The Tory Widow by Christine Blevins Page A

impossible to tell officer from enlisted man save for bits of colored cloth General Washington ordered worn on shoulders, or ruffled into cockades and sewn onto hats. Sporting bright ribband sashes worn across the chest, the highest-ranking officers were the easiest to identify.
    The young fellows sitting across from Jack—enlisted men, all—wore matching striped waistcoats, blue jackets and round felt hats. Jack caught the eye of one. “Where do you boys hail from?”
    â€œMassachusetts. And you?”
    Jack leaned back, tipping the two front legs of his chair from the floor. “New York City, brother.”
    The young soldier grinned easy, admiring Sally’s rear end as she circled their table distributing wooden mugs and plates. “A native son! Not many of you around. We’re told this is the place for the finest coffee in all of New York City.”
    Jack laughed, examining the inside of the empty mug Sally had set before him. “I’d say this is just about the only coffee in all of New York City.”
    Anne Merrick sidestepped through the open back door, balancing a tray of baked goods on each hip. She slipped the trays onto the stationery counter, which had been pushed to the back of the shop. Since the day the Liberty Boys had relieved Mrs. Merrick of her printing press, the entire length of the first floor was devoted to serving comestibles. The rebel occupation proved an enormous boon to the Tory widow’s business, and she did not want for customers.
    True to his word, Jack Hampton kept his eye on Anne Merrick, making it a habit to take coffee in her shop at least once a day. He had to admit a grudging admiration for her resilience. Even the most steadfast Tories fled the town once visited by the Liberty Boys. But not Mrs. Merrick—she simply swept up the mess, repainted her shingle to read LIBERTY COFFEEHOUSE and reopened for business.
    She came in from the kitchen, hefting a steaming coffeepot onto the countertop. For a wife who had not seemed overly fond of her departed husband, Jack had never seen the woman dress in anything other than mourning-wear. Today the widow wore a gauze kerchief tucked about the square neckline of a plain gray gown. Her skirt was protected by a brilliant white apron, its crisp starched bow at the small of her back being the only adornment added to her Quakerlike simplicity. A frilled mobcap covered her chestnut hair, framing her flushed face with a pretty ruffle.
    Contrary to her mistress, the Scottish servant girl favored cheerful patterns and colors. Sally brightened the shop in her green skirt and blue-checked apron; her riotous red hair was tied back with a matching checked head scarf.
    Crisscrossing the room, Mrs. Merrick carried a tray and Sally handled the coffeepot. Together they visited each customer, filling mugs and this day offering a selection of raisin scones and corn muffins. As usual, Jack ’s table was the last stop on their route.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Hampton!” The women greeted him in unison and together dipped a silly, florid curtsy.
    â€œGood morning, ladies,” he answered, equally jovial.
    â€œCoffee today, Mr. Hampton?” Sally asked with a grin.
    â€œPlease . . .” Jack offered up his mug, and as usual she poured him the dregs from the bottom of the pot—a bitter sludge of grounds mixed with eggshells—coffee so thick he could easily get his spoon to stand upright in it.
    Widow Merrick tipped her tray, which was empty save for a lone raisin scone. “Can I tempt you today, Mr. Hampton?”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Merrick—I think the scone.”
    â€œGood choice.” Mrs. Merrick plucked up the scone and placed it on his plate. “Sally baked this one special for you.”
    Sally peered into his mug with some concern. “Och! The coffee seems a bit on the strong side this morning. Shall I brang ye a lump of sugar and a wee bumper of cream, Mr.