“It was nothing.” She tucked the shirt she had been sewing into her workbox and stood up.
“You’re so tiny.” He reached out a tentative, apologetic hand to touch the cheek he had struck, saw her flush, and withdrew it. “You’ve lost weight, Mercy, while I’ve been away. Are you quite well? Do we treat you right at Winchelsea? My mother? Aunt Anne?” And then, “There’s been no more talk, I hope, of your going to Saul Gordon’s?”
“Not … not just lately. But I’m afraid Mrs Gordon’s very ill, poor woman.”
“No affair of yours. This is your home, Mercy, and I want you to remember it, whatever happens. And if you should ever need a friend, someone to advise you, someone to talk to, I’d like to be a brother to you, Mercy.”
“Thank you. I’ll not forget.” Her eyes were full of tears.
Chapter 11
Sir James Wright’s visit to Winchelsea proved his last. As summer wore into autumn he became more and more of a cipher, reduced to watching impotently and writing increasingly desperate letters to his unresponsive masters in England, while the rebellious Provincial Congress and Council of Safety took control of the colony. By Christmas, the militia had been purged of all Loyalist officers, and last of all, in December, the Loyalist Chief Justice, Anthony Stokes, was replaced by a Court of Appeals.
At Winchelsea, time passed quietly enough. Hart and Sam were busy trying to domesticate a flock of sheep that Hart had bought in accordance with the Articles of Association he had signed. The colony had prohibited the importation of anything but a short list of such essentials as gunpowder and arms, and, as a result, wool for homespun was at a premium. Country-bred Mercy was dubious about the sheep, menaced by everything from poisonous snakes to alligators, but she and Abigail were learning to spin, just the same, from an old lady who remembered Sir James Oglethorpe and the early days of the colony.
“Ridiculous not to know how.” Abigail was sucking a sore finger. “What an idle butterfly I have always been. You’re worth ten of me, Mercy. I just wish I could help Hart the way you do over those sheep of his.”
Mercy laughed. “Fine lot of help I am. I let him make their pen too small and they are out of fodder already. He talks of taking the boat downriver towards Tybee the next fine day to look for some.”
“Making hay while the sun shines? Mercy, shall we go too! I never thought I could get so tired of being cooped up here at Winchelsea.”
“Dear Abigail.” Mercy reached out an impulsive hand to clasp hers over the wool it held. “Do let’s go. We’ll make a picnic outing of it. It will do us both good. I’ll tell Hart he needs my advice about what the sheep will eat!”
But when she approached Hart, he looked grave. “It’s hardly the time to be talking of picnics. Suppose we were to encounter one of the Tory privateers that are raiding the coast up from St Augustine?”
“But they’ve never been up this far, surely? I thought the mouth of the Altamaha was about their limit? And, Hart, I do think Abigail needs a change of some kind. Something to take her mind off her troubles. She’s pining, you know.”
“For Giles Habersham? I was afraid so. No news since last summer. But then, with all our mail coming through Charleston, that’s no great wonder. Just the same, I’m not surprised she looks wretched. I wish to God Frank had given her that dowry and she had married Giles before he left.”
“She could have married him anyway,” said Mercy.
“And been a burden to him? Not Abigail. She’s a Purchis—too proud for that.”
“Pride’s an expensive commodity.”
“Too high for these hard times? You may be right at that. You often seem to be.” His smile illuminated a tanned face now much graver than his years warranted. “Very well, wise councillor, let us have your picnic, if the weather will just oblige us.”
Two days later, Mercy woke early to the sunshine of one of the fine spring mornings she had learned to hope for even in January in the two years she had lived at Winchelsea. The birds were all singing as if it was April, and she lay in bed for a while, wishing she knew their different voices. Then, hearing the morning routine begin in the stable yard round the corner, she jumped out of bed and hurried to her window. Hart always got up when the men did, and she was just in time to see him come round the corner of the house, the fair hair that would curl gleaming in the sunshine, the shirt open at his bronzed neck. He was giving the day’s orders to Sam, but, as if aware of her gaze, looked up quickly towards her window, so that she had to beat a hasty retreat and found herself blushing hotly as she changed her frilled nightgown for a plain, grey dress.
