Your sister,
Lark
Wiley chuckled as he folded the letter back up. All things considered, that was far better than he had feared. Emerson undoubtedly received an earful or two, but Wiley wasn’t going to pity him for it.
Although he would like to know what that bay business was about. Well, he would wait for her next letter, when she would surely tell him all about it, and otherwise praise heaven she and Emerson hadn’t yet killed each other. Who knew? Perhaps they’d yet reconcile.
“Master Wiley, you had better get yourself downstairs for dinner.”
Wiley tossed a grin his servant’s direction and hauled himself to his feet. “Must I, Joe? I shudder to think what kind of dullard my cousin’s about to present to us.”
Joe chuckled and brushed some lint off Wiley’s coat. “Now, you play nice with this boy, whoever he is.”
The same admonition Old Joe had been giving him since he was a child. “Do I not always?”
Joe’s only response was a guffaw. Wiley waved and exited his chamber, jogged down the stairs, and stopped outside the drawing room to pull in a fortifying breath.
He ought to be glad Penelope was taking her husband hunting seriously and pray the young man coming for dinner would be stupid enough to propose. But part of him wasn’t sure he could let anyone go blithely into matrimony with that viper without a warning.
“Cheer up,” he muttered to himself. “He will probably not believe me anyway, but my conscience will be clear so long as I caution him.”
First, though, he would give Penelope time to scare the poor sapskull off on her own. Heaven knew she could bore a man to tears with all her prattle about fashion.
Squaring his shoulders, Wiley entered the drawing room, where the rest of the family was already assembled. His parents greeted him with a smile, but the Moxleys were far too engrossed in their precious daughter.
“But Savannah? Darling.” Aunt Hester fluttered her fan. “I care not how charming this young man is, you cannot go so far from us.”
Uncle Moxley nodded. “Your mother is quite right. There are young men enough in Philadelphia or Williamsburg, where you have family.”
Wiley smirked and made sure to put a little threat in it when Penelope glanced at him. “True, cousin. We would be very happy to keep an eye on you if you stayed nearby.”
She barely controlled her snarl. “Much as I appreciate the sentiment, Wiley dear, I can hardly make a decision on my marriage—my very happiness—because of where a man makes his home. Mamma, surely you understand I am in love with my darling George.”
Wiley rolled his eyes and took a seat. He couldn’t remember which of the victims she’d lined up answered to “George” and hailed from Savannah, but her love would have nothing to do with her choice.
Mother averted her face from sister and niece and indulged in a sigh and pained expression, which made Wiley grin. Apparently the prolonged exposure to Aunt Hester and Penelope wore on her too.
His aunt looked torn between her usual coddling and her own ambition to keep her daughter near. “We shall surely love him too, dear. But Savannah…”
“Yes, Mamma, Savannah.” Penelope’s tone went cool and low. “Half of which he seems to own.”
“Half of what?” Aunt Hester snapped her fan shut. “’Tis hardly a city, barely more than a little frontier town. How long has it been there? Fifty years? You are not suited for the backwoods. Think how uncivilized it must be.”
Penelope’s face went sour. “If they have such outfitters in the backwoods as have dressed George, then I shall have no problems. Did you not see his coat at the fete last night, Mamma?”
“He could have gotten that here.”
“He did not. I asked him.”
She asked him. Wiley rubbed a hand over his face. His cousin was really so superficial as to ask a man where he commissioned his coat. And the blockhead still accepted her invitation to dinner.
Asa strode into the room and cleared his throat. “Mr. George Owens of Savannah and his mother have arrived.”
“Show them in, please.” Father stood, and Wiley and Uncle Moxley followed suit.
Georgie Porgie ushered his mother into the room with a smile. Not beaming, mind you, like an idiot would who was totally smitten with a lady within, but also not uncertain. In fact, Wiley narrowed his eyes when he saw the man’s face and realized they’d had a conversation a week ago at a New Year’s collation. Mr. Owens had struck him as an intelligent, even clever young man.
