“No!” She laughed at him over the shirts in her arms, looking at the piles of books. “And you are not to pack these underneath your Johnson’s Dictionary either, or I will come up to Cambridge and haunt you.”
“I wish you could.” He took the shirts from her. “But, Mercy, there are a dozen—”
“Of course there are a dozen,” she said tartly. “What would Purchis of Winchelsea be doing with less?” And then, suddenly flushing to the roots of her hair at an impatient shout from somewhere down the hall, “Yes, Mrs Mayfield, I will be with you directly.” She paused for a moment, her hand on the door, half in, half out of the room. “Hart?”
“Yes?”
“If I should ever think of somewhere that press might be, what should I do?”
“Nothing.” He dropped the shirts unceremoniously onto a chair and moved over to take her hand in his hard one. “Mercy, it seems to have been forgotten. For God’s sake, let it remain so. Speak of it to no one. No one, I tell you. Not even”—now his colour was as high as hers—“not even to Francis.”
“No?”
“No.” Here at last was his chance for a word of warning. But how to put it? “Frank’s—oh, everything I want to be, but, Mercy, he does keep odd company. And you’re a girl of sense—you know how it is, with men. Sometimes, I think, at Tondee’s—”
“The talk flows free. Father used to say men were worse gossips than women. But Francis would never speak of me, Hart. Never.” And with this firm, revealing phrase, she left him.
Hart and his aunt left for Charleston a few days later, and he was relieved to find the Mayfield house there undamaged, and his aunt’s man of business ready with a list of possible tenants. In South Carolina, even more than in Georgia, the mobs had been roused by the news of the Boston Port Bill, and people who had lived contentedly all their lives on remote plantations were now eager to move into the comparative safety and undoubted luxury of Charleston. Anne Mayfield was able to choose the most eligible of three possible tenants, and Hart found himself free to take the next week’s packet for Boston, or rather for Salem.
It was a strange, disturbing journey. He had promised his mother—and, indeed, himself—that he would be cautious in what he said and did. He would watch, and listen, and say as little as possible until he was established in his new life. This was made easier for him by his youthful appearance. In Savannah he had been Purchis of Winchelsea, and treated with deference. On board ship he found himself merely a boy on his way to college. Easy enough for a fair-haired young man who still needed to shave only once a week, and whose voice would occasionally betray him, to keep quiet and listen to his elders talk.
But what he heard appalled him. If there were any Loyalists on the packet, they were keeping as quiet as he was. In Savannah the upper classes at least had always insisted that whatever they might think of Parliament and its vagaries, they were loyal subjects of King George III. There were no Loyalist toasts on the packet. If toasts were drunk, they were to the Continental Congress that had been summoned for the fifth of September at Philadelphia, and to the ill-treated citizens of Boston.
Worst of all, the more Hart heard of what happened in Boston, the more it shook him. What right had Parliament, weeks away over the sea, to take a decision that must mean ruin for a whole city? And it seemed more and more likely that a British garrison was to be imposed on the city, almost as if it was a hostile one, captured in time of war. He was glad to stay quiet and listen, but it was a very sober young man indeed who disembarked at Salem for the land journey to Harvard College.
Once there, he threw himself into his studies with an enthusiasm that won him golden opinions from his tutors. There was little enough to distract him. As Aunt Mayfield had warned him, the other students tended to be both younger and less experienced than himself. After running his own plantation, he inevitably felt himself a man among boys and could not bring himself to join in the frolics, the drinking and swimming parties, or the riding excursions with which they enlivened their studies. They, for their part, laughed at his Southern drawl and suspected his Southern loyalties. Georgia was the only one of the thirteen colonies that had not sent representatives to the Continental Congress at Philadelphia. Busy planning a non-importation agreement that would hit Great Britain where it hurt, in her trade, the Congress still had time to resent Georgia’s indifference. As a Georgian, Hart found himself inevitably suspect among the radical youth of Harvard.
