An epic saga from USA Today Bestselling author Gayle Callen that follows one family, one building, from the American Revolution to the Roaring Twenties to modern day Manhattan.

For two hundred and fifty years, the Featherstone women have defended their families and Harbor House, the building that has sheltered and provided for them.

The Revolution
Abigail Featherstone’s husband died fighting the British invasion of New York. Harbor House provides her a way to fight back—she risks everything by spying on the Redcoats quartered in the rooms above her tavern.

Prohibition
After her father is jailed, flapper Lillian Featherstone gives up her college dreams to manage their historic family restaurant in Harbor House. The dangerous stand she takes against the mob that entangled her father is eclipsed only by her forbidden romance with a charismatic Harlem jazz musician.

Today
Two centuries of family history aren’t enough to make newly widowed Pamela Featherstone Mosher want to hold on to the run-down building she’s inherited. She’s ready to sell the property and move on from her painful past. But cleaning out Harbor House reveals the struggles and secrets of her female ancestors, and what they endured to keep their families safe.

Can the bravery and resilience of the Featherstone women give Pamela the courage to follow her heart?

Coming soon!

Excerpt

(The following is the property of the author and Oliver Heber Books and cannot be copied or reprinted without permission.)

 

Chapter 1

 

Pamela

New York City, 2023

 

Pamela Mosher craned her neck to stare up at the four-story brick building that perched on a corner in the Seaport District of Manhattan. As far as she knew, Harbor House was one of the oldest buildings in the city, older than the United States—and it was hers. She clapped a hand to her forehead with a groan.

A small tree blossomed with flowers over the dirt rectangle in the sidewalk in which it was planted, but the sign of early summer didn’t make her feel warm. She hugged herself and thought that Harbor House looked as dilapidated and old as she felt. A wooden panel covered the glass-paned restaurant door, and plywood protected the large windows on either side. 

It had started life as a tavern in the 1760s, been used as a storefront, a boarding house, a speakeasy, even a stop on the Underground Railroad. During the Covid pandemic shutdown, her family restaurant, Featherstone’s, had closed.

Covid had taken her father’s life, too. With her husband’s death a year ago, Pam was now completely alone, no husband, no kids, no siblings. For a moment, the staggering feeling of despair and loneliness swept over her again, but she’d gotten good at pushing it aside when she needed to.

And she really needed her iron control today. She had scheduled meetings with a real estate developer and a historical preservationist. One wanted her to sell, the other wanted her to restore Harbor House—fat chance of that. It was full of too many memories of her father, including her own feelings of jealousy in her youth. It had taken so much of his time. She’d spent years serving customers in the restaurant when she’d been in high school and college, forgoing sports and hanging with friends. College had been her chance to escape. And then she’d met Will, and a new kind of obsession had grown between them, the drive to succeed at their fledgling business. Was everyone in her family tree obsessed with something?

The building represented so many different emotions for her, and being rid of it would give her peace. She wanted to escape everything in her life. After her husband’s death, she’d sold the Long Island insurance brokerage that they had built from the ground up. She was convinced it had killed him in the end. Ambition had been the focus of their lives, and they’d decided against having children because of it. They’d given up travel and close friends.

She’d thought she could now spend the rest of her life traveling, seeing the world that they’d never had time for. She’d spent her fiftieth birthday alone in Thailand. Instead of feeling at peace, knowing she could do whatever she wanted for the rest of her life, perhaps consult and travel, all she’d felt was empty and hopeless.

So she’d come back to Harbor House, telling herself that its fate was hanging over her like a menacing cloud. It was time to be done with it. Maybe then she could find some kind of purpose for her life.

Pam took a step toward the building, head bent as she fumbled for the keys in her purse.

“Look out!”

Pam’s head came up just as the front wheel of a bike grazed her leg, sending her reeling backward. The bicyclist fell sideways, collapsing beneath the bike.

“Are you all right?” Pam pulled the bike away from what she could now see was a teenage girl.

