by Diana Davis
“Better than Dickinson’s Letters and the Farmer Refuted combined,” Temperance said with a hush of awe. Constance well knew her sister’s favorite patriotic pamphlets. “Even a child would understand the conflict and the injustice. ‘Was liberty too dear at any price?’” she echoed the closing lines in a murmur.
Constance tried not to blush. “Thank you.”
Temperance turned to her husband, leaning against him, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Fischer Marks wishes to print it,” Temperance informed her husband.
Owen brightened and immediately darkened. “Marks?” His eyes turned thoughtful a moment. “I still find it hard to credit he chose to court Patience.”
“They were all wrong for one another.” Temperance shook her head. “I’ve always liked him better for you, Connie.”
One letter last year — that Temperance knew of — and she had them courting? Very like her. Constance sighed. “This isn’t about that.”
She glanced at the letter in her fingers. Was it?
“You really must print it,” Temperance urged.
“It would certainly benefit the cause,” Owen agreed.
David had wanted her to print it, too. Could she argue against David, Owen and Temperance, three family members whose opinions she valued most highly?
And Fischer desperately wanted to print it.
And he was personally entranced by it. And by her.
“Yes,” Constance said. “I think I shall have it printed.”
Temperance hopped to her feet. “I’ll get Mercy.”
Owen stood as well, steadying his wife who seemed not at all unstable. “Careful, dove. Why Mercy?”
Temperance held up the papers and handed them to Constance. “Mercy is the scribe of this great cause. And her handwriting is better than mine.”
“Please don’t tell Verity,” Constance said quickly. She’d be terribly jealous if Constance printed so much as an advertisement.
“No, no,” Temperance vowed. “It will be our secret. Right, Owen dear?”
He drew her close with a smile that showed they shared all their secrets. “Of course, dove.”
Constance half expected their affection to turn her stomach — hardly difficult — but with the promise of Fischer renewing his courtship, she found she didn’t dislike their behavior at all.
Temperance and Owen hurried downstairs, and Mercy joined Constance a moment later. They took the seats they’d used at the writing desk while they’d worked on the first volume. “We’ll have to make a few changes to the story tomorrow,” Constance announced, “but I’d like to write to accept Mr. Marks’s offer first.”
Mercy’s countenance lit up. “I’m so glad.”
“Mr. Marks has asked for a name to publish under.”
Mercy contemplated that a moment, as did Constance. The pamphlets Temperance had just cited were signed “A Farmer” and “A Friend to America,” and even Thomas Paine hadn’t put his name to his pamphlet for months afterward, so she had no need of using her real name, or any personal name at all.
Her gaze found Fischer’s book on her desk: Tales of Rouen. The tales included the execution of Joan of Arc, the young girl who tried to protect her people’s liberty, freeing them of the king of England. One of Fischer’s other books had inspired the tale; why not allow this one to give her an alias?
Constance nodded, and Mercy sharpened the quill. When she was ready to write, she turned to Constance.
“You may call me Jeanne Dark.”
It had taken Constance a week of writing letters through Mercy to convince Lydia to go out with her, but finally, Lydia’s market day came around, and she agreed to make her purchases with Constance.
Lydia’s lovely face lit up as soon as she saw Constance at the corner of Second and Pine. “I’ve missed you.”
Constance embraced her, careful not to knock either of their market baskets asunder. Lydia’s already held a fabric bundle. “How have you been?” Constance asked.
Lydia’s cheer faded. “Well,” she said, not the slightest bit convincingly. “Have you read anything good recently?”
“I’ve been rereading,” Constance had to admit. Somehow, she could never get enough of her comfortable favorites.
Lydia paused between surveying the market’s shambles. “No pamphlets or anything?”
That tone was awfully suspicious. Did she know about the copy of Common Sense Constance had purchased from Fischer two weeks ago? “I assume you’ve read Common Sense.”
