SH03_Sparrowhawk: Caxton

by Edward Cline

  “Undoubtedly,” Talbot said. “And no doubt he knows that if the Board of Trade and Plantations heard of his business, he could be sent to jail, or be fined beyond his means to pay the penalty.”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Stannard. “Those fellows couldn’t prove that his cressets were not made in England! The ironmongers there have already got a secure market. Why would they begrudge a loyal Briton a handful of iron? They’ve enough work now, supplying the army and navy!”

  “True, sir,” Talbot said. “But, when the war is finished — what then?” The agent gave the Philadelphian an incredulous glance, then dismissed the question with a scoff. “You worry the matter over much, sir,” he said. “The Board and Parliament wink at trade irregularities, as you must well know. They’ll go on winking. Besides, when the war is finished, the mother country will have her hands full keeping the peace at home. She’s not going to much mind or take notice of a few pounds earned behind her back.”

  Talbot grinned. “I sincerely hope that our cousins are so benignly distracted, Mr. Stannard.”

  “We will hear some fine music tonight,” ventured Mrs. Stannard, who was bored with politics and wished to change the subject. “Mr. Vishonn owns a pianoforte, which his son James will play. He is most accomplished. Apair of fiddlers, Jude and Will Kenny, will also provide us with the means to dance. They are brothers, my husband may have told you, who own the first freehold across Hove Creek.”

  “But, topping the bill, sirs,” added her husband, “will be ‘Angel’ McRae.”

  Hugh Kenrick asked, “Is Mr. McRae musically endowed?”

  The agent laughed. “Not by a note, sir! No, it’s his daughter, Etáin. She plays the harp.”

  Hugh remarked, “A harp? I did not think the instrument was known in the colonies.”

  Mr. Stannard said, “It’s known here, sir. Some years ago, a relation of Mr. McRae’s who kept a shop of instruments in Edinburgh, died, and Mr. McRae sailed there to settle his affairs. He brought back a harp, and a dulcimer. His daughter is adept on both.”

  “His wife’s brother,” said Mrs. Stannard, “Paul Levesque, is a copy clerk employed by Mr. William Boyce, the composer, in London. He sends his sister all sorts of music for his niece to play.”

  “And,” added her husband, “he plays the harpsichord, and often performs with other musicians at Vauxhall Gardens. Occasionally, he tutors children of the best families.” Mr. Stannard paused. “He and Mrs. McRae are Huguenots.”

  “Or were,” corrected his wife. “Mrs. McRae frequently accompanies her husband to the church here. Her brother himself owned a large instrument-making shop in Paris, once. It was smashed during a Papist riot. Mrs. McRae’s fiancé was killed by a mob that same day. She and her brother went to London, and found a place next door to Mr. McRae’s lodgings. He, too, was new to the city. That is how they met.”

  “Mr. McRae and his family have been at Enderly most of the afternoon, sirs,” volunteered the agent. “That is one reason why he could not accompany us to Brougham Hall. They have brought Etáin’s harp, at Mr. Vishonn’s request, so that she could rehearse some songs with James.”

  “Who is also an admirable baritone,” remarked Mrs. Stannard. “Those two may be a match,” she added, “though Mrs. McRae does not encourage the rumor.”

  “Nor does Etáin,” said her husband. “Her heart is set on Mr. Frake.”

  “Her mother encourages that match with her resounding silence on the possibility, every time the subject is raised.”

  Hugh Kenrick asked, “Do you think Mr. Frake will attend tonight?”

  Stannard sighed. “Very likely, sir. And, he may bring his own fireworks.”

  * * *

  By London standards, it was a small assembly; by rural colonial, a large. Some forty adults arrived at Enderly to celebrate Wolfe’s victory at Quebec, mostly neighboring planters and their wives, together with some children and a smattering of adolescents. All were dressed in their best finery: the men in velvet or wool frock coats, waistcoats, and perukes, the women in hooped taffeta or silk gowns, and coiffed hair adorned with pearls, plumes and ribbons. Reece Vishonn had, as usual, arranged to allow his guests to leave their mounts and conveyances beyond the courtyard, where a liveried slave watched them and tended them with water and oats. The guests then walked through the cresset-lit courtyard to the house, where they were greeted in the breezeway by one or another of the Vishonn family. Reece Vishonn, a large, florid-faced man in green silks and an immaculate pigtailed wig, welcomed Mr. Stannard’s party with an almost garrulous flourish. He gave Arthur Stannard barely enough time to introduce his visitors. “Mr. Talbot…Mr. Kenrick, it is such a pleasure to meet you! Mr. McRae told me you were looking over the Swart place. Well, it is my earnest hope that there is a change of ownership! How long will you stay in our fair town?”

