October 1781
The faintest touch of summer lingered in the air, mixing with the tang of apples, autumn leaves, and the familiar smells of her father's shop.
Felicity stood on a stool, tiptoeing to reach for a large box on the top shelf. A trickle of sweat ran between her shoulder blades, making her wriggle uncomfortably until her shift absorbed the moisture.
Her father looked up from the ledger on the counter.
"Felicity, what are you doing?"
"I'm filling Mr. Waller's order." She stretched higher, her fingertips brushing the corner. "He wanted two new pewter plates to match his set because he just got married, and his wife has china but—"
"My dear," Mr. Merriman said, "I meant why are you balanced precariously on an unsteady wooden stool?"
A knock on the door saved her from answering. Still facing the shelves, Felicity slid the box out. The contents clanged together softly, muffled by the fabric she had wrapped them in.
"Good Lord!" Her father's excited shout made her jump, nearly dropping the parcel.
Felicity didn't need to turn around to know who had just walked in. News of the surrender at Yorktown had traveled quickly, and Benjamin Davidson still owed her father two years of apprenticeship.
She had imagined this moment in so many ways. Ben would run up to her, and the force of his hug would make them spin through the shop, his boots thumping against the worn floor, her skirts flying out around them. Or she would coolly acknowledge him in the street with a curtsy while he stared at her, transfixed by her new grace and beauty.
None of Felicity's daydreams involved her standing, sweating on a teetering stool, clutching a wooden box that threatened to slip from her grasp, while wearing an old dress.
Nor had she imagined he would look like that.
This cannot be happening, she thought.
Thankfully, Ben was talking with her father, describing Cornwallis' surrender.
Felicity climbed down off the stool, quietly set the box on the floor, and crouched behind a barrel.
Had he always been like that? She wondered. His hair was longer, his jawline sharper, even under stubble. Perhaps his voice was a few notes deeper than before. His height was remarkable, as was the way his muscles moved beneath his shirt as he slid the musket from his shoulder to rest it by the door. He was listening intently to Mr. Merriman's sad news.
Felicity couldn't bear to relive her mother's death. Or Polly's. The previous winter had been almost unendurable.
Instead, she planned her escape from the shop.
"...was just very difficult on all of us," her father was saying seriously. "Although I'm sure you have had more than your share of hardship..."
If I could just get closer to the door.
Felicity slid her shoes off and gathered her skirts. Still crouching, she crept silently toward well-stocked tables and the open doorway, sunlight, and freedom. She knew she'd have to talk to Ben eventually, but she intended to be wearing a nicer dress when the time came. And maybe smelling better.
"...sure she's around here somewhere..."
Just a few more feet to go...
"Felicity?" Her father and Ben were peering over the counter at her.
She shot to her feet and tucked a stray bit of hair into her cap.
"I thought—" Stopping, she tried again. "There was a mouse under here. I saw it run from the storeroom." She could feel Ben watching her, familiar amusement dancing in his eyes.
Felicity fixed her gaze on a stack of wooden bowls beside the nutmeg graters. Embarrassment curled in her stomach, and the heat of it crawled up her neck to light her ears on fire.
"I see. A mouse in the shop is very urgent, of course." Her father's voice was full of repressed laughter. "And do you intend to say hello to Ben?"
Finally, she made brief eye contact before dipping into a curtsy. That, at least, went according to plan. A new sensation fluttered along her spine. "Good day."
She was thankful for the counter between them.
Ben smiled at her curt greeting and bowed. "And good day to you, Miss Merriman. I trust you are well?"
"I am, thank you." Felicity twisted her fingers into her skirt, wishing she could disappear into the shabby fabric.
His eyes look softer than I imagined. Wasn't war supposed to...
"It's been quite some time since I last saw you," Ben said.
"Indeed it has."
She hadn't meant for it to sound so cold, but she felt strangely transparent and her tongue was starting to trip over words.
Her father cleared his throat.
"Felicity, could you please tell Rose to prepare the guest room?"
"Yes, Father." Thoroughly defeated, she returned to where she'd left her shoes and crammed her stockinged feet back into them.
