Touch the Sun

by Wright, Cynthia

  She looked absolutely panic-stricken, scrambling up to her feet. The silver gown was twisted and crumpled, her elaborate powdered coiffure disheveled, and her face was even paler than fashion dictated. Lion's brow furrowed as he looked back at the necklace with sudden interest.

  When he lifted it from the case, the reason for Clarissa's agitation was clear. Under the chain of emeralds lay the gold and ruby ring he had given to Meagan before she left Philadelphia.

  Chapter 41

  Lion stared at the ring for a long minute. In his mind the truth came like a storm, beginning with one gray cloud and thundering into a full-fledged tornado. When he turned on Clarissa, she cringed fearfully, emitting low animal-like sounds from deep in her throat. She stumbled over the silver gown as she tried to flee, and he grabbed one soft arm, snapping her around with all his considerable strength.

  "You did it, didn't you?" he demanded. The force of his rage and torment was terrifying to behold. His eyes burned; tendons stood out on his neck that seemed to run on through that splendid, dark face. Clarissa broke out in a panic-stricken sweat.

  Lion gripped both her arms until she whimpered with pain. "Say it, damn you, you bitch! You killed her! Didn't you!"

  He shook her until she began to scream "Yes!" hysterically. Lion was full of demons, past reason or conscience as his powerful hands went to her neck, encircling it like steel bands.

  In that moment of unbearable pain and fury, the civilized man somehow gained control over the primitive beast. Slowly, his hands relaxed their grip on her slender, bruised neck, and she crumpled to the floor. Lion looked into her wild eyes for a moment, then headed for the door. An old woman stood in the hall, poised to knock, and when he brushed past, racing down the stairs, she followed to shout complaints about the commotion at his back.

  Outside on Wall Street, the nearest street lamp had gone out again and the night was dark and cool. Lion took long, harsh breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists, until the fire in his blood dropped to a temperature he could bear. Tears, ages-old and strong as acid, scalded his eyelids.

  Lion knew nothing about the penal system in New York. However, he had no intention of letting Clarissa go free after what she had done, and planning her arrest kept his mind occupied so that he would not have to think about Meagan. He fully intended to learn the complete truth of Meagan's disappearance and death... but at that moment, hearing about it would have driven him over the brink into an endless chasm of madness.

  * * *

  No. 58 Wall Street was the residence of Alexander Hamilton. From where Lion stood outside Bradford's Coffee House, he could see the lights burning in the downstairs windows and set off at a blind sprint, hoping against hope that the Hamiltons had returned early from General Knox's.

  Alexander Hamilton was one person Lion felt he could take into his confidence. As a lawyer, he would be able to tell Lion where and how to go about getting Clarissa arrested. Just as important at this moment was the fact that both men shared the stigma of illegitimacy. Hamilton had worked with zealous precision to achieve his current position, being as passionately ambitious as Lion had been so recently. Lion was certain that Hamilton would understand how that chaos involving Meagan had evolved, particularly since he himself had taken great care to marry into a powerful and respectable family.

  When a servant answered the door, Lion stood there looking like one of the wild animals that roamed in the nearby woods. Low voices came from the room which opened off the stair hall, and before the footman could close the door on him, he had pushed his way in.

  Alexander and Betsey Hamilton both stood up at once, equally surprised. Hamilton, elegant as always in burgundy velvet, had loosened his cravat, and he and his wife both held glasses of wine.

  "Why—it is Lion Hampshire, isn't it? Betsey, this is Captain Hampshire. He was with us in the library tonight—"

  "How do you do, Mrs. Hamilton." Lion nodded briefly in her direction, then ran an agitated hand through his untidy hair. "Mr. Hamilton, I would not burst in like this except in the case of a true emergency. I am in desperate need of your help."

  Betsey discreetly left them and Lion told his story to Hamilton quickly and candidly.

  "You were right to come to me. You need an impartial third party." Hamilton stood up. "Let us return to Miss Claussen. I suggest that we take her to prison without delay."

