by Diana Davis
He pulled her into another hug. “We’re hopeless,” he murmured.
She laughed, as he’d hoped she would. “I’m hopeless. You’re ridiculous. There’s a difference.”
In the cause, perhaps, but not the outcome.
Constance was no better Monday afternoon, but wallowing in her emotional mire was doing her no good. She forced herself to put Fischer Marks out of her mind and dress for David’s family dinner. By the time she arrived, most of the family had already been seated — Temperance was well enough to join them again — but Constance was followed by Westing announcing Mr. and Mrs. Brand.
Constance hadn’t taken her seat, so she hurried to embrace Patience. “When did you get back?”
“Yesterday, but Hancock had a great deal of work waiting for Gilbert, so we couldn’t come to greet you. How have you gotten along without us?”
“Oh, we managed somehow.” She forced herself to smile. She couldn’t even begin to tell Patience all that had happened in her absence — when she’d left, Constance had still believed herself to be secretly courting with Fischer, and now nothing of the kind would ever happen.
But Patience was probably the last person Constance could discuss that with. Her sister had known nothing of their first tête-à-têtes, so why burden her with knowledge of the fruitless second attempt?
They took their seats at the table, and David asked after Gilbert’s mission in Delaware.
Gilbert grinned broadly. “We’re our own colony.”
“Congratulations.” David lifted his glass and led a toast.
“I daresay it might never have happened without that farm pamphlet,” Gilbert added.
Constance choked on her pork-and-apple pie.
“Columbia’s Fields?” Verity said. Constance couldn’t be sure whether the derision in her voice was directed at the pamphlet or Gilbert’s forgetting its name.
“Yes, have you read it?”
Constance’s gaze darted around the table. Owen and Temperance were listening intently, as was David. Mercy busily cut her food. None of them were watching her, for which she was grateful. Papa, however, fixed upon his second son-in-law.
“Oh, I’ve done with patriotism,” Verity said.
“You’ve . . . what?” David asked. Cassandra took hold of her husband’s wrist as if bracing — or restraining — him.
Verity ignored him, waving a hand. “I’m sure something so popular as that pamphlet wouldn’t be to my taste anyway. Her earlier works are much better.”
“Earlier works?” Patience’s eyebrows outlined her skepticism, but Constance’s stomach seemed to shrink. Verity couldn’t know, could she?
Of course not. She would have been terribly jealous and martyrized, and besides, she couldn’t have kept something like that a secret, especially not from Amity. Surely Amity would have thrown it in Constance’s face somehow at the Harrisons’ party.
“And you, Anne, Josiah?” Gilbert changed the subject. He seemed to withdraw as soon as he met Papa’s eyes.
“There will be no pamphlets of Columbia in my household,” Papa pronounced, firm, but not upset.
“I see. Apologies.”
“Oh, but it’s the cleverest thing I’ve ever read,” Temperance proclaimed. She looked to her husband for support, and he nodded carefully, still eyeing Papa.
“Certainly the best thing Fischer Marks has ever printed,” Patience added. “And that’s saying quite a bit.”
“Well.” Papa’s tone was terse. “We’ve never had any doubt but that you were radicalized.”
Cassandra broke in before Constance could blush at the praise or censure — or Papa could object further, though his married daughters were not in his household any longer. “Yes, I believe we know where we all stand, so perhaps we should leave the topic.”
“Any chance you’ll be taking up letters of marque this week?” Nathaniel drawled.
David grimaced. “We have a very full schedule this week.”
“I told you if you wanted to do this, you ought to apply to the Provincial Assembly as well,” Helen murmured.
Gilbert agreed. “Oh, yes, they issued Phineas’s letter.”
His brother had become a privateer? Constance hoped Lydia knew. Or perhaps it would be better if she didn’t.
“And now we’ve adjourned the Assembly,” David said. “So I’ll keep trying in Congress.”
“What is our schedule full of?” Gilbert asked him. “I’m still trying to catch up on Hancock’s papers.”
Cassandra closed her eyes, and her shoulders seemed to fall as if in a silent sigh. David, for his part, took her hand and then proceeded to answer. “The vote is this afternoon.”
“The vote? Hancock didn’t say — but I hadn’t time to ask.”
“I’m sure he expected you’d be in attendance anyway,” Patience pointed out.
Gilbert acknowledged her point. “And I shall.”
“What’s the vote on?” Owen asked, casting a cautious look in Papa’s direction. Owen wasn’t officially Papa’s employee any longer, and obviously Papa couldn’t deprive Owen of Temperance, but they did rent Papa’s flat, and Owen had free use of space in Papa’s office.
“Independence.” David glanced at Papa, who stared at his plate. David’s gaze turned to his own. “It remains to be seen how Pennsylvania will vote.”
“You heard Wilson’s caucused his constituents?” Papa murmured.
“I hadn’t.”
“They’re in favor.”
Constance tried to recall the count Papa had given her at the Harrisons’. “What about the others?” Constance asked. She rattled off the six delegates in addition to Mr. Wilson and the two at the table. Papa gave her a curious expression.