“Oh yes, but my brother is printing a new pamphlet, and he’s already sold nearly half of the first impression.”
“Really?” Her own surprise was unfeigned. It couldn’t be hers, could it? Fischer had replied, approving all, promising to write more soon, but he hadn’t said it would be ready so quickly. All his employees must have worked night and day to make that happen.
Lydia contemplated a sad vegetable cart. “You know, dear, I think I had better go to High Street. Would you care to join me, or do you need to buy here?”
How could Constance tell her friend she had no need of purchasing anything? “I’m here to see you,” she confessed. “Where we buy doesn’t matter.”
Lydia threaded her arm through Constance’s, and they walked the half mile to the other market. Lydia did not bring up Mr. Brand, and Constance didn’t dare. She knew too well that sort of pain ought not to be indulged.
Constance pretended not to notice Lydia purchasing the cheapest meats and haggling for them, though she was quite skilled in her frugality. That was truly admirable, she thought.
It did not take long for them to make their way the block and a half down High Street to Fischer’s shop. Lydia glanced at The Watchman’s brick building. “I’m terribly sorry, but would it be too much to ask if I stopped in to bring Fischer some dinner? He hasn’t made it home in days with this new pamphlet.”
“Of course.”
Constance followed Lydia toward the door of the shop, but stopped in the street. A broadside in the window touted Columbia’s Fields, a new tale of a familiar injustice, by Jeanne Dark, Daughter of Columbia.
That was a nice phrase Fischer had added. He’d understood the allusion to Phillis Wheatley’s poetic name for the country, then. That small measure of cooperating with him gave her a little thrill.
This could be her life now.
Constance turned away to hide her smile, but under the roof of the market, she spied two men both holding pamphlets. She didn’t have to crane her neck far to see the covers. Both had purchased Columbia’s Fields.
She turned the other way, where a woman leaned against one of the market’s brick pillars, reading Columbia’s Fields. The woman laughed out loud and addressed another woman at the nearest stall. “You have to read this! The king ought to see how he’s treated us now.”
Constance held both hands to her mouth, ignoring the ache from her still-healing burns. She’d never even dreamed of sharing her writing with a larger audience, let alone finding that people not only purchased but also perused and praised it.
Especially not after the way Fischer had criticized her poem so. Not that she had marked the exact date he’d well and truly broken her heart — a year ago yesterday — but now none of that mattered. He was entranced by her and her tale. He was printing it and writing to her again. There was nothing to be upset about.
She whirled back around to catch up to Lydia, but found her friend approaching from the shop. “What happened to you?” Lydia asked. “I lost you!”
“I’m sorry, I was distracted.” She gestured at the shop. “I imagine they’re terribly busy.”
“Yes, he scarcely had a minute for me.”
Then Constance would not ask to see him.
Lydia followed Constance’s gaze to the shop, and Lydia pursed her lips. “That brother of mine drives a bargain very hard — until I mentioned I wanted to give you a copy.”
She held out the
pamphlet, and Constance accepted it. Her little tale, set in type, printed on paper, bound. She ran her unburnt fingers over it, relishing in the texture of the letters impressed into the paper. It was a wonder indeed. “Thank you,” she murmured. Constance gestured at the street. “All these people are reading Columbia’s Fields?”
“Everyone in town. Fischer suggested I take you over to Congress before the dinner break.”
“Oh?”
“Apparently one of his patrons was the first to buy, and he bought enough copies for the whole of Congress.”
Then Papa had a copy? A new flutter started in Constance’s stomach, and for a moment she worried she’d be sick. That was all she’d wanted from the start, but this was not at all how she’d anticipated going about it.
How would Papa feel about a pamphlet by a stranger, thrust upon him by John Hancock or Cousin David, preaching against continuing under the king’s mistreatment?
“Fischer tells me there’s to be a sequel,” Lydia murmured. “And he’ll have to hire help to do a second impression of this one. Isn’t it thrilling?”
