He and young coachman leaped to the ground and the door closed behind them.
"Do you imagine that he likes you?" Priscilla asked abruptly, catching Meagan off guard.
Traitorous hot blood stained her cheeks. "Why, I suppose he does. What of it?"
"Don't think you can steal him from me, Meagan. I've heard plenty of stories from James about the things men do with their servants. There is only one way he would ever like you."
"How dare you say such a thing? Or suggest that I would invite that kind of—"
"I've seen you with him at night! I know the way you look at him. I'm not so simple-minded as you seem to believe!" Her green eyes sparkled with jealousy.
Meagan was shocked to see her display so much emotion over Lion Hampshire.
"All I'm saying is that you should stay away from him. If you want me to remain your friend—and if you want to avoid a proposition from Lion—just keep away!" Her voice caught, choking near tears.
Before Meagan could respond, the door flew open and Lion was framed in the opening.
"How are you ladies faring?" His smile was tight, troubled. "Are you prepared for more? Our back wheels are deep in mud. We were on a slight downhill slope when we stopped, but the horses moved during the storm to the very bottom. There's nothing ahead of us but another hill, and I'm afraid it will be a devil of a task to start forward and reach the top."
Priscilla reached for his hand. "What does this mean?"
"It means that you'll both have to get out and walk. Prepare yourselves for a lot of mud."
Priscilla managed to moderate her horror when she saw Meagan silently put a hand on Lion's shoulder and hop to the ground. Priscilla struck the perfect balance between femininity and bravery as she bent, poised in the doorway. Lion lifted her down gently, eyes flickering with surprise as she smiled up at him courageously.
The slender yellow wheels were half-swallowed by the mud. Both girls stood on the side of the road, a clean, chilly wind catching the hems of their pelisses, causing them to billow out like sails. Neither of them spoke as they watched the efforts to free the carriage. The five horses strained up in front while the men pushed from behind. In moments, both Lion and Joshua were showered with black mud and the wheels were still mired under. This went on for several minutes, Priscilla covering her face as Lion was sprayed by the spinning wheels. At last they seemed poised on success, but their strength gave out just as it seemed the carriage would roll free. Lion swore softly when the wheels dropped back into the deep ruts, tightening his dirty jaw. When they repositioned themselves before Joshua called the order to the horses, Meagan found herself rushing forward to stand between them.
"Let me help, too. I'm really quite strong."
Lion grinned caustically. "What the hell—come on and put your back into it." He looked over to Priscilla who appeared both panicky and angry. "Why don't you come over and lend a hand, too?"
Priscilla hesitated, then lifted her skirts and ventured forward. After shooting one furious look at Meagan, she put her hands against the carriage, closing her mouth and eyes tightly.
When Joshua gave a shout to the horses, everyone began to push, the men straining with the effort. The wheels spun, showering them with frosty black mud, and Meagan could feel her silk-encased feet being forced deeper into the bog the harder she pushed. Suddenly the carriage broke out of the rut, rolling away from them. Priscilla, her eyes closed and her face screwed up in a grimace, fell forward abruptly, landing full in the quagmire. The other three were so happy to have freed the wheels that the sight of her lying there was too much to endure.
Lion and Meagan exchanged looks and started to laugh helplessly, until there were tears in their eyes. Finally, he reached out with Joshua to lift his fiancée to her feet, offering a large handkerchief to wipe her mud-smeared face.
Priscilla gingerly opened her eyes and promptly burst into a torrent of tears.
* * *
Along the banks of the icy Delaware River the ships were huddled close together, their sails furled tightly along the skeletal masts. Philadelphia's docks were empty; even the wide, wet thoroughfares were nearly deserted. Meagan leaned forward to stare out the window as the horses clopped noisily through the puddles along Front Street. The outline of the city was barely visible now; the sky was rapidly shading toward complete darkness. The post-chariot turned onto Spruce Street, following the hill up from the waterfront until a cheerful-looking inn came into view. The horses stopped in front of a sign that read "A Man Full of Trouble." Above the legend a man and his wife were pictured, carrying between them a parrot, a monkey, and a bandbox.
