Thou, like the world, th' oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe:
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.

Oliver Goldsmith, Memory

The gallant equestrian commission proved a bundle of mixed blessing for the Lowndes family. daughter. On one hand, Mr Lowndes, faced with the stern alliance of both his daughter and his landlady, had subsided into sullen compliance about his dram-drinking. Ten guineas is not a figure to be sneezed at, and a man needs both a steady hand and a clear eye for portrait-painting; especially a portrait of this magnitude. Without the distractions of rum punch, Pa rolled up his sleeves and took sketch after sketch of the noble Bucephalus as though his life depended on it.

But his temper soured noticeably; which was most unlike Pa. Granted, the last large painting he had done of this size had been of Mr Addison, more than a year and a half ago; but there had been plenty of work in between, even if it was only mottoes and grapevines for inn-signs. But Lizzie doubted that her father had ever fretted quite so much over a client as he worried at the noble Bucephalus.

When he came to painting, the paints were badly mixed. When sketching, Pa's pencils were too blunt, or too finely sharpened to do the creature justice – to say nothing of bad paper and poor canvas.

Mr Lowndes' temper was fraying badly.

'God damn it, man! Hold the horse's head higher! Higher!' he barked at the groomsman holding the horse's bridle. 'I'm not painting a dray-horse with his head in the muck! How do you expect me to paint the damn animal like this?!'

He threw down his brush in frustration. His fingers were shaking again, Lizzie noticed.

'Pa-?'

'Don't fuss, Bess. Leave it!' her father snapped. 'Always pick-pick-picking at dear old Papa, aren't you? Can't you leave well enough alone, for once?'

He broke off , looking away at the hurt expression in his daughter's eyes. 'Aha – I'm sorry, my dear. I'm not…myself. Take a walk, why don't you? Sketch the harbour, or something. Only I need to conquer this…' he glared at the inoffensive Bucephalus, quietly munching on the hay in his loosebox 'This abominable piece of…'

Lizzie didn't need to be told twice. When Pa was one of his sulks, he pecked savagely at everyone around him like a broody hen, clucking over his art. But he had never been in quite such a foul temper before. He would be better working it out by himself.

Besides, Lizzie brightened at the prospect of the harbour. She had promised herself an attempt at sketching the ship. And the thick woodland around Setauket head could possibly be a classical arbour, if she really exerted herself before the light faded…

Strangers were still a novelty in Setauket; Elizabeth still noticed the occasional furtive glance from passers-by. But really, Lizzie didn't think herself particularly noticeable. To be sure, she was comely, in the way that all young girls in good health are, but her eyes were perhaps a little sharp; made into bright round little dark buttons by too much study. And she was rather too hasty with her hands and feet to be called ladylike. The best Lizzie had ever been able to say of her own reflection, was that with a little care and a pretty gown, she could be a pert lady's maid in a comedy of manners.

Lizzie found herself sadly disappointed by the harbour. It was an afternoon as grey and dull as ditchwater. The mysterious sea-mist had long since departed, and apart from a slovenly fellow shucking open oysters with a big knife, the waterfront was deserted. Even the supply ship had moved off further out to sea, an indiscernible black blotch on a heaving grey sea.

Still. With the cool sea-breeze in her face and the rustle of sea-grass, it was a thousand times better than staying with Pa in one of his moods.

Lizzie opened her own battered journal, taking the liberty of an upturned bucket as her seat, and began to draw.

She drew the shoreline, at first , tethered to the little jetty that served Setauket's fishermen. The shadows changed over the water, so there was little chance of capturing the billows, but she caught the feathery edges of the sea grass, the sharp lines of the planks…Pa's rejected pencil worked very well for her once she began in earnest.

Slowly, Lizzie's face softened as she grey more absorbed in her work. The lines of habitual worry that drew her eyebrows together vanished altogether when she drew – for there was the edge of the chandler's house to draw, that far-off line of roof that Anna had told her was the DeJong farm…

She didn't notice how the hours passed. Or the tramp-tramp of the change of guard behind her. Time and space became very distant things altogether one Lizzie had her attention buried in her rough copies.

