The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

  Noticing Harry’s appraising look, Fauquier said, “I have the honor of presenting to you one of Virginia’s most notable citizens, a distinguished war hero, now the newest member of our House of Burgesses and a newlywed besides. Messieurs Woodyard and Burke, meet Colonel George Washington.”

  The young colossus stuck his pipe in his mouth and seized Harry’s hand with a grip that might have crushed an apple. “I hope you will forgive our friend Bannerman’s contretemps,” he said. “I myself am well acquainted with the pain of losing money on a horse.” He waved a small ledger book in the air, grinning with the gaiety of one who has learned the value of joking at his own expense.

  “The colonel was with my fiancé at the Battle of the Monongahela,” said Maddie. Finally, speech.

  “Quite right,” said Washington. “As I recall, Richard was with the baggage train during the initial attack by the French and their savages and thus escaped injury. But he did his duty as bravely as any man there.”

  Fauquier resumed his introductions. The party included a Reverend Maury of Gordonsville, Virginia, and Maury’s wife, and a gangly, red-haired teenaged boy who, Fauquier said, had been placed by his family under the reverend’s tutelage for the year. Young Thomas Jefferson, it seemed, was a talented fiddler: he had entertained a gathering the previous evening at the governor’s palace. Harry wondered if he had yet been introduced to the Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour.

  “We are all proud of our George for his conduct at the Monongahela,” said Maury. “He had two horses shot from under him and ended the battle with several musket-ball holes in his jacket.”

  “It was my great fortune to escape harm,” said Washington. His attention shifted back to Maddie. “Fortune has favored your gallant fiancé as well, Miss McLeod.”

  “I’ve heard that Colonel Ayerdale has been lucky indeed,” said Jefferson, his raw adolescent voice eager and bright. “He was later detached to Fortress Oswego but rode out for another assignment the day before the French overran it.”

  Washington succumbed to a fit of coughing. By his face Harry guessed he had been Jefferson’s source for this information. Oswego had been a costly defeat. Ready to believe the worst about Ayerdale anyway, Harry perceived that his having managed to avoid combat both there and at the Monongahela reflected no credit on him. Jefferson’s expressive face darkened as he recognized his faux pas.

  “Well, our side has been winning more than its share of victories since those early days of the war,” said Fauquier, breaking the awkward stillness. “Having recently arrived on these shores myself, I can tell you that His Majesty entirely shares the commitment of his government to finally throw Louis’s minions off this continent. Perhaps General Wolfe will put an end to the whole matter before the summer is out.”

  Nods of approval greeted his mention of Wolfe. Harry had heard only a smattering about the young British officer who had been given the task of driving the French from their stronghold at Quebec. But all the tidbits were good.

  Fauquier said, “I read a dispatch only this morning that more of the general’s ships have left Louisbourg and are heading for the Saint Lawrence. By now they should be well on their way, perhaps even arrived by now, depending on winds and tides. I understand Colonel Ayerdale has volunteered to catch up with them there.”

  “And I have decided to accompany him,” said Maddie. “I shall not be content to while away my time amid the comforts of New Bern or Williamsburg, while our country is at war. I wish to share the same privations as my beloved during this difficult time.”

  Fauquier’s eyes crinkled with good humor. “I salute your patriotism, Miss McLeod. I have observed that soldiers often perform better on the battlefield when they are well cared for.”

  Although Maddie already had told him of her plan, Harry felt suddenly warm, as if taken by a fever. He had heard bawdy tales of what members of the New Bern militia referred to as camp followers, unmarried women who accompanied men to war. They tended to be prostitutes and scullery servants. He thought to take Maddie aside and urge her to have the ceremony before leaving or maybe aboard their ship. Then he wondered if that would not be the greater of two evils, as it would be less easily undone. Maybe if they spent more time together before marrying, Maddie could discover for herself what Harry until now had only suspected: that Ayerdale’s nature had a dark side.