For a frozen moment, the girl looked up at her with big brown eyes, her long curly hair caught back in a ponytail beneath a ball cap. Her eyes weren’t apologetic or hurt—they were frightened. And was that the start of a bruise on her jaw? The girl looked back over her shoulder, and Pam followed her gaze.

On the next block, a young man wearing an oversized sweatshirt and loose jeans pulled a hat lower on his forehead and quickly stepped inside a store.

The girl got to her feet and took her bike by the handlebars, saying to Pam, “Thanks. Sorry I almost knocked you over. Are you hurt?”

“I’m not the one who landed on my butt on the sidewalk. Are you hurt?”

The girl blushed and briefly looked away. “I’m fine. I shouldn’t have been riding on the sidewalk. But…”

She stared across the street again, where the young man still hadn’t reappeared.

“Do you know that guy?” Pam asked. “Or is he some stranger harassing you? We can call the police.”

“No!” the girl hurriedly said. “I know him. He was teasing me, thinking he’s funny.”

“You don’t look amused.”

The girl gave a crooked smile. “It’ll be okay. I’m sorry to bother you about this.” She straightened her jean jacket and glanced down at her clothes.

That’s when they both saw the rip in her leggings and the spot of blood on her knee.

"It’s fine,” the girl quickly said.

“I have a bandage. We could wash your knee.”

She smiled nervously. “Here on the street?”

Pam nodded toward her building. “Inside. This is mine.”

“The restaurant is closed,” the girl said, frowning. “You have an apartment here?”

“Nobody’s lived here in a long time. I inherited it last year.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“Are you going to reopen the restaurant?” Then she winced. “Sorry. Not my business.”

“That’s okay. Let’s go wash your knee.”

The girl hung back. “I really shouldn’t bother you. And, no offense, I don’t know you.”

“I’ll leave the door wide open so you can run,” Pam said dryly. Then she paused. “I don’t know you either. If you come in, you should know I have security cameras, as well as alarms that’ll ring straight through to the authorities.” Well, to the security company, but the girl didn’t need to know that. “This place might be old, but I know how to protect it.”

The girl lifted her chin. “And I have a phone, and I know how to use it to call those same authorities.”

Pam felt a half smile lift her cheek. As she put her key into the solid door, she said, “I’m Pam Mosher. Bring your bike in; don’t leave it outside.”

“I’m Lucia.” But still she hesitated. “I think I remember you. Are you the daughter of the old owner?”

Pam straightened in surprise. “I am.”

“I knew him. I worked at Featherstone’s for a year before the pandemic, before he—” She broke off with a solemn look. “It was too bad what happened to him. He was a cool guy who hired me even though I never worked in a restaurant before. I  was only here a year before Covid hit and closed the place.”

Pam swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat. “Lucia. That name is familiar. I think I remember him mentioning you,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded husky. “He loved his restaurant, and when he found a hard worker, he would give me all the details.”

In a quiet voice, Lucia said, “That was nice of him.”

After stepping inside, Pam punched in the security code next to the door, blocking the girl’s view. Lucia rolled her eyes with amusement.

The gloomy interior was only lit by light that found tiny cracks in the protective boards over the windows. Pam found the light switch, but with alternating bulbs burnt out in the wall sconces, it wasn’t exactly bright in there.

Lucia looked around with obvious curiosity, and Pam tried to see the old place through her eyes. Tables with upside down chairs on top were stacked along the walls. Past the fireplace, the bar in the back right of the room was overflowing with dusty boxes. One set of double doors led to the kitchen, and the other to the restrooms.

“It could still be a restaurant,” Lucia said.

“It’s been many different restaurants over two hundred and fifty years. What someone does with it going forward won’t be my problem. And I sold the stock of alcohol to Dad’s business friends when the restaurant closed,” she added pointedly.

Lucia seemed to bite back a smile. “I always liked the vibe here. So historic.”

“And historic things need a lot of upkeep,” Pam said dryly. “But I’ve recently had the water turned back on.” She gestured toward Lucia’s leg. “There’s probably a first aid kit behind the bar.”