He did his best to write cheerfully to his mother, describing everything that was comic and different about his college life, without hinting at its loneliness, but she must have guessed at it, for she was soon writing to urge that he visit Abigail’s cousins at Lexington. Abigail had written to them about him and had had a warmly hospitable reply. “Only,” went on his mother’s fine scrawl, “Abigail is not quite sure about their politics. You will be careful, my dear boy.…”
Careful! As if he was ever anything else. He tucked the letter rather irritably under a pile of books he had just fetched from the library, and reopened his Locke.
He was reading Locke three days later when he heard a light tapping on his door. It was a rare enough occurrence to be surprising. At his “Come in,” the door was pushed open to reveal a strange young man older than himself and dressed with the rigorous plainness affected by so many New Englanders.
“Purchis?” The young man advanced with hand outstretched. “I’m your cousin from Lexington. Well!” He had a delightful full-throated laugh. “Courtesy cousin, if you like. Cousin Abigail wrote us about you, and I am here to welcome you to New England on behalf of all the family. Mark Paston, and most entirely at your service.”
Hart took the outstretched hand. There was something irresistible both about the stranger’s friendly greeting and about his unmistakable, fair-haired, blue-eyed likeness to Abigail. “I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “You’re very like your cousin.”
“Am I? Poor girl. But what’s this?” He reached out a friendly hand to take the book from Hart. “You’re never reading Locke’s Second Treatise on Government! What kind of Loyalist does that make you? My mother told me I was on no account to talk politics with you, and I always do what my mother tells me, but what am I to do when I find you reading such dangerous stuff?” He laughed again and handed back the book. “There will be time at home for politics, whatever Mother says. Right now, where’s your hat, your greatcoat, your valise? I’m kidnapping you, carrying you off to the wilds of Lexington for a visit. My mother told me to bring you, and I warn you, what Mrs Paston says, goes.” And then, seeing Hart hesitate, “Do come, cousin. I’m just back from a trip to Boston and I need some good company to take the taste of things there out of my mouth. The chaise is outside; it is but to pack a shirt or two, and we’re on our way. I’ll return you, all right and tight when you feel you must get back to your studies.” And, as a clincher, “Bring your Locke, if you like, and we’ll discuss him over the Madeira tonight. Come on, don’t make me face my mother empty-handed; she’s a Tartar when she’s crossed and will slap all my sisters in turn out of very disappointment.”
Hart could not help laughing. “How many sisters have you?”
“Seven, God help me. But no need to look so scared. I’ll not let them plague you. In fact, the two eldest are married and the others are still in the nursery. But with Father dead, you can see how much I need male society. So come, pack up and let’s go.”
Half an hour later, Hart did indeed find himself riding in the chaise of this compelling new cousin of his, and very happy to be doing so. It was high autumn now, with the leaves bright on the trees, and the weeks of lonely study lay heavy behind him. Brimful of new ideas, he had been starved for someone to discuss them with, and when Mark Paston trailed a provocative remark about Locke and the social contract, he leapt at it and they were soon arguing away like old friends. Once, Mark Paston pulled him up short. He had said something that indicated his assumption that a constitutional monarchy was the only ratio
nal form of government, and Mark held up a warning hand. “All very well with me, cousin,” he said, “but don’t, I beg of you, say things like that in Lexington. We’re pretty fierce there, you know. There’s not a Loyalist dog of a Tory left in the place.” And then, laughing that irresistible laugh of his, “If you could just see your own face! Don’t worry, I won’t let them eat you, and to tell the truth, I rather think you will find yourself more nearly agreeing with us desperate radicals than you expect.”
“But won’t I be an embarrassment to you?”
“Not a bit of it. A brand from the burning, more like. And besides, my position is such that I can carry it off. Jonas Clarke is my godfather and my best friend.”
“Jonas Clarke?”
“You’ve not heard of him? He’s our pastor in Lexington and the leader of the radicals there. And for good measure his wife is cousin to John Hancock, your treasurer at Harvard and another leading radical, as you must know. And Hancock and Sam Adams are firm friends. They’ve both approved everything we’ve done in Lexington so far.”
