Touch the Sun (9 page)

The entryway took her breath away, for it was far more magnificent than anything she had seen in all the great mansions of Virginia. The floor was a mosaic of priceless marble which ran up to a wide, white central staircase also built of marble. Ahead of Meagan, Priscilla was chattering gaily as she took in her surroundings with darting emerald eyes. Meagan had to admire her composure; she hadn't even gasped.

A thin, austere man clad in black satin crossed over to her. "Miss, my name is Wickham and I am the butler here. I gather that you attend Mistress Wade?"

"Uh—yes!" Meagan stared at him, astonished by his haughty manner until she realized that in the class system of servants he ranked far above her. "My name is Meagan, Wickham." He raised thick black eyebrows, waiting. "Meagan... South." What imagination, she chided herself.

"Well, South, the head housekeeper will be here momentarily to show you your room and Mistress Wade's suite."

"We're staying here?"

"Of course. Until Captain Hampshire and Mistress Wade are married." He nodded slightly and disappeared around a corner.

Meagan stood against the wall, suddenly very conscious of her grimy appearance as she watched the two couples who stood in the parlor which opened off to the left of the entry hall.

A servant was moving among them distributing glasses of wine, and Meagan found her eyes drawn to Anne Bingham, watching as she lifted the crystal goblet to her lips. Her beauty was undeniable. She wore an exquisite gown of amber silk, rich in its very simplicity. Her hair was lightly powdered, the soft brown curls pinned up around her face while a cluster of long ringlets escaped to fall over one white shoulder. Even from a distance her elegant bone structure was unmistakable: high cheekbones, a long graceful neck, and a willowy figure combining with her innate grace to make her unforgettable. She was laughing now, and everyone's eyes were on her. William Bingham watched her proudly, confident that his newest guest was properly dazzled by Anne. His reason for living was the accumulation of wealth and beauty, and his wife was the most splendid of all his possessions, outshining even the sumptuous Mansion House.

Meagan found Bingham far less impressive. Ruddy-cheeked and stocky, his manner seemed affected to her. Lion's presence made him look even worse.

She let her gaze slide over Priscilla to Lion and was startled to find him staring boldly back at her. Blushing hotly, she was grateful to Anne Bingham for finding just the right words to reclaim his attention.

"Lion, you will never guess who is back from sea!" she exclaimed with an innocent enthusiasm that rang false. "Marcus Reems! If I didn't know better, I would swear he was following you..."

Lion's entire body tensed, the muscles showing in his shoulders and neck. Priscilla, oblivious to his reaction, had no use for names unknown to her and promptly changed the subject.

Her eyes on Lion, Meagan failed to notice when someone stopped next to her. A throat was cleared discreetly. Startled, she turned around, bumping right into the tiny woman who was about to tap her on the shoulder.

"Oh my! I beg your pardon! I didn't know—"

"That's all right, dear. No damage done." The other woman was quite young, thirty perhaps, and no taller than Meagan. She wore a neat gray cotton dress and a lace mobcap over her powdered curls. Her hazel eyes were as warm and friendly as her smile, set off by the roundest, rosiest cheeks Meagan had ever seen. "My name is Smith. I'm the housekeeper here. I want to welcome you to Mansion House."

"Thank you, Smith. Will you call me Meagan? I'm afraid the names Smith and South might get a bit confusing!"

Smith laughed softly. "Perhaps they would at that. Let me take you to your room now. The servants' quarters are right this way."

Servants' quarters! Meagan thought. What have I gotten myself into?

Chapter 8

William Bingham observed Lion over his glass of port, wondering at the tired, distracted look he wore. Finally, he cleared his throat and remarked, "I paid a visit to Dr. Franklin last week."

"How does he fare? Better than a month has passed since I last saw him."

"His spirits are good, but physically he is unchanged. We discussed the next meeting of that newest political society of his and the progress of the Philosophical Hall. He told me frankly that he doubts he will ever attend a meeting there once it is completed."

"Aren't you a vice-president of this Society for Political Enquiries? What's it all about?"

"Yes, I am, along with George Clymer," Bingham admitted a trifle pompously. "We still meet fortnightly at Dr. Franklin's house. There are only fifty of us and we just discuss politics. Of course, that is quite a topic these days and the doctor is full of ideas and opinions. It is great entertainment for him, but God only knows how much longer he'll be able to get downstairs to the large room."

"I'd better make a point to see him tomorrow."

William Bingham puffed on his long, slender pipe, watching Lion across the shadowy study as he stared into the fire. He had been unusually quiet all evening, in spite of Anne and Priscilla's attempts to make him laugh during supper. It was not the dashing Lion Hampshire of months past.

"Confound it, man, aren't you going to ask me about Reems?"

Lion looked up, appearing rather bored, but amused by Bingham's consternation. "By all means, do give me the news before you burst with it."

"Ahem!" He scowled, puffing on his pipe. "The fact is, things did not go well for him, though at least the ship returned intact this time. The man simply lacks talent as a sea captain, I fear. The crews he chooses are inept and untrustworthy, and he makes bad bargains in the Orient. I suppose I needn't spell it out for you. If I didn't know better, I would think the man simply doesn't give a damn, but you should have seen his face when I told him I'd not give my backing again!"

"You went that far?" He smiled cryptically. "I can well imagine Marcus's reaction."

"Well, it's made cursed unpleasant by Anne's regard for the man. She claims to find him charming—'mysterious'—and invites him here even yet. I could swear that she enjoys having him about simply because the situation is so uncomfortable!"

Mockery infected Lion's smile. "Why don't you tell her you won't allow it?"

