by Diana Davis
“Yes, at great length at dinner last week. Just so you know, I have a printer who wants to see it. Do you know Amos Gallagher, of the Courant?”
“I don’t, but how nice!” Constance smiled. Verity seemed to be trying to provoke her or start an argument or at least a rivalry, but Constance anticipated an audience of only her family — and really, Papa alone would be enough if he were persuaded.
“Yes, he is very nice.” Verity sighed, clasping her hands to her heart. “I’ve just gone through the play a final time before I present it to him, and he’ll be here soon.” She narrowed her eyes at Constance. “Did you remember to put that iron on like I asked? I must ready my gown.”
“Yes, of course. Lay out your gown.” Constance tried not to phrase it in such a way as to illustrate how unfair it was for Verity to be cross with her when Verity wasn’t even ready for the iron.
Verity busied herself with the gown, and Constance took a final glance at her tale before she headed downstairs to the kitchen. Was including the kingfisher wise? Did she really want any opportunity to think of Fischer Marks again?
The memory of her final visit to his house last year flashed across her mind. The hope that he actually did want to see her again, the happiness at seeing Lydia for the first time in weeks.
Patience taking hold of his coat’s facings. Fischer wrapping his arms around her.
Constance’s stomach turned cold as she reached the kitchen. She’d known he wished to court her sister. She’d known what would happen if he were successful. She’d known precisely how easy it was to fall in love with Fischer Marks.
She’d had no idea how hard it would be to see him kiss someone else. Her sister. She couldn’t even move, horror and despair rooting her to the spot, until Fischer had mentioned her poem, only to insult it.
“Constance,” Verity called from upstairs. “For the third time, hurry up with that iron! Amos will be here at any moment!”
“Coming,” she mumbled. The image of Fischer leaning toward Patience still hung before her eyes. Him cradling her in his arms. His lips touching hers, carefully, gently.
The ache in her heart was suddenly eclipsed by searing pain in her hand.
She was screaming before the vision of Fischer and Patience had fully cleared her mind. She released the iron she’d picked up without a cloth or rag to protect her hand.
Mercy and Mama rushed in. Mama peppered her with questions, trying to understand, but Mercy shoved Constance to the bucket at the sideboard and plunged her hand in the water. Polly, their cook, used her apron to safely move the iron off the rug.
“What were you thinking?” Verity demanded, as if Constance hurting herself were a personal affront.
“Your fingers are black,” Mercy muttered.
“Black?” Mama rushed over to see.
“It’s only ink,” all three sisters said at once.
“You were dreaming again, weren’t you?” Verity’s tone tended toward accusation.
It wasn’t a dream. It was reliving a nightmare.
“Polly, the salve,” Mama said. “Help her, Verity.”
Grumbling under her breath about her visitor’s impending arrival, Verity marched off after the cook.
Mercy gently opened Constance’s hand and pulled it from the water. Her fingers were already beginning to blister under the ink.
“Oh, Connie,” Mercy murmured.
“What about my tale? I won’t be able to write for weeks.”
Mama and Mercy shared a glance before her youngest sister turned back to her. “I can help you with it.”
Constance leaned her head against Mercy’s cap and allowed her little sister to put her hand back in the cool water. “Thank you,” she murmured. She hoped Mercy would be able to help her soon.
Because in the next chapter, she was going to kill the kingfisher.
A week passed without a word from Phineas Brand, but Fischer was hardly relieved. Lydia was scarcely speaking to him, and he was nearly to the point of going to beg Constance to visit her again. He already would have, were it not for an especially large order of forms from the provincial government that had kept him and his staff at the print shop until dark every night — another reason Lydia hadn’t said much to him.
His apprentices were finally falling into a solid rhythm when Zechariah, the shop clerk, popped into the back to call for him. “Fancy man here to see you,” Zechariah grumbled.
Fischer didn’t bother correcting him again. Zechariah was good with the customers and better with the bookkeeping, but visits from particularly well dressed patrons always seemed to set up his bristles. Fischer asked Reeve to oversee the devils — rather, apprentices — and followed Zechariah in the front.
He was hardly surprised to find David Beaufort standing in the shop. His fine black coat with colorful flowers was the exact sort of thing Zechariah seemed to despise most.
If Beaufort were amenable to help with Phineas, Fischer wouldn’t have to torment Constance after all.
“Marks,” Beaufort greeted him. “How is business?”
“Good, thank you.” Was he here to collect on his investment?
“I have something I’d like for you to see.”
Fischer couldn’t help a curious head tilt. They had tossed out several ideas to put Beaufort’s name on a book or pamphlet, certain to sell out an impression, but Beaufort had no real interest in publishing.
From his coat pocket, Beaufort extracted a sheaf of papers folded together and handed them to Fischer. He skimmed the first few lines, in a hand he didn’t know.
There was once, in a place not far from here, a Farmer who owned a vast property called Columbia. As the wealth of the land had made him rich in payment as well as provisions, he took a fine house in Town and left Columbia’s fields in the charge of his servants.
Columbia’s fields? He looked to Beaufort. “What is this?”
