Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  As she helped Priscilla dress, Meagan listened with unwilling interest to her extravagant tales of her night at the Southwark Theater.

  "There was a marvelous dance. I believe it was called a hornpipe, performed by a man named Darlang, or—"

  "Durang," Meagan corrected.

  Priscilla narrowed her eyes briefly. "Yes. Well, he was dressed like a sailor with a lovely red vest. The amazing part was that he seemed to fly onto the stage. Lion said he had jumped from a trampoline though I'm not quite sure what that is..."

  Priscilla went on to describe the performance of The Roman Father in sadly sketchy terms that only added to Meagan's suspicion that her mind had been more on her surroundings than the play. Apparently, the Binghams had obtained seats befitting the wealthiest family in America, and Marcus Reems had accepted Anne's invitation to share their box. Meagan imagined that it must have been an exhilarating evening for Priscilla to be seen by all of Philadelphia society in the company of the Binghams and to be sitting with not only a handsome fiancé but his attractive rival as well.

  Priscilla took one last pleased look in the mirror then went out into the hallway to join the Binghams. Only William was waiting there, his face looking more flushed than usual.

  "Ah, Priscilla dear! You are looking splendid as always. Lion will be a proud man today with you by his side! Anne is still dressing. I do hope she will be ready soon, for the hour grows late..."

  Meagan approached him, feeling unusually shy. "Mr. Bingham, might I have a word with you?"

  Hearing the refined, softly melodious voice behind him, he turned to find the little black-haired maid about whom Lion had spoken. Since that first night, he had meant to have a closer look at her in an effort to discover what his friend was about, but he had seldom seen her at close range. There was undoubtedly something unique about the girl, for neither her face nor her voice were those of a common servant. Her features were delicately made, her skin as translucent as a pink and ivory shell, and when she looked up at him—what amazing eyes!

  "Most certainly, Miss—"

  "South, sir."

  "Of course. Do pardon my memory." He gave her a hearty smile. Bingham was a man confident of his charm, for what he lacked in physical attributes he made up for with the aura he exuded of power and wealth. Anne was truly his better half, for she brought her beauty and charm to unite with his intelligence and wealth. In his mind, the resulting combination was matchless. Anne emerged at that moment from her suite of rooms, looking as breathtaking as always.

  "I am ready, William. Let us go."

  Beaming, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. "Momentarily, my dear. Miss South desires a word with me."

  Anne lifted an eyebrow at Meagan, who met her gaze unflinchingly. "Do tell," she said coolly.

  "Yes. I only wanted to ask Mr. Bingham if I might have the afternoon free."

  William laughed good-naturedly. "Why, I certainly have no objections, but perhaps you should be asking Captain Hampshire. After all, he is your actual employer. He'll be here any minute if he's not downstairs right now, and..."

  Anne broke in quickly. "Now, William, we needn't waste Lion's time. I'm sure he would be agreeable to this if you are." She turned her beautiful eyes on Meagan. "Do behave yourself, South. You'll be expected home to attend Miss Wade before dinner."

  With that, she turned and swept away down the hall, her saffron silk skirts rustling. Bingham gave Meagan one last distracted smile before going after her, Priscilla at his side.

  It was a long way down to the end of the stairway, but after a minute, Meagan could hear Anne's vivacious greeting for Lion Hampshire. The sound of his voice, typically dry and amused, drew Meagan to the top of the stairs like a magnet. She allowed herself one quick glimpse of his arresting face, which appeared to be smiling down at Priscilla, before forcing her feet to back away. As she made her way toward the rear stairway, Meagan determined that she would make a success of the afternoon she was about to spend with Kevin Flynn.

  Chapter 15

  Flynn's plan to take Meagan to Peale's Museum proved to be inspired, for she was utterly delighted with the place. Having grown up outdoors in the meadows and woods of Virginia, she felt right at home with this stuffed menagerie, set in recreations of their natural habitats.

  "I had heard that he had done wonders..." Meagan murmured, her face flushed with pleasure, "but I never dreamed..."

