Integrity's Choice (Sisters of the Revolution Book 5)

by Diana Davis

  “I was wondering if I might have a shilling?”

  Papa startled and sat back in his chair. “Whatever for?”

  Constance sighed inwardly. If she had to explain, Papa would surely say no. “Just . . . something I’d like to read?”

  He cocked his head, his hair falling loose onto his shoulder. There was more gray in his dark hair every day, but at least his heart was stronger than it had seemed last year. “Have you run out of your novels, my dear?”

  “I have read all the ones we have.” And all the ones she’d borrowed from Euphemia Goodwin and Lydia Ainsley — not that she’d seen Mrs. Ainsley in nearly a year.

  “But you’d need far more than a shilling for a book. Tell me, what book did you want? I’ll pick it up for you when I come home.”

  “Oh, no, I —”

  “I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way. I know you have no great love of visiting the shops.”

  This was true. Constance looked at her hands. She only needed the shilling. She hardly ever asked for anything, and this was a pittance. Why did Papa have to ask so many questions?

  He was merely trying to be kind. But she knew if she told him what she meant to buy, he would forbid it.

  Papa had no idea that in the last four months she’d already worn through two copies of the most popular patriotic pamphlet ever printed. As a delegate to the Continental Congress, he still had faith that they could reconcile to Great Britain. Even after the king’s speech to Parliament — his second speech opening Parliament by railing against the colonies in as many years — Papa held out hope.

  “How was the Congress?” Constance asked.

  Papa’s expression shuttered. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Papa shifted papers on his desk, but that did nothing to dispel his frustration. “John Dickinson has fought a good fight and headed them off for now, but these Adamses are determined to drag us to war.”

  It had not taken a year for Constance to observe that the Bostonians were among the most ardent Patriots. Most of the Pennsylvania delegation, aside from her cousin’s husband, were still trying to avert a crisis that was constantly worsening.

  “Papa, the king —”

  “Will come around.”

  Constance nodded quickly. She didn’t mean to argue with him. It was only that King George delivering a “Proclamation of Rebellion” did not make him seem very amenable to reconciling.

  “He knows that many of us are still loyal. He will relent if we do not aggravate the situation.”

  “Of course.” She had believed that herself only last year, but most of all, she didn’t want to upset Papa.

  “Have you been talking to David and Gilbert about this?” The question was innocent enough, but his tone was as hard as iron.

  “Oh, no.” She didn’t speak to her in-laws in Congress of any weightier matters. Only her older sisters had any idea Constance’s loyalties had changed — or, rather, that she had any loyalties at all. And only because she’d agreed with things they’d said.

  Much as she was doing with Papa now, she supposed.

  “Well, don’t,” Papa said firmly. “I love — and respect — them both, but that doesn’t mean I have to bow to everything they want.”

  “Yes, Papa.” This was far too much like an argument for Constance’s taste. She couldn’t go and press for a shilling again. “Shall I leave you to your work?”

  His features finally settled into a more peaceful expression, and Constance allowed herself to take a deep breath again. All was well. Papa rose from his chair to help her to her feet. “Thank you for coming, my dear.”

  “Of course, Papa.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and took her leave.

  At the door to his study, she paused. She approached Owen, replacing a law book on the shelves, but her brother-in-law was supporting not only her sister but his own mother and four sisters. She would never ask a farthing of him.

  “Constance, are you well?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She painted on a serene smile to prove it. Owen needn’t worry over her.

  “Are you certain?”

  “It’s just that Mama is having another spell.”

  Owen frowned. “Temperance could — not.” He corrected himself. “She’s also taken to bed.”

  That explained why she was not here as usual, keeping the clerks at their tasks. “Shall I go sit with her? Bring her something?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve just been up. She was asleep.”

  Constance glanced toward the stairs. Hopefully her sister hadn’t inherited Mama’s malady — or worse, taken another melancholic spell. She’d been despondent after her miscarriage in January, and her poor babe would have been delivered around this time. “Send word with Papa when he comes home, if you please.”

  “To be sure.”

  Before Constance could take her leave, the front door opened again, and her cousin’s husband strode in. “Oh, Constance, how do you do?” David greeted her.

  “Well, thank you.”

  David met Owen at his desk for a conversation about Owen’s charity legal practice. Constance was about to slip out when she noticed David withdraw a purse from the pocket of his maroon coat embroidered with tiny sprays of flowers. He handed the purse to Owen.

  Of course. Asking her own parents for money was hard enough for Constance that she hadn’t thought of asking David and Cassandra. But David was not only the richest man in the colonies, he was also one of the most ardent patriots.

  She waited for a pause in Owen and David’s conversation. “How is the Congress, cousin?”

  “Terrible. Dickinson may well have ruined everything for our delegation.”

  Owen and Constance exchanged a worried look.

  “But let’s not ruin the dinner hour with talk of that, shall we? Were you leaving, Constance? May I escort you home?”

  “Yes, please,” she said quickly. She could tell him her true intent once they were underway.

  They were scarcely down the block before she laid out her purpose. “David, might I trouble you for a shilling?”

