“Good. Then go.”
Anna crossed to the door but stopped with her hand on the knob.
Mrs. Pembroke didn’t look up from her work. “If anyone asks what I gave you, it was a household task.”
Anna looked over her shoulder. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Because that’s exactly what it is,” Mrs. Pembroke called.
Anna left the room with the locket hidden in her closed hand and Mrs. Pembroke’s words following her down the hall.
A household task. Well, perhaps it was. But Anna had the unsettling feeling she was now carrying something far heavier than silver.
Anna found the brown cloak exactly where Mrs. Pembroke said it would be, folded in the cedar press with three others, all smelling of lavender and wood. She pulled it out and examined it. The hem was worn in a few places, though not badly, and the lining had pulled loose near one of the seams. It was an ordinary garment. Simple. Plain.
The locket, on the other hand, was not ordinary.
Anna carried both to the small sewing room at the back of the second floor. Though it could hardly be called a room. It was more of a narrow chamber tucked between the linen closet and the servants’ staircase. But there was a chair, a worktable, and enough afternoon light to see by, which was all she required.
Anna closed the door, set the cloak across her lap, and placed the locket on the table. That way she wouldn’t accidentally knock it onto the floor.
If Anna wasn’t careful, that’s exactly what would happen. She sometimes got clumsy when she was nervous.
Anna sighed and, for several moments, stared at it. “Martha Washington,” she whispered.
She’d never met the woman, of course. Very few ever would. Yet here was something that belonged to her or at least passed through her hands. Something hidden and somehow entrusted to Mrs. Pembroke. And now it rested with Anna in a little sewing room in the Pembroke house, while British officers occupied the parlor below.
Anna pressed her lips together. The more she thought about it, the more absurd it became.
It was also terrifying.
She pushed the thought aside, picked up a sturdy brown scrap of fabric Mrs. Pembroke left with the cloak, and cut a piece large enough for a small pocket.
“Make sure it’s plain,” Mrs. Pembroke had said, “but big enough for the locket and nothing more.”
Fine. Anna could do that. She could also do it in such a way that it wasn’t so neat it drew attention. Only Mrs. Pembroke could give instructions for secret work and make them sound like criticism of one’s sewing.
Anna rolled her eyes, threaded the needle, and began.
The work helped settle her thoughts. Needle through the lining. Pull. Smooth the cloth. Another stitch. There wasn’t much cleverness needed for that. She wouldn’t make a fancy edge, and she’d make certain nothing caught a searching eye. Anna had stitched plenty of pockets before, but never one meant to hide something that might matter to George Washington’s cause.
Her hand paused midair as she gripped the needle. Merciful heavens, was that what this was? Something for the cause, or was it merely a sentimental keepsake Mrs. Pembroke wanted moved safely?
Anna looked at the locket again. No. It wasn’t merely sentimental. Mrs. Pembroke’s words made that plain enough. “Some things are safer when they look sentimental.”
Ah. Now she understood. Anna returned to work. She’d just finished one side of the pocket when footsteps sounded in the hall.
She froze. Those weren’t the steps of Mercy’s quick flutter or Mrs. Fenwick’s trodding. They were heavier than that, measured and male.
Anna swept the locket from the table and slipped it beneath the folds of the cloak. Her needle remained in her other hand. To her horror, the footsteps stopped outside the door.
Anna held her breath.
A soft knock followed.
She stared at the door with wide eyes. No one ever knocked on the sewing room door. Most people forgot the room existed.
She gulped. “Yes?” she called, thankful her voice didn’t crack.
