Wide is the Water (40 page)

‘Not yet. Not for a moment.' She had been pale when he first spoke; now her colour was high, her eyes shining with tears. ‘Mr. Purchas, please, what happened to you that first day?'

‘What happened? I fell in love, of course. The moment I saw you, coming down the stairs, in your white dress, smiling. Dear Ruth, I am glad to have had the chance to tell you. I think I shall love you till I die.'

‘So it's not just a housekeeper you want? A mother for Frances?'

‘Good God, no. What made you think that?'

She was smiling at him now. ‘Well, it was what you said after all. You asked me to make a home for Frances. To be your housekeeper, said you could support me, as if I cared about that! I was afraid' – she got it out with an effort – ‘I was afraid I had been imagining things.'

‘Ruth! You mean, it did happen to you too?'

‘Of course it did. When I saw you there, looking up at me. It was like … like drowning. The whole of my life before my eyes. All the sorrow; all the joy. Just waiting for this. Waiting for you.'

‘And I for you, dear Ruth.' Slowly, almost deliberately, they moved into each other's arms. Drawing away at last from the long, deep embrace, she looked up at him.

‘Just imagine your thinking it was Charles Brisson,' she said. ‘Poor Charles, I think it must have been like this with him. But Mercy, not me,' she added, her eyes sparkling mischievously. ‘Poor Charles,' she said again. ‘But, Dick' – it gave her great pleasure to use his name – ‘I don't understand one thing. How could you have heard his name at the Secretary's office? Are you sure you did?'

‘Yes. And the strange thing is that I thought at the time it was somehow in connection with Hart's release. Ridiculous, of course, now I know more about him. Well, just one of those things we will never understand.'

‘I suppose not. Do you know, I believe I would rather you did not mention it to Hart and Mercy?'

‘Oh?' He looked down at her, smiling. ‘You think Hart might be as great a fool as I was?'

‘Impossible!' He pulled her into his arms again, but the embrace was interrupted by a peal of laughter. Frances had come in from the garden and was watching them with delight. Her arms were full of flowers purloined from the dinner tables outside, and she began systematically pulling them off and throwing them at Dick and Ruth.

‘The Bishop's mad as fire,' she told them. ‘He says I'm a limb of Satan, but you'll speak up for me, won't you, Aunt Ruth? Or I'll tell him he'd better marry you too, and the quicker the better!'

‘What did you do to the Bishop?' asked Dick severely.

‘That would be telling! And I never tell! Come on, Aunt Ruth, the dancing's beginning on the lawn, and they won't start without you two. I've never been at a party like this before. Will you keep me with you always? You'll need me as chaperone, you know, when Mercy goes away. I'd be a good chaperone! Please let me stay.'

‘If you behave yourself,' said Ruth.

‘Hurray, hurray, I'm here to stay.' Frances danced ahead of them out into the garden, and Dick took Ruth's arm.

‘Why are you looking so conscious?' She smiled up at him with a question in her eyes.

‘Well, as a matter of fact,' he said, ‘you will think me the most presumptuous fellow alive, but I had been thinking about what, would happen when Mercy goes. I will not ask my mother here. She does not admit it, but of course she knew what was being done to Hart. You will think me very ill equipped, but I have no other female relatives. I could not for the life of me think what was best to be done.'

‘So?'

‘Well.' He put up a hand to his cravat, which seemed to be throttling him. ‘While I was getting the special licence for Hart and Mercy …'

‘You got one for us too! And never told me!' Now she was laughing at him. ‘Oh, my darling! And then thought it should have been for me and Charles Brisson! No wonder you looked so sick. But what are we waiting for! Let us find the Bishop at once. Besides' – she twinkled up at him – ‘it will take his mind off whatever dreadful thing your Frances has done to him.'

‘Our Frances,' he said.

The Bishop fortunately thought it a capital joke to go back to the little church when the party was over and marry a second couple there. Blandly full of champagne by now, he and Mr. Pym made a good many broad remarks about happy events and standing godfather if necessary before they finally took their leave and the two couples were alone to toast each other over a light supper and retire to the beds that Frances had filled with prickly wedding flowers.

‘Do you think she did it to Ruth and Dick too?' asked Mercy, removing the last bit of Michaelmas daisy.