What in the world was he doing paying court to Penelope?
As the usual inane greetings were exchanged, Wiley took his seat and debated. Owens wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, though he didn’t think one would call him exceedingly handsome. What drew Penelope to him? His wealth, certainly. And quite possibly the fact that his wealth was housed so far away.
And wouldn’t it be a shame if the distance precluded regular family gatherings with her?
A few moments’ conversation proved the man to be attentive to Penelope, so his interest was obviously real…simply baffling.
Ah, well. If the gent stuck around, Wiley would try to figure him out. In the meantime he’d let himself dream Owens, or someone else, would indeed take Penelope far, far away.
* * * * *
Lark eased her weight onto her right foot, holding her breath lest the stair creak under her. Successful in her silence, she moved her left foot down to the last step.
Sena laughed softly behind her. “They cannot possibly hear us over that harpsichord.”
“Shh.” Lark glanced around with exaggerated trepidation. “You will be giving us away, Cap’n. And ye know what the penalty is for getting caught at espionage.”
“Walkin’ the plank, to be sure.” Sena tiptoed past and motioned Lark to follow her into an alcove behind the stairs. “There ye be, matey. A fine view ye have from here of a fine-looking man.”
Lark shook her head, though Sena would barely be able to see it in the dark. Sure enough, a glance through the door showed Emerson within her line of sight. A half smile played over his lips as he listened to the ribald tune one of the gentlemen pounded out on the instrument, and he laughed with the rest at the awful ending.
Sena leaned close to her ear. “Methinks yonder gentleman needs a few more lessons in music.”
Lark pressed her lips against a laugh. “Aye, to be sure.”
They had spied from the window an hour earlier as the visitors arrived, the dozen or more gentlemen all seeming in a mood given to revelries. Between the two of them, they had recognized most of them—congressmen, lawyers, judges, even the governor. Men who were determining the course of their nation…and who weren’t to be stopped by their inability to carry a tune when it was time for entertainment, apparently.
Did Emerson feel at all out of place in such company? He looked perfectly at ease, but that was never an indicator with him. He looked perfectly at ease no matter where he was. That was one of the things she had always admired about him.
Admired…but hardly a reason to love a man, was it?
She rolled her eyes at herself. Her purpose in sneaking down here was not to figure out why she had ever fallen in love with Emerson Fielding. She wanted to see these statesmen flaunting their cleverness, that was all.
The laughter tapered off within the room. “A true demonstration of what music ought never be.” The voice was unfamiliar, though it carried an amused authority to it. “And as punishment for torturing us so, Mr. Foster, you are sentenced to a bumper. Fill it to the brim, Randel!”
Cheers went up, and Lark heard the sound of glass tapping glass. The voices raised in some kind of chant, getting louder and louder until there was a thud of glass on wood, and then another round of applause.
“Apparently the man can drink,” Sena murmured. “Certainly worth cheering over, for ’tis such a rare feat these days.”
Lark laughed softly. And paid absolutely no mind to the fact that Emerson looked more amused by hi
s companions than participatory. Perhaps it said something about him, about his character, but she wouldn’t be concerned. Not tonight. She had spent all day yesterday letting thoughts of him magnify her headache. It was time to think of other things.
“Well, we’ve a week before the vote for ratification is set. What say you fellows? Will our snowbound compatriots make it here in time to approve the Treaty of Paris?”
The speaker was out of sight, but one of the men whose back was to Lark shook his powdered head. “I can but hope so. Quorum seems out of reach at this juncture, but let us hope the seven-state ratification will suffice.”
“Otherwise we can only pray for an extension of the deadline.” Was that Jefferson? “I fear it will never make it back to France by the third of March.”
“We could have sent it sooner had you not refused to give up hope for the nine states making it to town.”
