Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  "Devil take my arm! I don't want your concern." Her eyes were purple in her small, pale face. "Remember this, Captain Hampshire, when you toy with the thought of bothering me in the future. I will never settle for your terms. I cannot be bought, like a country estate, for your pleasure. If you have even a shred of decency left, you will leave me alone."

  Flynn rushed back in then, carrying the torn pelisse, and wrapped it around her protectively. Meagan took his arm, suddenly weary, and left the room without a backward glance.

  Even as Flynn and Meagan walked out the front door of Lion's house, a black and green phaeton came around the corner just in time to spot them.

  "Well, at least you can take comfort in the fact that the chit's been rescued by the coachman and isn't occupying your place in Lion's bed," one of the occupants commented sardonically.

  "Don't patronize me, Marcus!" shrieked his companion. "I've been made a fool of tonight and it's all your fault!"

  "I don't think it is fair to lay all the blame at my feet, but, gentleman that I am, I shall accept it." His gold eyes glittered with irony and something else that sent chills down Clarissa's spine. "Don't fret, my dear. I have no intention of giving up so easily."

  Chapter 18

  All the servants at Mansion House had been up since dawn, preparing for the Binghams' first spring party. Meanwhile, Anne and Priscilla slept until nearly noon in anticipation of the long night ahead. Bramble grumbled about the indolence of the rich as she prepared a breakfast tray for her mistress, but Meagan was so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she scarcely heard the cook. The silver tray handed her was heavy with a double load of hot chocolate and pastries, for Priscilla was breakfasting with Anne in the state bedroom.

  Nearly a week had passed since the Shippens' dinner and Lion's proposition. The days had moved by in a blur of soothing sameness; Meagan managed to avoid Lion completely and was kept distractedly busy as complex preparations were made for the party. Now, as she carried the tray up the long stairway, her nearly healed arm began to throb, reminding her of the night she so desperately yearned to forget. At first, she had been so filled with outrage and raw pain that there was no room for any other emotion. The last few nights, though, she had lain in bed and let herself remember the joy of his touch, his kiss, of merely listening to his voice and watching his face. It was self-indulgent, she knew, and only led to more pain in the long run, but the simple, sweet bliss of her memories made even the ache that followed them seem worthwhile.

  Meagan passed several pedestals topped with busts and bronze figures, counting them off silently. Anne Bingham's door was next to the seventh statue, and once there, Meagan hesitated slightly. She had managed to hide the flesh wound on her arm from everyone except Flynn and Smith until last night. She had been changing the dressing herself with Smith's help, but apparently Lion did not trust her, for he sent Dr. Rush over to check on her recovery. When the prominent doctor had appeared at the front door, a curious Anne Bingham had personally led him back to the serving hall in search of Meagan.

  Dr. Rush was diplomatic and tactful, managing to deflect all of Anne's cleverly probing questions. Once he left, however, she was not so discreet. Meagan possessed none of the feelings of inferiority that marked her fellow servants and was not the least bit intimidated by Anne Bingham's manner. She had met her gaze boldly, refusing to reveal the story behind her wound and unwilling to lie just to satisfy the mistress's curiosity. Priscilla had called Meagan away at the crucial moment and since then, there had been no chance for further conversation.

  Now, as she paused outside the door with the breakfast tray, Meagan hoped without much conviction that Anne would have forgotten the matter amidst her preparations for the party.

  When she knocked, the conversation inside ceased and a voice called, "Do come in. We are simply famished!"

  Meagan was stunned at her first sight of Anne Bingham's state bedroom though she thought afterward that she should have realized it would be even grander than the rest of the house. As her personal chamber, it would have to stand out, even surrounded by rooms filled with sumptuous beauty, just as Anne herself stood out in a crowd of magnificent women.

  Decorated in white satin and varying shades of blue, the main chamber was enormous, dominated by a fantastic seven-foot bed hung with rich sapphire-hued curtains. An open door led to a spacious boudoir where Mrs. Bingham's abigail was sorting through an ocean of stylish gowns.

