by John Jakes
God, it would be hard. But the spur was there.
In the boy.
A good thing, he thought wearily. A good thing, or I never would do it—
He went as fast as he could to the top of Morton’s Hill. When he reached Abraham’s side, the boy pointed down:
“See, Papa, isn’t that a waxwing?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Mrs. Brumple showed one to me last week. She said they come and they go and nobody knows when or why—”
Studying the brown, crested bird pathetically flopping in the grass, Philip nodded in an absent way.
“He’s hurt, isn’t he, Papa?”
“Yes,” Philip said, kneeling and starting to touch the bird. He pulled his hand back for fear of injuring the already mangled wing.
“Do you think we could make him well if we took him home?”
“Abraham, I don’t know anything about caring for birds—”
He saw disappointment stain Abraham’s round brown eyes again, added quickly:
“—but I’ll venture Mrs. Brumple knows. If she doesn’t, she’ll pound every door in Cambridge till she finds someone who does.”
“Yes, she knows just about everything,” Abraham said, his jutting lower lip testifying to his bittersweet relationship with the elderly housekeeper. “She said cedar waxwings eat mulberries and cherries, I remember.”
Philip stroked his son’s hair, saw Anne’s face shimmering like a double image over the boy’s. So close he could almost touch her.
“I’ll tell you one thing I’ll bet she doesn’t know, Abraham, and that’s how to build a wood bird cage. It’s the sort of thing fathers are supposed to do. Let’s pick the bird up. You’ll have to do it because your hands are smaller and softer. And we’ll need something to carry him—I’ll borrow Gil’s hat. By the way, I’ve promised Gil I’d go to a supper with him tonight—”
His stomach knotted at the mere thought of it.
“—but I needn’t repair that broken leg on the press until tomorrow, so we’ll go along to Rothman’s right now and ask Mr. Rothman for a packing crate we can chop apart. I’ll build a slat cage for the bird and we’ll take him home to Mrs. Brumple and let her ply her skills. If it’s possible for that wing to heal, at least the fellow will have a place to recuperate comfortably. Are you agreed, Abraham?”
“Oh, yes, Papa, yes, let’s go at once! May we call Gil?”
“Yes, we—”
Philip paused as he started to stand up. Still kneeling, he took his son’s small hand in his larger one.
“Abraham.”
The old uncertainty blurred Abraham’s smile:
“What, Papa?”
“Abraham, you’re a good son and I always want you to know I love you. I haven’t been in very good temper these past months, but I promise you that’s going to change. I want to show you I love you, not just say the words.”
The boy flung himself at his father and wrapped his arms around his neck and held him tightly.
Philip pulled Abraham close, holding him around the waist, feeling the beat of life and warmth in the small, strong body. Presently he drew back, looked into his son’s eyes, seeing for a moment the other flesh that had given the boy life: the remarkable chestnut-haired girl who had taught him to love liberty as much as he loved her.
“One more thing, Abraham—”
“Yes, sir?”
“From now on, I don’t believe we’ll be traveling to Watertown quite so often.”
“To Mama’s place?”
“Yes. I will go occasionally myself, but you need not. After all, you must have extra time to tend the waxwing. And you and I should do other things together—”
“I wish you would let me go to the shop with you, Papa.”
“You like it?”
“Yes, the ink smell, and all the noise, and the boys who work for you—I wish you could find something for me to do there.”
“Perhaps I can, Abraham. I’ll try.”
“I know I am not very old—”
“Big enough to carry an ink ball, I should imagine.” He patted Abraham’s cheek. “At any rate, let me make what visits to Mama’s place are called for, eh?”
“Of course, Papa.”
Philip was ashamed of the relief he saw in his son’s face.
But he was gratified by the merriment that quickly replaced it.
ii
At dusk, Gil’s hired coach wound through the dimly lit Boston streets. The elegant young officer lounged on the forward-facing seat. Philip sat uncomfortably on the other.
