“For Harvard College and the dangerous north? Yes, ma’am, I must tell you that that is, in part, my business with him. But we will save it until he comes, if you please.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “If only I could have let him go to England as he wished. But how could I, Sir James? My only son, and I left as I was. Winchelsea needs Purchis.”
“Then I hope we can persuade Purchis to stay at Winchelsea.” He turned as Hart entered the room, his fair hair sleeked damply down from a rapid combing, his cravat showing unmistakable signs of hasty tying.
“Forgive me, sir.” He took Sir James’ hand in his firm grasp. “I was out at the sluices when I heard you were come.”
“You were quick,” Sir James approved.
Hart laughed. “We have a system,” he explained. “It’s useful. It’s a bad day, and trouble for everyone, if it takes more than ten minutes for me to know who is coming to Winchelsea, friend or foe. I am happy to greet so good a friend, sir.”
“I am happy to be so greeted. And I congratulate you on your precautions. These are bad times; and, I hear, you have taken in a particular hostage to fortune.”
“Miss Phillips, of the mythical press? Yes, sir, and it is true that I increased our precautions when she came to live here. You will stay to dinner, I hope, and meet her.”
“I’d like to, but I am making a tour of your district. I am just come from Thunderbolt and have Wormsloe, Bonaventure, and New Hope still to visit. But, forgive me, Mr Purchis, you said ‘mythical press’?”
“Well,” said Hart. “If it existed, would you not think it would be in evidence by now? I can only imagine that it must have been destroyed when poor Mr Phillips’ house was burned.”
“I devoutly hope so,” said Sir James. “But to the point, if you will forgive me for being discourteously brief. I am come on two errands. First, to urge you to come into Savannah for the celebrations of the King’s birthday on the fourth of June. This year, of all years, I wish to make a particular point of the festivities, and I would like to see Purchis of Winchelsea, and his family”—a bow for Mrs Purchis—“established in their town house for the occasion.”
“Oh.” Hart suddenly looked younger than his seventeen years. “I had meant, of course, that we should come into town for the celebration, but to stay—” He looked, with appeal, to his mother, then took a deep breath and continued. “To tell the truth, Sir James, I am hard pressed just now to get things on the plantation in proper train before I leave for the north.”
“Yes,” said Sir James. “That brings me to the other half of my message. Hart”—he used the Christian name with emphasis—“we are old friends, you and I. Can I not persuade you that this is no moment to be going to the North?”
“It is not to the North that I am going, sir, but to school.”
“To Harvard College. Which means Cambridge, in Massachusetts, with those Boston hotheads just downriver. I wish you would think again, my dear boy.”
“Oh, so do I!” Martha Purchis leaned forward eagerly, mittened hands clasped in her lap. “Dear Hart, I haven’t liked to interfere, but, truly, when you think of last winter, when those crazy Bostonians dressed up as Indians and threw all that good tea into the harbour, I cannot make myself like your going there.”
“They still have some of that same consignment of tea locked up at Charleston, Mother, and refuse to let it be sold.”
“Yes, but at least we don’t behave like barbarians down here in the South.”
“No?” he looked at her from under thick, level brows. “What of Mr Phillips, Mother?” And then, turning back to Sir James Wright. “Forgive us, Sir James, but you will see that this is a subject we have thought much about. And I have made up my mind. Ever since my cousin came home from England I’ve been aware of how much I lack, of education, of knowledge of the world, of everything. I wish with all my heart that I could go to England, but that’s not possible. Harvard College is. President Langdon has accepted me—I mean to go. Surely,” he appealed to Sir James, his tone an apology for the blunt statements, “things are easier now? Have they not understood, in England, that we must be treated no worse and no better than their own voters? After all, they did repeal both the Townshend and the Stamp acts when they understood how ill they were taken over here.” And then, flushing to the roots of his newly combed hair, “Forgive me, sir. I don’t know what I am thinking of to be reading you, of all people, a lecture in politics.”
