Smith had led her over to the produce stalls where they were inspecting the roots, herbs, and garden seed when Meagan spotted little, black-clad Wong Washington. He carried an oversized basket and wore a bicorne hat that seemed to cover half his head, but there was no mistaking his voice as he screamed at one of the largest butchers.
"I not pay so much! You trying to lob me, missa!"
They continued to quarrel until finally the butcher gave a resigned sigh and said something to Wong in a low voice. The tiny Chinaman grinned gleefully and the exchange of money for beef was made.
Meagan could not resist the impulse to speak to him. She edged her way through the crowd until she was near enough to touch Wong's sleeve and he looked back, meeting her eyes which happened to be level with his own.
"You want me, missy?" he asked impatiently; then recognition dawned. "Hello, Missy Meagan! I so glad to see you!"
"Wong, I'm happy that you remember me!"
His smile widened, displaying dozens of teeth. "I tell truth—most Missa Lion's ladies I forget. But you special."
Meagan felt her face grow hot. "Don't be silly. I'm only a servant—an ordinary lady's maid."
He shrugged amiably, but not without a surreptitious wink at her. "Maybe so... but if you ordinary, Missa Lion never bring you to his house. Or laugh so happy when you alone with him."
Meagan wished she had never approached Wong. Her high spirits were crushed and she felt the familiar constriction around her heart. "You are talking nonsense. Mr. Hampshire is engaged to be married—to a real lady." The last words were forced out between clenched teeth as she thought of her own venerable lineage.
"You know what they say here in Amelica, missy. There more than one way to skin cat!"
Meagan had an uneasy feeling she was being insulted, good-naturedly or not. "I think that is a terrible expression!"
She turned and made her way back to Smith, who was heading toward the north shambles to look over the eggs and butter. Suddenly the crowds of people made her head ache. Not until Bramble had joined them and they were out in the open air and sunshine having the cart loaded did Meagan begin to relax. This entire tangle is no one's fault but my own. I can't expect people to treat me with the respect afforded a lady when I have chosen to leave the ranks of the upper class. I never felt comfortable in it anyway—and if I feel cheap now—well, I could have gone to Aunt Agatha... She shuddered, the thought of her alternative making her situation seem better. At least I'm living life instead of stagnating in Aunt's musty, dark house in Boston! I'll figure out some sort of solution. All I need to do is save some money and get away.
The adventure was fading quickly from her masquerade and for the first time Meagan began to contemplate the idea of finding some old friend who would take her in without alerting her aunt of her whereabouts. The well-loved faces of George and Martha Washington flashed across her mind and as she realized how ludicrous that thought was she chuckled out loud.
Smith eyed her speculatively. "Well, that's better. You looked positively ill for a while at the market."
Meagan gave her a rueful smile. "Don't mind me. I seem to be having my ups and downs these days, but I never stay down for long."
"Good for you. You know, you ought to ask for some real time off. Perhaps you've been working too hard."
"I'm going to. Kevin Brown has asked me to visit Peale's Museum with him this afternoon. I gather everyone will be away at some reception—"
"Oh, yes! The Powels'." Smith's hazel eyes twinkled above her pink cheeks. "Hmm... Kevin, is it? He seems like a nice fellow—if a bit roguish."
Meagan sighed softly. "Yes, and he makes me laugh, which is no small accomplishment these days. As for the roguish part—you needn't worry about that, for I am in no danger of losing my heart to him."
They were approaching Mansion House and Smith slowed her walk, searching Meagan's face in hopes that she would reveal more.
"Wouldn't you like to talk about whatever is bothering you, Meagan?"
She blushed and looked away, fixing her eyes on a nearby strong post. "I can't. But it's nothing that can't be resolved with a bit of time and determination. I can be very determined!"
Smith put a smooth hand on her cheek. "I wish you luck. And, if you ever need a friend—"
"I'll remember. Thank you."
Bramble was turning down Bingham's Court toward the back entrance. "Be quick!" she called sharply over her shoulder.
