“Oh, is she?” Hart sighed and laughed, and let Jem help him out of coat and bloodstained shirt. Everybody in the house knew that when Aunt Anne Mayfield put on her mourning black, there was trouble coming. Everybody in the house knew everything, he thought, dabbing carefully at dried blood.
“That was some branch you ran into,” said Jem, confirming this. “Basilicum powder, I think, and a plaster to hide the worst. And I’ll tell Sally to cut the young lady’s nails for her.”
“Thanks!” Impossible not to laugh, but then, on a grimmer note, “Her father had just been killed, Jem. The less anyone knows …”
“No one knows nothing. ‘Cept we got a guest, and you’re going to be late for dinner, and the poor madam’s having a bad time with her sister. Talk of Charleston again, I do hear.” He helped pull on the fine silk stockings Cousin Frank had brought back from England, and handed over the detested knee breeches.
“Damn Charleston,” said Hart. “Savannah customs are good enough for me.”
“And us,” said Jem succinctly. “Home ain’t been precisely home since the Mayfields came to stay.”
“That’s enough, Jem.” Hart adjusted the ruffles at his wrists with a quick, angry flick. “Yes, my face looks much better. Thanks. Tell them to dish up in ten minutes, will you? And the French champagne.”
“But madam said—”
“French champagne, Jem.” He left the man gazing after him with a mixture of surprise and delight.
“Well, I’ll be darned.” Jem gathered up the bloodstained shirt. “If it ain’t old Master Hyde come to life again, and that I never did hope to see.”
In the elegant drawing room, with its gilt-backed, uncomfortable chairs, expensively imported from France, the Hart sisters were making a similar discovery. Given his mother’s maiden name at his christening, Hart Purchis had lost both his father and his younger Uncle Purchis in the last year of the French and Indian War. Inevitably, it had meant petticoat government for a boy left fatherless at five years old. His mother, one of the two rich Misses Hart of Charleston, South Carolina, had run the Winchelsea estates to a marvel, everybody said, and when her ailing sister-in-law died of grief, had merely added Abigail Purchis, two years Hart’s senior, to her family, Hart had been delighted when the debts his cousin Francis had run up in Europe had forced Aunt Anne Mayfield to let her Charleston house and bring him to stay in what she found the barbarous solitudes of Winchelsea. Cousin Francis was a great gun, if ever there was one, with his stories of Oxford capers and his brief experience of Europe. But Aunt Anne was something else again.
Tonight she was in a very bad temper indeed. Used to being the centre of attention in Charleston, she had never quite settled down to her position in her younger sister’s house. An illness that Martha Purchis had recently suffered had been the last straw. Mrs Purchis’ heart trouble, brought on by overwork, had been the signal for serious spasms of nerves on her sister’s part. Any breach of household routine would be the signal for one of these, and Hart was not surprised to find her fanning herself angrily and talking of her “poor nerves.”
“Madeira, Aunt?” He saw that her glass was full, gave his mother her favourite cordial, and poured himself a brimming glass. Then, aware of a bristling silence, “I trust my mother has made my apologies to you, Aunt.
“It is an explanation that I want,” said Mrs Mayfield in her most quelling tones. “What’s this about some guttersnipe you’ve brought home—and set your Cousin Abigail to wait on? Miss Purchis! And turning the house upside down with demands for this and demands for that, so that, no doubt, we are to wait all night for our supper. And you know what that does to my nerves.”
Hart looked at his father’s big gold watch, the only ornament he wore. “In fact,” he said, “I told them to serve up in five minutes. I am sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced, Aunt, but we do not turn away those in distress from Winchelsea.”
It went closer to the bone than he had intended. Seeing his aunt go first white, then red with rage around the rouge she used so freely, he had the answer to a question that had only recently occurred to him. Clearly, Anne Mayfield was not paying anything towards her lodging at Winchelsea, or her expensive son’s. No affair of his. It was his mother who had made Winchelsea rich, first with her fortune and then with her good management. It was not for him to question what she did with her own. Besides, he loved having Francis, and his mother seemed to enjoy her sister’s company. But he rose with relief at sight of the majordomo beaming at the door to announce dinner. “Let me give you my arm, Aunt.”