  Otis Talbot said, “We take the Amelia back to Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon, sir.”

  “What a pity! I should like to have had you both over for a private supper. Has Mr. Stannard told you everything about the property?”

  Hugh Kenrick smiled. “What little he may have neglected to tell us, sir, we have deduced for ourselves. No decision has been made yet concerning a purchase.”

  “Well…,” said Mr. Vishonn, wanting to frown in disappointment. “Perhaps this evening’s jollities will help you to decide! Because so many are expected, my lady has elected to forgo a formal table and lay out a buffet, which has already been removed from the kitchen. We will have a bonfire down by the water, and some fireworks about midnight. And, of course, there will be dancing aplenty, all night, for as long as the company and musicians can stand!”

  More guests appeared at the door, and the host was obliged to break off to greet them. Mr. Stannard took his guests on a round of introductions, and before half an hour had passed, everyone knew who the strangers were and their business in Caxton. And to every query concerning their plans to purchase Brougham Hall, Hugh and his companion demurred an answer.

  Hugh easily fit into the company. Colonial society, though mindful to observe contemporary rules of polite decorum, was made more enjoyable by the relaxation of many of those rules. Thus, Hugh was able to converse with married women without arousing anyone’s suspicions or offending social protocol. Unattached women, however, remained unapproachable, even for the most innocuous conversation, except in the company of their parents, guardians, or elders, or during a dance. A modest and well-bred young lady could not look a man directly in the eye and not expect to be taken for a libertine extending an invitation to license. It was a supposition impervious to reason.

  The three most brilliantly lit rooms were the ballroom, the supper room, and the gaming room. Each boasted a score and a half of double sconces, while from the ballroom and super room ceilings were suspended lustres, or crystal chandeliers, such as Hugh had seen only in London and Danvers. These, however, each had the added feature of a silver cupola, filigreed with gold, fixed above the lustre’s chain to absorb the candles’ heat and soot. And both the ballroom and the supper room were furnished with Dutch “warming machines,” great, black, ornamented iron stoves connected to their own chimneys with sealed tin pipes. The gaming room was warmed by a standard fireplace, and contained a billiard table, a bar, and several round tables for card and dice games.

  Hugh and Otis Talbot toured the rooms with Barbara Vishonn, the host’s wife, and then, by mutual agreement, separated to find their own company. Hugh returned to the ballroom and studied the lustre overhead. Ian McRae approached him. They shook hands again, and the Scotsman apologized for his absence earlier in the day. Hugh said, gazing up at the crystal, “What a novel idea! I have not seen its like elsewhere.”

  “It was Mr. Vishonn’s innovation,” remarked McRae. “I believe he grew tired of seeing the ceiling blackened by the smoke.”

  “Not only does the crystal magnify the light, but the device above it reflects and distributes it. Further, the cupola reduces the risk
of fire.”

  Mr. McRae laughed. “I’m certain that Mr. Vishonn would like to hear it so complimented, Mr. Kenrick.” He put a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “Come, you’ve not met my wife and daughter. They’re in the far corner there.”

  As they crossed the room, they passed the space where the musicians would play. On the light blue-papered wall behind the pianoforte, harp, music stands, and chairs, was a large Great Union, suspended from the bases of two sconces. Hugh nodded to it and remarked, “And that is a decoration I’ve not seen elsewhere — at least, not in anyone’s residence.”

  “It once flew atop the Capitol here,” McRae said, “until it was in tatters. Mr. Granby’s son, William, who is one of the county’s burgesses, procured it from the keeper and presented it to Mr. Vishonn, whose wife prettily repaired it.” In a lower voice, McRae added, “It is said of Mr. Vishonn that he is more patriotic than Mr. Pitt.” He paused. “Have you met our two burgesses, Granby and Edgar Cullis?”

  “I’ve not yet had the pleasure, sir.”

  “A word of advice, then, sir, whether you elect to purchase Brougham Hall or not: Steer clear of politics with them, unless you agree with them.”