Inside the kit, she found an antiseptic packet and handed it across the bar to Lucia, along with two sizes of bandages. As Pam came around to the front of the bar, Lucia was pulling her leggings up above her knee, bending over to treat the wound. Pam slid a chair behind her.

Lucia looked up and smiled. “Thanks.”

She was about to ask if the girl lived around here when someone knocked on the front door and pushed it open, leaving the person backlit by sunlight, framed in the doorway.

Pam saw Lucia tense and found herself stepping in front of the girl, wondering if there was still a baseball bat behind the bar. “Can I help you?” she said coolly.

“Ms. Mosher? I’m Ikeem Trent from Manhattan Seaport Development Partners.”

Pam’s unease morphed into a smile. “Mr. Trent, please come in.”

“Call me Ikeem.”

“I’m Pam.”

He was a big man whose bald head gleamed in the low light, and a tiny diamond twinkled in one ear. As he reached out to shake Pam’s hand, Pam noticed Lucia ducking behind him and heading for the door.

Ikeem glanced over his shoulder at the girl as Pam called her name. But Lucia waved without looking back. Pam hadn’t even gotten a chance to ask her about herself, or what she remembered about Pam’s dad.

When the door was opened again by another person, Lucia started to lead her bike through before stopping abruptly. She sent a worried look over her shoulder at Pam, who wondered if that guy she was afraid of was still loitering about.

“Lucia, you don’t have to leave,” Pam called.

Lucia hesitated, then brought her bike back inside.

The newcomer was an older woman with short auburn hair framing a round face with glasses. She eyed Lucia before turning to Pam. “Pam Mosher?”

Pam nodded. “You must be Gretchen Smith.”

Ikeem frowned. “With the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission?”

Gretchen grinned. “That’s me. And you’re…”

“Ikeem Trent from—”

“From Manhattan Seaport Development,” Gretchen interrupted. “It seems we know each other by reputation though not in person.”

As they shook hands, Pam thought they did not seem pleased to see each other. Both of them turned to look at her, while Lucia stood against the far wall as if she didn’t know what to do with herself.

“I thought we had a private meeting, that you were interested in selling Harbor House,” Ikeem said, his smile more polite than enthusiastic.

“And I thought you were interested in saving the building that your family has owned for hundreds of years,” Gretchen argued. “Designation as a historic property can help preserve your heritage in so many ways.”

Ikeem rolled his eyes.

Pam held up both hands in a T for timeout. She planned to sell, but Gretchen had made a hard case for getting her views heard as well. And Pam knew that Ikeem was more interested in the property’s location than its historic value. Maybe he could be convinced to keep its historic character—if he was the one to purchase it. “You both want to look at the building, and I don’t want to waste anyone’s time, including mine. Why should I give the same tour twice? We can certainly have separate discussions afterward.” She glanced at Lucia. “Why don’t you come along, too?”

The girl straightened and gave a nod.

For a moment, they all stood in the dining room and looked around.

“My father loved this restaurant,” Pam said quietly. “I hated working here as a kid. He was so proud that his family had held onto this place since the American Revolution.”

Even Ikeem looked impressed.

“Why didn’t he apply for the National Register of Historic Places?” Gretchen asked. “He could have qualified for grants to help repair it.”

“My father was a hippie—he didn’t believe in registering anything he didn’t have to with the government. But he got old, and Hurricane Sandy almost destroyed this place. He was just managing the last of the major repairs in the basement, trying to keep the restaurant going, when Covid hit. It’s been closed since 2020.” Pam took a deep breath, trying not to think about her strong dad withering away on a ventilator.

Ikeem and Gretchen didn’t say anything—what was there to say? They just glanced at each other in obvious discomfort. But Lucia’s dark eyes glistened with sympathy. Pam didn’t know a lot about teenagers, but suspected Lucia had known her share of grief.