  The entire seventy-foot museum had been built onto the back of Charles Wilson Peale's home, located on Lombard Street, directly south of Mansion House. Meagan learned that it had begun as a picture gallery to display his famous portraits of Washington and the other notables he had known during the war. Apparently, it did not take long for Peale's interest in nature to intrude; the first additions were sketches of mammoth bones found in a New York swamp. His notorious enthusiasm was soon at a fever pitch. He began badgering friends and acquaintances from far and wide for items like alligator skins, wild ducks, and silk grass... even approaching Benjamin Franklin for the body of his dead French Angora cat. Much experimenting had to be done before a suitable technique was arrived at for preserving and stuffing the carcasses; but the results were amazing.

  During her tour of the museum, Meagan found herself forgetting that the animals were dead. Peale had constructed a variety of natural environments including a rocky grotto and an artificial pond made from mirrors. Animals of every description were posed against these backgrounds, including bears, tigers, snakes, exotic birds, and even a mongoose. Flynn laughingly told Meagan that the latest rumor was that Peale had acquired a swarm of East Indian insects.

  "Nothing is too absurd to be believed where Mr. Peale's museum is concerned," he chuckled.

  "It is a splendid project," Meagan replied earnestly.

  They had already been there two hours, determined to get their shilling's worth, and finally Meagan left the animals to examine the portraits. At the upper end of the room hung a life-size portrait of George Washington that took Meagan's breath away.

  "It's a perfect likeness," she said softly, and Flynn gave her a curious glance.

  "'Tis a fine specimen of a man, indeed."

  After looking over the other paintings, most of which were of heroes from the Revolutionary War, many of whom Meagan readily recognized, Flynn led her over to a rather bizarre display.

  "Wasn't sure if you'd enjoy this, but you don't strike me as a swooner!"

  She gave him a grin, which changed to an expression of revulsion at the sight of several Indian scalps. The next exhibit was a set of rattlesnake fangs mounted under a magnifying glass.

  "You were right to save the worst for last!" Meagan told Flynn with a weak laugh. "It makes it easier for me to take my leave."

  Flynn set a leisurely pace for their walk back to Mansion House, despite Meagan's attempts to go faster. Ever fearful of encountering someone who knew her, she pulled the hood of her pelisse up so that it covered as much of her face as possible.

  "You wouldn't be cold?" Flynn inquired with surprise. The late afternoon air was barely cool and the sun still shone cheerfully.

  "Not really, but I've felt a slight case of the ague coming on and I'm rather afraid of making it worse out in this open air."

  She avoided looking at him directly, focusing on the coaches passing them on Third Street. A striking black and green phaeton pulled by a pair of ebony horses turned off Spruce Street and came clattering toward them. Fascinated, Meagan's eyes were on the handsome horses, their glossy dark manes flying in the spring breeze. As they passed, she saw the passengers—Marcus Reems, looking lawless in a fluttering black cape, and the fashionably-garbed Clarissa. They sat close together, deep in conversation.

  Meagan's mind was spinning as Flynn guided her across Spruce Street. Why were the two of them together? What could it mean?

  Flynn, meanwhile, observed the troubled expression on her face and wished he could read her thoughts. From any other girl, the ague explanation would have easily
satisfied him, but somehow it rang false when she gave it.

  As they neared Mansion House, the elegant home of Mayor Powel loomed before them where the reception for the visiting congressmen was being held. Flynn's sharp eyes had no trouble spotting Lion Hampshire leaning against a strong post at the edge of the brick footpath. Looking coolly elegant, even from a distance, he was smoking a cheroot and conversing with two men. Flynn recognized William Maclay, but the slight, plainly dressed man standing with them was unknown to him.

  "Good afternoon to you, Captain Hampshire," he called cheerfully. Ordinarily, Flynn would never have been so bold as to greet publicly someone as far removed in social class from himself as Lion Hampshire, but the captain had never been one to recognize such distinctions.

