Whittaker sneered. “Another royalist in Philadelphia. Just what we need. No wonder you and the Hamiltons get along.”
“Faith, Vivienne, take care. He is a jackanapes as bad as the rest.” Caution edged Armand’s tone.
She pressed on. “I was in favor of the revolution when the aim was a constitutional monarchy. But I cannot abide the monsters who have taken over. I doubt you would think so highly of it yourself if the next neck on the block could be yours. No one is safe now. No one.”
The hum of the crowd around her amplified in the pause that followed. Eliza clutched her handkerchief in one hand and her husband’s arm with the other. Armand nodded solemnly. Mr. Delaney, she could not read at all. Hands clasped loosely before him, his jaw locked tight. Candlelight glinted on his chestnut hair and cast shadows beneath his cheekbones.
Whittaker swallowed. “Thomas Jefferson says that if half the earth must perish for the French Revolution to succeed, then he would rather see it done than for the revolution to fail. And I, for one, agree.”
“Half the earth!” Vivienne gasped. “Women and children? God-fearing souls?”
“If victory required it. The liberty of the whole earth depends on this contest.”
Hamilton glowered. “You’re mad. You would gain the whole world, and lose your own souls.”
“There would be no honor in such a victory,” Mr. Delaney added.
“Vive la France! Vive la liberté!” With one long stride to the dessert table, Mr. Whittaker picked up a knife and chopped the head from a bright red lobster molded out of ice cream. Scooping the severed head onto a plate, he began to eat it, looking straight at Vienne.
All others in the room fell out of focus as she stared at his horrible smile, stained red.
Loathing for Charles Whittaker snaked under Liam’s skin, along with an urge to knock the plate of garish ice cream from his hand. While Alex verbally lashed Whittaker, Liam crossed to the Frenchwoman. Her face was pinched and pale. Though he held no love for aristocrats, he was no brute. “Enough of that,” he said to her. He took her hand and placed his other hand at the hollow of her waist. “Shall we dance?”
She startled before settling into his hold, as if she only just then registered that the music had changed to a waltz and that couples twirled about them.
Turning her head, she avoided his gaze as he swept her away, the steps returning to him with surprising ease. A few ribbons of black hair coiled at her neck, and lashes just as dark fringed her green eyes. The hollow of her throat pulsed between collarbones far too prominent. He’d forgotten what it felt like to have a woman in his arms. Liam sensed that, unlike Maggie, who had seemed to mold herself to his touch, the only thing keeping his dance partner with him now was the music. The mademoiselle was rigid. Brittle, even.
She finally faced him, composure restored, her steps never faltering as he guided her through the room. “Mr. Hamilton said you spoke to him on behalf of whiskey rebels. So are you, how do I say it, in favor of only obeying the laws you like?” Her cheeks flushed pink with what he guessed was anger. Perhaps even hatred, no doubt fanned by Whittaker’s macabre theatrics.
Her clothes and her sentiments proved she was an aristocrat, the type who curried no favor with the likes of him. Yet how different she was from the woman who had stolen—and squandered—his heart. If Maggie had been half as direct just once during their courtship, Liam would have understood that she had neither patience nor patriotism enough to wait for him while he fought for America’s liberty.
“This is what you call liberty?” Mademoiselle Rivard asked, and Liam returned from his thoughts with effort.
“I’m in favor of a representational government that acts justly for all its citizens,” he responded.
“And if the government does not act the way you want it to, is this grounds to call it tyranny and overthrow it? You fought in the American Revolution, yes? So will you keep revolting and rebelling every time you don’t get your way? And I suppose you will call this patriotism.” She spat the word, even as she danced with grace and precision. “Freedom. Freedom for whom? Freedom from what?”
Liam almost forgot to lead. His hands grew warm as he held her. “The whiskey tax is an American issue, inspired by taxes Hamilton introduced, whatever he may say. You’re taking this all a bit personally, aren’t you?”
She tensed. “Did you not hear the ‘Ça Ira’ played and sung but moments ago?”
