by Donald Smith
“I’m not one to gloat. But I am rarely wrong about judging people.” The words were beyond recall by the time he remembered about d’Brienne.
Maddie said, “On our voyage from Boston I confessed to Richard about my grandfather’s financial condition. I had been wrestling with this and concluded that we should begin our marriage on a truthful footing. At first he seemed only stunned, but then he began behaving like a wild animal. I honestly was afraid to be around him. If the lack of a dowry was to be the deciding factor as to our wedding, he could have just told me and departed in peace when we landed. But he was so angry that I could barely even make out what he was saying. Mostly accusing me, in the most impolite terms, of dishonesty. He threw in a few nasty remarks about the Scotch race as well.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“As it turned out, no. After several minutes of abusive language, he rushed out of our cabin. When I saw him an hour later, it was as if nothing had happened. He was a perfect gentleman again. It was the oddest thing.”
“Before you go further, I have something to tell you that I guess you still don’t know.”
Harry enlightened Maddie about Ayerdale’s finances. The news left her speechless but only for a moment.
“So we were each looking to the other for salvation. How perfect.”
“You shouldn’t be too hard with yourself. If I’ve learned anything during these past four weeks, it is that we all do what we have to do.”
“Harry, that is so brilliant. You really should find a publisher. Share that wisdom with the world.”
He made to get up off the mattress, but the movement revealed new areas of pain. He gently let himself back down.
Maddie continued her tale. Their arrival on Île d’Orléans. Assignment to a handsome house not far from Wolfe’s own commandeered mansion, a gesture of deference to a distinguished American visitor. Her discovering a letter among Ayerdale’s belongings that exposed him as having secret dealings with the enemy.
“Reverend Fletcher also must be working for the French,” Maddie said.
“Why do you think that?” Just wanting to hear whatever story Giles might have told.
“He made no effort to prevent my being carried away. He did seem a bit embarrassed to have me watching him watching me being trussed like a Christmas goose by two redskinners. Before they were finished he left the room. When we get back to the camp we must report him as well.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Maddie.”
Harry told her of Fletcher’s real identity and how he had recruited Ayerdale to betray his French masters and work for King George. This second revelation seemed to take the rest of the wind out of her.
“But what game is this Giles deSavoy playing now? Why did he permit Richard to cross over to the French, with me as his captive?”
“Your fiancé has been tasked to give false information about where General Wolfe intends to attack, in hopes of drawing Montcalm’s forces to that location and away from the real place. He almost certainly has delivered this message by now. The battle could begin at any moment, if deSavoy is guessing right about the timing. But not where Montcalm now has been led to believe.”
Harry tried to get up again. This time, with Maddie’s help, he pressed through the pain and gained his feet. After walking around, trying out his limbs, he remembered that in the excitement of the previous evening, he had forgotten to eat supper.
He plucked a biscuit from the metal tray and took a tentative bite. It was strangely pleasing. Not as hard as it looked, at least not on the inside.
Maddie screamed. Harry looked up in time to see her spitting and throwing a biscuit across the room, causing a small explosion of crumbs in the corner where it landed.
“Worms,” she said in a quivery voice.
Harry took a closer look at his own biscuit. A severed half of a weevil was wriggling underneath the top crust. As if waving hello.
“The people of Quebec are starving,” Harry said. “Wolfe has burned all their farms.”
“Well, this is the first time I’ve been served worms. I’d rather take my chances on starvation.”
Harry continued eating, trying to set a good example. After a few minutes Maddie got over her revulsion enough to pick up another biscuit and begin picking through it, flicking away moving pieces. Despite Harry’s continued assurances that the worms would be good for her.
“About Richard’s new identity,” she said after some further reflection. “Does this mean I have to start thinking of him as a hero again?”
“No.”
*
The rest of the day passed quietly. A light drizzle settling outside. Harry slept fitfully. He got off his bed again around midafternoon and asked Maddie what she did for a toilet. She pointed him toward a wooden door, smaller than the main one to the cell, and in the shadows at the far end. It opened into a narrow, oblong chamber ventilated by another barred window. A single wooden bench ran along the length of one wall, three holes about the size of watermelons cut into the top. The smell was not too bad.
That evening the surgeon came back to check on Harry’s dressing. The man was in a mixed mood. Friendly enough but not trying to hide his unhappiness over what had been done to his city, which, as it turned out, was his place of birth. He likened Quebec to a broken shell. Hardly any residents left; most either dead or run away. And the few that remained no better off than those living in ruined houses and makeshift shelters in the countryside. Dreading the onset of winter. Only one company of troupes de terre occupied the citadel, a place of last refuge should Montcalm’s army have need of it.
“Where is the general?” Harry said in a conversational way. Thinking to get some idea of where Ayerdale might be.
“Montcalm is sleeping with his boots on and horse saddled at his house just down the river at Beauport, along with more than half his army. The rest are upriver at Cap-Rouge. Though I have noticed Beauport has been reinforced over the past twenty-four hours.”
“You needn’t tell us all this,” Maddie said.