  Meagan stiffened with cold, chilling fear. What could she do? Lion looked down the street, the sweep of hair caught back at his neck agleam in the sunlight. Although conscious of him, the bulk of her attention was riveted on the smaller figure of James Madison.

  Lion straightened as he recognized the couple standing near the gates to Mansion House. His companions were engaged in a lively debate on their future roles in the new government, so he decided to walk down and speak to Flynn and Meagan. He felt an unsettling curiosity to learn what they were doing together.

  Meagan saw him speak to Madison and Maclay, then start toward them, an odd spark in his blue eyes. Then, as Madison paused in mid-sentence to look toward Flynn and Meagan, she dropped her eyes and whispered hoarsely to Flynn, "I am ill." Keeping her head turned so that her hood shielded her face, she ran past the gates and up the drive.

  Flynn, utterly stupefied, stared after her.

  * * *

  An hour later, Meagan was beginning to relax. She had given an explanation to Flynn which seemed to satisfy him and had been kept so busy herself that the hard knot of panic in the pit of her stomach finally began to ease.

  There had barely been time for her to wash and change into her black dress and white apron before being notified that her mistress had returned from the Powels'.

  The women planned to rest in their rooms before dinner, and Meagan was ordered to take tea on a silver tray up to Priscilla. At first, she looked around nervously, frightened of meeting Lion—or one of the Sayers's family friends—in the hallways, but when she passed the library on her way upstairs, the sound of male voices and laughter rang out from behind a heavy oak door. With a sigh of relief, she hurried up the marble steps and down the hallway to Priscilla's darkened room. There, she helped her undress, listening anxiously to the names of their mutual friends who had been present at the reception.

  "You know," Priscilla told her as she sat back against her embroidered pillows and accepted the tea cup held out to her, "most of them will be leaving after the dinner at Dr. Shippen's house tomorrow night. I know for a fact that Mr. Madison plans to be on his way then, so perhaps you can stop dashing around looking so rattled." She gave a large yawn, which made her breasts swell above her thin chemise. "Why don't you run along now? You might take a moment to do something with your hair. You have all sorts of stray curls."

  Priscilla closed her eyes and Meagan left, but not before rolling her eyes in disgust.

  Descending the back stairway, she suddenly felt drained and decided that after returning the serving tray to the kitchen she would try to steal a few minutes' rest. As she rounded the corner next to the great stone hearth, Meagan pulled off her mobcap, letting her raven hair fall down her back. It felt wonderful. She set the tray on the long wooden table and extended her fingers, running them through her hair with a loud sigh.

  "You appear tired, my dear," a deep voice said from across the room. Meagan's back stiffened instinctively before she turned her head to seek him out. As always, the sight of him in a room made her breath catch and the strength went from her legs.

  Lion sat half-veiled in shadows, with his sturdy bow-back chair tipped against the wall, gleaming boots propped negligently on a stool. He looked so much at ease that a stranger would have thought he belonged here in the kitchen.

  She twisted her mobcap until it was taut. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was a hiss.

  His teeth flashed white from the dimly lit corner. "Certainly you can do better than that, sweeting," he chided mockingly. "Anyone would think you were not glad to see me!"

  Reminded of the public nature of the room, Meagan glanced over her shoulder hastily, then made her way across to him.

  "Sit down," he offered, indicating the chair to his right.

  "Thank you, no," she replied stiffly. Lion grinned again, obviously enjoying himself, and Meagan felt an unsettling current of warmth as she met his azure eyes.

  "Now, Meagan, I can't believe that you would intentionally disobey your employer. Especially when he is so kind and charming."

  "Goodness! When did this radical change in his personality take place?" she retorted sarcastically. Just to be on the safe side, she did drop into the chair, but not without murmuring, "I do seem to be a bit tired."

  Lion caught her hand lightly, rubbing his thumb absently across the palm. "My, my, but we are cutting today."

  "Are we? We didn't intend to be."

  "Meagan, I get the distinct impression that you don't like me anymore! Tell me I'm mistaken."

  "I'm not a very adept liar, but since you insist... sir, you are mistaken." The last words were spoken in her best wooden voice.