“Well, Allen hasn’t come to Congress in weeks,” David began. “He resigned from the Light Horse in April. But only Dr. Franklin favors independence.”
That left Thomas Willing, Robert Morris, John Dickinson and Charles Humphreys. With Papa, that made five. David, Dr. Franklin and James Wilson made three.
That was hopeless.
“Oh dear,” Gilbert murmured. “We’re voting today?”
Papa and David confirmed this again.
“But — McMullen is still settling things in Dover.” Gilbert’s shoulders slumped. “Delaware shall be divided.”
“The Congress shall be divided,” Papa announced. “New York has received no instructions from their Assembly and cannot vote for independence.”
“Is Maryland still protesting?”
David shook his head. “Chase rode to Annapolis, and just this morning word came that he’d persuaded their Convention. But if our decision is not unanimous, we may be at an impasse as a nation.”
Gilbert gave a sad little sound. “What a wonder, to wrest independence from Pennsylvania but be thwarted in declaring it from Britain.”
Papa threw his napkin onto his plate and stood. “I have correspondence to attend to before this afternoon’s session.”
As Papa left, Constance surveyed the diners. What was there to be done?
Papa might never listen to Temperance and Patience nor their husbands. He clearly dismissed them as biased. But this might be Constance’s last chance to persuade him.
“Please excuse me.” She pushed back from the table herself. “I . . . don’t feel well.”
That elicited surprise from no one, and Constance took leave to follow her father through the mews and garden to their house. Papa had already reached his room, so Constance was free to duck into hers and retrieve her printed copies of Columbia’s Fields and Fires from under the false bottom of the drawer. For good measure, she fetched the draft of Freedom from the desk as well.
Still breathing hard from her rush, she knocked at Papa’s door, and he bid her enter, looking up from his writing desk once she’d opened the door. “Why, Constance. I didn’t mean to draw you away from dinner. What brings you here?”
“Just . . .
something I’d like for you to read.”
He motioned toward the loose papers in her hand. “Poetry of yours?”
“No.” She crossed the room to hold out the pamphlets.
Papa gentle’s smile fell away. “After I told you not to — after I burnt it — you’ve read those?”
“No, Papa.” She swallowed but steeled herself. “I wrote them.”
He gaped at her for a long moment of silence, his eyes slowly growing wider. “What?”
He would be angry. He would hate her.
But this was the only way he might read what she’d written solely to try to persuade him. She took a deep breath to say the words that had only ended in disaster before. “I am Jeanne Dark.”
His eyebrows twitched as if to lower. “Please don’t be angry,” she rushed to add.
He finally took the pamphlets, staring at them as if they were written in some appalling foreign tongue as he set them on the desk. “But — you — my dear child, you of all people cannot want a war.”
“I would not wish a war upon us for all the world. But my wishes do not change what has happened. I do wish for peace. But the price of preserving a peace now is already too dear.”
Papa began to turn away. Constance fell at his feet and took both of his hands. “Papa, please. The Army and Navy have already attacked our countrymen. They’ve made it clear they will never stop until they grind us into submission. Even you are in danger, simply by attending the Congress, no matter how you vote.”
Papa pulled one hand free to cup her cheek. “Constance —”
“Have you read my pamphlets?”
He hung his head. “I would have if I’d known they were yours, my dear.”
She chose not to point out how he’d condemned something he hadn’t even read. “Please, Papa. If the Congress is divided — you may well all hang.”
He considered her words, then at last picked up the first pamphlet. He contemplated the cover a long time. “My own daughter wrote this?”
She managed a nod.
“You are a wonder, my dear. But I feel as though I must not have known you very well.”
“Oh, no, I don’t feel neglected.”
“No.” Papa pondered her again. “Perhaps when we hide parts of ourselves, we become much harder to know. And love.” He patted her hands. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll read them.”
She could ask no more. Papa would not vote against his conscience, but finally, her words were finding their intended target.
She could only hope he found them even the slightest bit persuasive.
And that he read them quickly.
Papa returned to Congress under an hour later, and Constance found herself pacing the drawing room with Patience and Temperance, until Temperance went upstairs to lie down.
As tempting as that prospect was, for perhaps the first time in her life, Constance did not wish to retreat from this discomfort. She did wish to have it finished, however.
“Perhaps we should meet them at the State House,” she suggested.
Patience agreed. “It would certainly do better than worrying here.”
They both tied on straw hats. By the time they’d traversed the half mile to State House Square, they both had their fans out.
Constance had been here enough that the location alone shouldn’t evoke memories of the few moments she’d spent here with Fischer — when he’d concluded their connection. It had been a warm afternoon like this one, walking among these same scattered sycamores and oaks.
“Oh, look, there’s Fischer Marks,” Patience said.
“What?” Constance craned her neck. What was he doing here? How could she avoid him?
There he was, tall, his blond hair perfectly curled and queued, his coat tailored à la mode as usual — and only a few feet away. He didn’t seem like a man who’d had his heart broken two days ago, but as soon as she looked his way, he averted his gaze.