"Mr. Merriman, that won't be necessary. My old quarters are more than adequate."
"Nonsense! We..." He looked out the doorway sadly. "We have plenty of space in the house these days."
Ben nodded and thanked him.
Felicity curtsied again before launching herself down the steps and rushing out onto the street.
She could hear her father apologizing to Ben for her behavior, expressing dismay at whatever had unsettled her.
Felicity ran the rest of the way, kicking up dust and ignoring the stares.
At the dinner table that night, her brother William peppered Ben with question after question about the war and the differences between the militia and the Continental Army. To his credit, Ben patiently answered each one.
"Did you kill anybody?" William was sitting on the edge of his seat.
Beside him, Nan froze with a spoonful of parsley-flecked broth halfway to her lips.
Felicity's eyes widened in horror. "William! That is entirely inappropriate."
"It's alright." Ben said. "He's just curious."
"It most certainly is not alright!" she hissed. "Unbridled curiosity makes for barbaric dinner conversation."
"Then I must agree, Miss Merriman, as you're the expert on curiosity, if I recall." Ben's smile was teasing and kind.
Mr. Merriman snorted quietly.
"She's undoubtedly inquisitive. Although she has grown up to be an admirable young woman."
Felicity shot her father a look before she brushed a crumb off of William's waistcoat, pretending not to listen.
"Indeed she has," Ben agreed. "Though there has always been much to admire about her."
And, to her eternal relief, he did not answer William's question.
After supper, Felicity sat alone by the crackling fire. Mending William's breeches had become a near-daily chore, thanks to his penchant for climbing trees with particularly rough bark. She could hardly blame him: the texture provided a much better grip.
Sometimes she regretted teaching him that.
Felicity's stitches were long and uneven beside Nan's fine, steady work, but William wasn't picky, and the work only had to hold until the next oak or black walnut ripped them open again.
A footstep drew her attention.
"May I join you?" Ben gestured to the unoccupied chair across from her.
"Yes."
He sat down with a sigh and settled in to gaze pensively at the lapping flames. Taking advantage of his distraction, Felicity studied him, her task forgotten.
Ben had shaved before dinner, and his face was as smooth as she remembered. He stretched his legs out, so completely at ease that she found herself oddly soothed by the movement as he rocked his heel back and forth.
It had been so long, and yet Ben fell right back into place. If he seemed a bit like a stranger, that was her own doing.
"I am sorry if I was rude earlier," she began. "I'm no longer sure if we are friends or not."
"Of course we are friends, Felicity." Ben leaned forward in the chair. "Well, I consider you a friend, in any case."
She gave him a small smile and returned to her work, the flickering firelight casting the torn fabric into relief.
"So much has changed," she said.
"You have not."
Felicity held up her needle and rolled it between her fingers.
"I sew now."
Ben laughed. "And I'm sure you enjoy every minute of it."
She almost stuck out her tongue before remembering that she was too old for that sort of thing.
In fact, Felicity was old enough to be suddenly aware that she sat alone in a room with a man while her father was upstairs tucking Nan and then William into bed. The shadows in the parlor hopefully hid her flushed cheeks as she glanced at the doors, closed against the drafts that always sucked the heat out of the room.
Ben cocked his head. She only squinted at her stitches.
"I can leave until he comes back," he offered. "Or open a door."
Felicity shook her head and shrugged in what she hoped was a convincing show of nonchalance.
"It's just that we're not quite children anymore," Felicity said as she pulled the needle smoothly through the thick wool of William's breeches.
"No, we're not," Ben agreed.
Felicity knew it was a mistake, but she looked over at him anyway. Ben's eyes never left her face but she felt the warmth of it everywhere, and the only thought that broke through the almost deafening hum in her mind was the certainty that she didn't want him to leave.
Her father had a reputation for being one of the most protective men in Williamsburg when it came to his daughters, and she doubted there would be any exceptions now that she was of a courtable age and the war was over.
The doorknob turned and they both looked quickly away. Which was the height of silliness, really, since they'd been doing nothing at all.
Ben stood when Mr. Merriman walked in, but the older man waved him down.
