James was very proud of being British. It was how he’d been brought up. With what rapture, when his parents had first taken him to London, he’d listened to Ben Franklin as the great man described Britain’s imperial destiny. How overjoyed he’d been to go to Oxford, to enjoy its stately quadrangles and dreaming spires, and to imbibe the knowledge of ancient Greece and Rome that was proper to an English gentleman.
For when Englishmen walked through London’s classical streets and squares, or took the waters at Bath, when aristocrats made the Grand Tour to Italy and commissioned Palladian country houses back at home, or when politicians made fine speeches full of Latin tags, how did they see themselves, if not as the honest, sturdy heirs of ancient Rome? To be an English gentleman, in an age when Britain’s empire was expanding, was a fine thing indeed; and young men in such a position might be forgiven for feeling a sense of superiority.
It was natural, too, when Englishmen considered how to manage their widespread territories, that they should look to the Roman Empire for a model. And how was the mighty Roman Empire governed? Why, it was ruled from Rome, of course. Provinces were conquered, Roman peace established and governors sent out to rule them. The barbarians were given the benefits of civilization, and they were grateful for them. What more could they want? As for laws and taxes, they were decided by the emperor, the senate and people of Rome.
It was a splendid thing for young James Master to join such an elite.
True, now and then, he was reminded that his status was in question. A lighthearted remark from some fellow Oxford undergraduate: “Come on, Master, you damned provincial.” Or an expression of friendship: “Don’t mind that James is a colonist—we count him as one of us.” Words spoken in jest, and not intended seriously—yet proving all the same that, in their hearts, young British gentlemen did not consider an American their equal. James took such occasional teasing in good part. If anything, it made him all the more determined to join the exclusive British club.
Back in London after university, James had been happy. The Albions had long been his second family. He and Grey had been together at Oxford for a year, and it had been pleasant for him to act as mentor to the younger fellow. In London, too, he led the way. Especially when it came to women.
James was very attractive to the gentler sex. With his tall good looks, his undoubted fortune, and pleasant, easy manners, he was much in favor with young ladies looking for a husband, and with older women looking for something less permanent. True, the younger ladies might acknowledge, it was a pity his fortune was in the colonies. But perhaps he would stay in London, or at least do as a number of other rich New York merchants did, and maintain a house in both cities. Besides his Oxford education, his views on life seemed to be sound. He loved London, was strong for the empire, and when it came to the radical mobs that troubled both London and New York, he was quite decided. “They must be dealt with firmly,” he would say. “They are a threat to good order.”
Unsurprisingly, in these circumstances, James Master had a very agreeable time.
It was one day in summer when Grey Albion suggested that James join him and his friend Hughes for dinner. James met them at a tavern off the Strand. The two friends made an interesting pair: Albion, the privileged young man with his untidy hair, and laughing blue eyes; Hughes, the son of a humble candle-maker, working his way up in a law office, always neatly dressed. But behind his quiet and respectable manner, Grey told James, lay a mind that was surprisingly bold and daring.
During the meal, the young men enjoyed a general chat. They had ordered roast beef, and the innkeeper had brought them his best red wine. They all drank freely, though James noticed that the young law clerk only drank one glass to his two. He learned that Hughes had no hand in politics, but that his father was a radical. Hughes, for his part, asked James questions about his family and childhood in New York, and professed the hope that he might go there one day.
“And do you intend to return to America yourself?” he asked.
“Yes. In due course,” James answered.
“May I ask what side will you take in the present dispute when you do?”
“My family is loyal,” James said.
“Very loyal,” Grey Albion added with a grin.
Hughes nodded thoughtfully. His narrow face, with its thin, hooked nose and bead-like eyes, reminded James of a small bird.
“My family would certainly be on the other side,” he remarked. “As you know, many of London’s artisans and radicals think that the colonists’ complaints are just. And it isn’t just humble folk like my family. Some of the great Whigs, even solid country gentlemen, say that the colonists are only demanding the same thing that their own ancestors did before they cut off King Charles’s head. No tax without representation. It’s the birthright of every Englishman.”
“No cause to rebel, though,” said Grey Albion.
“We rebelled in England, last century.”
Grey turned to James with a laugh. “I told you my friend had a mind of his own.”
“But do you not fear disorder?” said James.
“So did the royalists when we complained of the tyranny of the king. All governments fear disorder.”
“But the empire …”
“Ah.” Hughes stared at James. There was a little light of danger in his eye. “You think that, like the Roman Empire, the British Empire must be governed from the center. London is to be the new Rome.”
“I suppose I do,” said James.
“Nearly everyone does,” Hughes agreed. “And that is why, in the case of America, we run into a difficulty. More than a difficulty. A plain contradiction.”
“How so?”
“Because the colonists believe they are Englishmen. Does your father believe he’s an Englishman?”
“Certainly. A loyal one.”
