“Mr. Malvern,” said Abigail desperately, “I have reason to believe this box contains clandestine correspondence of your daughter’s.” She felt sick at the thought of Scipio being taken to one of the taverns by the Long Wharf, where dealers bid for slaves to carry south to Virginia. Even if the little merchant went so far as to actually have her locked up in the gaol house by the law-counts for part of the night—with every thief and prostitute in Boston—John would get her out, with no worse effects than perhaps lice in her hair and bugs in her skirts from the bedding.

Scipio was not in the law’s hands, but the hands of his master.

Malvern’s eyes narrowed: “A girl’s love notes.” For a moment she thought he was going to snap at her, My daughter does not receive any such thing . . .

Of course any father would seek to protect his daughter by knowing who was courting her—particularly a man of wealth like Malvern. Yet it crossed her mind to wonder if he sought to control his daughter’s thoughts and movements as totally as he had sought to control Rebecca’s.

Footsteps sounded on the back stairs. Dim yellow light mottled the creamy plaster visible through the hall door, making the vines stenciled there seem to stir in soundless wind.

“I pray so, sir,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “Because I fear this box contains evidence of a conspiracy against both yourself, and your wife.”

For one instant, familiar with the uncontrollable first rush of his rages, she would not have been surprised had he struck her. Malvern only stood, staring, mouth half open and eyes glittering with fury. Then his lips closed hard, and he stepped to her, and yanked the box from her hands.

A manservant appeared in the doorway, hastily adjusting a badly tied neckcloth. “Sir?”

Malvern was silent for a moment, studying Abigail’s face. “Bring me a chisel to my study,” he said at last. And he added, as if the words were forced from him at gunpoint, “And bring coffee for myself and Mrs. Adams.”

In November of 1770, a few months after starting at Harvard, Jeffrey Malvern had written to Tamar, Father spoke today of the Papist. It sounded like he begins to have regard for her for making her own way. This does not sound promising. Can you not find him a mistress? There is a woman here named Mrs. Bell, who would be willing but has the appearance of great respectability.

John’s clerk, young Mr. Thaxter, had told Abigail things about Mrs. Bell of Cambridge, and Abigail thought young Mr. Jeffrey grossly underestimated his father’s gullibility, if he supposed the merchant hadn’t heard them, too.