by Diana Davis
Clearly even he didn’t know his own mind; how could she hope to understand it?
“I am sorry you burnt your tale,” David said gently. “I was very much looking forward to learning more about Solomon’s antlers.”
Constance couldn’t muster a smile at his jest. “If I had ever hoped —” She sighed, unable to finish aloud. If she’d ever hoped that her tale would awaken in Fischer some respect for her, she’d been most severely disappointed. That was not why she’d written, but now she had no heart to continue.
Fischer had taken that from her once before, but perhaps it was for the best. Her words had brought her nothing but pain at his hands. She didn’t have to write; she’d never intended to print anyway.
Just as they had the year before, her imaginary worlds and her invented words felt dim and hollow. She still believed in the patriot cause, but the thought of her characters left her cold.
If she’d ever hoped to marry Fischer, that could never happen. She’d set fire to more than her story. She’d set any hope they might have had alight and watched it burn.
She should be glad. She hated Fischer Marks. She had just told him so.
She had never meant anything more in her life.
And she wasn’t sure it was even a little bit true.
“Even if you choose not to publish the last volume,” David broke into her thoughts, “remember that you have done a great work for the patriot cause.”
That was a little comforting. “Do you really think the pamphlets persuaded the Provincial Assembly?”
“Of course not.”
Constance turned to him, stunned.
“I was there, Connie. I don’t think it — I know. The pamphlets and Jeanne Dark were mentioned not less than three times in the discussion, almost as many as Common Sense.”
She’d never dreamed anything she could write could have half the influence of something as great at Mr. Paine’s words. And yet they’d never had any effect but anger on the one person she’d hoped to reach.
“The vote comes to the floor this week,” David murmured. “Independence, and hopefully a formal declaration. If it weren’t for your pamphlets working on our Assembly, Pennsylvania would be obliged to vote against it. The loyalists in our delegation still might prevail, but we would have had no right to oppose them otherwise.”
Constance mulled that over as best she could, but found she couldn’t focus on it any longer with the pain in her chest. All she wanted was to go home, get out of her stays in the event that would alleviate any part of the pain behind her ribs, and sleep.
David saw her the rest of the way home in silence. Although her sisters were in the drawing room, reading by lanternlight, Constance crept upstairs alone. She wanted to burn the drafts of all the Columbia pamphlets, but the strikers and such were put away. She’d have to go downstairs, and she didn’t wish for anyone to witness that or ask questions.
She went to the desk to fetch the manuscript to hide it until she could dispose of it, but the first thing that caught her eye in the moonlight was the stack of books.
Tales of Rouen. Henrietta. The History of John Bull. They belonged to Lydia — and Fischer.
Now she could see; she could admit it. She’d kept the books this long on purpose, as if keeping their books meant holding on to some connection with Fischer.
And Lydia. She could never see Lydia again. She hated to desert a friend, especially one that was enduring a difficult time of her own, but Constance simply couldn’t bear it. Neither could she keep these reminders in her room.
She’d killed any possibility of a connection tonight.
Constance stuffed the three books into a satchel. She’d barely stowed the satchel under the desk when the bedroom door opened again.
“Constance?” Verity’s voice floated to her. “Come here.” Her elegant and always fashionable little sister wrapped Constance up in her arms.
Instantly, more guilt stabbed into her chest. She had avoided Verity’s melancholy for weeks, but the moment Constance was upset, Verity was here for her. How had she known?
“David said I should check on you. Was it Mr. Marks?”
Curse their cousin. “Did David tell you that?”
“No; after the Harrisons’ party, I heard his sad little attempt at a suit.”
Constance groaned. She’d thought at least that embarrassment was one she’d been spared.
“Printers are truly the worst of all men. Do you know, Amos Gallagher was only courting me because he thought David would pay to print my play?”
“Oh, Verity, that’s positively mercenary of him. Worse than a Hessian.”
Constance braced herself inwardly — how many times had Verity turned someone else’s sadness into a competition, as if only Verity’s feelings mattered? Would she be expected to comfort Verity now? She couldn’t this time.
“Come,” Verity said, “let’s get you to bed, and I’ll braid your hair and listen to you rail against him — or if you’d rather, I’ll rail against Amos so you don’t have to think of the malodorous Mr. Marks.”
Constance managed a small laugh.
“And in the morning, I’ll make you my famous chocolate and read to you, if you like. Or just sit with you.”
“Thank you, Verity,” Constance murmured. She allowed Verity to help her out of her gown and lay down to let her sister brush her hair. But Constance stared at the satchel under the desk.
She’d return the book first thing in the morning and hope she could escape without Fischer or Lydia catching her. Then she could have Verity’s chocolate.
And then she could spend the rest of her life forgetting Fischer Marks.
Sunday morning dawned bright and cheerful, and Fischer found he hated the sun. He hated this awful little flat above his shop. He hated that all of his clothing had migrated here over the last few weeks. He hated that he’d hardly seen Lydia, that he’d hurt her, that he’d hurt everyone.
He hated himself.
