What Makes an Awesome Book: Reflections After Reading Keith Thomson’s “Once a Spy”

I finished reading an absolutely awesome book the other night: “Once a Spy” by Keith Thomson.

It was so awesome, in fact, that it got me thinking… What really makes a book THIS good?

One of the possible answers that immediately jumped out at me was how the novel featured non-stop drama. Every other second, someone was shooting at someone, it seemed.

Then again, I’ve read novels with action scenes crammed into every chapter… that still bit. (“Pirate Latitudes,” for one, had me wishing everyone would die already from any one of the back-to-back catastrophes so that the book – and my boredom – would end.)

So if that doesn’t do it, then how about entertainment value? I mean, Thomson does pack a snarky punch, throwing around sarcastic quips at the same rate his characters sling bullets. “Once a Spy” is every bit as amusing as it is thrilling.

Though I’ve also read entertaining books before that I haven’t been tempted to label “awesome.” Maybe because they were ONLY entertaining; they didn’t teach me or better me at all.

“Once a Spy,” on the other hand, definitely taught me a thing or two. Let me tell you. Thomson writes like he’s read the Langley handbook cover to cover, throwing in random facts about torture techniques, secret projects from eras gone by, weaponry capabilities… Really cool stuff!

At the risk of being repetitive though, I genuinely don’t think subject matter expertise is the key either when I’ve gone glassy-eyed too many times reading really interesting information conveyed in less-than interesting ways.

So what else is there to consider?

Compelling characters? Check. Unexpected plot twists? Check. Originality? Check.

And I could cross all those off the list too if I didn’t think I’d bore you to death in the process. So for now, I’ll just admit defeat and acknowledge that I don’t know the answer to my question.

What I do know is this: When I read a truly awesome book, I recognize it for what it is. And I’m sure you can say the same thing.

That je ne sais quoi might not be easy to define, but it is VERY easy to spot.

So congratulations to Keith Thomson for “Once a Spy.” I can’t wait to read the sequel!

“Maiden America” for the History Buffs Out There

Did you know that a possible majority of Americans weren’t pro-America during the Revolutionary War?

If not, don’t worry. Neither did I until I started my research for “Maiden America” early last year. Through books like “1776” by brilliant historian David McCullough (which reads more like a novel than non-fiction. I highly recommend it) and “The Day Is Ours!” by William M. Dwyer.

As I note in my historical forward:

Several historians strongly suggest that no more than a third of the people at any time were fully on the revolutionaries’ side. As a general rule, those who shunned the spirit of independence did so because:

·      They believed the king’s ways and God’s ways were one.

·      They wanted to financially gain from siding with the crown.

·      They were pacifists.

·      They ranked other admittedly worthwhile concerns above freedom, such as their farms, families and personal safety.

Moreover (and this much I did know), even patriots entered the war considering themselves British citizens fighting for British rights. Right up until July 4, 1776, most of them would have happily laid down their arms and gone on as subjects of the king if their demands were only met.

Equally interesting is how the British weren’t all crying “Huzzah!” at the idea of forcing America to submit. I mean, obviously, King George III was.  And there were a whole lot of badly behaved soldiers and officers who made their affiliations very well known by not only shooting at patriot soldiers but also grossly mistreating prisoners, pillaging ordinary citizens’ property, raping women and generally behaving like cretins. But there were a whole lot of much more nobly-minded motherlanders who privately and publically decried their kings’ decisions:

There were members of Parliament who either partially or completely sided with the Americans in their list of grievances. Additionally, enough of the citizenry took issue with the war that King George III had to rely on German mercenaries to bulk up his military force; and he tried – and failed – to hire 20,000 Russians for the same purpose. There were even a few exceptionally prominent figures in Britain’s army who were noted American sympathizers, including Commander-in-Chief William Howe. The same went for Lord Richard Howe, who was in charge of the Royal Navy.

As for King George III, yeah, he was being a ridiculous tyrant. But like so many other ridiculous tyrants, that’s not at all how he saw it. In his mind, he was protecting his kingdom: His citizens were rebelling and he was simply ensuring that they learned their lesson to behave.

At least that was the goal. Obviously history had something very different in mind.

Maiden America: Here’s Chapter Two of My Historical Spy Story Due Out on Saturday

On Tuesday, I gave you the first chapter of “Maiden America.”

If you haven’t officially met the (so-far) freaked-out Abigail Carpenter, her hotheaded older brother  Garrett, her stressed sister-in-law Elizabeth, and the bevy of British soldiers who just barged into their lives and made themselves at home, click here to start at the beginning.

Otherwise, read on for chapter two…

Maiden America

Chapter 2

Occupation

Dec. 7 - 8, 1776

A

s expected, the rest of the night is miserable. I manage to pull myself together enough to help Elizabeth with the dishes, but I’m still a sniveling mess until bedtime.

My amazing sister-in-law has already assured me that we will go visit Garrett with food and blankets just as soon as we’ve prepared our tyrannical guests their breakfast in the morning. Going alone doesn’t seem all that intelligent. For that matter, neither does staying behind without the other. Not when the British officers among us are so intent on exercising their supremacy. And not when there are Hessians who can apparently walk into houses whenever they so wish.

We’re accosted one more time by such wretched people that evening. This time it’s by two Hessian women, who come barging inside and immediately start tearing things off the wall before Captain Sneeder can come roaring into the picture. These creatures aren’t beastly looking. The one is even quite pretty, I dare say, or at least she would be if she wasn’t behaving in such a dreadful fashion. Elizabeth attempts to stop them right away, but has to dart back when the more attractive of the two reaches out to slap her face.

The captain is furious when he comes on this scene, swearing at the intruders and telling them to be gone before he knocks them senseless. They obey immediately, having stopped their destructive efforts as soon as he came into view.

It’s clear whom they respect and whom they don’t.

Despite this, huddled in bed with Elizabeth and the babies that night, I realize that I’ve been foolish to consider the Hessians so much worse than their masters. It’s the British, my former countrymen, who hired these people in the first place and let them do whatever they want without real fear of reprisal.

People with that mentality can kick back with their civilized cigars and glasses of brandy in my sitting room until kingdom come, basking in their supposed superiority. But the men who hold to that line of thinking are just as guilty as their minions, if not more so.

That’s quite the frightening thought. So too is the way Captain Sneeder barely blinked before condemning my brother, despite what should have been fairly obvious facts and regardless of our justice system. Which, incidentally, we learned from them!

