‘Thank you, sir.’ He found his way to his room like a blind man, tore off his evening dress, and threw himself flat on his bed. Mercy. He had thought he had forgotten her. Mercy and a Frenchman. Luzerne. The French Minister in Philadelphia. What in the name of God was Mercy doing in Philadelphia? Forgotten her? Why should it come back to him now, that exacerbating vision of Mercy in her low-cut bronze dress, laughing and flirting with British officers, with Francis, wooing them, blinding them with her charms, smiling and smiling and letting them tell her the secrets she would use against them as the Rebel Pamphleteer? He had suspected her then, fiercely, jealously, horribly suspected her, and very nearly been her destruction as a result.
He got slowly up from the bed and moved over to look at his grey face in the glass. He had thought the worst of Mercy, back in Savannah, and been wrong. However great the temptation, he would not do it again. And curiously enough, now that he was really remembering Mercy, the temptation did not seem so great as all that. How strange. Only this morning the sight of Julia across the breakfast table had been enough to set his pulses stirring. And now? Now he could think only of Mercy.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He sought out Mr. Purchas late that afternoon. ‘I cannot do it. I’m a married man.’ He repeated it as one might a spell.
‘You’re a young idiot. Take twenty-four hours. Keep yourself to yourself. Think it over. Sunday tomorrow. I’ll have your meals sent to your room.’
XIII
Anxiously reading and rereading the reports of Hart’s capture by the British, Mercy consoled herself as best she might with the fact that there was no reference to her. ‘Dare I hope, do you think, that word of what I did in Savannah has not reached England?’ she asked Charles Brisson one fine May morning when he had found her and Ruth hemming sheets in their blossom-filled garden.
‘One should always hope,’ said Charles Brisson. ‘It is better for the soul than despairing. But one should also be a little realistic, madame.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That I am afraid word of your reception here in Philadelphia is bound to reach the British in New York. You know how it is. There is constant traffic across the debatable ground between the two armies. Sooner or later they will hear in New York that you are living here, that you have been welcomed, feted … And how rightly so! But from the point of view of your husband, it can only be unfortunate. News that reaches New York reaches England in the end. I would not be your friend if I did not admit to you that it can only prejudice his position when he stands trial.’
‘Trial? You think it will come to that?’
‘It will be a miracle if it does not. A known privateer … and with, forgive me, a known spy for his wife … What he did at Savannah is one thing; then he might be considered a part of the American navy … though, mind you, even that is not necessarily a protection. You know as well as I do that General Washington, General Arnold, all of them lead their lives with the feel of the noose about their throats. What do you think Charles Lee expected when he was captured in ’76.’
‘Death?’ The needle dropped from her cold fingers. ‘Mr. Brisson, you can’t think … they wouldn’t, the British? They are civilised people.’ It was so exactly what she had secretly feared that she could hardly forgive him for putting it into words.
‘Civilised? Who is really so when it comes to the point? Face it, madame. From all one hears, the antiwar party is growing daily in strength, over there in London, and the government may be pushed to desperate measures to whip up support for the war. What more effective than a show trial? You know what feelings were roused by John Paul Jones’s ravages round the British coasts last year. I would not wish to see your husband made scapegoat for his exploits, madame.’
‘Oh, God!’ She dropped the sheet on the grass. ‘What shall I do? You’re the only person I really trust, here in Philadelphia. You and Ruth, of course.’ She reached out a quick hand to press Ruth’s, which had also fallen listless on to her sewing as she listened to them.
‘I am glad you say so.’ He glanced quickly round the sunny garden. ‘Ruth, would you be so good as to make sure we cannot be disturbed? There is something I very much want to say to Mrs. Purchis.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ruth jumped to her feet. ‘I won’t let anyone past the back door. You can count on me, Mercy.’
‘I know I can.’ Mercy watched her with great affection as she hurried away through the neat garden. Wonderful how much better she was, and strange that Charles Brisson used her first name so freely while he always called her madame or Mrs. Purchis. He had visited them constantly, too, since he had been back in Philadelphia. Could there be something in it … between him and Ruth? What a strange thought. She smiled up at Brisson. ‘You wished to speak to me?’