She had made a quick recovery and smiled up at him with an attempt at archness. “So gallant, dear boy. And so elegant! We owe a great debt to Francis, do we not, Sister? What a hobbledehoy it was when we first came, remember?”
“I was thirteen.” Hart gritted his teeth and felt the blood start under the plaster on his face.
“And such a big boy, too. All bones, and muscle, and exercise. I wonder you have not joined the army. Dear Francis would have given anything for a commission—in England, of course—could he but have afforded it. And you have such a tradition in your family, dear boy.”
“Don’t speak of it!” Martha Purchis did not often use such a tone to her older sister. “How can you?” she went on now. “After two such losses as I have suffered! A husband—such a husband—and a brother-in-law, all in one year. No, no, Sister, my dear Hart is going to stay at home, take the burden of the estate off my shoulders, and be a comfort to his mamma, are you not, my dear?
“Well.” He found himself, suddenly, at an expected hurdle, and took it fast. “Not precisely, Mother. I have been meaning for some time to tell you that I rather think of going to Harvard College in the fall.”
“To Harvard!” said his mother.
“To New England!” His aunt was appalled. “Where all the trouble started!”
“Ridiculous,” said his mother.
“They won’t take you,” said his aunt.
“As a matter of fact”—he smiled at them both—“they have. Ah, here’s our champagne at last. Will you drink to my success as a scholar, ladies?”
“Champagne?” said Aunt Anne.
“I ordered it. You’ll forgive me, Mother? I thought we might need it.”
“We do.” Suddenly, with tears in her eyes, she smiled at him. “Dear Hart. I drink to your great success.”
Chapter 2
Mercy Phillips woke to broad daylight and an extraordinary mixture of sensations. Memory first. Horrible. Her father, that howling mob, the boy who had been so sure her father was dead. How should he know death, a sheltered child like him? She had watched her mother die, in the garret behind Drury Lane, and many others, too, on the crowded, stinking ship that brought them to America. But always there had been Father, with his wonderful confidence in the future. “In America all men are equal.”
Equal! She was lying on a bed of unbelievable comfort, in the most luxurious room she had ever even dreamed of. She was wearing a nightgown of material softer and finer than the shirts she and her mother used to stitch, hour after hour, to eke out the meagre livelihood her father made by his writing. And she was clean. Really clean for the first time, it seemed to her, since the three of them had left their Sussex home and gone to London, following that will-o’-the-wisp hope of her father’s. If the great Dr Johnson could make a fortune with his unaided pen, could not others? Could not a grammar-school scholar who had carried every prize of his day?
He had been wrong, of course, disastrously wrong. It would have been better for all of them if he had gone on running the little country school that had made such a successful start, but he had felt he had something to say to the world, and a duty to say it. And when Father got an idea of that kind fixed in his head, there was nothing to be done. Mother had cried all the time, while they were packing up, and Father had been gentle, loving—and obdurate. Well, he had been like that. It had been the same over here. Tears began to trickle slowly down her face. Father
would never learn … Father would never have the chance to learn.…
“You awake, ma’am?” A smiling black woman in a scarlet turban moved into her line of vision. “No, don’ you stir. Miss Abigail told me you was to lie quiet, while I fetched her to you. And your breakfast. I reckon you’ll be ready for that.”
Shameful to be hungry, after yesterday. She looked up, speechless, her eyes filling with tears.
“Don’ you cry, missy. What’s done’s done. Just you thank the good Lord you’ve fallen among friends.” And then, divining the question Mercy did not dare to ask. “Mr Hart, he rode out at first light. He ain’t back yet. He took Jem with him. And his father’s pistols. I’ll go call Miss Abigail.”
‘Thank you.” Alone, she wiped streaming eyes with the soft, frilled cuff of her nightgown. It was the advice her father would have given. “Praise God for all His blessings, and serve Him with all your heart.” And this was his reward. I’ll be revenged, she thought. And then, Idiot. Revenged on whom? On God?
