by Diana Davis
Constance closed the door and tried the next one. As soon as she opened the door, Lydia shot up in her bed. “Oh. Constance.” She seemed to not know quite where she was.
“Good morning, Lydia.”
Lydia laid back against her pillow. “What brings you here on a Sunday morning?”
“I got word that you might be bereft of comfort when you needed it most. I’m afraid I didn’t have time to fetch your books —”
Her friend’s eyes instantly welled up with tears, and Constance rushed to her side. “You miss your books this desperately?” Constance murmured in jest.
“Yes,” Lydia hiccupped. “My books.” As Constance held Lydia, her friend wept without explanation.
And still, Constance did not.
Sunday afternoon, Fischer sharpened the blade on the paper trimmer, the last of his neglected maintenance tasks. He wished he hadn’t lied to Constance — not only because he loathed lying, especially to her, but because if he were as busy as he’d stated, surely he’d have even a single thing to occupy his time other than worrying about Lydia.
Well, he hadn’t lied, exactly. He hadn’t said he was printing, and he’d certainly worked hard all day, cleaning his little apartment above the shop and the shop itself and then each press. They’d hardly had time all week, and everything was in a state.
None of that had deterred his concern for Lydia, however. Not even after he’d left the note for Constance, which was already asking far more than he should from her. He’d done enough to offend Constance, last night alone.
And then he’d hurt Lydia.
The best thing he could do for both of them was to stay as far away as possible.
Fischer was oiling the trimmer when voices carried from outside the door. He was not in the mood for fresh mischief, so he strode to the door and opened it.
The man on the other side faced away from him, talking to a coach in the street. Fischer craned his neck to see past him. Patience Hayes — Patience Brand — frowned back from the coach window. Eyes on the other man, she drew a small circle in the air, and the man in front of Fischer turned around.
Of course. Brand. “Sorry,” Gilbert said. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your work.” He looked skeptically at Fischer a moment, and Fischer found himself wishing he’d had a waistcoat to wear that he didn’t mind ruining with machine grease. “I just didn’t know where else to find you.”
Through great self-control, Fischer managed not to look over the man’s shoulder at his wife, who did know where Fischer lived. He wasn’t there anyhow. “What can I do for you?”
Brand shifted. “You’re certain that Mrs. Ainsley will not marry Phineas?”
“She cannot.” Not legally, anyway.
Brand still couldn’t meet his gaze. “He told me he means to elope with her.”
“What? When did you talk to him?”
“This morning.”
“And when did he mean to carry her away?”
Brand’s freckled forehead puckered at that, but he pressed on. “Tonight, if he could.”
“We must —” Before Fischer stepped into the street to join Brand — in only a shirt? — he stopped. Gilbert Brand had not brought his wife in a coach to go intervene in his brother’s plans. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Delaware. We’re declaring independence from Pennsylvania.”
“I see. Thank you for letting me know.” Fischer shut the door and hurried upstairs to get dressed. He wouldn’t see Lydia, he wouldn’t go in the house, but he would make sure Phineas Brand did no such thing.
Leaving word at Beaufort’s house — he didn’t dare to wait for the man — Fischer returned to wait on his own front porch. He didn’t dare check to see if Lydia were at home. Brand could have come and transported her away already for all Fischer knew.
He ought to be inside, taking care of his sister, but he’d forfeited that right last night. It wasn’t like this when they were children. She had always been the one to take care of him, especially after Maman died. Lydia had kept the house running when Maman couldn’t get out of bed, had managed to find him his apprenticeship with Benjamin Edes and John Gill at the Boston Gazette, where he’d learned both printing and patriotism. Without Lydia, he couldn’t imagine where he’d be.
And then she’d married Donald, and not long after, moved to Philadelphia. That left Fischer and Father rattling around in their house, mostly avoiding one another until Father was gone. He hadn’t seen Lydia again until he’d gotten word that she was in trouble.
Trouble was an understatement. It had taken him a week to secure a patron in John Hancock and another week to travel to Philadelphia with hopefully enough money to solve whatever trouble Lydia had found herself in and start a print shop.
He had never anticipated finding her alone in a dark, squalid almshouse. Every friend she had had turned against her. She didn’t seem to recognize him — couldn’t even speak to him — and he hardly knew her in that state. He’d nearly had to carry her out of there and to this house. It was too far from the center of town to be convenient for either of their work, but she’d needed a respite.
She’d needed many other things which Fischer hadn’t been able to provide, but he’d tried his best. Even now, as much as it might wound her, this was the best he could do for her.
It was nearly twilight before Beaufort and Carter arrived. Fischer stood to greet them, though he was beginning to think Phineas Brand had lost his nerve or merely been boasting of bravery before his brother. The brothers-in-law talked over Beaufort’s progress in securing a letter of marque for Carter while they waited. Apparently Congress was too engrossed in debating Jeanne Dark’s identity, a subject which should have drawn Fischer in, but he was too worried to make conversation.
It was not ten minutes before Brand appeared. He stopped on the walk when he saw the three men.
Beaufort began to step forward, but Fischer stopped him. This was his sister, after all. “Good evening.”
