Releasing
May 5, 2026
October 1768.
Impoverished Mercy Allen has been abandoned by nearly everyone, but most recently and painfully by her beloved, Thomas, who had assured her of his intent to marry her. Resolved to avoid the humiliation of passing Thomas and his new wife on the streets, Mercy travels from Quincy, Massachusetts, to Boston, determined to start anew.
Struggling to find employment in a colonial city rumbling with sedition against the British government, Mercy finally manages to procure a humble position with a wigmaker. But patriots and loyalists alike begin to view the wigmaker’s shop with suspicion, and it soon comes under vocal criticism and physical attack.
Abandoned again when her employer suddenly closes the shop and flees Boston, Mercy decides to take her new skills to New York City. There, she discovers a life that is even more dangerous and uncertain, particularly when she meets the handsome and enigmatic Daniel Barton.
While Mercy’s wigmaking repute grows, so does peril in the colonies as war becomes imminent. When she is asked by a local tailor to commit an act that can only be viewed as treason by the British, Mercy is forced to make an agonizing choice between friendship…and her own life.
Backstory
Believe it or not, I started this book in 2016. I got caught up in other projects and forgot about it. But with our country’s anniversary upon us in 2026, the book began calling to me and I decided that Mercy Allen’s tale had to be told!
The inspiration for this novel came about during a trip to Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia, in 2012. As I wandered in and out of the various re-created trade shops with an eye toward a new book topic, I stumbled into the tiny “barber and peruke maker” shop.
The wigmakers there were so kind and helpful as I began peppering them with questions about their trade. Truthfully, they may have been excited that someone had expressed interest in them. After all, wigmaking does not, on the surface, seem to be as exciting as, say, tavern keeping, or gun making. I returned to Williamsburg again for more questions as a novel plot took solid form in my mind, and it almost felt like I became part of the Colonial Williamsburg family of wigmakers. What a happy place to be!
I hope you will enjoy this story about a colonial-era wigmaker, whose turbulent life takes her from Boston to New York City…and quite possibly to the noose.
Excerpt
Mercy tucked her belongings in an alleyway nearby, hoping they would still be there when she returned. She removed her bonnet and shook her hair free, took a deep breath, and climbed the six stairs into the shop.
The interior was mayhem. One customer sat scowling in a chair, holding a shallow brass bowl under his chin while a lathery soap dried on his face. Another man, wearing a nightcap and tapping his foot impatiently, stood next to the counter holding an open wig box. The sounds of cursing and drawers slamming emanated from the upper story down the narrow set of stairs to Mercy’s right.
Throughout the shop were shelves of various wig styles in a mind-boggling array of colors. Wigs powdered brown, black, and blonde were interspersed with lavender, blue, and red ones. Wig patterns, scissors, curling irons, and bundles of hair filled the wall behind the counter.
The owner was nowhere to be seen.
“Are you Mr. Garrick’s assistant?” the man with the wig box demanded.
“N-no,” Mercy said. Her instincts told her to flee, but her stomach insisted that she stay put.
“His wife? Daughter?”
“No, sir, I am just—”
She was saved from an explanation as the shop owner came clattering down the stairs holding a long wig full of curls from top to bottom. “My apologies, Judge Davidson. Here is your peruke, and I’m sure you’ll agree it is one of the finest that any magistrate could ever wear.”
The customer’s irritated expression softened as he took it from the owner and examined it. “Yes, I admit it is well done.”
The shop owner beamed as he took the wig back and placed it on its peg inside the wig box. As he handed the box to Davidson, he said, “I have the bill prepared now if you would like to settle—”
“I’ll send my manservant along to pick it up and will take care of it in due time.” Davidson headed past Mercy and out the door without a backward glance. The owner stared after the judge with a resigned look.
He then realized Mercy was standing there. “Yes, miss?” he asked as he moved over to rub water on the seated man’s face to moisten up the drying soap. He picked up a straight razor and shaved his customer with quick, expert strokes, shaking the excess soap into the basin the man held. Mercy realized the wigmaker was thin from pure nervous energy.
“Excuse me, sir, are you Mr. Garrick?”
“Yes, how may I help you?”
She cleared her throat. “My name is Mercy Allen, and I am wondering if you would be interested in purchasing my hair.”
“Your hair?” Mr. Garrick wiped the razor against an apron tied around his waist and threw it on the table next to his customer.
“Yes, sir.”
Picking up a cloth, Mr. Garrick wiped the man’s face down, then sprinkled a liquid from a bottle into his hands, rubbed them together, and patted the man’s face. He gave the man a square, wood-framed mirror. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased, Mr. Stockham.”
While Mr. Stockham examined his face, Mr. Garrick approached Mercy, grabbing a length of her hair and putting it to his nose. “No,” he said flatly, returning to his customer, who was rising and pulling coins from his pocket. Mr. Garrick’s eyes lit up at the sight of the silver.
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Stockham. I’ll have your seat ready for you again on Thursday.”
Mr. Stockham nodded and left. Now, Mercy was alone with Mr. Garrick.
“Sir, please, I know my hair is none too clean, but if you would allow me to wash it here, I’m sure you could make good use of it. There is so much of it, and you must admit it is an unusual shade of black. I’m willing to let you cut as much of it as you wish.”
“The color and cleanliness of your hair is of no matter, Miss Allen. It’s the quality that is of no use to me. Most of my hair comes from Northern Europe, grown on peasant girls specially bred for the purpose. They keep their hair covered, rarely go outdoors, and let it grow without cutting until they reach the age of at least eleven. How old are you?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
He shrugged. “Not too old for hair cultivation, but you have clearly spent too much time out of doors in the sun, wind, and rain. Your hair is useless.”
Mercy resisted the urge to break down crying in front of him. If he wouldn’t buy her hair, what other options did she have left?
Mr. Garrick frowned, lost in thought as if Mercy was no longer there. “Where has Edward gotten off to? I can’t let that boy out of my sight. He should have taken the latest set of frizzes—ah! The frizzes!” Mr. Garrick fled the front of the shop for a room in the back.
He returned with a metal platter full of hair bundles formed into ringlets, each bundle wrapped around a clay peg. “I told Edward I needed these to go to the baker as soon as they dried.”
“The baker?”
“Yes, to be warmed inside rye loaves to frizz the hair. The boy thinks that because he’s my nephew he can run off with his friends whenever the mood strikes him. My brother is raising a bad lot, he is. Edward will never amount to anything.”
So the mysterious young Edward was not here to do his work.
“Mr. Garrick, I’ll take the curls to the baker for you. I’ll be quick about it, too.”
“Oh, is that so?” Mr. Garrick pursed his lips, as if calculating. “Well, there’s nothing quick about it. You have to wait there until the curls are fully dried.”
“I’ll stay as long as I need to, sir.”
“I’ll pay you twopence, and not a penny more, no matter how long you have to wait. I always use Mrs. Myers; she’s about a quarter mile further down Salem Street.”
Mercy had undoubtedly sought employment there at some point. “You won’t be disappointed, Mr. Garrick. I promise to—”
At that moment another patron entered the shop. Mr. Garrick shoved the tray into her hands and waved her off. She scurried out of the shop to see Mrs. Myers, who covered the curls with rye bread dough and shoved them into one of several curved openings in a wall of multiple such cavities. A fire roared from within. The pleasing smell of burning wood mixed with the aroma of freshly baked, crusty loaves cooling on tables nearly made Mercy weep with desire.
Excerpt copyright 2026 Christine Trent
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