by Deryn Lake
A figure sitting opposite him said, ‘Good evening to you,’ in a cultured English voice. The Apothecary answered, ‘Good evening,’ and the other exclaimed, ‘You’re a Britisher, by gad.’ John peered and saw that he was looking into the face of an officer in the occupying army from the twenty-ninth regiment. The other went on to introduce himself.
‘Harry Dalrymple,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m a lieutenant, son of the big cheese himself.’
John gave a courteous little bow, wondering as he did so what the young man could be talking about. Then he realized that he must be the son of Colonel William Dalrymple, who shared with Colonel Carr the dubious honour of controlling the troops stationed in Boston. He was as highly regarded by the Bostonians as he regarded them. Not at all. John cleared his throat, not quite certain what to say next.
‘I realize my papa is not considered to be more than a total ass,’ Harry said in a whisper. ‘But consider his position. You are requested by your government to sail to an unruly colony that is refusing to do all kinds of things and as a result you are universally hated. I mean, what’s the poor feller to do?’
John leant forward and murmured his reply. ‘Look, I only arrived here a month ago and I made a vow to myself that I would not get involved in Boston’s internal affairs. I pity your father and I pity the Bostonians. They both think they’re right – they probably both are to a certain extent – but far be it for me to criticize either side. Let me buy you a drink, Sir, and not talk politics.’
Harry Dalrymple grinned widely. ‘Agreed,’ he said. Then added, ‘A glass of rum, if you please.’
They passed a pleasant evening, discussing the merits of their various billets. John and his family had moved in with Suzanne, who occupied her late uncle’s strange but charming little house on North Square. The twins shared a small room at the back, while Rose slept in a slightly larger room which was her own entirely. Upstairs, in the hot and airless loft was John, slightly worried by the girl’s presence, not because he felt in the least drawn to her but, with usual male conceit, wondered if she might be to him. The lieutenant, on the other hand, had been given a room in a house with three beautiful daughters and was very attracted to the eldest, Millicent, much to the annoyance of the other two, who called him names and were rude to him.
‘It was ever thus,’ said the Apothecary, feeling a trifle tipsy and enjoying the pleasant sensations that went with it.
‘Yes,’ agreed Harry in the same state, pleasurably melancholic.
They left the tavern together and walked a little way down the road where Harry saluted and turned off to a trim house with window boxes outside. John continued on his way to the North End and then it happened: in the mist of that April evening he saw a figure coming towards him. It was female, he recognized that, but as to her actual features it was impossible to see under the brim of her fashionable hat, obviously purchased in London. She swept straight past him and the smell of her exotic, sharp perfume was all about him, filling his nostrils with secret memories of moments that he and she had shared, of exotic dreams and exquisite realities. He turned and watched her retreat into the misty night, and though he said her name beneath his breath, he never cried it aloud until she was gone, far out of earshot. Only then did he say ‘Coralie’ in a voice filled with hope and a longing to see her again and take her into his arms.
NINE
It was as if a kind of madness seized Boston in the next few months. With the changing seasons, as summer blazed its way into the heavens and the sun daily glared at them like a belligerent eye, the men of the town grew more and more inflamed. Secret meetings were held, John felt sure of that, watching the whispered furtive conversations, the strange handshakes, the manner in which people gave each other close and knowing eye contact.
Following the death of his wife, Dr Joseph Warren had shrunk into himself. He was still charming, polite and friendly, but his openness had gone. Now it was as if he guarded some strange secret that nobody was privy to. Many of his friends were fellow Masons and John wondered how many of these closet meetings hid an even more clandestine society to which only the chosen few were called. But the Apothecary, too, felt in the grip of a great secret which, even when he tried to rationalize it, made no sense to him. He would not – indeed, could not – face the thought of coming close to Coralie. The fact was that she had not responded to his card, a fact which had filled him with a despair that clawed at his guts like canker.
He had taken Sir Julian Wychwood on one side and entrusted him with the mission of going to see her at her working establishment and begging a place at her school for his English ward, a certain Miss Rose. The fact that John had handed his card to her servants was a mistake that he now bitterly regretted, though he had hardly thought that Coralie would enter the North End of Boston and come seeking him. He had hoped for a note, however. Yet what it was that now kept him deliberately away from her he could not name. In part it was fear of his having grown older, for she would remember him as a sky-blue youth, full of daring and love for life. Then he thought of her terrible husband and cruel daughter and knew that he didn’t want to pity her either. Finally, and still very strongly within him, was the deep love he had known for Elizabeth – the precious, the ugly beautiful, the proud, courageous woman who had gone to swim with the mermaids. Or, to face reality, had drowned at sea.
He had not told Rose the real reason why she should not say who her father was, but she had given him one of her knowing looks. ‘Don’t worry, Paps. I will keep your secret.’
‘What is this strange form of address you have just given me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Paps instead of Papa.’
‘Oh, sorry. It’s just that a lot of the children in Boston use it. I did not mean to be disrespectful.’
He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘I know, my precious Rose. You are turning into quite the little Bostonian.’
She made a prim face at him. ‘No doubt Madame Clive will teach us to speak very correctly.’