Constance pressed a hand to her stays over her middle. “Quite.”
They passed the woman reading the pamphlet, and the woman turned back to her friend. “Who is Jeanne Dark?” she called. She did not say it with the French pronunciation as Constance intended, but that was no matter.
“Who indeed?” Lydia said in an undertone, arching her eyebrows at Constance.
Then she knew? Constance returned the conspiratorial cheer and held a finger to her lips.
“Come, let us go and see if we can catch a glimpse of General Washington at the Congress — did you hear he’s in town?” Lydia asked.
Constance nodded and took her friend’s arm. They made their way down the market for another block, and Constance spotted another half-dozen people reading Columbia’s Fields. Twice she heard people speculating about Jeanne Dark.
She’d never intended to make a sensation.
Fischer closed the door of his shop behind Lydia, resisting the temptation to look out after her. She’d said Constance was with her?
He avoided the front windows and took the parcels Lydia had brought upstairs to his office. The dinner first: raisins, salt pork and a bottle of cider.
He’d barely tossed a handful of raisins into his mouth before he found himself at the window, staring down at the street. Constance stood below, holding what had to be the pamphlet he’d just sent to her. She stroked the cover with reverence.
What he wouldn’t give to go down there, hold that hand, talk about Columbia’s Fields and Common Sense and everything else they’d read over the last year.
Before he’d met Constance, his work consumed his life. Now, he still thought of nothing but her. Would his heart never learn?
At last, he turned away from the window. Constance and Lydia were out of sight anyway. He laid out the suit and shirts his sister had brought so they wouldn’t crease. He hadn’t had time to go home in days. If Lydia hadn’t brought him another change of clothes, he didn’t know what he would have done. Hired some street urchin to fetch his own or bought something new that would surely fit him ill, he supposed.
He took up a piece of salt pork. The last letter from Miss Dark sat next to the parcel on his desk. In all this rush, he still owed her a letter. He hadn’t even had time to send her a copy of her own pamphlet yet.
Who was this Jeanne Dark?
He scarcely had time to wonder now. He drank the cider and returned downstairs. Two new assistants were preparing the press in the shop for the government forms. In the back, the rest of his employees were setting up for the second impression of Columbia’s Fields. Even he had vastly underestimated how popular the pamphlet would be. He’d set aside a few copies to send as samples to his old master in Boston, as well as shops where he knew printers in New York, Baltimore and Charlestown — pending Miss Dark’s permission, of course.
He could only imagine if this fervor spread throughout the country. Common Sense had provided the powder, and Columbia’s Fields would give the spark.
Ellis, the younger of his printer’s devils, positioned a damp page on the tympan and folded the frisket down over it to protect the unprinted areas of the page. Walter, the older devil, finished inking the forme, and Ellis folded the paper assembly down onto the type.
Walter cranked the rounce to move the entire carriage under the platen — the “press” part of the press — and grabbed the devil’s tail. Or the bar, rather. He gave the bar a good hard pull, but he was only twelve. Fischer crossed the room to add a little more pressure to ensure all the type made an impression.
“Thank you, Mr. Marks.”
Fischer patted his hands and motioned for him to proceed. Walter cranked the rounce again, moving the second half of the page under the platen. He grabbed the devil’s tail and Fischer took hold as well.
They’d scarcely put weight on the bar when a scream pierced the air. Ellis stood a few feet away, his arm still extended into the inner workings of the press.
“Stop! Stop!” Fischer pulled Walter’s hands off the bar and swung it hard the opposite direction. How had Fischer not seen Ellis there? Fischer drew the boy’s hand out, almost too afraid to look. But there was no blood. “Water!” he called.
Walter jumped to obey, bringing the bucket from the hearth. Ellis stuck his fingers in.
Fischer turned to Reeve. “Pump more water — cold water,” his superintendent directed the journeyman. Reeve turned to Fischer. “I’ll get the doctor.”