That justice system saved their sorry necks before too, no matter how little they think of it now. It was only six years ago that the Boston Massacre happened, where a group of British soldiers fired on an angry mob of townspeople. Despite their unpopularity in the area, John Adams, one of our predominant voices for freedom, signed onto their defense. Moreover, he performed his job so well that he got six out of eight of the soldiers acquitted, and the two who were convicted of manslaughter received reduced sentences.

It seems clear how the British wouldn’t give Adams, who is part of the Second Continental Congress, the same consideration if positions were reversed today. King George is a hypocrite, expecting the right to behave one way, yet demanding that we subject ourselves to completely different standards.

These thoughts roil through my head and chest and stomach until I feel like I’m boiling. My throat is horribly dry, and all I want is to go outside to our private well for a drink of water. Yet I can’t. I might not be locked up like my brother is now, but I might as well be for all the safety my own home can provide me.

Since I can’t sleep, I pray, asking God to protect Garrett. The same plea applies to my other brothers and my father down in Trenton, so close and so far away. I pray that he will keep me and Elizabeth and the babies safe. And then I ask the Creator above to make the five soldiers sleeping here rue the day they ever crossed foot over my threshold.

There are five soldiers now, not four, since Garrett won’t be using his room anymore. They added a Sergeant Jules Girth, a tall, thin, blond thing with a consistently pursed mouth like he disagrees with everything around him. I’d like to tell him that there’s a plenty fine inn down the street if he’s so disgusted with his current accommodations. But that would require speaking directly to him, which isn’t something I intend on doing if at all possible.

When I get dressed hours later, the looking glass at Elizabeth’s writing desk shows significant dark circles under my golden-brown eyes. Normally, I might try to cover that up with the little jars of powder and paint that I keep in my room, unbeknownst to my father. But I don’t this time. Not when I forgot to grab the items in question out of my closet in the first place, and not when I don’t care to look presentable to a bunch of lawless bullies anyway.

Getting dressed in as simple and modest an outfit as I can put together, some part of me hopes they all feel dreadfully guilty at my haggard appearance.

The rest of me knows full well that they won’t.

I’m mostly correct in that bitter assumption, though one officer proves me not completely right. This irritates me further, since it’s not the one who can actually undo last night’s unfair verdict.

As if he hasn’t learned his lesson once already, Sergeant James Slasen approaches me in the kitchen again. Though he makes sure Elizabeth is there this time as a suitable chaperone for his entirely honorable but nevertheless undesirable attentions. It’s early enough in the morning that he hasn’t bothered to put on his full uniform, but he’s as solemn as if he’s standing before a commanding officer when he peeks his bruised face inside the doorway.

I see him but pretend to ignore his presence, unwilling to give him the time of day when he played such a crucial part in landing Garrett in jail. My reasonable side (and I do have one, believe it or not) tells me that Slasen didn’t intend any harm. And I do know that he wasn’t actually trying to accost me. Quite the opposite, regardless of what mistaken notion my brother stumbled onto. But I also know that he could have spoken up a little more forcibly in order to prevent Captain Sneeder from dragging poor Garrett away like a common criminal.

I reach up to adjust the head cap covering my mess of barely brushed-out brown curls. I normally don’t wear the thing since I know my hair is one of my finer assets. Richard Token from down the street used to write sonnets about its chocolate hue before he went off to war and died of pneumonia last month.

As a sound patriot and a good man, I never rebuked him for his forward comments. But I’m not going to present my locks for any of the town’s current residents to enjoy. At this point, the majority of them are redcoats. And of those few legal occupants that stayed, almost all of them are Quakers who refuse to fight on either side, or blasted Tories and therefore loyalists to the despicable crown.

I do realize that my mental language is sounding far too much like Garrett’s, and I wonder whether that will cancel out my earnest prayers to God from before. Spoken or not, my thoughts are hardly ladylike, and I’m fairly sure the Almighty does not approve.

Elizabeth sees Slasen when she turns away from the pot of oatmeal she’s making, complete with fresh apples and cinnamon and ginger, all at Sneeder’s pretentious request. It’s apparently become a favorite combination of his since arriving here in America.

Unlike me, my sister-in-law is far too mature to leave the officer standing so awkwardly for too long. “Yes, Sergeant?” She asks, all business. “What can I do for you?”

He reaches upward to take off his hat, then remembers he’s not wearing any such thing. Between that and the black and purple bruise along his bottom cheek, he looks very young. I’m nonetheless certain he has to be in his mid-twenties and therefore a good seven years older than me.

“Missus Carpenter. Miss Carpenter,” he begins. “I wanted to sincerely apologize again for last night. I never meant for any of that to happen.”

“Yes, well, it did anyway,” Elizabeth replies with as little emotion as she started out.

I remember how she behaved right before and even right after the officers came tramping into our home, and wonder at her impressive about-face. Maybe she’s just resigned herself to being the only adult in the family. I don’t know, though I am exceptionally grateful for her newfound attitude. Without it, I’m not entirely sure whether I would fly at Slasen, raving like a madwoman; or fall right back into hysterics thinking about everything they’re demanding of us and will continue to demand until one side wins and the other loses this dreadful, convoluted civil war of sorts.

“There’s nothing we can do about it now, is there,” Elizabeth adds.

I can tell she’s speaking only to end the conversation. Her tone leaves no real room for the officer in the doorway to continue.

Yet he does anyway. “I can bring Miss Carpenter’s brother food, if you’d like. The main bulk of the army is to move out this morning, but it appears that a few companies will be staying behind here in Prince Town, my own included, and I have no real orders for the day.”

Elizabeth looks at him sharply, and I’m sure that my thoughts are mirroring hers. She wants to tell him that we can take care of ourselves, thank him ever so kindly. We might not look like much in this violently disputed, sovereign state of New Jersey, but we’re a lot more sturdy and resourceful than his king gives us credit for.

He ignores our expressions, continuing with, “I’m sure you’ll have your hands full with my fellows out there and your children you mentioned the other night. My sister has four of her own back home in Cheltenham, and I know how busy they keep her. Besides, prison is never a place for little ones.”

Slasen sees us hesitating and tries again, growing a little more bold in his real message, even if that real message makes him visibly uncomfortable.

“Prison likely isn’t the best place for women of good standing either. Especially prisons in a place as traitorous –” at both of our mutinous looks, he scrambles to find different wording “– erm… dissentious as Prince Town. Actually… erm… you might want to be careful about going out in general. There are some soldiers and officers – not all, mind you, but some – who are of the mind that behaving badly – very badly, mind you – is not to be dissuaded. Quite the opposite, really.”