He hadn’t been so finely dressed in months. But putting together an outfit for the supper had required Mrs. Brumple to postpone care of the waxwing for an hour, and to make a quick trip to a haberdasher’s. From there she rushed to a neighbor’s, to borrow a decent pale blue shirt of the proper size, and a cravat of the same shade.
Philip’s coat and velvet breeches of dark blue did not precisely match. But his white waistcoat and hose looked new-bought, which they were. Eulalie Brumple had fussed over him as if he were her child instead of her employer—“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Mr. Kent, but your hair ribbon is not neatly tied. It looks every bit as sloppy as Brumple’s always did. Come here!”—and despite his nervousness, Gil’s arrival had come as a genuine relief.
But his anxiety was back full force now, heightened by a continued sense of betraying Anne’s memory. Gil watched Philip drum his fingers on his right knee, then reached over to grasp his friend’s wrist:
“Stop that! You’re fidgeting worse than a green recruit going into battle.”
“That is exactly how I feel.”
Gil laughed. Philip glanced out the coach window for the first time in several minutes and exclaimed, “Where the devil is this party? Either your host and hostess are in financial straits—”
“I assure you they are not.”
“Then your coachman’s lost.”
“Not that either. We are going to call for the young woman whom I mentioned to you this afternoon.”
Philip jerked his gaze back from the row of houses rolling past outside. Quite without his being aware of it, the coach had proceeded to a North End street which was distinctly run down.
Scowling, he said, “When I agreed to come, I wasn’t aware the bargain included calling for the widow in person.”
“It didn’t—then,” Gil grinned. “I took care of that after we parted.”
Irked and not a little confused, Philip gestured to the shabby houses. “This widow—she’s staying in this part of town?”
“No, she is staying at our ultimate destination. The home of our host and hostess. The latter is Madame McLean’s aunt on her mother’s side.”
“Gil, you aren’t making sense! What the hell are we doing in the North End?”
“Well, there’s a snippet of gossip attached to the answer to that. We are calling for Mrs. McLean where she boards her child.”
“Her child!” Philip shouted. “You have got me into some old woman’s match-making session!”
“Philip—”
“You’ve paired me off with some panting bitch who’s lost one husband and is desperate to trap another to support her brat! I’ve a mind to climb out right now.”
Amused, Gil restrained Philip with a hand on his arm:
“My friend, I am assured that Madame McLean has neither the desire nor the intention to go shopping for a mate among cold-blooded New Englanders.”
“Then what’s she doing boarding a child in Boston? Was her husband from here?”
The hazel eyes grew more somber as Gil answered, “He was not. Philip, please treat what I’m going to tell you in confidence. It is my understanding that the young woman’s daughter was born well after her husband died. Born out of wedlock, I suspect.”
“Then I’ve more in common with the baby than the mother,” Philip grumped.
“I believe the child was brought into the world here in Boston, however.”
“Not Virginia?”
“No. The child’s mother comes of good stock. No doubt she wished to avoid scandal at home. I do know for a fact that she has made two difficult voyages from Virginia in order to see to the child’s welfare.”
Philip shook his head. “I still don’t understand—” He pointed outside to the less than elegant dwellings with ramshackle stoops and grimy front windows. “Why is the child lodged in this area, instead of with prosperous relatives?”
“Why, simply because the widow’s aunt and her uncle by marriage are too advanced in years to handle a bumptious infant. You’ll see when you meet them. A private home would therefore be preferable over an orphan’s asylum, I imagine—and no financial hardship for Madame McLean. She is reputedly quite well off. So don’t flatter yourself into thinking you’ll be examined up and down for husbandly earning power! I promise you, Philip, it’s a social occasion only—”
Scowling again, Philip said nothing.
“See here! Are you so ungallant that you can’t help escort Madame McLean to the party in style?”
Philip’s face turned bleak. He pointed to the new white hose showing at his calf.
“I hardly cut a figure that could be called stylish.”
