Marcus punched the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, the soft buckskin of his shirt tightening across the bunching muscles of his back. “Blast and damn!” he swore just before he heard the anticipated sound of hooves on the path to the cabin. He raced to the window, his moccasins soundless on the rough wooden floor.
Carver hurried to the door as fast as his big, thick calloused feet would carry him. “I heard them. I know I did. Now don’t you go teasing an old man.”
Marcus paid no attention to the wiry man and pushed ahead of him, putting Carver at a distinct disadvantage as he tried to stretch his knobby old frame to see out in the darkness over Marcus’s tall bulk.
Samuel Chancelor and Myles Lampton slowly climbed out of the flat black wagon, the ancient boards of the vehicle squeaking in protest at each man’s portliness. Marcus stepped out of the lighted house to greet his father and the old man’s lifelong friend. One look at Marcus’s worried face and Samuel hurried to explain their absence to his son. In a voice which matched his son’s deep timbre, Samuel told Marcus of an emergency meeting of the Chancelor’s Valley Association.
Marcus, not satisfied with his father’s excuse, berated the old gentleman. “But why did you and Myles leave so suddenly? Surely there was time enough to send me word in the lower acres. I would have gone with you.”
“Now, son. Don’t go fretting again. There’ll be time for that later. Right now I want you to hear what Myles and I have to say.”
Marcus settled back in the small provincial chair—his size and bulk incompatible with the furniture’s delicacy. He studied Myles Lampton, measuring his face for a clue as to what they were referring to, knowing the man’s countenance was more open and readable than Samuel’s. Seeing no sign there, Marcus instead turned his concentration to Samuel.
“We were at a meeting of tradesmen and farmers,” Samuel began, “and some of those rapscallions we’re forced to deal with. Those bandits have boosted their prices again and they know we’re at their mercy.” Samuel was referring to the black-market traders who were the mainstay of Chancelor’s Valley.
“Naturally we once again were forced to agree to their prices.”
Myles broke into the conversation. “Yes, Marc, they only offered us half of what our tobacco is worth and demanded five times the worth for what they’ve smuggled.”
“Marcus can imagine what went on, Myles,” Samuel said impatiently. “Get to the point. Can’t you see he is near jumping out of his skin to know?”
“All right. Here it is, Marcus: The Chancelor’s Valley Association has decided to send you to England to plead our case directly to the King.”
“I won’t go!” Marcus stormed, his voice booming. “I’m needed here with you! What can I do that our ‘honorable statesmen’ have not done?” he demanded sarcastically.
“You’ve every right to feel that way,” Samuel soothed. “We all believe we’re being sold down the river by our House of Lords, and our colonial governors.” That’s why someone from Chancelor’s Valley must go and plead our case. Someone who is educated, well spoken, and authoritative. You were educated in England, hence you’re the logical choice.”
Marcus looked at his father and knew that Sam would never suggest the plan to him if he weren’t convinced it was the best for all concerned. The unselfishness of his father struck him once again. It would be as difficult for Samuel to send his son across the ocean as it would be for Marcus to leave. Samuel had not displayed the best of health lately, and Marcus felt the old man had not much time left. Well, he wanted that time, he demanded it. He wouldn’t leave Samuel alone here with Carver, with himself months and an ocean away.
“There are others as suited for the ‘honor’ as I,” Marcus insisted.
“It’s all arranged,” Samuel broke in, his face an older replica of his son’s, displaying the same authority. He did not fail to see the faint, barely discernible scar on Marcus’s cheek turn a deep crimson. In anger the scar twisted like a slithering snake, wrested into the shape of an S by the tightening of his jaw. While he was still a student, a trip to Paris and a dalliance with the young and beautiful wife of a dragoon had precipitated a duel with rapiers which had left Marcus’s left cheek inscribed.
Samuel had never been able to induce Marcus to speak of it, but he knew from witnesses that Marc had allowed himself to be cut rather than kill the French army officer, whose sense of honor demanded he fight to the death.