“I shall be only too happy if you are proved right.” Sir James rose to his feet. “But my mind misgives me as to what action may be taken at home as a result of that Boston tea business last December. If only the mails were not so slow. But in winter …”
“It’s the one reason why I prefer Harvard College to England for my studies. At least, there I shall be in close touch with home by way of the Charleston packet.”
“Yes.” There was still a note of doubt in Sir James’ voice, and he hurried to turn the subject. “At least I can count on your family, Hart, for the fourth of June?”
“Let us all go, Hart,” said his mother. “I will see to the arrangements for opening the town house, and, indeed, it is time it was aired and used. We have been shocking country mice since I was ill, and it will be a high treat for the girls.”
“For Miss Phillips?” asked Hart doubtfully. “After her last experience of Savannah?”
“All the more reason why she should come back, and if I may say so, publicly, under your and my protection, Hart.” Sir James was drawing on his gloves. “You will all dine with me, I hope, after the celebration, and watch the illuminations from the Council House with me. I am inviting the Habershams and the Joneses, among many others.”
“Both fathers and sons?” asked Hart. Everyone knew that both the Joneses of Wormsloe and the wealthy Habershams were divided politically, fathers in each case adhering faithfully to King George III, while their sons, if not actually Liberty Boys, were certainly confirmed radicals and frequenters of Tondee’s Tavern.
“But, of course,” said Sir James. “We all love our King, here in Georgia. There has never been the slightest question of that. His birthday seems to me the ideal opportunity for an easing of the strife that has divided father from son, and brother from brother in these unhappy colonies.”
“Yes.” Now it was Hart’s turn to sound doubtful. “If only it works out.”
“At least”—Sir James bent gracefully over Mrs Purchis’ outstretched hand—“I am to congratulate you on a united household here. Though young Mayfield, I believe, keeps every kind of company when he’s in town.”
It was almost a question, and Martha Purchis chose to answer it. “I’m afraid my nephew cares more for a hand of cards and a bet on it than for politics,” she said. “He’s a sad anxiety to my sister, Sir James. I only wish some office could be found for him.”
“Oh, shame, Mother,” protested Hart. “To be begging of Sir James, and without even Frank’s permission. Besides,” shrewdly, “if he were offered a place, I doubt he would take it.”
“And this is no time for the giving of places.” They were all thinking of the mob violence that had threatened people who were even suspected of being appointed collectors of the unpopular Stamp Tax nine years before.
As Hart escorted Sir James out to his carriage, the governor gave him a keen look. “Just the same,” he said, “your cousin does keep odd company. You think him sound?”
“Completely. He was saying only the other day how much he wished he’d been able to take a commission in His Majesty’s forces when he was in England. He’s just”—Hart reddened—”lazy, I am afraid, and a little spoiled. I’d hoped he would look after the plantation for me when I go north, but it’s no use. He thinks such work degrading.”
“I wish you wouldn’t go, my boy.”
“Sir James, I’m so ignorant! Why, even Miss Phillips can put me down in an argument. She was talking about Locke and Montesquieu the other day, and I didn’t even know what they had writte
n. Surely you must see that if we are to come through our present troubles we need educated men in positions like mine. What use am I to you as a mere farmer?”
“A great deal. You’re making a fine thing of Winchelsea, I can see, and a profitable one, I imagine. But”—he smiled the smile that had made him so many friends—“I’ll leave sermonizing, Hart, and give you my blessing.”
“Thank you, sir. And we will be happy to be your guests on the fourth.”
He expected, and encountered, opposition from Mercy Phillips. “I know you’re still mourning your father”—he anticipated the heart of her objection—“but so does Sir James, and he made a particular point of your coming. I hope you will do so—to oblige me, if for no better reason.”
She looked mutinous for a moment, then smiled. “Purchis of Winchelsea? Well, it would be a rude return for all your hospitality if I were to refuse you so small a favour. And, besides, it should be an interesting occasion, if all the embattled families Sir James is inviting really come.”
“Embattled?”
