“Do you know this Gerry Malory?”
“I might,” she answered cautiously. “Was he a dockyard hand now, or maybe a farmer from Breed’s hill—”
“This one was took up for being a British officer,” said the landlord grimly. “Took up, right here in my tavern. Irons put on his wrists—part of an old ox chain I had—and he was took to the camp at Cambridge under guard. Likely they’ll hang the damn redcoat. I hope they do.”
Sally Rose’s smile looked a bit frozen, but it did not vanish away. There was a tremor in her voice, but she spoke imperiously still. “All very interesting, Landlord, but your daughter has undertaken to fetch us a supper of spring lamb. We are tired with long riding, and if you could ask her to be spry about it, we should be grateful. Our horses, also, are at your door and in need of attention.”
She sat down and turned her back upon him.
Kitty watched the lame man shake his head. Then he stumped off toward the kitchen. She looked again at her cousin, and Sally Rose’s eyes were shining with more than the candlelight.
“He was coming to see me,” she murmured happily. “Gerry was coming to see me when they caught him.”
Kitty felt her face twist in a frown and spoke her disapproval. “Which he shouldn’t have been doing, of course. He belongs with the other British in Boston. Well, he’s got himself in trouble now. A prisoner of our men, and the landlord talked of hanging. Aren’t you worried about him?”
Sally Rose took off her bonnet and shook back her shining hair. “Not a little finger’s worth,” she said. “They won’t hold him long. He can come and go like a breath of east wind, Gerry can. My, oh my”—and she patted the front of her muslin gown—“I’m so hungry. I wish Nanny would hurry and bring that spring lamb!”