  “You must tell me more concerning your pursuit of criminals,” said Madame Contrecoeur, turning again to Harry. “If I were to go astray, would you arrest me? I am certain I would be helpless to resist such a strong man.” This drew titters from all except Harry, who was helpless to keep blood from rushing to his face. “Opposition being futile,” she boldly pressed, “I would be inclined to surrender willingly to my fate.”

  Maddie said, “Mister Woodyard’s wife back in North Carolina might have something to say about that.”

  This drew more laughter, though Maddie was not smiling. It took no gift of insight to see she was upset. But by what right? As one betrothed to another, she had no standing to question Harry’s fidelity. Then he thought of his own position. What authority had he to question her? She had every right to do as she pleased. Should he even mention the episode at Rosewood? She might take it as an act of jealousy, a spiteful attempt to deny her whatever bit of happiness their marriage might bring.

  Another question began to gnaw at him. What if he were not married? If he were free, would he have any chance of starting over with Maddie? Of winning this now grown-up, worldly wise woman? At the same moment the thought entered his mind, he felt he had sinned against Toby.

  Lacking anything witty from Harry to prolong the teasing chatter, the party began breaking up. The horses were assembled at the gate and now awaited the starter pistol. Still chuckling over the Baroness’s naughty remarks, Fauquier said to Harry in parting, “Beware of French intrigues.”

  *

  She was sitting at a small table at a side window of Shields Tavern, where Harry and Noah had rented a bed. Still in her lavender gown, sipping ale with a well-dressed older man. Noah had retired early, missing supper on account of a stomach complaint. Harry spotted her at the same time he caught her eye. She beckoned him over.

  “I don’t want to intrude, Madame,” he said.

  “It is no intrusion at all. My friend was just leaving. And please, do me the honor of calling me Jacqueline.”

  The man, who by his age could have been her father, got to his feet in the dutiful way of one who has heard a command and bade them a good evening. Harry noted that Jacqueline did not think it necessary to introduce them.

  “How do you come to be in Williamsburg?” Harry made bold to ask after they had ordered food. Feeling somewhat more relaxed, though still on edge in the presence of such unearthly beauty.

  “Oh, Harry,” she said, giving his name a winsome French turn. “It is such a dreary tale. My family has served royal households for centuries as chamberlains, cupbearers, masters of horse. Very honored positions. We began losing our status, then our property, and finally our very liberty when we embraced the teachings of your great philosopher John Calvin. I escaped five years ago with my life but with almost nothing of my estate. Through a fortuitous connection I found employment as household manager and personal secretary to the governor of Massachusetts, the wonderful General Shirley. His wife is French, you know. When he returned to England I found a similar position here with his friend Governor Dinwiddie. Now dear Robert is gone as well. Regrettably for me, Monsieur Fauquier has his own household staff.”

  She kept her eyes mostly downcast as she spoke. Giving leave for Harry to study the contours of her bare shoulders.

  “So, there it is, Harry.” She sighed. “I still dare not return to my estate in France. For the present, these delightful people and this enchanted land of Virginia hold me like one of Mister Gilbert’s attracting stones. But this is all so tedious. You must tell me more about your mission to find this murderer.”

  Over more ale, along with
cuts of cold salted ham, sweet potatoes, cabbage, and a curiously tasty soup made from peanuts, Harry repeated his story. He added more details about how the bodies were discovered by the tinker, their odd positions, the puzzlement of the baby, and how he found the Masonic badge. He also told her about the hand-drawn nautical chart of Pamlico Sound.

  “How intriguing,” she said. “May I see?”

  Harry got out the paper from his coat pocket. She looked it over briefly and gave it back.

  “Monsieur, you have my sympathies. It would appear you have very little to help you.”

  “I will keep looking for answers until every question I have is satisfied and I can go no further. Only then will I stop.”

  “Judging from your ardor, I have no doubt you will never give up.”

  “I’m hoping this fellow Bannerman might have something to say about the badge.”