  Anne herself looked slender and delicate in the huge bed. She wore a beige satin wrapper edged with frothy lace and was reclining against plump pillows which were also fashioned of satin and lace, but tinted a soft pastel blue. It was the first time Meagan had ever seen Anne Bingham with her hair both unpowdered and undressed. Long, light brown curls lay against her shoulders, softening the elegant line of her neck and making her beautiful face seem younger and more vulnerable.

  Near the tall windows, one of the familiar Japanned dove cages had been hung. In it, three pure white birds were perched, gazing longingly at the sunny blue sky outside. Between the windows and the bed, Priscilla struck a languid pose on a blue-and-silver brocade daybed, but Meagan managed to more or less ignore her.

  A pie-crust tea table had been set up beside the bed and Meagan gratefully set the tray down there. She was anxious to escape, worried that Anne Bingham would pursue the matter of her cut arm and the reason why the town's most celebrated physician happened to be attending a common lady's maid. Anne's keen eyes were on her as she poured the chocolate; in fact, she seemed to be intent on memorizing every detail of her face and figure. The conversation consisted of only the most usual, murmured amenities, however, and Meagan soon dropped the two women a curtsy and fled with a sigh of relief.

  "These pastries are not as fresh as usual," Priscilla commented through a mouthful of cream.

  Her breakfast companion made no response; her large eyes were fixed on the door that had just closed behind Meagan's retreating figure.

  Priscilla tried again. "I suppose the confectioner is busy preparing treats for tonight."

  Anne thoughtfully tapped a long, polished fingernail against her cheek. "Hmm?"

  "'Twas nothing important. Dare I ask what has distracted you?"

  "To be frank, I was rather wondering about your little maid. She seems quite—unique."

  "Yes," Priscilla agreed, almost grudgingly.

  "Where did she come from, do you know? Was she with your family from birth? How long has she been your personal abigail?"

  "Why—uhm—" Priscilla flushed as her mind groped awkwardly for a plausible lie. Anne, however, was a master at reading others' expressions, even at detecting telling inflections in the voices of her partners in conversation.

  "There is something unusual about her, isn't there!" she declared triumphantly. "I insist that you tell me all, Priscilla dear. And do not fret. There is no one more trustworthy than I."

  In a way, it was a relief for Priscilla to expose the masquerade to Anne Bingham, for she had never become adept at her part in it. Haltingly, she pieced together the story, careful to point out the fact that Meagan had masterminded the entire scheme from the start.

  "She always was a bit wild," she concluded to an amazed, attentive Anne. "I never really understood her even though I suppose we were best friends all our lives. That is, if Meagan could have a best friend. She spent what I considered a depressingly huge amount of time by herself. Most of the time in breeches, riding her horse astride like a boy. I declare, talking about it now, it sounds like some wild tale I am making up..."

  "Oh, I believe you, though I confess that she must be a bit touched to have thrown away a position in Boston society in favor of becoming a servant!"

  "I agree! The day she brought over the letter from her father's solicitor, saying that she would have to go to her aunt, I told her that her opportunities to find a good husband would undoubtedly increase in Boston. All she needed to do was start behaving like a proper lady! Meagan always was stubborn,
though, and unmanageable even when her parents were alive. At first, I think she expected this to be a lark... Now I'll wager she's changed her mind."

  A thin smile curved Anne's mouth. "No doubt. I wonder that she hasn't given up the deception and gone to her aunt."

  "Oh, you don't know Meagan. She'll never give up. She'll probably surprise us all in the end—find some way to bring it all off in her favor. My brother used to say that she reminded him of a kitten the way she always landed on her feet."

  Anne nibbled at a pastry, carefully framing her next question. "Strange you should say that, Priscilla. I was wondering if you think Meagan could have any interest in Lion. Do you take my meaning?"

  "Well, I'll confess I've had my worries in that respect," Priscilla replied airily. "No more, though. After all, as far as he knows, she is only a mere serving-girl. Secondly, Meagan has never been particularly interested in men. She wouldn't begin to know how to flirt with Lion and I don't think she'd care to. Lastly, I have the impression that your coachman is keeping her occupied and out of trouble. 'Tis strange to think of aristocratic Meagan Sayers from one of the grandest plantations in Virginia carrying on with a servant, but I don't doubt that she may be more at home with that type."