Pam took a deep breath and donned her professional demeanor. “You’re not here for a history lecture. Let’s get on with the tour.”

“I do love history,” Gretchen said.

Ikeem rolled his eyes again, but a smile tugged on his lips.

Pam clapped her hands together. “Okay, then here we go. You’re in the restaurant dining room. My father had an apartment on one of the upper floors the last few years of his life.”

“How much was he able to repair after the hurricane?” Ikeem asked.

There was no point in being evasive. “To be honest, not enough. Some electrical and plumbing in the basement was updated. But there was so much to do, and I was so busy with our brokerage, I didn’t realize—” She stopped herself. “The entire basement was under water after the hurricane. After major repair work, it looks a lot better than it used to.”

“Grants could help you repair the damage,” Gretchen said. “The National Register—”

“Please stop,” Pam interrupted. “Will the National Register offer millions of dollars in grants?”

“Um…probably not.”

“That’s what it’s going to take. I’m not about to risk everything I have for my retirement on this place.”

“And why should you do all that work?” Ikeem asked. “The amount of money you could receive for Harbor House would set you up for life.”

“Her family has been here for hundreds of years,” Gretchen pointed out between gritted teeth.

Pam groaned. “You two are like the devil and angel on my shoulders, trying to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not sure I know which of us is which,” Ikeem said dryly.

Gretchen lowered her shoulders and gave a reluctant smile. “Me neither. I guess we should keep it that way.”

“I promise we’ll discuss everything,” Pam said. “Can we finish the tour?”

They moved into the industrial kitchen and beyond to the hallway that led out the side entrance.

“Deliveries are made here,” Pam said, “and it leads to the upper floors where there are offices and storage and apartments. This was also the entrance to the speakeasy.”

Gretchen smiled and rubbed her hands together. “History! Let’s go check it out.”

As they walked down the stairs, Pam pointed out that all the walls had been ripped out to the studs due to water damage. There were boxes stacked here and there, and a shiny new furnace and water heater in a back room. It didn’t look like a place where revelers partied every night.

“Dad really meant to bring this old building back to life,” Pam said wistfully. “There is so much history—family history—here. My great grandfather got caught up with mob and went to jail, leaving my great aunt, a young flapper, to keep the place going to support the rest of the family.” She glanced at Lucia. “Flappers were what they called young single women in those days.”

“I’ve seen pictures,” she said. “Cool dresses.”

When they ascended to the second floor, doorways led into rooms piled with more stuff—Pam had no idea what. “My dad used these rooms as offices and storage for the restaurant. His apartment was up above. But if you want another historical fact, my ancestors were forced to quarter British officers in these rooms during the American Revolution, back when Featherstone Tavern was also an inn.”

Gretchen’s eyes were wide with excitement, while Ikeem just heaved a sigh, as if this didn’t look good for him.

“Don’t worry, Ikeem,” Pam said, patting his arm. “I’m going to sell the building.” She had to sell.

“Even with all this incredible family history?” Gretchen asked.

“It’s just…history,” Pam said, “and the occasional relic. What does that really matter? I have no kids to leave it to. Here, you’ll see what I mean. I think Dad kept it in his office.”

She turned on the light in the first room off the staircase.

“Aha!” She brought out a metal tankard and blew the dust off it.

Ikeem sneezed. Lucia’s forehead wrinkled with disappointment.

“Not much to look at,” Pam said as if she could hear the girl’s thoughts. “But this was passed down in my family. I’m told it was used in the tavern during the 1700s.”

“Shouldn’t that be in a museum?” Ikeem asked.

Gretchen elbowed him. “It’s her family property—its history!”

Pam shrugged and set the tankard down on the floor next to the stairs. “I know what it is and what it represents—I just don’t want to be under the weight of it anymore. I can’t afford to. Let’s continue the tour.”

The third floor was her father’s shabby apartment. It brought back a wave of longing for the man himself, but not Harbor House. She remembered him selling their home in Queens after her mom died because he’d rather live with his family’s ghosts than the memories of his beloved wife. Pam always suspected he felt guilty for the hours he put into the restaurant, evening hours that kept him away from his wife and daughter.