The officer waved his hand. “By the time you are released it will be over. God willing, all of this misery soon will be over.”
He pronounced satisfaction with the way Harry’s wound was healing and made another gallant exit. Harry waited until he was sure he was gone and what he had to say could not be overheard.
“You know, Maddie, it’s not so much what we know about the French and their deployments that’s the problem. It’s what they know about us. They know we know Ayerdale is working for them. At least that’s what they think he’s doing.”
Fear rose in Maddie’s eyes as she caught his logic.
“And how can they let us go free to spread the knowledge of Richard’s treachery?” she said, completing his thought. “It would be simpler just to kill us.”
*
They were up at sunrise the next day. Hungry again by the time their keeper came around with more biscuits and water.
Harry spent the morning trying to figure a way to get out. He went over every inch of the cell. Digging through the stone slab floor was out of the question. The bars over the window were thick and by all appearances indestructible. The tiny door window was not even large enough for a head to pass through. But through it Harry could see part of a guard desk. A set of keys hung tantalizingly from a spike in the wall.
He parsed the latrine in detail, thinking it might empty into a sewer outside. Or have another ventilation opening. If so, he would be willing to give it a try. There was a good chance Maddie would not go along, but this drawback proved not to matter. As best as he could make out, there was nothing below but a deep, dark, and entirely enclosed pit. Not completely odor free but surprisingly inoffensive: a tribute to either French engineering skills or the cell’s present low occupancy condition. All the scoundrels having been let out to fight, he guessed.
The rain outside stopped but the sky remained sullen. It was noticeably colder, prompting him to wonder what inmates
did for heat in the winter. He was thankful he had taken his wool jacket for the river crossing.
Someone had given Maddie a blanket. Standing idly underneath the window, eyes downcast, she pulled it close around herself, then looked up and caught him staring at her.
“What are you looking for, old witch?” She smiled.
Harry briefly wondered if she had slid into madness. Then he remembered. It was a game she had made him play when she was a child and he a self-conscious teenager. They would take turns being the witch.
“My darning needle?” he said, wondering if he recalled the reply correctly.
“Is this it?” She parted the blanket, pulled her petticoat up to her knee, and displayed one foot.
He shook his head.
She showed him the other foot. He shook his head again. She put forward one of her palms.
Harry said, “Somewhere in here, I think I’m supposed to say yes and start chasing you around the room.”
“And what if you caught me?”
He felt his face flush and tried to think of something entertaining to say. Something friendly, playful, but not presuming too much.
“Dance with me,” she said, getting him off the hook. Before he could complain there was no music, she said, “I shall sing.”
Letting her blanket fall away, she curtseyed and began humming a brisk tune. Harry made an awkward bow, trying to remember how to begin. The last time he had danced had been at his wedding. Several eras ago as it now seemed.
She offered both hands, which he grasped without thinking. He bowed and she curtseyed again and motioned for Harry to drop one of his hands but keep hold of hers with the other. They turned and faced the pretend orchestra, he following her lead. Some of the judge’s drills coming back. A skipping step to the left, one to the right. His unpracticed stepping more of a series of stumbles. She lifted his hand, did a twirl under his arm, and motioned for him to switch hands and perform his own twirl. And so they went, circling and turning and stepping forward and back to the rhythm of Maddie’s silvery vocalizations. Harry got better as they went along. He even remembered the name of this dance. The Allemande. But he had forgot how it ended until it did. With him holding Maddie. Both of them slightly out of breath. Lips close enough to touch.
She relaxed her arms and turned away.
“It’s too bad our times didn’t match up,” said Harry.
Maddie made an ambiguous sound in her throat.
“I was in no position to marry anyone, much less somebody like you,” he said.
“Like me?”
“You know. Above my station.”
“‘Station?’ Oh, Harry. When did you ever begin talking like that?”
“Since your grandfather taught me how the world really works. It’s not anything like what I was raised to think.”
“I liked how you used to think. We could have been happy together.” She sat down on her cot. “We could have made our own station, if that’s what you want to call it.”
“That’s not the idea I got from you when we last talked, at Natty’s house. Besides, you were only thirteen.”
“My love for you was all grown up.”
“Then, why did you go along with leaving North Carolina?”
Maddie took a big breath, as if getting ready to make a speech. “It’s all a tangle,” she said and let the breath out.
“Untangle it for me. I’d really like to know.”
“Where to start?”
Good question, Harry thought.
CHAPTER 29
26: In Pulling off your Hat to Persons of Distinction, as Noblemen, Justices, Churchmen & etc make a Reverence, bowing more or less according to the Custom of the Better Bred, and Quality of the Person. Amongst your equals expect not always that they Should begin with you first, but to Pull off the Hat when there is no need is Affectation, in the Manner of Saluting and resaluting in words keep to the most usual Custom.