  It seemed that barely five minutes had passed since Lion left the coffee house, and if he knew Clarissa, she would still be swooning on the floor. The two men crossed Wall Street at an angle, entered the coffee house, and dashed up the stairs.

  Clarissa's room was empty.

  Lion glanced around wildly, and when he saw that the jewelry case was gone, cursed himself for leaving the ring behind.

  The innkeeper had seen nothing; none of the celebrants they questioned in the taproom remembered any girl. Only the old woman Lion had encountered in the hall on his way out had any statement at all to make, but she quavered and rambled so much that Alexander Hamilton barely took the time to hear her out. She said something about having seen a black-haired man take a limp girl down the hall toward the back stairs.

  "Probably some other lodger trying to sneak by with a prostitute," Hamilton told Lion in a matter-of-fact tone. "I don't like to crush your hopes, but right now it will be awfully easy for Miss Claussen to make her escape. The city is teeming with strangers; she will have no trouble hiding, or finding a way out. By tomorrow night, she could be on a ship bound for another country."

  Lion nodded; however, the dark-haired man was not so easily dismissed from his thoughts.

  * * *

  On the eve of the inauguration, Fraunces Tavern was crowded with the best sort of men. Twilight veiled the city with pink and gray, and candles were being lit around the long room.

  Lion sat at a round, polished table with four men who traded stories of their escapades during the last few days and talked over their plans for the morrow. General Washington would become president at two o'clock, and a second tide of visitors had begun today, swelling New York nearly to the point of bursting.

  Sipping brandy, Lion wished that he could absorb some of the high spirits that charged the air. He wished that the inauguration were over and he were home. And then what? Gradually, he was forcing himself to think and attempt to feel again, for the intensity of his despair had begun to pull him down further and further. It had become a life battle, and now he was feeling the first stirring of the challenge. The past could not be altered—but his response to it could be.

  He still held out hope for overtaking Clarissa. Since giving up the search the night before, he had not slept or eaten. There was too much thinking to be done, and now he was finally beginning to feel as though it was straight in his mind. He felt hope for the future, and something new—patience. It would take time... Part of him wondered if the constant ache for Meagan could ever ease.

  Chairs scraped; two of the men got up to leave and someone else sat down.

  "Well, well, what do you know. Lion Hampshire!"

  Lion looked up and his eyes widened in genuine surprise. It was James Wade.

  "This must be a case of deja vu," Lion murmured, raising a brow ironically as he recalled the night they had met at Indian Head Tavern in Philadelphia and made the arrangement for him to marry Priscilla. "Or is it simply that you and I spend all our time in taprooms?"

  James settled his corpulent body more snugly in the bow-back chair and grinned. "I am surprised to see you! Would have thought you'd be afraid to show your face after losing my sister to another man!"

  "I'm pleased that she found someone more compatible. I realize now that the whole plan—our marriage—was ridiculous."

  James narrowed his green eyes, trying to focus on Lion. The man seemed as cool as ever, with that cynical, handsome face, and clothes that looked fresh no matter how sweaty the tavern air became.

  "You're singing a different tune these days! What happened to your marriage of conve
nience?"

  Lion almost didn't answer. He swirled the brandy around in his glass and for a moment he could almost see Meagan's face in it. "I met someone who made me aware of what I had missed in my relationships with women."

  "Must be quite a girl! Or is she just adept in bed?" James asked cunningly between gulps of ale.

  Lion stared at him, his body hard and taut. "That is a slanderous lie. The girl was Meagan—"

  "Meagan!" Wade spluttered, coming partway out of his chair. "Meagan! So that's where the chit got off to!"

  "What are you babbling about? You sent her with us!"

  "I? I couldn't have sent Meagan to the garden without having her put her tongue out at me. What makes you think that I had anything to do with it?"

  Lion's golden brows met as he frowned. "Why shouldn't I think it? She was in your employ—"

  In his surprise, James choked, showering ale all over Lion's white shirt. "In my employ? Oh, that's rich! Hoo! Just what did the wench tell you?"