  Jacqueline suddenly reached across the table and put her hand on Harry’s.

  “I just thought of something. General Shirley was a member of the Freemasons. As it happens, a box of his Masonic books found its way into my possession when he was packing to return to England. I have kept it, hoping to return it someday in person. Could one of these books contain the key to the code?”

  “That would seem unlikely.”

  “Nevertheless, you said yourself that you will continue until all questions are answered. It could not hurt to look, isn’t it so?”

  Harry could not disagree.

  As they talked on, Jacqueline reminiscing about her life in southern France, comparing it to the Virginia countryside, the conversation began to take on the quality of a dream. Harry had never been so far from home, never even outside of North Carolina. Now he was in the storied capital of Virginia, a far more important colony than his own. Why, just this day he had conversed with a royal governor and a war hero. And now he shared a meal with an aristocrat, a great beauty from France by way of an almost mythical place in the distant North called Massachusetts. He wondered if he might at any moment wake up and find himself back in his own straw bed with his former indentured servant, now wife, Toby. And see that all of this had been but the improbable adventure of a slumbering mind.

  As he watched Jacqueline’s dainty movements and listened to her musical speech, he knew that if he were dreaming, he had no choice but to face the challenges of unfolding events. Including that which was unfolding now.

  *

  Jacqueline’s rooms turned out to be located in a handsome brick house with double chimneys only two blocks from the palace. No one else was there: the owners were away on a shopping tour of London. An elderly servant brought a decanter of brandy and two snifters into the drawing room, which was subtly perfumed by lavender-infused candles. At Jacqueline’s request the man also produced a wooden packing box from her chambers, then disappeared.

  “How exciting,” she said as she removed the lid. “The current regime in my country views Freemasonry with a certain ambivalence, but even there it has become popular among some highborn families.”

  The box held a dozen books. Between large sips of the brandy—the best Harry had ever had—he held each underneath an oil lamp beside his chair. There were collected treatises on alchemy, astrology, and metaphysics. Two books dealt specifically with the history of the Freemason movement, accounts of its supposed ancient origins and of its revival and spread around the world in recent years. Harry found several pages devoted to three North Carolina entities: the New Hanover County lodge, Saint John’s in Wilmington, and New Bern’s Royal White Hart Lodge, which the judge had so strongly hinted, if not promised, that Harry would one day join.

  But nothing of secret codes.

  “I need to get up,” he said after a while. But his muscles ignored him. Jacqueline, who had been sitting on a small sofa opposite his chair as he went through the books, now seemed to float over in his direction. Then she was beside his chair, below him, somehow situated on the carpet, her lovely dress spread around her like the interwoven petals of a blossom. He made another effort to get up, but realized that she was now holding him down, seemingly effortlessly, by the supernatural power of one finger pressing against his chest.

  “Chéri, must you leave so soon?” she asked. He could not think of a good answer. He regarded her with hooded eyes, chin sinking farther into his chest, inhaling her beauty. She returned to the subject of past lives. Days spent consorting with the royal family at the Château de Versailles before her family’s religious conversion and subsequent downfall. Herself in America with Governor Shirley in his Boston mansion surrounded by English hedges and junipers and birds that held singing contests in the gardens every morning. She spoke of Shirley’s French-born wife, an unreasonably jealous woman who clung to her Catholic faith despite the Protestant world she had entered as Shirley’s bride after his first wife died. Something about Shirley’s recently having been called back to Britain to answer charges of having allowed military information to fall into the hands of the enemy. And, as a result, his household manager, Jacqueline, had once again been cast adrift, without home or country, until she made her way into the graces of His Majesty’s deputy in Virginia.

  As Harry was trying to make sense of this narrative, he realized that the lady was undoing his clothing. He made to get up again, but she was on top of him, her slender, busy fingers working their way down the buttons of his shirt. Breathing in the flowery scent of her breasts, he discovered his hands seemed to be moving of their own volition. Exploring the subtle transition between her slender waist and slight bulge of hips. Tracing those delicate contours as if answering commands from someone other than himself.