“You said you’re not staying here,” Ikeem said, forehead wrinkled as he looked around.

“No. I’ve rented an AirBnB nearby and I own a house on Long Island.”

Should she be speaking so openly in front of a teenager she didn’t know? Maybe not, but although the place looked abandoned, she had plenty of security.

“This place can be made habitable without too much effort.” Pam’s spirits sank as she looked around. There were so many boxes, so many unopened drawers. “I’ve thought about moving to Manhattan, but I don’t know.”

“You don’t want that,” Ikeem said. “City living is a pain.”

“I love my apartment in the East Village,” Gretchen said.

The two eyed each other combatively.

Pam sighed. In college, all she had wanted was to graduate and move to the city, to start her life. Then she’d met Will and fallen in love. He’d wanted Long Island where he’d grown up, where he thought he could use his family contacts in their insurance brokerage. She’d put her dreams of city-living out of her mind.

And now here she was, in the city, in a multi-million-dollar rundown building she owned. And it wasn’t anything she’d wanted it to be. She was alone, making her own decisions.

Gretchen and Ikeem were watching her with curiosity.

Pam turned to Lucia. “What about you? Don’t you want to weigh in on where I live, too?”

The girl opened her mouth, hesitated, then said, “You should live where you want.”

“That’s not much help.”

Lucia slowly grinned. “I love the city.”

Gretchen shot Ikeem a smug smile.

They toured the fourth-floor apartment without any more bickering. This space had basically become her dad’s attic after he sold the Queens house. They didn’t linger long, but went up the stairs to the roof.

A half wall guarded them on three sides, and the fourth side hugged the taller building next door. There was nothing here—but a spectacular view of the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge, awash in the fading light of the sinking sun.

Gretchen gasped. Ikeem frowned, as if even he thought this would be too much temptation for Pam to resist.

Lucia spun in a circle, eyes wide with wonder. “You could hang lights and make this really special.”

“No thanks.” Pam led them all back down the staircase to the side entrance. Out on the sidewalk, Gretchen and Ikeem tried to jockey over who could schedule a one-on-one with her, but Pam wasn’t in the mood to decide immediately, and told them so.

Ikeem shrugged with good humor. “I’ll be waiting for your call. Good meeting you, Pam. Gretchen.” He nodded to his opponent and strolled away.

When Gretchen opened her mouth to speak, Pam held up a hand. “I don’t remember the last time I visited Harbor House, and now I’m feeling sad and overwhelmed. We’ll talk when I schedule an appointment.”

Gretchen nodded. “I understand. Take care, Pam. And remember—memories are a good thing. It just might take you some time to realize it.” She spoke as if she understood but didn’t elaborate on her own experiences.

Pam was grateful. As Gretchen left, she turned to find Lucia standing in the doorway.

“I guess I go, too,” Lucia said, turning to go back through the kitchen.

Pam locked the side door and followed her back to the dining room.

Lucia retrieved her bike by the door, and Pam opened it for her, looking out both ways up and down the block.

“The coast is clear,” Pam said.

Lucia smiled. “Thanks for your help, and for reminding me how happy I was working here.”

Though Pam didn’t feel the same, she nodded. “I hope you stop by again. I’d love to hear your memories about my dad.”

Lucia nodded, climbed onto her bike, and rode away, leaving Pam to lock the door behind her. She should just shut off all the lights and leave, but she found herself wandering back upstairs again, as if she hoped to see the ghost of her father.

“How do I find happiness again, Daddy?” she whispered aloud. “Did I ever even have it?”

No ghostly voice spoke to her, but she did see the glimmer of the colonial tankard on the floor near the stairs.

She picked it up, carrying it as she checked that all the lights were off and the door to the roof was locked. Back down in the dining room, she put the tankard on the bar where it seemed to belong, turned off the last lights, and shut the door.