Had he seen her watching him? Greeting him, half an hour later, when he came in from his morning round, she was still not sure. There was always a healthy glow about Hart. “You’re bright and early.” He smiled at her, then, his face clouding, “The sheep have been trying to break out again.”
“Hungry, poor things. Hart, let’s go downriver today.”
“And leave care behind? Well, why not? And it’s true, we do need that fodder. Wake Abigail, Mercy, while I order out the boat.”
It was all delightful. Even Abigail lost some of her drawn look as she took her place under the awning of the plantation’s big rowing boat and breathed deep of the morning breeze. The rowers were already in their places, and when Jem, the helmsman, gave the command, they burst into song and plunged their oars into the water. But the tune they chose sent a cold little premonitory shiver down Mercy’s spine. It was “The World Turned Upside Down.”
She soon forgot that moment of almost superstitious dread as the men’s steady rowing took the boat downstream, against the tide, into country she had never seen before. Here, golden grass high on either bank told how Savannah had got its name, and promised a good harvest for Hart’s sheep. “We could stop here, I suppose.” Hart must have followed her thoughts. “But I know a place downriver a little where the landing will be easier for you girls, and there’s a cleared hillock where you two can sit and enjoy the sun while we get in the hay.”
“Delicious,” said Mercy. “You’re good to us, Hart.”
“Nonsense. It was your idea.” A quick, boy’s blush coloured his brown cheek-bones. “There’s our hill!” He pointed ahead, and Mercy, who had felt her own face flush and turned away to hide it, saw the little knoll rising out of a patch of scrub.
At an order from Jem, the rowers slowed their pace and pulled into a cove pitted with alligator holes, from which a faint track led uphill. “No one here today. It’s often used as a lookout point,” Hart explained as he helped the two girls to land, “but I doubt if anyone’s come here hay-making.” While the men tied up the boat, he led the way uphill. “You get a fine view of Tybee,” he promised. “Watch out for the poison ivy.” And then, “Dear God!” He had emerged onto the bare top of the little hill and turned to look seawards.
“What is it?” Hurrying after him, Mercy turned, like him, to look out to sea, and saw, as he did, the sails on the horizon. “What are they?”
“Ships of the line. One, two.… You’ve sharp eyes. How many do you make it, Mercy?”
She screwed up her eyes, gazing into morning sun. Were the ships getting larger? “Three of them, I think. Hart, what are they?”
“They must be British. We’ve nothing that size, God help us. And coming closer, I think. Do you?”
“Yes.” She was sure of it now.
“Into Tybee inlet. Maybe upriver to Savannah. And nothing in the world to stop them. Jem!” He hurried back to the top of the path. “Back on board, and out oars, quick! We’ve got to warn them in town.” He turned to explain to the two girls. “Our outing’s over.”
“Hart!” Abigail had been standing, hands clasped, gazing at the ships. “Are you sure it’s the British? Just think, Giles may be on board.”
“And death and destruction for us all.” There was a note in his voice Mercy had never heard before. “Hurry, girls, there’s not a moment to be lost.” And then, as they emerged on to the l
ittle beach, “Well done, men. There’s a guinea for each of you if you get us home in an hour. The enemy’s out there.”
“Enemy?” asked Abigail and Jem in unison.
“The British.”
They made it to Winchelsea in just under the hour, and the men collapsed exhausted on their oars as Hart jumped ashore and promised them their guineas as soon as he got back from town. Jem was already running ahead to order out his horse, and he turned, with a brief apology to the girls, to follow. “Start packing up,” he called back over his shoulder. “We’ll likely have to move into town.”
When the girls reached the house, they found Anne Mayfield in hysterics and Martha Purchis dolefully trying to comfort her. There would be no help from them in the packing, but then Mercy had hardly expected it. She and Abigail worked with a will, but Mercy knew that all the time Abigail’s thoughts were elsewhere. By evening, everything was ready for a move, if it should prove necessary, and the two of them went out for a badly needed breath of air. “Let’s go down to the river,” said Abigail.