“And what’s that?”
“Organised a Committee of Safety, of which I’m proud to be a member, and begun to enrol our own militia. You see before you one of Lexington’s Minutemen.”
“Oh?”
“Cousin, have you talked to no one at Harvard?”
“Well”—it was painful to admit it—“very little.”
“But you must know that the military governor, General Gage, has cancelled the legislative session of the Court of Massachusetts?”
“I did hear something.” It had not, at the time, seemed to concern him very much.
“Well, when he did that, on top of all the repression that the citizens of Boston had suffered, we decided it was time to look to our defences. Minutemen, cousin, are volunteer soldiers ready to come out at a moment’s notice. We are to have a citizens’ army at last, and then let General Gage look about him! Look!” He pointed with his whip at a snug, white-painted farmhouse, set under a hill among flaming autumn leaves and neat stone-walled fields. “Don’t you think we’ve made something here in New England that is worth fighting for?”
“But surely it’s all a misunderstanding.” He began to wish he was sure of it himself.
“That’s as may be, but if so, it’s one that is likely to cost Great Britain dear. But forgive me, cousin, I’ll quit preaching at you. Tell, instead, something about Cousin Abigail.”
Hart laughed. “I was just thinking about her and wondering what in the world she would say if she could hear our talk. If you think me a diehard Tory, what would you make of her, I wonder?”
“Well,” said Mark tolerantly, “I reckon things are different for you, down in Georgia. I’m not one of those who want to quarrel with you for failing to send representatives to the Congress. Everyone knows you’ve been the spoiled darlings of government so long, it’s hard for you to see the light. But see it you will, mark my words.” And then, with one of his deep, warm bursts of laughter, “Lord, if I’m not back to politics. I cry you a thousand pardons, cousin! But, see, we’re almost home.” He slowed his horse for a moment at the top of the hill and pointed with his whip. “There, on the left is Munroe’s Tavern—he’s our sergeant of Minutemen, and a good one—and then the Mulliken house—she’s a widow, poor thing—and just across the road, see, where the sumac is? That shabby old shingled house is the Paston mansion.” He called an encouragement to his horse and they started down the hill. “Needs a coat of paint, don’t it, but the living’s friendly and the welcome warm for you, Cousin Hart. And, my gracious, hold your hat; the girls have spotted us.” An attic window had been thrown open and two laughing, curly-headed girls were leaning out and waving their handkerchiefs.
“Mark!” cried one. “You’re home at last!”
“And you brought him,” said the other, then both withdrew their heads, closed the window with a bang, and vanished.
“The twins,” explained Mark as the horse turned off the road towards the little house. “You’ll get used to them.” As he jumped down from the chaise, the door of the house flew open and the twins bounced out and flung themselves upon him.
They were followed by a plump, smiling, middle-aged woman dressed in brown homespun. “You brought him, Mark. I’m so pleased.” She held out a welcoming hand to Hart as a boy appeared from round the side of the house to take charge of the horse and ask, quickly, what was the news from Boston.
“Not good,” said Mark. “It’s going to be a hard winter there, I’m afraid, what with British tyranny and mob violence. Yes, yes …” He fended off the twins. “I did my best with your commissions, but you’ll be disappointed just the same. Things are even tighter in Boston than I had supposed. I managed to find the stocking needles, but you’ll have to make your own silk mitts.” And then, as their faces fell, “And if that’s the worst privation you suffer, you’ll be two lucky girls.” He kissed his mother robustly on the cheek. “How are you, Mother, and how have the imps been behaving?”
“Well, and well. Come into the house, the two of you, and get warm after your drive. You must be starved with cold. I put back dinner in the hope you’d be here, Mark, and it will be on the table directly.”
It was a frugal enough meal of boiled beef and dumplings, but made up in quality for what it lacked in variety. Aunt Anne Mayfield, thought Hart, would have been insulted by it; for his part, he was delighted both with the good, plain fare, washed down by sweet cyder, and the friendly family talk, in which even the youngest of the five girls joined. In Savannah, she and her next sister would have been upstairs with their black nurse; here they were very much part of the family, and he found he liked it.