 

Chapter 2

Abigail

July 16^th, 1780

 

The scarlet-clad British soldier slammed the tankard down on Abigail Featherstone’s tray harder than he needed to, almost making her stagger, but she only nodded and kept walking to the bar located in the rear of the taproom. She was used to the arrogance, the entitlement, the derision. New York City had been occupied by the British for four years now, and since they hadn’t defeated the colonies as quickly or as easily as they’d hoped, they often took out their frustration on the citizens they were supposed to be protecting. She didn’t want to be their next victim. Over the years, her overwhelming fear had sunk to simmering, ready to boil back to the surface if a soldier looked at her too closely.

But for the moment, in her tavern, they were just men, gambling over cards or playing ninepins in the alley nearby and drinking too much rum, bolstering themselves for battle or commiserating over the loss of a comrade.

Abigail had once been a staunch Loyalist, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Her late husband Edmund had been with the Sons of Liberty, where they’d gone from shouting mottos like “No taxation without representation” against the Stamp Act to stockpiling arms and gunpowder for war. They orchestrated crowds to burn effigies but were also guilty of censorship and destruction of property in the name of freedom.

She’d been appalled, but nothing she said to him had mattered. He’d died in the Battle of Long Island trying to defend Manhattan near the start of the war, leaving her to mother their two children while operating their tavern and renting out the lodgings above. His death had been pointless, for the Continental army had to retreat, and the British had swarmed back into New York City. They’d declared martial law, shutting down the courts and leaving New Yorkers without rights.

The British government ignored its citizens, leaving a quarter of the city a blackened mass of disease after the great fire. They took all the food stores and firewood for themselves. Prisoners died in filthy inhuman conditions on prison ships moored in the harbor. All of this had turned Abigail into a woman who denied her British citizenship—privately. She had to support her children, and she served whoever wanted food and drink.

As she set the tray on the bar, her barkeep and man of all work, Henry Barlow, gave her a concerned frown. Henry was a free man of color who’d fought at her husband’s side in Brooklyn. Some northern armies integrated, but in the South, they wouldn’t arm slaves yet had no problem sending free Blacks to serve in the place of wealthy White men. Henry had returned with both her husband’s body and an injury that soon took his leg below the knee, causing him to limp with a peg leg. He was nearly forty, with touches of white in his close-cropped hair, and a thin, wiry body that was sturdier than it looked. His wife, Pearl, was Abigail’s cook and companion, a second mother to her children. Abigail didn’t know what she would have done without them these last four years.

They’d stayed with her even when the British insisted on taking over the tavern lodgings, relegating Henry and Pearl into a storage room behind the kitchen, forcing Abigail and her two children to share the smallest room on the third floor. At least the soldiers were paying for the privilege.

But the Redcoats being nearby had sometimes worked to her advantage…

Abigail gave Henry a reassuring smile as she joined him behind the bar to double-check that the cash box was locked. She never let anyone see the doubts that plagued her into the night, the fears that war would touch her children even more than it already had. She projected calm competence and unflappability. After all, she was a woman running a man’s business. She’d always done the bookkeeping and overseen the domestic side of the lodgings, and now she was doing that on behalf of her son, who’d legally inherited two-thirds of his father’s property. Abigail was keeping her widow’s third afloat and ensuring her son’s future.

But since the war had unfolded the way it had, the British showing their cruelty and excess, guilt often invaded her dreams over how she’d disagreed with her husband, Edmund—and how he’d been right all along. She’d spent her entire life believing in the Crown, and it had only tarnished itself with every cruelty inflicted on innocent citizens and helpless prisoners of war.

She’d never had the chance to apologize to him, had watched him go off to a war she hadn’t supported, and he’d never come back. He’d died for what he believed in. Even before he’d joined the army, he’d been so brave, keeping the tavern going when the Loyalists had streamed out in 1775 as Patriots took over the city, and then the reverse, when all the Loyalists came back in 1776 as the British occupied the city. She thought they’d be safer with the king’s soldiers and the king’s laws. It hadn’t been so.