Of course he didn’t wish to see her after the way she’d treated him. Constance wished she had lain down when Temperance did, for now she felt very ill. Before she could protest, however, Patience guided her close enough to be in conversational range. “Good afternoon, Fischer.”
Fischer bowed, his eyes never raising to Constance’s.
Why did her sister have to insist on maintaining a cordial relationship with her former suitor? No one else cared whether they remained on good terms or not.
“Come to gather the news?” Patience asked.
“Indeed. I assume you’re here for the same purpose.”
Patience nodded, then cast a sideways look at Constance. “Will you not speak to him?” Patience whispered.
Did she have to? Obviously neither of them wished for that. “Afternoon.”
He bowed again, but his attention remained on her hands. “Constance.”
Patience seemed to still a moment at that familiarity. Had he never called her by her given name in front of her sister?
“Oh, there you are, Fischer.” Lydia rushed up with a massive basket. She glanced at Constance and away — and then quickly back again. “Constance?”
She forced herself to smile, but quickly faltered. Did she have to see everyone whom she cared about and could not keep in her life in the middle of the town’s most trafficked square?
“What are you doing here?” Fischer asked his sister.
She held up the basket, filled with bundles of flax, like long hair of the palest blonde. “I had to pick up more fiber, and I didn’t think I could get this back on my own. Your little apprentice said you were here.”
Fischer accepted the basket, and Lydia stretched her neck. Did that mean they had reconciled?
Lydia scrutinized Constance again, then addressed Patience. “Miss Hayes, would you walk with me?” Lydia asked. “We’ve hardly ever had a chance to talk, and I must have a rest from that basket.”
Patience turned to Constance as if silently asking whether Lydia meant her. Constance wished she had, but before she could pretend that Lydia had intended her instead, Lydia corrected herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s Mrs. Brand now! Shall we?” She looped her arm through Patience’s and walked her off.
Leaving Constance with Fischer. Alone. In the very spot where he’d broken her heart last May.
What kind of friend did Lydia mean to be?
“How have you been?” Fischer asked without looking at her.
She tried to school her features so he could find no answer there. “Well.” She scanned the crowded square, but she could see no one else she knew to try to escape this for both of their sakes.
Then she would make polite conversation. “And you?”
“Terrible.”
She finally let herself study his face and instantly saw he meant that very sincerely. His brown eyes did not have their usual warm spark of intelligence and teasing, holding instead only sorrow and weariness.
She had done that to him, flayed him with her fury. He would never, ever forgive her.
Then she had nothing to lose if she asked. “Did you mean what you said that night?”
“When? Saturday?”
“Yes.” Constance prayed he wouldn’t make her say those three words aloud. “Were they merely empty words?”
Pain lined his features. “Is there anything I could say to convince you?”
His words were without hope, and Constance could hardly blame him. He was probably right; there likely wasn’t. How could she believe him after he’d spent the last year proving that she shouldn’t trust him? And how could he mean those words after the way she’d acted?
She looked away, and movement at the State House door drew her attention. Unmistakable at any distance, her cousin David strode from the doors.
“Have they voted?” Fischer murmured. The people in the square — somehow cognizant of the secret vote — began to gravitate toward David, and Constance and Fischer couldn’t help but follow.
When s
he was close enough to hear, she caught that David was paying a boy to go to his stables to fetch his horse King. Naturally David’s horses had to be the finest in the city; Constance couldn’t imagine her cousin with anything less. But why should he want King now?
Patience emerged from the crowd to meet David on the steps, and Fischer weaved between the people, clearing a path for Constance with Lydia’s basket. Lydia met them and relieved him of the basket before they reached David.
“Are you going somewhere?” Patience asked David.
He turned to her and opened his mouth, but froze.
“I am.” Gilbert joined them on the steps.
Patience frowned at her husband. “We just returned. Where are you going?”
“I have to get McMullen.”
Constance understood the unspoken context. “The vote?”
David nodded, grim, and Gilbert seemed uncharacteristically out of sorts. Then it was as they’d feared: Pennsylvania voted against independence, and Delaware’s vote was divided.
Eyeing the crowd, David stepped closer to Constance and Patience. “South Carolina was also opposed, and New York abstained.”
“But that’s all?” Fischer asked. “There were still nine in favor?”
“Yes.” David glanced over his shoulder, a few feet away from the chamber whose proceedings were supposed to be secret. “It passed the committee of the whole, and we have a final vote tomorrow. But if we can’t pull together on this most fundamental issue, we’ll fall apart before we’ve even begun.”
“Also, it’s irksome to be counted among the detractors,” Gilbert added. “Especially when one has come so far.”
Constance doubted he meant the seventy-some miles from Delaware. Patience slipped her hand into her husband’s. “I’ll go and collect some things for you to take.”
He beamed at her. “Thank you, my dear.” With no heed to the crowd, he snuck a kiss before Patience squeezed his hand and took her leave.
For once, the affection didn’t pique Constance’s anger. She’d already succumbed to that too much. And if she were honest, all she wished was for someone to listen to her and look at her and love her that way.
But that could never be Fischer, especially not after the way she’d treated him. The memory of marching up to him and proclaiming her hatred made her face burn. She didn’t dare look at him.