“Last night, sir, ’bout eight it was. I was in Hanover Square ’cause the missus sent me to Devrey’s Pharmacy for some o’ that Elixir of Well-Being. Does her a power o’ good, it does, and now that we’re in a little better way, well—”
“Yes, I understand. And what did you see in Hanover Square?”
“Not there exactly, sir. I went home by way o’ Hanover Street. By Mr. Blakeman’s countinghouse. I was interested like—I mean seeing as how you said I should be keeping my eyes open.”
Joyful waited, knowing he had to let the man tell it his own way.
“Mr. Astor’s carriage, sir. It’s the grandest in the city and ain’t none who doesn’t recognize it, right?” Waiting for Joyful’s nod of agreement. “Can’t be another like it, can there?”
“Not likely.”
“Well, that carriage, Dr. Turner. It was waiting right outside Mr. Blakeman’s countinghouse.”
Hanover Square, 10 A.M.
Jonathan Devrey blinked a few times, then opened his eyes as wide as nature allowed. The vision had not changed. He was confronted by two men, both dressed in knee-length cotton gowns with loose trousers below, one all in gray, the other in blue. They were energetically gesturing and nodding their heads as they spoke. Their foreheads were shaved, and each man had a long braid down the back. They were jabbering to each other in some tongue he could not fathom. Eventually, one turned to him and jabbered some more. It was some time before Jonathan realized that the man addressing him was speaking English. Of a sort.
“Good plan. Good plan,” Ah Wong said. “Rich man. Ancestor.”
Thumbless Wu saw the blank look on the apothecary’s face. Ahyee! The barbarian was not allowing himself to listen well enough to hear. It was possible that he had found the one man in New York who was too stupid to profit by wonderful joss. Nonetheless, it was the man the gods had put in his path. The man who knew where the red flowers grew, who walked among them with knowledge in his eyes. And the man who concocted these little vials of brown liquid Thumbless had seen the townspeople stream into the shop to buy. Another form of white smoke. He was quite certain of it.
Ah Wong was still speaking his struggling foreign devil speech, still trying to make the yang gui zhi understand that they had a business proposition to offer.
There was a display of the little brown bottles on the counter between them. Thumbless Wu reached out and grabbed three in each hand, using his fingers like pincers, then bringing his hands together in rapid clapping gestures and clicking the bottles under the nose of the barbarian. He tipped his head back and mimed drinking the contents of the bottles, then began to twist and turn, lifting his feet high in a kind of manic jig. Finally, he fell on the floor and closed his eyes and opened his mouth and emulated loud, contented snores.
Jesse Edwards was standing by the front door, leaning on his broom, watching everything. He took a fit of laughing and could not stop.
Jonathan continued to stare in wide-eyed disbelief.
Ah Wong nodded his head in vigorous approval. “Good plan. Good plan.” He repeated.
Wu stopped his loud snoring and jumped up. He went to the counter, put down the bottles of Devrey’s Elixir of Well-Being, and made gestures that indicated emptying his pockets of money and pouring it over the apothecary. “Bizness. Bizness,” he shouted. “Much money. Much money. Many taels of silver, heh?”
It was Ah Wong’s turn to be surprised. This Wu Without Thumbs had not said he spoke any English. On the contrary, he had insisted that Ah Wong must come with him to be his interpreter. He said that eventually, when the white smoke business was thriving, Ah Wong would be well paid for doing what Wu Without Thumbs could not do for himself. Ahyee! Very odd. Very odd.
Thumbless Wu was aware that he had lost the advantage of letting no one know that he spoke a bit of English and understood much of it. Too bad. Too bad. Sometimes one good must be given up to gain a greater good. Making this apothecary fool understand was the most important thing of all. Without that, his plan was useless.
Jonathan leaned both elbows on the counter and stretched forward so he could see directly into the eyes of Thumbless Wu. “Business, eh? Profitable business? Concerning my Elixir?”
“Much money. Much money,” Thumbless Wu said.
