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around his hips, her fingers fumbling at the waist of his breeches. Shocking, wicked behavior for a
respectable young woman, his logical mind told him. And yet, she was so honestly beautiful and frank in
her passion that he pushed her skirts above her waist and took her there in broad daylight, tumbled
across his worktable with the curling pieces of satinwood lying around them, as pale and bright as her
hair.
They made love with a desperate, furious hunger, and his carving tools rolled from the table and clattered
to the floor, forgotten.
"Marry me," he repeated, later that day. They were walking with Prudence to Mistress Kimball's, to see
about her apprenticeship. The cobblestone streets of Philadelphia were busy this sunlit afternoon, and
Laurel kept bumping into Seth as she craned her neck to look at the sights of the bustling city.
Every detail fascinated her the slender and tightly laced gentlewomen out doing their daily marketing,
followed by maidservants with baskets over their arms, the strings of their white caps untied and falling
over their shoulders, the apprentice boys standing in the doorway of a printshop in their ink-stained
aprons, the cameo and silver filigree buttons on the waistcoat of a gentleman leaving a tavern, a sheaf of
papers clutched in his pudgy hand.
The scent of burning tobacco wafted past Laurel's nose, and she turned to watch two young men walking
by, silver-tipped walking sticks held gracefully in their hands, long curved pipes smoking. One of them
raised his brow at her ill-concealed interest.
Seth gave her hand an impatient tug. "And what is so uncommonly interesting about those royalist pups?"
"Are they royalists?" Prudence asked, her eyes lighting with interest. She seemed to have forgotten that
her own family had raised her in that tradition. "How can you tell?"
"Because I know. Are you going to answer me, Hope?"
The jealous note in his voice made Laurel laugh. "Their pipes. I wasn't looking at them; I was thinking
about their pipes." Oh, how nice it would be to sit down beneath the shade of a tree and hike her skirts
over her knees and light up a cigarette&
"Marry me," Seth whispered into her ear, for what must have been the fiftieth time since that morning.
"Knock it off," Laurel whispered back. Seth looked puzzled, and Prudence made no attempt to pretend
that she hadn't heard.
"Knock what off, Hope? What did Mr. Goodwin say to you? Oh, look! Look, Hope! Oh, Mr.
Goodwin, what is that place, pray?"
Seth smiled as he followed the excited child's pointing finger.
Laurel looked up at the handsome brick building, two-and-a-half stories and topped by a spired cupola
in gleaming white and gold. White cornices and railings, gleaming steps of white marble, and sparkling,
white-framed windows proclaimed the structure as a place of importance.
"That, young Prudence, is the Pennsylvania State House. Not so long ago, the greatest men of this
country sat in that building and signed a paper declaring our independence from England. Ah, but that
was a day."
Hope felt a thrill of disbelief as she stared at the building. Independence Hall. There it stood, exactly as it
would be standing two hundred and fifteen years later. Almost exactly. She took Prudence's hand.
"Look, Prudence. Do you see the bell, hanging in the tower? That's the Liberty Bell." Uncracked, she
added silently. What a strange thing to think, that she would be the only living person in the United States
who had actually witnessed such a thing.
"The liberty bell?" Seth repeated. "That's a good name for it, isn't it?"
"Well, what do you call it?" Laurel demanded, wrinkling her brow and wishing she had paid better
attention in her history classes.
Seth gave her a bemused smile and tugged at the string of her white, lace-trimmed cap, straightening it.
"We don't call it much of anything. We just ring it."
"Well, ring it carefully," Laurel advised him, and took a last look at the state house before following him
and Prudence down Chestnut Street toward Mistress Kimball's.
Mistress Kimball was a handsome woman of about forty, her hair still dark and glossy beneath the white
lace of her cap.
Dressed for success, circa 1777, Laurel thought, admiring the carefully draped and fitted dress of dove
gray silk, the graceful but simple lace that adorned the round, low neck and tight, three-quarter-length
sleeves.
She sat at a long, wide desk, very obviously the queen of her domain, her round spectacles perched on
the end of her nose as she looked over a line of figures in a tidy ledger.
All around her, shelves stacked with a rainbow of fabrics and ribbon lined the walls, sketches of Parisian
dresses neatly framed and displayed for the customer's convenience.
A tidy young assistant in a simple black gown was waiting on a fashionable young woman and her
mother, displaying what could only be a ball gown for their approval.
Laurel heard Prudence catch her breath at the sight of the offered dress, a vision of heavy
champagne-gold silk, the hem of the skirt encrusted with a pattern of embroidered roses in deep, rich
pinks and wine colors, climbing up the sides of the dress to form an almost striped pattern. Around the
low-cut shoulders, more roses, made of silk and velvet, perfectly mimicked real blossoms, and here and
there brilliants sparkled like dewdrops among them. Green velvet leaves and tighter wine and rose buds
trailed down the pointed bodice, and more velvet blossoms and leaves decorated the embroidered
sleeves.
The young woman being offered the dress appeared displeased. "I wanted pink," she said in petulant
tones, shifting on her damask-covered bench to look at her tired-looking mother.
The shop assistant cast a pleading look at Mistress Kimball, who didn't look up from her ledger. Only a
tightening of her mouth indicated that she had heard.
"It is pink, poppet," the mother reassured her in a weary voice. "Look at the roses. Aren't they pink?"
"No. They look almost red. I don't want it."
"But, sweeting, I've already paid for it. It looks exactly like the picture "
"No, it does not. The roses were pinker. Oh, it may do for right now, but soon the British lords will be in
the city, and I simply must look perfect. English gentlemen aren't like these colonial bumpkins, Mama.
And as soon as they arrive, the really grand parties will start, and if I attend looking like a milkmaid "
The ledger was closed with a sharp bang, and the previously staid Mistress Kimball sprang into action,
moving like a sudden storm.
"Out! Out with you! I've customers aplenty; I don't want your business."
The white-skinned miss stared up at the dressmaker, her face still with shock. "Very well," she retorted
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