Judas Flowering (20 page)

“It's the old landing stage,” Abigail explained. “It was given up when they built the new boat. The creek's too shallow here. The others have all forgotten it, but I come here sometimes.” She paused, her colour high, and Mercy thought she had not always come alone.

It was quiet in the bushes, and Mercy was suddenly aware of a soft, secret rustling somewhere ahead of them. A large animal? Wild boar? Alligator? Or man? She caught Abigail's hand. “Hush!” Finger on lips. “Listen,” she whispered, sure now. “Someone's coming.”

“Oh, thank God!” Abigail started swiftly forward.

“But Abigail, it may be anyone … Indians … the British.” Even the desperate whisper seemed too loud.

Abigail turned to give her a long, strange look. “Nobody knows of this place but us.”

“Us?” Her question was answered by a soft, cautious call from somewhere ahead of them. Unmistakably, it was the one used by the servants when a member of the family turned into the drive.

Abigail's eyes shone with tears. “It is,” she whispered, then raised her voice, in a low, clear reply. A few moments later, she was running forward into Giles Habersham's outstretched arms. “Oh, Giles, you came.” She was laughing and crying all at once. “I knew you would.”

“Of course I came.” He raised his head from the long kiss to smile wryly at Mercy. “Your servant, Miss Phillips. I'm glad I know you for so true a friend.”

“True friend, maybe,” answered Mercy. “But not a lunatic. You are mad to come, Mr Habersham. Things have changed here since you've been away. If you were caught—”

“But we come as friends, Miss Phillips. That's what I have come to tell you.”

“Friends? The British? After Lexington?”

He turned to face her, his arm round Abigail's waist. “A terrible business. But, forgive me, you have only heard one side of the story.”

“It was enough.”

“Mercy,” Abigail flung out an appealing hand. “You promised not to quarrel with me.”

“I don't remember promising not to quarrel with Mr
Habersham. But there's no time to waste. When you say you are come as friends, Mr Habersham, what precisely do you mean?”

“Why, merely that we wish to send into town for provisions and fresh water, and, of course, a word with Sir James Wright. You surely could not imagine that we are come to attack Savannah?”

“After Lexington,” she told him, “I can imagine anything.”

“Rebels who shoot retreating men from safe hiding places? But we'll not quarrel, Miss Phillips. You're right. There is no time for that. I must go back to my ship before dark. Abigail, my heart's dearest,
you
will believe me when I tell you there is not the slightest hint of danger to you, or to Savannah.”

She was crying quietly, but managed a smile as she looked up at him. “Of course I do, my darling.”

“And you will tell me how things are here.”

“No.” Mercy's voice was uncompromising. “That she will not do. We have promised not to quarrel, Abigail, and I will keep my word. But if you let Mr Habersham turn you into a spy, I will go straight to the house and raise the alarm.”

“A spy!” Abigail turned on her indignantly. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Well, then, a traitor, if you prefer it. Hart and his mother have given you shelter for years. Do you owe them nothing?”

“But all we need is to understand each other,” pleaded Giles Habersham, “and then, I promise you, Miss Phillips, all our troubles would be over.”

“I wish I could believe you. Tell me, who gave you leave to come and a boat to bring you?”

“Why, Captain Barclay. Our commander.”

“And why did he do so? Out of mere philanthropy? To make the course of true love smooth?”

“Well, he did hope—”

“For news. Precisely, You will have to disappoint him, Mr Habersham. Or, if you wish, you may tell him, with my compliments, that Georgia is united as never before.”

“Against its King?”

“No. Against his oppressive ministers and neglectful Parliament. Abigail, dear, it will be dark soon. We must go.”

“No! Giles!” She turned in his arm to look up at him pleadingly. “Take me with you.”

“Dearest. I cannot. The
Scarborough
is a man-of-war I am
a soldier under orders. If we were only married, it would be a different matter.”

“A soldier?” Mercy looked him up and down. “Where, then, is your uniform, Mr Habersham?”

He coloured. “I was told … advised not to wear it.”

“And still you say you are not a spy? Your very life is in danger if you are caught. And I would not like to think of our fate either, if the mob were to hear of this visit.”

