by Diana Davis
Constance could hardly blame Verity for not wishing to challenge Amity. But Constance could not let her comments about Lydia stand. She wished Patience were here to give Amity a proper set-down. What more could Constance do?
Fischer wove his way through the people in the Harrisons’ ballroom. Were they trying to thwart him from getting to — he looked a second time.
That wasn’t Constance Hayes whom Amity Duché was advancing upon. That was his sister in the gown Constance had worn the day Fischer had met her. He hurried even faster.
Before he reached Lydia cowering away from Miss Duché, however, Constance herself stepped between them.
Miss Duché sneered down her snubbed nose at them and delivered the insult as if truly impressed with Constance’s Christian goodness.
Constance seemed to shrink back a moment, searching the crowd for help. Fischer moved forward again, but Constance spoke before he reached her. “What a base, ugly thing to say,” she said. “I can’t believe that is how your father taught you.”
More and more eyes seemed to be focusing on them. Fischer pushed his way between the last group and held out his arm to Lydia. “Good evening,” he greeted, all brightness. Lydia clung to him. He subtly offered his other arm to Constance, but she was focused on Miss Duché.
Dropping his pleasant expression, Fischer addressed Amity. “Your father wants you.”
Amity craned her neck to look for him. “Why?”
“Probably to remind you of the meaning of charity.” A cold shock seemed to pass through the nearest eavesdroppers. “But I wouldn’t know. Every time he opens his mouth, my mind goes right to the devil.”
Miss Duché’s horror doubled, but she recovered herself far more quickly than Fischer had hoped. “And you, Mr. Marks.”
He arched an eyebrow. His character was far from perfect, but he defied Amity Duché to know him enough to prove it.
“It’s a wonder you’d set your cap at Patience Hayes.”
How did she know that? Fischer checked with Constance. She was staring at her sister behind Miss Duché, who finished, “She was clearly too smart to marry the likes of you.”
Was that all of the insult? He’d agree if it were coming from anyone other than her. “Well, Miss Duché, as we see —” He paused to eye her. “ — I could certainly do worse.”
“Good night,” Constance said with finality. She did not take his arm, but she did turn with them and follow them out of the ballroom, down the corridor, and out of the house.
They hadn’t made it far before Constance stopped short. “Temperance?”
Fischer checked to see what had drawn her attention. Her oldest sister, Mrs. Randolph, knelt behind the rosebushes, retching.
Constance immediately fled to the street. Uncertain what was happening, Fischer looked to Lydia. “Go after her,” she said, as if his only course of action were obvious.
Lydia went to help Mrs. Randolph and her husband, and Fischer hurried after Constance. He found her past the edge of the Harrisons’ property, pale in the last sliver of moonlight. She leaned forward, hands on her knees, gulping down great breaths of air.
Fischer immediately went to steady her. “Are you well?”
She nodded but couldn’t seem to speak. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders to help her straighten again. “I have an exceptionally weak stomach.” Her smile seemed even weaker.
He wished he’d thought to pocket some sweet or strong food that might revive her. Or that might make it worse. “Do you have a fan?”
“Yes, yes.” She fished in her pocket and produced it. Still holding her, Fischer took the fan and unfolded it to wave fresh air onto her face.
After a steady flow of air for a few moments, Constance’s breathing began to deepen and slow, and she gradually relaxed against him. Her panic gone, Fischer found that he, too, seemed to calm. He lowered the fan, and then he was simply holding her, swimming in her violet scent.
How long had he wished to hold Constance Hayes in his arms? And now that she was here, it was more than everything he’d dreamed — and yet not enough. She opened her eyes and fixed upon his.
He was going to kiss her. He had to. Nothing else could be more right than that in this moment.
He released her shoulder to draw her in — but Constance pulled back. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Were it not for you, I would have been right alongside Temperance.”
“We —” Fischer shook his head and edged away. Must his arms feel so empty? “We couldn’t have that, could we?”
“Of course not.” Without stepping closer, Constance bent to take her fan from Fischer. “Would you please check on her for me?”
“Certainly.”
Constance walked as far as the gate with him, but both of their sisters and Randolph met them there.
“Sorry, Connie.” Mrs. Randolph, her striped gown and petticoat miraculously unsoiled, reached for Constance’s elbow. “I had too many sweets and suddenly got very hot in there. Wasn’t it positively flaming?” She turned to her husband for support, and he agreed.
It hadn’t seemed that hot to Fischer, at least not until he was trying to defend Lydia and Constance. Or perhaps just standing that close to Constance was intoxicating. Even now, he was close enough that he could have taken her hand.
“You ought to take David’s coach home,” Constance said to her sister. She seemed pale again, but didn’t shrink.
“He said the same thing,” Randolph informed her. “He caught us in the corridor on the way out.”
“Ah, so he wasn’t in the ballroom when Amity . . .” Unable to finish, Constance addressed Lydia. “See, I told you he would have intervened if he’d been there.”
Lydia acknowledged this.
Mrs. Randolph narrowed her eyes at Fischer and Constance. Could Mrs. Randolph see where Fischer’s mind still lay? “Where are you two coming from?” Mrs. Randolph asked.