Smith grimaced, whispering, "You'd think she was head housekeeper!" She paused, trying to decide whether or not to say more and finally gave in to temptation. "I shouldn't mention this, and indeed I do not mean to gossip, but I'm sure I can trust you not to repeat this confidence."
"Of course you can."
"Well, Wickham and I have been told that Bramble is to be replaced before the month is out."
"You must be joking! She is a wonderful cook!"
"That is neither here nor there. Apparently Mrs. Bingham has gotten her hands on an available French chef. The mistress is very enamored of all things French and this cook will be a status symbol whether he has any talent in the kitchen or not!"
"Oh, dear! Has Bramble been told?"
"No."
"It will destroy her!"
"I'm well aware of that. The question now is whether or not her pride will allow her to stay on in second place—taking orders in the kitchen from someone else."
Meagan looked ahead to the stiff, self-righteous woman who was striding past the orangerie and shivered as she imagined Bramble's reaction to this turn of events.
***
Meagan arrived just in time to assist Priscilla in her preparations for the reception at Mayor Powel's. It was being given in honor of the many members of the new Congress who had arrived in town that week, stopping over on their way to New York. Word had reached them that their business in the new capital could not begin for at least two weeks so they lingered in Philadelphia to enjoy its lively social whirl. Priscilla had heard at the theater that James Madison was now in town as well, his arrival delayed by the week he had spent at Mount Vernon. Apparently, he had been joined there by John Page, where the two of them had encountered Robert Bland Lee from Alexandria. Meagan was all too well acquainted with each member of that trio and she panicked anew at the prospect of meeting one—or all—of them in Mansion House or on the street. This town is probably teeming with people who have met me in Virginia, she thought with a groan.
Priscilla had chosen one of her finest new gowns for the reception. Fashioned of ivory silk, it was embroidered with a scattered repeat pattern in blue and green. The tight, elbow-length sleeves were edged in rich lace as was the round-necked bodice and the petticoat that showed behind the open skirt. Meagan helped her dress, arranging the cul de Paris, a little cushion attached to the underskirt, which was placed on the buttocks. There was a special corset, designed to make the breasts more prominent, which was lined with a piece of triangular wire, curved and padded. Over all of this went the gown itself, finished off by a handkerchief, knotted like a fichu, which covered the neckline. It was held up so stiffly by the 'pigeon's breast' that it almost reached Priscilla's chin. Still, in spite of all the false curves and stiffness, the final effect was quite striking. Priscilla's waist looked tiny, her neck long, and her face lovely. Anne Bingham's abigail had taught Meagan to apply special French cosmetics —rice powder, Up salve, and rouge—so skillfully that they were almost impossible to detect. Around her neck, Priscilla wore a green velvet ribbon from which hung a pearl droplet as well as a long gold chain with an enameled watch at its end. Meagan dressed her auburn hair so that it was full at the sides, with soft curls falling over her shoulders, then topped the coiffure with a large Florentine straw hat, tied under her pretty chin with a green satin ribbon. Cologne water, imported from France, was the finishing touch. Meagan had already laid out a fan made of embroidered silk that matched the gown's material and a little pearl-encrusted box called a nécessaire, holding such indi
spensable items as perfume, a watch key, tiny scissors, ear and nail cleaners, a pencil, and a little ivory plate on which to make notes.
As she helped Priscilla dress, Meagan listened with unwilling interest to her extravagant tales of her night at the Southwark Theater.
"There was a marvelous dance. I believe it was called a hornpipe, performed by a man named Darlang, or—"
"Durang," Meagan corrected.
Priscilla narrowed her eyes briefly. "Yes. Well, he was dressed like a sailor with a lovely red vest. The amazing part was that he seemed to fly onto the stage. Lion said he had jumped from a trampoline though I'm not quite sure what that is..."
Priscilla went on to describe the performance of The Roman Father in sadly sketchy terms that only added to Meagan's suspicion that her mind had been more on her surroundings than the play. Apparently, the Binghams had obtained seats befitting the wealthiest family in America, and Marcus Reems had accepted Anne's invitation to share their box. Meagan imagined that it must have been an exhilarating evening for Priscilla to be seen by all of Philadelphia society in the company of the Binghams and to be sitting with not only a handsome fiancé but his attractive rival as well.