Jonathan nodded. “Very well. We’ll go upstairs and discuss it. Jesse, stop your giggling and come over here behind the counter. You’ll look after the shop while I talk a bit more with these gentlemen.”
The Fly Market, Noon
Astor’s with us. Jacob Astor had thrown in his lot with Gornt Blakeman. What else could it mean? Confirmed by the presence of his carriage outside Blakeman Coaching. But why? Astor’s trading post Astoria, the trail through Oregon, what good would any of that be if there was a breakaway nation? A woman jostled Joyful’s arm with her basket and hurried past him. Joyful thought it was Manon and hurried after her. She appeared to be heading toward Elsie Gruning’s table but stopped at another produce seller’s stall, and when he saw her in profile, he realized it wasn’t Manon at all.
Joyful moved on to where Elsie was sitting. There were four women at her table, none of them Manon. He wanted to ask if Elsie had seen her, but a steady string of customers kept him from the opportunity. By one-thirty, convinced she wasn’t coming, he left.
Maryland, the British Encampment
at Upper Marlboro, 4 P.M.
The general was exhausted and the battle had not yet been fought. No, that wasn’t exactly correct. One engagement had taken place and he had lost: they would attack Washington first. He accepted a leg up from his batman, a lad of twelve, and swung himself into the saddle of one of the horses they’d taken at Benedict. The admiral was already mounted. He moved his horse into place beside the general. “No last-minute arguments are necessary, sir,” the general said wearily. “We shall do it as you think best.”
“Glad you see the wisdom of the plan, General.. Twenty-four hours is quite long enough to discuss the matter.”
The general grimaced. “Quite long enough.”
The admiral realized it was best to say no more. He glanced back at the marines being left behind to hold the camp as a fallback position. That had been his idea as well. Prudent, though the possibility they’d need to retreat seemed unlikely. So far they had marched nearly forty miles and met not one American, hostile or otherwise.
The general shifted in the saddle. Everything now depended on him; having gotten his way, the admiral was once more an observer. “Company sergeant-major!”
A man trotted up beside him and snapped a salute. “Here, sir.”
“Prepare to move.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant-major swung his horse around. “Column formation!” he bellowed at the long line of redcoats—all on foot—behind the mounted officers, “Prepare to advance!” He pointed to the northward road. “Forward!”
The order was picked up and passed down the line. The officers spurred their horses into the lead. “Washington,” the army said.
“Washington,” the navy agreed with satisfaction.
The surveyor held the spyglass to his eye and watched the column move out. “The northwest road,” he muttered, relieved that his educated guess had been confirmed. “No doubt now.” The marksman had scrambled back to his side only moments before, after an absence of several hours. The surveyor passed him the glass.
The marksman looked, then handed it back. “Sure is a hell of a lot of ’em. You’re still certain it’s to be Washington? I talked to a general says Baltimore’s far more—”
“The general’s a horse’s ass.”
“How can you know that? I didn’t say which general.”
“They’re all horse’s asses. Look down there. If it was Baltimore, they’d be going east. It’s to be the Federal District, exactly as I said. You see any sign folks there were making themselves ready?”
“I spread the word far as I was able. Those I warned will tell others. Anyways, they’d already sent to Pennsylvan
ia for a regiment, and there’s talk Baltimore will be sending their entire militia. Citizens too. Everyone’s coming to the District’s defense.” Then, seeing the other man’s expression: “They will do. You’ll see.”
“Any sign that they’ve felled trees? Blocked the road? Are they throwing up earthworks around the capital? Any indication they’re planning to harass the redcoats as they pass?”
“None of those things,” the marksman admitted. “Not yet. I did mention it to a few of the officers. About the earthworks and such like.”
“And you were told what?”
“That I wasn’t to worry. That their bravery would win the day. Oh, and that they’d be glad to have any more such intelligence as we’re able to provide.”
The surveyor cursed softly as he collapsed his glass and put his notes in his knapsack. “Let’s go. And as for intelligence, that seems to be in short supply.”