“Marks, Beaufort, Carter.” He nodded to each of him, not quite a bow. “Stand aside.”
“I will not, and you’re not to enter.”
“Your sister is free to do as she chooses.” Brand glared at him. “And if you ask me, she’s lucky to get shut of your dominion.”
Did the man think Fischer did this to exert control over Lydia? “You have no idea what you’ve done to my sister’s honor. I’ve been remiss to not demand satisfaction sooner.”
“Fischer.” Lydia’s voice came from behind him, and he looked back. She avoided his gaze but motioned for him to move. He and the other men did as bid, and she stepped up to Brand.
Brand immediately caught up her hands in his. “Lydia, darling, please, come with me. I’ll take you away from all this.” He gestured at Fischer, who folded his arms. Brand ignored him. “I have a parson waiting in Chester, and you’ll never have to live like this again. Please, marry —”
“Phineas.” She finally stopped him, not meeting his eyes, either. “Don’t ask. I cannot.”
“Because Marks says so?”
“I am married.”
Brand’s lip twitched almost into a smile. “Yes, of course I know you were married.”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “I am still married.”
Brand stared at her in the silence, and for the first time, Fischer had to allow that his was a true attachment. “What?”
“My husband left me years ago. With another woman.”
“Then — then we must sue for divorce, for abandonment.”
“Don’t you know? Parliament has revoked divorce in the colonies.” Lydia’s expression said that she knew her doom all too well.
“Well, we — we don’t have to marry.”
Fischer barely managed not to sigh at Brand’s offer. What, did he plan to live with her as his illicit, would-be wife?
Her anguish only increased. “My reputation —”
“I don’t care,” Brand insisted. “I can l
ive without that. I can’t live without you. Please.”
“You don’t understand what I’ve already been through because of this.” Lydia finally met his gaze. “I cannot. I’m so sorry.” She pulled her hands free of his and stepped back. In her eyes, Fischer saw the pain she was trying so hard to hide.
Was there a way they might be together, somewhere far from here, where no one would know?
But that was wrong, and they would always know it.
Brand clenched his jaw. “All this time — you never thought to mention this?”
“I didn’t — I wished —”
“To what? Take advantage of my attentions and affections unless they became serious?” With each word, his volume increased.
“Phineas, please.”
“How could you? How dare you?”
Fischer stepped forward before Brand shouted at his sister, but Lydia turned to flee into the house, and Fischer and the other men let her pass. She shouldn’t be alone now. Fischer started after her. Before he could follow, he saw Constance Hayes standing on the step. She took Lydia in her arms and guided her back inside.
Then she would be taken care of.
“You knew,” Brand said.
Fischer turned back to him but made no reply. The answer was obvious.
Brand stood there in silence for a long time, focused on the brick walkway.
“Perhaps I misjudged you,” Fischer said at last. He recognized that his tone was hardly generous, but honestly, that was more magnanimous than the man deserved when he’d just proposed living with his sister unmarried.
“And I you,” Brand sneered. That was hardly fair after all Fischer had done to urge Lydia and warn Brand off. With a final glare to show he appraised Fischer to be worth less than filth, Brand spun on his heel and marched back the way he’d come.
Beaufort clapped Fischer on the shoulder. He did not seem scandalized nor even surprised by Lydia’s revelation. Carter couldn’t look Fischer in the face. They took their leave, and Fischer waited to watch the growing gloom creep over his house.
What if Lydia was back in that dark place where he’d found her? Not the almshouse, but the severe melancholy that had taken him so long to nurse her out of. Weeks of waiting on her hand and foot, reading to her in French and English, finding her a wheel and a reel and spinning work, and working together in the garden had finally prevailed.
He’d do it all again for her if it meant she didn’t succumb to the melancholy. Like Maman had.
And if she would let him.
She shouldn’t trust him. She couldn’t. Hadn’t he injured his sister enough?
Fischer waited until it was full dark to slip in to fetch some clothes. Clean coat in his arms, he was leaving his room when a voice behind him demanded, “Who’s there?”
He found Constance holding a candlestick aloft. She didn’t seem frightened to be confronting a man in a dark corridor, but she had to have known it was him. “I’m just leaving,” Fischer said.
“Leaving?” She moved closer and held the light higher to scrutinize him.
He tried to scan the darkness behind her but saw no sign of Lydia. “I’m staying at the shop. Busy.”
“I see.” She watched him a moment longer. “Would you be so good as to tell my family I’m caring for Lydia?”
“To be sure.” He could think of no one better to care for her. Constance was the most soothing person he’d ever known. Even now, stepping closer to her, her effect on him was calming.
She was capable, too, when called upon. The year before, he’d happened to come to her house in a moment of crisis, her sister broken and bleeding. Despite her pallor, Constance had quickly taken charge of herself and the situation, sending him off to fetch her father while she ran for a doctor. He didn’t know if he’d ever loved her more than in that moment — which was inconvenient, since he had been courting Patience.
He hadn’t even noticed whether Patience was there, except to be sure she wasn’t the injured sister.
Now it was his sister Constance was caring for. She couldn’t be in better hands. Especially not his.
