Wide is the Water (15 page)

This one, still more difficult, was to go under cover to the British commander in New York, and it, too, must be read by Dick and, no doubt, in New York too. ‘God knows whether it will ever get to your wife,' Dick had said. ‘But put it in the post bag in the hall, and pray to God.'

Trying to write words of comfort to Mercy, Hart found himself wondering again how she would feel when she heard the news. Since it was in
Rivington's Gazette
, it was bound to be picked up by the Boston papers. What would she do? Would she go down to Savannah, perhaps, and claim the house in Oglethorpe Square on his behalf? And what would she and Abigail have to say to each other if she did? And, perhaps worst of all, how could he bear the fact that his mother's death, so publicly reported, had gone far to solve his own financial problems?

Dick had been surprised to learn that Hart's mother had in fact owned the Savannah property but urged that they go to London as soon as Hart could bear to. ‘I think, properly handled, this news might earn you your freedom,' he explained. ‘It's painful for you, I know, but you must take some thought for the future. There is your wife to be considered, Hart, and, who knows, there may be an heir in prospect.'

‘An heir? Oh.' Hart controlled the mad impulse to say, ‘Impossible.' The knowledge that there was no chance that Mercy could be carrying his child was most entirely his secret. And hers, he thought, and was appalled to find himself almost glad that she could not be bearing his child. No real record existed of that mad marriage of theirs on board Captain Bougainville's ship. The paper Bill had risked his life to save was so spoiled by seawater as to be worthless. And Bill, the only American witness of the marriage, was dead. The Frenchmen must be scattered
to the four winds by now. Suppose … just suppose that Mercy were to find someone else, some thriving Boston merchant, some teacher at Harvard College … And thinking this, he was appalled at an inward vision of Julia, dark eyes full of sympathetic tears. Julia, who somehow never mentioned Mercy …

He must not think like this. Horrified at himself, he surprised Dick by agreeing readily to his proposal that they leave for London at once.

‘You can buy your mourning there,' said Dick, ‘and the sooner you put in your claim for the Savannah property, the better.'

‘I doubt there is anything I can do about the property this side of the Atlantic,' said Hart. ‘But I know Sir James Wright will stand my friend.' He could only hope he was right. Once again he was confronted by the intractable problem of Mercy, spy and Rebel Pamphleteer. However carefully the British had kept her secret, there could be no question but that Sir James Wright knew how she had worked against the British. Would he let it influence him? He rather thought not, but there was no way he could be sure. Nor did he know how his aunt Mayfield's estate stood, and he was angry with himself for wondering if she had made a will after her son Francis's death.

‘Your aunt.' Dick must have been thinking on similar lines. ‘She died childless, did she not?'

‘Yes. Her son was killed in the attack on Savannah.' It was the generally accepted version of Francis's death, and he smiled grimly to himself as he remembered the facts, the silent, swaying struggle on the rotten wharf across the river from Savannah and Francis's horrible, well-earned death among the alligators.

‘She was a woman of property too? It was her house in Charleston to which they were going, poor things?'

‘Yes.' Impossible to mind Dick's frank curiosity. ‘I very much hope she will have willed it to my Cousin Abigail after Francis's death.' Poetic justice if she had. It was Francis who had contrived to ‘lose' Abigail's dowry and so
make it impossible for her to marry her Loyalist lover, Giles Habersham.

‘If she made a will,' said Dick. ‘If not …?'

‘I suppose I would inherit,' said Hart reluctantly. ‘But we're talking of shadows, Cousin. The British may well have taken Charleston by now, and I've no friends there.'

‘Then we must find you some in London,' said Dick.

Julia greeted the news of their imminent departure with approval. ‘We shall miss you two sadly, Mamma and I,' she told Hart, ‘but I am sure you are right to go. The sight of London will be a distraction for you, and besides, I long to see you a free man indeed. I only hope these Anti-Catholic activities of Lord George Gordon's will not make things harder for you. I am afraid that he is known as a supporter of you Americans as well as a Catholic hater,' and then, seeing him look puzzled: ‘How stupid I am! Of course, you know nothing of him. How should you? He's a mad Scots Protestant lord, Cousin, who is making a great fuss and botheration about an act for Catholic relief that Parliament passed two years ago. He even went and read the poor King a great lecture about it this winter, they say, and has not been let across the threshold of St. James's Palace since. But what's that to the purpose, when he has a seat in the House of Commons, and his crazy Protestant associations all over the country? They are collecting signatures for a monster petition to the House. Someone actually came here canvassing, but I sent him away with a flea in his ear.'