Samuel looked at Marcus with clinical interest; the scar did not detract from his handsome features. On the contrary, it made him a dashing rogue, a man to be reckoned with.
“You’ll travel to Boston,” said Samuel, “and there you’ll meet Jason Elias. He is captain of his own ship and a trusted friend. He has guaranteed you passage and, above all, any assistance he can give you.” Samuel’s face wore the closed look Marcus knew so well. The look stated that, in Samuel’s mind, the decision had been reached and there would be no need for further argument. Marcus felt a swollen, hard lump in his chest and knew his arguments would be fruitless.
“Think about it, son, that’s all I ask. Think about it!”
“Marcus, your father’s right. Think about it,” Myles added, his round, heavy face flushed from brandy. “Chancelor’s Valley seems to be lacking in eligible young ladies suited to your taste. In England you’ll have the flower of womanhood to choose from—that would be to your liking, I think. A gentle mixture of business and pleasure, eh, Marc?”
Myles Lampton was taken aback by the scowl on Marcus’s face, and he glanced at Samuel, who was evidently amused by his son’s reaction.
“You’ll get nowhere with that statement, Myles. Marcus’s view of women is disdainful, to say the least. What is it you call them? Grasping, greedy, and willing to ride the back of any man to attain their ends?”
The white heat of anger rose to Marcus’s features. “I have yet to find evidence to the contrary. Women are a breed unto themselves. Grasping and greedy, true, but that is a trait common to men as well as women. What I find so abominable is the conspiracy to be found between them and others of their sex. From birth they are raised and schooled in the talents to snare a man into marriage and use him to supply all those things which they feel are their due. And all the while they wink and smile at one another, bragging of what they suppose is their ingenuous charm in twisting a man, a mere mortal, around their little fingers. It would not occur to a woman to be sincere and forthright, not when flattery and trickery will profit her.”
Samuel sighed heavily, the image of grandchildren at his knee fading into oblivion. “I think, Myles, that Marcus has been too long in male society.”
“But Sam, what of that bit of scandal concerning Marcus and the attractive wife of the wealthy shipbuilder that filtered down to the valley last winter?”
“All true, Myles,” Samuel answered, enjoying Marcus’s discomfort. “Marcus may deride women for their faults, but that does not hinder him from enjoying their charms. I’ve almost given up hope for grandchildren. It seems as though. I’m destined to die a lonely old man with an embittered, bachelor son for my only company.”
“Don’t make me laugh, Sam,” Marcus smiled, calling his father by his Christian name as he had been wont to do since he was a boy. “I can only promise you this; if I should ever find a woman who contradicts all I’ve said about her sex and who offers a great personal sacrifice for the betterment of another, I would snatch her up and carry her to the valley immediately.”
Myles looked sympathetically at his friend Samuel. “It would seem, Samuel, that your visions of grandchildren are indeed futile.”
“Marcus has yet to learn, Myles, that life has its way of turning the oddest corners. Marcus has not yet met the young woman who will make him eat his words. I can only hope that when he does it will not be too late. Who knows, you may be correct, Myles. Marcus just may meet the young woman to suit him in England,” Samuel said pointedly in his son’s direction, settling once and for all the
question of Marcus’s pleading their case with the King.
Not caring to hear any more, Marcus rose from the chair and walked out into the clear, crisp night.
Moments later, Myles Lampton joined him, puffing on a long-stemmed pipe, exhaling fragrant clouds of smoke. “Marc, Sam would never ask this of you if he didn’t think the situation warranted your going. Here we are, well over a hundred families striving to make a living off this new land. The Indians have raided and plundered our granaries and burned our fields, and still we remain. And why? Because the people here in Chancelor’s Valley have the courage to stand up for their rights. We are a community peopled with political refugees. Men who have spoken out against the corruption of our governors. So, in retribution, we are virtual prisoners. The King has placed an embargo on our products, a blockade on our port. He’s forbidden any trade with us from our neighbors. Marc,” Myles said vehemently, “we are being starved out of existence. I know it pains you to leave Samuel . . . if I’m any judge, he’s on the decline. But when he asked you to think about it, I believe he was telling you to give a thought to how he would feel if Chancelor’s Valley, a community named for Sam himself, were to be driven out of existence. That would kill him more quickly than any ailment on the face of this earth. Sam himself suggested you as the man for the job. The others would have come to the same conclusion sooner or later, but the fact is, Sam wants you to do this, indeed, needs you to do this . . . for him.”
