Enemy In The House (3 page)

Parson Shincok’s red face emerged briefly from behind a glass of brandy he had already contrived to obtain. “Yes, yes—she wrote to me first and—but what could
I
do, sir? Clearly a man of the law—but very painful as you say—”

His balloon face disappeared again. Lawyer Benfit permitted himself an angry kind of cluck. “The point is I’ll have nothing to do with a secret marriage.” He looked severely at Amity. “Where’s your uncle, miss? Where’s your aunt?”

“Here’s China—my stepmother—” Amity said, taken aback by the lawyer’s fierceness.

“But I don’t approve,” China cried, quick to take her advantage. “I
don’t
give my consent!”

Simon ended it. “Sir, this is a perfectly legal and honorable marriage. We prefer it this way but of course we can elope, it has been done. I promise you on my honor”—there was a twinkle in his eyes but he was sober, too—“not to desert my wife.”

“And you would elope,” Lawyer Benfit said crankily, eyeing Simon. “I remember you well, sir. Willful as a boy and now turning against your king. Oh, very well—very well—have it your own way.”

The papers were signed.

Dr. Shincok’s breath was redolent of brandy. His voice, however, was fruity and full as always and he remembered the right and solemn words.

“… to love and to cherish …” Again Amity’s conscience stirred uneasily; the love in her marriage was onesided. Simon had intended to marry for love and he was being cheated out of that. But he would cherish.

A ring slid on her finger; it was Simon’s carnelian seal ring. The parson had not brought the parish register from the church; Simon said something to him and the parson sat down at the table and wrote out a certification of their marriage in a wavering hand which Lawyer Benfit and then China, reluctantly, frowning over the pen, signed. Simon took the two papers and put them in his pocket. Servants peered in at the door, pleased and smiling. Old Jason, beaming, brought in an enormous bowl of syllabub and followed it with ham, turkey and the Christmas fruit cake. They were determined to give it at least some of the trimmings of a wedding and Amity felt tears in her eyes.

After that it was all haste. She was in her own chamber, slipping off the pink brocade, pulling on a blue wool traveling dress, snatching up her red cloak with its great fur-lined hood.

She was coming down the stairs again and Lawyer Benfit, apparently still disapproving of their sudden marriage and always a stickler for form, had scrawled a letter; he put it down on the table beside the door and Amity saw that it was addressed,
Mr. Grappit, Immediate,
with such impatience that the pen dug into the paper. “See that he has this at once, Ma’am,” he said to China. “And I wish him to know all the circumstances of this marriage.” He did summon up a grudging smile for Amity. “My good wishes, child,” he said. The servants shouted good wishes; Dr. Shincok, flushed and hearty, waved a glass of brandy at them; China’s lips were still tight and angry. The light, small carriage was waiting, with Willie holding the horses’ heads and Simon’s horse secured by a leading strap behind it. It was full dark, so she could barely make out the glints of gilt molding of the carriage doors, and its graceful, curved shape. Her father had ordered it from London.

Willie let down the steps. Her small trunk was already hoisted to the roof. The breath of the horses made steamy plumes in the cold night air. Simon, a tall and now very quiet figure in his caped greatcoat, helped her into the carriage and then to her surprise said that his horse wouldn’t lead well; the roads were unsafe at night; he would ride beside the carriage. She saw him looking to the priming of a long pistol he carried; the carriage door shut. The lighted doorway of the house and the figures standing in the light disappeared. The carriage rolled away. As the night grew windy with a driving, sleety rain, it jerked and wavered and swayed on its great straps.

She wished Simon were riding in the carriage with her. But then their marriage was forlornly unlike most marriages. It did not resemble anything her fancy had built up. Her fancy had been theory, the accomplished fact was altogether different.

Alone in the carriage with the sleet rattling against the windows, she felt cold fact take over. Conscience came into its own and was merciless. She had forced Simon to marry her; she had seized the advantage of his obligation to her father and his loyalty. Even her motive which in theory had seemed sane and sensible now lost its validity, it became at best a sheerly mercenary motive and it was a poor best. Simon had intended to marry for love.

