by Diana Davis
David stood in the drawing room, his coat almost the same green as their paneled walls, but adorned with gold scrolls. He held a letter aloft, smiling broadly.
Constance was still several feet away when she saw the name on the back: Miss Jeanne Dark.
In Fischer’s handwriting.
She found herself mirroring David’s smile. She hadn’t expected Fischer to address her by her alias, but it was quite charming.
Before Constance could take it, Verity strolled in. “That must be a very important letter for Lieutenant David Beaufort to be posting it.”
Constance froze in a panic. David gave her a teasing bow, but before he added a rejoinder, Verity looked at the address again, and her eyes grew wide. “Do you know Jeanne Dark?” She pronounced it as Constance had intended, in the French way.
He glanced at the letter. “I certainly don’t know a Dark family in Philadelphia; do you?”
“No.” An eager light flickered in Verity’s gaze. “Do you think it could be an alias?”
“Anything is possible.” David sounded skeptical, however.
Constance could have kissed him. Only he, Mercy, Temperance and Owen knew, then.
Oh, and Fischer of course. And Lydia.
The secret might not be able to continue long with that many confidants and conspirators, but Constance needed it to last as long as possible. How would Papa react if someone else told him she’d written this pamphlet? How would that look for him?
Verity was still eyeing the letter and Constance, whom David had clearly been speaking to, or about to speak to. “Did — did you think it might be Constance?” Her tone betrayed her incredulity.
“The very idea,” Constance said, her voice revealing nothing.
“Very,” Verity agreed. “I haven’t read the pamphlet — it’s so popular I’m sure it will no longer be à la mode tomorrow — but it isn’t your style nor your usual topics. Outlandish that anyone would think of you.” She aimed a sideways look at David.
She didn’t think Verity was trying to insult her, so Constance decided not to take offense.
“Cousins,” David said, “will you come visit the nursery with me? I’ve not seen my girls all day, and I know they love to see you.”
“I’m afraid I have to finish retrimming my gown for tomorrow,” Verity apologized. “I can’t possibly wear the same gown to the closing Assembly! Can you imagine if Amos saw me in it a second time?”
David expressed gratuitous horror at that prospect and offered his arm to Constance. “You’re coming to the Assembly tomorrow, too, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, why?”
David’s nonchalance seemed feigned. “I’m sure General Washington would want to dance with you while he’s in the city.” They’d barely made it out of the garden to the mews before he handed her the letter. “Wait until we’re in the house to open it.”
He left her in the kitchens to give her privacy to read. In Fischer’s all too familiar hand, there was a great deal of business — sales were obviously going well, he was starting another impression and inquired after the sequel, and he wished to send the pamphlet to other colonies for more printings — but at the bottom of the letter were the words that made her come to a standstill.
My dear Miss Dark, 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. Your perception and your intellect are unparalleled. 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.
Constance found herself grinning like a fool before she’d even finished the lines. Fischer wished to court her? After all this time?
She felt like running in every direction at once. Everything she’d hoped for and had had torn away from her was hers again.
She wanted to rush up the stairs right away and have Cassandra write her reply — but she couldn’t be sure whether her cousin knew the secret, as close as Cassandra and David were.
Tucking the letter in her pocket, Constance used her every effort not to run back through the mews and garden and up the servants’ stairs, in case Verity or even Patience was in the drawing room.
Mercy still sat at the desk, poring over a text, when Constance reached their room. “Will you please help me write a letter?”
“Yes, but I only have a moment before I have to go to Temperance’s.”
The sequel would wait until tomorrow, then. “It will be quick. Just address Mr. Marks and tell him yes, it would be my utmost honor. To everything.”
Mercy wrote out the single line in her tight, neat hand and signed it Jeanne Dark. They had no need for the secrecy, of course, but it did make the whole exchange even more thrilling.
Constance would take the note back to David, and by this time tomorrow, she and Fischer Marks would be courting. Officially. At last.
Balls and assemblies had become increasingly rare as the Continental Congress passed more and more austerity measures, so Constance didn’t dare miss the last Philadelphia Assembly of the season on Saturday night.
Even the possibility that Fischer might be there was enough for her to spend an hour awkwardly using her left hand to iron her best blue and white striped cotton gown — well, not her best, but the best she had of the homespun — and red petticoat. She’d asked Papa to send Temperance over to help with her hair, but her oldest sister had pled sick, and Papa had kindly sent Patience instead.
Temperance’s illness was unfortunate for more than just herself. They all knew Temperance was the best at styling hair. And flirting.
Patience rolled and pinned another curl into place and met Constance’s eyes in the mirror. “What has you so giddy tonight?”
She nearly said, Fischer Marks, but the name died in her throat. Patience was the one person who probably oughtn’t be happy for her. “It’s the last Assembly of the season.”
“I see you’re dressed for it.”
Constance gave a little laugh, but obeying the Congress’s nonimportation agreements meant avoiding ostentation. Though no one thought putting away the fine gowns they’d already purchased would make a single whit’s difference to the British, it was the symbolism of the matter. Her gown might even be a bit too fine compared with the homespun most ladies would surely be wearing, but more importantly, she was dressed in the trio of patriotic colors, and that would surely make her own allegiances clear.