He’s all but stuttering by the time he gets to the end of his disturbing little speech. Which, incidentally, we largely didn’t need to hear. We know quite well that Princeton isn’t His Majesty’s favorite location in America. Certainly, we rank better than Boston, where the citizens are exceptionally outspoken. Up there, they made a regular habit of public displays of protest. Those were both planned and otherwise, and well before we ever declared war, much less independence.

I also know we’re not as high a prize as Philadelphia. That’s where the Continental Congress is currently established. And what a feather in the British’s caps it would be to take that hallowed place.

Then there’s New York City, which is quite the big to-do. They already have that though, the blackguards.

However, small though it is, Princeton is nonetheless a hotbed of what Slasen calls “treason” and we call “liberty.” And with most of our men gone off to fight and the like, it rather makes a wretched kind of sense that those left behind should take the brunt of the contempt our oppressors have for our fair town.

Elizabeth protests anyway, I’m sure for the sole reason of making him feel even more ashamed at what he’s just admitted. His mild mannerisms and sincere apologies are emboldening her, while simultaneously setting himself up as an outlet for her opinion of the entire British encampment.

 “So you’re saying we’re not safe on our own public streets in broad daylight? Isn’t that just rich. And you call us Americans uncivilized.”

I can’t believe those last words came out of her mouth. Personally, I don’t believe she would have said any such thing if it was any of the other officers standing in front of us. But since Slasen is proving to be such a tenderhearted little sap, it’s easier to vent at him.

The non-bruised portions of Slasen’s cheeks have already turned red, but that blossom of color extends further across his face, flushing a deeper shade of crimson.

“My apologies for upsetting you, Missus Carpenter. I merely wanted to forewarn you. I wouldn’t want to see either of you harmed in any way.”

The way he says it so solemnly, as if it’s his express duty to safeguard the fairer sex housing him, finally makes a dent in Elizabeth’s ire. She sighs and then squares her shoulders, and I know she’s going to apologize before she opens her mouth.

As freedom-minded as we largely are in Princeton, unlike certain other parts of New Jersey filled with yellow-bellied crown sympathizers, we’re not so stupid as to turn down help when we obviously need it. Because if he’s right about the dangers outside, then he’s also right about us needing him. We’re in a bind: two women by ourselves with so many responsibilities to handle.

It would actually be selfish of us to turn down his offer, even if it pains us to take him up on it. Garrett needs supplies. It’s as simple as that.

“No need to ask forgiveness, Sergeant,” Elizabeth assures heavily. “If anything, I should be doing as much.”

I notice she doesn’t though, and Slasen politely doesn’t point it out.

“It’s just that the last twenty-four hours have been particularly trying, and we’re still attempting to wrap our heads around the changes we face. If you were sincere in your warnings and your offer to bring some breakfast to my brother-in-law, then we won’t spurn your kindness.”

The truth is that I still want to tell him to go away. Not to spite Slasen so much as to get to see Garrett myself. He might be an irritating presence in my life more often than not, but I do love him dearly regardless of our quarrels and spats.

That’s why I set my pride and anger aside, and finally address the enemy in our midst. “If I write a quick letter, would you be able to deliver that as well?”

He practically bows to me, what would be a gallant gesture in any other setting. “Of course, Miss Carpenter. It would be my pleasure.”

I nod back, my movement a shade or two less than cordial even now. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

I think he wants to say more, but he takes his leave after only one more hesitation. Really, he’s better off keeping whatever it was to himself anyway, as there’s no chance in heaven or earth that I’m going to let him court me.

I’m not a simpleton. I know he fancies me. It’s obvious, as it usually is in such cases. Even the best of men like to think themselves so entirely above the softer emotions. They might laud grace and beauty and gentleness in women, but they would much rather deem themselves stoic and logical.

It’s all rubbish. Complete rot when they feel as deeply as we do. Otherwise, how did I get all of those silly sonnets written to me? It certainly wasn’t for my benefit, as they were quite poorly put together. Not to speak ill of the dead.

Poor Richard Token.

“Well, someone’s smitten,” Elizabeth notes practically under her breath, a reflection of my own thoughts. “Might not be such a bad thing, I suppose.”

“Oh?” I ask, right back to a snippety state of mind.

“Don’t be dense, Abigail,” she tells me with a knowing look. “And get back to chopping those apples. The oatmeal is almost ready.”

I do as I’m told, my knife slicing through the red skin into the soft, white flesh beneath it. Where the British supply chiefs got so many apples at this time of year, I have no idea. But we have a whole entire bushel of them to prepare for Sneeder and company.

“If it’s really as bad as the sergeant seems to think it out there, having a British soldier for an escort can’t hurt,” Elizabeth continues. “And don’t tell me otherwise. You know it to be true just as much as I.”

I sigh unhappily. “He may have shot at Father and Richard, for all we know.” I’ve purposely used her husband’s name to gain sympathy points.

Since she’s not a simpleton any more than I am, she knows it for the trick it is and turns around to give me another reproachful stare. “He may well have. You’re right. But that doesn’t make me wrong.”

I pitch my voice lower even though we’re already practically whispering. “So you’re saying I should make friends with him?”

“I’m saying it wouldn’t hurt to smile instead of glower so fearfully. Just at our young sergeant though. Not the rest of them.”

Our sergeant: The familiar applied to the fairly undesirable. I wrinkle my nose.

Elizabeth shakes her head. “Pleasant, Abigail. Be pleasant. For my sake if not for your own. What would I tell your father if anything happened to you?”

I say something quite grudging in reply. I’m going to take her advice. I know I am. But considering that she keeps me cooped up in the kitchen yet again while she serves the men, I don’t have to try extremely hard at finding a pleasant place in my head right away. Besides, it’s a difficult attitude to develop when she’s not in any small amount of risk herself. I can’t help but worry about her while she delivers the assorted bowls out to the dining room.

Elizabeth is quite pretty, with dark blond hair and brown eyes and positive proportions. Married or not, with her husband gone from home and everyone in the house knowing it, she makes very nearly as easy a mark as I do. In some ways, even more so since she has a slight limp and can’t run as fast as I can. Most people can’t tell this when she only walks, but she gets severe pains in her left calf whenever she picks up the pace.

