A Refuge Assured

by Jocelyn Green

  “Are you hungry?” he asked. “The baker here is the best in the city.” He grinned and shoved toward her a basket of her own ginger-raisin scones. “How’s Henri?”

  Lifting the white linen covering the basket, she pulled out a scone and lathered it with butter. “Lonely, bored, and cramped.” The longer Henri stayed in the pension, the less he exercised his rickety legs, for pacing the corridors had long since lost its charm. His stomachaches, too, had increased. Vienne suspected that fear and uncertainty had him in knots. “I’m anxious to get back to him now that my shift is over, so I’ll come straight to the point. Has Armand arrived safely in the settlement?”

  Asylum, Armand had reminded her, was built with Marie Antoinette and the royal children in mind. But though plans to smuggle out the queen and hide her there had failed, the place was still a refuge for any French people who needed it. Vienne took a bite of her scone, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  Sebastien picked a loose thread from his sleeve and flicked it to the floor. “He has, and I’m sure he is quite at home now. Such a pretty little town, you can’t imagine. It’s tucked into the wilderness, well away from the crudeness of city life.”

  Paved walkways lined with roses came to mind, a country retreat for the nobility. Which she wasn’t. She smoothed the napkin in her lap and pressed on. “Last Armand and I spoke, he offered to buy a plot of land for me there. With a house on it for myself and Henri. He must have spoken to you about this.” She barely kept the disapproval from her tone, for it still galled her that Sebastien and Armand spoke so freely about her.

  “Yes, he told me,” he confirmed. “He also told me you refused. I assumed nothing less of you. Your penchant for rejecting generosity is astounding.” His cutlery scraped his plate as he cut a beef medallion, releasing the fragrance of mushroom and wine sauce. After taking a bite, he shoved the plate to the end of the table. “I must say I was pleased you rejected his offer. Allow me to make one of my own. I bungled it last time.”

  Vivienne stiffened.

  “Marry me.” He fished a ring from his pocket and reached for her hand.

  Unmoved, she curled her fingers into a fist. “Why?”

  A frown wrinkled his young face. “Pardon me?”

  “Why should I marry you? And why should you want to marry me?” He was playing a game. He was gambling, and she knew it.

  “Armand has given me his blessing. All that matters in life, to me, is your happiness and security. I can give that to you and Louis.”

  She glanced around the room and spied only one other man at a separate booth, hidden by the newspaper he held. Still, her pulse climbed at his slip. “You mean Henri.”

  Sebastien shrugged. “Call him what you like. But if you don’t give him a father, and soon, there is precious little to stop the Royalist Society from taking his charge. You like to think you are reliant only upon yourself, but you do need me. As I’ve proven already.”

  She bristled. As she replayed the memory of Sebastien coming to Henri’s rescue in the alley, she saw something she hadn’t at the time. Sebastien was the one who’d insisted on the outing to get ice cream and then detained her at the door, making it possible for Henri to be snatched. The attacker, when confronted by Sebastien, barely put up a fight at all, and then somehow managed to vanish. Had it all been a ruse? Had Sebastien arranged it somehow, to make a point about the danger and to prove himself the hero? His story about keeping Henri warm in the tavern with cider didn’t sit well with her, either. Armand had checked all the taverns on Front Street soon after they had noticed him missing. Why had Sebastien not come forward with Henri then? Distrust ballooned inside her.

  “You have no legal claim to the boy,” he was saying. He turned the engagement ring to catch the sunlight slanting through the window, but Vivienne guessed he was thinking of the signet ring of Louis XVI. “All you have is a frightened boy who says he’d like to be yours. But what kind of life are you giving him now?”

  “My point exactly.”

  “So marry me. We’ll adopt him together, I’ll provide for your needs, and we’ll be untouchable. The Royalist Society could make no objection.”

  Unbelievable, how thin a varnish he bothered to put on the offer. She leaned forward and whispered, “You propose to adopt the king of France. Is that it, monsieur?”

  He did not deny it.

  “Then you’d best keep looking, for I have no idea where that poor boy might be, if he has in fact escaped his Paris prison.” She nodded to the ring still pinched in his fingers. “Save that for a match who would put you to better advantage.”

