Caxton (5 page)

* * *

There was a rustle of movement in the ballroom and an ebbing of the hubbub.
Madeline McRae appeared again and said to her daughter, “Dear, Mr. Vishonn is
about to open the ball. You should take your place. Here are your fingers.”
She reached into her little purse and handed Etáin a pair of calfskin gloves.
The girl smiled at Hugh. “They protect my fingers from the strings. A tanner
in Williamsburg makes me several pair every year.” She quickly put the gloves
on, performed a small curtsy, and joined Reece Vishonn and his son in front
of the Great Union flag.

Hugh frowned, and gave Mrs. McRae an inquiring look. The woman shook her head
once. “She has not been told,
Baron
Kenrick,” she said in a hushed voice.
“She must have noted something about you that deserved the courtesy.”
Reece Vishonn waited until the last whisper in the room had died away. Then
he spoke. “My honorable guests! We are gathered this fair evening to mark the
victory of General Wolfe in Canada, and the glorious triumph of British arms
there and the world over! General Wolfe was, to judge by reports, no tent-bound
general, but a brave man who died leading his forces at the very moment of victory.
And let us also mark a cornucopia of victories — at Louisbourg, at Frontonac,
at Duquesne, and in far away India, at Plassey! Yet — I received but today by
post a letter from friends in London which contains the details of yet another
great victory this last August by His Majesty’s naval forces, which, under the
superb direction of Admiral Edward Hawke, dealt the French fleet a mortal blow
off the coast of Portugal, and in so doing foiled a design to invade England
through Scotland!”
James Vishonn, a tall, handsome youth of twenty, raised his hat in the air and
led the assembly in a trio of huzzahs. The cheer was followed by the guests’
applause.
“I despise my countrymen,” murmured Madeline McRae to her husband, “but I am
sad for them nonetheless.”
Reece Vishonn smiled. “It would be entirely fitting to pay tribute to our multitude
of heroes — those living and those dead — by inaugurating our celebration of
thanks with a fresh tune by our noted composer, Mr. William Boyce, for which
Mr. David Garrick has written some rousing words.” He turned and addressed Etáin
McRae. “Miss McRae, if you would be so kind,” he said, gesturing to the harp.
Then he stepped away.
Etáin acknowledged the new applause with a short bow, then sat down at the harp.
It was an old instrument, a little over half her height, its frame missing patches
of gold paint. The girl leaned forward, raised her arms, and her gloved hands
began moving smoothly and confidently over the strings.
It was a memorable tune she played. It had the character of a drinking song,
but in her hands it assumed the aura of a hymn, or an anthem. The guests stood
enthralled, by the melody, by the sight of an “angel” playing her harp. When
she finished the tune, she glanced up at James Vishonn and cued him to sing.
The young man faced his listeners, gave a small bow, and sang in a faultless
baritone voice, accompanied by Etáin:

Come, cheer up, my lads! ’Tis to glory we steer! To add something more to this
wonderful year! To honor we call you, not press you like slaves. For who are
so free, as the sons of the waves?

Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men! We are always ready!
Steady — boys — steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer, again and again!

He sang two more stanzas. One of the Kenny brothers raised his fiddle and joined
in the last one. When they were finished, the guests shouted approval and loudly
applauded both the song and the performance.

Reece Vishonn stepped forward and warmly shook his son’s hand, then bowed to
the girl. A servant handed him a stemmed glass of red liquid. He turned, raised
the glass, and boomed to his guests, “God save the king!”

“God save the king!” answered the assembly.
“Long live William Pitt!”
“Long live William Pitt!”
“God bless General Wolfe!”
“God bless General Wolfe!”
On a somber, more subdued note, Reece Vishonn proposed, “And, with

God’s help, may British arms soon conclude this unfortunate conflict!” “Hear,
hear!” answered the guests.
Reece Vishonn waited for the commotion to cease. “Now, my friends,

please enjoy yourselves! The table is ready, as is the floor. We are most fortunate
to have such able musicians on hand to keep us busy and amused. Jude Kenny,
I have been informed, has also mastered the flute. Milady and Iwill take the
first dance.”

James Vishonn sat down at the pianoforte, the guests parted to two sides of
the ballroom, and the host and hostess bowed and curtsied in the beginning of
a perfectly executed minuet.