New York City,
Chatham Street, 5 P.M.
Eugenie had slept all day. She did not want to wake up now. It was the maid bustling about opening the curtains and pouring buckets of steaming water into a copper bath that forced her to open her eyes. “I must rest. Go away.”
Meg had been caring for Eugenie since the day she was born; first as her wet nurse, then her nanny, and finally her lady’s maid. She was selective about which orders she followed, and she felt no need to mince words. “There’s a stink about you. You need a bath. No telling when one of ’em might come back. You can’t be found like this.”
“A stink? Really? One of whom?”
“The one-eyed pirate, or the other one as pretends to be a gentleman. Ask me, he’s a pirate as well, though he doesn’t look like one. And fucking makes a smell. I always told you so. You gave him what he wanted last night, didn’t you?”
“Not Tintin.” Eugenie allowed herself to be pulled out of the bed.
“I haven’t gone foolish in the head. The other one, Mr. Blakeman. Will you have the rose salts or the lavender? How was he, then? As good at it as poor Mr. Tim, Lord rest his soul, or one o’ them jackrabbit sorts?”
“Lavender. And you’re impertinent. That’s none of your business.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ’bout you ain’t my business. Here, get that nightdress off and get in ’fore the water’s cold. Hah!” she chortled when Eugenie obediently pulled the gown over her head, “left you a souvenir, he did.” Meg pointed to Eugenie’s belly.
She looked down. A series of puckered red marks made a trail from her navel to her groin, losing themselves in the luxuriant brush of her sex. Dear God. He had been extraordinary. “I gave as good as I got.” She climbed into the bath. “Better.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Meg picked up the sponge and rubbed it with the bar of lavender-scented soap Devrey’s sold along with the bath salts. Lovely stuff. Course, they couldn’t really afford such luxuries these days, but all things considered, bath salts were an investment. That’s what Miss Eugenie said and she was right. Holdin’ herself up on a pedestal, that had been an investment too. Not natural for her, but sensible. Only Miss Eugenie was never sensible about such things for very long. Two years this time. A miracle. “You can’t help it, you know. Come by it honestly.”
“Can’t help what?”
“Needin’ a man between your legs.”
“My mother,” Eugenie said with a sigh. It was a conversation they’d had many times. “Her unique legacy.”
“Can’t say as it’s unique. There’s plenty like her, truth be told, but I ain’t been in service with all of ’em. Here, raise your arms.” Meg busied herself with the sponge, scrubbing while she talked, soaping her charge in all the cracks and crevices where evidence of her last night’s encounter might hide. “But unique or not, she was a one, your ma was. Never could get enough. Even when she was fallen pregnant, and Lord knows she was that often enough. Good thing she kept losing ’em one after t’other, else one might o’ popped out as gave the game away. Yellow hair, like the farmer came to deliver eggs, or squinty-eyed, like the fellow did your pa’s accounts. Course, it were a good thing she spread her legs for him. Seein’ as how your pa had no other way to pay him and—Ah, what’s them tears about, missy? You can’t help bein’ like you are. And I think it’s a marvel you sayin’ no to that Blakeman fellow all this time. Course, you had to say yes sooner or later. Ain’t nothin’ to cry about.”
Eugenie knew there to be a great deal to cry about.
If there were any chance at all that she might fall pregnant—even long enough for her belly to swell just a tiny bit, even if it might end over a chamber pot, with her pushing out a thing as was already dead, the way she’d seen her mother do many a time—that might solve everything. But there was no chance. She knew beyond question she was barren. She’d taken two lovers before she married Timothy. Youthful follies, though each time she’d thought herself in the midst of a grand passion, and thank God Meg had been able to protect her from gossip. Not to mention shoving that little bladder of pig’s blood up inside her, so Timothy would believe her a virgin on their wedding night. But even Meg could do nothing about the fact that Eugenie’s flow came regularly every month, whomever she’d been with and however inventive their lovemaking. So she could rest assured there would be no pregnancy this time to get her what she was sure she would not get otherwise.
