‘If you behave yourself,’ said Ruth.
‘Hurray, hurray, I’m here to stay.’ Frances danced ahead of them out into the garden, and Dick took Ruth’s arm.
‘Why are you looking so conscious?’ She smiled up at him with a question in her eyes.
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘you will think me the most presumptuous fellow alive, but I had been thinking about what, would happen when Mercy goes. I will not ask my mother here. She does not admit it, but of course she knew what was being done to Hart. You will think me very ill equipped, but I have no other female relatives. I could not for the life of me think what was best to be done.’
‘So?’
‘Well.’ He put up a hand to his cravat, which seemed to be throttling him. ‘While I was getting the special licence for Hart and Mercy …’
‘You got one for us too! And never told me!’ Now she was laughing at him. ‘Oh, my darling! And then thought it should have been for me and Charles Brisson! No wonder you looked so sick. But what are we waiting for! Let us find the Bishop at once. Besides’ – she twinkled up at him – ‘it will take his mind off whatever dreadful thing your Frances has done to him.’
‘Our Frances,’ he said.
The Bishop fortunately thought it a capital joke to go back to the little church when the party was over and marry a second couple there. Blandly full of champagne by now, he and Mr. Pym made a good many broad remarks about happy events and standing godfather if necessary before they finally took their leave and the two couples were alone to toast each other over a light supper and retire to the beds that Frances had filled with prickly wedding flowers.
‘Do you think she did it to Ruth and Dick too?’ asked Mercy, removing the last bit of Michaelmas daisy.
‘Bound to have,’ said Hart cheerfully. ‘But I think we will not go and ask.’
‘I should rather think not.’ Mercy was in her nightgown now, brushing her hair. ‘Hart, I’m so happy. It was quite different, wasn’t it, this wedding?’
He took her gently by the shoulders and pulled her towards the bed. ‘And this honeymoon is going to be quite different, too, my darling.’
XXII
Hart and Mercy left Denton Hall a week later, having learnt that a fast merchantman was to sail almost immediately with supplies for beleaguered Savannah. It was too good a chance to miss, though it was sad to leave Dick and Ruth in the first glow of their happiness. ‘I think your Ruth is going to manage that hellbrat admirably,’ said Hart as the carriage drove through Denton village. ‘She has really made her sorry for what she did to the Bishop.’
‘Dear Ruth,’ said Mercy. ‘I hate to part with her, but it is wonderful to see her so happy. If you had known her when we first met, back in January, you would not believe the change in her.’
‘All your doing, I’m sure.’
‘No, not all. We’ve been … lucky, Ruth and I. So lucky.’ They were holding hands, and she waved with the other one to a smiling village woman who had come to their wedding. ‘They’re so kind,’ she said. ‘But, Hart, I’m glad we are going home.’
Privileged passengers, they had their own cabin on the fast Baltimore-built merchantman that had been captured by the British a year before. They dined at the captain’s table, and his boast that his ship could easily outsail any French or American privateer proved entirely justified. The voyage was an easy one, and as peaceful day followed day, Mercy was glad to see the shadows gradually disappear from under Hart’s eyes. By the time they raised Tybee Light at the mouth of the Savannah River, early in November, he had almost stopped dreaming of the Tower and hardly ever woke sweating and screaming in her arms.
Since no pilot was available, and the captain had not sailed up the Savannah River before, he asked Hart to join him on the bridge for the hazardous journey up the slow-winding river, so Mercy stood alone, gazing at the golden acres of marsh grass that had given it its name. Passing the inlet that would have taken them up to the burnt bones of Winchelsea, she remembered a January day, four long years before, when she and Abigail and Hart had gone down river to look for forage for their hungry animals and had seen the sails of British warships making for the river. The British had been the enemy then. What were they now?
They anchored by the bluff below Factor’s Walk just as the setting sun set the whole bronze marsh aglow. The bells of Christ Church were ringing for evensong. ‘We’re home, Hart.’ She turned to him as he came hurrying down to their cabin, released at last from duty on the bridge. And then, remembering his mother and aunt. ‘A strange homecoming, I am afraid.’
