Was there still hope? Yes, Albion said, for two reasons. The first was the vast expense of sending armies so far. The second was that France, seeing British power engaged in America, would probably attack other parts of the empire, and try to snatch back what they lost in the last war. Once the Patriots had seen what they were up against, and been thoroughly terrified, perhaps they would temper the more extreme of their demands, and a compromise might be reached.

He ended his letter on a lighter note.

Did James tell you, the rumor has always been that Lord North’s mother cuckolded her husband with the king’s father? And that King George and his prime minister are thus half-brothers? (They look so alike, I’m sure ’tis true.) If the prime minister should ever grow weary of chastising the colonists, therefore, his royal brother, believing God to be on his side, will be sure to make him stick to his purpose.

Master had watched Abigail carefully as she read the letter. He had been amused at her shock when she came to the passage about the king and his brother.

“I never imagined, Papa,” she had said, “that Lord North was the king’s bastard brother. Are such things often done in England?”

“They have been known,” he had answered with a smile, “even in America.”

But the real point, he thought now, as he read the letter again, the real point was that there was still hope. There would probably have to be fighting, but once the Patriots discovered what they had done—despite Charlie White and the Liberty Boys, despite General Lee and his fortifications, despite the tragic folly of his own son James—a settlement of some kind would be negotiated. There was still hope for himself, and Abigail, and little Weston.

He sat for some time, contemplating the situation, until he was interrupted by a commotion at the door. In some surprise, he went into the hall, to find Hudson struggling to close the door upon two large men. A moment later, the door burst inward.

And he stared in horror.

There were only a few people on Bowling Green, and it was easy to entertain little Weston. James had taught him to throw and catch a ball, and all you had to do was throw the ball to him by the hour.

“Throw higher,” he would cry, or, “Further away.” He loved to show how he could jump, or dive for a catch. He was remarkable, she thought, for his age. Abigail always worried that he must long for his mother, and hoped she was able to make up for some of that lack. So although she found it quite boring to play catch for hours, that was more than made up for by the joy of seeing the little fellow so happy and proud of himself. She only wished that James were here to see it.