“Keep reading.”
The servants, bequeathed such power, did as all powerful men do when they govern with impunity: they fell into corruption. Thus, it was not long before the animals of Columbia’s fields found themselves laden with ever more grievous burdens.
Already the outline seemed to be taking shape. Columbia was a poetic name for America which Fischer recognized from Phillis Wheatley’s work. Servants in power placing heavy burdens on the denizens of Columbia? The scoundrels of the ministry, no doubt.
He focused on Beaufort again. “Did you write this?”
Beaufort laughed. “Would that I were half that clever.”
“Who wrote it then?”
Beaufort’s smile turned enigmatic. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I truly don’t know. The manuscript came to me from one of my cousins, who assured me she didn’t write it.”
“The Hayeses?”
“Indeed.”
Fischer was grateful Beaufort didn’t name Constance as the author. Fischer had only read a little of her poetry, but this was decidedly not her hand nor her style. This was polished political prose. Constance’s verse was frivolous, bordering on fantastical, and quite honestly, he couldn’t force himself to finish it. Although he was already courting Patience at that point, Constance’s poem seemed to confirm that he had been right to end things with her when he had.
He had to be sure. “And you’re certain this cousin didn’t write it?”
“She is imminently trustworthy,” Beaufort assured him.
Fischer glanced at the pages again. “And she wishes to print this?”
“My cousin mentioned that a young lady couldn’t risk her reputation in printing it, but I knew once I read it that it needed a much larger audience than it would find circulating in this form.”
A young lady? Fischer pulled his watch from his pocket and checked the time. “You must be getting back to Congress now, I suppose?”
Beaufort nodded. “Passing the preamble resolution has done nothing to bring us closer,” he muttered. “Unless
the middle colonies’ assemblies specifically order us to vote for independence, we may be at a stalemate.”
Fischer frowned. The middle colonies — of which Pennsylvania was a part — could easily prevent New England from uniting with the southern colonies.
Six months ago, even after the army had formed and fought a number of battles, such talk seemed impossible from the Congress. Then came Paine and his Common Sense. Now independence seemed to be on every lip.
Including Constance Hayes’s, if she’d come here to purchase a copy.
“The Provincial Assembly needs another push.” Beaufort gestured at the paper in Fischer’s hands. “I’ll be by at the supper break. Read it and let me know what you think.”
“I shall.”
Beaufort took his leave, and Fischer retreated upstairs to his seldom-used office. Normally, the rhythm and noise of the press was conducive to Fischer’s work as an editor and essayist, but he could tell this story would require his full attention.
Or, he quickly found, it would demand his attention, captivate his imagination, and inspire his hopes, despite a bleak ending with the sentient animals of the farm stymied by ceaseless debates. “Was liberty too dear at any price?”
Beaufort was right. This was singularly promising. And if he were entirely honest, Fischer couldn’t deny the jealousy tugging at his heart. His Letters from the Colonies were clever enough and well argued, but this allegory was clearly in a completely different sphere.
Fischer read the tale three times before he set out to write a letter to the authoress. The horse Gérard seemed to refer to Washington. Solomon in the story was a stag with ornate antlers; wasn’t the biblical Solomon the son of David? Did Fischer flatter himself by hoping — wishing — the bird who carried news was an allusion to him? Could it be a coincidence it was a kingfisher?
If so, should he be concerned that Beaufort found him a nuisance? Solomon certainly felt that way about the bird.
Once he’d listed a few editorial suggestions, minor adjustments, Fischer paused. Beaufort said this was written, he suspected, by a young lady of his cousins’ acquaintance. Could she be unmarried? The reputation of a single woman was more delicate than that of a married one. Although he and Lydia knew all too well how easily the latter was ruined.
If it was possible that this young lady was unmarried, an authoress of this caliber would be a great asset to a printer. And Beaufort was right; it was high time Fischer stopped dithering himself. Would he wait until he was thirty to marry? That wasn’t proper.
Fischer stood and removed his coat to pace. He had already once attempted to court a woman based on such practicalities. Patience Hayes was intelligent — brilliant, even — helpful, kind, respectable. He never pretended to love her, and she knew that, but he admired her. He still felt that was a solid basis for a lifetime together. He had been happy to support her legal scholarship, and she would have been a boon to his writing and printing.
If she hadn’t rashly gone and chosen love over logic.
He wished Patience all the best, but he couldn’t see how she would ultimately be happy with such a choice, whether or not she cast Fischer off. It wasn’t that he regarded himself as a prize. Rather more like a burden, really. But the price of following one’s heart was often far too dear.
A price he would not exact from someone he cared about in that way.
The head was much better trusted with such choices. Or, at least, he’d been trying to tell himself that for the last year.
Fischer stopped short, staring out the window at the High Street market. Had it been his head or his heart that had pictured Constance when he’d kissed Patience? Perhaps it was simply Fischer himself who ought not to be trusted.
No. He turned away from the glass. He could overcome this infatuation, and he would. Because Constance was not an option. If he cared about her in the slightest, she could never be his.
