Free The Messenger by Siri Mitchell

someone to talk to while the others danced. It seemed we were both unfit for polite society.
    For her part, Hannah paused in her step as if she regretted descending. But she did not retreat fast enough. “Hannah, my dear, have you met Major Lindley?”
    Her shoulders had hunched as if she feared some violence from him. But as we watched, they straightened. She descended and came to stand between Mrs. Pennington and her daughter. Her face was grave, her eyes wary.
    “Major Lindley is on General Howe’s staff.”
    John bowed. “A pleasure.”
    Hannah inclined her head, though she did not extend her hand, she did not flutter her eyelashes, nor did she flash a smile. In short, she did nothing at all that her cousin had done.
    “And this is Mr. Jeremiah Jones.”
    It seemed she had not noticed me. To be fair, my hat had thrown my face into a shadow. She was a sight to regard as she looked at me. Her face went pale as the moon and then her gaze ricocheted between John and Mrs. Pennington and her cousin, as if she was frightened that they might discover our business. If she didn’t gain possession of herself, she’d betray our plans before we’d even begun to accomplish them.
    I removed my hat. Bowed.
    “Oh, but we’ve—”
    I didn’t want her to divulge our acquaintanceship. People might begin asking questions. “We’ve had the pleasure of passing each other on the street, but have never before been introduced.”
    Mrs. Pennington led the way into the parlor. The family’s fabled carpets had been taken up and the chairs and gaming tables pushed against the walls. In the corner, a cluster of musicians tuned their instruments. The sound of strings and the glow of a room lit by candlelight made me want nothing so much as to leave. To spend the several hours here that politeness now required would be certain torture. To be expected to watch others dance and flirt was too cruel a request. Which was why I rarely frequented polite society.
    The truth was that I preferred no society at all.
    “Please, Jeremiah Jones, would thee like to sit?”
    I turned my attentions from the dance floor to the person of Hannah Sunderland. She had decided, it seemed, to tolerate me.
    “We’re suffered to be here now, the both of us, until the evening ends. And while thy shoes look presentable, they cannot be any more comfortable than my own.”
    How I hated sensible people. They were always so . . . so . . . reasonable. And it was even worse when they happened to be right. I settled into the chair beside her.
    “Why did thee say that?”
    I cast a glance at her. “Say what?”
    “About us never having before met.”
    “I didn’t say we’d never met. I said we’d never been introduced.”
    Her lips folded into a careful, if moderate, frown. “I’m still not certain how I feel about our partnership, but one thing I will not do. I will not lie.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “And I won’t have thee lie on my behalf.”
    “I didn’t.” It was on my own behalf that I’d lied.
    She looked as if she wanted to say something more. Thankfully, she did not.
    It let me put my mind to work on the jail. John was our means of entry, but I had yet to come upon a way to request the pass. It would have to be on her behalf, of course. But why should an avowed Loyalist like me care about whether some Quaker’s brother languished in prison? I might as well just tell the truth: I’d like to organize a prison escape.
    I finally gave up in frustration and was rather surprised to find the girl still sitting beside me in apparent ease. Most girls would have taken my silence as an insult by now.
    “Would you care for some punch?” I found myself saying the words before I could think to stop them. A perfunctory courtesy—a relic from another time. A time when I’d been invited into all the most fashionable homes in the city. A time when I’d been the epitome of all that was genteel.
    She looked at me as if she suspected there was some trap