“Mob rule, Miss Phillips? Is that your splendid unity? But you are right, just the same. Abigail, my darling, I must go. But first, one word alone?” A pleading glance at Mercy.

“No,” she said. “You must see, both of you, that I cannot consent to that. I, too, am deep in debt to Hart Purchis, for my very life. You cannot ask me to let you betray him.”

“Betray!” His hand went down to where his sword should have been. “Miss Phillips, if you were a man—”

“A fortunate thing I am not, or you would compound your offence against Abigail and her family. As it is, I think you should go, Mr Habersham. And do not come back.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Abigail. “How can you!” And then, pleadingly, “Giles, you see how I am placed. Take me away, please.”

“My darling, I cannot. Besides, these troubles will soon be over. No need to risk the discomforts of life on board ship. I cannot believe that Georgia will not heed the call of duty.”

“I hope that's not what you are going to report to Captain Barclay,” said Mercy. “Because if you do, you will be gravely misleading him.” She was interrupted by a soft whistle from the waterside.

“I must go. My darling.” He bent over Abigail for a long, silent kiss that sent a horrid flame of jealousy through Mercy, compelled to stand there and watch. “May I come back?” It was to Mercy that he put the question.

“No, Mr. Habersham. Only openly. In your British uniform. I shall tell Hart the minute he gets back from town and ask him to put a guard down by the water. To come back like this will be to ruin us all.”

“You're ruthless.”

“I'm honest, or try to be.” She watched their long farewell, her eyes misting with tears, partly for them, partly for herself. Then, as Giles Habersham turned away to plunge down the path to the shore, she held out her hand to Abigail. “Dear, I am so sorry.”

“Don't speak to me now.” Abigail's face was white and hard. “I expect you're right, Mercy, but don't speak to me now.”

Back at the house, they found chaos reigning. A messenger from Hart had just arrived, urging that they join him in Savannah next day. Abigail and Mercy had been looked tor and found missing. Deciding at once that they had been abducted by a marauding band of British soldiers, Anne Mayfield had gone into strong hysterics and Martha Purchis was busy trying to bring her round with sal volatile and burnt feathers. Inevitably, both of them turned on the two girls.

“Well,” Martha Purchis attacked first, while her sister gulped her way back to silence, “if that isn't the outside of enough. Here we are, threatened with attack, assault, battery, rape, and I don't know what worse, and you two choose to vanish. And out in the twilight too, with not so much as a shawl to keep out the cold. If you don't both catch your deaths and keep us here, in mortal danger, it's more than you deserve.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am.” Mercy spoke for them both. “We just went out for a breath of evening air and stayed longer than we meant. But at least all is ready for our move tomorrow.”

“Yes, that's the main thing,” said Mrs Purchis.

But in the morning, Abigail was ill, just as her aunt had predicted and took gloomy pleasure in telling her. Only Mercy suspected that it was unhappiness, rather than the cold evening air that had confined her to bed with alternate bouts of convulsive hot and cold shivers.

“But what shall we do?” wailed Anne Mayfield for the fifth time.

Mercy had been thinking hard. Although she had recognised Giles Habersham as a mere tool in the hands of his commanding officer, she was sure she could believe his promise that no harm would come to Winchelsea. Captain Barclay would have more sense than to alienate a family he must know to be so gravely divided already. They were probably quite as safe at Winchelsea as at Savannah. She put Abigail's hot hand back on the coverlet and looked up at Martha Purchis. “I think you and Mrs Mayfield should go into town,” she said. “I will bring Abigail as soon as she is better. In the meantime, I am sure Sam and the servants will take good care of us.”

“Alone? Unchaperoned? Impossible!” But Martha Purchis looked pitifully ready to be persuaded to leave them, and Mercy soon contrived to do so.

“There, dear.” She returned to the sick room. “They are gone at last. Now you can rest.”

