"Untrue! You see before ye a lonely man! Who has spread such slander?"
"Did you forget? It was—" The name died on her lips along with her smile, and Flynn glimpsed raw suffering in her eyes. Quickly, in bewilderment, he fumbled for a new subject.
"Tell me, how went your ride today?"
Her face was a mask of pain, but she managed to speak in a husky whisper. "I would like a cup of tea."
Perplexed and alarmed, Flynn steered a weak-kneed Meagan into the kitchen where she sank into a ladderback chair near the hearth. For a long minute she sat there like a statue, her face paper-white; then slowly Flynn could see the sparks kindling in her eyes and the color returning to her cheeks. Relieved, he went to fetch a cup of tea from Bramble, who was none too pleased to be bothered in the midst of supper preparations. By the time he returned to Meagan's chair, he found her holding her hands out toward the fire and smiling quite cheerfully.
"Thank you, Kevin," she said, accepting the cup with fingers that shook slightly. "I am so sorry. I don't know what took hold of me. Suddenly I felt so very cold..."
Flynn had enough sense to stay clear of the subject of Lion Hampshire and Meagan's ride that day, whether or not they had anything to do with her sudden change in behavior. Instead, he coaxed her into a corner of the servants' dining hall where they sat down in facing Windsor chairs.
"Now," he began with forced gaiety, "I want to know if you have asked for a day or a night free yet, and I'm not talkin' about what time Smith lets you slip by with!"
"Well..."
"Aha! I thought not! Well, it's time ye did. Your mistress comes and goes; to assemblies, balls, to the dressmakers and milliners, to the theater. I should know, I'm the coachman! So, you deserve a bit o' relaxation yourself. I happen to know that there is goin' to be a reception tomorrow afternoon at Mayor Powel's that will take the Binghams and Miss Wade out of the house. Bein' as it's next door, I'll not be needed to drive them and I'll have the time free. I'd be pleased if you would ask for the afternoon off as well."
Meagan was thinking, she'll be with him at the theater tonight and at the Powels' tomorrow! While I sit at home with nothing but a twisted ankle and a pain where my maidenhead once was! Her eyes flashed as she answered, "What did you have in mind?"
Flynn smiled, confident of his charm. "As you are new to this city, I thought ye might enjoy seein' Peale's Museum. Would you of heard of it?"
Meagan's expression was a trifle smug. "We Virginians are not entirely ignorant. I have not only heard of it, I happen to know that General Washington has sent Mr. Peale the French pheasants given him by the Marquis de Lafayette—one by one as they died." By now she sounded not only smug but snobbish—a trait Flynn was unused to in his peers. His merry grin faded as she spoke, and Meagan hated herself. I sounded like Anne Bingham, she thought. Must I be so defensive?
At this point, Flynn was as curious about her background as Lion. He leaned closer, searching her face before inquiring with a weak chuckle, "Are you certain you're the lady's maid? You sound like the lady to me!"
"Oh, Kevin, forgive me—" She broke off at the sound of a bell pealing outside. "What's that? Surely not a church?"
"'Tis the butter bell! They ring it the night before market days—twice weekly. Ah, Meagan, Philadelphia's market is a sight, enough to cause a person to wish for wealth!"
"Oh, dear... I had completely forgotten. I am supposed to go along with Smith and Bramble tomorrow!"
Flynn gave a laugh. "You'll need to retire early, then, for Bramble rises before five o'clock on market days. The stalls open at dawn."
Meagan groaned. "Perhaps I had better be on my way to Miss Wade's chamber, then. I should be airing that gown for tonight and she's expecting me to attend her at half after eight."
He put a hand on her arm. "Wait! I had best come more directly to the point before you slip away. It would please me if ye would promise to accompany me to the Peale Museum tomorrow afternoon. 'Tis truly a rare spot—full of strange bones and stuffed animals of every description—even a waxwork statue of Peale himself. What d'ye say?"
His earnest expression made her smile. "I would like to go, and it's kind of you to ask me... but I wonder if I'll be allowed?"