‘Bound to have,' said Hart cheerfully. ‘But I think we will not go and ask.'

‘I should rather think not.' Mercy was in her nightgown now, brushing her hair. ‘Hart, I'm so happy. It was quite different, wasn't it, this wedding?'

He took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards the bed. ‘And this honeymoon is going to be quite different, too, my darling.'

Hart and Mercy left Denton Hall a week later, having learnt that a fast merchantman was to sail almost immediately with supplies for beleaguered Savannah. It was too good a chance to miss, though it was sad to leave Dick and Ruth in the first glow of their happiness. ‘I think your Ruth is going to manage that hellbrat admirably,' said Hart as the carriage drove through Denton village. ‘She has really made her sorry for what she did to the Bishop.'

‘Dear Ruth,' said Mercy. ‘I hate to part with her, but it is wonderful to see her so happy. If you had known her when we first met, back in January, you would not believe the change in her.'

‘All your doing, I'm sure.'

‘No, not all. We've been … lucky, Ruth and I. So lucky.' They were holding hands, and she waved with the other one to a smiling village woman who had come to their wedding. ‘They're so kind,' she said. ‘But, Hart, I'm
glad
we are going home.'

Privileged passengers, they had their own cabin on the fast Baltimore-built merchantman that had been captured by the British a year before. They dined at the captain's table, and his boast that his ship could easily outsail any French or American privateer proved entirely justified. The voyage was an easy one, and as peaceful day followed day, Mercy was glad to see the shadows gradually disappear from under Hart's eyes. By the time they raised Tybee Light at the mouth of the Savannah River, early in November, he had almost stopped dreaming of the
Tower and hardly ever woke sweating and screaming in her arms.

Since no pilot was available, and the captain had not sailed up the Savannah River before, he asked Hart to join him on the bridge for the hazardous journey up the slow-winding river, so Mercy stood alone, gazing at the golden acres of marsh grass that had given it its name. Passing the inlet that would have taken them up to the burnt bones of Winchelsea, she remembered a January day, four long years before, when she and Abigail and Hart had gone down river to look for forage for their hungry animals and had seen the sails of British warships making for the river. The British had been the enemy then. What were they now?

They anchored by the bluff below Factor's Walk just as the setting sun set the whole bronze marsh aglow. The bells of Christ Church were ringing for evensong. ‘We're home, Hart.' She turned to him as he came hurrying down to their cabin, released at last from duty on the bridge. And then, remembering his mother and aunt. ‘A strange homecoming, I am afraid.'

It was stranger even than she expected. The news came on board with the first official, and soon the whole ship was aflame with it, seething like a disturbed hive. ‘What is it, Hart? What's the matter?' Busy packing, Mercy had only gradually become aware of the change in the usual tone of the ship.

‘I'll go and see.' He returned, white-faced, the shadows back under his eyes. ‘Treachery!' he told her. ‘Benedict Arnold tried to sell West Point to the British.'

‘Benedict Arnold! I don't believe it!' But instantly, horribly, remembering the man, and his wife, she did. ‘How did they catch him?'

‘They didn't. He's clean away to the British. They caught his go-between, a Major Andre. Washington has hanged him, Mercy. He wasn't in uniform. The British are terribly angry about it. Captain Graves is not sure whether he should let us ashore tonight; he says things
are so stirred up in town; the news only came the other day; he's sent to Sir James Wright for instructions. He's asked me … he asks us both – to be very careful what we say. He's a good friend, Mercy.'

‘Yes.' It came out mechanically. ‘I knew Benedict Arnold in Philadelphia. I never could like him. Or his wife. Oh.' Her hand went up to her mouth. ‘I remember. There was gossip about her and Major Andre. He was with the British during the occupation of Philadelphia. Before she married Arnold. Hart!' It was all flooding back. ‘They must have been planning it when I was there in Philadelphia.'

‘I am afraid so.' His face was very grave. ‘There is something else I have to tell you, Mercy. Andre was not alone when he was taken. There was another man with him. Charles Brisson.'

‘Charles!' Had she seen it coming?

‘Yes. He was hanged too, Mercy. God rest his soul.'

She sat down on the narrow bed, tears flooding down her cheeks. ‘Ah, poor Charles.' It all began to make horrible sense. ‘He was working for the British all the time! Of course he was. Hanged!'