It was stranger even than she expected. The news came on board with the first official, and soon the whole ship was aflame with it, seething like a disturbed hive. ‘What is it, Hart? What’s the matter?’ Busy packing, Mercy had only gradually become aware of the change in the usual tone of the ship.
‘I’ll go and see.’ He returned, white-faced, the shadows back under his eyes. ‘Treachery!’ he told her. ‘Benedict Arnold tried to sell West Point to the British.’
‘Benedict Arnold! I don’t believe it!’ But instantly, horribly, remembering the man, and his wife, she did. ‘How did they catch him?’
‘They didn’t. He’s clean away to the British. They caught his go-between, a Major Andre. Washington has hanged him, Mercy. He wasn’t in uniform. The British are terribly angry about it. Captain Graves is not sure whether he should let us ashore tonight; he says things are so stirred up in town; the news only came the other day; he’s sent to Sir James Wright for instructions. He’s asked me … he asks us both – to be very careful what we say. He’s a good friend, Mercy.’
‘Yes.’ It came out mechanically. ‘I knew Benedict Arnold in Philadelphia. I never could like him. Or his wife. Oh.’ Her hand went up to her mouth. ‘I remember. There was gossip about her and Major Andre. He was with the British during the occupation of Philadelphia. Before she married Arnold. Hart!’ It was all flooding back. ‘They must have been planning it when I was there in Philadelphia.’
‘I am afraid so.’ His face was very grave. ‘There is something else I have to tell you, Mercy. Andre was not alone when he was taken. There was another man with him. Charles Brisson.’
‘Charles!’ Had she seen it coming?
‘Yes. He was hanged too, Mercy. God rest his soul.’
She sat down on the narrow bed, tears flooding down her cheeks. ‘Ah, poor Charles.’ It all began to make horrible sense. ‘He was working for the British all the time! Of course he was. Hanged!’
‘They asked to be shot. But – they were spies, Mercy.’
‘So were we.’
‘Never again,’ he said. ‘Whatever happens. I think I’m glad now that I had to give my parole to the British. What monsters war makes of men.’
‘Not Charles,’ she protested. ‘I wish you’d known him, Hart. He was—’ She broke off, remembering, understanding. ‘Lord, what a fool he made of me! Using me as his cover in Philadelphia. Even on the way there. We were stopped by the militia, Hart. They thought he was one of our party. They were looking for a man by himself. I remember how they cross-examined the boy, Jed, because he was riding alone. But Brisson was in the sledge. They did not question him. He must have come straight from New York. With a message for Bendict Arnold.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And Arnold’s free. Safe with the British, while Charles and Andre … Dear Charles. When he helped me get to England, he did it out of pure kindness. There was no advantage in that for him. Only danger.’
‘Not just out of kindness,’ said Hart. ‘Give him his due. It must have been out of love, out of pure love.’
‘Yes.’ She was remembering the last time she had seen Brisson. ‘He told me so,’ she said. ‘At Portsmouth. And, Hart, he told me you were out of danger. He need not have. He could have let me think you as good as dead. Have urged me to go with him. Instead, he told me to stay, to go Denton Hall and look for Dick Purchas. We owe him everything, Hart.’
‘I
think I owe him my freedom too. Dick said something the night before we left. Said he had heard Brisson’s name mentioned in the Secretary’s office when he was there. I always wondered who in England, granted it wasn’t the Purchases, cared enough about me to arrange my release. Now we know. Naturally, Brisson knew I was safe when he saw you at Portsmouth. He had just come from arranging it.’
‘So the war didn’t make a monster of him.’
‘No. He must have loved you very much, Mercy.’