Jefferson sighed. “Similarly, if the other states had sent their missing delegates two months ago, we would not be in these straits. I maintain it is a dangerous trick we are trying, using only seven. What if King George refuses to honor it? He could demand new terms. Or start the war again.”
“The express riders will surely convince the New England states to do their duty. I know they have a prodigious amount of snow, but this is worth uncomfortable travel.” This speaker sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place the voice.
“And if Beresford rallies enough to leave his sickbed in Philadelphia, he’ll make South Carolina’s delegation full.”
“And if all that fails, Franklin will still manage to convince ol’ King George not to renege.”
Sena chuckled. “Because, as Mrs. Green would be the first to proclaim, Benjamin Franklin can convince anyone of anything.”
Mr. Randel cleared his throat. “Let us hope so. And let us put aside our fears tonight and focus on the promise, on the wonder of what this treaty means.”
A rare silence descended upon the library. Jefferson spoke again. “Randel is right, gentlemen. When the Treaty of Paris is at last ratified, we shall be established once and for all as a free nation. The war will be officially ended.”
A chorus of “Hear, hear!” sounded, accompanied by the clink of many glasses.
Sena held up a hand as if cupping a tumbler in it. “To these United States of America,” she whispered.
“Hear, hear.” Lark tapped her invisible glass against Sena’s.
“To the Treaty of Paris!” From the sound of it, the speaker surged to his feet. “That in the name of the most holy and undivided Trinity, it having pleased Providence to dispose the heart of the disturbed and tyrannical Prince George the Third—”
Laughter interrupted. “I believe that was ‘serene and potent,’ Lloyd.”
“Hush, man, I am delivering it as it should have been written. That the disturbed and tyrannical Prince George the Third, who thinks himself king of much but is ruler of none, and the most noble and just United States of America, agree to forget all past wrongs the former did to the latter and pretend to restore a friendship we have not felt for decades. We shall establish good communication, et cetera, to procure peace and harmony and so on, forever and ever, amen.”
More hurrahs rang out, and another gentleman took to his feet. “Article One. His Brittanic Majesty, the aforementioned disturbed and tyrannical George the Third, finally and fully acknowledges that these United States are free”—he paused for the cheering—“sovereign”—more hoots—“and independent states, and he will treat them as such, by heaven, and give up all his blasted claims to what is ours!”
Governor Paca stood. “Article Two—”
“Is boring, as is three. Article Four. Collect on your debts and take your sterling!”
“Article Five.” The speaker paused to chuckle. “It is agreed Congress will earnestly ‘recommend’ to the state legislatures that all the property of the blasted Tories be restored. Not that we make any promises, mind you.”
Lark didn’t feel much like laughing along with the menfolk. “My, they sound sincere about honoring that one.”
Sena stiffened beside her. “They’ve no intention of returning anything. Listen to them.”
“It is not a matter of laughter, gentlemen.” Jefferson’s voice rose above the rest. “When we sign that treaty, we troth our bond to it. Including the provisions for the Tories, unpalatable as they may be to some.”
The governor chuckled and took his seat again. “Speaking of which, Randel, that former student of yours keeps bothering my office about his house. If ever you see him again, advise him to give it up, will you?”
“Calvert?” Mr. Randel sounded not quite amused, though pleasant. “He will not. If you want him to stop bothering you, Paca, you had better give the boy back his property.”
“Ha.” Paca pointed a finger in Mr. Randel’s direction. “He sided against us. Why should we do anything for him, before the law says we absolutely must?”
“’Tisn’t as though he took up arms,” Sena’s father said.
“Not with that leg!” said a disembodied voice from the corner. Laughter sprang out again.
Lark and Sena exchanged a glance through the darkness.
“He would not have, regardless.” The amusement had left Mr. Randel’s voice.
“Easy to claim, Randel.”
“Just as it is easy to claim otherwise, and to ascribe to a young man ignoble motives when you know nothing of him but one of his opinions.” Mr. Randel’s voice came from a different place now, as if he were pacing.