“I saw you.” Constance seemed to quail, but rallied before Fischer could offer help again. “Mr. Marks was helping me recover.”
Mrs. Randolph grimaced and squeezed her sister’s elbow. “Sorry, Connie.”
Was that what her family called her? That was charming.
“Temperance!” a woman behind them cried, and another sister rushed up the walk. The dark-haired younger one. “Are you leaving?”
Mrs. Randolph nodded.
“I’m going with you. Anything to escape dancing with Godfrey Sibbald.”
A sympathetic look passed between Mrs. Randolph and Constance. Before they were forced to make more conversation, Beaufort’s coach pulled up. Randolph helped his wife and other sister-in-law — Verity, wasn’t it? Fischer made ready to hand Constance up, but she didn’t leave the footpath. “I can’t. Coaches don’t agree with my stomach either,” she explained.
“Ah.” Fischer hesitated a moment. Could he impose upon them to take Lydia so he and Constance could talk — or not talk?
No, being alone with her like that wouldn’t be proper. He closed the coach door and waved the occupants off. “May I — we — escort you home? That is, if you don’t mean to return.”
Constance glanced back at the house — no, the rosebushes — and drew a sharp breath, holding a hand to her chest. “I don’t think I can.”
Fischer tried not to let his inward celebration show. It had to be two miles back to Society Hill. Surely he could make some excuse to escape Lydia for at least a moment. “Shall I let your family know we’re seeing you home?” he offered.
“Yes, thank you.” She gave the minutest smile and met his gaze again.
He bowed and hurried back inside to beg her leave, then returned to where she and Lydia waited at the gate. Even those few minutes away from her did nothing to clear his head.
He would have to find a way to have Constance in his arms again and finish what he should have done a year ago.
Constance and Lydia walked arm in arm for the two miles back to South Stree
t. Fischer walked at Lydia’s other side, quiet as Constance tried to chat with his sister as if nothing upsetting had happened. At Lydia’s urging, Fischer spoke, haltingly, of business — he’d had to hire more assistants, rent another press from Amos Gallagher and sell two of his government form contracts to the other printer to keep up with demand for the two editions. Then the conversation turned again to novels.
They were back on the city’s cobbled streets, Fischer in the street beside them, before he spoke freely. “Kind of Miss Hayes to let you wear her gown,” he said to his sister.
Constance tried to be subtle about craning her neck to see him, but he stared straight ahead. How did he know it was hers? Surely he couldn’t remember.
“I know I probably shouldn’t,” Lydia was saying, “but I do so love it.”
She was right; although the silk with block printed florals on the pink and green stripes was American made, it did not appear to be in keeping with the Congress’s strictures. Of course, a number of people at the Harrisons’ were dressed at least that fine. Including John Hancock, president of Congress.
“You wore it to your sister’s wedding, didn’t you?” Fischer asked. “Mrs. Randolph’s, I mean.”
“Yes.” He did remember?
“When we all met,” Lydia finished.
Constance’s stomach quaked at the mention. She was trying to forget that part of that day and the joyous weeks that followed. Fischer Marks had seemed every inch a man falling in love.
Just as he had when he’d held her and gazed into her eyes tonight. If she’d let herself believe him, surely she would have kissed him in that moment.
Fortunately, she knew better.
They reached Pine Street, and Constance expected Lydia and Fischer to stop at the corner and watch her down half the block to her door. She released Lydia, and Lydia slowed, but Fischer kept pace with her. Lydia hurried the two steps to catch them up.
At her door, Constance hugged Lydia. Before she bid them both good night, Fischer spoke. “May I see you in?”
Constance failed to find the words to deny him, so she led him into the house. Rather than turning back once she was safely inside, Fischer closed the door on a stunned Lydia, leaving her in the street.
“Miss Hayes. Constance.” He took her hand, but his fingers grazed her tender new skin, and she flinched away from his touch and his words. He’d begun a speech this way before, and she did not like to hear him do it again. Not after how he’d finished the speech the next day.
“I have tried to refuse myself, but I can’t any longer. Will you let me court you?”
Constance drew back. “What? Why?”
Now Fischer was taken aback. “Why?” he repeated.
“Indeed.” Every word of his he’d used to reject her last year rushed to mind, but she forced them down. She could not throw them in his face. “You had decided.”
“Yes.”
“Did you change your mind?”
He looked down. “No.”
“And you courted Patience.”
“Well, yes, I . . .”
Constance resisted the urge to shout that she knew he was courting Jeanne Dark as well. He’d tried to refuse himself? And women were the fickle ones?
“I believed Patience would have been an asset to my business.”
He wasn’t wrong in that assessment, but was that the real reason he had cast Constance aside? “She is very bright,” Constance managed.
He nodded a little.
And, that implied, Constance was not.
Fischer Marks was beyond belief. A year after he’d thrown her off, he would come back here — while courting yet another brilliant woman — and try, quite badly, to convince Constance to accept his addresses? While implying she was anything but intelligent? And giving her not a single reason nor inducement nor affection?
