Wide is the Water

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  ‘Julia.’ It came out as a groan. ‘I have to tell you …’

  ‘Dear Hart. She has told me already. And’ – she smiled up at him and touched his lips with her finger – ‘I think you told me all I need to know, back there on the terrace, when you said you nearly ran for it when you thought I was her. Dear Hart, I have things I must tell you too. Let us not spoil this blessed moment with apologies, with explanations. We are here, together, you and I.’ She drew him gently into the summer house, which some Purchas Lady had furnished as an ornamental cottage. ‘It’s our miracle,’ she said.

  ‘I lost our marriage lines.’ His fingers were busy with the buttons of her dress.

  ‘I don’t see what difference that makes.’ She pulled off his cravat. ‘You never believed they meant much anyway.’

  ‘We’ll be married again.’ The threadbare fabric of her dress gave way under his impatient fingers, and he pulled it away from her shoulders and buried his head on her breast. ‘Mercy, I’m filthy. I’m just out of prison. I’m disgusting.’

  ‘I love you.’ Her small breasts were firm under his mouth. She reached up to pull off his shirt and press herself against him, breast to breast. ‘I love you so much.’

  When she cried out, he tried to go slow, to be gentle with her. How could he? ‘Oh, my little love, forgive me.’

  ‘No need,’ she whispered. ‘Oh, my dear heart, no need.’

  Later she stirred gently, luxuriously in his arms. ‘I’ve lain on some damp beds in my time’ – she breathed it comfortably into his ear – ‘between Boston and Philadelphia, and crossing the Atlantic, too, but I’m not sure this isn’t the worst. Darling Hart, you’ll catch a gaol fever or worse, if you haven’t already. What miracle got you out of the Tower?’

  ‘I don’t quite know.’ Reluctantly he followed her example and began to pull on his clothes. ‘Something … someone made the government decide I was an embarrassment to it. Do you know, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if the Purchases, for all their talk, really have the power … Oh, my God!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’d clean forgot. Finding you like that. Mercy, I have to fight Dick Purchas.’

  ‘Fight Purchas! But, Hart, why?’ And then; ‘Stupid of me. Julia.’

  ‘Yes. He challenged me, in the Tower, when I refused to marry her. That’s why I am here.’ He explained quickly about Piers Blanding and the terms of his release. ‘Dick’s not here?’ he asked.

  ‘No, but I sent for him when we got here yesterday. I hoped he might help me to see you. We thought, from the things Julia did not say, that he must be your friend.’

  ‘He was,’ said Hart. ‘Mercy, I have to tell you this. I shall delope.’

  ‘Fire in the air! Hart, you can’t. He’s a naval man; it would be death.’

  ‘Unless he does so too. And I cannot hope for that. Julia’s his sister. Oh, Mercy …’

  ‘Just the same,’ she said, ‘I’m glad you refused to marry her. Hart, we must go in, Ruth will be worried to death.’

  ‘Ruth?’ He had been wondering who her ‘we’ implied.

  ‘Did you have none of my letters?’ She pulled away from him in amazement.

  ‘Not one,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, my dear, what you must have thought of me! Your poor mother and Aunt Mayfield. All because of my playing God down there in Savannah. The great Rebel Pamphleteer! Making a display of myself at the expense of the family who had been so good to me. And all to send information to a state government so divided in itself that I doubt it used any of it. Oh, Hart, I wish this war was over. Do you find that nothing seems the same now you are here in England?’

  ‘Yes, but we have to win just the same,’ he told her. ‘Mercy, you must look on my poor mother and aunt as casualties of war. I only thank God Abigail was not with them. Have you heard from her?’

  ‘Oh, yes, everything that is kind. She is holding the Savannah house for you, Hart.’

  ‘For us.’ He remembered Dick. ‘If I survive.’

  ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’

  ‘We have to, my darling. When did you send for Dick?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘So he will very likely get here tonight. Mercy!’ A new thought struck him. ‘What have I done? I cannot go out with Dick until you and I have been truly married. Suppose – just suppose … If I were to be killed and you should find you were carrying a child …’

  ‘It would be my only comfort,’ she told him. ‘But, Hart, even by special licence, it takes a little time to get married, here in England.’ She let no hint of hope into her tone.