She had seen it in Gornt’s eyes.
He had kissed her awake just before dawn, then gathered the clothes of her disguise into a sack, wrapped her in a blanket, carried her down the stairs of his countinghouse, and snuggled her on his lap in a closed and curtained carriage—being Gornt Blakeman meant having a choice of carriages—and passed every minute of the journey to her house fondling her, and murmuring that she was enchanting and delicious, and he could not get enough of her. Meaning she was a sweetmeat, not a meal. She wished she were mistaken, but she knew she was not. “Later,” he’d whispered when they came to her front door. “I’ll come tonight. As early as I can. Leave instructions that I’m to be admitted.” Then he’d pulled the blanket over her head, thrown her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes, tucked her bag of belongings under his other arm, and carried her around to the tradesman’s entrance and deposited her in Meg’s waiting arms. You’d take more delicate, more discreet, care of the reputation of a woman you intended to marry.
By acting the wanton she had forfeited the opportunity to be the wife.
There was one card left to play, but it had not been dealt her. Gornt Blakeman was a man intent on founding a dynasty. If she could promise him an heir, wait a few weeks, then tell him his son already quickened in her belly, it might be different. She could lie, of course. But her lie would be found out. Gornt was not Timothy. He would not patiently wait for a miracle to occur. And her life would become a worse hell than it was right now.
Meg had got as far as scrubbing her toes, taking her usual care of each one. The bath was cooling and it was almost time to again face the world. “Scrub every bit of me really hard once more, Meg. Scalp to toes. There must be no stink. And when we’re done, you’re to go and fetch the Widow Tremont.”
“The mantua maker? Now?”
“Immediately.”
The pirate with the eye patch was a better prospect than the one without. At least with Tintin she understood the bargain and got exactly what she expected. No more, but neither any less. The bag of coins was still in the pocket of Timothy’s cutaway when her night’s adventure ended; Eugenie had put it safely away in the same locked drawer that contained the additional documents concerning runaway slaves before she went to sleep. Those letters would bring her yet more money, and there would be more documents and more money in the years to come. Tintin would continue to need her aura of respectability in doing business with the magistrates. Slyly Silas Danforth would be only too happy to forge documents. And there were no end of nigras in Five Points.
The Bowery, 9 P.M.
The tavern was called the Fife and Drum. It was some distance
from the Bull’s Head and the cattle pens and slaughtering sheds, and it seemed to have less custom than the others in the area. This evening there were two drinkers besides Blakeman; both wore the leather aprons that marked them as butchers, but neither seemed in the least interested in anything other than the bottom of his tankard.
Blakeman nursed his beer—flat and slightly sour, like everything else in the place—and sat with his back against the wall at the rear of the room. He’d blown out the single candle that burned nearby and was pretty much invisible in the shadows. He had, however, a good view of the door. He saw Maurice Vionne come in, blink a few times to let his eyes adjust to the dimness, and stand hesitant and unsure in the doorway. Blakeman cleared his throat. The place was silent as a tomb, the sound carried, and Vionne looked in his direction. Blakeman raised his hand. Vionne blinked a few more times, then moved to join him.
“Good evening to you, goldsmith.”
“And to you, Mr.—”
Blakeman raised his hand. “We’ve no need for names here.” He pushed a second glass of the inferior beer in the direction of his guest. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Beer is the only available tipple, I’m afraid. And not the city’s best. But the place offers privacy, as I promised.”
Vionne looked around. “True enough.”
“Caution, goldsmith,” Blakeman said softly. “It is the wiser course. At least for a time.”
“As you say, sir, of course. But I must tell you that I have not yet written—”
Blakeman again cut off the other man’s words with a gesture. “I understand. We agreed on tomorrow for your formal assessment. In that matter it is not my intention to hurry you.”
Vionne trembled. Not about the diamond perhaps, only about his daughter. He knew that he had been summoned to this meeting so far from his home and his customary haunts to talk about Manon. Just not what he meant to say about her or Blakeman’s proposal. “As for that other business…”
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