by Deryn Lake
The former Lady Eawiss, more affected than ever if such a thing were possible, had forced out a tear or two and had half smothered Rose in an all-consuming embrace as she had said a tremulous au revoir.
‘Of course, my husband and I will be returning to British soil just as soon as his tour of duty is over. We will be going to live on my late husband’s estate – he was Sir Bevis Eawiss, of course. But then I have probably told you that he left me rather well orff, don’t you know.’
‘Yes, you have, dear lady. I was quite aware that you were wealthy. Remember your portmanteau? Without it I don’t think many of us would have survived.’
She trilled a laugh which she hoped resembled silver bells. ‘Yes, I was your banker, was I not?’
‘You most certainly were,’ John answered with feeling. ‘Do I owe you anything?’
Lady Eawiss made a mouth. ‘No, Sir Apothecary, you do not. Which is more than I can say for most, particularly the Conways.’
‘You mean Jake and Demelza? Surely you could claim off their estate.’
A sound emerged which could have been a long-winded fart disguised by a loud ‘huh’. ‘No hope of that. I have had to wish my money goodbye.’
‘Never mind, Lady Eawiss. I am sure that you have earned a place in Heaven.’
She made a moue to end them all, tossing her head with its heavily feathered hat which stood atop her enormous hairstyle, over her shoulder.
‘La, Sir, you say the nicest things. I truly do admire you. Faith but I do.’
She unfurled her fan and peeped at him mischievously over the top, at which John retreated hastily, bowing fulsomely as he left.
It was saying farewell to Irish Tom that cut John Rawlings to the quick. The years they had spent together, the adventures they had had, were as precious to the Apothecary as a hoard of emeralds, the colour of the Irishman’s eyes reminding him not only of the gemstones but also of that beautiful island from which his great comrade hailed. And, looking at him now, he saw that those sincere eyes, that beautiful rich green, were misted with unshed tears.
‘I will be lost without you, John.’
‘Nonsense. It is just that life will be different, Tom. You’ll have a wife and children to come. You’ll have part of a successful business to run. You’ll be in clover, man.’
‘There can never be clover without the pasture to grow it in. You were my garnering field, John.’
‘Everything has to change, Tom. That is the law of the universe. You either accept that or go raving mad.’
‘I would come with you but Suzanne does not want to leave the Orange Tree.’
‘And I don’t blame her for that. She enjoys life in Boston and provided you don’t take sides when the trouble starts you should sail through it with ease. But I forgot, you’re an Irishman and have no particular love for the British.’
‘Except for one of them who has given me such great humanity, the answer is no. Don’t trust ’em much.’
John had thrown a party at the Orange Tree for a handful of old friends but there had been many absentees. He had invited George Glynde and Tracey Tremayne but the high-stepping strutters had not replied – out spying on someone, John supposed. Sir Julian Wychwood came with Miss Daisy Quincy, all tossing curls and merry giggles. Sir Julian, no doubt quite prepared to swap a title for a fortune, dribbled impeccable manners and high ton speech which had her in raptures. But notably absent was Coralie, and when John went to her house on the following evening he was told that Madame Clive had gone out of town for a few days to arrange some important business. He imagined that she had gone off in a huff but could not for a moment work out why.
Now things moved swiftly. He had booked four places on the vessel Ondine but first had his duty to do for Irish Tom’s wedding. This was a quiet affair during which Suzanne looked like a doll by the side of the massive Brian Bóruma, King of the Irish figure that Tom seemed to be that day. Afterwards there was a small but merry party at the Orange Tree at which, once again, Coralie was absent.
Sir Julian, for once not smiling but frowning deeply, approached John and said, ‘I’ve a mind to join you on board the Ondine, you know.’
‘Good heavens. I thought you were going to marry some prosperous colonist’s daughter and settle in America.’
‘That’s just the point. Dolly Quincy is being fiercely guarded by that hideous old gorgon, Lydia Hancock, who apparently has her lined up for her nephew, John, and as for all the rest … John, they lack bon ton and I cannot see myself putting up with them for any length of time.’
John shook his head, laughing aloud. ‘Julian, you are a case indeed. I can’t imagine you ever taking a wife. I think you will be charming and seducing like mad until your dying day.’
‘I sincerely hope so. But you’ve left something out.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That I can gamble my way to a fortune which those ladies of quality will not get their adorable white fingers on.’
‘Nor any other part of your anatomy,’ John answered, and winked his eye.
It took him two days, with Rose, excited, indeed thrilled, to be returning to the country she loved, helping him pack up the few possessions they had acquired during their stay in Boston. Then they hired a carter and solemnly made their way to the Long Wharf which was humming with activity. On the right as they approached they could see the mighty transatlantic ship, which had approached the wharf inch by inch at low tide on the previous evening. It lay surrounded by smaller vessels but with the name Ondine proudly appearing on its high wooden prow. On the wharf itself heaved a mass of humanity: a slatternly girl come to service the sailors, black slaves running round the feet of the wigged and wonderful merchants, ledger-laden clerks hurrying forward with their accounts. The air was full of splintering noise: ship’s capstans turning, inching their vessels in, the men grunting, the captain shouting orders. The shrill whistle of the bosun’s pipe, the irritating bark of dogs, the cry of the great sweating, stinking, fiercely independent multitude.
Rose was excited, loving it all. The twins were a little scared, hand in hand with John, their fingers betraying their slight panic by a simultaneous tightening of grip. A leather-aproned porter wheeling their luggage behind them made his way as best he could. John felt close to tears as he lifted the twins on to the gangplank. He had loved Boston, despite all the difficulty in getting there, and had had some rare raw experiences there. The place would be for ever carved in his heart.
‘John,’ he heard a distant voice call and, turning, saw Sir Julian Wychwood, a large portmanteau being carried high above his head, thrusting his way through the massive crowd. John waved. He wished it had been another voice that had called out, the voice that at that moment he longed to hear, even if it were only to bid him goodbye.
‘Come on, Papa,’ ordered Rose, and gave the gentlest push at his behind.
They made their way on board and stood at the rail, watching the Bostonians go about their business. Julian panted his way up and stood beside them as slowly the tide came in and the mighty vessel slipped anchor and made its majestic way out to the sea beyond.
‘Goodbye, Boston,’ John said, just under his breath.
And then he felt somebody unknown, standing right behind him, put their arms around his waist.
‘Hello,’ said a voice.
John did not turn round and stood perfectly still while his heart danced amongst the stars and he felt a great warmth course through his entire being.
‘I thought you weren’t coming with me,’ he answered in a whisper.
‘It’s just for a visit, you understand. I have sold my school but will always be welcomed back there any time.’
‘Then let it be hoped that your visit might just last for a month or two.’
‘Perhaps it will, Apothecary. Perhaps it will.’
And with that Coralie pulled John round and into her arms as the port of Boston slowly slid away and into memory.
Deryn Lake, Death at the Boston Tea Party