Flynn let out a snort of laughter. "I'll tell you this much, 'tis my belief that you'd be allowed most anything were you to but ask. Mister Bingham has given strict orders that you're to be treated gently." He watched her closely, but her surprise seemed genuine.
"Whatever do you mean?"
"Truth to tell, Meagan, I was hopin' you could tell me! That's all I know; he told me right off that no one was to make 'brash advances' toward you or mistreat you in any way. 'Twas strange, for serving-girls and maids have come and gone by the dozen just since I came to work here but two months past, yet Mister Bingham never even remarked on any of them."
"But I don't even know the man! He's not so much as spoken to me!"
Flynn looked surprised and bit his lower lip before suggesting, "Perhaps it could be Captain Hampshire's doing?"
All the color drained from Meagan's face as she quickly dropped her eyes, studying the hooked rug on the oaken floor. When she raised her head to meet Flynn's penetrating gaze, her skin was flushed. "That's even more absurd," she protested shakily. "I'm inclined to believe it's all some sort of mistake."
"Must've been," Flynn agreed, producing a broad grin that eased the tension in the air. "Mistake or not, I'll wager you get the night off if you ask. Only, wait till you can put your request to Mister Bingham himself."
"All right," Meagan replied absently, seething inside as she realized how Lion had tried to prevent the men at Mansion House from approaching her. The part that puzzled her most was the fact that he had done it when she first arrived, at a time when she had thought their relationship to be quite casual. "Kevin," she said aloud, "aren't you asking for trouble by attempting to be my friend?"
He laughed gaily. "So far, sweetheart, I'm hopin' I am safe. Am I guilty of advancin' brashly or mistreatin' you?"
Meagan returned his grin, her own somewhat ironic as she thought that Lion was the only man guilty of those things. Flynn lifted her hand to his lips and she let him, but then her face and heart froze as the sound of laughter drifted in from the hallway. The voices were mingled, but she could not mistake Lion's. He sounded happy, and suddenly Meagan felt ill, her skin prickling with a sickening chill that swept her body. When it passed, Flynn was still holding her hand, but the only thought in her mind was the realization that there was no fire, no magic in his touch...
Chapter 14
At dawn, Bramble, Smith, and Meagan set out on foot for the High Street Market, accompanied by a young stableboy driving the cart which would later carry their purchases home. Bramble set a brisk pace, striding up Third Street to the narrow alley called Pear Street which would bring them out at the market. To the west, the sky was still midnight blue, but they walked toward the sunrise and it was a sight to behold. Through the houses, Meagan glimpsed the reflection of the blushing sky on the wide Delaware River, the water shimmering under the fiery new sun. The air was cool and sweet, holding a hint of dewy moisture, and she breathed deeply of it, welcoming its curative powers.
As they emerged on Second Street, she realized that her thinking that the three of them were the only people awake in the city had definitely been an illusion. Sleepy-looking women, bundled into their pelisses, were hurrying up the brick footpaths, each hoping to have first choice in the market. Vehicles and horses crammed the wide street, all heading northward, many of the wagons filled with goods and animals and driven by the German farmers who lived in the Pennsylvania countryside.
Bramble's sharp eyes were darting all about as she marched up the street and she rarely spoke, but Smith sensed Meagan's curiosity and took the time to explain the market to her.
"It really is quite a place. I do love to come in spite of having to rise in the middle of the night!" She pointed to the long market shed which consisted of brick piers supporti
ng an arched, plastered ceiling and gabled roof. "Those are the permanent stalls. The entire structure is known as the 'shambles', but don't ask me why! The farmers who have stands under the eaves pay three pounds for the privilege."
Meagan looked questioningly at the carts and baskets that had been set up alongside the curb just ahead of them and Smith answered her before she could speak.
"These farmers come from New Jersey. They don't have to pay a fee, but they are continually risking the elements."
By this time, they were at the edge of the brick 'shambles' and Smith extracted a long list from her reticule. She and Bramble compared notes for a moment; then the gaunt cook turned back to speak to Meagan for the first time.
"Ye need not help this day, South. 'Tis task enough to learn your way about." And with that, she set off into the crowd.