  Madeline McRae was an elegant, captivating woman whose dark eyes seemed to sum up Hugh with approval. Etáin, fifteen years old, was a younger version of her mother. The woman wore a lavender satin gown and a lace-frilled cap over her jet-black hair, the girl a green wool riding suit and no cap over her reddish hair, which Hugh noted, was the only feature she seemed to have inherited from her father.

  “If you move to Brougham Hall,” inquired Mrs. McRae, “won’t you miss all the distractions afforded you in Philadelphia?”

  “Yes, madam,” Hugh said, “but that town only causes me to miss London. For the time being, I have resigned myself to nostalgia.”

  “How many people reside there, Mr. Kenrick?” asked Etáin. She spoke with an odd but charming amalgam of Scots, French, and English accents.

  “They say some forty thousand souls, Miss McRae.”

  Ian McRae glanced around and saw Arthur Stannard. He made his excuses and left Hugh with his wife and daughter.

  Madeline McRae asked Hugh more questions, about him and about London. Their conversation was cordial, but Hugh felt that there was an ulterior motive behind the woman’s questions. Just when he thought that he had succeeded in concealing his origins, the woman turned to Etáin. “Do not stare at the gentleman as though he was a talking statue, dear. It is uncouth.”

  The daughter blushed and looked at the floor with a grin. Her mother suddenly leaned forward to Hugh and brought up her fan to muffle her words: “Your secret is safe with me, milord Kenrick of Danvers. Have no fear that I will expose you. But — you are a curiosity. You must call on us some day and tell me more about yourself.” Before Hugh could reply, the woman folded her fan and drew back again.

  Hugh could only nod in acknowledgment.

  “There are only a few thousand souls in all of Queen Anne, Mr. Kenrick,” said the woman.

  “It is a small county, compared with some.”

  “What do you miss most about London, Mr. Kenrick?”

  “The music…the concerts…the orchestras…the theaters…the galleries… the enterprises…the shops…the busyness of the city, where almost everything one could want, is at one’s fingertips, where so much is possible….”

  Madeline McRae smiled. “I, too, miss all those things — and Paris.” She frowned in mock admonishment. “Now you are making me feel…melancholy.”

  “That was not my intention, madam,” said Hugh. He hurried to say, “The Moravians, in Pennsylvania, near Bethlehem, have an orchestra. They play music by Bach, and Vivaldi, and Boyce, and even by this newcomer, Haydn. I rode there twice from Philadelphia to hear them. And Charleston, I have read, is a town greatly enamored of music.”

  “I shall play a new tune by Mr. Boyce this evening, Mr. Kenrick,” Etáin said. “One that no one had ever heard yet, not even in London! And James Vishonn shall sing the words to it, which were written by David Garrick.”

  “What is its name?” asked Hugh.

  “‘Hearts of Oak.’ It is a patriotic song, about the navy.”

  “Mr. Garrick puts on so much foolishness on the stage,” remarked Mrs. McRae. “And Mr. Boyce composes so much that is forgettable.”

  “I look forward to hearing you play the tune, Miss McRae,” said Hugh. “I shall also play some pieces Mr. Bach wrote for the harp,” said the girl. “Oh? Which Bach?”

  Etáin laughed. “I can’t remember, just now! There seem to be as many Bachs as the fingers of one’s hand!”

  “This is true,” smiled Hugh.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Kenrick,” said Madeline McRae, “but our hostess is waving to me. I must leave my daughter in your charge.” Without further word, the woman swept away across the ballroom.

  Hugh realized that he had just been paid a compliment by the girl’s mother, that she trusted him to be alone with her daughter. By the look on the girl’s face, he knew that she understood this, too. He indicated her attire, and asked, “You will not dance tonight, Miss McRae?”

  “No. I would not be permitted to. My gown and my harp are not compatible, and so I wear my riding clothes.” In a lower voice, Etáin added, “Many of the ladies here opine that it is not lady-like to pose as I must to play the instrument. But my harp will not accommodate my hoops. I shall even be seated behind the pianoforte, for modesty’s sake.”

  “Then those same ladies must not think Britannia lady-like.”

  “Britannia?”

  “The goddess-like symbol of our country. Here.” Hugh drew a bronze penny from his coat and showed the girl the relief of the seated figure, whose one arm was raised to hold a spear, while the other rested on the top of her shield that was planted upright on the ground.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Etáin, studying the figure. “Of course! What a pretty thought!”

