A Refuge Assured

by Jocelyn Green

  Henri grunted as he dropped his burdens on the table. “That wasn’t heavy at all.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I mean, I thought it would be heavier than that.”

  The tour Liam gave them was brief and terse. The house was sparsely furnished, simply because he hadn’t had the use for or the time to make more. While the Grand Maison held only imported goods, everything here was handmade. The table and chairs, the beds and bureau upstairs.

  “Thank you.” She stood in the parlor before the fire he’d built for her warmth. “I never meant—I never thought the house—” Fumbling for words, she removed her cloak and folded it over her arm. She could not bring herself to hang it on the peg where his coat and hat should be. “I hate this situation as much as you do.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Really? As much as I do?”

  “I’d love nothing more than for you to buy this place back from Armand as soon as you can.”

  Light and shadow chased over his features, betraying the struggle within. “I’m leaving Asylum. For Philadelphia.”

  Vienne’s mouth went dry. “Will you come back?” She pushed a lock of hair from the side of her face.

  Liam glanced to the fire and held his hand toward the flames. “You know I can’t stay away.” He looked at her again, the fight gone from his eyes. “The mail rider due to go next is too ill to travel. I’m going in his place.”

  A familiar clatter in the hallway told her that Henri had set up his ninepins already. She pressed her fingertips to her temples.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,” Liam continued. “It depends on the weather. Your nearest neighbor is Jethro Fortune, a free black man who used to be Tara’s barkeep at the Four Winds. His house is half a mile that way.” He pointed. “I asked him to check in on you. If you need anything from him, be sure Armand will pay him a fair wage for the work first. I’ll not have him treated like a slave, you understand.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there anything you require of me before I go?”

  She shook her head, dismayed at the transactional nature of the question, for now he would be paid by Armand for any service rendered. “Liam,” she whispered, “have a cup of tea first? The hour is not yet late.”

  “’Tis too late for that. I go early in the morn.”

  “You’re leaving?” Henri burst in from the hall, piercing the tension in the room.

  Liam bent on one knee. “I am. You’ll be the man of the house now. Will you take good care of it? And be good for Mademoiselle?”

  Henri responded with vigorous nodding. “I promise. I was already planning on it.”

  Tousling the boy’s hair, Liam stood. With one last glance at Vienne, he said, “Welcome home,” and then walked out of his house.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Philadelphia

  December 25, 1794

  After he’d completed the mail exchange and they’d attended the service at Christ Church, Liam and Tara shared the holiday feast that had been served to Four Winds diners an hour ago: roast goose and baked ham, boiled potatoes, roasted parsnips, brussels sprouts, cabbage, and a Christmas plum pudding half drowned in whiskey. Of course.

  “Vivienne and Henri are settled in a house, then?” Tara asked between spoonfuls of pudding.

  “That they are.” But he wasn’t up to telling her which one. Not yet.

  “You do realize you’ve now stolen both my barkeep and my baker, don’t you? I should stay mad a little longer for that, but I can’t. You did the right thing, whisking her and Henri out of here the way you did. It’s a shame it had to happen, though. She’s a hard worker and a giving soul. We miss her around here. I like her, Liam. I’ll bet she wasn’t even scandalized by your unchaperoned journey. Sensible to the needs of the moment, she is. A woman like that won’t come twice.” Tara paused to take a bite. “Wait a minute. I forgot about me. I guess a woman like that does come twice! Maybe just not three times, eh?” Laughing, she slapped the table.

  Begrudgingly, he chuckled with her. Swirling a brussels sprout through melted butter on his plate, he recalled Vivienne with Henri in the Grand Maison’s music room, surrounded by upturned noses. She didn’t fit in with that lot. He should have had that cup of tea with her before leaving. There were things he needed to say, that she likely needed to hear. Setting down his fork, he took a drink of coffee and looked out the window, wondering if she’d had need of Jethro yet.

  The glass panes rattled in their casings. Cannons boomed, and plates and cutlery jangled on the board. A rumbling crescendoed into the full-blown shouts and cheers of an approaching mob. On Christmas Day.

  Was the city mad?