Lion pulled the door open and helped the girls down to the wet cobbled pavement. Even in the misty darkness the tired lines were apparent on his face.
"Priscilla, you may clean up here. I'm in no mood to wait very long, though."
She said nothing. She intended to nurse her grudge against both Lion and Meagan until it suited her purposes to forgive them. The hour of furious crying that had followed her tumble into the mud that afternoon had done little to soothe her injured pride, particularly since her companions had ignored her.
The three of them went silently into the clean, red brick tavern. A few crusty-looking sailors sat drinking in the bar and most of them called hasty greetings to Lion. The respect was evident in their voices, a fact that surprised Meagan since all the men appeared older than he was.
He took a pewter mug from the tavern keeper and dropped into a bow-back Windsor chair in the midst of the other seamen. His sudden smile was astonishing.
A plump woman wearing a starched white apron and mobcap came forward to lead the two girls upstairs to a warm, cozy chamber where a basin was already filled with steaming water.
Meagan scrubbed hurriedly, but Priscilla took her time, clearly making an effort to provoke her future husband. Meagan hated the silence that had been growing more oppressive with each hour that had passed since the incident in the road, and looked up with relief when Lion's loud knock hit the door.
"Make haste!" The tone of his voice brooked no argument.
Hastily Priscilla pushed the remaining pins into her hair and they were on their way again.
While they were in the tavern, lamps had been lit along the wide streets, their flames now flickering against the inky night. Meagan shivered in her corner of the carriage as they rolled up Spruce Street, slowing down just two blocks beyond A Man Full of Trouble. Both girls peered out the window to see yellow lamplight dancing up a high, painted fence that was so long its end was swallowed up by the darkness. The post-chariot drew up before a towering ornamental gate immediately opened by a watchman. Lion rode ahead along the circular driveway which led to the impressive Mansion House of William and Anne Bingham. Candle flickered on all three floors, shining a welcome through the fanlights and pouring out both soft light and liveried servants through the double doors.
Priscilla's pout disappeared. "It's the Binghams', Meagan!" she exclaimed, her face glowing with excitement. "The most magnificent house in America! The stories I've heard James tell about this place... I just can't believe that I'm a part of this world now. Isn't it wonderful?"
"Wonderful," her companion agreed dryly.
When a satin-clad footman rushed forward to open the carriage door, Priscilla stepped down wearing her most brilliant smile. Lion took her elbow, eyeing her cynically. As Meagan climbed down behind them, William and Anne Bingham appeared in the doorway, and even she was impressed. She watched as greetings were exchanged and Priscilla was introduced, following the group at a distance as they turned into the house.
The entryway took her breath away, for it was far more magnificent than anything she had seen in all the great mansions of Virginia. The floor was a mosaic of priceless marble which ran up to a wide, white central staircase also built of marble. Ahead of Meagan, Priscilla was chattering gaily as she took in her surroundings with darting emerald eyes. Meagan had to admire her composure; she hadn't even gasped
.
A thin, austere man clad in black satin crossed over to her. "Miss, my name is Wickham and I am the butler here. I gather that you attend Mistress Wade?"
"Uh—yes!" Meagan stared at him, astonished by his haughty manner until she realized that in the class system of servants he ranked far above her. "My name is Meagan, Wickham." He raised thick black eyebrows, waiting. "Meagan... South." What imagination, she chided herself.
"Well, South, the head housekeeper will be here momentarily to show you your room and Mistress Wade's suite."
"We're staying here?"
"Of course. Until Captain Hampshire and Mistress Wade are married." He nodded slightly and disappeared around a corner.
Meagan stood against the wall, suddenly very conscious of her grimy appearance as she watched the two couples who stood in the parlor which opened off to the left of the entry hall.
