by Diana Davis
More delegates came through the doors, passing by David with a hand raised in acknowledgement. Papa didn’t make eye contact with him, marching in step with Robert Morris and John Dickinson. Constance watched them pass, conferring amongst themselves, and her heart fell.
If he was still that closely allied with the staunch opponents of independence, whether he’d read her words or not, Papa had not believed them.
Nothing she’d done had made any difference.
Once again, she willed herself not to look at Fischer. Nothing she’d done had mattered there either. If she’d ever made any difference to him, she wouldn’t have had to ask him if he’d meant it when he proclaimed his love.
The boy returned riding David’s elegant black horse, saddled and ready. David took the reins and handed them to Gilbert. Gilbert rubbed the white flash on the horse’s nose. “King, was it?”
David regarded the horse skeptically. “I think it shall have to be Kingless now.”
Gilbert clapped him on the arm and mounted the horse — Kingless. Kingless was a very good horse if Gilbert could ride him without spurs.
“Godspeed,” Fischer called, almost a prayer. Gilbert lifted a hand to him before he rode off for their flat.
The delegates continued to leave the building, most of them greeting David. Between responding to them, he aimed a pointed expression in Fischer’s direction.
What did he mean? Surely David would take Constance home?
“I’d better get back to The Watchman,” Fischer said after the third sharp look. He searched for Lydia, a few feet away. “Shall I take your basket?”
“Are you certain you don’t have anything . . . more important to attend to?”
Constance was fairly sure she was not imagining Lydia’s glance in her direction. This was ridiculous. Could they not see the way Fischer was distancing himself from her? Lydia’s and even David’s meddling could not force Fischer into a courtship with someone who’d punished him so. If he’d had any desire for that, she’d surely killed it once and for all.
“I may be late coming home,” Fischer told Lydia.
She frowned and grabbed two hanks of fiber before she handed the basket over the crowd between them. Once Fischer was gone and Lydia had taken her leave, David and Constance fell into step by silent agreement.
After three blocks, Constance collected the courage to ask but one question. “Did Lieutenant Allen return to the Congress?”
“No. I don’t think he means to.”
Every time Constance tried to ask about the real issue, she stopped herself. She didn’t have the courage to ask how Papa had voted — to know at last whether she’d had any influence. But she found herself counting the votes again and again: of the eight remaining delegates, if Papa had voted in favor with Dr. Franklin, Wilson and David, the vote would have been evenly divided, at least. There might have been some hope one person could change their mind overnight.
Papa had to have voted against independence.
She wished she’d never set quill to paper. Though she’d always relished the escape her stories provided, now even disappearing into the words of her imaginary worlds held no comfort.
Papa must hate her for what she’d written. Fischer must hate her for what she’d said, if he’d ever cared at all.
How much more could her words cost her?
When Fischer arrived home that night, an oil lamp burned in the drawing room. Pushing aside memories of the terrible events that followed the last time he’d returned home to that sight, Fischer ventured into the drawing room. Lydia was curled up in a chair by the lamp, a book on her lap. He set the basket of flax by her wheel.
“Good evening,” she greeted him.
“I didn’t intend for you to stay up and wait for me.”
“I know.” She set the book open on the table and motioned for him to take the nearer chair.
He obeyed with the creeping suspicion that this was anything but a casual invitation. “Yes?”
“Do you still love Constance?”
His gaze dropped to the floorboards. “I’m very tired, Lydia.”
“No doubt. Will you answer anyway?”
“Yes. I still do.” He’d told her as much and it had not made one whit of difference, unless it had actually made her slam the door harder.
“Why do you not court her, then? It seems your patron and I were both conspiring to give you time to work through all this today, and you refused.”
“As did she.”
Lydia scoffed. “Did you think it was her place to offer to escort you home?”
Fischer allowed a little laugh. “I have been quite concerned about cutthroats and pickpockets accosting me in dark alleys.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m sure your reputation is such that everyone in this city knows you’ll have nothing worth taking.”
“Thank you. Good night.” He made to stand.
“Fischer.” Lydia placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Please. You could hardly look at her today.”
“I told you, she hates me. She said so herself.”
His sister did not seem to find this as convincing a reason to not pursue a romance as he did. “I don’t understand why you refuse to let yourself be happy. What have you ever done to deserve such a thing?”
He could try to explain, but he didn’t think Lydia would understand. “Love is a harsh mistress. She’ll hurt you more often than not.”
“So you’re afraid of Constance breaking your heart?”
“The other way round.”
Lydia was quiet long enough that he had to meet her gaze. In the lamplight, she was studying him. “Were you planning to hurt her?”
“No.”
“Then why would you think that?”
Fischer gestured as if to say the answer was obvious. From his sister’s blank expression, it was not. “Do you remember the night of the fire at the shop?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“The fire was my fault.”
“Of course it was.” Lydia, ever practical. “No one else was there.”