* * *
The sun burned its way through the thin morning fog so typical of England at the start of summer.
Marcus left the dining hall of the House of Lords with the sound of those revered gentlemen’s jeers in his ears. He had failed, miserably. He could feel his soul retreat into a small, dark corner of his heart. What was he to do? How could he return to North Carolina and tell his father that the King had refused his audience? For two weeks he had hounded the King’s secretary to no avail. Then, thinking himself to have a better chance if someone from the House of Lords would plead his cause, he had tried persistently for an audience with one of these gentlemen. Here, too, he had failed. Finally, in desperation, he tricked and bribed his way into an early luncheon, and there, with his heart on his sleeve, Marcus told the lords of the plight of his people. Their answer was to have him thrown out on his ear.
A hackney driver called to him begging a fare. Marcus waved him on, preferring to walk back to his lodgings. His heart was heavy, his pride wounded. He wanted to smash out at something, someone. He heard the sound of his name being called, and he turned to see a footman running down the wide, cobblestoned street after him, waving a piece of paper in his hand. Marcus stopped and waited for the footman to catch up with him.
“Mr. Chancelor! Mr. Chancelor,” the footman cried breathlessly, “wait, please, sir!” Marcus stood in his tracks until the footman reached him and handed him the piece of paper. “’Tis from Lord Fowler-Greene, sir, he expects a reply.”
With trembling hands, Marcus opened the paper. There, in a broad, scratchy hand, was an invitation to come to the Lord’s home and discuss his problem further. “I promise you nothing,” the note stated, “but perhaps we can come to some kind of agreement beneficial to both of us.”
“Tell Lord Fowler-Greene I shall gladly come to his home at the appointed hour.”
Still trembling with anticipation, Marcus bounded into the road to hail down the first hackney that came his way. This hope was too good to keep to himself. He had to get back to his rooms and share the news with Josh.
Josh will be as hopeful as I, Marcus thought exultantly. He could almost see the great blond giant dancing with glee and he could imagine him reaching for the brandy and proclaiming a toast.
Josh was Marcus’s closest friend. Although the man was reaching his fiftieth year, they had much in common. A love of the outdoors, hunting, fishing, and a good long talk by a fire on a cold night.
Samuel had helped Josh out of a serious difficulty when both were just young men. After that, Josh had devoted himself first to Samuel, then later to Marcus. When Marcus had arrived in Boston to take Captain Elias’s ship to England Josh had been there to meet him. The burly man would have it no other way than to accompany Marcus and be of any assistance he could.
Marcus knew this cost Josh dearly. The man’s health was not what it should be, and the warm climate of North Carolina would have been more conducive to his recovery.
Marcus and Josh rode in the hired trap to Lord Fowler-Greene’s home. The ride seemed interminably long, and both men clenched their fists tightly in expectation. “This could be the opportunity we’ve waited for, Josh,” Marcus said stiffly. “Pray God, the man has a heart and decides to help us.”
“Aye! Marcus, me lad, but how can he refuse when the need is so great?”
The trap pulled into a long, tree-lined drive and stopped before a tall brick structure. “The lord does well for himself, Marcus,” Josh said in a husky whisper.
A manservant in formal livery pulled open the door, and Marcus and Josh announced themselves. The servant admitted them, curling his lips with disapproval at Josh’s rough appearance. “My Lord is expecting you, Mr. Chancelor. I will announce you.”
Shortly, the manservant came back into the foyer and asked them to follow him into the library.