  ‘How strange. I had quite forgotten that you were English. That you know more about life here than I do. Well, Dick will just have to wait, that’s all …’

  ‘And Mr. Smith at Portsmouth?’ Ever since Hart had told her about Blanding’s agreement, Mercy had been wondering if his Mr. Smith could be the same man as Julia’s smuggler. Fantastic to think that if she and Hart had both taken the coward’s path, there was still a chance that they might have met. And Brisson? She must tell Hart about him, but not yet. There would be a time for that, or so she must hope.

  His thoughts had been following another line. ‘Mercy, who is Ruth?’ he asked for the second time.

  ‘I keep forgetting that you have had none of my letters. She is Ruth Paston – oh, Hart, that’s a terrible story.’ She took his hand. ‘I’ll tell you as we walk back to the house.’ She looked round the little summer house. ‘I’ll never forget this place.’

  ‘Nor I.’ He pulled her to him again. ‘Oh, Mercy, oh my dear life.’

  Ruth came out of the house as they approached it through the rose garden ‘Hart! Oh, Hart!’ She was in his arms, laughing, crying. ‘After all these years! But I’d have known you anywhere. Hart, your hair’s gone white!’ She looked from him to Mercy. ‘I’m so happy for you both.’

  ‘Ruth, it’s so good to see you.’ He held her away from him to study her. ‘I never thought you’d turn out a beauty.’ And then, remembering; ‘Ruth, I am so sorry. Mercy told me about your family.’

  ‘Thank you. Both for being sorry and for sending me Mercy. If she hadn’t come when she did, I would be dead, too.’

  ‘Oh?’ He turned to Mercy. ‘You didn’t tell me?’

  ‘He’s had none of my letters,’ Mercy explained to Ruth. ‘Not even the one to the Tower?’

  ‘You wrote me there?’

  ‘Of course. Before we landed. The frigate captain promised it would catch the night mail. But Julia said you weren’t allowed letters.’

  Ruth broke in with an odd question. ‘Hart, forgive me for asking you this, but did you talk to Julia Purchas much about your marriage to Mercy?’

  ‘Much!’ He did not try to hide his angry surprise. ‘Never! What do you take me for?’

  ‘I thought so.’ She turned to Mercy. ‘That’s when I began to distrust her. When you told me she said Hart had told her those things, those private things, about your marriage. Don’t you see?’ She must have stopped your letters. Maybe his to you too. Read them. Used them.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ said Mercy. ‘Hart, forgive me. I should not have believed her.’

  ‘Ah, my dear love,’ he said. ‘When it comes to forgiving, I think we must just wipe the slate clean and begin to forget.’

  ‘But not until we have understood,’ said Ruth. ‘That’s what baffles me. Why did the Purchases go to such lengths to keep you two separate? Dear Hart, you’ve always been one of my favourite men. Lord, how Naomi and I used to quarrel over you when we were young! But – you’re not a British aristocrat; you’re not rich. Forgive me, but I don’t for a moment think Julia is in love with you. So what is it about you?’

  Hart could not help laughing. ‘I always wanted a sister to keep me in my place,’ he said. ‘And it seems that at last I have got one. And of course, you are entirely right, Ruth. Should I be calling you Miss Paston?’

  ‘You most certainly should not. But there is the dr
essing bell.’ She smiled mischievously at Mercy. ‘When the coachmen told me who our mysterious guest was, I gave orders for a special dinner. And’ – to Hart – ‘the house-keeper said she would have your old room made ready directly. You seem to be quite one of the family here.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment, in his new happiness, he had let himself imagine shooting in self-defence when he and Dick fought, but he knew he could not do it. ‘They’ve been wonderfully good to me. But I am not sleeping in my old room. Am I, Mercy?’

  ‘Oh!’ Ruth blushed crimson. ‘I never thought—’

  ‘That we’re an old married couple! Well, no wonder, after the things that have been said. But just because of them, I do feel it is the least we can do to behave like one.’ He turned to Mercy. ‘If you will bear with a husband who smells of the gaol?’

  ‘I will do my best.’ She flashed him a look of pure mischief.