He sighed. Could she not understand what that meant? “And it started because I was too caught up and distracted in Constance, and that made me careless. Had you not brought the water, I shudder to think what would have happened. “
“An accident like that could happen at any time. You refuse to court Constance because you left your candle too close to the curtains?”
Did she have to make it sound so ridiculous? “No, that’s merely one piece of evidence. There’s you —”
“Which you’re working to mend. Where is the rest of this evidence that love is so dangerous?”
“Maman, Father, Abby . . .”
“Abby? Whatever happened to her?”
Fischer related the story of her broken ankle as quickly as possible, ending on the happier note that she’d married Herman Carter and hardly walked with a limp at all.
“Her broken bones mended,” Lydia observed. “She’s much worse for the wear of loving you. And what’s this about Father and Maman?”
He focused on his clasped hands, his thumbs alternating in a battle for dominance. “Father told me. He shouldn’t have taken Maman from her home. He was so wrapped up in his love for her that he ignored what would make her happy. She could never have been happy here.” He drew a shuddering breath before repeating Father’s words. “If he’d loved her properly, he would have left her in France.”
When he looked up, he found Lydia staring at the lamp, her brow mirroring the frown on her lips. “Is that what he thought?” she murmured.
Fischer nodded.
She tried to take hold of his wringing hands. “And what has that to do with you? You didn’t hurt her.”
Did she not know? “When she miscarried the last time . . .” He hoped Lydia understood everything he meant. That had been the event to start the bout of melancholy from which she never recovered. “I w
as playing a game, and I jumped out at her. I frightened her.”
Fischer pulled free of Lydia’s grasp and rubbed at his forehead with both hands, the best he could do to hide from his sister. She must hate him. Were it not for him, engrossed in his childish game, they might have had Maman longer.
Lydia took his hands and waited for him to meet her eyes. “I have never told you this, but I miscarried three times.”
He knew the lack of children had something to do with the scoundrel abandoning her, but Fischer hadn’t known they’d ever come close. “What happened?”
“I know that frights and falls can cause miscarriage, but I never had either. One can never tell for certain, Fischer.”
“Even if that was a coincidence, that’s just one evidence.”
Lydia sighed and squeezed his fingers. “Maman loved Father, right until the last. Yes, being far from her family and friends and in a country where she had difficulty communicating was hard, and perhaps it made things worse, but her melancholy was never Father’s fault. She had suffered from that long before she ever met him.”
Was that her convincing argument?
Lydia released his hands and flipped a few leaves in her book. “Do you remember when you quoted Mademoiselle de Scudéry to me? When I was upset about Phineas?”
Fischer shrugged.
“You said, ‘L’amour fait les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.’”
“Yes.” Love makes life’s tenderest miseries. “Why?”
She tapped a finger on the book. “That is not what she said.”
He lifted the volume and read the lines Lydia had indicated. “L’amour fait les plus grandes douceurs et les plus sensibles infortunes de la vie.”
“Love makes life’s sweetest joys and its tenderest miseries,” Lydia translated.
Fischer reread the passage before returning the book to the table. Life’s sweetest joys? He didn’t have to ask Lydia what she meant by that. His mind immediately returned to the hours spent strolling in the garden, talking and laughing with Constance. The excitement of returning home to find her or a letter from her waiting. The peace he felt in her presence. Even in these last few months, the few times he’d talked with her and danced with her and held her in his arms. The promise of those moments had been so close to his grasp. Life’s sweetest joys would surely never be his without Constance.
Then they would surely never be his at all.
“Fischer, my chance for happiness may be gone —” She held up a hand to stop his interruption. “But yours is not.”
“I’ve told you. She hates me.”
“And why should she not?”
He startled. “Is that your encouragement?”
“You were falling in love when you suddenly ended everything without a word of explanation. Every time she has given you the smallest amount of trust, you have pushed her away.”
“To protect her.”
“There are far worse things that could befall a young lady than to fall in love with you.” Lydia’s contemplative expression belied the teasing in her tone. “If you’ll give me a moment, I’m sure I’ll think of one.”
“We ought to have you writing the king’s speeches,” Fischer drawled. “We’d have thrown him off long since.”
“I shall write to George directly and offer my services.” She sighed. “Fischer?”
“Hm?”
“There is much you do not understand.”
He was sure that was true, but probably not a very helpful statement.
“I have tried to help you see reason, to help you draw your own conclusions — to manage your own affairs. But I fear you’ll err on the side of crippling yourself and everyone along with you in your attempt to do quite the opposite.”
“As I mentioned, I’m very tired.”
Lydia waited for him to acknowledge her. “Did you ever ask Constance what her wishes were before you cast her off?”
“Pardon?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t need you to protect her from you. Will you stop for a few moments and consider: what if what you’ve believed isn’t true?”
Exactly which of his beliefs was he supposed to be challenging?