‘I should hope so,' said Dick. ‘But, Julia, I hardly see why mad George Gordon's activities should affect Hart's affairs. When I was last home, they were saying at Brooks's that there were three parties: government, opposition, and Lord George Gordon, he had so little support in the House.'

‘In the House, yes, but the country is another matter. And the trouble is he claims that the Catholic Relief Act was mainly intended to make it easier to enlist Catholics for the war against America. He's a great friend to you Americans,
Cousin Hart, but not the kind that will do you much good, I'm afraid.'

‘Dear Julia.' Dick was looking at her with some surprise. ‘What a politician you have become, to be sure. I hardly recognise the giddy girl I left behind.'

She laughed and picked up her tapestry frame. ‘You think I should mind my needle like a good girl and leave politics to you men. But you know, Dick, this fine useless work always bored me to distraction, and buried here in the country, one must read the newspapers or go melancholy mad.' She put out a quick hand to touch Hart's sleeve. ‘Dear Hart, I am so sorry. For a moment I quite forgot. You are being so brave it is hard always to remember just what you must be suffering. You'll be glad to be safe away from a rattlepate like me.'

‘On the contrary,' said Hart. ‘Your lively spirits do me more good than anything. I only wish you were coming to London, too.' Now why in the world had he said that when his every instinct warned him to get away from this dangerously attractive cousin as fast as possible?

‘Oh, so do I!' exclaimed Julia. ‘If only we could, Mamma and I, just to help keep your spirits up. Well' – she put down the tapestry frame with a look of dislike – ‘maybe we will surprise you yet. I know how sad Mamma has felt at being unable even to send in her name at the Queen's House on the occasion of the King's Birthday next month. Oh, Dick!' She stifled a gurgle of laughter. ‘If you could but see your own face! You are imagining Birthday dresses and all kinds of extravagant fripperies! As if I had not long outgrown such girlish nonsense. I would just like to show our poor cousin a little of London. To take him to see the exhibition of pictures, perhaps, in the new rooms at Somerset House, where he will find his compatriot Mr. West well represented, I am sure. There could be no harm in that, however deep our mourning. Our coming to London would be almost an economy, Dick, since it means the servants here can be put on board wages, and you know what it costs to keep up two households. And of course,
there will be no gadding, no theatregoing, though we might perhaps take our cousin to a concert of Mr. Handel's sacred music. Say you would really like us to join you in town, Cousin Hart!'

‘Indeed I would.' What else could he say? Besides, he knew with shame how completely he meant it.

Dick, apologising for having no kind of sporting vehicle, no curricle or high-perch phaeton in which to drive to London, had suggested that they ride there instead, sending a servant ahead on the waggon with their baggage. ‘My father keeps his carriage in town, of course,' he explained, and Hart felt a sudden qualm of anxiety at the thought of meeting this unknown relative.

‘I hope he won't mind my coming,' he said.

‘Mind? I just hope he won't try to make political capital of you. It's his life, you know, politics, and I'm afraid a disappointing one. He has never had the gift of holding the House with a speech, and somehow office has always eluded him. But of course, he will be delighted to see you. He wrote in the warmest terms about your saving the
Sparrow.
'

‘Good of him.' Hart had noticed that Dick always spoke of his father with a touch of reserve and wondered a little just what Mr. Purchas, Senior, was like.

They set off betimes next morning, Hart almost dizzy with fatigue after yet another night divided between wakefulness and nightmare. Hard to decide which had been worse, the waking memory of his mother and aunt or the horribly vivid dreams about their deaths. And in some ways worse still, there had been other dreams, dreams with Mercy and Julia changing faces, changing bodies. He was ashamed to remember them.