But after an hour and a half of undisturbed peace, Lizzie felt a cold prickle, right between her shoulder-blades. It was nothing at first – just the vague sensation that someone was looking at her. Hardly anything much.

But it grew. It was an insistent, invasive feeling. Someone was watching her, just beyond her line of vision. ..

Lizzie forced herself to stare at the horizon, drawing her cloak about her like a protective shield. The sea blended with the sky, just at the furthest point. If she used the blunt side of her charcoal to just outline that cloud there…

I'm not going to give in and look around, she thought to herself. I'm not. Whoever it is will get bored and go away. People are always curious, especially in small towns. It's probably just a local who's never seen an artist before-

But it was no good. It was like an itch now, that crawling feeling at the back of her neck…

Lizzie paused to wipe a charcoal smudge from the inside of her wrist, peering around the confines of her cap, before determinedly staring at a seagull poking hopefully around Robeson's oyster stall.

She concentrated on the seagull. Perhaps just a touch of charcoal, for the colour at the edge of its wing?

There was a polite schoolmaster's 'ahem' from behind her.

Lizzie finally, reluctantly, turned her head. There was no mistaking that delicately-pitched voice.

Or, now she came to think of it, the disagreeable intrusion.

Back in the prosperous days of York City, Lizzie had seen an automaton from France displayed at a fair. It was all wax, wispy horsehair, and lifeless glass eyes, but it moved, in a halting, ticking way; almost like a human being. Had you stripped the steel skeleton of its waxen shell and dressed it in flesh and regimentals, you might possibly have had Lieutenant Simcoe.

It gave Lizzie something of a jolt to realize he had been quite so close. Simcoe was an unknown, faintly alarming element. Their bizarre encounter at the encampment had both alarmed and irritated her. Lizzie didn't like guessing at people; she liked to make sense of what she saw – and there seemed no rhyme or reason for his appearing now.

'Still hard at your labours, Miss Lowndes? They must be Herculean, indeed.' There was something like a smile in the pale thin-boned face hovering over her shoulder. 'You are a diligent apprentice to your trade…'

Lizzie indignantly shut up her sketchbook.

'I find the sea-breeze rather cold,' she said frostily, preparing to rise from her seat with as much dignity as possible. 'If you don't mind, sir, I think I shall withdraw – '

Something akin to chagrin flickered visibly across the lieutenant's face.

'But I do mind,' he said. 'I mind it very much. I would rather you stayed exactly where you are, Miss Lowndes. Do sit down?'

It wasn't a question. It was a command. But Lizzie bridled at his tone; and there were no patrons to conciliate here. Her eyes flashed.

'Given the nature of your… talk last time, sir, I do not want your company or your conversation.' she said sharply, picking up her skirts

A muscle twitched convulsively in the lieutenant's cheek. For a moment, Lizzie thought the gentlemanly mask might drop; but no. Whatever internal clockwork propelled the man forward resumed its course.

'I own my blunder, and I understand how unforgivable it must seem…' His voice took on the carefully rehearsed note of a schoolboy declaiming a piece of Latin. 'Surely a gentlewoman will pardon a man long estranged from polite society?'

He finished by looking down expectantly at Lizzie.

Did he want a round of applause? Lizzie wondered irritably. But on the other hand - for Pa's sake, it would be better to make peace.

She hesitated a moment.

'I believe I can forgive you,' she said, somewhat stiffly, reluctantly resuming her seat. 'Since you took the trouble to make a more gentlemanly apology...'

She very nearly took back her words at the sight of his self-satisfied smile. But Simcoe had already discarded his penitence; as something he had no further use for. He was already glancing inquisitively over her shoulder at her sketchbook.

'May I?'

'I-'

The clumsily bound portfolio was pulled from Lizzie's hands before she could so much as utter a protest. Simcoe deftly teased open a page, examining it closely.