The door to the kitchen opened behind Abigail, stirring her from her thoughts. Her ten-year-old son Andrew was walking slowly, carrying a tray of clean glasses. Every time she saw him, he reminded her anew of his father. For a while, it had hurt like a vise squeezing her heart, but now it made her soften with love at the memories. He had the same auburn hair as Edmund, the same intelligent brown eyes, the freckles—she swallowed hard to ease the lump in her throat. Someday she’d forget the guilt that she’d disapproved of her husband’s choices.

Henry took the glasses and tousled Andrew’s hair, which he would have ducked away from if his mother had done it. But Andrew looked up to Henry and wanted to please him.

“How are your studies progressing, Andrew?” she asked.

Two men at the bar looked at him curiously, the red ribbons in their hats proclaiming them loyalists.

Andrew swallowed. “Fine. Lottie needs to work on her printing.”

His sister Charlotte, whom they called Lottie, could never live up to his high standards. She might only be eight, but he expected her to be as educated as he was. It caused friction between them, but Pearl, who often oversaw their work when Abigail couldn’t, had a way of soothing them both.

Henry and Pearl had been able to read and write when they’d come to work for her, but they’d hidden it for many months. Abigail hadn’t blamed them for the fear. They didn’t know how Abigail would react to their education—some took it poorly, fearing that an educated Negro caused trouble. That was absurd. They, too, had once supported the British, who offered slaves freedom if they joined the British army. They weren’t slaves but understood the dilemma. Like Abigail, they, too, watched the British behavior in New York and revised their opinion.

As Andrew retreated into the kitchen, Abigail said another prayer that she’d done the right thing, keeping her children with her during the war.

The door had barely swung closed when Pearl emerged with another tray, bearing a bowl of lamb stew—which hid how scrawny the lamb had been—and slices of her fresh-baked bread with apple butter. With a nervous smile, she handed Abigail the tray and retreated into the kitchen as fast as she could. Pearl had never been well-treated by White men and had ample reason for her fear of them. She was younger than Henry, closer to Abigail’s age, with lighter skin and delicate features, things that lured male gazes. She kept her mob cap on to cover her dark hair, her eyes lowered. She wore the plainest gowns made of broadcloth, no matter how Abigail encouraged her to try the lighter chintz or calico muslin during the humid summer. No lace at her neckline or trimmed on the edges of the fichu gathered around her shoulders. Pearl wanted to be plain and unnoticed, and kept to her kitchen as much as possible.

Abigail took a deep breath and turned around, looking for the customer who’d ordered the lamb stew. She saw him on the bench near the bare hearth, beneath a lantern that lit the dark corner. With a nod, she placed the bowl and plate of bread before him. When she saw he’d left his payment—British coins instead of Continentals—she gathered it quickly before he could change his mind. The British had done their best to make Continentals almost worthless and had mostly succeeded.

Letting her empty tray hang to her side, she turned back toward the bar and then came to a sudden stop. A man stepped through the open front door and stopped to survey the tavern interior. The mullioned windows silhouetted him, briefly obscuring his face, but Abigail recognized him immediately. It was Benjamin G., her contact with the Culper spy ring. She wasn’t allowed to know his last name—and it bothered her that he knew hers because of the tavern name, Featherstone’s. He pulled off his tricorn hat, revealing black hair laced with silver at the temples, tied back into a queue. There was several days’ growth of scruffy beard on his face, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with wariness and exhaustion.

And inside her rose the wall she’d carefully constructed to keep herself free of any emotional entanglement.

Ben glanced around the taproom as if looking for a table, his gaze passing right over her as if they didn’t know each other.

And they weren’t supposed to. Just his appearance meant she was to prepare for his return tonight after she’d closed the tavern.

Abigail went past the bar and into the kitchen, her stomach tight with dread. It had been months since General Washington had wanted information from their spy network, months where she’d begun to feel normal—as normal as one could feel when one’s city was under occupation during a war.