  Dick’s clothes again. How could he wear Dick’s clothes and imagine fighting him? No time now to be thinking of that. Mercy was putting on what she laughingly described as her ‘other dress’. She smiled at him over her shoulder. ‘We’ll not tell Ruth tonight,’ she said, ‘about the duel. Let us have one happy evening.’

  ‘Unless Dick comes. I should have thought he would have been here by now. You’ll like him so much, Mercy. He’s the brother I wish I’d had. One thing, and it comforts me, is that I know whatever happens, he will take care of you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘We are having our happy evening.’

  It had not struck Hart before how much the servants at Denton Hall liked him, but when they got downstairs, they found the house bathed in a festive glow. While they were changing, someone had filled the saloon with flowers, and when they moved through into the dining room, it was to find it gleaming with glass and silver that Hart had never seen before. The special dinner Ruth had asked for had assumed the proportions of a Lucullan feast, and Soames, the butler, welcoming Hart as a prodigal son of the family, murmured that he had thought the ladies would like champagne. ‘We are celebrating in the servants’ hall, too, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir. It’s another happy day for the family.’

  Another? Thinking it over, as he helped Ruth to succulent chicken pie, he was afraid that the previous cause of celebration must have been George Purchas’s death and Dick’s accession as heir. Both the staff at the hall and the tenants on the estate must feel a great deal safer as a result of George’s death. A strange thought struck him. If Dick should die, who would be his heir?

  Dick was not going to die. Mercy was raising her champagne glass. ‘We must drink a toast,’ she said. ‘To our hosts. To the Purchas family.’

  They sat late at the table, enjoying their miracle while it lasted, exchanging stories, interrupting each other with questions, with explanations. ‘Brisson?’ asked Hart, when Ruth spoke of him. ‘Who’s he?’ And noticed that Ruth left it to Mercy to reply.

  ‘A good friend,’ she said. ‘You remember, I told you of him earlier, the one we met on our way to Philadelphia,’

  ‘The one you saved from the outlaws? I did not catch his name before. Did you not pronounce it differently?’

  ‘Very likely. He pronounces it French or English as suits him for the moment. And Charles or Charles.’

  ‘A dubious sort of gentleman.’ It was an effort to keep his tone light. ‘You called him Charles or Charles?’

  ‘I’d have called him George Washington if he asked me to. He’s been the best of friends.’ There was no time, now, to say more. One day, please God, she would be able to tell him all about Charles Brisson. ‘Hart, dear, it’s getting late, and we should not be lingering here, keeping the servants from their beds. You are sure you do not wish to drink a peaceful glass of port?’

  ‘By myself?’ All the time he was aware, and thought she was, too, of the minutes ticking away towards the duel with Dick. ‘Good God, no.’

  Later, alone with her in the room she had shared with Ruth, he turned to Mercy, put his hands on her shoulders, looked down into her eyes. ‘This Brisson must have loved you very much.’

  She met his eyes fearlessly. ‘I think so. It makes me a little proud.’

  ‘And you—’

  ‘Love you.’ She smiled up at him. ‘I hoped for a while that he was in love with Ruth. Hart! What in the world are you doing?’

  He had found the truckle bed tucked away under the big one and was pulling it out. ‘Taking no more chances,’ he said. ‘If you are to find yourself a widow in a strange land …’

  ‘I shall need a child – your child. But I’ll not believe it. Hart,’ she was busy with the fastenings of her dress. ‘Do you want me to think you are jealous of Charles Brisson?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then come to bed, dear Hart. Tomorrow is another day.’ One last twitch of a ribbon, and the dress sank to the ground, half-supported by its own weight, as she stepped out of it and towards him, bare arms outstretched.

  Much later Hart waked himself, crying out as he had in the Tower, and felt Mercy bending over him. ‘You were calling for me,’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ They turned to each other and, presently, slept again.

  XX

  Waked by the far-off familiar sound of the church bell, ringing for early service, Hart dressed quietly while Mercy still slept and walked across the park to the little church with its graveyard full of Purchases. Was George here? he wondered, and was answered by sight of a raw, recently turfed plot close to the church.