“The night of the fire, it was Constance who brought me the water.” Lydia sat up and moved Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s book from the table. Underneath was a set of papers in a familiar, flowing hand. “I think you ought to read this.”
“Her poem?” His tone conveyed his dread.
Even now, he did not wish to let Constance fall in his esteem. It was why he had never finished the poem last year.
“I think Constance would be the first to admit that verse is not her form, but she draws very vivid characters.” She handed him the pages. “Especially a certain prince who has a way with the written word and a passion for freedom.”
Lydia stood and placed a kiss on the top of his head, just as Maman used to do. “Omnia vincit Amor; et nos cedamus Amori.”
That was not Mademoiselle de Scudéry. That was Virgil: Love conquers all; and let us yield to Love.
How could Lydia possibly believe that after all she’d been through?
“Please,” she said at the door. “Do not prevent yourself from the opportunity for life’s sweetest joys.” She went up to bed.
That was fine for Lydia to say, but she hadn’t seen the fury in Constance’s eyes.
He weighed everything Lydia had told him. He knew Maman had always been prone to melancholy, and it could be true that her final bout wasn’t his fault. And Constance had been the one with the presence of mind to supply the water the night of the fire.
His gaze fell to the poem in his hands. A prince with a passion for freedom. Was that how she’d seen him?
That was generous. He’d been quite ready to sacrifice his freedom and marry Patience. He shuddered to think how trapped he’d felt, going through the motions of courtship, knowing that Constance was in another room or across town or in the garden.
It made no sense. He did like Patience, respected and admired her. And yet he found himself dreading it every time he knew he ought to approach her, to further their courtship.
He would have done it; he would have married her and spent his whole life trapped inches away from Constance, torturing himself because he loved her too much to hurt her.
And all his efforts had only succeeded in burning her as badly as any iron had.
Was it too late? Lydia seemed to think it wasn’t, and he was here, sitting in his own drawing room again, proof that she believed things could be mended.
Perhaps Lydia was right. He’d hurt Abby, but her ankle had mended. He’d hurt Ellis, but his fingers had mended. He’d hurt Lydia, but they were trying to mend.
But how could he mend things with Constance?
Fischer focused on the pages again. It might well be too late, but he could do this one small thing for her. Was there anything more he could do to convince her? Even she’d said she didn’t know.
If his reading was in vain, then he deserved to see how she had loved him — and know that would never be his — as penance.
Constance refocused herself on her needlework and realized she’d erred, extending the flower’s petals far wider than was proportional or pretty. With a sigh, she pulled the needle free of the thread’s tail and used the point of the needle to pick out the stitches.
She wished she could blame something as simple as the heat for her mistake. Hardly a wonder she was distracted this morning, when the Congress was voting on whether they would be their own country.
She was too nervous — and fearful of seeing Fischer — to venture to State House Square today, but staying at home had scarcely helped. She’d been far too distracted to do anything but worry and ruin her embroidery.
Really, she should not be worried that the vote would fail. As David had said, with nine colonies in favor, the motion would pass regardless of Pennsylvania’s vote. While it was true that if the col
onies were not unanimous, they’d never be able to oppose Britain effectively, Constance’s biggest concern was Papa.
Had he read the pamphlets? Did he not understand?
The front door opened, and voices carried to the drawing room. “Constance,” David called, his tone jubilant.
She was on her feet in a moment and met him — and Patience and Gilbert — in the entryway. “The motion passed!” she guessed.
David checked behind him to make sure the door was closed. “We are resolved: that these United Colonies are, and, of right, ought to be, Free and Independent States.”
Constance ran to them and embraced all three, all laughing and crying and kissing.
“But we’re still formalizing a declaration,” Gilbert explained.
“How did you get back so quickly?” Constance asked.
Patience beamed at her husband, unabashed admiration shining in her eyes. “He rode all evening to reach McMullen, and they rode all night to get back. In the rain.” She glanced down, and Constance followed her sister’s gaze — Gilbert was still wearing boots and spurs.
“Oh, poor King — Kingless,” Constance corrected herself.
Gilbert grimaced. “He’s still in Delaware. Would have quite overtaxed him to make the journey back at that speed.”
“Thank you for not killing my horse,” David drawled.
“I’m making arrangements to have him brought back.”
David seemed awfully amused. “See that you do.”
“So Delaware voted in favor?” Constance drew them back to the topic.
Gilbert grinned broadly. “We did. And Rutledge relented in the interest of unanimity, so South Carolina changed their vote also.
“Unanimity?” Constance looked at each of their faces. “It was unanimous?”
“Except New York,” Gilbert said. “Still awaiting instructions.”
Pennsylvania had voted in favor? But they hadn’t the votes yesterday. She looked to David. “How?” she could barely whisper.
David began to answer but could seem to find no words. After a moment, Constance saw that tears had gathered in his eyes. “Dickinson and Morris abstained.”