  Lion was almost reluctant to continue. "Well... they said she was Priscilla's maid. Actually, that's about it."

  "Maid? Maid? Har—har—har!" It seemed he might strangle in his fit of laughter.

  Lion's face grew darker.

  "Meagan a maid? Oh, that's rich! Really rich! Har—har! Wait till they hear this at home! So that's what the little vixen did to get away!"

  "Will you kindly tell me what the devil you are talking about?"

  "Your little Meagan the maid is actually the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Virginia—at first glance he was, at any rate. Russell Sayers owned the plantation Pecan Grove, not far from West Hills, and Priscilla and Meagan have been friends—of a sort—since they were babies. Har—har! Wish you could see your face!" James wiped his oily, perspiring forehead with a scented handkerchief. "Her parents were killed in a shipwreck last autumn. You know how we Southern men overextend. General Washington had to borrow five hundred pounds to pay off his creditors before he left Virginia and a hundred more for traveling expenses to get here!"

  "Will you get on with it?" Lion ground out.

  "Don't get hot and bothered. Let's see now... as I recall, when Meagan disappeared, I didn't know what the situation was, but soon afterward, this man Bumpstock showed up. Her father's solicitor. That's when we all learned that Pecan Grove was going to be sold off to pay the debts and Meagan had been scheduled to be shipped off to some spinster aunt of hers in Boston. Didn't surprise me a bit, then, that she'd flown the cage. Just her style."

  Lion sat there looking like someone had dropped a ton of bricks on his head. Dazedly, he demanded, "Is this your idea of a joke, Wade?"

  "Joke! You're a fine one to suspect jokes at this late date! A maid! I'd love to have seen that!"

  Lion flushed under his tan.

  "By the way," James continued conversationally, "after the inauguration, I'll be looking Meagan up. She's got to go home and sign a lot of papers before Pecan Grove can change hands. Bumpstock, not to mention every one of Russell Sayers's creditors, have been looking all over for the minx. When General Washington told me how she'd—"

  "Listen, Wade, haven't you heard that Meagan is dead?" Lion demanded hoarsely.

  "Hoo! Hampshire, for a man in love, you are certainly misinformed all around! I saw General Washington at luncheon yesterday and he told me he brought Meagan with him to New York last week! Something about finding her running about on the road outside Philadelphia! When I filled him in on the situation at Pecan Grove, he told me Meagan has been installed with the Jays for the time being."

  Lion's heart was thundering in his ears. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking, and when he closed his eyes, red and orange sparks danced behind his eyelids.

  "What did you say her true surname is?" he asked hoarsely.

  "Sayers." James gave him a benign smile, showing wine-stained teeth.

  Lion's mind spun back to his introduction to Sally Jay the night before. "Miss Sayers" she had called the bashful house guest.

  "I've got to go—get some air..."

  He stood up and threaded his way out of the taproom, only to nearly collide with John Jay as he emerged on Pearl Street. Jay had just stepped out of his carriage and started toward the door of Fraunces Tavern, but at the sight of Lion he stopped in pleased recognition.

  The irony of all this is stretching credibility to new limits! thought Lion.

  "Well, Mr. Jay," he said aloud, "what a coincidence! I was just talking about you!"

  "Nothing too libelous, I trust?"

  Suddenly Lion realized that he felt alive and vital for the first time since the night he walked home from City Tavern in Philadelphia.

  John Jay was studying him, noticing the change in his eyes, gestures, smile, the tone of his voice.

  "As a matter of fact, the subject was actually your house guest... Miss Sayers, wasn't it?"

  "That's right. Who—"

  "James Wade, a neighbor of hers in Virginia. I understand she is quite a girl."

  "Lovely, yes, though sadly lacking these days in the spirit she is known for. I gather she has been through a great deal."

  "No doubt," Lion agreed in a voice leaden with sarcasm.

  "Would you be interested in meeting her after all?"