A tentative knock sounded at the door. He knew better than to hope it might be Constance. Fischer headed downstairs. “Mr. Marks?” came a small voice through the door just before he reached it.
Fischer opened it to find Ellis on the verge of skittering away again. Ever since Fischer had crushed the boy’s hand, he had avoided Fischer. How many times had Reeve urged Fischer to sit him down? Was the boy here to ask to be released as an apprentice? Fischer could hardly blame him. “Yes?” Fischer asked.
Ellis held out a linen sack in his good hand. “I thought you might need some breakfast.”
Fischer accepted the sack and peered inside to find a single helping of bread and cheese. A child’s serving. “Is this your breakfast, Ellis?”
“I thought you might be hungry.”
“I can’t accept this.”
“What do you have to eat here?”
The boy had a point. “I’m going home presently. But thank you.” Fischer offered the sack to the boy again.
Tears welled up in Ellis’s worried eyes. “Oh, Mr. Marks!” The boy threw his arms around Fischer’s waist. “Please don’t turn me out,” Ellis begged.
“What?” Fischer set down the sack and crouched to look directly into Ellis’s eyes. “Why would I ever do such a thing?”
“Pa said you’d not want a broken apprentice.” The words tumbled out practically on top of one another. “Mam said you paid the doctor and you’d not want a costly apprentice, and you were so mad that day. Please don’t turn me out!”
“Of course not, Ellis. I am only upset that I hurt you. I’m very sorry.”
“‘Twas my own fault and none of yours.” Ellis’s wide brown eyes searched his face. “You still want me as an apprentice?”
“Do you still want me as a master?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Marks! You’re much kinder than my brothers’ masters. You never beat us!”
That was more of a sad reflection on the conditions of apprenticeship tha
n an actual endorsement of Fischer as a master or the trade of printing. But Fischer would take it.
Ellis held up his injured hand and wriggled out of the splint. “Look what I can do now.” Biting his lip and focusing on his hand, he slowly bent his fingers into a fist.
He smiled through a wince, and Fischer ruffled his hair. “You’re nearly all better! But let’s keep that splint on until you can do that without a grimace.” Fischer helped to tie the linen strips around his fingers and the wooden splint. He gave the boy the sack again, and Ellis turned to go.
Immediately, however, Ellis spun back around and hugged Fischer once more. “Thank you for not casting me off!”
Fischer patted the boy’s back and set him on his way.
The boy was right — he had nothing to eat. More than that, he had nothing at all to keep him here in this place that only reminded him of all that he’d ruined.
He would do as he’d told Ellis. What other choice did he have?
Fischer gathered his things and made the long walk back to his house, the heat of the day already rising. As he approached the door, he spotted a stack of books on the front porch. Lydia would not leave books outside. He peered at their spines: Henrietta. The History of John Bull. Tales of Rouen.
Books he’d loaned to Constance. Well, Henrietta was Lydia’s. Fischer ducked inside and set down the rest of his things, then fetched the books.
If any part of what she’d said last night left a doubt in his mind, this would have been message enough.
Of course, I hate you, Fischer Marks had been quite clear.
He had never had any business falling in love with anyone. The one thing he wanted was to not hurt her. Now he could no longer deny that he had, and he’d done it all over again last night.
He carried the books inside and caught Lydia coming down the stairs. “Fischer?”
“Lydie.”
She hurriedly wiped her cheeks, and he finally recognized she’d been crying.
“What’s wrong?”
Lydia waved him off. “Have you come home?”
He nodded, and she ran to throw her arms around his neck. “What made you see reason at last?”
“Constance,” he murmured.
Lydia pulled back, an eager hope lighting her features. The instant she saw his expression, however, her happiness fell away. “What happened?”
“She hates me, and she’s Jeanne Dark.”
Lydia’s mouth fell open. “Really? But Columbia is so unlike her princess poem.”
“That’s what I thought — when did you read her poem?”
“She gave it to me. The day after . . .” Lydia gestured as if to say all of that.
Had he given it back to her? Not that he recalled. Did she have another copy?
“Have you read it?” Lydia asked.
He made a vague, evasive sound, but finally had to admit, “Some of it.”
“How much of it?”
Fischer hesitated. “A few pages.”
His sister lifted her chin, as if she sensed precisely how evasive he was being. “You did not read until the prince arrived?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Fischer.” Lydia’s voice was somewhere between laughter and tears. “I am trying very hard to help you, but you make everything so very difficult.”
That was true, and he could only acknowledge how right she was. Perhaps he could read the rest of the poem now. It wouldn’t do any of them any good, but he felt he owed it to Constance.
He took his things up to his room, but stopped in the doorway.
Every surface of his room, normally full of his papers, had been cleared. Including Constance’s poem on the side table.
Was that how she’d gotten her poem back? And had she seen the rest of the papers there? And — not his draft book, anything but that.
“Lydia!” he called.
“Don’t shout; I’m right here,” she said from behind him.
“Was Constance in here?”
She glanced around. “Possibly.”