'This is the harbour here?'

'Yes,' Lizzie said shortly. 'I was sketching it.'

'You work hard.' There was the scratch as Simcoe flicked over the sheet absently with one finger. 'And studies, I see! This is the tavern. And this…' He paused.

'It's the encampment around the church. From when the major was sitting for his portrait.'

'And you found the time to make … strikingly accurate sketches of military defences, I see?'

'What?' Lizzie blanched at the implication. 'No! I mean – the Major wanted something of the camp in the background, with the regiment colours, and I thought I could –

'Isn't that your father's job?' Simcoe said lightly. He peered closer. 'Oh, look – there's the oyster-major himself! He is rather short next to the horse, isn't he? Still. Hewlett's not a tactical man.'

And with a sharp movement, he calmly tore the page clean away from its binding.

Lizzie looked aghast. Sketchbooks weren't for tearing; paper was expensive, hoarded up with care. She could have simply altered the encampment drawing!

'Just a precaution, of course.' Simcoe vaguely seemed to notice her stunned expression. 'Oh. Would you like the part with the major back? And the horse, of course. Can't forget Incitatus…'

With painstaking care (that nonetheless made Lizzie grit her teeth), he tore the drawing sharply in half again.

Simcoe returned the mutilated sketch to her, another unnatural smile stretching the corners of his mouth. On the flimsy page, a small Major Hewlett patted three-quarters of a horse, the back legs abruptly sheared off at the edge of the paper. It looked absurd, like a bar-room caricature.

'I should draw more seascapes, if I were you,' he said. 'But very well done, indeed. You even noted the gun placements! And the palisades.' He looked admiringly down at the half-sheet of drawing in his hand. 'Yes, very well done.'

Lizzie couldn't trust herself to speak . Gathering her things about her through a red mist of rage, she turned with as much hauteur as she could muster towards the tavern.

'Miss Lowndes? One moment.' The unnatural smile was still stretched across Lieutenant Simcoe's face. 'I shall escort you back.'

Even all the hauteur of Diana herself couldn't save Lizzie's sense of dignity here, being solemnly escorted hardly more than twenty paces to the inn door. It was like an absurd form of arrest. And the lieutenant made her a flourishing bow upon parting that made her clench her fists beneath her silk apron. Couldn't the man just go?

She didn't take the trouble to look behind her as she bolted into safety, which was perhaps just as well for her peace of mind. Had she glanced from her window into the street below, she would have seen the lean figure of the obtrusive lieutenant; still examining the torn scrap of drawing in one hand with evident approval.

Fortunately, the tavern was all but deserted when Lizzie made her hasty entrance. It was early afternoon. Lizzie had space to unloose her hat, and breathe easily; something she had scarcely done since the polite 'ahem'. She leant against the door as though barricading herself in, calming herself, before hurrying to her room.

Most of the regiment were amiable fellows who simply wanted a quiet place to drink their pay away, with a few humorous ballads and a comic song or two. Making room for a painter and his daughter made no odds to them, and conciliating people on Pa's behalf was half of Lizzie's life. It wasn't usually a hard task. It was something Lizzie was a practiced hand at, and she had learned which ones to avoid.

Sergeant Easton was a plump little weasel with nasty, calculating eyes beneath his curled brown wig. Before one evening was out, he had tricked Pa out of nearly four shillings in a rigged game of lansquenet. Lizzie persuaded him away eventually – although not without a round of mocking sniggers that had brought the colour to Lizzie's cheeks and murder into her eyes.

Captain Joyce was not so bad, but he never had money. Lizzie had been right about his freely sponging drinks from all and sundry; sometimes from his own officers. After three days casual acquaintance with the comings and goings of the army, Lizzie came to the conclusion that Captain Joyce actually did very little. He left most of his duties to his lieutenants and then genially took the credit - in addition to borrowing money from them. Lieutenant Appleton was known to glower viciously in Joyce's direction when the Captain was making particularlyfree.