“Any doctor,” Fischer confirmed. Both men hurried out, and Fischer turned to Ellis. “What happened?”
“I thought the frisket had moved,” Ellis sobbed.
He had to be certain the boy wouldn’t lose the appendage. He pulled Ellis’s hand out of the water. “Where?
Ellis twitched his middle two fingers, sucking in another breath. Fischer didn’t dare touch them, but aside from redness and a little swelling, there were no obvious injuries yet. Perhaps they weren’t too badly crushed.
Ellis succumbed to his tears, and Fischer replaced his hand in the water, holding his arm around the boy’s shoulders.
He was Ellis’s master. He was responsible for not only teaching him the workings of the press — which he’d obviously failed at — but also for the boy’s well-being while he was in Fischer’s charge. And he’d failed to protect him as well.
Reeve and Lowden returned with fresh water and Dr. Adam Drinker. The boy’s cries as Dr. Drinker gently prodded his fingers rent Fischer’s heart. He held Ellis fast while the doctor set and splinted the broken fingers, then conducted him home with a bottle of laudanum.
As soon as Ellis was back in his mother’s care, Fisher stopped in the first alleyway and sagged against the brick wall.
What had he done? Had he really gotten so caught up in the printing of the pamphlets that he’d crushed Ellis? He could have seen Ellis had he bothered to check. Even if it was unintentional, Fischer should be better than that. No one else need pay the price for his mistakes.
By the time he made it back to the shop, all the presses were running, Reeve taking Ellis’s place and guiding Walter. Unready to jump back into the work, Fischer wandered upstairs to his office, to his desk, to the letter from Miss Dark. That was business he could take care of. He sat and pulled out a fresh sheet. With a sigh, he began.
My dear Miss Dark, I offer the abjectest apology for my tardy reply. I’m certain you cannot be ignorant of the effect your pamphlet has had on our city.
He gave her some idea of the sales numbers and when she could expect her first payment, announced the next impression of the first volume and asked after the second.
Business concluded, Fischer paused.
He couldn’t deny it any longer: he still loved Constance Hayes. Not a year’s passing nor the work of the week had banished her from his mind. He’d tried to refuse himself even a glimpse of her, then he’d come
upstairs and gone straight to the window.
Lydia wasn’t the only faible parti. But he would not give in to weakness. If he had to marry — and Beaufort was probably right that he ought to — he should try to move on from Constance sooner rather than later. He could do worse than a brilliant authoress.
My dear Miss Dark, he addressed her again, if I am not too forward, I must confess that the sentiments of your tale are so beautifully expressed that I think of nothing else.
That was true. He’d found himself imagining Columbia’s eponymous fields as he’d printed off the pages. He didn’t have to tell Jeanne Dark he imagined himself walking the pastures with Constance Hayes, just as they’d strolled in his garden so many times.
Your perception and your intellect are unparalleled, he continued. Please, tell me if I have the smallest hope of paying my addresses to you. It would be an honor to hope to win your hand.
It did sound a bit like he was scraping obsequiously, but every word he’d written was true. He made no proclamations of love, no claims she was first nor only in his heart. Nor that she was in his heart at all.
He would be honored to have someone of that intelligence give him a second thought. To court her was more than he could hope.
Even if everything in his heart screamed for him to stop.
How many times did he have to tell himself? He couldn’t hearken to such frenetic yearnings. He’d hurt enough people: Ellis, Abby, even Maman.
Hearts were not to be heeded.
He signed the letter and sealed it with a wafer. Who was this Jeanne Dark indeed?
The day after she visited the market with Lydia, Constance found Mercy to go over ideas for the next volume of Columbia’s Fields. She’d hoped to wait until her fingers had healed enough to write it herself, but she had sparked an idea and needed to get it down before it fled again. Mercy obliged her, until Ginny came and announced that David had once again come for Constance.