“Will you stop that confounded self-pity?” Gil barked, his smile humorless all of a sudden.
Regretting his irritation, he started to add something else. Just then the coach rocked to a halt, in front of an unprepossessing house on another shabby street
“We have arrived. Philip—” The hazel eyes caught lamplight from the windows of the residence. “—if I have erred, forgive me. I only arranged to call for Madame McLean because I thought you might be more comfortable making her acquaintance before we descend into the somewhat stiffer atmosphere of the party.”
“Well, I’m decidedly uncomfortable. You fetch her out by yourself.”
“No, I will not,” Gil said, gently nudging his friend toward the door one of the coachmen had handed open. “The snail must emerge from his shell sometime!”
Climbing down, Philip swore a blistering oath which Gil pretended not to hear.
iii
As they ascended the steps, Philip tried to keep his shoulders squared. It was impossible. His right one sagged a little each time he put weight on that foot.
To make matters worse, he and the celebrated marquis were being peered at from numerous windows on both sides of the street. Within the house itself, Philip heard a high-pitched squalling.
“Plague on it!” Gil muttered. “Sounds like her child’s fretful. She’ll not be ready—” He let the knocker fall.
“How old is this offspring of hers?” Philip wanted to know.
“Let’s see, I was told—” He thought. “A year? Something on that order—”
The door opened to reveal an obese man in his middle thirties. The man was either a member of the merchant class, or had attempted to dress like one when he learned who was to call at his front step. From the quality of the neighborhood, Philip suspected it was the latter.
Wig slightly askew, the poor fellow dry-washed his hands and hopped from one foot to the other as his distinguished visitor introduced himself and his friend. From somewhere upstairs, the devilish squalling continued as the obese man said:
“Come in, sirs, please do! I am Chadbourne Harris. My good wife and I board little Elizabeth—” A piercing shriek made him gulp.
Harris had a comfortable enough home, Philip decided, glancing into the parlor that opened off the front hallway. But the air was tanged with an odor of cooked cabbage, which he detested. Opposite the parlor entrance, double doors to a dining room stood slightly ajar. Philip spied a gleaming eye on the other side.
Goodwife Harris, perhaps? Embarrassed to confront her distinguished guest in person?
Gil, however, was all civility and kindness as he passed small talk with the nervous master of the house. Harris kept fidgeting with his wig and getting powder on his fingers while the screaming continued upstairs. Philip noted a woman’s hooded cloak of fine velvet lying on a hall stand. Of the woman herself, there was still no sign—
She appeared all at once in the lamplight of the upper landing, startling Harris, Gil and Philip because, over her shoulder, she carried the howling infant.
The young woman was elegantly gowned, with dark hair and fair skin. Her quite pretty features showed her distress. But she wasn’t the least hesitant about coming downstairs. The little girl wearing a nightgown squealed and struggled on the widow McLean’s shoulder.
“Mr. Harris,” the young woman said, “is your wife nearby? I can do absolutely nothing with Elizabeth—”
“My wife? Ah—somewhere—I’ll see—”
He bolted for the parlor, remembered something, hurtled the other way and jerked the double doors open to reveal a flustered woman whose girth nearly matched his.
“Mrs. Harris, Mrs. McLean requires you!”
Goggling at Gil—it was obvious which one of the visitors was the French officer—Mrs. Harris crossed to the younger woman and took the wailing infant. Philip got a brief look at the child’s face: angelically beautiful, with fair hair and pale blue eyes. But the beauty was marred by the infant’s rage and continual thrashing.
“Madame McLean,” Gil said, “may I bid you good evening? I am your humble servant, the Marquis de Lafayette.”
She curtsied prettily, though her pink cheeks showed her embarrassment at the child’s behavior, and she had to raise her voice to be heard:
“It’s indeed a privilege to meet a soldier and patriot of your distinction, sir.”
The widow McLean’s speech was softer, more rhythmic than that of New England. It had a pleasing sound; but Philip was more impressed at the way the young woman managed to maintain composure while her daughter was yelling.
