Revenge of the Wrought-Iron Flamingos
To all the dedicated reenactors and craftspeople who contributed to my research. Thanks for preventing so many embarrassing mistakes and anachronisms – I hope you can forgive and laugh at the equally embarrassing ones I've made instead.
To the friends who listened oh so patiently to everything I learned about muskets, cannons, eighteenth-century costume, Colonial-era medicine, and countless other subjects that went into the writing of this book. I can only promise that at least I'll have a new and different set of obsessions next time.
And especially to Tracey and Bill, for continuing to let me borrow Spike; Elizabeth, for always pushing me to be a little better (not to mention the usual ending magic); Lauren, Mary, and Sheryle, for sharing words, wisdom, and pizza; Suzanne, possibly the world's best long-distance coach and cheerleader; Dave, who unmasked Cousin Horace, despite the assumed name; and all my online friends who were there when I needed them and understood when I wasn't there because I had to write.
To Ruth Cavin, Julie Sullivan, and the crew at St. Martin's, and to Ellen Geiger and Anna Abreu at Curtis Brown, for taking such good care of all the practical publishing stuff so I could concentrate on the fun part.
And to Mom and Dad, for choosing to live in the middle of the Yorktown Battlefields. It's all your fault, you know, and I can't thank you enough.
„I'm going to kill Michael's mother,“ I announced. „Quickly, discreetly, and with a minimum of pain and suffering. Out of consideration for Michael. But I am going to kill her.“
„What was that?“ Eileen said, looking up and blinking at me.
I glanced over at my best friend and fellow craftswoman. She had already unpacked about an acre of blueandwhite porcelain and arranged it on her side of our booth. I still had several tons of wrought iron to wrestle into place.
I scratched two or three places where my authentic colonial-style linsey-woolsey dress was giving me contact dermatitis. I rolled my ruffled sleeves higher up on my arms, even though I knew they'd flop down again in two minutes; then I hiked my skirts up a foot or so, hoping a stray breeze would cool off my legs.
„I said I'm going to kill Michael's mother for making us do this craft fair in eighteenth-century costume,“ I said. „It's absolutely crazy in ninety-degree weather.“
„Well, it's not entirely Mrs. Waterston's fault,“ Eileen said. „Who knew we'd be having weather like this in October?“
I couldn't think of a reasonable answer, so I turned back to the case I was unpacking and lifted out a pair of wrought-iron candlesticks. Eileen, like me, was flushed from the heat and exertion, not to mention frizzy from the humidity. But with her blond hair and fair skin, it gave the effect of glowing health. I felt like a disheveled mess.
„This would be so much easier in jeans,“ I grumbled, tripping over die hem of my skirt as I walked over to die table to set the candlesticks down.
„People are already showing up,“ Eileen said, witii a shrug. „You know what a stickler Mrs. Waterston is for autihenticity.“
Yes, everyone in Yorktown had long ago figured diat out. And Martha Stewart had nothing on Mrs. Waterston for attention to detail. If she'd had her way, we'd have made every single stitch we wore by hand, by candlelight. She'd probably have tried to make us spin the thread and weave the fabric ourselves, not to mention raising and shearing die sheep. And when she finally pushed enough of us over die edge, we'd have to make sure our lynch mob used an authentic colonial-style hemp rope instead of an anachronistic nylon one.
Of course, my fellow craftspeople would probably lynch me, too, while they were at it, since I was her deputy in charge of organizing the craft fair. And in Mrs. Waterston's eyes, keeping all the participants anachronism-free was my responsibility. When I'd volunteered for the job, I'd thought it a wonderful way to make a good impression on the hypercritical mother of the man I loved. I'd spent die past six months trying not to make Michael an orphan. Speaking of Michael…
„Where's Michael, anyway?“ Eileen asked, echoing my thoughts. „I diought he was going to help you widi that.“
„He will when he gets here,“ I said. „He's still getting into costume.“
„He's going to look so wonderful in colonial dress,“ Eileen said.
„Yes,“ I said. „Lucky we don't have a full-length mirror in die tent, or we wouldn't see him for hours.“
„You know you don't mean that,“ Eileen said, with a frown. „You're crazy about Michael.“
I let that pass. Yes, I was crazy about Michael, but I was a grown woman in my thirties, not a starry-eyed teenager in the throes of her first crush. And Michael and I had been together a little over a year. Long enough for me to fully appreciate his many good points, but also long enough to notice a few shortcomings. The thing about costumes and mirrors, for example. And the fact that getting dressed to go anywhere took him two or three times as long as it took me.