Unless Papa stopped her, she supposed.
Patience might have been observing the stricture on imported fabrics, but even for that, her gown was quite plain. “Are you wearing that?” Constance asked as Patience tied a silk ribbon in a bow for Constance’s hair.
“Oh, I can’t go. I have to pack. Gilbert has to return to Delaware tomorrow.”
Constance waited until Patience finished pinning in the bow to turn around. “You’re leaving?”
She always forgot that Patience’s husband was not from Philadelphia. It was bad enough she’d lost two sisters who lived a mile away from home now. The idea of Patience leaving the city — the colony — for even a short time was unimaginable. But she might yet move to Delaware, and that idea was insupportable.
“It’s only for a few weeks, I hope. The counties of Delaware wish to declare their independence.”
“From the king?”
Patience faltered a little. “I hope so, but they’re declaring it from Pennsylvania for now.”
How unusual. Did they not like sharing a governor? It had never crossed her mind that Delaware might object to their union.
Patience continued, “Gilbert wants to make sure it succeeds. McMullen has been working at it for weeks.”
Constance held out her uninjured hand to her sister, and Patience took it. “I don’t like this at all,” Constance said.
“Put it out of your mind,” Patience counseled. “We’ll be back before you know we’re gone.” She went to one of their wardrobes and return
ed with lace cuffs.
“We oughtn’t wear lace.” As the daughter, cousin and sister-in-law of delegates, Constance didn’t wish to look unseemly with wealth.
Patience sighed. “You’re right. Such a waste, though, when you’re so lovely.” She returned the lace cuffs and brought back lawn ones with just a little red embroidery. “Are these plain enough? Or should we try to make you ugly?”
Constance allowed a laugh at her sister’s teasing. She wouldn’t be gone long.
“Have you read Columbia’s Fields?” Patience asked, quiet but casual.
Read? Constance watched her sister at work basting in the cuffs. Surely this wouldn’t upset her as Constance and Fischer courting might, but too many people knew about her authorship already. “I have; have you?”
“Oh yes, it’s very clever. Though I do wonder that Miss Dark would include the kingfisher. Seemed superfluous.”
Perhaps, but now Fischer Marks was courting her.
“Did you like it, dear?” Patience asked, tying off the knot on the first cuff.
“I think it must be my favorite.”
Patience smiled, still focused on her needle. “Fischer is certainly fortunate to be printing it.”
Constance felt she was the fortunate one. And if that fortune held, Fischer would be at the dance.
Though they really could walk, Constance had to endure a coach ride with her sisters and the Beauforts to City Tavern. Constance just managed to keep her stomach calm with enough fresh air from the coach window.
Compared to Constance, Cassandra and David’s dress was even more patriotic in color scheme, if not material, though it was likely they still had American-made silk from the erstwhile Philadelphian filature David had supported. She could hardly picture anyone as rich as the Beauforts in anything less fine. Verity wore pink and lavender — with the lace cuffs Constance had turned down — while Mercy had opted for the subtler patriotism of solid blue.
The Long Room upstairs was crowded, but David led their party directly to the dance floor.
“Marks,” David greeted. Constance couldn’t even see him, yet her heart seemed ready to leap from her chest.
Would he say anything? They’d nearly courted before, but they had seemed to tacitly agree their burgeoning romance was so novel and sweet that they weren’t ready to share it with anyone else.
Until it was neither of those things, and Constance had had to hide her broken heart.
But now that was all better. She didn’t need to review the painful past with Fischer if they could move forward together.
“Do you mean to dance tonight?” David asked Fischer.
“No, I came to debate the finer points of Columbia’s Fields.” Fischer smirked, and Constance fought a blush. David was safe, of course, but how close would Fischer come to revealing her identity here?
“Then I have a most eligible partner for you.” David nodded not very subtly in Constance’s direction.
“Miss Hayes!” A man at her other side drew her attention. Constance hoped that he was addressing Verity or Mercy, but a quick glance revealed they’d both left her. Instead, she found a Mr. Means. She could only recall seeing him once before at an assembly, but the first time she’d met him was at the Sibbalds’ house during Godfrey’s short, ill-favored courtship of Temperance. Where Mr. Means had generally embarrassed and belittled Constance.
It was not an acquaintance she wished to renew.
“I am glad your sisters are not with you; I would probably be forced to stand up with each of them, and I never could abide dancing with a plain woman. It’s even worse than a dull one!”
Constance couldn’t help her mouth falling open in horror. This man was not only hoping to engage her hand for a dance, but to do so by insulting her sisters, who were far from plain? “Well,” she finally recovered, “that suits, because I could never dance with a man without sense.”
Mr. Means took the statement entirely the wrong way, baring his teeth in what might have been a grin. “Are you engaged for the minuet?”
“She is.” A familiar voice answered for her, and Fischer Marks took her unburnt hand and led her away.