‘Madame, you ask my advice. I have longed to give it to you. I think you should go to England.’
‘To England? Have you taken leave of your senses?’
He had stood up when Ruth left them, now sat down again on the close cropped grass at her feet. ‘I often think so.’ He smiled up at her. Then, very grave all of a sudden: ‘Madame, I am about to put my life in your hands. Can I trust them, those little hands of yours?’
‘Of course you can.’ She looked down at them, puzzled.
‘Well, then. Give me your solemn promise of secrecy, and I think I can help you get to England. Or, to be precise, to France, whence, as I have no doubt you know, one can always find a friendly smuggler to take one across to England. This is a strange war and makes for strange friendships.’
‘But what would I do in England?’
‘Speak up for your husband. Plead for him in court. They are great sentimentalists, the English. It will be very bad for your husband if the prosecutor can describe you at his trial – his wife – as a spy against England, living in luxury here in Philadelphia, the protégée of the French. Ah, you had not thought of that? It will be said; it is bound to be said. And you know as well as I do that though the British are impatient with you Americans, they hate the French. With you, it is a family quarrel, to be laughed off in the end, forgiven … With the French – with us – it is quite other. We are old enemies.’
‘You mean’ – she looked at him with horror – ‘everything I have done is harmful to Hart. I have killed his mother and aunt, and now, just by being here, by living in this house, I am endangering his life.’
‘I very much fear so.’ He met her eyes squarely. ‘And that is why I make you this offer. I feel responsible, you see. It was I who made you known to the French here, to the Chevalier de la Luzerne. Everything else has followed from that. I could not bear the hatred you would feel for me, madame, if your husband’s death should be the result of the help I have tried to give you.’
‘But what shall I do? Could you really help me get to France?’
‘Yes, that I can do. I am going myself, you see. But secretly, most secretly. If you wish to come, you must be ready to leave on the instant and without a word to anyone. Will you trust me so far?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, I trust you!’ And yet how strange it was that she did so. ‘But Ruth?’ she asked. ‘I cannot leave Ruth.’
‘Naturally not. I would very much prefer that you bring her. You should not be alone, the only woman, on such a journey. But, madame, if you value your life – and mine – you must tell her nothing. Not until the moment comes. Can you do that?’
‘Dear Ruth. She would go anywhere with me. But the French minister … this house … I should say something to him?’
‘Leave all that to me. Just live as you always do, in full sight of the world, and be ready, with the smallest possible baggage, for when I give the word. It may be very sudden, very strange, not the kind of message you expect at all. But if it is from me, you will know what it means.’ He thought for a moment. ‘And just to be sure that it is from me,’ he went on, ‘if I cannot come for you myself, my messenger will announce himself as Mr. Jones.’
‘Mr. Jones.’ It took
her back to what he had said earlier. ‘Would they really hang Hart for what John Paul Jones did?’
‘In war anything can happen. You will risk imprisonment yourself with every step of this dangerous journey. I would not be your friend if I did not remind you of that, but they are chivalrous, the British. I am sure as I am of anything that if you deliver yourself into their hands, young and beautiful as you are, they will make a heroine of you, just the way the French have here.’
‘But not the Americans.’ She smiled at him, her heart warmed by the compliment. ‘Do you know, I’d be glad to get away from here? Only – I wish I had heard from Hart – from my husband. It is so strange that he has not written. Suppose he did not want me to come?’
‘Impossible. Except, of course, that he might be anxious for your safety, but truly I do not think you would have anything to fear. It was embarrassing enough for the British to have you – a woman – fool them so roundly in Savannah. I am sure they will not want to make the fact more public than they must. No, I think once you are there, you should be safe enough, but the journey will be both dangerous and uncomfortable. I am in honour bound to prepare you for that.’
‘Oh, that’s nothing. I am more grateful to you than I can say for making it possible. Will it be soon, do you think?’