"Sit, please. I have my favorite." Mr. Merriman pulled up his usual armchair with the broken-in cushion. "Nan said she wasn't feeling well," he told her.
Felicity nodded. Nan loved candied ginger and fancied the boy who worked at the apothecary's shop. She often wasn't feeling well.
"Ben, tomorrow I'd like to take an inventory of the storeroom. I think we can expect some blockades to be lifted shortly and I intend to place an order."
Not that a British blockade had ever stopped her father. He'd secretly supported the runners throughout the war, buying their smuggled porcelain and salt under the cover of night. Felicity also suspected that he was the unnamed merchant in town who had helped procure muskets for the local militia, but she'd never asked.
Her father and Ben spoke of dwindling tobacco prices as Felicity tied off her thread and clipped it. She carelessly folded William's breeches and set them aside before slumping back into her chair with a contented noise.
"Stolen any fine horses recently?" Ben asked her.
Mr. Merriman threw back his head and laughed, and Felicity's heart skipped at the sound. She hadn't heard that kind from him in a long while. Affection bubbled through her.
"Felicity has outgrown that particular hobby," Mr. Merriman said, still smiling at the memory that time had faded to one of childhood mischief.
The conversation ebbed and flowed comfortably, like Ben had been there all along. The coziness of the fire and the peace of a busy day's end caught up with Mr. Merriman, as it often did when he sat in his chair with a book in his lap. Slowly, his eyelids floated shut.
"Borrowed any breeches?" Ben asked her quietly.
If coffeehouses admitted women, Felicity would not have her own pair tucked in the back of her clothespress upstairs, along with a deep-hooded cloak. Charlton's coffeehouse was one of her favorite haunts and, when she was certain her father was not there or at the adjacent Exchange on business, Felicity dressed as a boy, taciturn and skinny, and huddled over a newspaper in the corner of the plainer public room to eavesdrop.
The delicious coffee and chocolate, rare as they were during the war, were alone worth the risk, and the conversations she overheard practically sparkled with new ideas.
There, men could speak and be heard: doctors, cabinetmakers, scientists, soldiers, merchants, farmers, lawyers. All at once, all together. It was a place to think, to listen, and to share news.
No, her days of wearing breeches were far from over.
"Not today," she told Ben with perfect honesty.
Felicity poured cool water from a pitcher into the blue patterned bowl to rinse the soap from her hand. She patted her face dry and breathed in, enjoying the woodsy note of bayberry.
Stretching and twirling around her bedchamber, Felicity avoided the creaky spot on the floor by the fireplace out of habit. Taking off her stays was one of the best parts of the day, and she relished the sudden looseness of her shift while the faint crease marks left by the linen faded from her skin.
Heavenly.
Felicity no longer kept a diary, but she assumed that now was probably the time when many women sat placidly to write in theirs, if they had a candle to spare.
She really didn't have the patience for it, and writing one's actions and feelings could be so incriminating. So instead of pulling out a sheaf of paper and dipping her quill, Felicity snuffed out the taper and climbed into bed, the room lit only by glowing, ash-banked embers in the fireplace.
"October 26, 1781," she thought. "Today Benjamin Davidson returned to fulfill the requirements of his apprenticeship to Father. I wore my plain green dress from last year — the one that has a hole under the right sleeve — and an ill-matched ivory ribbon in my hair because I did not know he was coming. He looked well, and he has grown taller and more confident during his absence. He says that his regiment stopped receiving mail regularly and regrets the lack of correspondence. His family is also well. We had pork and apples for supper. The day was unusually warm but this evening was quite cool."
She rolled her eyes in the dark. Who would want to read that? Even in her head, it sounded dull.
"I hope Nan's illness is again cured by a visit to the apothecary, as I'm sure it will be because I have seen the way she giggles whenever she catches Henry Bracken's attention.
"I wonder what Father would say if he knew that I have smoked a pipe in the coffeehouse."
The thoughts came quickly, one hopping nonsensically to the next.
"I do not want Father to marry again too soon, but he seems lonely and I suppose he must eventually. I should prune the roses before the first snow. Ben's breeches would look ridiculous on me now..."
Thinking of how the wool would bunch around her thighs, Felicity drifted off.