To the outside world, our printing shop appeared to be doing well and prospering. It was an embarrassment that so many of the merchants on Duke of Gloucester Street knew the truth. But here and now, with a feast to celebrate my birthday, I could pretend we were financially stable.
As we ate and visited, laughing and talking of everything but politics, I tried to push aside the thought that before my next birthday, the American Revolution would begin, and next year at this time, though it would be a bright and brilliant day for me, it would be the beginning of a dark and somber decade in the history of America.
Would the gentlemen sitting around my table be here a year from now? Or would they be off fighting alongside General George Washington?
Most important, where would Henry be?
The torches were burning bright as my party drew to a close. I had already said good-bye to all my guests except Henry, who lingered at the table with Mama and me as we talked about fond memories from the past.
“Your mother and I were friends since childhood,” Mama told Henry. “Did you know that?”
He shook his head. “I knew you had been friends for a long time, but I didn’t realize it went back to your childhoods.”
Mama smiled as if she was recalling special memories. She sighed and placed her hands on the table as she rose. All the dishes had been cleared save the noggins, which had been filled with cider and ale. She took a few of the empty ones now. “I believe I will help Mariah clean the kitchen so she can go to bed.”
“I should take my leave, as well,” Henry said, rising with her.
I begrudgingly stood, unwilling to let the night end but knowing I had no choice. Just one more year, and I would not have to dread waking up in the twentieth century ever again.
“I’ll walk you to the back gate,” I told him. His home on the Palace Green was easier to access from our backyard, which bordered Nicholson Street.
“Good-night, Henry,” Mama said. “Thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
Mama slipped quietly into the kitchen.
“I’ll fetch your hat.” I went into the house, where I found his tricorne hanging on a peg in the entry hall, and then met him out by the tree again.