‘Ah, poor Cousin Hart.' Julia had got up early to see them off. ‘You look as if you had not slept at all. Should you put off your journey till tomorrow, do you think?'

‘No!' It came out more strongly than he intended and earned him a quick, enquiring glance from those perceptive dark eyes.

‘You're right, of course.' Her smile was understanding. ‘The change will help, I am sure. I like you for loving your mother so much, Cousin Hart.' She was all in black this morning, and it made her look incredibly slender, as if the merest breath of wind would blow her away as she stood on the steps to watch them mount. ‘Take care of him, Dick. And give my loving respects to Father. I shall pray for you, Hart.' She came down the steps to say it to him alone.

‘Thank you.' Miserably inadequate phrase for all that he was feeling.

‘Are you sure you are well enough to travel, Mrs. Purchis?' Charles Brisson looked anxiously at Mercy across the breakfast table of Mr. Williams's inn at Trenton.

‘Of course I am.' Mercy brought out the lie as robustly as she could and combined it with a quelling look for Ruth, who had shared her bed and must know how she had shivered and sweated all night long after the icy shock of her near drowning the day before. She drank tea with a hand that would shake. ‘The air will do me good,' she said.

‘I hope so.' Brisson sounded so doubtful that she was afraid she must look as ill as she felt. ‘But you must let me drive all the way,' he went on. ‘My shoulder is wonderfully better this morning, and your horses are so worn out they won't give me any trouble.'

‘Just so long as they get us there,' said Mercy. ‘But it won't be a long day, will it?'

‘No indeed.' George Palmer helped himself to more ham. ‘A mere nothing compared with the distances you have covered, Mrs. Purchis. I am sure you are best making the effort and getting to Philadelphia today. You'll be much more comfortable in our house on Front Street than pigging it here in this damned expensive inn.'

‘Your house?' she asked, surprised.

‘Why, yes. Did you not know that we are Philadelphians, my brother and I? Have been since the damned British took New York and threw us out of town with nothing but what we stood up in. It's of course that you and Miss Paston will stay with us until you find your own friends. I have sent Sam on already to give orders for our
reception. One more cold day's journey, ma'am, and I think I can promise you all the comforts of home.'

‘Oh, thank you!' It seemed like an answer to prayer, and she forced down some thick bread and butter, despite the soreness of her throat and the throbbing of her head. She had been too tired and shaken to bargain with the landlord the night before, and the price he had quoted would nearly exhaust her funds. Now, miraculously, her little party would be lodged free in Philadelphia, at least for a while.

‘And you too.' George Palmer turned to Brisson. ‘With the Congress in session, Philadelphia will be as full of people as it can hold. You'll be a deal more comfortable with us. And it's time our lazy dogs of servants had something to do with themselves, after all these months on board wages while we've been at the North.' He pulled out a huge gold turnip watch. ‘I suggest we start as soon as possible. I quite long to be home, and Mrs. Purchis will be better avoiding the chill of evening.'

‘Yes, thank you.' It hurt horribly to speak. Mercy swallowed more tea. ‘We will be ready directly. Are you sure you are fit to drive, Mr. Brisson?'

‘I'd rather drive than ride,' he told her. ‘You are doing me a real kindness in letting me. And I know the boy will enjoy another day on my horse.'

‘Yes, sir.' Jed was looking anxious, and Mercy wondered if the Palmers' invitation had been intended to include him. Time enough to worry about that when they reached Philadelphia. For the moment it took every ounce of her strength to help Ruth pack their portmanteau and settle the reckoning with the landlord. He overcharged her, and she knew it, but let it go. It hurt too much to speak.

The Palmers insisted on lending her their warmest fur rug, and Ruth tucked it anxiously round her, but the seat of the sledge felt ice-cold, and she was gradually becoming aware that her heavy coat, which the landlady had reluctantly agreed to dry for her by the kitchen fire, was still damp. Madness to have agreed to travel today, but it had been obvious that Brisson and the Palmers meant to go
on whatever she decided. Even the invitation to stay might have depended on her party's accompanying them. And that was odd somehow.