‘They asked to be shot. But – they were spies, Mercy.'

‘So were we.'

‘Never again,' he said. ‘Whatever happens. I think I'm glad now that I had to give my parole to the British. What monsters war makes of men.'

‘Not Charles,' she protested. ‘I wish you'd known him, Hart. He was—' She broke off, remembering, understanding. ‘Lord, what a fool he made of me! Using me as his cover in Philadelphia. Even on the way there. We were stopped by the militia, Hart. They thought he was one of our party. They were looking for a man by himself. I remember how they cross-examined the boy, Jed, because he was riding alone. But Brisson was in the sledge. They did not question him. He must have come straight from New York. With a message for Bendict Arnold.' Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And Arnold's free. Safe with the British,
while Charles and Andre … Dear Charles. When he helped me get to England, he did it out of pure kindness. There was no advantage in that for him. Only danger.'

‘Not just out of kindness,' said Hart. ‘Give him his due. It must have been out of love, out of pure love.'

‘Yes.' She was remembering the last time she had seen Brisson. ‘He told me so,' she said. ‘At Portsmouth. And, Hart, he told me you were out of danger. He need not have. He could have let me think you as good as dead. Have urged me to go with him. Instead, he told me to stay, to go Denton Hall and look for Dick Purchas. We owe him everything, Hart.'

‘I think I owe him my freedom too. Dick said something the night before we left. Said he had heard Brisson's name mentioned in the Secretary's office when he was there. I always wondered who in England, granted it wasn't the Purchases, cared enough about me to arrange my release. Now we know. Naturally, Brisson knew I was safe when he saw you at Portsmouth. He had just come from arranging it.'

‘So the war didn't make a monster of him.'

‘No. He must have loved you very much, Mercy.'

‘I'll never forget him.' She was in Hart's arms now, crying quietly. ‘I wonder. If I hadn't been so oceans-deep in love with you …'

‘You'd be his widow now.' He bent to kiss away her tears. ‘I'm glad you're not. Poor Brisson …'

They went ashore next day and found Savannah apparently more firmly in British hands than ever. Abigail, welcoming them home to the house in Oglethorpe Square with tears of joy, congratulated Hart warmly on his acceptance of the British terms. ‘All right-thinking men have taken the oath,' she told him. ‘Since the British took Charleston and the rebel governor, Howley, had to flee from Augusta, no one even knows where the rebel Assembly is. It's just a question of time now …'

‘But time is not on the Tories' side, dear Abigail,' said Hart. ‘I warn you, the British are tired of this war. A year,
two years, you'll see; it will be over. Happily over, I pray, and all friends again.'

‘Friends! After what's been done to Andre and Brisson!' And then, seeing Mercy's face. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to remind you.'

‘I shall never forget him,' Mercy said. ‘I don't want to. He may have been spy, but he was a good man.'

‘He was a Patriot,' Abigail said austerely, ‘not a spy.'

‘Oh, Abigail—' Mercy began, but Hart interrupted her.

‘Dear Abigail,' he said, ‘we must face it that this war has made contradictions of us all. Patriot … spy. Turn the coin; it's the same thing. I pray to God it will be over soon.'

‘And Giles Habersham home at last,' said Mercy, and was horrified to see the change in Abigail's face. Sharp lines she had not noticed in the first joy of the meeting now showed savagely etched in the thin cheeks.

‘Giles is not coming home,' Abigail said. ‘He wrote me – at last. He seems to agree with you, Hart; I cannot imagine why. He thinks the British have lost interest in this war. He sees no hope of ever coming home. He wrote to say good-bye. To free me, he said. He has joined their regular army.' The sentences came out short and stiff. ‘Don't be sorry for me,' she said. ‘Please …'

‘Oh, dear Abigail.' Mercy threw her arms round her for a quick, impulsive kiss. ‘I am so glad we are home. We'll not be parted again.'

‘No.' Abigail had changed, Mercy thought, hardened a little, and no wonder. ‘I have a letter for you,' she went on now. ‘From Charles Brisson. He sent it under cover to me, asked me to get it to you if I could. He wrote it the night before he was hanged. How could George Washington hang them, him and Andre!' She turned to Hart. ‘It will never be forgotten. Never!'