  “Of course.” He fished a purse from his pocket — how many did the man have? And both had coordinated with his cream-and-maroon waistcoat? He held out the silver coin. “Here you are. Settling a debt?” he teased.

  “Oh, no, I was hoping to buy a copy of Common Sense.”

  “Well, then, let’s see that you do!” David took her elbow and steered her directly down High Street to a print shop.

  Constance froze before a small brick shop. The sign above the door read The Watchman.

  Oh, no, no. Any print shop but this. “Is this the only place it’s available?”

  “Only press originally printing it with Paine’s permission,” David muttered.

  Of course the best patriotic pamphlet was published by the brightest and most ardent patriot printer in the city.

  David opened the door, but a shout drew his attention. “Oh, blast. Afternoon, Hancock,” he called to the man approaching them. He urged Constance inside. “Give me a moment.”

  She fought herself every step. How could she object with David standing there holding the door for her? She craned her neck to see Hancock approaching — John Hancock, President of Congress. For reasons she didn’t quite understand, David did not care for the man, but he seemed to be working to hide it now. “Where are you headed for dinner?” David asked, though Hancock was still yet a ways off.

  David glanced at her. “Don’t let me keep you.” He practically pushed her past the doorstep.

  Perhaps he wouldn’t be here. Still, her stomach rebelled. Was it her imagination, or did she smell smoke?

  She didn’t belong here. She had to go. She needed to leave now.

  Constance took one step back before the movement and clatter of the shop registered in her mind.

  Fischer Marks stood at the press in his leather apron, waistcoat and shir
tsleeves, his blond hair in a perfect queue. As handsome as at first. Staring at her.

  She froze. Was there any way to avoid the man she’d — nearly — loved?

  For the shortest moment, Fischer Marks had absolutely no idea what the right thing was to do in this situation.

  The woman one had spent a year trying to put out of one’s mind did not stroll into one’s print shop every day.

  The woman who must hate one. No — the woman who must hate him.

  “Con — Miss Hayes!” he hastily greeted her. “A moment, please.”

  He grabbed his coat from the hook and pulled it on, as if that made any difference now. Still, it was proper. Right.

  Constance had barely made it inside the shop, so he rounded the counter to approach her. “Good afternoon,” he greeted her more properly. Did he really sound as eager as he thought he did? He searched her lovely face for any sign of . . . anything.

  “Afternoon,” she greeted him. She glanced over her shoulder. John Hancock and David Beaufort, his patrons, stood in the street talking. And then Beaufort let go of the door.

  They were alone in the print shop.

  Just as they had been that disastrous night. The one that had shown him exactly why he should not have Constance Hayes. He could not.

  Fischer took a step back. “How may I help you?”

  “I would like a copy of Common Sense, if you please.” Her voice was softer than he remembered, but she didn’t seem outwardly affected, at least as far as he could see.

  Why did that make his heart sink?

  “I’m sorry, Common Sense?” Fischer couldn’t help but tilt his head. Constance Hayes had never been a patriot to his knowledge.

  “Yes, by Thomas Paine? I was told you print it.”

  “Yes, yes — of course.” Clearly the pamphlet was the only kind of common sense in stock in his shop today. Fischer retreated behind the counter and produced a copy from the correct pigeonhole. “Here we are, Common Sense. One shilling.” He held out a hand.

  She placed the coin on the counter.

  “I hope you enjoy it,” Fischer said. Was it obvious he hoped she’d stay?

  No, he didn’t hope that. He pined enough for her as it was.

  On the other hand, he should always take the opportunity to try to win another to the cause. “‘The cause of America is, in a great measure’ ”

  “—‘the cause of all mankind,’” Constance finished the line from the pamphlet’s introduction. A small smile suffused her features, and Fischer felt himself returning it.

  Was Constance Hayes already a patriot, then?

  Did that mean —

  No. It meant nothing. Her politics had not been his problem. He was, himself. Too caught up, too swept up, too much. He turned away to toss her coin in the till. “How does your family?”

  The silence in the shop froze solid. Oh, that was the exact wrong thing to ask of the woman whose sister one had courted. Briefly. Dutifully. Idiotically.

  A crueler woman would have simply asked if he meant Patience. Patience herself might have. But not Constance. “They’re well. Thank you.” The only indication he might have caused her pain was the slight pause before and after her words.

  She was so calm, so peaceful. Simply talking with her, even now, was a balm he dearly needed.

  “And . . . Mrs. Ainsley?” Constance ventured.

  “She misses you.” Fischer instantly berated himself. It was his own fault Constance had suddenly become uncomfortable seeing his sister just as they were becoming good friends. Lydia had so few of those after the way that vile Donald had treated her.

  Constance’s gaze drifted away from him, somewhere in the distance. “And I her. I still have a book she loaned me.”

  “Oh, she was missing that the other day.” Perhaps it was months ago. Felt like the other day.

  “I — I shall endeavor to return it.”

  “Which book was it?”

  Constance thought a moment. “Tales of Rouen.”

  “Rwah,” he corrected automatically. “The ‘r’ is in the throat, and ‘n’ is in the vowel.” Fischer flinched inwardly. The last thing she needed was him correcting her French pronunciation, even if it was wrong.