  “Stay here,” he told his sister, who pretended not to hear him. Without grabbing a cloak, he rushed into the damp chill outside and ran to the corner of Market Street. Up and down the block, people spilled from doorways and teemed on the sidewalks. The crowd pressed toward him.

  “What’s this all about?” he shouted over the roar of the masses. Wind pulled strands of hair from his queue.

  “Didn’t you hear? It’s a Christmas gift for President Washington!” a woman said.

  “Of what sort?” Liam asked.

  “It’s the whiskey rebels! Brought to justice at last!”

  “Where?” Wild-eyed, Tara spun around, her wool dress a blur of blue and green.

  Liam caught her hand before she bolted in any direction she took a fancy to. Up the road, people were turning, pointing, shouting in a fever pitch. Then he saw the glint of sun on silver. The drawn swords of mounted soldiers. Church bells pealed madly, not for the coming of the Messiah and peace on earth, but for the returning of the army from the West.

  Looping his arm through Tara’s, he held her tight and pushed their way to the edge of the sidewalk. Cheering drowned out the hoofbeats of the approaching guards. Between redbrick buildings, their snow-dusted blue uniforms were a surreal tribute to America’s patriotic colors.

  Liam craned his neck. Twenty prisoners walked between two lines of horses. Most were barefoot. All were gaunt and in rags after their journey over the mountains, and they wore white paper badges pinned to their hats. Around their necks hung wooden boards the size of schoolroom slates, with the words whiskey rebel scrawled on them in white paint. Their heads were bowed as they put one foot before the other. All heads but one.

  “Finn!” Waving frantically, Tara lunged into the street, but Liam pulled her back as a soldier swung his sword in her direction.

  “Stay back!” the guard shouted.

  Liam held her fast, but his gaze followed his one-eyed cousin. Despite whatever kind soul had given him a replacement eyepatch along the way, twenty pounds had melted from his frame since Mingo Creek. He was a walking wisp of a man.

  Finn locked eyes with him as he shuffled on bandaged feet. “Liam!” he bellowed. “I paid the tax!”

  The words stunned him. Perhaps he’d misheard. He angled his good ear toward the prisoners. “You paid it?”

  “Aye! And they’re throwing me in jail just the same.”

  “Soldier!” Liam shouted. “Is that right?” He elbowed his way through the edge of the crowd, keeping pace with the motley parade. “You’re taking them to jail, then?”

  “What else?” the guard sneered.

  “On what charges? What are the charges?” But Liam’s question went unanswered.

  “They won’t say, Liam! I lost everything,” Finn yelled hoarsely. “It’s all gone.”

  “Enough from you!” The guard brought the tip of his sword to Finn’s concave chest.

  Liam felt that metal point over his heart as surely as if it had touched him instead. Tara’s voice sounded far away as she hurled insults at the guards. Fury consumed him, a combustion of anger and frustration and sorrow.

  “Liam!” Tara shouted in his ear, the one torn apart by a bullet. “Do something!”

  He didn’t need to be told. Hang Alexander Hamilton and the Watermelon Army. Hang the excise tax
and this farcical show of strong government. If they weren’t playing by their own rules anymore, neither would Liam.

  After squeezing his sister’s hand, he disappeared into the throng. He dashed back to the tavern, slipping on slush and mud, and shouted to the stableboy to ready Cherie. Energy thrumming through his veins, he ducked inside, took the stairs two at a time, and snatched his cloak and satchel. Clapping his hat on his head, he left just as quickly.

  In the yard, he pressed extra coins into the stableboy’s hand and mounted Cherie. The jail was only a few blocks away. He could get there before the prisoners arrived. Having no plan to guide him, he acted only on instinct—and rage. He had no weapon, save his hands. No authority beyond his gut. But this time, he would not stand idly by.

  Heart hammering, he dismounted in an alley near the jail and looped the reins over the horse’s neck. Even from here, the prison stench of illness and rot stung his nose. Quietly, he sidled closer to the stone building, halting when he heard an officer say to another, “Remember, they are to get no food and no light once they’re inside. We’re to break them before they even go to trial.”

  “If they ask about charges?”

  “We don’t know the charges, exactly, either. Not that it would matter—the judges will be under strict orders to convict.”