—RULES OF CIVILITY
HARRY HAD JUST TURNED THIRTEEN. TOO OLD TO BE PLAYING WITH children. But Talitha had business in court that day. She made him stay outside with the dozen or so others whose parents were likewise occupied. The game, organized by one of the grandmothers, was one that Harry had played many times while growing up. They were marching in a circle around a randomly chosen child, in this case a red-haired, big-eared nine-year-old by the name of Anthony. They chanted as they tramped along:
King William was King James’s son,
From the royal race was sprung,
Wore a star upon his breast.
Go choose your East, go choose your West;
Choose the one that you love best.
If she’s not here to take your part,
Choose another with all your heart.
With that, Anthony, blushing deeply, reached out and tapped the shoulder of a pretty little girl Harry had never seen before. She looked about ten years old, with skinny arms and curly hair the color of late wheat. Though the boy’s performance was familiar, part of the game, it brought a burst of giggles and catcalls from the other children.
At the grandmother’s direction, the girl stepped out of the circle and joined Anthony in the center. The marching resumed, the girl looking bewildered.
Down on this carpet you must kneel
Sure as the grass grows on the green.
When you rise upon your feet,
Salute your bride and kiss her sweet.
They stopped marching and began chanting, “Kiss her sweet! Kiss her sweet!” Anthony looked here and there as if to find a means of escape. But the longer he put it off, the worse the harassment became. He finally did as commanded—to a renewed outburst of giddy derision. Then, under the guidance of the old woman, who seemed to be having the best time of anyone, the children again took up their circular trek.
Now you’re married you must be good.
Split the kindling, chop the wood.
Split it fine and carry it in.
Then she’ll let you kiss her again.
This time, Anthony grabbed the little girl by both arms, gave her a hasty kiss on the cheek, and retreated into the circle, looking relieved and thankful the ordeal was over. The girl, who seemed dazed, began to follow, but the grandmother said, “No, dear, you must stay where you are. Now it’s your turn.”
The marching started up again with the children chanting from the beginning but changing the words to suit a girl. By the time they came to the end of the first stanza, “Choose another with all your heart,” she knew exactly what to do. She had been sizing up the boys with a critical eye. As far as Harry could tell she had not given him a second look. But she stepped forward with unsettling boldness and poked him square in the chest.
The giggling and taunting began, though this time it had a different timbre. It was more tentative, as if the children recognized that Harry’s advanced age put him on the borderline of familiarity. Harry, who for some time had been paying close attention to girls of his own age and older, the way they looked, and their sometimes mystifying behavior, was not pleased at all. Until now he had felt his presence in the children’s circle merely undignified. Now he felt ridiculous. But he was trapped. No choice but to go along.
Standing on tiptoes, grasping Harry’s shoulders to pull him down within reach, she kissed him full on the lips. She held it for what seemed a long time, allowing the scent of a girl-child flushed with exertion to fill Harry’s senses.
Her name was Madeleine. Maddie, as she preferred. She was the granddaughter of the county’s chief justice of the peace, recently arrived in New Bern from a city across the ocean called Edinburgh. Her father had died unexpectedly and her mother taken ill. As weeks passed, then months, Harry somehow kept finding himself in her company, usually but not always in the vicinity of other children or adults. She introduced him to riddles, a pastime of hers in Scotland. She taught him those she already knew and some she was learning through new friends she was making among the better families of New Bern. Families that di
d not include the Woodyards. Harry was flummoxed by the sly logic of such brain scramblers as:
Nebuchadnezzar, king of Jews,
Sat down on the floor to put on his shoes.
How do you spell that with four letters?
Harry liked solving puzzles. People said he had a knack for it. But he was not fond of riddles, which depended on tricks with words and phrasings. He could not think of an answer to the Nebuchadnezzar one that he imagined would come anywhere close to correct. Finally Maddie leaned over and whispered in his ear, “T-H-A-T! Four letters!” She rocked back, convulsed with laughter.
Despite the joy she took in baffling him, Harry found that he enjoyed Maddie’s company. He was sure she was much smarter than he, and that made him nervous, afraid she would tire of him. He kept assuring himself that he felt no physical attraction whatsoever. But with the passage of months, the barest hint of breasts became visible underneath certain types of clothing and angles of light. And she was growing hips.
He tried to avoid even thinking about thinking in such terms. Having sex with girls before they were physically ready was not unheard of in North Carolina. From time to time such a thing would come to the attention to the Court of Quarterly Sessions, especially in the case of orphans. Harry’s instincts told him that such thoughts, the thoughts themselves, let alone any actions that might flow from them, were against the laws of nature. But to his distress he found he could not stop wondering what she looked like without clothes. He had the sensation of standing on a slippery ledge overlooking an uncharted and possibly dangerous bottomland. Flattered by her attentions but aware of where they might lead without constant vigilance. He fancied that she thought of him as one might of a big brother. He returned this by making himself think of her as a little sister. A very affectionate little sister.
She continued her practice of kissing him on the mouth whenever they said hello or good-bye, as if they were grown-ups, each time delivering her sweet, musky bouquet. This behavior struck him as both childish and strangely mature, like dressing up in adult clothing. But, then, he was discovering a great many peculiarities about feminine behavior overall.