  "I can't imagine that Mrs. Jay would still allow that—after my conduct last night. Breaking my word—"

  Jay smiled wryly. "Sally thinks you a dashing libertine, and your conduct only served to enhance that romantic image in her mind. As a matter of fact, she was urging me only an hour ago to ask you to join her and Miss Sayers tomorrow. I will be part of the President's entourage, but the ladies will go to Federal Hall in our carriage."

  "Perhaps I could meet them there."

  "Splendid! Sally will be thrilled at the prospect. However, I think it best not to tell Miss Sayers that your meeting has been prearranged. Sally has been moving heaven and earth to persuade her to attend the ceremonies at all, and the idea of being thrown together with a man might scare her off again."

  Nodding somberly, Lion stifled an impulse to laugh. "A wise decision. May I ask if that was the reason she backed away from the party last night?"

  "Oh, no. I'm certain your name never came up, for I neglected to mention it to Sally until she saw you at General Knox's. As I recall, Sally felt Meagan grow skittish at the prospect of meeting some girlhood friend of hers who has recently married."

  Lion bit his lip, eyes snapping merrily. "I see. Poor girl. Well, I shall do my best to break through her apathy..."

  Chapter 42

  Meagan was awake before dawn. Her self-imposed confinement was beginning to chafe and she longed to get outside, if only to breathe the sweet, dewy air and see the sights of New York.

  Standing at her window, clad in an exquisitely embroidered lawn bedgown, she stared out over the dark, still city. Where is Lion now? she wondered. Is he sleeping with Priscilla? Does she lie in the circle of his arm, with her head on his chest... as I used to do?

  The constant flow of pain was turning sour. Jealousy made her angry, more at herself than anyone else, and she was weary of the sadness that lay on her heart like a great weight. All the emotions she had been experiencing the past few days were part of a natural process, but foreign to her nonetheless.

  I think the time has come to tell the rest of the world to go to hell! she thought rebelliously. At least the people who knew me as Meagan South. So what if I meet the Binghams—or even Lion and Priscilla? After all, I can't keep skulking around like a scared kitten.

  Outside, a molten orange sun began to edge its way up over the bay and Meagan saw the first in a long line of slaves on their way to the river, each with a tub of sewage on his head. A cart driven by a tea-water man clattered around the corner next, and drowsy-looking serving-girls came out of houses to purchase a hogshead of the excellent spring water.

  It looked like the weather would cooperate; only a few clouds drifted across the glowing sky. She started as the cannon s
hots began from the Battery. There were thirteen of them, reminding anyone who might have forgotten that today George Washington would become the first President of the United States.

  Meagan was excited and ready for this newest adventure. Who could tell what might happen?

  * * *

  Lion shrugged into his newest coat, of a shade known as "London smoke." It fit to perfection, skillfully cut to accommodate his shoulders and skim his lean, narrow hips. He also wore a crisp muslin shirt and cravat, a dull gray satin waistcoat, oyster-white breeches, and black knee-boots. What truly pleased him, though, was the sparkle in his eyes. Ultramarine, Meagan had called them once. Beyond the sea.

  The sea with a hurricane on the horizon! Lion thought now. He grinned at his reflection, gratified to see that he was still the man she had loved.

  The pottery lion stood on the worn tea-table in this room on City Tavern's second floor. He reached out to touch the statue, remembering Meagan's face when she presented it to him.

  Part of himself was furious with her for the deceit she had practiced on him—though he thought he understood what had prompted it. He was looking forward to their confrontation today with diabolical glee. One eyebrow went up as he stared at his mirror image, recalling things she had said: "I am only a waif who knows no life but service to my betters" ...followed by an endless stream of evasions. So much that had perplexed him in the past was clear now, but a new set of questions simmered in his mind.

  Clenching his teeth, Lion thought of what both of them had suffered because of her pride. It had nearly cost Meagan her life.

  "Ah, sweetheart," he whispered, "today I shall have my turn. Prepare to be stalked!"

  The sudden pounding at the door startled him. Lion opened it to find James Wade standing there, and for a moment he failed to remember the note he had sent the night before.

  "Well?" demanded Wade, whose breath already smelled of wine.