  “Oh, thank you.” She said it so sincerely — thanking him for correcting her? She truly was too good.

  “That book is mine, incidentally,” Fischer said. “But you may keep it. As long as you like.”

  “I shall send it back directly.” Constance backed two steps toward the door.

  Fischer could only nod. Could he possibly offend her any more? He should offer her a compliment, and not merely on her appearance, lovely as she still was from her shoes to the top of her high blonde hair. “Your gown is quite sightly.”

  She fingered the edge of the white anglaise gown. Vines wound their way up the front with dainty but vivid pink flowers which matched her petticoat. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “Did you do the embroidery?”

  “My sisters and I did.” She took another step back, nearly to the threshold.

  He fought the urge to walk with her to the door. “It’s most artful. You have a fine hand.”

  “Thank you. Good day, sir.”

  “Good day.” She was gone before he finished speaking.

  Fischer groaned and shed his coat again. With his journeyman out sick, and his clerk still at dinner, he had no time to waste mourning his loss. He was still the same fool he’d been last year. Only a fool would sever his own connection with a woman like Constance, beautiful, genial, tender — and then barrel right across the Rubicon not two weeks later to present a suit to her sister.

  Constance Hayes would never be his.

  And that was entirely his fault.

  Fischer tried to pretend as though seeing Constance Hayes hadn’t upended his afternoon, although he’d managed to insufficiently wet tomorrow’s paper and miss his devils’ error in making up the ink until they’d ruined twenty pages. He’d nearly avoided any other disasters until he brushed too close to the imposing stone. Three lines of type clattered to the floor. He groaned inwardly, though at least he hadn’t knocked off the entire page and made its contents into printers’ pie.

  “Mr. Marks,” Zechariah called. That Mister presaged trouble. To everyone in the shop but the devils — terrible slang for young apprentices — he was simply Marks.

  Fischer assigned the devils to pick up the type and went to help his clerk. A stranger stood between Fischer and Zechariah, glaring at his clerk.

  “Yes?” Fischer said.

  “I’ve been trying to tell this man we won’t take his advertisement.”

  Fischer raised an eyebrow.

  The stranger, probably twenty years his senior, turned to Fischer. “You’re the owner of this paper?”

  This was the last thing Fischer needed at the moment. “Yes. What did you wish to advertise?” He was fairly certain he already knew the answer.

  “I’ve had two slaves run away —”

  “We don’t print runaway advertisements. On your way.”

  The man’s jaw dropped, and the spark in his eyes seemed to spoil for a fight.

  And Fischer was nearly of a mind to give it to him.

  Before the man said an imprudent word, however, the shop superintendent, Reeve, came in from the back carrying an armload of finished pamphlets.

  The man pointed at Reeve. “I’m sure you’d run an advertisement if your own slave ran off.”

  Fischer started toward the man, but Reeve stepped between them, his shoulders square. “‘Every man has a property in his own person.’ No man owns me except myself.”

  The man sputtered a moment, as if the very idea of a free black man were enraging. Fischer pointed at the door, bidding the would-be advertiser a firm good day, and the man finally strode out.

  Fischer clapped Reeve on the arm. “Reading Locke again?”

  “Yes.”

  �
�I would have said the same. Perhaps not so well, though.”

  “Perhaps not. Thank you, Marks. I can stand up for myself.”

  Fischer nodded to him. It was hardly the first time they’d had this conversation.

  Fischer returned to the back room. They didn’t have a major publication on a deadline. He had to concede that he was in no condition to preside over the shop, and he could ill afford to waste the lamp oil to continue into the night if they could not at least be productive. “Run along home, devils.”

  Ellis, one of his young apprentices, whooped. On his way out, he patted Fischer on the arm as if to reassure him. “It’s all right, Mr. Marks,” Ellis said. “We all make mistakes.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” But the boy’s words rang hollow. Fischer was not supposed to make mistakes. He was supposed to be the mentor to his apprentices. Furthermore, his livelihood — not to mention his sister’s — rested upon this shop, and although the past year had been his best so far, they were not secure enough to evade worry.

  The boy was probably merely happy to go home before dark. It was only just going on twilight when he reached his house on the northwest side of town. He found Lydia at her spinning wheel in the drawing room.

  “You’re home early,” she noted without breaking her treadling rhythm.

  “So I am.” He gestured at the distaff poking up from her wheel. “Flax today?”

  “Yes. Did you eat a decent dinner?”

  He let his silence answer for him. A year ago, he’d made a habit of coming home for dinner mid-day. And staying too long.

  That was one of the first bad habits of that era he’d broken. “I’m going to the garden.” Fischer left his coat and leather apron — had he walked all the way home still wearing that? — behind on a kitchen chair on his way out.

  He hadn’t had much of an occasion to enjoy the garden in months. A year. Lydia had kept it up admirably without his help. He really didn’t deserve her.

  Fischer found himself standing in front of the bench under their little grape arbor. This blasted bench. He leaned on his arm on the arbor.

  Was it only a year ago he’d come to this very spot nearly every day in hopes he’d find Lydia visiting with Constance?