A servant was moving among them distributing glasses of wine, and Meagan found her eyes drawn to Anne Bingham, watching as she lifted the crystal goblet to her lips. Her beauty was undeniable. She wore an exquisite gown of amber silk, rich in its very simplicity. Her hair was lightly powdered, the soft brown curls pinned up around her face while a cluster of long ringlets escaped to fall over one white shoulder. Even from a distance her elegant bone structure was unmistakable: high cheekbones, a long graceful neck, and a willowy figure combining with her innate grace to make her unforgettable. She was laughing now, and everyone's eyes were on her. William Bingham watched her proudly, confident that his newest guest was properly dazzled by Anne. His reason for living was the accumulation of wealth and beauty, and his wife was the most splendid of all his possessions, outshining even the sumptuous Mansion House.
Meagan found Bingham far less impressive. Ruddy-cheeked and stocky, his manner seemed affected to her. Lion's presence made him look even worse.
She let her gaze slide over Priscilla to Lion and was startled to find him staring boldly back at her. Blushing hotly, she was grateful to Anne Bingham for finding just the right words to reclaim his attention.
"Lion, you will never guess who is back from sea!" she exclaimed with an innocent enthusiasm that rang false. "Marcus Reems! If I didn't know better, I would swear he was following you..."
Lion's entire body tensed, the muscles showing in his shoulders and neck. Priscilla, oblivious to his reaction, had no use for names unknown to her and promptly changed the subject.
Her eyes on Lion, Meagan failed to notice when someone stopped next to her. A throat was cleared discreetly. Startled, she turned around, bumping right into the tiny woman who was about to tap her on the shoulder.
"Oh my! I beg your pardon! I didn't know—"
"That's all right, dear. No damage done." The other woman was quite young, thirty perhaps, and no taller than Meagan. She wore a neat gray cotton dress and a lace mobcap over her powdered curls. Her hazel eyes were as warm and friendly as her smile, set off by the roundest, rosiest cheeks Meagan had ever seen. "My name is Smith. I'm the housekeeper here. I want to welcome you to Mansion House."
"Thank you, Smith. Will you call me Meagan? I'm afraid the names Smith and South might get a bit confusing!"
Smith laughed softly. "Perhaps they would at that. Let me take you to your room now. The servants' quarters are right this way."
Servants' quarters! Meagan thought. What have I gotten myself into?
Chapter 8
William Bingham observed Lion over his glass of port, wondering at the tired, distracted look he wore. Finally, he cleared his throat and remarked, "I paid a visit to Dr. Franklin last week."
"How does he fare? Better than a month has passed since I last saw him."
"His spirits are good, but physically he is unchanged. We discussed the next meeting of that newest political society of his and the progress of the Philosophical Hall. He told me frankly that he doubts he will ever attend a meeting there once it is completed."
"Aren't you a vice-president of this Society for Political Enquiries? What's it all about?"
"Yes, I am, along with George Clymer," Bingham admitted a trifle pompously. "We still meet fortnightly at Dr. Franklin's house. There are only fifty of us and we just discuss politics. Of course, that is quite a topic these days and the doctor is full of ideas and opinions. It is great entertainment for him, but God only knows how much longer he'll be able to get downstairs to the large room."
"I'd better make a point to see him tomorrow."
William Bingham puffed on his long, slender pipe, watching Lion across the shadowy study as he stared into the fire. He had been unusually quiet all evening, in spite of Anne and Priscilla's attempts to make him laugh during supper. It was not the dashing Lion Hampshire of months past.
"Confound it, man, aren't you going to ask me about Reems?"
Lion looked up, appearing rather bored, but amused by Bingham's consternation. "By all means, do give me the news before you burst with it."
"Ahem!" He scowled, puffing on his pipe. "The fact is, things did not go well for him, though at least the ship returned intact this time. The man simply lacks talent as a sea captain, I fear. The crews he chooses are inept and untrustworthy, and he makes bad bargains in the Orient. I suppose I needn't spell it out for you. If I didn't know better, I would think the man simply doesn't give a damn, but you should have seen his face when I told him I'd not give my backing again!"