  His complexion fired, then paled, as he pocketed the ring. “You called this meeting.” His mouth pulled down at the corners.

  “As you said, this life in Philadelphia is no good for Henri. I must know if we could have a home in Asylum.” Vienne could almost taste the salt of the Channel as her own adamant words rushed back at her from her conversation with Armand on the schooner. “I will make my own way . . . If I depend on you for my security, is that not following in Sybille’s footstep, too?”

  She poured herself some water and took a sip. “Is it too late to accept Armand’s offer, or isn’t it?” Her pulse slowed as she waited. On the table between them, the small candle flame bobbed and swayed inside its glass hurricane.

  Sebastien stared at her lips overlong before lifting his gaze to her eyes. “I’ll look into it Monday as soon as I get into the office.”

  “Monday evening, then.” Vivienne stood and made ready to leave. “Meet me here Monday at eight o’clock with the answer.”

  Looking none too pleased, he agreed.

  It was over, at last. Having handed Shadow’s reins to Alex once they were back in Philadelphia, Liam stepped stiffly over the ice-glazed puddles pocking the backyard of the Four Winds Tavern. The chilblains that had plagued him for the last several weeks sent darts of pain up through his shins as he crossed to the well. Drawing a bucket of water, he ladled a frigid stream into his hand, then laved it over his face with a shiver, rubbing the long journey from his skin, if not his soul. Relief to be at the end of that wretched campaign vied with a weariness that was both bone- and spirit-deep.

  The bulk of the army was still behind him, by days if not weeks. After they had crossed back over the mountains and made it to Pittsburgh, Alex had insisted on a steady gallop for as long as the horses could handle it at a time. Since his army had made an agreeable number of arrests, now his driving force had been to see Eliza, who was ill. So this evening, Alex, Liam, and the two other guards had arrived in the capital city as the sun was setting.

  “Not exactly conquering heroes this time,” Liam had muttered, still reeling over the arrests at the Forks of the Ohio, Finn O’Brien figuring large in his mind among them.

  “Then you’ll be pleased to know that I quit,” Alex had replied, rendering Liam speechless. “Tomorrow I’m handing Washington my resignation as Secretary of the Treasury. We have grown apart in our political views, Liam, but I wish you well.” And that was that.

  Still shocked at Alex’s announcement, Liam finished washing his hands at the pump and entered the tavern through the rear door. After the winter’s biting chill, the golden atmosphere inside bubbled over with warmth. Ale and rum punch were a subtle counterpoint to the savory smells mingling thickly in the air. He placed his dinner order at the bar, took a mug of Irish tea, and after leaving a message for his sister with the barkeep, climbed to his room on the third floor. He had no appetite to eat in the public dining room right now. Tara would surely bring him his food as soon as she was able.

  And in the morning, I’ll find Vienne.

  Upstairs, Liam unlocked the door to his chamber. Leaving it slightly ajar behind him, he lit the kerosene lamp and set about making a fire in the hearth. As the small flames kindled, thoughts of the campaign melted more easily from his hardened psyche, and his mind turned to the mademoiselle and Henri. Rotten timing, it was, to leave them when he did.r />
  Pushing up from the floor, he hung his hat and cloak, catching his reflection in the mirror above the washstand. A sigh puffed from his nose as he regarded his appearance and wondered if Vienne would be pleased or repulsed to see him again. With his hair pulled back in a queue, there was no hiding that the bullet that had tracked across his cheek had also taken a chunk out of his ear. The scars, at odds with his former schoolmaster self, were befitting a whiskey rebel, he supposed. Every glimpse in the looking glass would be a reminder of the frontier epilogue to the American Revolution. And his role in it.

  Hang it all.

  Liam sipped his tea and burned his tongue before sitting and removing his boots. From below, he heard a fiddler set his violin strings to dancing. Someone stomped his foot to the rhythm, and a man with a distinctive Southern drawl began a rousing song. Though the words were muffled, Liam knew the lyrics well enough.