A gentle scratching on the door heralded last night’s angel of mercy, Miss Abigail, who had insisted on helping to bathe her, had washed her hair, and helped her into one of her own nightgowns. At the time she had been too weak and shocked to resist, but now the memory sent hot colour flooding her face.
“Good morning.” In demure day-time grey, Abigail Purchis was prettier than ever. “I do hope you slept well, and feel better.”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Don’t try, dear. It was only what any neighbour would do. Now, you’re to stay in bed and eat the breakfast Sally’s bringing and get your strength back. My cousin Hart has ridden out. Presently, he will be back with news.”
“Bad news,” said Mercy.
“I’m very much afraid so. They’re horrible, these mobs. They seem to whip each other up until they don’t know what they are doing. Oh, we’ve not had them here.” Proudly. “My grandfather came over with General Oglethorpe. Everyone knows how much he did for the colony. Why, the very design of Savannah was his idea … modelled on Winchelsea, the English village he came from. He worked like a Trojan—Oglethorpe’s right-hand man, everyone called him. And lived like all the others, first in a tent and then in a kind of log cabin.… It was my Uncle Hyde that built this place,” she explained. “Or”—with a smile—“you could almost say my Aunt Martha. She’s from Charleston and didn’t much fancy living in a log cabin, even if it was on Oglethorpe Square. Poor thing, she was widowed before this house was finished. Her husband and my father both died gloriously, fighting for their country.”
“Which country?” asked Mercy Phillips.
Abigail flashed her a startled look. “Hush! We’re all Loyalists here. And so, surely, was your father, or the mob wouldn’t have—”
“Yes. I just wonder, sometimes …” The tears were starting again.
“I know, dear.” Abigail moved forward to give her a quick hug. “So do we all. But we never, never admit it. And now”—with relief—” here’s your breakfast, and I’m going to see you eat every bite of it.”
Hot chocolate, rolls, and the best Johnny cake Mercy had ever tasted. She looked up at Abigail. “It’s dreadful to be hungry.”
“I know.” Abigail had seated herself, very upright in a straight-backed chair. “I remember when my father was killed. He was scalped by the Indians.” She said it almost matter-of-factly. “You get used to it in the end. I promise you do. But—I remember—Mother couldn’t eat a thing, and I was hungry all the time.”
“Your mother?”
“Died. Swamp fever, they called it. She was never happy here at Winchelsea. Not the way I am. She came from New England, you see, a place called Lexington. It’s quite different there, seems like. They have schools for girls. Or let them study with their brothers. My cousins learn Latin.”
“I know some Latin.” Mercy could not help the boast.
“Do you so? You’re a proper puzzle, Miss Phillips, that’s one thing certain.”
“Do call me Mercy.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“My father chose it. He said it was a mercy I was a girl, because if I’d been a boy, I’d have been cannon fodder, one way or another.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.” She ate one more delicious bite of Johnny cake. “Why am I a puzzle, Miss Purchis?”
“Abigail, dear. Because …” She coloured. “It’s the way you speak. The ways you speak … and then, Aunt Martha said, you swept her a curtsey … like … like a duchess.”
For the first time, Mercy Phillips laughed, the thin face coming alive with pleasure. “Like a play actress, more like.” She lapsed into broad cockney. “We lived in a garret behind Drury Lane.” Now it was the King’s English, with just a hint of Southern drawl. “I used to run errands for the actors, and when the house wasn’t full, they’d let me in. Papering it, they call it. You know—better a free audience than none.” She pushed the tray aside and sat up straighter in bed. “Please, may I get up now? When … when the news comes, I want to be ready.”
“Yes, dear, of course.” Abigail picked up the tray. “I’ll send Sally to you. With some things of mine. You won’t mind?” She smiled ruefully. “There are two or three I can’t get into anymore, since I took up riding with my cousins, and you’re thin as a rail.”
“I could let them out for you,” said Mercy eagerly. “I’m a devil with my needle. If you’ll promise to let me do that, I’ll borrow something gladly for now. Father always said false pride was one of the worst sins, because it made everybody uncomfortable. Father—”
“Don’t, dear,” said Abigail. “I’ll send you Sally.”