Nor did he mind the volleys of questions with which the fifteen-year-old twins plied him. Sitting one on each side of him at table, they cross-examined him mercilessly about what they seemed to think the barbarous customs of Georgia. When they came to the question of slavery, he found himself remembering his first meeting with Mercy. “No,” he told them. “We do not have slaves at Winchelsea, only servants, who, I hope, love us.”
“Do they eat with you?” This was Ruth, older by half an hour than her sister, Naomi. She spiced the question with a significant glance for the other end of the big table, where the boy, Paul, was sitting tucking away a vast slice of apple pie.
“Well, no,” said Hart.
Mark pushed back his chair. “Time you girls were back at your lessons,” he said. “And gave your cousin a bit of peace. You’ll get used to them, Cousin Hart, never fear.”
“But I like it.” Hart too rose to see the ladies out of the room. “It makes me realise what I missed through being an only child. You’re lucky, Cousin Mark.”
“I know,” said Mark Paston.
Chapter 7
“I’m worried to death about that boy.” At Winchelsea, Mrs Purchis threw Hart’s latest letter crossly on to her worktable. “He writes eternally about those Paston cousins of yours, Abigail, and they sound nothing but a parcel of arrant rebels to me.”
“Not the children, surely?” As usual, Abigail did her best to soothe her aunt, and as usual, she failed.
“On the contrary—they’re the worst of the lot!” She picked up the letter again. “Those twins! No conduct whatsoever, ridiculous names, and they dare to twit my son with the institution of slavery. They remind him of you, he says.” A furious glance included Mercy in the general condemnation. “Imagine asking him if our servants eat with us!”
“Well, I eat with you.” The guilt of her secret engagement had made Mercy wretchedly aware of her anomalous position in the household. Sometimes she actually found herself wondering if she should not have accepted that invitation of Saul Gordon’s. But, even backed by Mrs Purchis, there had been something strange about it. Was it a nurse for his wife he wanted, or a substitute for her? Or, in his frugal way, both? She was not sure and had no intention of finding out.
And, luckily, Mrs Purchis had lost all interest in the sch
eme when Abigail became engaged to Giles Habersham. “I should hope so, too,” she said now, “as indispensable as you are! What I should do without you when dear Abigail leaves us is more than I can imagine.” She turned to Abigail, mercifully distracted from the subject of Hart’s letter. “Have you and Giles agreed to name the day yet, child?”
Abigail laughed, sighed, blushed, and shook her fair curls. “No, Aunt. I have a perfect slow coach for a lover! He says we mustn’t consider our own happiness at a time like this. His visit this morning was to tell me that Sir James has asked him to go on a special mission to England. He came, he said, for my permission, but I knew my place too well not to give it!”
“Why not marry him and go too?” asked Mercy.
“If only I could! We did speak of it a little, but he says the conditions on board ship will be too rough at this time of year, and besides, until he returns and Sir James finds him some more permanent office, he is hardly in a position to support a wife.”
“If I were you, I’d go just the same,” said Mercy stoutly. “Even if it meant washing the captain’s shirts for your passage.”
“I believe you would.”
“Of course I would, but then it’s different for me. I was brought up hard. You and Giles must know what is best for you.”
“I hope so.” Abigail looked down thoughtfully at the small ruby on her engagement finger.
“Naturally they do,” intervened Mrs Purchis. “If dear Abigail had a dowry, everything would be different. I wish we could do more for you, my dear, but Francis says we’ll be lucky if we break even this year, the way things are going.”
“Dear Aunt.” Abigail jumped up to kiss her. “Don’t mind it! I only wish I could be the help to you that Mercy is.”
“I wish I had the strength I used to have.” Mrs Purchis had failed visibly since Hart had left, and had been glad to let much of the domestic management at Winchelsea slip into Mercy’s capable hands. “As for you, child, you have enough to do with your trousseau. Let Mercy make herself useful; she likes it.”
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