T
hat evening, and into the night, in a whirl of cordial but circumspect encounters
with the leading men of Caxton and their families, Hugh became acquainted with
those who might be his friends, should he decide to purchase Brougham Hall,
and those who might become his enemies. These were Reece Vishonn, and his wife,
Barbara, his son James, and daughter, Annyce; Ira Granby and his wife, Damaris,
his son the burgess, William, and daughter, Selina; Ralph Cullis and his wife,
Hetty, and his burgess son, Edgar, and daughter, Eleanor; and Henry Otway and
his wife, Maura, and his son, Morris. Hugh was certain that he was likewise
being scrutinized and appraised. Only Madeline McRae, however, had alluded to
his origins, but kept the knowledge to herself. For this, he was grateful.

He took Ian McRae and Arthur Stannard aside at one point in the supper room,
and said, “Thank you, sirs, for respecting my confidence. No one has bowed to
me, or suggested that I present myself to Governor Fauquier.”

Mr. Stannard asked hopefully, “Have you…er…made a decision yet, Mr. Kenrick?”
“Not yet, gentlemen. I suggest that we meet for breakfast in town on the morrow.
What do you say?”
Ian McRae shrugged. “That is agreeable to me, sir. Mr. Stannard?”
“We will have the papers with us, should they be needed, Mr. Kenrick.”
“Good,” Hugh said. He picked up a Chinese plate from the buffet table and smiled.
“Mr. Vishonn is a very gracious and discriminating host.”
At midnight, standing with other guests at the edge of Enderly’s riverfront
lawn to watch servants feed a great victory bonfire on the bank below, Otis
Talbot said to Hugh, “You have been a constant subject of speculation, sir.
They are all mystified by you. I cannot discuss commerce or trade with the bashaws
here without having to parry questions about you and your intentions. They suspect
that you are more than a mere gentleman.” He paused. “You will, sooner or later,
be obliged to declare your family.”
Hugh sighed. “Better later, than sooner, Mr. Talbot.” He nodded. “Look! There
are fires all up and down the river! It reminds me of home!”
Bonfires could be seen on the opposite bank of the York, and along the bends
on their own side, spaced miles apart. “I wonder,” remarked Hugh, “if there
are celebrations in Williamsburg and Norfolk.”
“No doubt,” said his companion. “They seem to attach a special importance to
Quebec in this colony.”
“Well, Virginians were the ones who were in the first frays of this war.”
“On Pennsylvania land,” chuckled Talbot. “If the French had not been so forward
in their claims, I imagine the Crown would have had to adjudicate a serious
boundary dispute between Mr. Penn’s land and Virginia, instead of bringing the
two realms together in common cause.”
“You are very likely right,” Hugh said. “The colonies here regard themselves
almost as separate nations. Especially Virginia.”
Some men farther down the bank from the bonfire were busy setting up a wooden
contraption. It contained Reece Vishonn’s Italian fireworks.
Though he had tried to avoid it, Hugh danced twice this night: once, in a country-dance
with Madeline McRae as his partner and seven other couples — “My husband does
not dance, Mr. Kenrick,” she said, “his feet become two left thumbs, and he
has all the grace of an infant taking its first steps” — and once in a minuet
with Selina Granby, a charming, attractive girl his own age, whose eyes, when
they met his during the stately dance, seemed to extend a special invitation.
He was not certain whether this was her own inclination, or the consequence
of a private urging by her parents. It did not matter to him which it was.