‘No doubt she will. She was once a great actress, you know.’
His daughter gave him a demure smile and lowered her lashes. ‘Yes, I have heard of her. And of her sister, Kitty.’
John gave her a suspicious look. She had been a small child when her mother, Emilia Rawlings, had died, so he felt sure she could remember little of her.
‘Do you recall much of your mother?’ he asked suddenly.
‘No, only a presence. A kind, warm presence. The first woman I can really recollect was Mrs Elizabeth.’
John smiled. ‘And she was somebody that neither of us will ever be able to forget.’
‘Hardly possible with her twins growing up so fast.’
‘My twins, too,’ said John, then thought that he sounded peevish.
Rose patted him on the cheek. Then she made for the doorway, turned in the entrance, dropped a small curtsey and said, ‘If you’ll forgive me, Father, dear.’
‘For what?’
But she was gone before she could answer.
TEN
For no reason that they could name, none of the survivors of the shipwreck sailed back for London, though trading ships, each carrying a few passengers, often came into port. On those days shopkeepers by the dozen crowded round to see what goods were being offloaded and deals were done on those pre-ordered from English stockists. It was like a small party being at the wharves at these particular times. Yet as the autumn came and went there was a tension in the air, a feeling of alarmed excitement about the place. There was a tangible sense of danger and yet, when John Rawlings tried to analyse why, he simply had no idea. Unless, something in his brain nagged, it was to do with those incessant meetings that the patriots of Boston seemed to slink off to as soon as darkness fell.
Yet on this November day John, who had ordered some herbs difficult to obtain in the Colonies, was relieved to see a large packet swung down on to the dockside with his name written on it in bold script. When he looked
round he saw that all his fellow survivors were present. Lady Eawiss had trembled down on the arm of a desiccated beau who clearly fancied his chance as a catch for the ladies but, on this occasion, was paying full court to the ample figure who had taken his arm. Jane Hawthorne, wearing a maid’s uniform, walked several steps behind them, looking quite lifeless. John guessed that the months without a glimpse of Blue Wolf and the relentless hard work and criticism had eaten away at her natural vivacity.
A small trader had set up a kiosk at the port side and there, sitting on a stool, was Jake O’Farrell, drinking American rum and loving it. His wife, stick thin but with henna-bright hair, was talking earnestly to Dr Joseph Warren, newly widowed and still wearing black. What was the connection between those two? John wondered. Then he remembered that Demelza Conway had been born in Boston and brought up in the Colonies, and had known Joseph since boyhood.
Matthew was working on the dock that day, heaving and sweating as he unloaded The Porcupine. Suzanne, still one of the ugliest girls that John had ever seen, had done her best with her looks and had had her left eye, currently covered by a dark patch, enlarged by a cut from Dr Warren’s knife. Her long, rat’s-tail locks were now swept up and, with her new spectacles catching the sun’s reflections, John observed that his old friend Irish Tom was shouting out one or two remarks to her as he leant Matthew a hand. As for Matthew, he could hardly take his eyes off the girl. John smiled to himself, thinking that love struck in the oddest places.
There were a lot of negroes on the docks that day – some working, others drinking rum, others again come to fetch portable goods for their masters. Everybody owned slaves, though Abraham Adams – a true Puritan, rather like the Colonies version of Oliver Cromwell – promptly gave his slave her freedom. But the rest kept them, finding them useful for helping out with the general housework and running errands for their master. Many wore brightly coloured clothes and could be seen scurrying round the town. However, with hostile Indian prisoners it was different. These were given to various households without compunction, unlike the negroes, who seemed to pass down with families.
George Glynde and Tracey Tremayne strolled down to join the general jollity, looking like a pair of dandies with their new clothes shipped from London. On the arm of each was a well-dressed young woman – Miss Miriam Sheaffe and Miss Sukey Mandel, both pretty and obviously very taken with their beaux. John’s cynical eyebrows flew about as he wondered if the boys enjoyed the best of both worlds.
Seeing all his friends gathered, he shouted out, ‘Come on, we’re together again. I’ll buy you a rum.’
‘Sir Julian’s not here,’ said Irish Tom cheerfully, wiping the sweat from his glinting brow.
‘Probably sleeping off last night’s card game,’ answered John.
But talk of the devil, at that moment Julian popped his head through a pair of upstairs curtains masking a high window in a house overlooking the docks and shouted out, ‘Did I hear my name?’
‘You certainly did, Sir. Come on, you’ll miss your breakfast.’
So there they all stood in the last burst of warm sunshine before winter gripped the town, and drank the rum with varying degrees of satisfaction. The two Boston misses pulled faces and said the liquid set their teeth on edge but the dandies who escorted them drank deep down and held out their tin cups for a refill. The working men, Irish Tom and Matthew drank thirstily, as did Jake O’Farrell, who never took his eyes from his wife’s lithe body where she and the doctor conversed dark and low, standing slightly apart. She drank deeply, throwing her hair back, but the doctor refused as he was on his morning rounds. Lady Eawiss giggled, sipped and handed her cup to the gentleman who escorted her, but John made quite sure that little Jane Hawthorne got a full helping. Then, with a whoop Sir Julian appeared, dressing as he came and holding out his hand for a good draught. Just for a moment John felt intensely happy to see all the adults who had trekked through Indian country safely gathered together. And then his whole world spun as he saw a dark figure, quite alone but perfectly recognizable even at that distance, enter the dockland and look about her.