  Hugh pressed the coin into her palm. “Please, Miss McRae, keep this, as a token of my esteem, and as a reminder to yourself, the next time you hear someone complain about your musical pose.”

  Etáin beamed with delight. “Thank you, Mr. Kenrick. You are too kind.”

  Hugh shook his head. “I am not a kind man, Miss McRae.”

  Etáin frowned. “Why do you say that, Mr. Kenrick?”

  “Kindness is a sort of forgiveness, or an intentional oversight — or the cowardly waiver of a wrong. It is — a tolerance for the intolerable, and very often that is akin to the commission of a heinous crime.”

  The girl looked down at the floor. “I meant…that you were generous, Mr. Kenrick.”

  “Then, please, forgive me for having misconstrued your meaning, Miss McRae,” said Hugh with some concern. “I am wiling to be called ‘generous.’”

  “Would you think me a coward, if I forgave you?”

  “No. I would think you honest,” Hugh said with a smile. “Honesty is nearly an antonym of kindness.”

  “And generosity: What is that nearly the antonym of?”

  “Profligacy,” Hugh said, enjoying the exchange. “However, generosity is very nearly a synonym for justice.”

  “You are oddly persuasive, Mr. Kenrick, though I have not heard such notions before.” Etáin’s glance wandered for a moment, and she noticed that some guests were staring at them. She bowed her head. “There I go again, staring at you as though you were a talking statue!”

  Hugh turned and scrutinized the curious guests, who averted their glances and moved to another part of the crowded room. He said to Etáin, “Ancient lore has it that a dying Amazon would hold her slayer’s eyes, and cause him to fall in love with her, so that after she was gone, he would pine away in regret. Love of her was her cruel retribution.”

  Etáin looked up at him with curiosity.

  Hugh said, “I am merely trying to embellish your lapse from a silly custom, Miss McRae. Or to attach to it a better justification.”

  “It is a strange co
urtesy you pay me, Mr. Kenrick.” The girl paused. “Has an Amazon gazed into your eyes?”

  After a moment, Hugh said, “I no longer think so. She is not slain, and has married a Boeotian.” He paused. “It is the stuff of one of Mr. Garrick’s plays.”

  “One of his tragedies,” remarked Etáin, saying it before she meant to. “I have read some of them.”

  “For my role in it, yes,” Hugh said, who seemed to have forgotten the girl’s presence. “For hers, a farce that was not so amusing.” He smiled with bitterness. “You see, she wrote me a kind letter.” Then he remembered where he was and to whom he was speaking. “My apologies, Miss McRae,” he said, bowing slightly. “I did not intend to raise tragedy on such a festive occasion.”

  “I am sorry to have caused you to have such a sad memory.”

  Hugh shook his head. “No, no. Do not feel sorry. The fault was all mine.”

  The girl was uncertain whether he was speaking of the present or of the past.

  * * *

  There was a rustle of movement in the ballroom and an ebbing of the hubbub. Madeline McRae appeared again and said to her daughter, “Dear, Mr. Vishonn is about to open the ball. You should take your place. Here are your fingers.” She reached into her little purse and handed Etáin a pair of calfskin gloves. The girl smiled at Hugh. “They protect my fingers from the strings. A tanner in Williamsburg makes me several pair every year.” She quickly put the gloves on, performed a small curtsy, and joined Reece Vishonn and his son in front of the Great Union flag.

  Hugh frowned, and gave Mrs. McRae an inquiring look. The woman shook her head once. “She has not been told, Baron Kenrick,” she said in a hushed voice. “She must have noted something about you that deserved the courtesy.”

  Reece Vishonn waited until the last whisper in the room had died away. Then he spoke. “My honorable guests! We are gathered this fair evening to mark the victory of General Wolfe in Canada, and the glorious triumph of British arms there and the world over! General Wolfe was, to judge by reports, no tent-bound general, but a brave man who died leading his forces at the very moment of victory. And let us also mark a cornucopia of victories — at Louisbourg, at Frontonac, at Duquesne, and in far away India, at Plassey! Yet — I received but today by post a letter from friends in London which contains the details of yet another great victory this last August by His Majesty’s naval forces, which, under the superb direction of Admiral Edward Hawke, dealt the French fleet a mortal blow off the coast of Portugal, and in so doing foiled a design to invade England through Scotland!”