The other man choked on his port. "For God's sake, don't you think I've tried? You're a fine one to be giving advice on wife-management. Wait and see a few months from now!" However, watching Lion's cool, lean face, he doubted whether any woman would cross him—even a wife. Such men were hard to come by, and with a qualm, Bingham remembered his recent conversation with Benjamin Franklin.

"I have been told that you may not take a ship this spring," he blurted.

Lion looked up, his eyes like blue flames. "How does that set with you?"

"Naturally, as your backer, I'm disappointed. Mordecai and I have two magnificent ships almost finished at the Kensington shipyard and I was counting on you to captain one of them. No one else has your spirit, your quality of leadership, your competence. You are so at home on the sea, and the men sense it—" The flowery compliments died on his lips when he realized that Lion had withdrawn. "Listen to me. More than disappointment, I feel curiosity. What are you doing? Why this sudden marriage? And why don't you want to sail? Is it because of Priscilla Wade? As your friend, I am concerned—"

Lion laughed so bitterly that Bingham stared in surprise and puzzlement.

"Come on, William. We both know that my prime qualification for your friendship is my ability to line your pockets with gold when I sail your ships home up the Delaware! As to my current plans, I'm not inclined to discuss them yet. The whole affair is getting too damn complicated and all I want to do is go home and sleep. I'd be gratified to wake up tomorrow and find all my problems solved." He paused and sighed, closing his eyes. The firelight mingled with his tawny hair and softened the hard lines of his face.

William Bingham wavered between sympathy and frustration, his basically selfish nature winning out. "Damn it all, you can't dismiss me so easily! I have backed you for more than three years now, making it possible for you to acquire a tidy fortune and majority ownership of two fine vessels. I have offered to shelter some unknown southern girl just because you asked me to—no questions asked. I believe, however, that I am
owed
some answers! I will not have you deposit some featherbrained chit on my doorstep and then proceed to tell me you don't wish to take my ship this spring without some clarification. You owe me—"

Tired of watching William's face redden and swell, Lion shifted his eyes to watch the shadows leap over the carved cornices and across the decorated ceiling.

"Really, I do wish you'd spare me this tirade," he interjected coolly. "If you continue at this rate, you'll be struck with an apoplectic seizure and I shouldn't like that on my conscience. I'll tell you this much. I am considering a career in this new government and
that
is why I am marrying, and why I don't wish to sail this spring."

The hot blood drained rapidly from Bingham's face. "Or ever?"

Lion studied his frilled cuff, straightening it with tanned fingers. "That remains to be seen."

"How can you do this to me? What about your ships? I can't believe you're saying this!"

"Don't worry, I won't leave you and Mordecai so coldbloodedly. I'll still be down at the waterfront, and I flatter myself on having an eye for a competent seaman. You can count on me for anything except my presence on board when those ships sail next month. As for my own craft... I'll have to think about that."

The note of finality in his voice was unmistakable, and Bingham knew that the subject was closed for the time being. Feeling ill, he took a long drink of port and muttered bleakly, "Your audacity is quite incredible. But, I suppose I must forgive you."

Lion's mouth twitched in an instinctive grin. "Imagine my relief!" Bingham flushed and drained his glass while Lion continued, "Will you still find space in your magnanimous heart—and house—for my fiancée? I realize the imposition—"

"My word is good. I said she could stay here, and so she shall."

"If you'll excuse me," Lion said, getting to his feet, "I believe I'll be going home myself. For the past ten days I have dreamt of this evening—of drinking your fine brandy before this fire. But now that I am here, the pleasure seems empty somehow..." His eyes were fixed on the clock above the mantel; then he shook his head, laughing softly. "No offense intended, William. I suppose I am tired after all."

"I don't suppose there's a chance your thinking will change after a good night's sleep?"

"If it does, we'll know that God has heard your prayers."

They came into the brightly lit marble entry hall, their steps echoing through the silent house. At the door, Lion paused as Wickham approached with his cloak and hat, both dry and spotless.

"There is one thing I'd like to ask, William."

"Yes?"

"It's my fiancée's maid. She's no ordinary servant—"

Bingham blinked in confusion and spluttered, "Have you taken leave of your senses? What will you say next? First you tell me—"

"Don't begin again, William," he broke in tiredly. "I only want to ask that you have a care with Meagan—that's the girl's name. You can't ignore her. She's tiny with coal-black hair, and incredible eyes like amethysts. And, if I know you..." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wickham incline his head in their direction. "She's no ordinary servant, that's all. Not common, if you take my meaning. If I find that she's been mistreated, by
anyone—"

"You'll
what?"
William asked in total bewilderment. When it became apparent that Lion did not intend to answer, he demanded plaintively, "What in God's name is going on around here?"

* * *

The rustle of expensive silk announced the approach of Anne Bingham more eloquently than words, and both girls froze, waiting. The swish of her skirts stopped outside the bedchamber; then there was a delicate tap. Meagan left the dressing table to open the door, taking care to curtsy and lower her eyes.

"Good morning, madame," she murmured, clenching one fist in silent defiance.

Anne nodded ever so slightly in her direction before sweeping forward to greet her guest.

"How did you sleep, my dear? Well, I trust?"

Priscilla met her halfway across the Aubusson rug, eyes shining with admiration and envy. Meagan was instantly aware that Mrs. Bingham had become her friend's idol and model. Her breath escaped in a dispirited sigh.

"My eyes did not open once the entire night!" Priscilla was exclaiming. "It would be impossible not to sleep well in such a beautiful bed, especially after the ones I have had to suffer this past fortnight during our journey here."

Anne smiled proudly at the massive Hepplewhite and rich gold draperies.

"I'm so happy that you like it. After all, you'll be staying here for several weeks and your comfort is most important to us."

Priscilla was dazzled, blinded. "You're too kind, Mrs. Bingham!"