Constance gritted her teeth as coals stirred in her chest. How dare he treat her this way? How dare he pretend he ever cared?
He never had. He couldn’t have.
“You —” she began.
Oh, no, no. Constance took a step back, physically and mentally. She couldn’t admit these feelings, this rage. She had only to think of how Phineas had broken Lydia with his fury, how Fischer and Lydia were now so distant, how Papa was at odds with David and the rest of the delegation.
Anger never solved anything; she had to smother these flames before they destroyed everything.
“May I court you?” Fischer finally repeated, searching her face for an answer. “Please?”
Once again, she found herself grasping for any other word to say no. At last, she settled on “Thank you,” with enough politeness in her tone to imply a no, thank you, curtsied, and walked straight up the stairs without looking back.
She hadn’t even a taper, but the barest amount of moonlight streaming in was enough for her to fumble through undressing. With any more light, she could have — might have — sat there and reread each of his letters, but she’d spent enough time trying to analyze the sentiments behind them.
Foolish, foolish fool. He’d told her exactly what his sentiments were.
He’d tried to refuse himself? What did he mean by that? Was the idea of courting her so abhorrent that he had to force himself to ask her?
That would only make sense. She’d been a fool for him for far too long. She’d had no idea how much of a fool until the day after the fire in his shop last year. Constance sank back into her mattress and surrendered herself to the memory.
—
She had been delighted to find Lydia on the other side of the door for the second day in a row. Constance had spent the whole way to High Street peppering Lydia with questions about Fischer and the shop, but it seemed she had few answers for Constance’s concerns.
Before they’d reached High Street, however, Lydia turned at Walnut Street. Were they taking an indirect route? But that didn’t seem to be the case, because they continued further west than Fischer’s shop.
Had Lydia just come to take her for a walk?
She wouldn’t complain, though she had hoped —
There, in State Hall Square, stood a familiar man with blond hair and a blue coat. Constance’s heart lifted — she hadn’t realized she’d been so worried or that she’d slipped into silence during their walk.
Without needing to be directed, she walked up to Fischer. This was a very public place for them, but he fell into step with her and Lydia.
“Oh, I am sorry,” Lydia said, “but I seemed to have dropped something.”
“Shall we help —” Before Constance could finish, Lydia had waved her off. So she and Fischer walked on.
In silence.
This didn’t feel right. No, they hadn’t been out together in public before, but this silence felt much heavier than the shyness of a couple making a début. Queasiness crept into her middle. Something was wrong.
“Were you able to salvage everything?” Constance asked Fischer at last.
“Almost. Very lucky.”
“Indeed.”
An oppressive silence fell over them. They walked a little further, and Constance glanced up at the State House with its tall white steeple. Papa, Cousin David and the rest of the Second Congress had convened only yesterday. “Did you come for news?” she asked, motioning at the brick building.
Fisher nodded without looking at the building — or her. Finally, he drew a deep breath. “Constance,” he began. “Miss Hayes.”
A cold current trailed down her back. This was nothing like the night before, when he’d kissed her hands and waxed effusive.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Could she stop it? Could she escape before it became too awful to bear?
“I have enjoyed coming to know you over the last few weeks.”
She stared straight ahead.
“But I’m afraid that I’m ill-suited to you.”
Now she looked to him. “Last night —”
“Last night, I realized I couldn’t make you happy.”
She didn’t understand. She’d only seen him for a moment. What had she done to make him think that?
“I wish this weren’t true.” The sudden vehemence in his voice seemed to confirm the sentiment.
“I see you are decided.”
Fischer didn’t meet her gaze. “Yes.”
Neither her heart nor her mind nor her mouth seemed to work anymore. She tried to force herself to breathe to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes. She’d thought —
Well, clearly she’d been wrong. And now all she wanted was to be as far from this pain as possible. She focused on the tower on the State House, and the bell struck the hour: two o’clock. Dinner.
“Please excuse me,” she murmured, “but I should go and see my father.” She gestured at the State House again and walked on after Fischer had stopped.
Was it her imagination, or had he added, “I’m sorry”?
She wasn’t sure that mattered, then or now. How was it possible for two people to have such terrible timing?
Fischer watched Constance climb the stairs. Thank you? That was not an answer at all. What had he done wrong?
Before he could gain the door, footsteps approached from the drawing room. Who had witnessed that?
Constance’s sister Verity sauntered into the entryway. Of course; she’d left before they had. “Mr. Marks,” she greeted him.
“Miss Hayes.” He reached for the knob.
“You do understand she told you no, don’t you?”
“It didn’t sound like a yes,” he retorted.
She sniffed. “Well, if you’re trying to make a run of the Hayes sisters, allow me to put that notion out of your head. Mercy and I have too much sense. Furthermore, I can assure you that you or any other patriot printer would be completely out of the question now.”
“Thank you for that information.” Fischer managed not to add, which was completely unsolicited. “Be assured that was never my intention. Ever.”
“You might have thought to tell Constance that, then. I cannot imagine a less romantic attempt. You, sir, are none too careful with a lady’s heart.” Verity shook her head sadly. Though up to this point, she had been disdainful, now she seemed to sincerely pity him.