Then there is the fact that me staying out of sight didn’t do any of us any good the night before. I keep glancing toward the kitchen doors, both the one outside and into the hallway, constantly wondering whether there’s a Hessian or other lowlife lurking around the corner.

Nothing happens for that meal though. No sharp surprises, no broken bowls, no new arrests. Everything goes smoothly enough that I even have time to pen a brief letter to Garrett in between feeding my niece and nephew. The dears interrupt me repeatedly with questions about our home’s new occupants, their little voices filled with innocent curiosity.

I answer some of them as best as I can, remembering to “be pleasant” in the words I choose and the tone I use in saying those words. Best to start now after all, I suppose. Practice makes perfect. Besides, I don’t want to alarm the children.

The only surprise is when Elizabeth comes back in after serving up a second portion for Captain Sneeder, telling me to put my letter to the side somewhere it isn’t in plain sight. When I ask why, she tells me I’m just going to have to trust her. And so I do.

Her exact scheme becomes apparent only a half hour later, when we’re cleaning up the dishes. That’s when Sergeant Slasen shows up again to inquire about the items he’s promised to bring over to Garrett.

Elizabeth immediately turns into a fragile female on him. It’s a ploy practically every woman I know of utilizes from time to time, since it can be so exceptionally effective in reaching one’s goals. Not necessarily with brothers, of course. But Slasen is most definitely not a brother.

“Sergeant.” Elizabeth stops scrubbing at the pot in front of her, which she insisted on handling for reasons unbeknownst to me before. She usually dislikes washing dishes the same way I despise doing laundry. “I’m afraid we weren’t able to write out that note to my brother-in-law. What with all of this added housework, time ran away from us.”

I shoot her a sharp glance, which she completely ignores.

Slasen is all sympathy. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Missus Carpenter. Take your time. I can be ready whenever you are.”

“Oh no,” she assures. “We wouldn’t want to take up your day any further than you’ve so generously offered. What if you simply bring Miss Carpenter with you instead? I can’t imagine she’d be in any danger with you at her side, would she?”

I roll my eyes since I know neither of them can see me when their attention is so heavily on each other, hers with a cunning projection of helpless innocence and his with guileless gravity. Something about the scene makes me think about a baby deer about to become venison.

“Of course I would see that nothing happened to her,” he assures. “Though I can’t say how we’ll find her brother. It might not be suitable for delicate sensibilities.”

His expression, however, practically begs for a protest that will have me walking side by side with him.

I suppose I can’t blame him for thinking me so slight on fortitude considering my behavior the night before. But that’s not my normal personality. I can’t say I’m the bravest person in the world, and there have been plenty of times Garrett especially would call me “yellow” in the past. But I’ve never fainted before in my life, and I don’t intend on ever doing it in the future either. Swooning is for silly ninnies, as I’m sure Slasen is accustomed to where he comes from.

Pleasantly, I keep my mouth shut.

Meanwhile, Elizabeth is busy feeding Slasen the lines he doubtlessly wants to hear. “Nassau Hall can’t have been turned into a prison more than fifteen hours ago. I can’t imagine such a lovely place could be made too dangerous in such a short space of time. Though of course, I leave it to your good judgment, Sergeant.”

For a minute, I actually think he’s going to consider my “delicate sensibilities” over his desire for my company. But his selfish side ultimately wins out, just as Elizabeth figured it would.

When he admits as much, though in far less unflattering terminology, she smiles gratefully at him. I can, however, still detect a gleam of triumph in her dark brown eyes.

Slasen, I’m certain, remains clueless to how neatly he’s just been handled. If only King George could be so compliant, we wouldn’t have to worry about such awkwardness in the first place.

During this whole discussion, little James and Rebekah have been busy gawking at the sergeant in their midst. And now that the adults are quiet, Rebekah speaks up from her place at the unadorned kitchen table, stained repeatedly from so many prepared meals. I’ve wiped it off from this morning’s efforts, but there are still new marks from where I was cutting apples only an hour ago.

“Are you a soldier?” My niece queries in her adorable three-year-old voice. I’ve already told her as much, but she apparently thinks she has some cause to doubt me.

Slasen’s attention turns completely toward her, his hazel eyes lighting up at being addressed by such a sweet little miss with her light brown hair falling around her shoulders. I suppose he wasn’t lying about his sister’s children then. Only the most clever charlatan could fake the kind of response he’s giving.

“Yes, I am,” he informs her with a smile. “Aren’t you the bright one.”

Not to be outdone, my nephew pipes up as well. “What rank do you hold?”

Perhaps children their age shouldn’t know to ask such questions, but these are unusual times, and they’ve certainly heard enough “Colonel” this and “General Washington” that over the last year.

I send a silent prayer upward that they don’t say anything too patriotic. Not that I think Slasen will punish them if they do, but better safe than sorry.

“I’m a sergeant,” he replies, carefully leaving out the “in His Majesty’s Army” I’m sure he would normally add, so as not to set the little conversationalists before him up for exactly what I’m worrying about.

This forces me to consider that perhaps he’s not so simple as I originally assumed.

“Is that better than a captain?” Rebekah wants to know.

“Oh no,” he assures her gravely, with only a hint of a grin on one corner of his mouth. “A captain outranks me.”

“Do you fight with my father?” James chimes in. Richard is, after all, his hero.

And there it is. Exactly what I was fearing. I stiffen, as does Elizabeth, but the sergeant plays along just as nicely as you please.

“I’m afraid not, though I’m sure he must be a fine man if he has a son as smart as you and a daughter this lovely.”

Both babies light up at the compliments.

Elizabeth and I both relax, though she takes a step further to finish the conversation before anything especially unfortunate is said.

“I’ll send Miss Carpenter out with the blankets and such in a minute, Sergeant. And again, we appreciate your charity.”

When he’s out of the room, Elizabeth turns to me, completely ignoring the bundle she’s already put together for Garrett. Contrary to what she said about us not having the time to do anything, she’s already long-since set me to fetching everything we want to send. We’re even giving my brother some of the officers’ leftover oatmeal, wrapped up in a wooden bowl with a cheesecloth tied around it.

“Whatever you do, don’t leave his side, Abigail. Understand?”

She’s talking to me like I’m one of her children, which instantly puts me into a slight snit. I love Richard’s wife, but having four older brothers has left me fiercely independent and automatically defensive to any attempts of patronization.

Elizabeth knows that very well, because she grips my shoulders. “I’m serious. This is hopefully as close to a life or death situation as you’ll ever get. I do not want to see any harm come to you.”