“If she’s worse in the morning,” Fischer said, “take her into the garden. The dead flowers need removing.”
Constance fixed a glare upon him. “I’ll see if she’s up to your chores in the morning.”
“No, I — I don’t need that done. Working in the garden helps her.”
The fury on her face softened. “Having you here would also help her.”
“I’ve done too much already.”
“She needs you.”
How could he explain? He loved Lydia and he’d harmed her, and the only way to stop harming her was to take himself far away from her.
Even if he could explain that, he certainly couldn’t say it to Constance Hayes. Fischer averted his gaze. “The last thing she needs is me.”
For a moment, even Fischer wasn’t sure whether he meant Lydia or Constance.
“You’re not —” Constance stepped closer and lowered her voice, her green eyes large and grave in the candlelight. “The two of you aren’t arguing, are you?”
Fischer reached for her hand to reassure her but remembered her burns — and himself. He searched for words instead, but found none that weren’t a lie.
“I’ll tell your family,” he promised. She stood still in the corridor and watched him pull on his coat and turn away. He glanced back on the stairs. “Thank you.”
She nodded. He couldn’t read her expression, but he almost thought it looked like yearning.
Surely that was his own heart he was hearing.
Hardly surprising that hearts could not be trusted with free rein.
Constance was grateful Fischer was not at home, but she hoped it wasn’t her presence that kept him away. He’d always been so devoted in taking care of his sister.
He would have probably been at the shop all day Monday, so Constance ignored her guilt and stayed with Lydia all of Monday, though neither of them felt up to spending time in the garden. Constance was relieved at that: she could hardly stand the thought of working among the flowers Fischer had shown and described to her the year before, when it had seemed their love was blooming, too.
To lift Lydia’s spirits — and to make sure Constance never forgot herself while staying in Fischer’s house — Constance gave her the poem she’d retrieved from Fischer’s room. She’d hoped perhaps they could find humor in it together, that perhaps with a year’s distance, she’d see exactly how terrible it was and why Fischer had hated it so. At least she had the small reassurance that her work was not why he’d thrown her off; he had ended everything between them before the poem had fallen into his hands.
Lydia had perused only the first page or two before she began crying again, so they set aside the poem. “Is my writing so bad it brings you to tears?” Constance asked, mostly in jest.
And that made Lydia laugh for the first time all day.
Tuesday morning, she made sure Lydia was at least well enough to start on her spinning before she ventured to check on things at home. She caught Mercy on her way to Temperance’s and coaxed her back inside to help finish the next volume of Columbia’s Fields. Her sister was less inclined to argue against the kingfisher’s nattering, though Constance couldn’t find a good place to kill the bird. Mercy left Constance to make notes about any necessary changes. It hardly stung at all to hold a quill now, but she’d have to admit to Mercy why she needed her to copy over the whole thing after her notes were complete.
Constance had finished the last insertion of the kingfisher in the first half when she heard Papa’s voice downstairs. She tucked the manuscript under the false bottom of her drawer — a secret she’d learned from Temperance when she’d inherited the top drawer of the clothespress — and ran down to see him in the dining room.
“There you are, child.” Papa stood from the table and kissed both her cheeks. “We’ve missed you.”
Neither of them could miss the little huff Verity gave from her seat at the table. Mama joined them, announcing that Mercy was off caring for Temperance. Polly served dinner to their little party, joining them at the table.
“How was the morning’s Congress?” Constance asked.
“We’ve debated nothing but a singular topic today, this Jeanne Dark woman.”
“Who wrote that pastoral tale?” Verity’s tone hinted at disdain. “Can no one speak of anything else?”
Constance focused on her roast beef. “And what did you say?” she asked Papa.
“I? I said nothing. Merely listened.”
“Then what did everyone else say?”
Verity groaned. “Must we discuss politics at the table? It cannot help the digestion.”
She was probably right. Constance’s stomach was tying itself in knots awaiting Papa’s answer.
She didn’t much care how the other representatives felt, but she was desperate to know what Papa thought of her words. He’d been the only person she’d hoped to reach with the tale in the first place.
He acquiesced to Verity’s suggestion and asked after Verity’s morning. She’d spent it visiting Temperance, who was still ill but in high spirits. Constance reported on Lydia, avoiding any particulars other than a severe heartbreak, and then Verity guided the conversation back to her courtship with Amos Gallagher. Constance was too concerned about Papa’s reaction to the pamphlet to attend her sister closely, but that hardly mattered, since Verity was prattling about wedding plans and romantic dreams of life as a printer’s wife rather than telling them of Mr. Gallagher himself.
Constance had known similar dreams all too well, and where had that gotten her? Hopefully Mr. Gallagher was truer than Fischer had been.
After the gooseberry tart was served — which Constance still couldn’t stand even years after the Philadelphia Young Ladies Society had disbanded — Verity excused herself to work on her embroidery.
Constance addressed Papa. “Have you read Columbia’s Fields?”
Papa narrowed his eyes. “I’ve read enough of it. I realize that political pamphlets are not your typical reading,” he told her, “but this one is very popular.”