‘I very much hope so. Remember, madame, not a word to anyone, and wait for a message from Mr. Jones. But first, I must ask for your solemn vow of secrecy. I am putting my life in your hands with this offer. Will you promise me, by whatever you hold most dear – by the husband you go to – that whatever happens you will say nothing about what I have told you.’
‘You mean about your working for the French?’
‘About that, about our first meeting, about anything that seems strange in my life.’
‘So much seems strange. It is a great deal to ask.’
‘I must ask it.’
Their eyes met and held for a long moment. Then, ‘I promise,’ she said. ‘By all that I hold most dear.’
‘Thank you.’ He took her hand and bent to kiss it. ‘Here comes Miss Paston. Nothing to her.’
‘Miss Shippen has come to call,’ said Ruth. ‘And Monsieur Otto with her. I have asked them to wait in the parlour.’
‘Did you say I was here?’ asked Brisson.
‘No. Should I have?’
‘You are a most admirable girl. If I may’ – he turned back to Mercy – ‘I will take French leave, over the hedge.’
‘If you wish.’ Was she mad, she wondered, gathering up her sewing to go indoors and join her new guests, to trust this mysterious young man about whom she knew so little? She had liked him instinctively from their first dramatic meeting, and since then he had saved her life, helped her to her present happy position in Philadelphia society, and been a constant support against the quiet barbs of people like Mrs. Arnold. No wonder if she was fond of him. He’s like a brother to me, she thought and, thinking this, found her thoughts flash to Hart. Incredible, unbearable that she had still not heard from him.
Greeting Otto and Nancy Shippen, she was tempted for a moment to bring Brisson’s name casually into the conversation, just to see what Otto would say about him. But she knew she must resist the temptation and was glad she had done so when they had left and Ruth said, on a very tentative note, ‘Mercy?’
‘Yes, dear.’
‘Mercy, forgive me. I am so ignorant … I am sure it is just my stupidity, but I think … I think mother would have said …’
‘Yes?’ Mercy prompted as she came to a standstill.
‘Should you talk alone with young men?’ Ruth got it all out in one hurried breath.
‘No, dear, you are quite right, and your mother would have said so. But you must take my word for it that in this case there is an overriding reason for my talking with Charles Brisson. You will know all about it soon enough, and in the meanwhile I am most grateful for what you have said. Mind you,’ she smiled teasingly at Ruth, ‘what about Monsieur Otto and Miss Shippen? You left them alone in the parlour. And she is not even a married lady.’
‘No indeed,’ said Ruth. And then, ‘Ah, the poor things.’
‘Poor?’
‘Did you not know? There is a Colonel Livingston her parents want her to marry. An older man; very rich. Only – she and young Monsieur Otto …’
‘A case? Ruth, you keep surprising me. How did you learn all this?’
Ruth laughed, and Mercy thought what a pleasure it was to hear. ‘They’re all so scared of you, Mercy dear. They think a heroine of the Revolution is quite above their touch. And they’re quite right too,’ she added loyally. ‘You are all that, and so much more. But they talk to me, at the sewing parties. I’m just a silly girl. They’re not afraid of me. And I do enjoy it. It almost makes me forget … Mercy?’
‘Yes.’ A new note in Ruth’s voice caught Mercy’s full attention.
‘You’ve been so good to me. May I – please, may I tell you something, and will you try and go on loving me? You’ve been so good,’ she explained, ‘so wonderfully good. Am I wicked to think you must love me?’
‘Not wicked at all.’ Mercy took her hand. ‘Of course I love you, Ruth dear, and always shall. We need each other, you and I.’
‘Oh, I’m glad you said that. But, just the same, I want to tell you … I must tell you, even if you never speak to me again. Mercy, that day—’ The hand in Mercy’s writhed like a suffering thing. ‘That terrible day. When I saw Naomi … when I saw … what I saw. Mercy! For a moment, just for a moment, I was glad. I thought, “Serve her right! Why should she have had George, not me?” Oh, Mercy, I’ll never forgive myself. You’ll never forgive me. Why should anyone?’