Francis laughed and joined the conversation. “She’s quoting me, cousin. I visited the Habershams the other day and there weren’t any pleasant words between father and son there, I can tell you. And as for Giles Habersham, if he and his cousin aren’t at each other’s throats before the fourth of June, I’ll be amazed. He’s only been back from England a few weeks and already they are at daggers drawn.”
“Giles,” said Abigail thoughtfully. “I remember him. He used to come to parties and be sick.”
“Better not remind him of that now,” said Francis. “He’s very much the Bond Street beau. And so loyal to George the Third I reckon he’d take off his hat and bow to his effigy on a silver coin. If there were such things anymore.” He laughed. “I always pay my gambling debts in paper. It comes much less expensive.”
After some discussion, Mrs Purchis took Abigail into town with her at the end of May to make sure that the Purchis house in Oglethorpe Square was ready for occupation. “You know what the town servants are like,” she reminded Hart. “They will have let all go to sixes and sevens in our absence.”
“Most likely. You’d best take a few stalwarts from here. You must not over-exert yourself, Mamma.”
“Thank you, dear boy. You can rely on me to take good care of myself. All shall be ready when you come in on the third.”
“And Francis goes with you?” Hart had thought Francis’ acquiescence somewhat doubtful, and wished to be reassured on this point. “I do not want you and Abigail to be left alone in town.”
“I should think not. No knowing what the mob may not get up to by way of celebrating the King’s birthday. I shall be glad when you get to town, Hart.”
“I’ll try and get there by the second. The worst of it is, I don’t think Miss Phillips should be there too long.”
It earned him a sharp look. “Mercy Phillips is very well able to take care of herself, as I have had reason to tell you before. If you ask me, she has positively bewitched the servants, and there’s Abigail dotes on her, and as for Francis … if I were your Aunt Anne, I believe I would encourage him to go back to Charleston, whatever it cost.”
“Oh?” He blushed suddenly.
“Yes, indeed. I’d never have believed it, but I really begin to think it’s a case with Francis. Quite unsuitable, of course. Hopeless. And poor Abigail … though, mind you, it’s a blessing in a way. No money there either. But I wish I knew what Francis sees in that plain little Mercy Phillips.”
Plain? He asked himself the question. He had more sense than to put it to his mother.
“I do hope it is all for the best.” Mrs Mayfield had joined Hart and Mercy on Winchelsea’s Corinthian portico to watch the carriage out of sight and receive a last wave from Francis, who rode beside it. “Were it not for my poor nerves, I would almost have been tempted to go too.”
“Yes.” It was what Hart had wished. “If you will excuse me, Aunt, I will get back to work. The sooner we can join them, the happier I shall be.”
“Work,” she sniffed. “Do you think of nothing else, Hart?”
“Not much, right now. There’s so much to do, if I am to get away as I wish, at the end of the month.”
“So soon?”
“Well, yes. You know it is the quiet time here on the plantation, and it will give me a chance to get myself established at Harvard, and, I hope, do a little preparatory reading before things begin in earnest in the fall. I’m afraid I’m going to find myself a sad dunce among all those bright boys.”
“And so much older, too,” said his aunt with malice. “You’ll be Gulliver among the pygmies with a vengeance.” And then, turning her irritation on Mercy, “Well, Miss Phillips, in a dream again? Had we not best try on that dress of mine, if it is to be ready for the birthday?”
Mercy, who had indeed been dreamily watching the end of the avenue, where the carriage and its attendant horseman had finally disappeared, pulled herself together with a start, gave Hart a smile of muted sympathy, and followed the older woman into the house.
“I’m glad to have a chance to talk to you,” said Anne Mayfield as Mercy fastened the buttons of the refurbished silk down her plump back. “I’ve been meaning to this age, but there’s never a chance, somehow, with the house so full.”
“Yes?” Mercy had her mouth full of pins and spoke round them, with difficulty and some constraint.