Paca waved it away. “You were the first to denounce him. And you, as well as anyone, know all we lost because of the blasted Redcoats and their conspirators.” Paca turned toward Emerson, who had sat silently through this exchange. “You were a soldier, were you not, young man? Fields, is it?”
“Fielding, sir, and yes.” Emerson’s smile was as collected as ever. “I was.”
“Well, and what does our brave, soldiering youth think of these British sympathizers?”
Emerson drew in a long breath and tilted his head. “I think it was a long and bitter war, sir. I think I lost many friends, all of whom were good, courageous men. I think our cause was just, and our nation has been established and blessed by the Lord Himself.” He paused, offered that charming, rueful smile of his. “And I suspect men from the other side probably think the same thing.”
A more muted, thoughtful round of laughter filled the room, and a few murmurs of agreement, including Jefferson’s.
“There is one difference though,” said a youthful voice whose owner Lark could not see.
Paca turned raised brows that direction. “What is that?”
“We were right, and they were wrong!”
The room erupted again, all attention focused on that corner. Except for Emerson, who looked toward the door and stared directly at their hiding spot.
Sena loosed a muted screech. “Do you think he sees us? Will he do anything?”
He lifted a brow.
Lark groaned. “He sees us.”
Then he sent them a small, crooked grin.
“We had better go up,” Sena said as the men within demanded another song. “If Papa sees him smiling at the doorway, he will figure us out in a heartbeat.”
They climbed the stairs under cover of harpsichord music and shut themselves into Sena’s room with a few giggles.
The mirth soon died. Lark shook her head. “’Tisn’t right, Sena. I have no sympathy for the British, and I am happy enough that most of the Tories went back to England. But the Calverts—they are different.”
Sena sighed and sank onto her bed. “But as Pascal said, ‘Et ainsi, ne pouvant faire que ce qui est juste fût fort, on a fait que ce qui est fort fût just.’”
“‘Since we cannot make the just strong, we make the strong just.’ We justify ourselves.” Lark leaned against the closed door and stared at the darkened window. “But that never really makes it right.”
“No. It does no
t.”
Much like acknowledging it didn’t change anything. But what else could they do?
Snow pinged against the window, the wind creating a swirl of white amidst the blackness. How complicated things had gotten since she came here. They seemed simple in Williamsburg, before her birthday. Tories were evil, social standings were set in stone. She would marry Emerson, live out her days as neighbors with her family.
But now…perhaps the lines had always been so blurred, and she had just been too blind to notice. It was as though by taking that one step, away from Emerson, she had entered a world removed from the one in which she’d grown up. Here, nothing was certain. Not peace, not fairness.
And least of all her own future.
Chapter Eighteen
Emerson sloshed through the melting snow and didn’t know whether to sigh or smile when he spotted two young ladies stepping from the stoop of number 19. On the bright side, they held up when they spotted him. On the other hand, if Lark and Miss Randel were off for a morning of errands, they would not want him tagging along. Though he saw no escort with them, so surely they had no plans to venture outside the residential section of town.
“Mr. Fielding, good morning.” Miss Randel offered him a grin so sunny he had to wonder if he should be suspicious. “We were headed to the Calverts’. Would you join us?”
Yes, suspicion was warranted. “Ah.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Lark, who looked as surprised by the invitation as he felt. “I cannot think Mr. Calvert would welcome my addition.”
“Oh fie, he is the friendliest, most hospitable of hosts.” And Miss Randel was surely the most mischievous of young ladies, with that gleam of trouble in her eyes. “Join us, please. I had a game in mind in which you would love to participate.”
His brows rose. “Is this game, by chance, ‘Lynch the Virginian’?”
The girls laughed, and Miss Randel shook her head. “Of course not. We owe you a favor for not turning us in to Papa the other night, after all.”
Love Finds You in Annapolis, Maryland Page 19