“Thank you, Mercy. For everything.” Neither of them would refer to their mutual silence about the meeting with Giles. Abigail slid off into sleep, and Mercy hoped that she would wake feeling better, but instead, towards evening, she began to toss and turn restlessly and mutter to herself. The words grew gradually clearer as Mercy sat anxiously by her bed. “Giles! Take me with you. Please take me with you.” And then, sitting suddenly bolt upright, “The
Scarborough
. I won't mind life on board. Truly I won't.

“Hush, dear.” Mercy pushed her gently back under the bedclothes, grateful that she had sent Sally away. Anyone who heard must guess at the secret meeting with Giles Habersham. Impossible to summon the doctor, as she had meant to do if Abigail was not better by morning. This illness was a burden she would have to bear alone.

Hart rode out a few days later to ask after Abigail, but Mercy would not let him see her. “Her mind's still wandering,” she explained. “It wouldn't be right, Hart.”

“What does Dr Flinn say?”

“I haven't sent for him.”

“What? Are you out of your mind?”

“Far from it. I'm afraid of what she might say. I know the doctor's a good friend of yours, but he's a staunch Whig too. Poor Abigail … I think it's as much the long strain as anything. She's been so good and quiet about it, I think we have not quite understood what she suffered.”

“About Giles Habersham?”

“Yes. Hart—” She must tell him about Giles' visit.

But he had turned away as the big English grandfather clock in the hall struck the hour. “I must get back. There's all hell loose in Savannah today. They've arrested Sir James.”

“No!”

“Yes. The die is cast, I think.” No wonder he looked exhausted. “Joseph Habersham took a body of militia and arrested Sir James as he sat with what he still insists on calling his council. They ran for it. Oh, he's merely under house arrest, on parole, but God knows what the British commander will do. He's been refused the supplies he asked for. Well,
why should we supply British ships? We're going to be short enough ourselves. Besides—”

“Yes. The thin end of the wedge. But poor Sir James. What will he do, Hart?”

“God knows. Mercy, I must go back. Take care of Abigail. And of yourself. I think you should be safe enough here. The British swear that they are come in peace, and even if the worst should happen, why should they come down this backwater?”

“That's what I thought. But just the same, I wish we could see the main river. Then at least I'd know …”

His laugh accentuated the fatigue lines on his face. “That's like you. But I promise, whatever happens, I'll let you know; come myself if there's danger. I wish, now, that I hadn't sent for you all to Savannah. I'm not sure my mother and aunt wouldn't be safer out here, but there's no moving them now.”

“No. I can imagine. Hart, what's the news of Francis?”

“He's keeping very quiet. No need to worry about him. I hope. He's at the McCartneys' still. But”—he looked more anxious than ever—”there's talk of making it obligatory to sign the Association. This visit by the British fleet could not have come at a worse time. It has inflamed passions that were hot enough already.”

“And if he won't sign?”

“Exile.” Hart looked wretched. “Confiscation of property. Not that he has any of that, poor Frank. I must go, Mercy. I promised Aunt Anne I would ride back by way of McCartneys' house and do my best to persuade him to sign. Better if he does so before it's made obligatory.”

“Yes. Hart—” Once again she started to tell him about Giles Habersham's visit, and once again he interrupted her.

“Dear Mercy.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Try not to worry. We need your strength. I don't know how we'd manage without you. Now, I must go. Give my love to Abigail and take care of her for us all. And,” oddly, he repeated it, “don't worry, Mercy.”

She laughed. “Absurd advice. But I'll do my best.” Impossible, of course. She ought to have told him about Giles' visit. As she sat by Abigail's restless bed in the waning light, her thoughts kept circling back to that disused, secret landing stage. The enemy knew of its existence. Giles Habersham had not come alone. Suppose, frustrated in their demand
for supplies and angry at Sir James' arrest, the British should decide to raid plantations along the river. They could land at the disused wharf and be practically at the house without warning. It did not bear thinking of. She rang and sent for Sam.

“Yes, Miss Mercy?” In a world where so much was in doubt it was a blessed relief to know how certainly she could trust him.

“Sam, Miss Abigail took me down to a disused wharf by the river the other day. Do you know it?”

“Yes, ma'am. The old one. Mr. Hart's father used it all the time, but the new boat's too big. I reckon it must have rotted away long since.”