Judas Flowering (9 page)

“Too kind.” She gasped, as a new burst of light showed the crowd, surely, she thought, somewhat dwindled. “Where has everyone gone?”

“Best not ask. Drunk the King's health—now, another toast, a less public one. Sir James has more sense than to take note of the absentees, and, for the time being, I think we shall shuffle along well enough here under his able guidance. But I am still anxious about you and won't be put off.
Trouble about you”—his fingers were warm in the palm of her hand—“too intelligent for your own good.”

“I beg your pardon?

“Dear Mercy, no one but a fool would believe for a moment that you did not know where that press of your father's is hidden. And the Liberty Boys here in Savannah are many things, but not fools. So, for your own safety, I beg you will tell me so that we can dispose of it for the best.”

“The best? Whose best?”

“Yours, of course. For what else do I care?”

“For our sovereign lord, King George, perhaps?”

“Oh, that's of course. But, Mercy, it is about you that we are talking. You—and me.”

“Yes?” A cloud of sparks had left it suddenly dark again, and she saw him give a quick glance round to make sure there was no one within earshot.

“Must know how I feel about you. Difficult, until now, because—ashamed to have to say this—because of Abigail. That was a madness, cured the day you and I met. Must have seen that since then I have had eyes for no one but you.”

“Eyes?” She thought about it. “Yes, perhaps. Frankly, it has puzzled me.”

“Modest little Mercy. No one ever told you that you were beautiful?”

“No. And if they did, I wouldn't believe it. I have a looking-glass, Mr Mayfield, and two good eyes of my own.”

“Ah, but your sparkle, your charm, your many voices, wise little serpent that you are—you are not in a position to recognise them. I tell you, they have enslaved me.”

“Against your will? Oh, poor Mr Mayfield.”

“I wish you would call me Francis.”

“And I wish you would not call me Mercy. You seem to have forgotten the immense gap that exists between us. I am nobody, Mr Mayfield, the merest dependent. Your eyes would be better employed elsewhere.”

“Just what I told them.” He took the wind out of her sails by agreeing with her. “No use. Quite right, of course,” he went on with a kind of rueful frankness. “If my mother cut up rough over Abigail, what would she have to say about you? That is why, dearest Mercy, I have chosen this private chance to speak to you.”

“I don't much care for private chances.” Once again she tried to pull away from him, but he still had her hand fast.

“You're right, as always, but these are no ordinary times. Must understand, Mercy, changing my whole life for your sake. When I am master at Winchelsea, I shall be in a position to speak to you. Until then, let me be your secret slave, I'll find all my happiness in working for you.”

“Master at Winchelsea? That has an odd sound, surely?”

“You insist on misunderstanding me, my precious girl. Hart will be away for three years at the least of it. By the time he returns, I will be an experienced plantation manager, and—for he will be generous, if I know Hart—will have more than enough put by to start a plantation of my own—dare I say our own? It may mean moving west for a land grant, but who cares about that, so long as we are together?”

“You would really do that? Leave your life of luxury and take up new land in the West?”

“For you. Yes. With you—anything. Dearest Mercy, I'll move mountains for your sake.”

“You may find running Winchelsea a less exciting task.” She had not intended it for capitulation, but he took it as such, pulling her suddenly into his arms. “Mercy!” He kissed her, gently at first, then hard, demandingly, his lips bruising hers. “Oh, Mercy!” Reluctantly, he let her go just before a new burst of fireworks illuminated them.

She looked up at him. “I've never been kissed before.” Her voice was shaking. “How can I tell?”

“Told me already. Those lips of yours. Did you not feel them say, ‘I love you, Francis Mayfield?'”

“I … don't … know.” And then, moving a little away from him, towards the diminished crowd. “Mr Mayfield, please, no more tonight.”

“My dearest, your will is my law.” He tucked her arm under his and began to lead her back towards the crowd. “We will talk again when I have proved myself at Winchelsea. What shall we call our own plantation, dear? Where did your father come from in England?”

“Mr Mayfield, you go too fast for me.” But he could feel that the reference to her father had moved her. “Singleton,” she said at last.