Lizzie understood Captain Joyce, and Easton, and Lieutenant Appleton. She had a gentle understanding of them all, from the brisk little Major right down to gentle Ensign Baker, who had a particular fondness for spending his scanty pay on cold ham and penny ale.

But she did not understand the grim enigma that was Lieutenant Simcoe.

He wasn't a carouser, that much was certain. Living in the inn had given her glimpses of the unofficial officer's mess in the snuggery.

She would have been more at ease if he had been a drinker like Joyce and Easton; Lizzie knew carousers. Oh, he sat with his fellow officers drinking whatever brandy was put in front of him, yes; but he didn't drink like other men. Despite Anna's grim description of him as a 'mad dog', he was almost stonily in control with his liquor.

But there was something that unnerved every man he came into contact with. No-one nudged elbows, or stood treat with Simcoe. No-one called on him for a song, or to read aloud from any of the Loyalist broadsheets. Whether it was his sneering mien, or that air of barely restrained threat, you couldn't tell – but there was a sharply defined space around him whilst he sat in haughty state by the hearth. And everyone breathed more easily once he was gone.

Easton offered a sort of jackal's homage to Simcoe, Lizzie had noticed. He was deferential; ingratiating, even, although with the wary eyes of a schoolboy who acknowledges the master with the switch. Whereas he was downright insolent with Appleton, who everyone frankly acknowledged as something of a buffoon.

Mrs Strong was right. The man was dangerous.

But after this initial encounter, curious to say, Elizabeth quite forgot about him. She was concentrating on making things safe for Pa.

It took Lizzie a while to master the currents of Setauket society. Small towns move with the ebb and flow of public opinion so suddenly, that you can lose your footing before you know where you are. There were far more things to concern her than one vaguely unpleasant officer.

For instance, the suspect liberal families – who had hitherto quite looked down their noses at that 'little Lowndes fellow' – suddenly became fairly warm towards Lizzie ; as warm as any condescending country family can be towards a penniless stranger. She strongly suspected Mrs Strong to have had a hand in the matter, but Anna twinklingly denied all knowledge of that.

' Not I! It must have been Selah,' she said innocently, after an effusive tallow-merchant's wife had accosted a startled Lizzie in the street. 'I'm sure he's put in a good word for you – and your father. What did Mrs Sampson want from you again?'

'Portrait of her children,' Lizzie said dazedly. 'Wants a half-length from Pa. And her husband wants a painting of the house he's building…'

'Well, word gets around in a small town,' Anna said amiably. 'You'd be surprised how far it travels. And as your father's being entertained at Whitehall, he passes muster for most Setauket folks. Not everyone is good enough for Mr Woodhull, magistrate.'

Lizzie looked up. There was that note of bitterness again. She'd heard it before with Mr Strong, at the sitting in the Strong parlour– and now there was a sharp, pained splinter of it in Anna's voice, too.

Mr Woodhull didn't seem to have many friends. Lizzie had only seen the man once, at one of the major's scheduled sessions; and he looked much like any other country gentleman she'd ever seen; middle-aged, a strong man running to seed, faintly-self-satisfied. He had bustled in on with the air of a minister of state.

It would have been funny, Lizzie thought uneasily, if it didn't brew so much ill-will in the town.

'You don't like him?' she asked, curiously.

'Nothing against the man.' Anna said tightly. 'Not much for him, either, mind. He throws his weight about. Pretends he's some sort of ambassador for the colonies to the major. And he doesn't mind taking what he can from others, if it suits him.'

She turned, looking at Lizzie gingerly from out of the corner of her eye. 'Some of the families here think Woodhull's a sycophant. Worse than that – he'll size up property for the taking if you're suspected of being a patriot.'

Lizzie swallowed. This was dangerous ground. Anna had never been quite so open about her leanings before.

'Lucky Pa and I are paupers,' she said lightly. 'We haven't anything worth the taking.'

