Chapter 10          August 1771

            "Hello, Abby" said my sister Meg, looking at me condescendingly, above me as usual.  "My, you haven't changed one bit."  Yes Meg. I thought.  My hair is still brown,  and my hands not nearly as delicate as yours; but I have changed more than you can imagine. 

But did she not notice that I was taller, thinner, and my bust had grown substantially?  Mayhap she did, but she would never admit that I was becoming beautiful.  I was simply her naïve and inferior baby sister.  "Oh, but don't worry, sweetie.  Maybe someday some lunatic of a man will want you." 

Over a year had passed since that night I met Charles.  Meg had planned to visit in March of last year, but when the Boston Massacre occurred, Mama was afraid she would be tarred and feathered if she returned.  I secretly wished even worse would happen to Meg.

So far I had managed to be quite obedient and submissive to my parents' wishes.  But I now found myself having to fight harder than ever to behave properly.  All I wanted to do was fly at my sister, and rip out her deep, blue, crystal eyes. 

"And I've heard you met Charles.  My, my, we are getting curious, aren't we?  Intriguing, isn't he?" yes, Meg, you're too shallow and blind to see how intriguing he really is.  "Although I warn you, Abby.  You may find yourself in a bit over your head."  

            "I think I've got the right to meet my own brother," I answered, knowing that whatever I said to Meg would be conveyed to Mama. 

            "Of course you do, Abby.  I was only warning you, that you may find out more about him than you really want to know," Meg said, still smirking as if she knew something I did not.  How unaware she was, that I was merrily laughing inside, having more information hidden from her than she could possibly imagine. 

             "Meg!  Abigail!" called Mama.  "We'll be late for the dinner party if you don't hurry!"  We were to attend another social with the bloodybacks.  Mama knew what torture it was for me, to sit and listen to those pompous beasts, talk about the insolent "Americans".  But she continued to bring me, hoping to train me to be a perfect Loyalist daughter.  I knew she was even plotting behind my back, trying to find one of the young officers to be my beau. 

            "Alright Mama.  I'm coming," I slowly walked outside and into our carriage.  The social was to be held on Hannover Street, and was a formal ball, for all of the fine Loyalist ladies. 

I despised my mother for the dress she made me wear, as its neckline was quite low, and the shoes hurt my feet terribly.  Perhaps I can step on all the officers' feet, I thought, knowing that Mama was showing me like a peacock, eager to marry me off and be rid of me. 

Somehow I knew that I would not mind my dress, should I be going to a Whig ball.  I knew my figure was quite respectable, but I despised that fact that it was being used to impress the pompous, ugly, British officers. 

            I found the party a marvelous affair.  The ground and walls were strewn with flowers, and lanterns filled the room, making everyone glow as little fairies.  So this is what our taxes go towards, I thought so that the officers can have grand parties, and gorge themselves with food while the people of Boston starve in the streets. 

            "Abigail, come here," five minutes into the party, and already my mother was trying to introduce me to a young lobsterback.  I feigned deafness, and walked behind a group of loyalist ladies.  I saw my friend Susan across the room, and waved to her. 

            "Abby!" she cried, obviously delighted to see me.  "Where have you been?  I haven't seen you for over a year now!"  and I thought she would have forgotten me.  I had heard she was engaged to a British officer, and would be embarrassed to even admit she'd known me.  We sat down in a corner of the hall, and talked of old times.  Jeremiah was at school in New York now, and Susan was to be married in the spring. 

            "Look!  There's Paul Revere," Susan whispered to me, and as I looked where she pointed, I saw the stocky Paul Revere, talking with a redcoat, along with a taller man, whose back was turned to us.  "All of the Loyalists love him.  He's diplomatic, and he makes us wonderful silver." Susan told me, and as she talked on my eyes seemed rooted upon Mr. Revere. 

Then his companion turned, and I gasped with a mixture of shock and delight.  The tall, blond man talking to Mr. Revere was my own brother Charles. 

I had not seen Charles since the night Chris died, in late February of 1770.  He sent a present to me at Christmas, but Tim and John, my brothers burned it under the instructions of my Father.  It had been a lovely brown muslin with purple flowers, all the way from France. 