  Her face was nuzzling the area just below Harry’s belt when his passion exploded. It was sudden and ferocious. His first reaction was astonishment, followed by the briefest moment of mindless ecstasy. And then, mortification.

  With a great effort, he succeeded in nudging her away. “Madame . . .” he began. She interrupted with surprised laughter.

  “Mon dieu! I see that the dragon is disarmed. All of his fire has gone out of him.”

  “I have no words to say how embarrassed I am,” he said. “This has never happened before.”

  Indeed, throughout his unmarried days, when Harry had found no shortage of friendly female companions, he had prided himself on giving pleasure before receiving it, if not arranging for both things to happen at once. Another new experience: In the short span of his marriage to Toby he had never been unfaithful. Sinful thoughts had come into his mind, especially when he found himself outside of Toby’s company and in the vicinity of some lady from his rowdy past. But he had never seriously considered overturning his vows. Now, as he struggled to get free of this enchantment, he tried to imagine the consequences of what had just happened.

  “It is nothing,” Jacqueline said, still chuckling. “I am flattered by your passion. But do not worry. There will always be another time.”

  “With all deference, Madame, I sincerely hope not. I am married.”

  “Of course you are.” She continued smiling but now seemed perplexed. As if wondering what one thing had to do with the other.

  He made a concerted effort to get out of his chair and nearly toppled onto the floor. She steadied him onto his feet, then half guided, half pushed him into another room and onto a bed. The last shard of thought that passed through his conscious mind had to do with the unbelievable fairness of Jacqueline’s skin. And the as-yet-unresolved mystery of what the rest of her looked like.

  *

  It was morning when his eyes came open again. Raw sunlight streamed through cracks in the room’s tall window shutters, which had been thoughtfully closed.

  Jacqueline was not to be seen. He found a folded letter on the dressing table. She had gone riding with Monsieur Fauquier and some other friends. She said how much she had enjoyed his company and looked forward to their next meeting, though she did not propose a particular time or place. Then:

  I have given more Thought to the m
atter of your Purfuit, and I beg of you to Defift. If your Sufpicions are correct, you could find Yourfelf in Grave Danger. The Freemasons are a Wealthy and Powerful People with tentacles everywhere. I cannot imagine why a Member would want to difpatch an apparently simple Planter’s Family. In all events I believe they would not hefitate to deal in the harsheft terms with Any One seeking to bring one of their Own to Account for fuch a crime as Murder. For your own fake, and that of those who love you, return to North Carolina and refume the Contented Life I am sure you have there. Try to put the terrible Epifode out of your Mind.

  Yr loving Flower always,

  Jacqueline

  CHAPTER 13

  35: Let your Discourse with Men of Business be Short and Comprehensive.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  BANNERMAN’S STORE WAS LARGE AND WELL STOCKED. AN ENTIRE room contained only furniture. In an adjoining room, shelves lining the walls displayed smaller articles that a well-found household would need to function with grace and style: porcelain and pewter dishes, glassware, cutlery, frying pans, saucepans, bowls, pepper boxes, and silver and brass candlesticks. An entire section consisted of leather-bound collections of famous sermons and other works of literature. Next to this, sliding drawers contained necklaces, bracelets, rings, and brooches. One tray was devoted entirely to various objects of Masonic finery.

  Noah, whose gut had recovered enough to join Harry for a morning biscuit and small beer at the tavern, gravitated to the books while Harry looked over the stock of jewelry. The middle-aged woman minding the store hovered around Harry.

  “We can fill any special request you may have, anything at all,” she said when it seemed he was about to leave the collection without having shown any interest. “We have two jewelers here in Williamsburg who accept commissions. And, of course, we have direct ties with some of the finest houses in London.” To this she added in a whisper, “Paris, too. We don’t widely advertise it during these times, but if you desire something of a Gallic nature I am certain that my husband, Mister Bannerman, could make arrangements.”