Meagan stayed close to Smith most of the time, watching her as she chose items, then bargained with the farmers and merchants with surprising forcefulness. First they inspected the fish, sold in single rows alongside the market. There was something for everyone, fresh and salted fish of every variety. Meagan was astonished to hear Smith click her tongue as she looked it over.
"It's not anyone's fault, of course," she explained after paying for her purchases. "Winter makes it hard for everyone. Wait a few months and you'll see such a change! The vegetables and fruits right now are almost nonexistent; most of them have been raised in greeneries."
The butchers were in the marketplace proper and the display of beef and pork in their stalls was magnificent.
Smith was smiling now. "You know," she said in a pleased undertone, "it's said that Philadelphia beef is the finest in the world, and I am inclined to believe it."
Bramble came up then and Meagan watched the two of them exclaim over the meat before turning her head to look around. There was an overwhelming feeling of vitality in the air, of sheer, elemental life. The smells of fish, herbs, meat, oranges, animals, dairy products, and hard-living people assailed her nostrils, while her eyes were full of the patchwork color of the goods and the men and women who bought and sold them. Voices mingled together in wild confusion, spiced with the shouts of the bargaining arguments.
This is the best experience I have had as a servant, Meagan told herself with a grin. Meagan Sayers would still be in bed asleep just like Priscilla and Anne Bingham are right now. Let them have their stuffy old theater and assemblies!
Smith had led her over to the produce stalls where they were inspecting the roots, herbs, and garden seed when Meagan spotted little, black-clad Wong Washington. He carried an oversized basket and wore a bicorne hat that seemed to cover half his head, but there was no mistaking his voice as he railed at one of the largest butchers.
"I not pay so much! You trying to lob me, missa!"
They continued to quarrel until finally the butcher gave a resigned sigh and said something to Wong in a low voice. The tiny butler grinned gleefully and the exchange of money for beef was made.
Meagan could not resist the impulse to speak to him. She edged her way through the crowd until she was near enough to touch Wong's sleeve and he looked back, meeting her eyes which happened to be level with his own.
"You want me, missy?" he asked impatiently; then recognition dawned. "Hello, Missy Meagan! I so glad to see you!"
"Wong, I'm happy that you remember me!"
His smile widened. "I tell truth—most Missa Lion's ladies I forget. But you special."
Meagan felt her face grow hot. "Don't be silly. I'm only a servant—an ordinary lady's maid."
He shrugged amiably, but not without a surreptitious wink at her. "Maybe so... but if you ordinary, Missa Lion never bring you to his house. Or laugh so happy."
Meagan wished she had never approached Wong. Her high spirits were crushed and she felt the familiar constriction around her heart. "You are talking nonsense. Captain Hampshire is engaged to be married—to a real lady." The last words were forced out between clenched teeth as she thought of her own venerable lineage.
"You know what they say here in America, missy. There more than one way to skin cat!"
Meagan had an uneasy feeling she was being insulted, good-naturedly or not. "I think that is a terrible expression!"
She turned and made her way back to Smith, who washeading toward the north shambles to look over the eggs and butter. Suddenly the crowds of people made her head ache. Not until Bramble had joined them and they were out in the open air and sunshine having the cart loaded did Meagan begin to relax.
She reflected that the entire tangle was no one's fault but her own. She couldn't expect people to treat her with the respect afforded a lady when she'd chosen to leave the ranks of the upper class. Remembering that her alternative had been Aunt Agatha in Boston, Meagan felt a bit better, but clearly she couldn't go on this way...
The adventurous spirit of her masquerade was fading quickly and for the first time she began to contemplate the idea of finding some old friend who would take her in without alerting her aunt of her whereabouts. The well-loved faces of George and Martha Washington flashed across her mind and as she realized how ludicrous that thought was she chuckled out loud.
Smith eyed her speculatively. "Well, that's better. You looked positively ill for a while at the market. Is your ankle hurting you?"
"It's much better." Meagan gave her a rueful smile. "Don't mind me. I seem to be having my ups and downs these days, but I never stay down for long."
"Good for you. You know, you ought to ask for a respite. Perhaps you've been working too hard, even during your journey to Philadelphia."