Cringing inwardly, he made no response. It was folly, this borrowing of one nation’s revolution and proclaiming it as one’s own battle cry. Didn’t America have its own share of tangles to sort?
“Mr. Whittaker and his Thomas Jefferson seem to be taking the French Revolution personally, too, wouldn’t you say?” she continued. “I cannot comprehend why they applaud the lawlessness that reigns in France. I can only imagine they believe it will prove some point about what kind of government is best for you.”
“Mademoiselle, you have just summarized the split between the Federalists and the Democratic-Republicans. The two parties divide along their response to the French Revolution. The former is for a strong central government, the latter for the people’s individual freedoms.”
She stared at him, brow furrowed, but said nothing.
In the corner of Liam’s eye, he caught Eliza Hamilton’s stern glance as Alex waltzed with her nearby. Clearly, she disapproved of his irritating effect on his dance partner.
Liam relaxed his grip on Mademoiselle Rivard’s hand. He hadn’t intended to hold her so firmly. “I did not mean to upset you. In fact, I meant only to put a little distance between you and the source of your distress.”
She eyed the small space between them. “Did you?”
“Do not blame me for your agitation. You’re safe now, whatever rhetoric tickles your ears.”
She tilted her head. “Safe,” she repeated in a tone that had lost its sting, “but not altogether welcome.”
The music stopped. He let go of her hand and waist and bowed to her, at a loss for words, and she curtsied. As she rose, he followed her gaze and found it riveted on the tricolor cockade pinned to another man’s lapel. He was talking to two other self-styled Jacobins, loudly enough to be heard all too clearly.
“No doubt you’ve heard that the boy under guard in Paris is not the son of Marie Antoinette at all,” said one. “Some poor street urchin pretends to be Louis-Charles. Paying with his life so the real Capet boy can live in hiding somewhere safe.”
Another man rocked back on his heels. “All the better for the revolution if they bring the boy out publicly—imposter or not—and send him to the guillotine for all to see. Have it over and done with. Then perhaps the royalists will stop resisting. The time for kings is past the world over.”
“But what if Louis-Charles is elsewhere? Waiting to emerge and claim the throne again?”
The third man, quiet until now, spoke up. “We’ll find him before that happens. And what a prize that will be. The head of Louis-Charles will seal our success.”
The coarse talk repulsed Liam. No wonder the mademoiselle paled once again.
“Monsieur Lemoine,” she called to a young man, who quickly approached. “I’ve had enough amusement for one evening. Allow me a moment to collect Father Gilbert.”
“Not so soon, surely,” the Frenchman whined. His black hair was in perfect order, as was his well-tailored suit. Liam disliked him immediately. “There are others who wish for an audience with you. They are most insistent.”
“And I am more so. Take me home at once, monsieur.”
The young man barely disguised a scowl. “It isn’t fashionable to retire so early.” He tossed a glance Liam’s way. “If this American oaf has soured your evening, allow me the honor of sweetening it.”
Oh, good. An insult. Liam smiled. “Actually,” he said in French, “I’m exhausted, too. We American oafs tire easily, you know.” The look on Lemoine’s face was worth all the unpleasantness that preceded it. Swallowing a laugh, L
iam went on. “Fancy clothes, fine drink, dancing—stimulating company . . .” He blew out an exaggerated sigh. “I’m spent. Why don’t I save you the trouble and escort the lady and her friend home myself?”
The hint of a smile curved the mademoiselle’s lips, but she shook her head. “Au revoir, gentlemen. I do believe we’ll walk.” With that, she turned and swished away, leaving Liam and the Frenchman in her wake. Finding the man who must be Father Gilbert on the edge of the room, she exchanged a few words with him before looping her hand in his elbow. Together, they wended from view.