"You went that far?" He smiled cryptically. "I can well imagine Marcus's reaction."
"Well, it's made cursed unpleasant by Anne's regard for the man. She claims to find him charming—'mysterious'—and invites him here even yet. I could swear that she enjoys having him about simply because the situation is so uncomfortable!"
Mockery infected Lion's smile. "Why don't you tell her you won't allow it?"
The other man choked on his port. "For God's sake, don't you think I've tried? You're a fine one to be giving advice on wife-management. Wait and see a few months from now!" However, watching Lion's cool, lean face, he doubted whether any woman would cross him—even a wife. Such men were hard to come by, and with a qualm, Bingham remembered his recent conversation with Benjamin Franklin.
"I have been told that you may not take a ship this spring," he blurted.
Lion looked up, his eyes like blue flames. "How does that set with you?"
"Naturally, as your backer, I'm disappointed. Mordecai and I have two magnificent ships almost finished at the Kensington shipyard and I was counting on you to captain one of them. No one else has your spirit, your quality of leadership, your competence. You are so at home on the sea, and the men sense it—" The flowery compliments died on his lips when he realized that Lion had withdrawn. "Listen to me. More than disappointment, I feel curiosity. What are you doing? Why this sudden marriage? And why don't you want to sail? Is it because of Priscilla Wade? As your friend, I am concerned—"
Lion laughed so bitterly that Bingham stared in surprise and puzzlement.
"Come on, William. We both know that my prime qualification for your friendship is my ability to line your pockets with gold when I sail your ships home up the Delaware! As to my current plans, I'm not inclined to discuss them yet. The whole affair is getting too damn complicated and all I want to do is go home and sleep. I'd be gratified to wake up tomorrow and find all my problems solved." He paused and sighed, closing his eyes. The firelight mingled with his tawny hair and softened the hard lines of his face.
William Bingham wavered between sympathy and frustration, his basically selfish nature winning out. "Damn it all, you can't dismiss me so easily! I have backed you for more than three years now, making it possible for you to acquire a tidy fortune and majority ownership of two fine vessels. I have offered to shelter some unknown southern girl just because you asked me to—no questions asked. I believe, however, that I am owed some answers! I will not have you deposit some featherbrained chit on my doorstep and then proceed to tell me you don't wish to take my ship this spring without some clarification. You owe me�
��"
Tired of watching William's face redden and swell, Lion shifted his eyes to watch the shadows leap over the carved cornices and across the decorated ceiling.
"Really, I do wish you'd spare me this tirade," he interjected coolly. "If you continue at this rate, you'll be struck with an apoplectic seizure and I shouldn't like that on my conscience. I'll tell you this much. I am considering a career in this new government and that is why I am marrying, and why I don't wish to sail this spring."
The hot blood drained rapidly from Bingham's face. "Or ever?"
Lion studied his frilled cuff, straightening it with tanned fingers. "That remains to be seen."
"How can you do this to me? What about your ships? I can't believe you're saying this!"
"Don't worry, I won't leave you and Mordecai so coldbloodedly. I'll still be down at the waterfront, and I flatter myself on having an eye for a competent seaman. You can count on me for anything except my presence on board when those ships sail next month. As for my own craft... I'll have to think about that."
The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable, and Bingham knew that the subject was closed for the time being. Feeling ill, he took a long drink of port and muttered bleakly, "Your audacity is quite incredible. But, I suppose I must forgive you."
Lion's mouth twitched in an instinctive grin. "Imagine my relief!" Bingham flushed and drained his glass while Lion continued, "Will you still find space in your magnanimous heart—and house—for my fiancée? I realize the imposition—"
"My word is good. I said she could stay here, and so she shall."
"If you'll excuse me," Lion said, getting to his feet, "I believe I'll be going home myself. For the past ten days I have dreamt of this evening—of drinking your fine brandy before this fire. But now that I am here, the pleasure seems empty somehow..." His eyes were fixed on the clock above the mantel; then he shook his head, laughing softly. "No offense intended, William. I suppose I am tired after all."
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