Constance hardly dared to meet his eyes, even as he placed her hand on his arm and leaned close to murmur, “Apologies; seemed as though you needed rescuing. You don’t have to dance with me if you can’t bear it.”
She couldn’t help but give him a sly smile. “I suppose I can make an exception to my rule for you.”
“Oh!” Fischer held a hand to his heart as if she’d wounded him. They took their position toward the foot of the set. “Perhaps you’re right; I do feel I’ve taken leave of my senses. I’m terrible at the minuet.”
“Fischer Marks, I know that isn’t true. You told me your maman made you and Lydia practice an hour a day!”
He grinned, and her heart seemed to trip over itself. “Evidence that I was awful. Lydia was always much better.”
Mayor Powel, the evening’s assembly manager, came through and moved them several places up the set, an honor which Constance was quite certain she didn’t deserve, no matter who her father was. But they still had a little time to wait before it would be their turn.
“Perhaps you should get your sister to stand up in your stead, if you’re as terrible as you claim,” Constance teased.
“I would, were she here.”
“It’s a wonder you’re here; she told me you were run off your feet this week.”
Fischer nodded. “This is the first night I’ve stopped work before midnight. That pamphlet.” He shook his head, awed. “It’s a marvel.”
She focused on the floor and blushed.
“Your hand is bandaged,” he noted, concern in his voice.
“Yes, I burnt it on an iron.”
“I shall be especially careful,” Fischer murmured, then regarded her again. “You always have such lovely gowns.”
“Thank you; your waistcoat is very handsome.” Although he naturally followed the political fashion of homespun cloth, with a spinner for a sister, his homespun was particularly fine, and the navy embroidery suited the cream fabric very well.
“I thank you.”
The couple before them finished their dance and Fischer bowed to her. Whatever he’d claimed before had to be an exaggeration, because his dancing was as perfect as his dress.
They circled one another in the formal minuet step, slowing coming closer. As promised, his touch was ever so gentle, and he managed to avoid the still-sensitive spots as he held one and then both of her hands. Constance just managed to fight off a memory until they finished their turn and came to rest again.
—
It had been the day after David’s housewarming party a year ago, where she’d only spoken to Fischer for a few moments for fear of giving themselves away. Lydia had stopped by the house and invited Constance on a walk, and she’d accepted instantly. The twilight would linger, and then Dr. Franklin’s streetlamps would light their way. Even if it hadn’t been a lovely spring evening, she likely would have leapt at the chance to spend time with her friend.
She and Lydia fell into the easy conversation that they’d enjoyed before, books, writing, childhood adventures. Lydia took the lead on deciding on their route, guiding them closer and closer to High Street.
It could have only been fifteen minutes when Lydia abruptly stopped. “Oh, my, look where we are.” She pointed at the brick shop next to them.
Constance read the sign. The Watchman. “This is Fischer’s shop?”
“Yes, let’s stop in, shan’t we?”
Constance agreed. Lydia was obviously working very hard to throw the two of them together. And for Constance’s part, at least, it was working — but she scarcely needed the encouragement.
The shop was empty, but Lydia called for her brother and he’d joined them, at Constance’s side in an instant.
“Good evening,” Lydia said. “We were just out for a walk and thought we’d
stop in.”
“And I’m so glad you did.” Though he addressed his sister, Fischer beamed at Constance. She returned the smile, feeling as though her shoes were the only things keeping her from floating away.
Lydia glanced around. Three of them seemed to be alone in the shop. “I’m just going to . . . check a few things, if you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Lydia raised her eyebrows, and Constance had to wonder if all of this had been planned. Not that she minded. “And then perhaps you could give a tour?”
“I would like that,” Constance said.
“Then a tour you will have,” Fischer proclaimed.
As soon as Lydia turned to stroll away, Fischer took Constance’s hands. He seemed to catch up her heart with them as he lifted her hands to his lips. “Miss Hayes. Constance,” he began. “I know we haven’t known each other very long, but I think of you constantly.”
She laughed a little at the unintentional pun on her name and waited, breathless, for him to continue, to put into words what she’d been dreaming. What they both had.
“You must allow me — please — to —”
“Fischer!” Lydia’s cry had broken into his declaration, and abruptly ended the memory.
—
There was more to the memory — the whirlwind of fetching the water bucket from the hearth, shoving it into Lydia’s hands, running for the fire brigade — but she need not remember those moments of terror from last year.
Not when Fischer gazed at her so intently now on this dance floor. The musicians played a final coda to the minuet, and Fischer bowed to her, then stepped closer. “Miss Hayes, I must ask you something.”
Would he finally finish what he’d begun a year ago and make their courtship real on more than paper? She waited, every bit as breathless as that night.
“Do you know the Dark family?”
“I beg your pardon?” No, no, no. He couldn’t be saying what she thought he was.
“The family of a Miss Dark?”
“You’re asking me if I know Jeanne Dark?”
It was Fischer’s turn to appear stunned. “What did you say?”
What had she said? Had her French pronunciation been wrong? Not nearly as wrong as Fischer asking her —