Chapter Eight
Clouds muttered above Liam’s room at the Four Winds Tavern, refusing just yet to drop their heavy cargo. The humid breeze through the window carried the smells of canvas, tar, and timber from the shipyards. Live oak from Georgia, mulberry from the Chesapeake, and red cedar of the Carolinas met here in Philadelphia to be turned into the masts, spars, and planks of the best sailing vessels in the world. The sawdust that never seemed to clear the air prickled Liam’s throat. He poured himself a glass of water and downed it.
His evening at the Binghams’ echoed in his mind, especially the sound of Americans cheerfully singing for the death of French aristocrats. Was it a giant leap to suppose they would sing for the death of their American counterparts? Federalists, with Alex Hamilton at the head, were already being skewered in the press. Liam had meant to persuade Alex regarding the whiskey tax after Mademoiselle Rivard took her leave but had instead walked away with more questions than ever. Finn’s reasons for opposing the excise tax were sound of their own accord. But the idea that a larger force was at work in the west, aiming for the downfall of the American government, stayed him.
Last summer, the French minister Genêt had been recruiting American soldiers and sailors for France’s war. Pro-French spirit had been at a fever pitch in Philadelphia and all along the eastern seaboard. When Washington proclaimed neutrality, thousands of Philadelphians mobbed his house in protest, day after day. If the yellow fever hadn’t interrupted, scattering the discontents like roaches, there was no telling how far the rioters would have gone. Could people of the same mind—French, American, or both—now be attacking Washington’s leadership by aggravating the poor folks in Washington County, Pennsylvania? Diabolical. But not impossible.
Throat still itching, Liam went to the bureau and grasped the pitcher, only to find it empty. Without bothering to comb his hair, he headed downstairs to refill it.
The dining hall was empty when he entered, and only Finn and Tara still lingered at the bar. If she stood a little straighter, she’d have two inches on their cousin, easily. From the other side of his Dutch door, Jethro responded quietly to something they said, the towel slung over his shoulder stained brown with Monongahela rye.
At the sound of Liam’s footsteps, Finn looked up and beamed. “Well, if it isn’t the fashionable gentleman from the Binghams’ party,” he teased. “’Twas enough to make you thirsty, was it?”
Liam held up his pitcher as he approached. “For water.”
Jethro filled it from an urn along the back wall before returning it to him, his large brown hands dwarfing the vessel.
Tara kissed Liam’s cheek. “Didn’t see you come back. How was your evening? How did it go?”
He pushed her coppery hair back from her face, and she swatted him away. Stifling a sigh, he loosened the knot in his neckcloth. “If you’re asking if I convinced Hamilton to repeal the tax, I didn’t. Not yet.” Pouring himself a glass of water, he slaked his thirst. “You know how stubborn he is.”
“As stubborn as you?” Finn prodded. “If anyone can find a way to make him see, it’s you.” He raised his glass. “To Liam, the cousin closer than a brother. You’ve never let me down.”
Yet, Liam mused darkly as his cousin drained his cup. But Finn had always looked up to him. When they were children, the orphaned boy had attached himself to Liam like a puppy to its master. He taught Finn to read, write, and figure, while his mother turned their home into a tavern to pay the bills. Defending Finn against a neighborhood bully had earned Liam his first black eye. And when Finn joined Liam’s regiment at the age of fifteen, he kept him out of the action as much as he could. Somehow, after all these years, Finn still held Liam in higher estimation than he probably deserved.
Tara covered a yawn. “I’m done. Let Jethro close up for the night, will you?” After one more kiss for Liam and a slap on Finn’s back, she left the room.
Jethro poured himself a shot of Finn’s whiskey. Rare was the occasion when he shared a drink of any kind with anyone, especially when the hour was so late.
Liam eased onto a stool and cupped his tumbler of water in his hands, relishing the cool against his palms. “What’s on your mind?”
The barkeep shoved his fingers through his coiled charcoal hair before responding. “I’ve been walking this earth for better than four decades. And what have I got to show for it? A rented room on Fifth Street no bigger than the one you’re sleeping in now. I’m too old for this.”
Liam recognized defeat when he heard it. His chest knotted in sympathy for a man, older than he, who had no land of his own.