So she had cheated Simon; in another way she had cheated herself, for in the circumstances she herself had brought about he could never love her, not really. She had been a fool. China had been right. Already Amity regretted her own headlong act. She huddled her red cloak around her but it brought little warmth and no comfort.

They met no one that stormy night, no one stopped them; there were no prowling bands of riffraff, bent on taking advantage of the troubled times for a little private looting. Several times she knew that Simon had ridden ahead and heard some shouted words with Willie. She didn’t know when they crossed the boundary between South Carolina, settled and civilized, and the new, young province of Georgia. The roads became rougher.

She must have slept at last, for she awoke about dawn with a warm sense of having been cradled in someone’s arms, her head on someone’s shoulder. Yet when she struggled out of the mists of sleep she was sitting in a corner of the carriage, and Simon was sitting beside her. At her movement he turned, half smiling at her through the pallor of the gray dawn.

“You’ve slept well. You didn’t even wake when we crossed the river. We’re in Savannah.”

She leaned forward to peer through the narrow window. There were scattered lights around them. The carriage swerved suddenly to one side; a party of horsemen trotted quickly, somehow urgently out of the gloom and past them. Simon said, “Trouble. There must be news of the British ships.”

“The British—”

“They’ve been off the coast, headed south. We haven’t known whether they intend to attack Charlestown or Savannah.” He jerked open the tiny window above them and shouted at Willie. “Pull up, Willie. I’ll guide you from here.”

She caught at his arm as he prepared to get out of the carriage. “Where are we going?”

“There is a privateer, the
Southern Cross,
due to sail for Jamaica soon. If this news is bad she may be delayed. In the meantime I’ll take you to Madam Holiday. Her husband is my colonel. They’ll see to you.”

Amity was now thoroughly awake; cold fact and conscience awoke, too. “Simon,” she said in a burst. “I was wrong! I shouldn’t have done this! I’ll not hold you to it. You can send me back now. Willie will take me—”

“What you need is a good hot cup of coffee,” Simon said calmly and disappeared.

The carriage lurched and turned and the lights grew more numerous. Groups of men, soldiers obviously, for their muskets made sharp lines of black, jogged hurriedly along the now cobblestoned streets.

Actually she did not see Simon alone again till the night of the twenty-seventh when at last the privateer sailed. She stayed with the Holidays all that time and Simon was not even in town.

She had had warning that her journey was about to begin, for a man had come in the afternoon to take her trunk to the ship. Colonel Holiday, preoccupied, busy, kind, had gallantly kissed her, wished her a good trip and hurried back to the dining room which seemed to serve as his headquarters and to which, all those six days and nights, men in uniform, men in broadcloth and neatly powdered wigs, men in fringed buckskins, had hurriedly arrived, held long conferences and gone hurriedly away again. Madam Holiday, kind, busy and preoccupied, too, had kissed her, put aside her thanks for friendly and indeed warm hospitality, and also wished her a happy journey. Simon came for her in a chaise which joggled and thumped through increasing blackness.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t get back sooner,” Simon said.

The dawn when they had arrived, the Holidays had barely greeted them and been introduced. “My wife,” Simon had said shortly. “We were married yesterday.” Then Colonel Holiday had taken Simon’s arm and led him quickly into the dining room. Simon had emerged a few moments later, said merely that he was to be away for a few days, kissed her lightly and handed her over to Madam Holiday.

“I know,” she replied as the chaise lurched around a corner. “Colonel Holiday told me that you might be delayed.”

“It’s the British fleet. Our information is now that they’ve passed Charlestown so we expect them here. The captain of the privateer thinks he can make it out to sea tonight in the darkness without being sighted by the British. In fact, he’s making a run for it before they attack. There’s a good wind.”

They talked no more until he pulled up the horse, and the smell of the river, the sweetish-salty smell of the sea, came through the night air. They seemed to have arrived at a small and rather secluded wharf. A cautious riding light and dimly outlined masts showed against the faintly light water. It was a dark night, cloudy, with a scudding north wind. “There’s a little tavern over here,” Simon said. “We have a few moments before she sails.”

The tavern, a single room, was deserted except for the landlord who bustled forward to wipe off a bench for her with his apron. Simon ordered mulled wine, put his hat on the bench and sat opposite her; his caped greatcoat was still fastened high about his throat. His thick, crinkly red hair was tied back neatly, his face was newly shaven but he was pale, with lines of fatigue around his mouth and eyes.