"I'm going to. Kevin Flynn has asked me to visit Peale's Museum with him this afternoon. I gather everyone will be away at some reception—"
"Oh, yes! The Powels'." Smith's hazel eyes twinkled above her pink cheeks. "Hmm... Kevin, is it? He seems like a nice fellow—if a bit waggish."
Meagan sighed softly. "Yes, and he makes me laugh, which is no small accomplishment these days. As for the waggish part—you needn't worry about that, for I am in no danger of losing my heart to him."
They were approaching Mansion House and Smith slowed her walk, searching Meagan's face.
"Wouldn't you like to talk about whatever is bothering you, my dear?"
She blushed and looked away. "I can't. But it's nothing that can't be resolved with a bit of time and determination. I can be very determined!"
Smith put a smooth hand on her cheek. "I wish you luck. And, if you ever need a friend—"
"I'll remember. Thank you."
Bramble was turning down Bingham's Court toward the back entrance. "Be quick!" she called sharply over her shoulder.
Smith grimaced, whispering, "You'd think she was head housekeeper!" She paused, trying to decide whether or not to say more and finally gave in to temptation. "I shouldn't mention this, and indeed I do not mean to gossip, but I'm sure I can trust you not to repeat this confidence."
"Of course you can."
"Well, Wickham and I have been told that Bramble is to be replaced before the month is out."
"You must be joking! She is a wonderful cook!"
"That is neither here nor there. Apparently Mrs. Bingham has gotten her hands on an available French chef. The mistress is very enamored of all things French and this cook will be a status symbol whether he has any talent in the kitchen or not!"
"Oh, dear! Has Bramble been told?"
"No."
"It will destroy her!"
"I'm well aware of that. The question now is whether or not her pride will allow her to stay on in second place—taking orders in the kitchen from someone else."
Meagan looked ahead to the stiff, self-righteous woman who was striding past the orangerie and shivered as she imagined Bramble's reaction to this turn of events.
* * *
Meagan arrived just in time to assist Priscilla in her preparations for the reception at Mayor Powel's. It was being given in honor of the many members of the new Congress who had arriv
ed in town that week, stopping over on their way to New York. Word had reached them that their business in the new Capital could not begin for at least two weeks so they lingered in Philadelphia to enjoy its lively social whirl. Priscilla had heard at the theater that James Madison was now in town as well, his arrival delayed by the week he had spent at Mount Vernon. Apparently, he had been joined there by John Page, where the two of them had encountered Robert Bland Lee from Alexandria. Meagan was all too well acquainted with each member of that trio and she panicked anew at the prospect of meeting one—or all—of them in Mansion House or on the street. It made her groan to think that the town was probably teeming with people who had met her in Virginia...
Priscilla had chosen one of her finest new gowns for the reception. Fashioned of ivory silk, it was embroidered with a scattered repeat pattern in blue and green. The tight, elbow-length sleeves were edged in rich lace as was the round-necked bodice and the petticoat that showed behind the open skirt. Meagan helped her dress, arranging the cul de Paris, a little cushion attached to the underskirt, which was placed on the buttocks. There was a special corset, designed to make the breasts more prominent, which was lined with a piece of triangular wire, curved and padded. Over all of this went the gown itself, finished off by a handkerchief, knotted like a fichu, which covered the neckline. It was held up so stiffly by the 'pigeon's breast' that it almost reached Priscilla's chin.
Still, in spite of all the false curves, the effect was striking. Priscilla's waist looked tiny, her neck long, and her face lovely. Anne Bingham's abigail had taught Meagan to apply special French cosmetics so skillfully that they were almost impossible to detect. Around her neck, Priscilla wore a long gold chain with an enameled watch attached. Meagan dressed her auburn hair so that it was full at the sides, with soft curls falling over her shoulders, then topped the coiffure with a large Florentine straw hat, tied under her pretty chin with a satin ribbon.
Meagan had already laid out a fan made of embroidered silk that and a little pearl-encrusted box called a necessaire, holding such indispensable items as perfume, a watch key, tiny scissors, ear and nail cleaners, a pencil, and a little ivory plate on which to make notes.
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