“Singleton.” He rolled it over on his tongue. “I like it. Shall we be master and mistress of Singleton Hall, you and I? But”—he stopped for a moment, holding her back—“speaking of your father reminds me. My dear, I do not like to harp on it, but I am truly anxious about you … the
Liberty Boys. To be able to print their own pamphlets: great thing for them. For all our sakes, I think you should tell me where your father hid that press of his. You would not wish to see Winchelsea treated as your home was.”

She was shivering now—with cold, with fear? “God knows I would not. But, Mr Mayfield, how are we to persuade the Liberty Boys that I truly do not know what my father did with his press?”

“My dear, God knows. God knows too that I will do my best.” Something in his tone made her wonder if he quite believed her, but at this moment they rejoined the diminished crowd. “We'll talk again.” The pressure of his arm was a promise. “It's high time we found the others. Poor Hart will be dead bored with gallanting his mother and mine.”

But the two older ladies had refused to risk the dangerous evening air, and Hart, coming out onto the bluff to look for the others, had been just in time to witness that one, long passionate embrace. Turning quickly away, he found himself grinding his teeth, as he used to do once as a boy, that bad time after his father was killed. Making himself stop, he turned his thoughts resolutely to Harvard and another life. He had let himself dream a dream about Mercy. It was over and must be forgotten.

The mob did not come out on the fourth of June, but it was out with a vengeance a few days later. An exhausted messenger had ridden into town with the news of the Boston Port Bill, the repressive British answer to the Boston Tea Party.

“Madness.” Francis Mayfield had hurried to Oglethorpe Square with the news and a warning that the ladies should stay home. “Can't imagine what they're thinking of back in London. It can only make matters infinitely worse here. The messenger says there have been spontaneous demonstrations of sympathy with Boston all through the colonies as the news has broken.”

“But what exactly does it mean?” asked Mercy.

“Total ban on Boston as a port. No goods to be landed or discharged except for military purposes. Salem to be used instead … could be the ruin of Boston. And some ways worse, talk of an increased garrison, a military governor.”

“It's bad.” Hart had joined them from his office next door, followed by Saul Gordon. “And you say the other colonies are siding with Boston? It would be a golden chance for New York and Philadelphia to take over much of their trade. Not to mention Salem.”

“A chance they do not mean to take, little cousin. Instead, they talk of sending provisions to Boston, helping in every way, demonstrating. They are planning one, this minute, at Tondee's Tavern. There must be no going out for you ladies today.”

“Alas.” There was something at once timid and sly about Saul Gordon's tone as he eased his way into the conversation. “And my poor wife was so looking forward to another of your charming visits, young ladies. She says you quite cheer her up, Miss Phillips.”

“But not today,” said Mrs Purchis. “And, Hart, you must see that this quite changes your plans. You cannot possibly consider going to Harvard College now, when you cannot even land in Boston.”

Hart's firm jaw set hard. “Mother, it is settled. And after all, what difference can Boston's affairs make to Harvard College back inland at Cambridge? Oh, there may be a trifle of unpleasantness, I suppose, and I shall have to go up to Salem and then back down by land, but that will merely serve to make my journey more interesting.”

“Too interesting by a half, if you ask me,” said Francis. “Be ruled by your mother in this! Go to William and Mary College at Williamsburg after all. Always said it would be best.”

“Yes, Frank, and I have always said I didn't want to be sneered at by those haughty young Virginians, as well you know. Besides, think how stirring it will be to be so much at the heart of events. Perhaps I may even have some chance of serving the Tory cause up there as usefully as you do here in Savannah.”

“Why, thank you for that, cousin. Just the same, can't help feeling you would be more usefully employed here, where you are Purchis of Winchelsea and carry some weight,
than up north, a stranger. Do, pray, think again of this.”

“Oh, do, Hart,” cried his mother, lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. “I hate to think of you going so far away at a time of such danger.”

“I'm sorry, Mother, but it's settled,” he said again, reminding her more and more of his father.