I mutter a “yes, ma’am,” which is still slightly barbed. But I do intend on taking her directions nonetheless.

I know the consequences of throwing caution to the wind could be dire.

Maiden America: Here’s Chapter One of My Historical Spy Story Due Out This Month

Sooooo… I’m definitely still planning on publishing “Not So Human” in February. I’ll talk about that more next week. Or maybe the week after.

This Tuesday and Thursday, however, I’m sharing excerpts of another novel of mine, “Maiden America,” which is due out this month.

Hardly fantastical like my Faerietales series, “Maiden America” is a historical fiction spy story set during the very real events of December 1776 in Princeton, New Jersey. That larger year is supposed to be such a triumphant time, with the United States officially throwing off tyranny and declaring itself a nation once and for all.

Throw some more hamburgers and hotdogs on the grill, and enjoy the fireworks! Right?

Wrong. And not just because they didn’t have those American delicacies quite yet.

The truth is that the majority of the brand new country had given up on itself by that point. Which, when you know all the details, it’s hard not to understand why.

George Washington’s men had already been kicked out of New York after suffering a series of brutal, morale-destroying defeats. For months on end.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the British then proceeded to drive them clear through New Jersey as well. Most people in Princeton proper, home of the subversive John Witherspoon and his freedom-minded college students, knew very well what kind of reception they would face when their aggressors marched into their town. Hence the reason why they cleared off well before any such thing could happen.

But what if you couldn’t leave? What if you were a devoted American patriot living back then, stuck in your pretty Princeton home with no other option than to watch your hated occupiers claim your town – and your home – as their own?

Those are the questions Abigail Carpenter has to ask herself the night of December 7, 1776. And her ultimate conclusions aren’t what she ever expected…

Maiden America

Chapter 1

Bloody Lobsters

Dec. 7, 1776

“S

tay back, Abigail. I swear those bloody lobsters are everywhere,” Garrett snarls, looking out the sitting room window through the heavy, floral draperies.

   It isn’t the most polite language to use in front of a lady, but I don’t correct him for a whole host of reasons.

Numbers one and two are that I’m not really a lady in his eyes. I’m his younger sister and therefore a completely different category of femininity altogether. Moreover, I’m a sister who has kept him from serving under General Washington for the last several months.

Never mind that our soldiers under that command are ill-equipped and downtrodden after being run out of New York and pushed through much of New Jersey. They should be in Trenton by now, about thirteen miles away. But everyone knows they’ll likely have to leave even that town soon enough if William Howe – general and commander in chief of Britain’s army here in America – keeps pressing his troops forward. Which he probably will, thereby lending even more pain and misery to what our Continental Army has already endured.

It’s no wonder that so many of our men refused to re-sign their military contracts at the beginning of the month. I don’t condone their decision, but I do understand the reasons behind it. I can’t even completely condemn those soldiers who don’t have the luxury of leaving legally, so simply desert every day. They’re disheartened after losing so many times over so many months. Anyone would be.

Anyone but Garrett, that is. Still burning with patriotic fervor, he desperately wants to be down there with our father and three older brothers, taking a stand to free New Jersey and our newly minted country, the United States of America.

A large part of me sympathizes with him here, since I wish I could be with them too.

All of that factors into my final decision not to chastise him for his word choice. The fact that it won’t do a lick of good, I’ll admit, crosses my mind as well. But mainly, I hold my tongue because he’s right: There are redcoats everywhere. They’ve been encroaching on the Jersey countryside practically since they first arrived in this state on November nineteenth, when they captured Fort Lee. And they’re still going strong today, certainly much stronger than our ever-retreating forces can claim.

After taking over Hackensack, Newark and Brunswick, they’re now here in Princeton. Like the Biblical plague of locusts, they’re marching through our streets, devouring everything they can and then surging forward to claim the next location, wherever that might be. Worse yet, they’re probably with scores of those horrible Hessians, who reportedly dye their mustaches pitch black with the same concoction they use on their shoes.

Just thinking about the German mercenaries makes me shudder. I’ve heard the stories. Everyone in New Jersey has after so much of our lands have been plundered by their scouting parties and the troop deployments dispatched to collect supplies, starting with the very first day they stepped foot onto this state’s soil.

As if the British soldiers by themselves aren’t bad enough. They were too often insufferable before minutemen fired on them at Concord and Lexington in Massachusetts last year, thereby declaring war on the sovereign crown of England. But since then, it’s gotten so much worse. Those “bloody lobsters” as my brother so disrespectfully deems them, have been wrapping their claws around everything they take a fancy to, from food to horses to ammunition to women.

In their eyes, we’re apparently just as much a commodity as everything else.

That’s a despicable attitude to take toward any person, but it somehow seems worse when both sides considered the other to be countrymen barely five months ago. Today is December seventh, 1776, and it was only July fourth that the Second Continental Congress announced our secession from Great Britain. Before that, we were proud to be British citizens. We only wanted our due rights as such: proper representation in Parliament, a fair tax system, and some acknowledgement of how very good we are at governing ourselves overall thanks to the great distance between us. Give us that, and we would settle down as nice as you please, singing “God Save the King” and “Rule Britannia” all the way home.

At least I know I would have. There are a few people, Garrett included, who were itching to sever ties well before our colonial leaders banded together to declare independence. I guess that’s what happens when you live in a town filled with idealistic students filled with revolutionary ideas.

The College of New Jersey is only three blocks away from us, which is very well for my father’s groceries and goods shop, but maybe not so much for my brother’s temperament. He’s always been the hotheaded member of our family of six.

At twenty-five, Richard is the strong, silent one. Jacob is the mathematics-savvy businessman who can manage the books like nobody else I know. Andrew is the wit; he can talk himself out of any scrape, and he very rarely fails to make me laugh no matter how bad of a mood I might be in. (I’m ashamed to say that I do have my bad moods more often than I’d like.)

And then there’s Garrett, who’s only fifteen months older than my seventeen years. He has the mind of a scholar and the temper of a rabid wolf. I love him, but it’s true. And right now, that disposition is scaring me almost as much as the thought of Hessians showing up on our doorstep.

Which is saying a lot. Because I am absolutely terrified of Hessians. They’re offensive on every single level.