“If you like. But we won’t be able to see anything on our backwater. If they come, it will be up the Savannah River. Thank God, Winchelsea’s not even visible from the Wilmington.”
Abigail looked at her out of eyes ringed with exhaustion. “You may thank God, Mercy, but what do I do? Those are my friends, out there. Giles may be on board. And Hart calls them the enemy.”
“Dear, you must face it. To Hart—and to me—they are the enemy.”
“And to Francis?” asked Abigail.
“Oh, Francis!” Could Abigail suspect their secret engagement? “His loyalty’s a matter of course. But, Abigail, whatever happens, let us promise that we will never quarrel, you and I. Things are bad enough without that.”
“Yes.” She held out both hands, then pulled Mercy towards her for a solemn kiss. “Whatever happens.”
“It’s a bargain. But, Abigail, I think we should turn back. Your aunts will be worrying, and there’s so much to do.”
“Just a little farther.” Abigail set a swift pace as they walked along the wooded path above the creek. Presently she stopped. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I think so.” She seemed to do nothing else.
“Well, then, come this way. It gets you down to the water much quicker.” She turned off the path to push her way past the big magnolia that stood above the bend of the creek and, following her, Mercy saw an abandoned track, just visible, leading down through thick bushes toward the water.
“It’s the old landing stage,” Abigail explained. “It was given up when they built the new boat. The creek’s too shallow here. The others have all forgotten it, but I come here sometimes.” She paused, her colour high, and Mercy thought she had not always come alone.
It was quiet in the bushes, and Mercy was suddenly aware of a soft, secret rustling somewhere ahead of them. A large animal? Wild boar? Alligator? Or man? She caught Abigail’s hand. “Hush!” Finger on lips. “Listen,” she whispered, sure now. “Someone’s coming.”
“Oh, thank God!” Abigail started swiftly forward.
“But Abigail, it may be anyone … Indians … the British.” Even the desperate whisper seemed too loud.
Abigail turned to give her a long, strange look. “Nobody knows of this place but us.”
“Us?” Her question was answered by a soft, cautious call from somewhere ahead of them. Unmistakably, it was the one used by the servants when a member of the family turned into the drive.
Abigail’s eyes shone with tears. “It is,” she whispered, then raised her voice, in a low, clear reply. A few moments later, she was running forward into Giles Habersham’s outstretched arms. “Oh, Giles, you came.” She was laughing and crying all at once. “I knew you would.”
“Of course I came.” He raised his head from the long kiss to smile wryly at Mercy. “Your servant, Miss Phillips. I’m glad I know you for so true a friend.”
“True friend, maybe,” answered Mercy. “But not a lunatic. You are mad to come, Mr Habersham. Things have changed here since you’ve been away. If you were caught—”
“But we come as friends, Miss Phillips. That’s what I have come to tell you.”
“Friends? The British? After Lexington?”
He turned to face her, his arm round Abigail’s waist. “A terrible business. But, forgive me, you have only heard one side of the story.”
“It was enough.”
“Mercy,” Abigail flung out an appealing hand. “You promised not to quarrel with me.”
“I don’t remember promising not to quarrel with Mr Habersham. But there’s no time to waste. When you say you are come as friends, Mr Habersham, what precisely do you mean?”
“Why, merely that we wish to send into town for provisions and fresh water, and, of course, a word with Sir James Wright. You surely could not imagine that we are come to attack Savannah?”
“After Lexington,” she told him, “I can imagine anything.”
“Rebels who shoot retreating men from safe hiding places? But we’ll not quarrel, Miss Phillips. You’re right. There is no time for that. I must go back to my ship before dark. Abigail, my heart’s dearest, you will believe me when I tell you there is not the slightest hint of danger to you, or to Savannah.”
She was crying quietly, but managed a smile as she looked up at him. “Of course I do, my darling.”
“And you will tell me how things are here.”