He had to admit the lady from Virginia had a handsome figure, too. What drew his sympathy, however, was a certain quality in her eyes. A sad quality that didn’t match her smile—
Gil was just about to present Philip when the child gave another cry and hit Mrs. Harris on the head.
“Elizabeth!”
Mrs. McLean ran to the older woman, seized the little girl’s wrist and slapped it smartly. The child cried all the louder, while Mr. Harris gestured and grimaced, urging his wife to remove the source of the noise.
This Mrs. Harris did. The wail slowly diminished. The young woman brushed at a lock of dark hair that had loosened over her forehead. In her eyes Philip saw the sadness intensify for a moment.
Then she overcame it, and smiled again as she turned to her escorts:
“My deepest apologies to both of you gentlemen. Sometimes Elizabeth is so uncontrollable, I’d swear the child is an imp tutored by Satan himself.” Her smile was dazzling now. But Philip sensed a grimmer undertone in the remark.
As Gil assisted Mrs. McLean with her cloak, he said:
“Permit me to present my dear friend, Mr. Philip Kent of Boston.”
Fastening the ties of her cloak, Peggy McLean met Philip’s eyes with cordiality, nothing more. He stepped forward to acknowledge the introduction—and realized too late that he had automatically put his weight on his right foot, revealing his limp. The young woman’s glance dropped for an instant; she had seen—
Philip reddened, found it impossible to speak. Gil filled the strained silence:
“Mr. Kent is lately returned from the Continental army, where he served with distinction. He was injured in the battle of Monmouth Court House, in New Jersey.”
“An injury in a noble cause, Mr. Kent,” Peggy McLean said. “I have read that the army fought splendidly there. But for the lack of a few more officers with the courage of Virginia’s General Washington and Pennsylvania’s General Wayne, the enemy would have been destroyed.”
Gil beamed. “Quite so. Philip and I have known each other many, many years, by the way. We fought together at Monmouth, and in other actions as well. Happily, my dear comrade survived to lend his considerabl
e talents to that admirable enterprise for the promulgation of knowledge, the printing craft.”
Even as Gil finished the embarrassingly flowery pronouncement, he swept the front door open and stepped aside to permit Peggy McLean to go through. Philip caught his friend’s prompting glance. He raised his hand and let the young woman rest hers on top.
“Thank you, Mr. Kent,” she said. They descended the stairs together. Philip was conscious that he was shorter than his companion, and that, too, was unsettling. He recalled feeling the same way in his first days of courting Anne—
As he assisted the widow into the coach, it occurred to him that Gil had deliberately raised the subject of his limp in order to minimize it; keep it from being an additional source of tension during the rest of the evening. Climbing into the coach himself, he realized with relief that Peggy McLean didn’t appear to be the least repelled by his disability. In fact, as the coach set off, the driver hallooing to warn a crowd of urchins out of the way, she put Philip further at ease by saying:
“This printing business which the Marquis mentioned—I assume it’s located here in the city, Mr. Kent?”
“Yes, that’s right. My firm’s a modest one so far. Broadsides, advertising notices—”
“But I agree with the marquis—printing is a craft of great worth to society in general. Especially in these times, when all the states depend on the printed word for encouraging news.”
“It is the owner of the firm who is modest,” Gil broke in. “Philip has just published a very handsome library edition of Mr. Paine’s Crisis papers.”
“Indeed! I’ve read several of them. I admire the content as much as the prose. Is your edition doing well, Mr. Kent?”
“Not as well as I’d like. I’m preparing a circular to promote its sale by post to booksellers in other cities—”
“Perhaps I could take a quantity back to Virginia with me. I have friends in both Richmond and Williamsburg, and I’m sure I could prevail on them to place the circulars in the proper hands.”
Despite himself, Philip smiled. “Why, that’s very kind. I understand you do travel between your state and ours occasionally.”