At least she’d assumed they’d been unneeded. Once the British fleet had left New York City last December, then took Charleston, South Carolina, back in May, all the focus seemed to be moving to the south. But General Clinton had recently returned to the city after his “victorious” southern campaign and would be overseeing the war from his northern base. Or so all her customers discussed. Did General Washington have something planned?

Initially when Ben had approached her—he’d known her husband in the Sons of Liberty—she’d been willing to contribute what she could, as if she could make up for not supporting her husband. It had been easy to listen in on the conversations among soldiers, and occasionally to talk to officers at the parties thrown by her sister, Rebecca, who was married to a Loyalist turned British officer.

But then she’d drawn the suspicion of Lieutenant Rutherford, a junior officer looking to make a name for himself by meeting the right people at the party. He’d almost caught her eavesdropping, and although she’d been able to avoid the worst of his attention, he’d continued to be suspicious, and she’d left before anything else could happen.

“Abigail?”

The concerned voice brought Abigail out of her worried musings. She forced a smile. “Yes, Pearl?”

Pearl studied her closely, then glanced at Lottie, whose little head was bent over her slate as she worked at a corner table.

Abigail opened her mouth to whisper about Ben, when there was a knock at the side door.

“Sorry,” Pearl said, “our regulars have arrived. Would you answer the door while I prepare the food?”

Abigail opened the door to find it just as Pearl had said—three little children with ragged clothes and dirty faces stood looking up at her eagerly. Her wary heart melted. So many families scrabbled for a meager living in Canvas Town, the burned neighborhood on the other side of Broadway. Open cellars were filled with water. For shelter, people tied canvas to chimneys that rose like sentinels guarding the memory of the homes that once stood there. They lived under those makeshift tents, and their children roamed the streets, looking for anything that dropped off wagons, from sticks of wood to heads of cabbage. And those were just the legal avenues to feed themselves.

Their young visitors looked up at her with equal parts hope and wariness, as if they expected to be disappointed.

Abigail smiled and stepped back. “Do come in and share a meal with us.”

Like a litter of cats, they entered close together, and the boy took off his cap after one of the girls elbowed him.

“Lottie?”

Without needing to be reminded, her daughter wore a welcoming smile as she skirted closer to the wall to make more room at the little table. The war had certainly made her children realize that other children were not as fortunate as they. Andrew and Lottie might have lost their father, but they had adults to protect them, and a home to shelter them—even if they shared it with guests, both welcome and unwelcome.

For the next half hour, Abigail kept an eye on the taproom out front and talked to her young guests in the kitchen. When their visits had first started, they ate silently, quickly, and fled. But now they were used to Abigail’s questions, and she was convinced showing interest in their lives helped them understand that they weren’t forgotten.

After she sent the children on their way with packages of sausage, apples, and bread for their families, Abigail and Pearl exchanged a glance.

“Lottie,” Abigail said, “please fetch your brother and head upstairs for your afternoon reading. Remember to—”

“Lock the door,” Lottie said impishly. “You’ve been saying that for years. I don’t forget.”

The war had been going on for much of her daughter’s life. At Lottie’s age, Abigail would have been playing with her friends, roaming from house to house when she was finished with her chores. Poor Lottie and Andrew had never known such freedom.

When Lottie had gone, Pearl turned to regard Abigail with worry. “What’s wrong?”

Abigail sighed. “I saw Ben in the taproom.”

Pearl winced. “Which means he will be back tonight.”

“I assume so. I was hoping we were no longer needed.”

“But the war isn’t over, even if many of the soldiers have gone south.”

“I’d sworn to myself not to put my children and the two of you at risk.”

“We’re all at risk until this war is over, if that makes you feel any better.”

Abigail gave her a wry smile. “It doesn’t. But it reminds me of what’s at stake. I’ll meet him and see what he has to say.”

“I can stay with the children while they sleep.”

Abigail put her hand on her friend’s arm, then whispered, “Thank you.”