‘I’ll never forget him.’ She was in Hart’s arms now, crying quietly. ‘I wonder. If I hadn’t been so oceans-deep in love with you …’
‘You’d be his widow now.’ He bent to kiss away her tears. ‘I’m glad you’re not. Poor Brisson …’
They went ashore next day and found Savannah apparently more firmly in British hands than ever. Abigail, welcoming them home to the house in Oglethorpe Square with tears of joy, congratulated Hart warmly on his acceptance of the British terms. ‘All right-thinking men have taken the oath,’ she told him. ‘Since the British took Charleston and the rebel governor, Howley, had to flee from Augusta, no one even knows where the rebel Assembly is. It’s just a question of time now …’
‘But time is not on the Tories’ side, dear Abigail,’ said Hart. ‘I warn you, the British are tired of this war. A year, two years, you’ll see; it will be over. Happily over, I pray, and all friends again.’
‘Friends! After what’s been done to Andre and Brisson!’ And then, seeing Mercy’s face. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to remind you.’
‘I shall never forget him,’ Mercy said. ‘I don’t want to. He may have been spy, but he was a good man.’
‘He was a Patriot,’ Abigail said austerely, ‘not a spy.’
‘Oh, Abigail—’ Mercy began, but Hart interrupted her.
‘Dear Abigail,’ he said, ‘we must face it that this war has made contradictions of us all. Patriot … spy. Turn the coin; it’s the same thing. I pray to God it will be over soon.’
‘And Giles Habersham home at last,’ said Mercy, and was horrified to see the change in Abigail’s face. Sharp lines she had not noticed in the first joy of the meeting now showed savagely etched in the thin cheeks.
‘Giles is not coming home,’ Abigail said. ‘He wrote me – at last. He seems to agree with you, Hart; I cannot imagine why. He thinks the British have lost interest in this war. He sees no hope of ever coming home. He wrote to say good-bye. To free me, he said. He has joined their regular army.’ The sentences came out short and stiff. ‘Don’t be sorry for me,’ she said. ‘Please …’
‘Oh, dear Abigail.’ Mercy threw her arms round her for a quick, impulsive kiss. ‘I am so glad we are home. We’ll not be parted again.’
‘No.’ Abigail had changed, Mercy thought, hardened a little, and no wonder. ‘I have a letter for you,’ she went on now. ‘From Charles Brisson. He sent it under cover to me, asked me to get it to you if I could. He wrote it the night before he was hanged. How could George Washington hang them, him and Andre!’ She turned to Hart. ‘It will never be forgotten. Never!’
‘Nor will many other things,’ said Hart. ‘But let us not quarrel, not this first day at home.’
‘No, indeed.’ Abigail’s smile was forced, and she made an obvious effort to change the subject. ‘Hart, there is something I think I should tell you.’ ‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps alone?’ With an apolgetic glance at Mercy.
‘No.’ Hart made it gentle. ‘Mercy and I are man and wife. What concerns me concerns her too.’
‘Oh, very well. It’s about Francis. After …’ She hesitated for a moment. After your mother and Aunt Anne died, I had to tidy their papers. I found a batch of letters to Francis from someone in England. Someone called Julia. She wrote as if … as if they were old friends.’ And then, bravely. ‘More than that. There was a child, a girl. She wanted help. I don’t think he gave it.’
‘I know he did not,’ said Hart. ‘Thank you, Abigail. I’m grateful to you for telling me. It explains a great deal. Do you realise,’ he turned to Mercy. ‘Why did we never think of it? No wonder Julia knew so much about me, about us … It was not just our letters that she stopped and opened. She had been in touch with Francis all the time.’
‘All the time?’ Mercy thought about it. ‘Oh, poor Julia. Still hoping, do you think?’
‘I’m afraid so. It’s an old, sad story.’ He turned to Abigail, trying to remember how much she knew about Francis’s death. ‘Best forgotten.’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘By all means let us forget.’
Hart and Mercy were glad to be alone at last in Hart’s old bedroom. ‘Poor Abigail,’ said Mercy. ‘If only she had gone with Giles Habersham when he asked her to that time.’
‘Yes,’ said Hart. ‘But how was she to know? Read your letter, darling. Best face it at once.’
It was a brief scrawl, written the night before Brisson was hanged:
Beloved Mercy.