  "I'm sure you are right. Sayers, hmm? I have an idea that I was acquainted with her parents. In France, I believe."

  "No doubt. They were there often." Priscilla leaned forward anxiously then. "You will promise never to breathe a word of this? Why, poor Meagan lives in absolute terror of being discovered and sent off to that old aunt in Boston. I did give my word..."

  "And I give you mine, dear Priscilla. Absolutely nothing could persuade me to divulge the truth about Meagan's past to anyone!"

  * * *

  "You are going to be in trouble if you aren't downstairs before the guests begin to arrive," Meagan warned. "Can't you just choose one? Must you try every patch in the box?"

  Priscilla pouted prettily. Her winged eyebrows had been darkened with burnt cloves and she seemed to be enjoying watching herself in the mirror, lifting first one brow and then the other. Meagan personally thought that she looked absurd, but she knew any advice from her would be ignored.

  "I simply cannot decide between la passionie," she pressed a star-shaped black patch near her left eye, "and la coquette." The second speck of silk was heart-shaped, carefully positioned on Priscilla's upper lip.

  Meagan winced at Priscilla's French accent and the expression froze on her face as she studied the two appliques and overdone makeup. "Oh, do wear them both. The total effect is simply indescribable!"

  Priscilla flashed her brightest smile, closed her patch box, and stood up. "I should hurry along. Anne did stress punctuality."

  She straightened the folds of her mistress's elaborate gown, arranged the powdered curls around her shoulder, and forced a smile. "Your looks will be—unequalled."

  "Why, thank you, Meagan," Priscilla murmured, her voice honeyed with condescension.

  Emeralds gleaming against her white throat, she swept from the room just as Wickham's voice rumbled below, "Senator William Maclay!"

  Meagan set about putting Priscilla's boudoir in order. As she gathered up discarded undergarments and organized the clutter of cosmetics on the dressing table, she tried to ignore the cheerful voices and swells of laughter from downstairs. A heavy loneliness stole over her heart, and before she could force it back, a vision filled her mind of Lion and Priscilla dancing, smiling, touching...

  Bitter tears pooled in her eyes, clinging like stars to the thick lashes. She opened the semanier to borrow one of Priscilla's handkerchiefs and it was then that she noticed the fan which they had forgotten.

  Priscilla had conceived the notion herself of wearing combs in her hair with miniatures of Washington painted on them and having a silk fan embroidered to match with a scene showing him at Mount Vernon. A little gold chain was attached to the fan so that it might be clasped about her waist.

  Meagan thought the scheme was typical of Priscilla's taste, but she also knew that once the fan was missed she would be the one to hear of it for days to come. With a sigh, she picked it up and set off for the back stairway.

  Minutes later, she stood in the darkness of a hall which joined the brightly lit drawing room. Only a few richly garbed figures were already there, while the crowd in the entry hall grew even as she watched. William, Anne, and Priscilla stood together in a row at the doorway, greeting the guests as Wickham announced them and Smith and other maids took their wraps.

  Meagan was acutely conscious of her disheveled appearance. All the other servants who moved among the guests were models of starched perfection, while her own apron was smudged with rouge and burnt cloves, wayward black wisps of hair curled against her neck and forehead, and her mobcap was somewhat askew. All the men wore the Bingham livery and curled white wigs, and the maids had carefully powdered their hair.

  With a resigned sigh, she brushed back some of her stray curls, smoothed her skirts, and went out into the brilliantly lit drawing room. There were folding doors covered with mirrors that reflected over and over the fashionable Gobelin chairs from Seddon's in London. The rosewood lyre-back chairs were trimmed with festoons of crimson and yellow silk, as were the curtains. All around, people were exclaiming over the beauty of the room and its furnishings, but Meagan personally was less than overcome. Increasingly, Mansion House and the life-style of its inhabitants reminded her of everything that she had abhorred about her own youth in Virginia.