'You're lucky,' Anna said, broodingly staring out at the horizon towards Oyster Bay. 'Because those that have…'

Anna was all that was left of the Smith family on Long Island now, and that seemed to be warning enough against strong opinions in politics. The rest of her family were in hiding in the further reaches of Connecticut with some of the Strongs. Selah Strong had three brothers, two of whom were… somewhere. With the Continentals, it was guessed – or some roving band of militia, picking off redcoats wherever they found them. And there was only one, palsy-stricken old man left out of the formidable Brewster clan.

In Loyalist-occupied Setauket, the majority were just ordinary people who didn't want trouble; people who didn't want their ricks burnt or their houses torched by either side.

'A word to the wise, Liz,' Anna said quietly, as they passed from the safe open road into the close-huddled outskirts of Setauket. 'Keep a close eye on your father.'

'What?' Lizzie stared. 'But… he's not had drink for three days now. I took away his money-'

'Not the drink.' Mrs Strong pulled her to one side, under pretence of adjusting her own cap. 'Listen. Your father's made a friend of the army here. That's good for him, I see that. But that could get him into trouble in a different way. With other people. You understand me?'

Lizzie felt her insides turn cold. It hadn't occurred to her that out here in the country, things weren't as clear-cut as in newly retaken New York. She'd thought the only risks were cheap gin and no commissions.

'Keep him busy,' Anna said carefully. 'Get him …other paintings. The Sampsons, the DeJongs – any county family will do. But keep him balanced.'

That way you keep him safe, Mrs Strong's dark eyes said, as she straightened. 'I'll do what I can for you,' she said, in a deliberately loud, pleasant voice, as they entered the tavern. 'I'll put in a word with Mr Dejong. He has a new pretty little wife; I'm sure he can be persuaded to sit for your father…'

And with that, she bustled off in the direction of her parlour.

It was a well-meant, well-staged scene. But Lizzie stared after her, open dismay written across her face.

It was as much as she could do to keep Pa focused on the Major's commission as it was. The tempting lure of 'genteel conversation' called to him at every opportunity; and Pa, of course, took every opportunity.

How was she to persuade him to paint the DeJongs into the bargain?

But Anna's warning had frightened her.

Pa might be waylaid by disgruntled Setauket boys, looking for a soft target for their anger with the army. He might be rolled for his thrice-battered silver pocket-watch on his way home from Whitehall, left for dead in a ditch...

He might be actually dea–

That thought made her stomach clench.

Balance. Keep Pa balanced, that was the key. Keep him safe. Make friends. Make allies.

She followed Anna into the parlour, and carefully closed the door.

'I'll have to do it,' she said bluntly.

'What?' Anna started. 'I thought he was painting now-'

'Pa can't. Not with the trouble he's having with the Major's painting.' Lizzie avoided the unspoken question in Anna's eye. 'I – could you manage it with the DeJongs? It'll be my father painting it, but…'

'The work will be yours? Again?'

'It's easy,' Lizzie said quickly. 'I'm just an apprentice, remember? I make the first few impressions, Pa gives it the master-touch…'

And that was a poor excuse the first time, Liz. Mrs Strong's face almost said as much.

'What about the paintings you've promised to the Sampsons? Will your father be using his 'acolyte' there, too?'

'No!' Lizzie said vehemently. 'It's not like that! I can get Pa to do the landscape and the half-length. He just needs a little time to get used to it again…'

'Does it not help now he's clear of the drink?' Anna's voice softened. 'He seems better than he was when he first arrived…'

Lizzie shook her head. Her cap slipped forward over one eye, showing an unruly tousle of dark curls. It wanted combing, Anna thought. And there was a thin, exhausted look to the girl's eyes that hadn't been there before.

'You need sleep before anything,' Anna said firmly. 'And clean linen for tomorrow. The DeJongs are particular.' She ushered a faintly protesting Lizzie towards the stairs. 'We'll see about the rest, Miss.'