I don’t know why it alarms me so badly to know that King George III thinks it necessary to hire such despicable outsiders. He’s already made it very clear how little he thinks of us otherwise, so I suppose it makes sense for him to utilize such wicked measures. But I do find the decision particularly offensive nonetheless. They’re utter beasts by all accounts, running their bayonets through unarmed men who have already surrendered, chopping off heads and sticking them on pikes, and yes, treating women with the utmost contempt as well.

Complete savages, every one of them.

I nervously smooth down my brown, woolen skirt. It’s not very cold out at all as of late. In fact, it’s unseasonably warm, and so we only have a small fire going in the sitting-room hearth. The physical temperature inside our home is quite comfortable, yet I feel I’m liable to start sweating underneath my petticoats and simple, brown bodice. My corset feels far too tight as well; and the hair along my exposed arms, from just below my elbows to my wrists, is standing on end.

Hot or cold, however, I hike up my neckline a little further. I’d rather be hot than showing too much skin when the enemy soldiers come storming through our door.

We know they will. There’s no question about it when they’re here to stay for as long as they like, and we have such a spacious house. My family has always been proud of our home, and what it says about us and our work ethic. But right now, I think I would much prefer far less roomy accommodations, if only because they would make for a far less attractive boarding option for presumptuous enemy soldiers.

I wish so badly that we could have just left with my dearest friend, Ailish O’Doole, who took off yesterday when we first got word that the British were on the move yet again. She and her family were some of the last patriotic citizens to leave since The College of New Jersey was shut down in sad anticipation of the inevitable. Most of the other two hundred families in town cleared off days or even weeks ago, heading wherever they could.

Ailish’s mother’s family lives outside Philadelphia, about a day and a half’s travel away. They should be arriving there right about now, even as their home here is probably being looted four blocks down on the Post Road.

There is the very distinct sound of boots tromping directly outside our home, and then Garrett needlessly announces, “They’re here.” His fists are clenched at his side, and his usually lanky self is rigid from head to toe.

Someone pounds on the front door.

I expect it, yet I still jump badly.

Beside me, Richard’s wife Elizabeth lets out a small squeak of alarm, then clamps both hands against her mouth like we can still somehow escape notice.

I brush my arm against hers in what is supposed to be a comforting gesture, though it does not a single bit of good. At least, I don’t feel comforted. And I’m fairly sure neither is she.

Letting the curtain fall from his fingers, Garrett strides out of the sitting room. We women trail him nervously, stopping just shy of the hallway while he crosses to the door, throwing it open in challenge, not in greeting. As a result, a white-wigged officer in full, flashy kit practically stumbles inside, his arm still raised imperiously to knock a second time.

A pompous looking thing already, perhaps about twenty-two, he doesn’t take kindly to Garrett’s deliberate provocation. My eyes, already huge with apprehension, somehow manage to widen further. I want to say something calming to my brother, but I’ve already done so about forty times since we heard the news that the British were coming. It didn’t do any good then, and I have no doubt it will do any more good now.

The officer brushes past Garrett imperiously, purposely knocking shoulders with him so that Garrett has to take a step back. I trap a moan in the back of my throat, knowing that this isn’t going to end well when it’s already beginning so dreadfully.

Sure enough, another seven soldiers come tramping in, all in wigs and blood-red coats with their flared lapels in the back and rows of shiny buttons in the front. Their pants and undershirts are lily white, as I really hope their intentions are.

Judging by one of the officers barging in before me, I’m not going to place any bets on that wish. Not that I ever bet in the first place, but even I can see that the odds are not in my favor.

The redcoat in question isn’t very large. I’m just over five foot three, and I think he’s no more than six inches taller than me. Hardly the most physically intimidating individual ever to wear the uniform. Nor is it like he features any disgusting scars or disfigurements that clearly mark him as a bounder and a cad. His powdered wig is perfectly set, his tricorne hat tucked smartly under one arm, and his black boots largely shined from toe to knee.

But that’s all to be expected from an officer of His Majesty’s Royal Army. It’s his large blue eyes with their long fringe of lashes that make him stand out, alarming me above and beyond my initial forebodings. Truthfully, they’re fairly upsetting by themselves, and they become even more so when they latch onto me, raking over my topmost brown curl down to the bottom of my perfectly modest hemline. I actually don’t get the impression that he’s going to drag me up the stairs and ravish me right then and there, or even at all, but that doesn’t mean I appreciate the attention one bit.

Neither does my brother.

“Abigail. Elizabeth,” Garrett barks, backing up several steps closer to us in a purely territorial move.

We obediently edge toward him as well. I usually take issue when he uses that tone with me. However, he isn’t going to hear a peep of protest in this situation.

Another officer, this one much taller with seemingly simple brown eyes and a giant nose that curves out beaklike from his face, nods formally at the three of us.

“I apologize about our rude entrance, but there’s no cause for alarm, I assure you.”

None of us Americans say a word in reply, though for varying reasons. Garrett is seething, I can tell. Elizabeth and I, meanwhile, are battling completely different emotions.

“My name is Captain Andrew Sneeder,” he goes on. “And we’re in need of a place to stay for our time here in Prince Town. I’m sure you don’t have a problem with us utilizing your charming home?”

As nicely stated as it is, with no rifles pointed at us and no threats explicitly stated, we Carpenters know very well it isn’t a request. The men in front of us will take over the place with or without our permission. It’s not like they and their countrymen haven’t tried to force colonists to house them during peacetime – another issue we’ve taken with the crown – so why would they hesitate to do so when we’re at war?

Her voice quavering, Elizabeth speaks up from behind Garrett. Knowing her youngest brother-in-law for the last six years, she is well acquainted with his habits and mannerisms. So she knows just as well as I that he was about to say something less than cordial. Or intelligent, for that matter.

“No, of course not.” She manages to speak with only a little tremor to her voice. “I only ask that you gentlemen be mindful that my two young children live here as well.”

Those two precious darlings are the reason why we’re still in town in the first place. Little James had another bad bout of the croup yesterday into this afternoon, and none of us wanted to risk moving him in that condition.

“Of course we’ll keep the little ones in mind, ma’am,” Captain Sneeder assures smoothly. “How many rooms do you have available?”

“We have six all told, two of which we ask to keep for ourselves. My sister-in-law can stay with my children and me to make more space for you and your officers.”

I cast a quick, grateful glance at her. It isn’t like I want to give up my bedroom. Especially to some slimy redcoat like the blue-eyed one still staring at me from along the staircase, where he and his fellows have fanned out. Yet I know exactly what she’s doing all the same. Grouped together with little Rebekah and James, we’ll make a less attractive target for undesirable attention.