Priscilla took one last look in the mirror before slipping into the blue pelisse that Meagan held for her. She smiled at her reflection in a way that made Meagan's stomach turn, then went out into the hallway to join the Binghams. Only William was waiting there, his face looking more flushed than usual.
"Ah, Priscilla dear! You are looking splendid as always. Lion will be a proud man today with you by his side! Anne is still dressing. I do hope she will be ready soon, for the hour grows late..."
Meagan approached him, feeling unusually shy. "Mr. Bingham, could I have a word with you?"
Hearing the refined, softly melodious voice behind him, he turned to find the little black-haired maid about whom Lion had spoken. Since that first night, he had meant to have a closer look at her in an effort to discover what his friend was about, but he had seldom seen her at close range. There was undoubtedly something odd about the girl, for neither her face nor her voice were those of a common servant. Her features were delicately made, her skin as translucent as a pink and ivory shell, and when she looked up at him— what amazing eyes! He had never known that such a true violet color was possible.
"Most certainly, Miss—"
"South, sir."
"Of course. Do pardon my memory." He gave her a hearty smile. Bingham was a man confident of his charm, for what he lacked in physical attributes he made up for by the aura he exuded of power and wealth. Anne was truly his better half, for she brought her dazzling beauty and versatile charm to unite with his shrewd intelligence and unlimited wealth. In his mind, the resulting combination was matchless. Anne emerged at that moment from her suite of rooms, looking as breathtaking as always.
"I am ready, William. Let us go."
Beaming, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. "Momentarily, my dear. Miss South desires a word with me."
Anne lifted an eyebrow at Meagan, who met her gaze unflinchingly. "Do tell," she said coolly.
"Yes. I only wanted to ask Mr. Bingham if I might have the afternoon free."
William laughed good-naturedly. "Why, I certainly have no objections, but perhaps you should be asking Mr. Hampshire. After all, he is your actual employer. He'll be here any minute if he's not downstairs right now, and..."
Anne broke in quickly. "Now, William, we needn't waste Lion's time. I'm sure he would be agreeable to this if you are." She turned her beautiful eyes on Meagan. "Do behave yourself, South. You'll be expected home to attend Miss Wade before dinner."
With that, she turned and swept away down the hall, her saffron silk skirts rustling. Bingham gave Meagan one last distracted smile before going after her, Priscilla at his side.
It was a long way down to the end of the stairway, but after a minute, Meagan could hear Anne's vivacious greeting for Lion Hampshire. The sound of his voice, typically dry and amused, drew Meagan to the top of the stairs like a magnet. She allowed herself one quick glimpse of his gold hair and bronzed face, which appeared to be smiling down at Priscilla, before forcing her feet to back away. As she made her way toward the rear stairway, Meagan determined that she would make a success of the afternoon she was about to spend with Kevin Brown.
Chapter Fifteen
Brown's plan to take Meagan to Peale's Museum proved to be inspired, for she was utterly delighted with the place. Having grown up outdoors in the meadows and woods of Virginia, riding and walking in her breeches and making friends with every animal in sight, she felt right at home with this stuffed menagerie, set in recreations of their natural habitats.
"I had heard that he had done wonders..." Meagan murmured, her face flushed with pleasure, "but I never dreamed..."
The entire seventy-foot museum had been built onto the back of Charles Wilson Peale's home, located on Lombard Street, directly south of Mansion House. Meagan learned that it had begun as a picture gallery to display his famous portraits of Washington and the other notables he had known during the war. Apparently, it did not take long for Peale's interest in nature to intrude; the first additions were sketches of mammoth bones found in a New York swamp. His notorious enthusiasm was soon at a fever pitch. He began badgering friends and acquaintances from far and wide for items like alligator skins, wild ducks, and silk grass... even approaching Benjamin Franklin for the body of his dead French Angora cat. Much experimenting had to be done before a suitable technique was arrived at for preserving, skinning, and stuffing the carcasses; but the results were amazing.