“But because he lives in America, your father cannot have the very rights that make him English, and therefore loyal. The system of empire doesn’t permit it. Your father is not a freeborn Englishman. He is a colonist. He may be grateful to be ruled by freeborn Englishmen in Lon-don—and that, I grant, is better than being ruled by a tyrant—but that is all he can have. If your father is loyal to the king and to the empire because he thinks he is an Englishman, then he deceives himself. And all because no one can think of how else to run an empire. Therefore, I say, there must sooner or later be conflict. If your loyal father has any sense, he will rebel.” This bleak paradox seemed to give Hughes a certain satisfaction. He looked at them both triumphantly.
James laughed.
“I don’t think I shall tell my father what you say of him. But tell me this: how else could the empire be governed? How could the American colonists be represented?”
“There are two alternatives. There could be American representatives in the London Parliament. An unwieldy arrangement perhaps, with America being an ocean away from London, but it might do the trick.”
“And have colonists voting on English concerns?” said Grey Albion. “I can’t see any government standing for that.”
“You see,” said Hughes, with a sly smile to James, “what you colonists are up against. In fact,” he turned to Albion, “if governments were wise, they would think even larger thoughts. Were the American colonies to have representation in London, then as they grew, so might the number of their representatives, and in a century or two, I dare say, we should have an imperial parliament in which the American members made up the majority. Who knows, the king might even abandon London and keep his court in New York!”
Grey Albion burst out laughing. James shook his head, amused, but thoughtful also.
“You said there were two alternatives,” he reminded Hughes.
“Indeed. The other would be to let the Americans govern themselves—at least to approve the taxes they must pay.”
“If they are willing to pay taxes at all.”
“That may be a difficulty. But they should pay for their defense. However, it is a hard
thing for ministers in London to give up any power.”
Here, Grey Albion interposed.
“You omit one difficulty, Hughes. Our ministers fear that if they give in to radical American demands, then other parts of the empire, especially Ireland, will want more liberty, and the whole British Empire could collapse.”
“I think they’ll have even more trouble if they don’t,” said Hughes.
“You do not consider then,” James asked, “that the present arrangement for America can last?”
“I think that men like Ben Franklin and your father may find temporary compromises. But the system is fundamentally flawed.”
When the evening was over, and James and Grey Albion walked home together, Grey was full of amusement.
“Isn’t Hughes a character? He always has an opinion on everything. Some people think he’s a little mad, but I relish him.”
James nodded silently. He didn’t think Hughes was mad in the least. But what the legal clerk had said made him uneasy, and he wanted to think about it further.
It was the next evening that he met Vanessa for the first time. It was at Lord Riverdale’s house and he was wearing a splendid new blue coat in which he knew he looked handsome. Since Vanessa was introduced as Lady Rockbourne, he assumed that she was married. They talked for some time, and he certainly noticed that she was very beautiful. She was fair, and slim, with pale blue eyes that seemed to be focused in the middle distance. But he thought no more about his encounter until toward the end of the evening, when one of the other ladies of the party declared to him that Vanessa had been much impressed with him. James remarked that he had not met her husband.
“You didn’t know? She is a widow.” The lady gave him a meaningful look. “And quite unattached.”
A few days later, he received an embossed invitation to a reception at Lady Rockbourne’s house in Mayfair.
It took a month for them to become lovers. During that time, he was aware that she was both arranging for them to meet frequently, and taking stock of him. He was certain, quite soon, that she was physically attracted to him; but obviously that was not enough. When the signal was finally given, therefore, he felt rather complimented. Not that he was sure, even then, why she had chosen him. And when he asked, she gave him only a lighthearted and evasive answer.
James had never had an intimate relationship with an aristocrat before. Indeed, he admitted to himself, part of Vanessa’s attraction for him was her class. Not because he was a social snob, but because he was curious. There was, in her attitude to the world, a bland assumption of superiority that, had it been turned against him, he would have found shocking, but, because he was in her favor, he found amusing. He observed the elegant way she did things, the amazing lightness with which she moved, the subtle inflection by which she could alter the meaning of a single word, or indicate an irony; and by contrast, the astounding frankness she could sometimes employ when lesser mortals might prefer to be less direct. All these were new to James, and fascinating. And yet at the same time, he sensed in her an inner nervousness, a dark place of the soul, and his sense of this vulnerability made him feel protective toward her. Perhaps, he thought, it was his strong yet tender arm that she secretly craved.
As the months went by, he was in her company more and more. If she did not see him for a day or two, her footman would appear at the Albions’ house with a note to summon him. She had become quite dependent. And for his part, he had become so fascinated by her that when she told him she was pregnant, it did not seem strange to him that he should suggest they marry.
She did not answer at once; she took a week to consider. And he well understood—he had, after all, no great title or estate. It was one thing to have an intimate friendship, another to marry. To have a child without a husband was certainly a serious affair, even for a widow in her invincible social position, though she could probably get away with it by leaving speedily for the European Continent and not returning until after the child was born and safely given away into foster care. But for whatever reason, after a week, she told him she would marry him.
