And so, thank God, it was possible for her to love and respect both her father and her brother. She ran the house now, pretty well she thought. Hudson and his wife consulted with her on all day-to-day matters. She did her best to be a comfort to her father, a companion to James and a mother to Weston.

But why was James alone? Where was his wife? Soon after his arrival, Abigail had tried to ask him, but he had given her a vague answer and gently discouraged her from inquiring again. Her father knew no more than she did. Three weeks had passed before James could bring himself to tell them that he and Vanessa had had a serious falling-out.

“I still hope for a reconciliation,” he said, “but I cannot count upon it.” In the meantime, it was agreed that there was no need to say anything to little Weston. He was told that his mother would be coming to join them when she could, and though he clearly missed her, he seemed to accept her absence as some unexplained necessity of the adult world.

After several months, a letter came from Vanessa. It was written on thick paper, in a bold, firm hand. With messages of love for little Weston, she spoke of her concern about the rebellion, and asked when James meant to return, clearly giving no indication that she meant to join him.

Meanwhile, as the rebellion grew, James’s presence in the house seemed to afford them a measure of protection. Many of the Tory Loyalists were leaving, some sailing to England, others retiring to their farms, where they hoped they would not be troubled. Some went to Loyalist Kings or Queens counties on Long Island, though the Patriots would make occasional sweeps to harass them. As long as James was in the city, though, the Master house was considered a Patriot place.

Abigail had been playing with Weston for a little while when she carelessly threw the ball a bit too wide. Diving to one side, the boy hit his knee against a small rock, grazing it. She ran to him as he got up, his small face puckering. Apart from the trickle of blood, she could see that he’d soon have quite a bruise. She was expecting him to cry. “Shall we go home now?” she asked, as she started to wrap her handkerchief around the bloody knee. But he shook his head. And understanding that boys don’t cry, she went back to her former place, and threw him an easy catch, feeling sorry for him and proud of him at the same time.