Let me call you that, this once, before I die. And forgive me for the times I deceived you … used you. I think I am glad to die. I know I am glad to have known you; loved you. Give my kind regards to your lucky husband. I am glad to think that I saved your lives. Your murders were planned on that smuggler. You were to meet on her – and be killed. I pray that you will live happy and sometimes remember me. Mercy, spying’s a shabby business. Don’t go back to it; don’t let this war tarnish you, as it has me.
Yours, till death and beyond – Charles
When she had cried over it, she showed it to Hart. ‘Nobody asked me to swear not to fight the British,’ she said. ‘But, Hart, I do. It’s all too complicated for me now.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I feel the same.’
They rode out to Winchelsea the next day, glad to be free of the currents and crosscurrents of Savannah society. ‘We’ll rebuild and come out here just as soon as we can,’ said Hart as they took the familiar turning down the long walk with its occasional ilex tree, survivor of the avenue his grandfather had planted.
‘I wish we could move out at once,’ said Mercy. ‘Poor Abigail, it’s no wonder she’s bitter. To have waited all those years for Giles Habersham and then receive a turn down like that! It’s enough to turn anyone sour. But I’d as lief not live with her. Oh, Hart, I do bless Julia Purchis for her money.’
‘And Charles Brisson for our lives,’ he reminded her soberly as they reined in their horses at sight of what had been the house. Burnt almost to the ground during the abortive French attack on Savannah the year before, it was coming to life again now as a tangle of wild jasmine and scarlet-and bronze-leaved creepers. Growing out of and up the remaining bits of wall and chimney, these even gave it something of the shape of the old house.
‘We’ll rebuild on the old site,’ said Hart. ‘Just as soon as the war is over and it’s safe.’
‘I wish we could now.’
‘Oh, my dear, so do I. But this house was in the thick of the fighting last time Savannah was attacked. It may well be again. However we may hope for a negotiated end to the war, it would be madness to count on it. And in the meantime, there is always the danger of an Indian attack. I would never have a quiet moment if we came to live here now. I’d be afraid, always, of the same horrible fate for you as befell my mother and Aunt Anne. And – we must face it – I may not be able to stay with you all the time. I have promised not to fight the British, but I gave no undertaking not to work for peace.’
She smiled at him. ‘And I have promised nothing since nobody asked me. How strange it all is.’ By tacit consent, they turned their horses in the direction of the old graveyard. Reaching it, they stopped, surprised. The house had gone back to jungle, but the graveyard had been lovingly cared for. They tied their horses to the makeshift gate and walked across to where Mercy’s father was buried. The stump of the Judas tree beside it had sprouted. The grave was covered with creeping evergreens, and the gravestone recently cleaned: ‘James Phillips. The truth shall
make you free.’
They stood for a moment, silent, hand in hand. ‘Do you remember last time?’ she said at last. ‘I said we’d be back.’
‘And here we are. I thought we would bring my mother and Aunt Anne out here. And a stone for Charles Brisson?’
‘By my father’s?’ She smiled up at him, letting the tears flow. ‘What shall we put on it.’
‘“Love conquers all things,”’ he told her.
‘Even war?’
‘Even war.’
A Note on the Author
Jane Aiken Hodge was born in Massachusetts to Pulitzer prize-winning poet, Conrad Aiken, and his first wife, writer Jessie McDonald. Hodge was 3 years old when her family moved to Great Britain, settling in Rye, East Sussex, where her younger sister, Joan, who would become a novelist and a children's writer, was born.
From 1935, Jane Hodge read English at Somerville College, Oxford University, and in 1938 she took a second degree in English at Radcliffe College. She was a civil servant, and also worked for Time magazine, before returning to the UK in 1947. Her works of fiction include historical novels and contemporary detective novels. In 1972 she renounced her United States citizenship and became a British subject.
Discover books by Jane Aiken Hodge published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/JaneAikenHodge
A Death in Two Parts
Leading Lady
Polonaise
Rebel Heiress
Strangers in Company
Wide Is the Water
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Wide is the Water Page 31