Lord Fowler-Greene, a man at least a decade past his prime, stood in the center of a room lined with deep bookshelves and lighted with several chandeliers. Josh was plainly impressed with his opulent surroundings, and his eyes darted from one corner to the other, drinking in the elegant furnishings.
Lord Fowler-Greene offered the men some port. Marcus watched his labored movements, noting the lord’s obesity hindered him as he trod across the Persian rug to pull the bell cord to summon his butler. “I understand you have a serious problem in your colony—North Carolina, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” Marcus answered, looking grim. “I had hoped you could intervene with the King on our behalf.”
“Precisely,” the lord expostulated, “although intervening with the King was not exactly what I had in mind.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” Marcus said, a puzzled look on his handsome face.
In a lighter tone the lord said, “’Tis a shame the King refuses to be a willing patron to your needs, but perhaps you would find it amenable to allow the King to be your . . . shall we say . . . not-so-willing ally?”
Still puzzled, Marcus remained quiet in order to allow the lord to explain this statement. “’Tis a known fact, Mr. Chancelor, that our roads are traveled by people of wealth as they gad about from one place to the other. I hear tales of some of our country’s most beautiful ladies wearing the most ostentatious of jewels as they traverse from here to there. Would it not be a shame if these ladies, the wives of the very lords who had you . . . er, removed from the House of Lords this day, were to be relieved of those cumbersome jewels,” quickly adding, “to be returned to them, of course, for a trifling finder’s fee. In this way it could almost be said that the lords are contributing to relieve the plight of your colony.”
Josh, immediately grasping Lord Fowler-Greene’s words, said pointedly to Marcus, “Look sharp now, Marcus, me lad, the Lord is making some good sense!”
“Of course, Mr. Chancelor, the risks would be entirely yours. Perhaps I could find my way to notify you of a great shipment of this year’s taxes which are being collected now, at this very moment, from the whole of England. Of course, you understand this is only half a year’s taxes. I’m afraid you missed the last shipment.”
Fowler-Greene’s plan intrigued Marcus. Adventure and danger had always appealed to him, but to have this suggested by a member of the House of Lords! And what of the law? Marcus held a deep and abiding respect for rule and regulation. Could he intentionally defy the face of justice? The image of hunger-sunken faces of the people of Chancelor’s Valley swam before him. Starvation induced by the purposeful misrepresentation of the same edicts he was having doubts about violating
.
“I think, Lord Fowler-Greene, your meaning is clear to me. But I am obliged to ask you why? Why should you turn against those of your own class, your friends, and propose they should be subjected to robbery?”
Lord Fowler-Greene grasped the back of a high Duxbury chair fiercely; the knuckles of his bejeweled hands shone white. Looking at Marcus with a gaze so concentrated it seemed to bore through the younger man, he said in a voice edged with anger, “Because of a vision I have. A vision of the colonies peopled with a society that works and strives for an ideal—founded on trust and certain inherent freedoms . . .” Lord Fowler-Greene stopped in midsentence, glowering at the amused look on Marcus’s face.
“It would appear, Lord Fowler-Greene, that you have made the acquaintance of Mr. Benjamin Franklin when he was envoy to England last summer.”
“Yes, how astute of you.” The lord visibly relaxed. “And I find I agree with him. England owes something to the colonies, and much as I try, I don’t seem to be able to convince the House of Lords or the Crown of this fact. During this past decade or so, business and trade have prospered here in England because of the colonies. The results upon our own society have been small as yet, but I don’t think them negligible. Newfound trade and wealth for the Crown without the rewards due to those who have made it possible rankles me and now I see my chance finally to offer tangible aid.”
Marcus looked squarely at the man before him, mentally questioning the general impression the lord created, that of a bigoted old fool.
“I can see by your expression, Mr. Chancelor, that you are amazed that, contrary to all rumors, I have some faculty of mind. In spite of my love for luxury and certain other . . . er, idiosyncrasies, I do have the glory of England at heart. But I know that England’s glory can only be enhanced by the success of the colonies, and hence, it is America’s betterment which I seek.”
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