“No.” Mercy’s voice was uncompromising. “That she will not do. We have promised not to quarrel, Abigail, and I will keep my word. But if you let Mr Habersham turn you into a spy, I will go straight to the house and raise the alarm.”
“A spy!” Abigail turned on her indignantly. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Well, then, a traitor, if you prefer it. Hart and his mother have given you shelter for years. Do you owe them nothing?”
“But all we need is to understand each other,” pleaded Giles Habersham, “and then, I promise you, Miss Phillips, all our troubles would be over.”
“I wish I could believe you. Tell me, who gave you leave to come and a boat to bring you?”
“Why, Captain Barclay. Our commander.”
“And why did he do so? Out of mere philanthropy? To make the course of true love smooth?”
“Well, he did hope—”
“For news. Precisely, You will have to disappoint him, Mr Habersham. Or, if you wish, you may tell him, with my compliments, that Georgia is united as never before.”
“Against its King?”
“No. Against his oppressive ministers and neglectful Parliament. Abigail, dear, it will be dark soon. We must go.”
“No! Giles!” She turned in his arm to look up at him pleadingly. “Take me with you.”
“Dearest. I cannot. The Scarborough is a man-of-war I am a soldier under orders. If we were only married, it would be a different matter.”
“A soldier?” Mercy looked him up and down. “Where, then, is your uniform, Mr Habersham?”
He coloured. “I was told … advised not to wear it.”
“And still you say you are not a spy? Your very life is in danger if you are caught. And I would not like to think of our fate either, if the mob were to hear of this visit.”
“Mob rule, Miss Phillips? Is that your splendid unity? But you are right, just the same. Abigail, my darling, I must go. But first, one word alone?” A pleading glance at Mercy.
“No,” she said. “You must see, both of you, that I cannot consent to that. I, too, am deep in debt to Hart Purchis, for my very life. You cannot ask me to let you betray him.”
“Betray!” His hand went down to where his sword should have been. “Miss Phillips, if you were a man—”
“A fortunate thing I am not, or you would compound your offence against Abigail and her family. As it is, I think you should go, Mr Habersham. And do not come back.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Abigail. “How can you!” And then, pleadingly, “G
iles, you see how I am placed. Take me away, please.”
“My darling, I cannot. Besides, these troubles will soon be over. No need to risk the discomforts of life on board ship. I cannot believe that Georgia will not heed the call of duty.”
“I hope that’s not what you are going to report to Captain Barclay,” said Mercy. “Because if you do, you will be gravely misleading him.” She was interrupted by a soft whistle from the waterside.
“I must go. My darling.” He bent over Abigail for a long, silent kiss that sent a horrid flame of jealousy through Mercy, compelled to stand there and watch. “May I come back?” It was to Mercy that he put the question.
“No, Mr. Habersham. Only openly. In your British uniform. I shall tell Hart the minute he gets back from town and ask him to put a guard down by the water. To come back like this will be to ruin us all.”
“You’re ruthless.”
“I’m honest, or try to be.” She watched their long farewell, her eyes misting with tears, partly for them, partly for herself. Then, as Giles Habersham turned away to plunge down the path to the shore, she held out her hand to Abigail. “Dear, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t speak to me now.” Abigail’s face was white and hard. “I expect you’re right, Mercy, but don’t speak to me now.”
Back at the house, they found chaos reigning. A messenger from Hart had just arrived, urging that they join him in Savannah next day. Abigail and Mercy had been looked tor and found missing. Deciding at once that they had been abducted by a marauding band of British soldiers, Anne Mayfield had gone into strong hysterics and Martha Purchis was busy trying to bring her round with sal volatile and burnt feathers. Inevitably, both of them turned on the two girls.
“Well,” Martha Purchis attacked first, while her sister gulped her way back to silence, “if that isn’t the outside of enough. Here we are, threatened with attack, assault, battery, rape, and I don’t know what worse, and you two choose to vanish. And out in the twilight too, with not so much as a shawl to keep out the cold. If you don’t both catch your deaths and keep us here, in mortal danger, it’s more than you deserve.”
Judas Flowering Page 15