Mercy was ashamed all over again of the pleasure it gave her to wash in the hot water Sally brought, and let the kind, talkative woman help her into plain calico underwear and a grey stuff dress very like the one Abigail had worn, with the same almost Quakerish white collar. “Miss Abigail, she like to dress plain,” said Sally, almost in apology. “Evenings, she puts on something bright, for her aunts’ sake, but this is what she likes. Lawks”—she was fastening neat buttons down the back—”ain’t you just tiny. I’ll find you a sash of Miss Abigail’s or you’ll look like a pint in a quart pot.”
“Do you think you could find me a black one, Sally? A ribbon, anything …”
It was Abigail who returned with the black ribbon and the news that Cousin Hart was riding up the drive. “No need to hurry. We’ve still got to decide what’s best to do with your hair. He won’t be here for half an hour,” she explained.
“Then how do you know?”
“That he’s coming? The servants have a system. Learned from the Indians. There’s always someone working on the rice fields where our drive turns off. If they see anyone coming our way they send a signal. Like this.” She put her hands to her mouth and produced a high, musical “cooee.” “One for danger, two for family, three for friends. This was two. It has to be Hart. Unless”—she coloured—“I hadn’t thought. It might be Cousin Francis, home from Savannah, but I wouldn’t think so, not so early!”
“Who’s Cousin Francis?” Mercy was running a borrowed comb through short, lifeless hair.
“Aunt Anne Mayfield’s son. He’s not my cousin really, but we’ve known each other forever.” She made rather a business of tying the broad, black sash. “Of course, you’ve not met Aunt Anne either. She’s Aunt Martha Purchis’ sister. She’s—” She paused.
Mercy smiled at her in the big glass before which they were standing. “I’ll find out soon enough. Father said you should never talk about people behind their backs.”
“He was quite right,” said Abigail energetically. “I can tell you, entirely too much of it goes on here at Winchelsea.” And then, “There I go, doing it myself.” She took the comb from Mercy’s hand. “What in the world happened to your hair, dear?”
“Awful, ain’t it?” Mercy lapsed into cockney and grinned infectiously. “Father cut it for me on the boat co
ming over. There were lice, of course. And the places we’ve been staying since …” She turned impulsively to Abigail. “I can’t tell you what it’s like to be clean again. I’m only ashamed.”
“Don’t be,” said Abigail, persuading a hint of curl into the limp dark hair. “There. Now you’ll do to face the aunts.” She smiled like a naughty child. “Won’t they just be surprised!”
“Oh?”
Abigail’s fair skin coloured easily. “Well …” She hesitated. “I don’t think Aunt Martha rightly understood, last night. Goodness knows what they’re expecting. You won’t mind, will you?”
“Why should I?”
“Good. Then let’s go down and get the first surprise over before Hart gets back. They’ll be in the morning room, ready for visitors. Not that we get many these days. People stay home, mostly.” She opened the door and led the way across a wide hall and down a shallowly sloping flight of stairs. The whole house shone with polish and smelled of beeswax. The bare, gleaming wooden floors would be cool in summer, Mercy thought, but now, in February, they struck cold through the satin slippers Abigail had lent her, and she was glad of the woollen stuff of her gown.
Abigail must have read her thoughts. “Aunt Martha says Winchelsea will never be warm in winter because it’s a widow’s house. But there will be a fire in the morning room, you’ll see.” She crossed a downstairs hall that must run under the upper one and pushed open a door to reveal two formidable ladies sitting over a blazing wood fire. Both wore black. Both had been beauties in their day, and one was still trying. The other rose at once at sight of the two girls. “Why, Abigail, my dear! Surely … can this be?”
“Miss Mercy Phillips,” said Abigail formally. And then, to Mercy as she sank once more into that stately curtsey, “My aunt, Mrs Purchis, whom you met last night, and my other aunt, by kindness, Mrs Mayfield.”
Judas Flowering Page 2