  Coming up behind the Binghams and Priscilla, Meagan wondered how to transfer the fan without attracting attention. It occurred to her that she might be able to fasten the gold chain around Priscilla's slim waist without anyone even noticing. Robert Morris's wife Mary was greeting Priscilla vivaciously as Meagan surreptitiously tossed one end of the chain and caught it at Priscilla's other hip, smiling a bit at her own skill. The fan dropped to the side as she felt for the clasp, and at that moment her composure withered as Wickham announced, "Captain Lion Hampshire!"

  Against her will, Meagan's eyes sought him, watching as he pulled off soft doeskin gloves and a camel-colored greatcoat. Is it possible, she wondered in agony, that a man's looks could improve each day? His ruffled hair shone, while his eyes flashed as he laughed at something whispered in his ear by Eliza Powel. Her gaze hungrily devoured every detail of his appearance, for his clothes were flawlessly elegant as always. He wore an indigo blue suit over a waistcoat of gold and blue brocade. Unlike the other men, Lion made no great display of jewels or military decorations; he wore only the plain signet ring and a gold watch, the small chain of which glinted against the brocade of his waistcoat.

  Meagan fumbled frantically with the clasp as he approached the receiving line. Priscilla felt her by this time and cast a wondering, irritated glance over one shoulder.

  "The fan!" Meagan hissed, near tears.

  Priscilla tightened her lips and sought to ignore the commotion at her waist.

  Of course, Lion saw Meagan immediately; in truth as soon as he turned from Eliza Powel. Little more than a wilted mobcap and some rebellious black curls were visible behind his fiancée, but he seemed to sense her presence instantly. When Meagan met his eyes, all her remaining coordination vanished. Lion made short work of the greeting line, coming around beside her with a roguish look. She colored under his knowing, laughing gaze, wishing fervently that the drawing-room floor would open and swallow her up.

  "Allow me, Miss South."

  His long fingers brushed against her hands as he promptly fastened the clasp. Meagan shivered.

  "Thank you," she whispered flatly.

  "It is my pleasure to serve in any small way that I can."

  It seemed that his blue eyes mocked her and Meagan longed to slap him; instead she dropped a curtsy and turned to leave.

  "Goodnight, Captain Hampshire."

  Lion watched with a smile as she hurried off toward the serving hall, the lace edge of her petticoats showing in her haste.
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  Someone else was watching as well, while handing his cape and ivory-handled walking stick to Smith. His eyes remained on her bouncing curls until Wickham called out, "Major Henry Gardner!" and the man turned toward his host and hostess, florid face beaming.

  Chapter 19

  Both kitchens were frenzies of activity, and Meagan found herself pressed against a wall to keep from being run down. Through it all, Bramble was organized, issuing orders to her regiment of servants as they dashed to and fro. The sideboards were heaped with every sort of delicacy as well as dozens of bottles of wine and brandy, all imported from France, while a team of perspiring cooks still labored over their bowls and pots.

  Meagan was ready to seek escape back to Priscilla's chamber when Smith's welcome face appeared at her side.

  "It is quite a production, is it not?" she asked with a smile.

  "Quite!" Meagan agreed, laughing. "I rather fear for my life!"

  "Well, when the Binghams give a party, they do it in a grand way. To tell the truth, I was on my way for a bit of air. Won't you join me?"

  Meagan grinned her assent and they hurried off together toward the cool night air of the garden. It proved to be a rare, mild evening for March, and Meagan felt herself relax as they collapsed side by side on a stone bench.

  "Soon enough the guests will find their way out here," Smith said softly, "but for now, we're safe."

  "How did you get away?"

  "The initial crush is past. The other maids can cope with the latecomers." She paused, breathing in the sweet, cool air. "That's the glory of being housekeeper. I can dismiss myself!"

  Meagan smiled and closed her eyes for a few moments, comfortable in their friendly silence. After a time, she asked, "Do you ever envy them?"

  Smith turned her hazel eyes, scanning Meagan's face. "I never thought to. Do you?"