John straightened his back and stood gazing at her, hypnotized by the way she carried herself, her dark head, crowned with another hat of high fashion, held aloft amongst the crowd who had come down to the wharf that day. Her body, thinner now than it had been in the days when he had held it, oh so lovingly, in his arms, carried itself erect. In her way she had the attitude of a grande dame and yet the Apothecary could hardly believe that this was true, for he knew that Coralie Clive had suffered much in the years since they had last held one another close and whispered words of love. He turned away, letting out a deep sigh that came from him quite involuntarily.
Jane Hawthorne tugged his sleeve. ‘What’s the matter, Sir?’
He looked at the girl and told the truth. ‘I used to know her. Years ago in London. We were at one time quite close. Since then we have both met and loved other people. Now, something – I don’t know what – keeps me from speaking to her.’
Jane looked incredulous. ‘But that is Madame Clive, surely. Your daughter is a pupil of hers. How have you managed to remain silent?’
‘I asked Julian Wychwood to visit her in my place. He could charm a bird out of a tree, that one.’
Jane laughed and said forthrightly, ‘He probably charmed Dame Clive straight into his bed.’
‘I think that is a matter of mere supposition and not very kind of you, Jane.’ The Apothecary’s cheeks took on an angry flush. ‘And tell me, how are you coping with the loss of Blue Wolf? You and he became very close, I believe?’
The girl’s colour came up but she did not look away. ‘How did you know about that?’ she asked.
‘It was perfectly obvious to those of us who had eyes.’
It was cruel but it had the desired effect. Jane burst into silent tears and thrust her hand over her mouth to avoid making too loud a noise. Instantly, in the manner so typical of him, the Apothecary was overcome with remorse. He took her into his arms, where she sobbed against his chest.
‘I love the man,’ she said in a broken voice. ‘I don’t care about race, or background, or the fact that he is a member of an Indian tribe. I would join it too if it meant I could be near him. I have given him my heart completely.’
‘But will you ever see him again?’ John asked, saddened by her response.
‘When Lady Eawiss remarries …’ Jane lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘… and I am absolutely sure that she will – she has so many cicisbeos swarming after her money that she is bound to say yes to one of them. Anyway, when that happens I shall run away into the forest and hope to find him.’
‘It does not occur to you that you might find him here in Boston?’
‘How could that be possible?’
‘Hostile Indian prisoners are given away, here, in this very town. There is a charge for a negro slave but none for the Indians. It seems to me that if he knew this he might have allowed himself to be caught.’
This brought a fresh burst of weeping and people, their friends in particular, were beginning to notice. Indeed, Lady Eawiss raised her quizzer, an elaborate affair surmounted in gold, a new purchase from the shop of Paul Revere, no doubt. With a great effort Jane brought her tears under control and turned a rather watery smile on her employer.
‘I had a piece of grit in my eye, Milady,’ she offered by way of explanation.
Lady Eawiss fluttered on the arm of her companion, a Captain James Molyneux, all manners and moustache.
‘Gad, Madam,’ he exclaimed with an egregious smile. ‘I think you ought to sit down, indeed I do. You’ve grown very pallid about the cheeks.’
‘But I so wanted to join the others in a tot of rum. If you could find me somewhere to sit, dear Captain.’
‘Of course, Milady. At your service.’
He investigated the top of an old barrel that was presently unoccupied and dusted it off rather feebly with flicks of his handkerchief. Lady Eawiss lowered
herself on to it while the gallant captain fussed around her. John Rawlings winked a lively eye at Sir Julian, shameless creature that he was.
They all stood, enjoying the warmth on their backs and drinking a toast to their miraculous survival. John looked round the circle of friends and found his eyes irresistibly drawn to the enigmatic faces of Lady Conway and her rascal of a husband. They were looking at one another, exchanging a deep glance as always, and then her eyes moved right, staring at Dr Warren, who had come to buy medical supplies, with a faint smile. And just for a moment, so fleeting that John was never sure afterwards if he actually saw it, Jake’s expression changed to that of a thwarted lover. Then the illusion was over and the naughty rogue was roaring with laughter and holding his hand out for a refill.
A gloom had come over the day. Looking round, John saw that the sombre figure of Madam Clive had left the quayside and moved on somewhere else. Picking up his packet of herbs, which was of a size that could be manhandled, he fell into step with Tracey and George, both standing out from the crowd of Bostonians in their fancy new fashions like two jewels dropped amongst field daisies. Before he could even ask them how their school was doing, they launched into conversation.
‘My dear John,’ Tracey began, ‘remarkably it is the dancing side of our business that has garnered all the interest. You know, of course, that we have opened a school of dancing and swordsmanship.’
‘Of course, there are one or two still interested in the art of swordplay but I would say that dancing has leaped into the lead,’ confirmed George.