  Some chaps whom freedom’s spirit warms

  Are threat’ning hard to take up arms,

  And headstrong in rebellion rise

  ’Fore they’ll submit to that excise:

  Their liberty they will maintain,

  They fought for’t, and they’ll fight again.

  Liam cringed. He was the only one in the tavern aware of the chasm between the song and reality. Most of the whiskey rebels—but not that mule-headed Finn—had fled beyond the western edge of the country. The U.S. government had arrested more than a hundred scapegoats, and the man who started the entire mess with his infamous excise tax—the illustrious Alexander Hamilton—was quitting his post on the morrow.

  The door nudged open with the tap of Tara’s shoe. “Liam?”

  He turned, and Tara gasped at his half-mangled face. Hurriedly, she set her tray of food on the small desk. “William Michael Delaney!”

  He opened his arms to his little sister. With her hair coiled around her head in a thick braid, she was the very picture of their mother in earlier times.

  She embraced him, then leaned back, hands on his shoulders, and inspected the ragged wounds to his cheek and ear. “It might have killed you! And then where would I be?” She threw her arms about his neck and fiercely kissed his right cheek. “What happened?”

  Liam blew out a breath. “You won’t like it.”

  She straightened, chin up. “Out with it, then. Quick as a whip.”

  “In a moment.” Stomach cramping, he sat at the desk, silently blessed the parsley-and-bacon-topped goose and turnips she’d brought, and began to eat. He closed his eyes as he chewed, savoring both the heat and the flavor in every bite. “How is Vivienne?”

  “I’ll let you ask her yourself on the morrow. Missed her, did you?” Tara smiled. “You should tell her that. She’d want to know.”

  He swallowed, eager to change the subject now, for if any harm had come to Vienne or Henri while he’d been gone, surely Tara would have simply told him. “I assume another postman from Asylum has been here to recover Cherie? I’ll have a fine time finding a proper mount to carry me back to the farm now.” He took another bite.

  A short laugh burst from Tara. Standing before the fire, she crossed her arms over her aproned waist. “Oh, he came here all right, but not until four weeks after you left. Sickness and weather delayed him, he said. But he made it at last and delivered a message for you. Actually, he delivered more than that.”

  Liam set his fork down on his plate and rested his hands on his knees. “I’m much too tired for riddles, sister. What did he say? Or leave?”

  She shrugged, a corner of her mouth turned up. “He came riding in here on Beau, to be sure. But instead of taking Cherie back with him, he quit Asylum completely and left both Narragansett Pacers in my stable. I’ve been feeding two extra horses all this time.”

  Liam turned his head to hear better from his good ear. “He quit Asylum? Why?”

  Tara turned and poked at the fire to urge it along. “He wasn’t being paid his due wages, he said. The French cheated him out of what he was owed, just because he was an American. So he rode that French-owned horse here to get back to Philadelphia and look for different employment. I’d say you owe me for their feed and stabling, Liam, but I know it’s not totally your fault the burden of their care fell here. In any case, Cherie and Beau await you, whenever you’re ready to go back to the farm.”

  Shaking his head, Liam sent a silent prayer of thanks for God’s provision. But he could only imagine how furious Monsieur Talon must be for both of his highly prized Narragansett Pacers to have disappeared. The sooner Liam could return the horses, the better.

  “So tell me what happened to you, now that you’ve tamed the beast in your belly somewhat.” Tara sat on the edge of the bed. “Start with the fellow what’s done this to your face and ear. You’re as handsome as ever, mind you, just a bit—angrier looking. And I’m angry, too, for you mightn’t have come home at all.”

  Liam rubbed a knot at the base of his skull, and then he told her about the Dreadful Night, as people in western Pennsylvania now referred to November 13. He spoke of the midnight arrests, the prisoners in their bedclothes, about little Libby and her brothers Adam and George. He told her about the civilian woman the soldier struck, and that Liam had been injured while intervening.

  Tara balled a handful of her apron into her fist. “What do you mean?”

  Liam drank from his mug of tea. “I mean one of our soldiers took a shot at my head, and another one knocked me out from behind with the butt of his musket. When I woke up two days later, Alex’s orders had been carried out. Innocent people had been arrested. And at least one who I know was guilty.”