“Go on,” Finn prompted, his expression keen and hawklike.
“Day after day, night following night, I pour drink into white men’s cups. They come and go, only staying a short while on their way somewhere else to do important things. And I stay right here. I wipe this liquor-slick shelf with my filthy towel, never going anywhere.” He whipped the towel off his shoulder and leaned on the bar with straight arms, head bowed. “It don’t suit a man my age. It just don’t suit.”
It was the longest speech Liam had ever heard him give at once. “I don’t blame you.”
Jethro threw back his whiskey, then brought the glass down with a bang. “I don’t mean to complain. Your sister’s been good to me, and you know I’ve been loyal to Miss Tara.”
“But there’s nothing like land for a man,” Finn said. “You need land.”
Jethro frowned. “How’s that?”
“At some point, a man’s gotta be loyal to himself, doesn’t he?” Liam pushed back his stool and stood. “If it’s an opportunity you seek, I know where you can find one.”
Finn nodded, clearly aware of where he was leading.
Jethro eyed them both warily.
“Did you not hear me telling Tara I could use a hand on my land?” Liam continued. “I had the domestic sort in mind, cooking and laundering, but I truly would appreciate another set of strong hands to share the heavier labor. Do more than pour drinks and wipe counters and haul drunk men to the door.”
Jethro looked at his broad, dark hands, knuckles prominent as he gripped the edge of the counter. “You want me to work for you now, instead of your sister?”
Liam shook his head. “No, no. I want you to work with me. I’ve got land still needing to be cleared of its trees before I can begin to cultivate it. My cash is tied up in the crops right now, but if you’ll come and help me work the land for a year, at the end of that time, you’ll have earned yourself a portion of it to own outright, in your name.”
Jethro’s eyes burned with purpose and promise. “My own land.”
“That’s it,” Finn agreed. “There’s nothing like it.”
Liam’s plan unfurled. “Listen. I’m to purchase another Narragansett Pacer at the horse auction while I’m here to add to the stable for us mail carriers. I was planning to lead the second horse behind me on the way home, but it might as well have a rider.” He grinned. “Eventually, we get ourselves a few sheep and dairy cows. We breed the sheep, and you can have your pick of the offspring. It will be a strong start for you, and you’ll have the very best neighbor there could be.”
Jethro drew himself up tall. “Deal straight with me now. It’s good land? Fertile, close to water?”
“Ah, my friend.” Liam squeezed the barkeep’s shoulder. “Once you’re there, you’ll never want to leave.”
Jethro’s smile gleamed
. For the first time that night, he seemed to exhale. “When do we go?”
Rain tapped against Vivienne’s window, faintly scented with a hint of wine and veal fricassee from the café next door. Faint strains of “La Marseillaise” bounced off the cobblestones behind the pension, coming from the nearby Chestnut Street Theater, which closed every performance with revolutionary songs. Beyond the warm glow of Vienne’s pension garret, it might as well have been France.
Disoriented, she traded the Versailles court gown for her nightdress and dislodged the pins from her hair. But tricolor cockades and a knife blade beaded with blood assaulted her vision, sweeping her back into the Terror in her mind. Not blood. Ice cream, she reminded herself. But the uncanny resemblance unlocked something inside her. Not fear itself, but the memory of it—and that alone was so strong as to leave her breathless. This was not what she’d expected from America. Martine had been right to stay home.
A light scratching sounded at the door, and Vivienne called to her friend to enter.
Martine appeared in the darkened doorway, the light of her taper ethereal against her white nightgown, white skin, white hair. An apparition, until she spoke. “Henri’s asleep. How was it? What happened?”
Caging up her fluttering nerves, Vienne sat on the edge of her bed and pointed to the chair. “Come in.”
Quietly, Martine closed the door and glided to sit in the chair. With rapt attention, she listened as Vienne spoke of the Binghams’ mansion with its Corinthian pilasters and French style, of Eliza Hamilton, and most importantly, Anne’s invitation to return on Thursday to sell her lace.
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