  Mr. Pym, the vicar, was wearing buckskins under his cassock, and Hart remembered that Julia had described him as a hunting parson. He listened courteously enough to Hart’s story but looked blank when he asked how soon he could arrange to remarry them. ‘Most unusual,’ he said. ‘Highly unorthodox. I should most certainly have to consult my Bishop … Yes, the Bishop, of course. Married already, and on a French ship, too! A Roman wedding, no doubt? We would not want any taint of that kind of thing here in Denton, and at this time of all others. Yes, I will most certainly need a word with the Bishop about it.’

  ‘How soon can you see him?’ Hart controlled impatience with an effort.

  ‘The Bishop? Oh, well, my dear Mr. Purchas’ – he mispronounced it – ‘that is something else again. The dear Bishop; not at all a well man, you know, not at all well. Let me see, is it Cheltenham spa this year, or Harrogate? We do try to spare him just as much as we possibly can when he is taking the cure. I could write to him, I suppose, but on a subject so delicate, so complex, really I believe word of mouth would be better. After all,’ – he paused, deciding how to put it – ‘you have lived together for some time as man and wife, have you not? There can be no particular reason for haste, surely? Unless … unless the lady …’ He made it a question.

  ‘I wish to take her home to America,’ said Hart. He could hardly explain that the real reason for haste was his impending duel with Dick.

  ‘Oh, well, in that case.’ Mr. Pym pounced on it. ‘Very much better to be married in your own country surely? Quite a different church, I have always understood. No Bishops, I believe. Extraordinary.’ Somewhere behind the church a horse whinnied. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Purchas, urgent parish business, you know. Most urgent business …’

  ‘But this is urgent.’

  ‘Oh, my dear sir.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘You young people! So impatient … so impetuous.’ He pulled a huge bandanna handkerchief out of the sleeve of his cassock and tied a knot in the corner. ‘There! I will write to the Bishop tonight or tomorrow perhaps. I wish I could remember whether it was Harrogate or Cheltenham, but my dear wife will know the direction, I am sure. No need to look so anxious. We should have an answer in the course of the next few weeks.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ said Hart. ‘I will take my wife to London and marry her there by special licence.’

  ‘An admirable idea,’ said the vicar, relieved, and carefully undid the knot.

  Hart strode back across the park,
fuming with rage. All very well to tell that obstructive parson that they would go to London for a special licence, but how could they when by doing so, he broke his promise to Blanding and risked being rearrested? He had just reached the drive when he heard the sound of a horse ridden fast and turned to look back towards the village. Dick. What was he going to say to him?

  ‘Hart.’ Dick jumped down from his tired horse. ‘When were you freed? And how?’

  ‘Yesterday. You did not know? You’ve not had my message?’ But it was almost impossible that he should have.

  ‘No. I came because of a message from …’ He hesitated. ‘From your wife. She’s here? You knew?’

  ‘Not when I came here. It was sheer good fortune.’ Hart quickly explained what Blanding had done. ‘I ought to be in Portsmouth by now. I came here – I felt I must – to give you the chance of a meeting. I wrote you I would wait twenty-four hours. Only now …’ How could he explain his predicament? ‘Dick, I have to remarry Mercy, make her my wife indeed, before I can fight you. I have just been to see Mr. Pym. He won’t help me.’

  ‘Old dodderer,’ said Dick. ‘He’s never helped anyone in his life. He’d not have had the living if I’d had any say in the matter. It will have to be by special licence then. I can help you there, I think. The Bishop of London is one of my Godfathers.’ He looked at Hart ruefully. ‘Ah, poor Julia. I can see that this changes everything.’

  ‘Everything. When you meet Mercy, you will understand. She has had a desperate time of it, both in America and on the way here. None of her letters, reached me.’ He stopped. He could not tell Dick of their suspicion that Julia herself had suppressed their letters. ‘She is my wife,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Dick. I am ready to meet you, of course, just as soon as we are married. So long as I am not rearrested first.’

  Dick looked as wretched as Hart felt. ‘Yes we will have to think of a reason – a pretext for fighting. To keep Julia’s name out of it. Time for that when we have got you married. I’ll go to London, naturally, and get your licence. Safer that way. It would be absurd if you should be re-arrested now. They are strange, the terms of your release. And stranger still that I knew nothing about it.’