I excused myself from a bewildered Susan, and approached Charles.  Suddenly I was not so unhappy with my dark green silk, which was so fitted to my waist, and showed off my bust. 

I watched my brother for a moment, as he spoke casually with various Tories.  How can he be so at ease with his enemies?  I thought.  I wondered why he had come to the party in the first place.  In my girlish naivety, I sincerely believed that because the Parliament robbed us of our money, and the more ill-mannered of the lobsterbacks were insulting to us, that all British and Tories were as horrible as the most despicable of the bunch. 

            "Hello Abby," said my brother, looking down at me in his elegant suit, as he sipped his wine nonchalantly.  "I thought you might be here this evening," Charles said, introducing me to Mr. Revere. 

            "Charles, I'd no idea you had such a charming sister!" remarked Mr. Revere, and Charles began to chuckle, obviously thinking of how many messages his "charming sister" must have delivered for his companion. 

            "Well neither did I," said Charles, still laughing to himself, as he looked me up and down.  "I hardly ever see her, as my Tory family would consider me a bad influence," he continued, after he saw that his first remark had slightly upset me.  "Is old Captain here?" my brother asked.

            "Yes Charles," I replied, and gestured towards where my father and brothers were standing, talking with Governor Hutchinson.  His tall, upright figure stood proud and snobbish, as he most probably sneered on about the rebels and the insolent troublemakers in Boston. 

"Abby, do you remember Hannah Mather?"  Charles asked.  "She's Tory, and a good friend of your Mama's, but also of mine."   

Miss Mather was a kind, roly-poly woman, with mouse-brown hair, and soft, kind brown eyes.  The few times that I had seen her, she had always been so friendly and warm, and motherly.  Why couldn't I have a mother like that? I thought. 

I saw his plan right away.  I would visit Miss Mather, and Charles would visit her as well.  Or, were I feeling incredibly mischievous, I could visit Charles, or even Jeremiah and Susan.  I suddenly felt compelled to throw my arms around my brother, who had now become my savior. 

I nodded in understanding.  "How often may I visit Miss Mather?" I asked, enthusiastic about this new way of gaining freedom from my Tory home, which was now my prison. 

"As often as your Mama will allow you to," Charles replied.  "She is at this moment speaking with your Mama about giving you lessons in sewing."  I smiled, as life suddenly held so much more joy in it than it had only moments ago. 

"While my family is Tory," Charles now addressed Mr. Revere.  "My sister, Abby is not." Charles obviously trusted Mr. Revere enough that he knew this information would not get back to my family. 

"Which reminds me, Abby; do they know of your views?" Charles asked, gesturing to my father, who was still conversing with the Governor. 

"Not for certain, Charles," I replied.  "But I know they suspect."  Charles looked puzzled, obviously wondering why they should suspect of my Patriot leanings.

"Did my story not convince them?" he asked.

"I know not what you told them, Charles," I said, looking at him fiercely, wanting to know what he told them on that night when we first met, more than ever now.  "But they started to suspect through a mistake of mine." I said, looking at the ground, hoping that Charles would not be disappointed in me.
            "What was that, Abby?" Charles asked softly, noticing my humiliation.

"I requested that I be allowed to attend Chris' funeral." I answered, still looking at the flowered floor of the party, not daring to see Charles' reaction. 

I was overcome with a great sorrow, as I thought of Chris for the first time in a long while.  I saw his dirt-caked face, and his deep-set, determined eyes, and felt the tears begin to well in my throat. 

I hoped that Mr. Revere would not wonder at my familiarity with Chris Snieder.  Has Charles told him of my other identity as Jemmy?  I wondered, praying he had not. 

"I'm sorry, Charles," I said.  "I knew they would not let me, but I couldn't help but ask.  I knew if I didn't, I would always wonder what if they would've let me, and I was just too afraid to ask?"  I looked at him now, praying that he would understand.  His face softened, and he looked tenderly down at me. 

"You needn't be sorry, Abby," he said, and smiled weakly at me.  I could tell he was concerned.  He was afraid for me!  Me, his little baby sister, who he held no responsibility for, and could easily cast away like an old hat.  But he chose to help me, to teach me of the world, and of myself.