This authoress, however, might. Someone he could respect without worrying he’d lose himself. He hoped they might find affection, but most of all, that they would be safe from all-consuming love.
Fischer took out two more leaves in addition to his editorial notes. He would press Beaufort for any intelligence or speculation. If there was any possibility he might court a woman of this intelligence — someone who might be able to help him forget Constance — he couldn’t let it pass.
Even if his heart had not changed a fraction of an inch.
How was he supposed to heed something so perilous as a heart?
As promised, Beaufort returned to the print shop at Congress’s supper break. Fischer was ready to greet him with all versions of his letters ready.
Did he dare to hope Beaufort had more information on the authoress now?
“Well?” Beaufort asked.
Fischer held up the manuscript. “This — I’ve never seen its like.”
Beaufort clapped once. “I knew you’d appreciate it. Do you think others would find it so affecting?”
“I honestly can’t see how they couldn’t. It works on so many different levels of meaning, and it’s engaging on every one.” Fischer shook his head in wonder. “Will the authoress consent to print it?”
“That I don’t know, but I’ll see what I can do to prevail upon her, whoever she is.”
Beaufort’s influence was inestimable; surely he’d succeed. “Could you hazard any more of a guess about this lady’s identity? Patriot, obviously.” He hoped that was the only thing that was obvious in his inquiry.
Beaufort shot him an expression that was shrewd and wry. “I’ve told you all I know.”
“And if you had to speculate?”
If it was possible, Beaufort’s expression grew sharper. “I would assume my cousin’s acquaintance would be roughly her equal in status, so single, young, reasonably well off.” He paused in thought. “Although she does have an interesting assortment of friends, especially compared to her sisters.”
For a sliver of a second, Fischer thought that might be an allusion to Constance’s friendship with Lydia. But if Beaufort trusted his cousin and she insisted it wasn’t hers, that was that.
Furthermore, it was not Constance’s hand nor style nor form. So he could quash that little spark of hope before it became a danger.
“I don’t know whether she’d say,” Beaufort said. “But I could always ask.”
Fischer scrutinized Beaufort for a moment. Beaufort had entrusted him with a sizable investment; surely Fischer could trust him to have the discernment to deliver the right letter. “Can you get a message to the authoress? I need her permission to print it, obviously, and I have a few small suggestions.” The kingfisher could make himself a little less obnoxious, for one.
“I will.” Beaufort held out a hand for the letter.
Fischer gave him the manuscript and editorial suggestions first. Then he pulled out the first letter. “This is asking for permission to print.” Then he produced the last letter, sealed with wax, unlike the wafers for the first two. “And this is if you determine she’s eligible.”
“Eligible?” Beaufort didn’t seem as amused as Fischer had anticipated. In fact, he looked rather bemused. “I thought your affections were already engaged.”
It was Fischer’s turn to be surprised and confused. “I — why do you say that?”
Beaufort waved that away. “No matter. I’ll use the utmost discretion.” He paused a moment. “Do you dance, Marks?”
“Only with the ladies, I’m afraid.”
Beaufort laughed and withdrew a slip of paper from his coat pocket. “The City Dancing Assembly closes next week, and I have an extra ticket. If you’re after an eligible young lady, that is.”
The Assembly was certainly a place to find one, if one could hope to court a lady of the better sort. If Beaufort subscribed, his cousins likely attended, and Constance might well be there.
No, no, Fischer didn’t need to dance with Constance. But perhaps Beaufort’s cousin
’s friends — including a certain authoress — might also attend. He accepted the ticket. “Thank you.”
Beaufort clapped a hand upon Fischer’s shoulder and turned for the door.
“And if I could beg one more message?” Fischer asked.
Beaufort paused, curious again. “Yes?”
Fischer checked the room, though Zechariah was busy with the books and the rest of his employees were still hard at work at the presses in the back room. “Can you ask Constance if she’d visit Lydia?”
Beaufort’s brows drew together. “Is all well?”
“Phineas Brand seems to have suspended his pursuit, and I fear she might be dispirited. Constance is one of Lydia’s only friends.”
“Is she?” Beaufort again paused in thought. “I’ve only seen Phineas once this week, but he didn’t speak of this. I’ll see what I can discover. And yes, I’ll talk to Constance.” He held up Fischer’s letters and took his leave just before a clattering crash carried from the back.
Fischer groaned within himself. He knew that sound.
“Mr. Marks,” Ellis, his younger apprentice, called. “Help us, please!”
Fischer hurried to the back room and found both apprentices on their hands and knees, type scattered all over the floor. Reeve, his shop superintendent, stood over them, frowning.
Walter pointed at Ellis. “He made pie of it, sir.”
Yes, obviously he’d scrambled a page of type. Fischer fought back his frustration. They did not have time for this kind of setback.
But Ellis was merely a boy, and Fischer had not forgotten when a journeyman had beaten him for such an infraction. An accident.
Fischer glanced at his other employees. Shier, the compositor, had gone white. That was nearly half a day of his work squandered. Reeve signaled for Lowden, the journeyman, to help, and they slowly got down on their knees to assist the devils.