“I appreciate it greatly, ma’am,” the captain states politely, like he has no idea that we have more than just his comfort in mind. “In that case, I, Lieutenant Robert Caverish, Ensign Christopher Matthews and Sergeant James Slasen will be staying here.”

My heart sinks further when the blue-eyed man nods at us, but mostly at me. I have the distinct urge to pull up my bodice once again. Beside him, Ensign Matthews and Sergeant Slasen incline their heads as well.

I have to say that the ensign looks entirely insipid, like he was meant to be a dandy and not a military man at all. He’s probably the second son of some moderate-level nobleman over in England who purchased him a commission because that’s the thing to do with second sons of lords and earls and whatnot. His face is shaped like an inverted egg, and his brown eyes are small in his face, radiating little but ignorance. It isn’t a particularly attractive look on him, though at least it isn’t invasive.

The much younger Sergeant Slasen, on the other hand, is probably a decent gentleman when he isn’t shooting at freedom-minded men or commandeering solid citizens’ households. His hazel eyes are warm and friendly. And even if his nose is a little like one of those lions from Africa I saw drawings of just last week, I don’t think he will cause any more trouble than his very presence dictates.

I don’t care for him on principle alone, but I would much rather have him sleep in my room than his lieutenant.

“How soon can everything be ready?” Captain Sneeder asks somewhat haughtily.

My gaze wanders over his group once more, from the disconcerting blue-eyed man to the next redcoat and the next. We’ve already hidden all the valuables we could under loose boards in the kitchen pantry, and I usually do my best to keep a tidy house besides. Considering that Elizabeth has been staying with us ever since Richard enlisted, it’s been a much easier task, despite the fact that my typical house-help, Janey Lynn, took off to Williamsburg, Virginia, two weeks ago.

“We’ll need just half an hour to ready your rooms,” my sister-in-law states, her voice a little less unsteady now.

“And a warm meal?”

Garrett’s shoulders somehow manage to stiffen further. I can’t blame him. Housing the enemy is bad enough, but feeding them too? I can’t say I’d rather die than suffer the injury, but there are plenty of other activities I would much prefer. Even washing laundry sounds more desirable.

It hits me in the next instant that they will doubtlessly require us to handle that chore for them too. Unlike my brother’s, my posture slumps significantly. I don’t mean to make the movement so obvious, but I can feel Sergeant Slasen regard me with what seems like genuine concern for delicate female sensibilities.

Somehow, I doubt that concern would go so far as to wave the duty for me and take it on himself. If I weren’t so despondent right now, that thought alone would have me in quite the snit.

Elizabeth is speaking over my unhappy thoughts. “We can handle that as well, of course.”

“Good. Good.” Another nod from Sneeder. “Much obliged. Missus?”

“Carpenter, Captain.”

“Missus Carpenter, then. We won’t keep you any longer.”

In other words, we’re dismissed and should see to our assigned duties immediately. The three of us understand that, no matter how little we like it.

I suppose I should be grateful, at least, that Garrett has somehow managed to restrain himself overall. It isn’t like he’s been cordial by any means, but he hasn’t punched anyone in the nose or mouthed off badly enough to land himself in the pillory, as I honestly feared. He actually goes so far as to obey Captain Sneeder’s politely-couched command to help out with the horses.

Thanks to my family’s usually burgeoning business, we do have stables, even if those stables are now empty. My father and older brothers took our horses when they left, of course. For the cause.

At the time, I had been rather sad to say goodbye to my white-legged mare, Hightail. But I’d much rather have her out there with true patriots than being commandeered by the likes of Sneeder. Or Caverish.

I try to put both men out of my mind while I move my basic belongings from my room into Elizabeth’s, which used to be Richard’s. Though it’s little surprise when I fail spectacularly in that first goal.

Half an hour later, the horses are watered and fed, the beds are all made and the children are checked on. The twins are usually compliant little dears, and they aren’t making a sound now that the house is occupied. Garrett is helping us women in the kitchen, largely because the sitting room is completely occupied with officers, who are lounging around with glasses of brandy they’ve hauled in from somewhere. Despite the mere four men we are formally housing, all eight of them are staying for supper.

Presumptuous lobsters with their pretentious airs and obnoxious conversation.

When it comes to actually serving them, Elizabeth and Garrett both tell me in no uncertain terms to tend the remaining food while they bring the dishes out. Normally, we could just set platters out on the table and let any guests – welcome or otherwise – serve themselves, but I’m afraid we’ve lost some of our serving set to looters.

That happened when the Continental Army was stationed in Princeton, which was up through this morning, actually. Because of that, we had the good fortune to see my father and brothers again, who welcomed a number of other soldiers to sleep in the sitting room and such. Most of those individuals were perfectly respectful, including one Lieutenant Benjamin Tallmadge, whom I took a particular liking to. A native of Setauket, New York, and a graduate of Yale, he has the intellect of a scholar and the religious conviction of a clergyman, which makes sense considering that his father is a pastor. I found him to be quite entertaining, as he told me all about his time at college, where he participated in a number of theatrical productions. That much was delightfully scandalous, considering many people’s opinions that playacting is downright sinful. He did, however, take the time to ask me my opinion on the subject before he revealed any such details, and I told him truthfully that I thought it mere frivolity and not wicked at all.

But that friendship aside, there were some of his companions throughout the town who were quite rude and made off with property not of their owning. What in heaven’s name they should want with serving dishes, I don’t know. But we’re without such niceties nonetheless, meaning that we’re left to more closely serve Captain Sneeder and his men.

Or at least Garrett and Elizabeth do. I’m left in the kitchen.

This leaves me walking a straight line of about five yards between the six-foot hearth, where we have a large cauldron of stew bubbling, and the kitchen table that I usually use for meal preparations. I am genuinely not sure if I’ve been relegated to this space because I’m a single woman, or because they’re taking more specific issue with Caverish’s stares. Either way, coward that I am in this situation, I don’t protest too much.

Here’s the thing about cowards though: They usually run into some nastiness because of their weakness, either in this life or the next. It’s fairly inevitable. So I don’t know why I’m so surprised when it doesn’t go well for me.

I’m ladling out a scoop of beef and barley stew into the next bowl for Elizabeth or Garrett to take out as soon as they get back from their current trip. That’s when the kitchen door slams open with a force that has me screaming and dropping the dish in my hands. Steaming liquid splashes all over the bottom of my dress, though I don’t feel any of it thanks to my layers of petticoats underneath. But while I don’t get scalded, I’m not in the right frame of mind to be grateful for that bit of providence, too busy staring open-mouthed at the latest uninvited guest.