  She clutched at her locket. “Not Finn. You didn’t see him get arrested. I thought you said the whiskey rebels ran off.”

  “Did you ever know Finn to run from a fight?”

  “What’ll they do to him? You know the mortality rate in the prison. You didn’t stop them from arresting our cousin? I thought you believed the tax was tyrannical!” Her speech tumbled out in a torrent.

  “There was nothing I could do, Tara.”

  “Nothing you could do?” She laughed, fury darkening her face. “I’ve heard that one before, you know.”

  The words, a mere whisper, were a blow to his gut. Thirteen years peeled away in his mind, and he saw himself telling her that her new husband James had been killed in battle. “There was nothing I could do,” he’d told her then, too, and the bride learned she was a widow.

  “Tara.” But no other words would come.

  She rose and slipped from the room. If Liam knew his sister at all, she’d come around, she just needed time.

  He speared a turnip and chewed it slowly. Had there been anything he could have done for Finn? Would arguing for his release have done any good? Surely not, since he knew Finn was one of the few arrested who had actually broken the law. Still, Liam felt Tara’s disappointment in him—and Finn’s—as heavily as if it were a sodden cloak about his shoulders.

  December 1, 1794

  Dusting the flour from her hands, Vivienne left the baguette starter in the Four Winds kitchen and carried her cloak to the second-floor dining room to look for Sebastien. Firelight and sconces lit the pleasant room, which was nearly as empty as it had been Saturday. Sebastien was already at a table, with paperwork and two steaming mugs before him. Hope sparked.

  He stood as she approached, his face as smooth as if he had just shaved it before coming, though the day was almost done. She settled into the booth opposite him, and he sat again. “It’s all arranged.” He nudged a mug of tea toward her. “Armand made a contingent plan in the event you should change your mind and accept his offer.”

  Her cheeks burned. Had her initial refusal been so unconvincing? Warming her hands around the mug, she sipped peppermint tea and swallowed her pride. She glanced to the window, but the darkness outside showed only her reflection. She looked as tired as she felt. Straightening her posture, she turned back to Sebastien. “Go on.”

  His face was wax-pale in the can
dlelight. “He purchased two lots in Asylum and left a note indicating one would be for your use if you decided to claim it. A different clerk in Senator Morris’s office handled the paperwork, so I wasn’t aware of it until today.” He pointed at one of the documents. “If you didn’t claim it, he’d wait until the settlement grew a bit more and then sell it at a profit. Once the value had increased on it, you understand. But since you do want it, you can see about transferring ownership . . .”

  He continued, but Vienne ceased to register what he was saying as she studied the document on the table. The letters blurred and danced. “We have a home,” she whispered, overcome.

  Sebastien slid a paper from the stack and smoothed the curling corners. It was a map, labeled French Asylum. The strong black lines of its streets nestled within a horseshoe bend of a river. He pointed to the grid. “Each house is on a half-acre lot. You’ll find most of your new neighbors to be aristocrats and former military officers. There is also a weaver and tailor, a tinsmith, blacksmith, café owner, and a few other artisans. Several priests, of course, including Father Gilbert. This large building, the Grand Maison, was designed to be Marie Antoinette’s home of refuge. But, God rest her, now it houses ladies’ drawing rooms, card parties, concerts, chess games, and amateur dramatic performances. Monsieur Talon, the colony manager, resides there, too. A dancing pavilion is in a charming wooded islet opposite.”

  Vivienne studied every line on the paper, tracing the river with her fingertip.

  “The land is remote from the fevers and politics of the city,” Sebastien continued, “yet in no danger of Indian attack, and the river provides water communication with the coast and with the interior. We expect the settlement to grow to five thousand residents once the river is dredged in a few years’ time.”

  She looked for artifice in his face but detected none. “You paint a picture almost too positive to believe. Are there no complaints?”

  He crossed an ankle over his knee, then licked his thumb and rubbed at a scuff on his shoe. “Only that Asylum is not Paris, and the wilderness that cradles it is not the mother country of France. But if you go with an eye to create something new, rather than pine for something old, you’ll do well, indeed.”