‘You mean?’ Mercy thought about it, horror-struck. ‘You were twins. You and Naomi. You loved George too?’
‘Of course I loved him. Who could help it? And, Mercy, he loved me first. He met me first. Oh, Mercy, will God ever forgive me? I was glad!’
‘And now you are as sorry as you can be.’ Mercy reached out to pull her down beside her and stroke her hair. ‘You’ve always been sorry, and you know it. You loved them both, that’s all. What’s wrong with love?’
‘Selfish love.’ Ruth looked up at her, clear-eyed through her tears. ‘I’ve been punished, Mercy. God has punished me. Is that enough, do you think? Will you forgive me? Can you forgive me?’
‘Forgive?’ asked Mercy. ‘Dear Ruth, I’m not God. I see nothing to forgive. You saved my life, remember? We’re friends, Ruth; we’ll always be friends. It’s better than love, I begin to think.’ And thought to herself that Brisson was a friend.
‘I wish I knew what you meant.’ Ruth looked at her, puzzled. But after that tear-drenched confession she never screamed in the night again.
The message from Mr. Jones came ten days later. It was not at all what Mercy had expected. She and Ruth had been invited by Nancy Shippen to join in a party of pleasure she and her cousin Mrs. Benedict Arnold were making up to drive out and dine at Mr. Benezet’s inn at Bristol, and her first instinct had been to refuse. Nancy Shippen, extending the invitation, had explained that there could be no fear of molestation from the British since everyone knew that the garrison of New York had been cut to the bone in order to provide troops for the attack on Charleston, about which anxiety was mounting daily.
But Mercy persisted in her refusal. She could not quite like either General Arnold or his pretty, frivolous new wife, whose rudeness, the first time they met, had made a lasting impression on her. When Nancy Shippen called a second time to urge that she and Ruth join the party, she made their excuses, explaining that she did not feel like joining parties of pleasure when she still had no news of how her husband fared in England.
‘I do understand,’ said Nancy Shippen. ‘And respect you for it. But, dear Mrs. Purchis, your husband would not wish you to deny yourself all pleasure, and there is Ruth to be considered too. She is vastly better, is she not?’
‘Yes, I am happy to say.’
‘
And the reason not far to seek,’ said Nancy with a twinkle. ‘I have prevailed upon Mr. Brisson to be of our party. He says he wants above all things to visit Germantown, where General Washington almost beat the English in ’77. He has asked if he may bring a friend of his, a Mr. Jones from Boston, who, he says, is particularly interested in the strategy of that day. So we will not lack for cavaliers, and Mr. Benezet’s inn is famous for its dinners. It will do us all good to get out of town and take a look at the countryside. Do change your mind and come, Mrs. Purchis. I know Ruth longs to do so.’
‘Do you know, I believe I will,’ said Mercy, alerted by the mention of Mr. Jones.
‘That’s right. I know you will not regret it. And now that is so comfortably settled, we can get to the strategy of the occasion, as Monsieur Otto would say. Mr. Brisson begs the pleasure of conveying you two in his carriage. We are all to start very early in the morning, so that we can visit the battlefield at Germantown and then drive on to Bristol for our dinner. You will be delighted with the view of the river that one gets from Mr. Benezet’s inn. Oh, but I quite forgot; you must have come that way on that adventurous journey of yours from Boston.’
‘Yes, but I was ill at the time.’ Was this, perhaps, why she had felt so reluctant to join the pleasure party? She would never forget that nightmare drive from Trenton, haunted by memories of Mrs. Purchis and Anne Mayfield. ‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘it was winter.’
‘And what a winter! You will be amazed how beautiful the road is with the orchards in bloom. That’s settled, then, and I am delighted.’ She rose to her feet. ‘And there, if I am not mistaken, is Colonel Livingston’s carriage for me. No, I won’t let him come in. I’ve taken quite enough of your time already.’
Wide is the Water Page 18