  Lion was laughing, his head tipped back. "God, how I love these interludes! You are just delightful! That little face of yours is so animated and I love the way you put me in my place. How fed up I am with flattering females."

  "I'll agree that is one thing I'm not," she agreed while attempting to disengage her fingers from his. Lion merely tightened his grip.

  "I know you'd be content to sit here with me all evening, but I do have a limited amount of time, so I must get to the point." He grinned as she shot him a withering look. "Wong seems to have the idea that he might have offended you at the market today, so I have come bearing his apologies."

  He was watching Meagan closely, noticing the way she swallowed twice and dropped her eyes.

  "Never mind," she replied. "It's of no consequence, and besides, I should not have expected civilized behavior from a man in your employ."

  His eyebrows went up. "I see I must beg your forgiveness. Please don't be angry! He meant no harm. I realize that both of us can be quite unchivalrous, but our intentions are the best."

  She looked up to find him regarding her tenderly, his eyes warm and penetrating. "Oh, Lion," she whispered and let out a long, gusty sigh.

  He gave her a heart-melting smile. "That's much better." Bringing her hand up, he pressed his warm, firm lips against her palm, then against the pulse that fluttered at her wrist. "Just to be sure I've softened you up completely, I brought you a peace offering. From both Wong and me... to show you how sorry we are if we've hurt you." His expression was serious now and Meagan felt her face grow warm under his gaze.

  With his free hand, Lion reached over on the far side of his chair to produce a neatly wrapped bundle.

  Meagan was totally undone by this time, incapable of coherent thought or speech. "But..." she faltered.

  "Open it!" he smiled, putting the package on her lap. When he freed her hand, Meagan felt some of her composure return.

  Before she could untie the string, the door at the far end of the room swung open and Bramble strode in. When she spotted them, her eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. "Excuse me."

  Meagan's face was burning, but Lion merely nodded politely at the cook.

  "I don't suppose that whatever it was you had to do could wait?" he inquired. "South and I were just discussing Mistress Wade's impending birthday."

  "Supper will not wait, sir," she told him imperiously and Lion met her disapproving stare with a grin.

  "Well, perhaps there is somewhere else we could converse. Meagan?"

  She could not look at Bramble as they got up and
went into the hall. "How embarrassing!" she whispered heatedly.

  Lion chuckled, "Don't let that old hawk intimidate you, little one. She's not your mother—or mine!"

  He found a small storeroom and Meagan reluctantly allowed him to lead her inside. An assortment of odd chairs was crowded against the far wall; Lion pulled two of them around, dusting off the seat of one for her.

  "Now then," he began cheerfully, "where were we?"

  "You were trying to win back my friendship, and I was resisting all your efforts," she said firmly.

  Lion arched an eyebrow appreciatively. "I don't remember it that way at all! As a matter of fact, I thought I had worn you down quite effectively!"

  Meagan studied a wrinkle in her apron. "Obviously, you were mistaken."

  "Well, we'll see. In any event, all my 'efforts' have not been put to the test yet."

  Meagan looked up automatically, blushing, to meet his dancing eyes.

  "My dear, your thoughts do me a grave injustice! I was referring to this package."

  Back it went onto Meagan's lap, and this time she was able to undo the wrapping without being interrupted. The paper fell away to reveal yards and yards of beautiful white silk material sprigged with tiny embroidered green-stemmed violets.

  "Oh!" Meagan gasped.

  "Do you like it?"

  "Like it? Why, Lion, it is exquisite! But—"

  He relaxed against the back of his chair. "Good. I'll admit that it may not make the most practical gown, but you deserve something really beautiful. I would have had it made for you, but it was impossible without you along to be measured." He smiled. "I didn't imagine you'd consent to that!"

  "Oh, Lion..." she had found the delicate Belgian lace and pearl buttons that had been concealed within the folds of the material.

  "I hope you'll let me see the finished product."

  "But, I don't see how I can accept this. Don't you understand? It wouldn't be at all proper."