“My papers —”
“She didn’t clean for you. Good heavens, what kind of hostess do you think I am? I was embarrassed on your behalf, so I straightened your things. Your papers are in your desk.”
He hurried to the desk and pulled out the drawer. As she’d said, his papers were there in neat piles, along with his draft books. He held up one soft leather volume. “Did you read anything?”
“Some,” Lydia admitted at length.
Fischer tried to contain a groan. Much as he hated the idea of anyone reading his innermost thoughts, at least it was only Lydia.
Not that anything here could have changed Constance’s mind. He flipped to the back of the draft book. Her letters were still safe there. He tossed the book back in the drawer.
Lydia sighed his name, as she seemed to be doing regularly, and crossed to embrace him again. He hugged her back and realized her shoulders were shaking.
She’d been crying when he returned home. “What did I do?” he asked.
Lydia gave a sad chuckle. “Not everything centers upon you, mon frère cadet.”
“Then why are you upset?”
She pulled away. Fischer recriminated himself. He hadn’t supported his sister as she’d needed all month long, and now she was shutting him out again. He deserved that. He’d failed her.
“Mr. Brand was just here.”
“What?” Fischer started for the door. Beaufort would loan him pistols; who could be his second?
“Gilbert Brand,” Lydia called after him, and he stopped in the doorway. Oh, well, hopefully he didn’t have to duel the younger brother. That would hardly be proper.
Gilbert Brand had come to their house? Now the man knew where Fischer lived? And he was apparently back from Delaware. “Why did he come here?”
“To tell me his brother had obtained a letter of marque from the Provincial Assembly and was sailing tomorrow.”
Fischer could only muster confusion. “He came here to tell you that?”
“He was quite taken aback that I would be upset. Apparently he thought his brother’s suit was unwelcome and I’d be relieved.”
Fischer couldn’t meet her eyes. “Are you not?”
“I am, a little.” Lydia spun the conversation on him. “Can you not try to mend things with Constance?”
“Did you not hear? She hates me. Hates. Her exact word.” He tried in vain to find the right words of his own. “I — I hurt her, Lydie.”
“Of course you did.”
Precisely, of course he did. Because that was the only thing he seemed capable of doing.
“And then what did you do?” Lydia asked.
“I told her I loved her. She walked out.”
“No, last year. What did you do?” When Fischer had no answer, his sister supplied one. “You forsook her.”
Fischer turned back to her. “No, never.”
Lydia gave him a hard stare, and he had to concede she was the one who knew abandonment far better than he. “If you love her, you must do more than tell her.”
“She won’t want that. It’s best for both of us if I stay away.”
“Why will you not let yourself be happy?” Lydia looked on the verge of tears again. “Please, write her, speak to her. You can mend this.”
“And then what? I could only hurt her.”
“Then you mend again.” She frowned at him. “Why do you keep saying that? Name one person you’ve hurt.”
He could scarcely settle on one: Constance, Abby, Maman. But he knew the most persuasive argument. “You.”
Lydia drew back. “Me? When?”
“Just a few weeks ago.”
She paused in thought. “That’s why you’ve stayed away?”
“And were it not for love, you wouldn’t have had your heart broken. Twice now.”
“Twice?”
Fischer clamped his mouth shut. He hadn
’t meant to allude to Donald.
“Phineas, you mean?”
Fischer frowned. “I meant Donald.”
Her eyebrows drew together in an unspoken question. “What has Donald to do with this?”
“You loved him, and he broke your heart.”
“Oh, Fischer.”
He shouldn’t have brought it up — he’d done it again; he’d wounded her.
“I married Donald because it was what Father wished. I never loved Donald.”
“What?”
Lydia took his face in her hands. “Father loved Maman, but don’t think for a minute that he understood the first thing about love.”
“I — what?” he asked again.
“Is this why you courted Patience and Jeanne? Because you were not in love with them?”
“I’d hoped — we’d find some . . . affection.”
In the window’s slanting morning light, Lydia looked more like Maman than ever — and she looked piteously dismayed, like a mother who couldn’t believe her child had done something so terrible.
“Please, believe me, Fischer. You are so fortunate that you didn’t marry. That would have been the biggest mistake of your life. If I had my life to live again, that is the one thing I’d change.”
Fischer took her hands from his cheeks. “I’m so sorry that he left you. That he hurt you.”
“I know. But don’t believe for a moment that you couldn’t have hurt Patience.”
“I would never have abandoned her or left her in an almshouse or taken up with another woman.”
“I know you wouldn’t.” Her gaze grew faraway for a moment, and he squeezed her hands to keep her from falling into an unhappy memory. She focused on him again. “But a marriage without love can wound too. Every single day.”
The pain in her whisper silenced any argument he might have returned.
“You did not have to stay away from home as long as you did,” she told him. “Avoiding me made our disagreement no better.”
“I’m sorry.”
She patted his arm. “That’s a good start. Now, continue to show me in your actions, and don’t leave again.”
Had he made her feel abandoned — at a time when her heart was being broken? Oh, how he’d failed his own sister.