* * *

“You appear only a little more frequently than does Mr. Halley’s comet, sir,”
said Ian McRae to the latecomer.
“Morland is a greedy, jealous mistress, Mr. McRae,” said the man. “She does
not leave me much time for other society.”
“Is such a mistress worth so much time?”
“I cannot project the point at which I would abandon her.” The man turned to
Madeline McRae and smiled. “I come mainly from affection, madam, and because
I enjoy your family’s society.”
“And not to celebrate?” asked the woman.
“If at all, only because General Wolfe has obviated the likelihood that we should
have to swear false fealty to the Roman church. For that, he has my sincere
gratitude.”
“Thank God, if only for that,” remarked Mr. McRae. He frowned. “But, sir — why
the reservation? This continent may be entirely the Crown’s, unless the diplomats
again relinquish their advantage, as they did in the last peace.”
The McRaes stood with their companion at a small distance from the milling guests
on the lawn. The light of nearby cressets flickered over the thoughtful face
of the tall man. It was a thin, almost aesthetic face, browned by constant exposure
to the sun. The broad furrow of a scar ran over the right side of his forehead.
His own flaxen hair was tied back into a tail with a black ribbon; he was one
of the few men at the ball who eschewed a wig. He wore gray breeches, a gray
frock coat of past fashion, a dark gray waistcoat, and a silvery ruffle beneath
his neck. In one hand he held a black tricorn. He sported no sword.
Jack Frake, after a moment, guardedly said, “I don’t believe the Crown will
repeat that mistake. We will no longer be subjected to the depredations of the
French. Mr. Pitt seems to have a broader view of what is good for England.”
Ian McRae’s brow wrinkled in question, but he did not pursue the subject. He
knew, as well as did the planter, that they would discuss politics with their
host and other guests in the gaming room later in the evening. That was what
usually happened at these affairs, when the men sought a respite from the dancing
and music and polite chitchat of the ballroom.
“When Mr. Halley’s comet appeared earlier this year,” ventured Jack Frake, “I
would often at night sit on the roof of my house and watch it in the sky. You
know that I am not superstitious, but I could not help but think that its appearance
was a portent. Whether of a harbinger, or of an omen, I could not decide.”
“I’ve read,” said Madeline McRae, “that when he saw it, William the Norman regarded
that same comet as a blessing of his conquest of England.”
“An omen of what, sir?” asked her husband.
“Perhaps of the Crown’s own interpretation of that hurried star.”
“Why is it called Mr. Halley’s comet?” asked Etáin, who, until now, had remained
in deferential silence. “He could not have discovered it, if William the Norman
saw it.”
“Because he calculated all the times it would appear in our skies,” Jack Frake
said, “and all the times it ever did.”
Ian McRae sighed. “I wish I could predict a certain gentleman’s wishes,” he
commented. “He is a new star, but is in no hurry to make up his mind.”
Madeline McRae laughed. “My husband refers to a portentous person in our midst
this evening, Mr. Frake. He has kept the company abuzz with speculation about
whether or not he will become your new neighbor.”
“Oh, yes,” Jack Frake said, “him. I arrived only at the beginning of the first
dance, but not too late to have him pointed out to me, and to have some of that
speculation thrust quite brutally into my ear.” He laughed. “The number of guests
who were eager to speak with me, for once, was surprising and not a little startling.”
Madeline McRae brought up her fan and thoughtfully touched her cheek with it.
Another man, she knew, might have spoken the last sentence with resentment,
or contempt, or dark irony. Or even with feigned indifference. But Jack Frake
had spoken with a gay, genuine carelessness. She smiled and said, “It is your
own fault if people find you unapproachable, my dear friend. You say shocking
things to them, and your manner does not invite society.”
Jack Frake shrugged and smiled again. “If it is a fault, madam, perhaps it is
because I expect too much of people.”
“What do you expect of them?”
Jack Frake shook his head. “Had I the leisure, I would write a book on the subject
of what I expect of society, and what society may not expect of me.”
Etáin McRae studied him with special interest now. But she always studied Jack
Frake with special interest.
Her father said, “Well, if you two are going to engage in more
salon
talk, I shall join the others to watch the bonfire. My wife and daughter may
accompany me if they can find the courtesy to end this courtly chatter.” With
a friendly pat on Jack Frake’s back, Ian McRae turned and strode in the direction
of the crowd at the edge of the lawn.
His wife leaned closer to Jack Frake and said, “He is fond of you, too, sir.
That is why he runs. He is a sentimental man, beneath all that tartan bluster.”
“An endearing cowardice, to be sure,” Jack Frake said. He knew how the man felt
about him. After a pause, he said, “But — you may be forgetting, madam, that
your husband was one of the few passengers who took up a musket on the
Sparrowhawk
to help fight that privateer. There was no bluster in that action.”
“I have not forgotten,” said the woman. “When it was over, as I sponged the