It’s a Hessian if I have ever seen one.

He looks nothing like I expected him to, starting with how he’s not tall, only perhaps three inches above my own height. The reports I’ve heard make the Hessians out to be brute beasts with all but flashing eyes and horns on their heads. And this one is actually slightly on the slender side, on top of being short.

He’s wearing a blue woolen coat with a red collar, cuffs and lapels; a tannish vest and similarly colored breeches; and a bewilderingly high hat that slopes into a brass point at the top. For some reason, that last detail is exceptionally alarming to my terrified brain, though not as much as his utterly black mustache, which practically shines in the firelight from the hearth.

Standing there in my kitchen doorway, he doesn’t approach me. Saying nothing to quiet my nerves, he only regards me with utter disdain. Long after the moment passes, I am quite sure I can explain the thoughts running through his head based on his expression in that moment. If he could speak English, I’m sure he’d be saying something along the lines of, “Here’s another one of those ridiculous colonists shrieking for no good reason. No wonder they’re losing so miserably.”

In my defense, civilized people don’t go barging into other people’s homes. And so my responding shriek is loud enough, I’m sure, to hear from the next house down. I’m certain of it. My brother is at my side in short order, with Elizabeth on his heels.

Sadly though, they’re not nearly quick enough.

Sergeant Slasen beats them both into the kitchen. What he’s doing outside, I don’t know. Perhaps using the outhouse. But he’s nevertheless the closest to me and the fastest. Which proves to be my household’s undoing.

He pushes past the Hessian with a commanding “Move aside!” before addressing me, one hand going so far as to press against my back. “Are you alright, Miss Carpenter?”

I suppose I must look like I’m about to faint, because his face is looming close to mine, his expression set in genuine concern. Of course, that has to be the moment Garrett barges in, looking particularly panicked. I don’t know how he manages to not notice the Hessian with his absurd and horrible hat, but he doesn’t nonetheless, seeing only me practically in the arms of one of our uninvited guests.

“Get away from my sister!” He shouts, grabbing onto the sergeant with one arm and cocking his other hand back in a clearly menacing fist.

Since I can’t seem to speak past that first scream, I don’t get the chance to explain that Slasen was only trying to help. That he hadn’t been attacking me like Garrett is doubtlessly assuming.

My brother’s knuckles are already slamming into the officer’s face.

Elizabeth is pulling me away, and other people are streaming in, and it is one enormous mess of a scene. Men are shouting and two of them drag Garrett off of their friend, who is trying to explain what really happened, completely ignoring his slightly split lip and angrily reddened cheek.

Through my stupor, I somehow manage to recognize that Slasen will have quite the bruise in the morning. My brother evidently didn’t hold back. Which isn’t surprising. He usually doesn’t.

It also isn’t surprising how poorly the situation progresses from there. It is exactly as I predicted. I can only be surprised that something else didn’t spark a fight sooner.

“Is this how you repay our hospitality?” Held fast by two redcoats, my brother is spitting, he’s so mad. “After forcing your presence on this house, you try to –”

“No!” Slasen interrupts desperately. “Captain Sneeder, I would never! I heard Miss Carpenter scream; and when I ran into the kitchen, I thought she was going to faint. That’s all!”

I finally manage to pull myself together enough to try to say something intelligent. But Sneeder starts speaking before I get anything out.

“Take him to the College of New Jersey’s Nassau Hall. Parts of it, I’m told, are being used as a prison for dissenters and the like.”

“No!” This is all going wrong, and it’s all my fault. If I had only screamed a little more quietly at that dreadful Hessian’s ill-mannered entrance. “It was a misunderstanding. Please, Captain, I’m sure it won’t happen again!”

“Captain,” Elizabeth implores beside me. “I’m begging you to show some compassion. Surely you can understand why a brother would want to come to his younger sister’s aid?”

“Ma’am,” Sneeder says, regarding her over his beak of a nose with unflinching resolve. “With all due respect, I cannot understand nor tolerate the striking of an officer in His Majesty’s service. This action cannot go unpunished, if for nothing else than setting a poor standard.”

I start crying. I don’t want to cry, but I do nonetheless. I can’t help myself. It’s already been such a trying day, right from the very beginning when we heard the official news that Lord Cornwallis was indeed marching thousands of troops into town.

Elizabeth presses me into her shoulder like I’m one of the babies upstairs. “But, Captain.”

“Missus Carpenter, I will thank you to tend to your business and leave me to tend to mine.” And just like that, he whirls on his heel and walks out the door back whence he came.

The Hessian follows him, just as silent as he came in. I can see his long, long hair drawn into a tightly bound ponytail that drops all the way down to his waist. That detail, like his tall brass hat and mustache, is so foreign to me that I cry even harder.

With clear orders set out in front of them, the two redcoats restraining my brother drag him away. It is Ensign Matthews with his beady little eyes, and one of the other ones who won’t be staying with us. I don’t know his name, nor do I care.

Garrett struggles. He’s held his temper long enough today, and has no real reason to tone it down now when he’s already headed for prison. My only consolation in the whole mess is that at least it isn’t a regular prison. It’s a college building. And while some of our own troops didn’t take care of it the way they should have while they were there, it still shouldn’t be infested with rats and other vermin the way that Princeton’s regular lockup probably is.

This one reassurance isn’t enough to keep me from sobbing aplenty, completely useless as I huddle on my father’s carefully wrought wooden floors while Elizabeth is forced to finish serving the remaining officers their stew. Her face is very tight the whole time, and she very nearly loses her temper when Slasen stays behind a moment to offer his apologies yet again.

In his defense, he looks utterly miserable for playing any part in the debacle.

In my defense, I’m not in any state of mind to care about his guilty conscience. And apparently, my normally mild-mannered sister-in-law isn’t either. She doesn’t yell at him the way she clearly wants to. I can see it on her face even through my tears. Instead, she tells him coolly that he has done enough, and informs him she’ll have his supper out in a minute.

It’s as direct a dismissal as she dares in that moment, and he follows it like the order she means it to be. She might not have spoken the words “If you’re any kind of gentleman, you’ll leave us be;” but there is more than one way to express a sentiment, and she utilizes practically every other means possible.

I doubt King George himself could have couched a command so exquisitely.

Clearly, I can’t claim any such skills.