“I feel it my duty,” began Mrs Mayfield. “Ouch! Be careful where you put those pins, child.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Put ruthlessly into the position of servant, Mercy found herself equally understanding and resenting it. But why should she? Besides …
“It’s about my son, Francis,” went on Anne Mayfield, and felt Mercy’s hands stop for a minute, then go on, more busily than ever, with their pinning. “I told him some time ago that he must leave paying such obvious attention to poor little Abigail. It was just at the time you came, as a matter of fact. He saw my point, of course. Poor Francis. He must marry money.”
“Because he has spent so much?” Mercy had pinned the last dart in the heavy silk and stood back to consider the result.
“Because he needs so much, poor boy,” said his mother. “Such refined tastes! Only, when I told him that it was hardly fair to raise false hopes in Abigail’s silly head, I had not thought how he would set about making the position clear to her.”
“You mean”—Mercy could not resist the tiniest hint of cockney—“by setting his cap at me.”
“That’s just what I mean. I am only relieved you recognised it for what it is.”
“Ah, but do I?” asked Mercy. “And for the matter of that, do you?”
“My poor child, if you are deluding yourself that he is in the least serious, I am more glad than I can say that I have nerved myself to this extremely painful conversation.” She was enjoying every minute of it. “My poor Frank has been an incorrigible lady killer since he was first breeched.”
“What a pity, in that case, that Mr Mayfield hasn’t bagged a fortune yet,” said Mercy drily. And then, firmly changing the subject. “What do you think, ma’am? Will it do?”
“Why, yes.” Grudgingly. “I really believe it will. No doubt about it, child, you’re a marvel with your needle. Where in the world did you learn?”
“Behind the scenes at Covent Garden Theatre.” Mercy began unbuttoning the dress with hands she would not let tremble. “We were constantly remaking costumes there. This is nothing to it.” She did not let herself add that this particular job reminded her vividly of letting out dresses for elderly actresses who would insist on staging yet one more “final appearance.” Things were quite bad enough between her and Frank’s mother as it was.
She missed him more than she liked to admit to herself, and made a succession of good resolutions after that painful talk with his mother, but it was still impossible not to look forward to the birthday celebrations. Her own dress, inevitably left to the last, was of a fine muslin with
black dots that she had found lying, still in its bolt, yellow with age, in one of the seldom-visited attics of the house, Mrs Purchis, on being shown it, had exclaimed and remembered. It had arrived from England the year the French and Indian War broke out, and in her distraction, she had put it away and forgotten all about it. Of course Mercy might have it. “But no black ribbons, child.” She had anticipated Mercy’s plan. “Hart says there must be no hint of mourning. Are you sure you can make it fit to wear?”
“Oh, yes.” As always, Mercy was amazed at the prodigality of life at Winchelsea. Mrs Purchis would undoubtedly have given the shabby-looking bolt of material to one of the maids. Mercy descended to the wash-house and washed and aired and bleached and starched until the material came up as good as new, if a little shrunk. But there was plenty of it, and not much of her. She made it up as simply as possible, by a pattern she remembered using, once, for a last-moment Ophelia at Covent Garden, and was delighted with the result. It was just the thing, neither mourning nor otherwise, neither in style nor out of it. “He loves me”—she was sewing buttons down the back—“he loves me not.” They came out even and a superstitious tear fell on the last one. And serve her right, she thought, for thinking so much of Frank Mayfield, with her father only three months in his grave. What would Father have thought of Frank?
She found herself boggling at this question and was grateful to be disturbed by Hart, who had sought her out with the news that he would be ready to leave next day. “I promised my mother I would try and get us there by the second, and I think we can do it. You’ll be ready?” He looked down at the billowing material in her lap.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Purchis?”
“Yes?”
“Could I wear just one bit of black ribbon? For Father?”
“What did my mother say?”
“She said no.”
“Well then.” But the disappointment in her small, pointed face hurt him. “Wait a minute.” He left her, hurried up to his room, created chaos in a cedarwood chest, and returned triumphantly with an ebony locket on a fine, gold chain. “Wear this.” He handed it to her. “No one can mind that. We all had them when my aunt died—Abigail’s mother,” he explained.
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