During her tour of the museum, Meagan found herself forgetting that the animals were dead. Peale had constructed a mound covered with trees, as well as a thicket, a rocky grotto, an artificial pond made from mirrors, and a beach. Animals of every description were posed against this natural background, including bears, tigers, a variety of snakes, fish, exotic birds, deer, and even a mongoose. Brown laughingly told Meagan that the latest rumor was that Peale had acquired a swarm of East Indian insects.
"Nothing is too absurd to be believed where Mr. Peale's museum is concerned," he chuckled.
"It is a splendid project," Meagan replied earnestly.
They had already been there two hours, determined to get their shilling's worth, and finally Meagan left the animals to examine the portraits. At the upper end of the room hung a life-size portrait of George Washington that took Meagan's breath away.
"It's a perfect likeness," she said softly, and Brown gave her a curious glance.
" 'Tis a fine specimen of a man, indeed."
After looking over the other paintings, most of which were of heroes from the Revolution, many of whom Meagan readily recognized, Brown led her over to a rather bizarre display.
"Wasn't sure if you'd enjoy this, but you don't strike me as a swooner!"
She gave him a grin, which changed into an expression of revulsion at the sight of several Indian scalps. The next exhibit was a set of rattlesnake fangs mounted under a magnifying glass.
"You were right to save the worst for last!" Meagan told Brown with a weak laugh. "It makes it easier for me to take my leave."
Brown set a leisurely pace for their walk back to Mansion House, despite Meagan's attempts to go faster. Ever fearful of encountering someone who knew her, she pulled the hood of her pelisse up so that it covered as much of her face as possible.
"You wouldn't be cold?" Brown inquired with surprise. The late afternoon air was barely cool and the sun still shone cheerfully.
"Not really, but I've felt a slight case of the ague coming on and I'm rather afraid of making it worse out in this open air."
She avoided looking at him directly, focusing on the coaches passing them on Third Street. A striking black and green phaeton pulled by a pair of ebony horses turned off Spruce Street and came clattering toward them. Fascinated, Meagan's eyes were on the handsome horses, their glossy dark manes flying in the spring breeze.
As they passed, she saw the passengers —Marcus Reems, looking lawless in a fluttering black cape, and the fashionably-garbed Clarissa. They sat close together, so deep in conversation that they saw neither her nor Brown.
Meagan's mind was spinning as Brown guided her across Spruce Street. Why were the two of them together? What could it mean?
Brown, meanwhile, observed the troubled expression on her face and wished he could read her thoughts. From any other girl, the ague explanation would have easily satisfied him, but somehow it rang false when she gave it.
As they neared Mansion House, the elegant home of Mayor Powel loomed before them where the reception for the visiting congressmen was being held. Brown's sharp eyes had no trouble spotting Lion Hampshire leaning against a strong post at the edge of the brick footpath. Looking coolly elegant, even from a distance, he was smoking a cheroot and conversing with two men. Brown recognized William Maclay, but the slight, plainly dressed man standing with them was unknown to him.
"Good afternoon to you, Captain Hampshire," he called cheerfully. Ordinarily, Brown would never have been so bold as to greet publicly someone as far removed in social class from himself as Lion Hampshire, but the captain had never been a man who placed any importance on such distinctions.
Meagan stiffened with cold, chilling fear. What could she do? Lion looked down the street, the sweep of hair caught back at his neck as bright as molten gold in the sunlight. Meagan was unnervingly conscious of him but the bulk of her attention was riveted on the smaller figure of James Madison.
Lion straightened up as he recognized the couple standing near the gates to Mansion House. His companions were engaged in a livery debate on their future roles in the new government, so he decided to walk down and speak to Brown and Meagan. He was uncomfortably curious to learn what they were doing together.
Meagan saw him speak to Madison and Maclay, then start toward them, an odd spark in his blue eyes. Then, as Madison paused in mid-sentence to look toward Brown and Meagan, she dropped her eyes and whispered hoarsely to Brown, "I am ill." Keeping her head turned so that her hood shielded her face, she ran past the gates and up the drive.
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