“You look tired,” she said.

“I’ve been in the saddle most of this week. Trying to round up every man and every gun we can get. But our defense is still pitifully lacking. The British may take Savannah.”

“But Savannah is no military stronghold for the—” she swallowed the word rebels and said, “the Continental Army. Why should the British attack?”

“It’s a port. It is thinly—oh, God, how thinly defended. Mainly it’s an approach to Charlestown.”

The landlord came back with the mulled wine, which sent up a spicy odor. Simon lifted his mug. “As to this trip to Jamaica—you must understand that you may have to stay there a long time. God knows how long. Until the war is over, perhaps.”

“But the rebellion—I mean the war can’t last long!”

“You mean the British will whip us.”

“Oh, Simon, it’s Britain you are fighting. British ships! British-trained soldiers!”

“Some hired Hessian soldiers, too.” He rubbed his eyes wearily and then smiled at her. “Well, we’re not whipped yet. Drink your wine.” He tasted his own and said thoughtfully, “You’ll be safe with your father. I hope—I believe that he is alive and well.”

“How can I write to you?”

Simon was never too tired, too discouraged to tease her. His eyebrows arched up. “I didn’t think you’d want to write to me!”

“You’ll want to hear about—about him.”

“Address me in care of Colonel Holiday. Keep your ears open, there may be ways to send mail—sometimes it arrives, sometimes it doesn’t. I’ll try to communicate with you. The ship you’re boarding has clearance from Savannah but you’ll find—I hope—that she has no difficulty in docking at Port Royal.”

“Do you mean she’s a smuggler?”

“She’s a privateer—and, yes, a smuggler. She’ll bring back sugar, molasses from Jamaica, salt from Turk Island, anything she can, if she can get through. The captain has his eye on money and he’s shrewd. In fact, I suspect, a thorough-going scoundrel but a good seaman. He has supplied himself with Dutch papers, a Dutch flag.”

“The
Southern Cross.
That’s not a Dutch name.”

Simon shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. Privateers are captured, bought, sold, traded, shuffled around like peas in a pot. So are seamen, with or without their consent. No, she’s still the
Southern Cross.
I think she was originally a British boat.”

“Simon, if my father
is
dead you own his estate. Please try to stop confiscation. Put in your claim. You are my husband. It belongs to you legally.”

He frowned at his wine, turning the mug in his fingers. “There may be nothing I can do, Amy. I told you that.” Suddenly he smiled. “There in the library, while we were being married, just in a flash I thought of all my lessons—and my canings, too, in that room. I thought of old LeCoeur, too, and the French lessons your father made us study. It’s odd how small things in the past can influence the future.”

“What do you mean? What small things?”

“What—oh, I was only thinking of—thinking of the way your father found old LeCoeur. If he hadn’t been resting, there on the step of the tavern, your father wouldn’t have stumbled over him, wouldn’t have stopped to apologize—wouldn’t have brought him home to teach us—” He paused, musing, and then said, “Well—whatever the situation in Jamaica, you’ll be out of the clutches of the Grappits.”

“Simon! Is
that
why you married me?” she asked impulsively.

His eyes held her own for a second. Then he laughed softly. “Darling, I married you because I’ve loved you since you were a child. As you grew to womanhood, my passion grew so strong, yet so hopeless, I thought, that until you admitted your own—”

“Don’t tease me, Simon.” She had had time to think during those days and nights. “Please, listen. I want you to understand. I know I was very wrong, wickedly wrong to—to make you marry me in this way. It’s a poor excuse to say that I didn’t realize it until it was too late. But it isn’t really too late.”

“Are you now proposing to divorce me?”

His eyes were dancing; it disconcerted her.
“Please,
listen. Now it’s done I do want to go to Jamaica. But—but Simon, sometime you’ll see the woman you want to marry and—” She couldn’t meet his eyes; she moved the mug in a pattern on the table. “And I’ll not stand in your way. Ever. I promise you.”

“I see.”

“And meantime—meantime you said you would require promises of me and I gave them. I made vows and I intend to keep them. I’ll be a good and faithful wife.”