The marriage was performed quietly, with just the Albions, the Riverdales and a few close friends for witnesses, at the fashionable church of St. George’s, Hanover Square. And six months later, little Weston was born.
James was very proud of little Weston. Even as an infant, he looked like John Master. And James couldn’t help also feeling proud that for the first time, so far as he knew, the Master family had married into the aristocracy. Future generations would carry in their veins the blood of nobility, even royalty, stretching back to time immemorial.
Vanessa seemed happy too. If she was now only plain Mrs. Master, her very presence gave the name a new luster, and the fact that the baby was universally admired was also gratifying. Indeed, there had been little friction between her and James in the first year of their marriage, except for one minor matter.
He continued to work. He spent less time at the Albion trading house than he had before—which Albion himself well understood—but he by no means neglected business.
“Must you be such a tradesman, James?” his wife would remark. But he would only laugh.
“It’s not as if I lived at the warehouse,” he’d reply. “Albion’s a gentleman, with a perfectly respectable place of business in the city, and I go there to keep an eye on my family’s affairs—which are considerable,” he’d remind her.
“Perhaps, James,” she’d suggest, “we should buy an estate in the country. You could manage that. I’d like to see you in Parliament, I think.”
“I’ve no objection to either,” he said. “But the family business must still be attended to.”
He realized that, like many women, she planned to refashion the man she loved, and it quite amused him. But he hadn’t the least intention of neglecting his affairs, all the same.
He also remarked several times that they must think of crossing the Atlantic to visit his family, who would be anxious to meet her. To this she replied, “Not yet, James. Not with little Weston so young.” And as this seemed reasonable, he did not argue.
When she became pregnant again, he was delighted. He’d rather hoped for a girl this time. Then she lost the baby and he was very sad. But for Vanessa, the loss took a greater toll.
She became depressed. For weeks she remained in the house, going out little, staring lifelessly through the window at the sky. She seemed to do everything listlessly. He tried to comfort her, persuade her to amusements, but mostly in vain. She seemed to shrink from intimacy. Even Weston seemed to bring her little joy. After a short time playing with him, she would hand him back to the nursemaid and motion them away.
Gradually she returned to her normal state, or something like it. But there was a change. Though she allowed him into her bed, it was plain to James that she did not really welcome his embraces. He tried to be tender, and hoped for better times. Almost more difficult for him to understand was her attitude to Weston.
He had assumed that all women were maternal. It was, he thought, their natural instinct. It was strange indeed to him, therefore, that even after she had recovered, Vanessa did not seem to care for her son. To outside eyes, she was a perfect mother, but she was going through the motions, and in her attentions to the child, there was little warmth. Once, with the little boy on her knee, she gazed at Weston’s face and remarked to James: “He looks just like you.”
“He’s the image of my father, actually,” James replied.
“Oh,” she said sadly. “Is that it?” And she put little Weston down, without enthusiasm, so that James could only wonder whether she had affection for either him or for his son.
It was shortly after this incident that James encountered Benjamin Franklin in the Strand. When he introduced himself and explained who he was, the great man was friendly. “Come back to my lodgings,” he said, “and let us talk.”
As always, Franklin was enlightening. They spoke of the Patriot cause, and James related the convers
ation he’d had with young Hughes.
“I confess,” he told Franklin, “that I have often pondered his words since, and wondered whether he may be right. Perhaps a fundamental agreement between the British government and the American colonies can never be reached.”
But Franklin was more sanguine.
“I cannot fault your young friend’s logic,” he said cheerfully. “But the political art uses negotiation and compromise rather than logic. The question is not whether the British Empire makes sense, but whether men can live together in it. That’s the thing. I am still hopeful that we can, and I trust you will be too.”
It was in a happier mood that James walked back from the Strand to Piccadilly. Turning up into Mayfair and arriving at the house, he was let in by the butler, who informed him that his wife had a lady visitor, and that they were in the small drawing room. Ascending the stairs, James came to the drawing-room door, and was just about to let himself in when he heard his wife’s voice.
“I can scarcely bear it. Every day under this roof has become a torture.”
“It cannot be so bad,” he heard the visitor say gently.
“It is. I am trapped in a marriage with a colonial. A colonial who wants to drag me to his cursed colony. I tremble that if we go there he might want to stay.”
“Stay in America, when he has the chance to live in London? I cannot think it.”
“You do not know him. You cannot imagine what he’s like.”
“You told me that as a husband he is …”
“Oh, I do not complain of his manhood. For a time I even loved him, I think. But now … I cannot bear his touch.”
“These things are not so uncommon in a marriage. They may pass.”
“They will not. Oh, how could I have been such a fool, to trap myself with him? And all because of his cursed child.”
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