“Better give in gracefully, ma'am,” Francis advised with a laugh. “You know there's no budging Hart when he sets his chin like that. And after all, he's to spend the rest of his life as a worthy plantation owner here in Savannah. Should be allowed this breath of freedom before he settles to the yoke. Everyone says the teaching at Harvard College is remarkable these days.”

“Yes,” put in Abigail, who had so far been a silent spectator. “And, Hart, you did promise you would visit my mother's family at Lexington and write me news of them. So at least you will not be without connection there, whereas at Williamsburg we have no friends at all.” She turned to Mrs Purchis. “Think, ma'am, even if there should be trouble in Boston, and it should spread as far as Cambridge, which seems unlikely, Hart has only to go and visit my aunt in Lexington and be quite out of harm's way. You know she has already written urging that he spend all his vacations with them. Oh, how I wish I could come with you, Cousin Hart.”

“Are you sure?” asked Francis teasingly.

“Well.” She laughed and blushed. “Of course, I know it's impossible.” She broke off as a servant appeared to announce Mr Giles Habersham.

He had come, he said, greeting them all, to urge that none of the ladies leave the house that day. “I came down Broughton Street on my way here and passed the Liberty Pole outside Tondee's Tavern, and I can tell you, I don't much like the look of things there.”

“Are they out in the street yet?” Francis picked up his hat and cane.

“Yes. They're all the way down Whitaker Street from Broughton to the Bay. Presently they will start marching along the bluff, and then Lord knows what they may not do.”

“Please God they don't come this way,” said Mrs Purchis. And then, “You're never going out, Francis!”

“Duty calls, Aunt. I have, I flatter myself, some influence with those radical hotheads. If all else fails, I will do my best
to remind them that this is a house full of loyal Savannahians.”

“Loyal is an unlucky word to use today,” said Giles Habersham. “Sir James and his council have been in session all day. I just hope the mob does not choose to pay them a visit. I am afraid my cousin Joseph and his father are at daggers drawn over the Boston news already. If Joseph and his radical friends make trouble for Sir James, I don't like to think what will happen between him and his father.”

“A bad time,” said Francis. “Well, Giles, shall we go and see if we can talk some sense to these madmen?”

“But what about us?” wailed his mother.

“My cousin Hart will take care of you, ma'am.”

Hart looked mutinous for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine I'll be as usefully—or uselessly—employed here as you there. But it's true, I've a million things to do, if Aunt Mayfield and I are to leave as soon as she wishes.” And then, to his aunt, “I am afraid we have the explanation now, ma'am, of that cavalier behaviour of your tenants. They must have been warned that trouble was coming and decided to go while the going was good. You had best try to find yourself a reliable American tenant.”

“American?” asked his aunt. “What are you intending, boy?”

“Why, nothing in the world, Aunt.'” He beat a hasty retreat to his study.

“American, indeed!” said Francis Mayfield with a light laugh. “You'd best keep an eye on your son, Aunt Purchis, or you may find him turning rebel on your hands.”

“Nonsense,” said Martha Purchis robustly. “And you know it. I'd as soon think of you as a rebel. Or you, Giles.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Francis made her one of his elegant bows, managed a private smile for Mercy, and took his leave.

Inevitably, this new crisis made Mrs Mayfield more eager than ever to get to Charleston. With the mob prowling the streets of Savannah, harmless so far, but always menacing, it was certain the same thing must be going on in Charleston. “And an empty house,” she wailed. “Anything could happen.”

Hart was glad enough to fall in with her demand that they leave as soon as possible. Now that Francis had agreed to take over responsibility for Winchelsea, he was eager to be off, away from his mother's reproachful looks and stifled
sighs, and from the pressure Sir James Wright was still quietly putting on him to change his plans. But he had a stronger reason still for longing to be gone. Memory of that passionate embrace he had witnessed between Francis and Mercy haunted him, and so did the question of what, if anything, he should do about it. More than anything in the world, he wanted to be away, clear away from the anguish and the problem of Mercy. He should have warned her about Francis, earlier, when he first thought of it. Now, how could he—and yet, how could he not?