  Liam’s senses stood at attention as the mounted soldiers escorted their prisoners near. With one quick glance at Cherie to make sure she was waiting in place, he peered around the corner again. The arrested men weren’t even chained together. Did they really assume they were all resigned to their fate? He saw Finn and gave a whistle that mimicked birdsong.

  Finn caught it and found him waiting in the shadows. Liam gestured with his thumb over his shoulder, and Finn’s eye lit with steely resolve. Beyond that, he made no sign he understood.

  In the jail yard, the soldiers sheathed their swords, trading them for muskets instead as they readied for the ceremonial transfer of prisoners to the local jail. After dismounting, they all stared straight ahead while the officer on the steps before the door read to them from an official-looking paper.

  Liam remained in the shadows, every nerve and muscle pulled taut, trusting Finn to make his move. When the call came to “ground arms,” every musket butt hit the ground at once—and with perfect timing, Finn took that split second to break formation. Darting between the surprised soldiers, he wielded the board from his neck, cracking it over the soldier quickest to attempt shouldering his weapon. The wood splintered over the soldier’s head, and he dropped to the ground among the shards.

  Finn sprinted toward Liam, who shot out his hand and grabbed his elbow, jerking him around the corner. He shoved his cousin toward Cherie. “Get on!”

  Pulse roaring in his ears, Liam mounted as well, Finn behind him, then dug his heels into the animal’s flanks. He looked over his shoulder in time to see two guards round the corner, then kneel to fire. Two oblivious little boys ran out in front of them, waving wooden swords, and the soldiers lowered their weapons.

  Liam faced front and urged Cherie to continue her gallop. Navigating through alleys and back streets, they eventually turned the horse back into the thousands that had gathered on the streets. Finn ripped the white slip of paper from his hat, releasing it to the wind.

  “Clear the way!” Liam shouted. Cherie thundered over the cobbles, carving a path through people and around corners, until the streets narrowed into lanes of frozen mud. He didn’t look back.

  “Where are we going?” Finn was winded already, a shell of the man he’d once been.

  Setting his jaw, Liam trained a wary eye on a full-bellied sky that threatened snow. But his course was set. “Where do you think?”

  Asylum, Pennsylvania

  December 27, 1794

  Fog hung low over Asylum, curling around Red’s knees and twining through the wheel spokes of the wagon. Pulling her cloak and skirts clear of the axle, Vivienne climbed up and sat on the bench beside Henri and Jethro, who had waited for her outside the inn.

  “Success?” Jethro clucked to Red, and the wheels rolled forward through the mist.

  Vivienne put her arm around Henri. “I can bake at home and deliver the food to the inn in batches. With only sixteen families in the settlement, they won’t have as much need as the Four Winds Tavern, of course, but it’s employment nonetheless and allows me to be with Henri more. There isn’t much cash in circulation here, but he’ll add credit to my account at the general store—or the tailor’s or the blacksmith’s, wherever I need to shop. I’d call that a success.” She pressed Henri against her side before releasing him.

  “That’s good news, mighty good news indeed.” Jethro glanced at her. “All God’s children need something to do. Especially to help get us through the winter.”

  “And that’s what we’re doing now, right, Mr. Fortune?” Henri asked. “Helping folks get through the winter?”

  Jethro steered Red onto one of the streets that ran parallel to the river. Neat houses of squared logs flanked either side. “Only a few deliveries today, and they’ll be quick,” he explained, voice as muffled behind his scarf as Red’s hoofbeats. “I just load the firewood into their woodsheds. No need to chat at each stop.”

  “Have they paid you yet?” Vivienne could only guess how many hours of labor were represented by the bundles of chopped wood, bound with twine, nestled in the wagon behind her.

  “Oh yes.” Jethro smiled dryly. “Learned fast that if I don’t get payment up front, I may not see it at all. Seems some of these French from Saint-Domingue are used to having colored folks do their work for free. Some of them even brought their own slaves with them. Have you seen the shanties down by the river? Their owners call them servants, but they’re slaves all right, and that’s where they live, God help them.” He shook his head. “Those days are over for me. Yessir.”