powder and other men’s blood off him, I cursed him and praised him in the same
breath.”
“And I have not forgotten the kindness you showed me before that fight.”
“You have shown us more than one, over the years since.”
“I still have the crown you gave me,” Jack Frake said, “when we first met. It
is locked away in a special box in my library, with other memories.”
Madeline McRae touched Jack Frake’s arm in acknowledgment, then turned to her
daughter. “Here is a rare man, Etáin,” she said. “He exhibits a valor not common
in Englishmen. He is not afraid to confess that he keeps a
trousseau de l’âme.
And, he confesses more than he knows. I envy you.”
“Yes, Maman,” answered the girl.
The woman sensed that her daughter wished to speak, and that what she wished
to say was to the young man before them. “I follow your father, dear one,” she
said. “You will follow shortly.” Mrs. McRae turned and left the pair alone.
Jack Frake grinned. “Your mother is quite shameless in her intimations, Miss
McRae.”
“She is quite fortunate that my own would not conflict with hers, Mr. Frake.
For otherwise we should both be very sad, or very angry.”
“That took courage to confess.”
“Thank you.” She smiled up at the man who was ten years her senior. “I remember
when Mother gave you that crown on the ship, when you were wearing that awful
iron collar. The wind on the deck was cold, and my father was angry at the winds
that would not come. For a while, you remember, there were none.”
Jack Frake chuckled. “And I remember a little brat, staring at me with a most
disapproving face from beneath a bonnet about half her size.”
“On the coach to London, with Miss Morley….” Etáin shook her head, not wanting
to dwell on her governess’s fate. She glanced at the ground, then said brightly,
“I was given a coin, too! Just tonight!”
“Oh?” Jack Frake said with interest, grateful that the girl had changed the
subject. She had lost a favorite governess, while he had lost Redmagne, who
had become that woman’s lover.
“Yes. A penny.” The girl took a coin from inside her glove and held it up to
the light. “He said that my pose at the harp was the attitude of a goddess.
See? It is Britannia.”
Jack Frake took the coin from her, and frowned for a reason he did not immediately
understand. The sight of the seated figure triggered an indistinct memory. Then
he vividly remembered Parson Parmley, and the map, the globe, and the things
that minister had said about another penny just like the one in Etáin’s hand.
Other memories followed these, unpleasant memories. He shook his head to rid
his mind of them. He asked, handing back the coin, “Who gave this to you? Mr.
Vishonn, or his son?” He frowned in mock anger. “If they believe this pittance
is commensurate with your musical skills, I shall challenge one or the other
to a duel.”
“No,” answered the girl. “Mr. Kenrick gave it to me. The gentleman who might
purchase Brougham Hall from Mr. Stannard and my father.” She glanced around.
“That’s him, over there.” She nodded in the direction of a young man who stood
with an older man at the edge of the lawn, apart from the other guests.
Jack Frake glanced at the stranger, then asked, “Why did he pay you such a compliment?”
Etáin explained the circumstances, then asked in turn, “Would you like to meet
him? I am certain that you would acquire a friend. You are very much like him.”
It did not escape Jack Frake’s notice the order in which she had referred to
him and the stranger. He felt a pang of jealousy. He was in love with the girl
and with the innocent intelligence she emanated. It was understood by her and
her parents that they would be married in two or three years. There were no
other rivals for his affection. Until now, he had not thought there were any
rivals for hers. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not now. There will be time.”
He smiled down at her, and hoped that he sounded sincere. “It was very kind
of him to give you that penny.”
“No!” exclaimed the girl. “Not kind at all! He refuses to be called
kind.
”
Etáin’s was a young mind, and fragments of conversation about kindness, faults,
and what society should not expect of her companion, flashed through her thoughts
in search of connections she could not yet make. There were similarities between
the two men. She could only sense them. She was certain that her companion and
the visitor were more alike than unalike. She felt disappointment that Jack
Frake did not wish to meet the stranger. She glanced at her penny. “I shall
keep this to remind me of all the things he said about it.” She slipped it back
inside her glove. She smiled. “I, too, keep a
trousseau de l’âme
.”
Two men and their wives approached them then, Sheriff Cabal Tippet and his wife,
Muriel, and Mayor Moses Corbin and his wife, Jewel. Jack Frake and Etáin were
drawn into mundane conversation about the celebration, and the party drifted
in the direction of the McRaes at the edge of the lawn.

* * *

The Kenny brothers played “Lady Hope’s Reel” on their fiddles as the fireworks
— expensive Italian rockets which only Reece Vishonn, among all the planters,
could afford to import from England — rose into the night sky one after another
in a bursting choir of sparkling but short-lived stars. Two or three of them
were bright enough to light up the opposite bank of the York a mile away. The
guests uttered exclamations of delight and surprise.