  “‘Yessir’?” Henri repeated. “What does that mean?”

  Laughing, Jethro pulled his wool cap down over his ears. “Yes sir,” he enunciated. “Say it fast, ‘yessir.’ In this case, it means, ‘Yes, indeed. Sure enough. That’s certain.’ Or, ‘Those days—of my slavery—are over for me. Yes, indeed. I’m never going back to that.’”

  “‘Yessir’ means all of that?” Henri rubbed his mittened hands together to warm them.

  “Mm-hmm. Yessir.” Flashing a smile, Jethro halted Red beside someone’s property and handed the reins to Henri. “Don’t run off on me now.” Winking, he climbed down from the bench and hefted two bundles of firewood from the wagon.

  “Mr. Fortune is a good neighbor to have, isn’t he, Mademoiselle?” Henri held tight to the reins.

  “A very good neighbor, indeed.” Whatever grudge he might have felt about the land dispute, he did not take it out on Vivienne or Henri. Instead, he had come by the day after Liam left, pointing out to her the stores of food in the cellar and cookhouse. She kept careful notation of these, determined that any food she and Henri consumed should be paid for. Jethro’s offer to take her into the settlement today was an unsolicited kindness, and she was grateful.

  But it was Liam who occupied her innermost thoughts. As the damp cold seeped through her cloak and into her very bones, she could not help but wonder how he had fared on that arduous journey through woods and mountains. And when he might come home. But she did not go so far as to hope he’d be pleased to see her, occupying his home as she was.

  Jethro whistled as he returned to the wagon and loaded his arms with more wood for the shed. The front door of the main house opened, and a woman in a formal silk dress stepped out. She watched him, hands on her hips, while he completed his task and climbed back into the wagon.

  At this, she stalked down her steps toward them, her neck mottling with the cold. “Where do you think you’re going?” Her shrill voice cut through the fog. Her finger was pointed at Jethro.

  Vivienne recognized Suzanne Arquette, the poor woman who had lost her mind. Jethro looked to Vienne for translation.

  “S
he’s confused,” she told him. To Suzanne, she called, “Mr. Fortune is delivering your order of firewood, that’s all.”

  “You’re running away from me! Brazen slave! And me, all alone in this place, with no one to do my bidding.”

  At a sharp intake of breath from Henri, Vivienne bade him be quiet, and she climbed down from the bench herself. “Suzanne?” she said, approaching her. “I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Vivienne. We lived in the same pension in Philadelphia.”

  With eyes the same white-washed gray as the sky, Suzanne searched Vienne’s face as one who grasps for a light in the dark. “Vivienne? Philadelphia. I don’t—” She shook her head.

  Vienne’s heart squeezed, remembering Sybille’s own struggles. “It’s cold outside, Suzanne.” She took her by the hand. “Let’s go in where you can be warm.”

  But Suzanne looked past her, at Jethro. “That’s my slave. He keeps running away. I’m tired and I miss my family, and I don’t know what’s become of them. I don’t know what’s become of any of my people, except for that man.” She pointed again and stamped her slippered foot on the hard earth. “I paid for him, he is my property, and I will not have him disappear on me again! I won’t have it!”

  Vivienne angled so Jethro could see her mouth. “Go.” His nod told her he understood. He would take Henri with him for the rest of his deliveries and then go home. If Vivienne had to walk back after visiting Suzanne, so be it.

  Slipping an arm around Suzanne’s shoulders, she steered the woman back up the path to her house. “It looks like you had flowers there last summer.” Bare beds lined the walkway, partially patched over with snow. “Tell me, what do you grow here?”

  Regaining her bearings in the simple topic, Suzanne spoke of roses and lilacs, and of more exotic species that Vienne guessed had grown in her gardens on Saint-Domingue. Before Suzanne knew it, she was back inside her parlor, sitting on the damask sofa with Vienne. She had lost weight since Philadelphia. Her skin was translucent, blue veins visibly throbbing at her temples. With her frizzled blond hair a nimbus about her head, she had the look of a dandelion. If Vienne had not heard the venom in her voice when addressing Jethro, she would have thought Suzanne insubstantial.