Judas Flowering (7 page)

“Giles,” said Abigail thoughtfully. “I remember him. He used to come to parties and be sick.”

“Better not remind him of that now,” said Francis. “He's very much the Bond Street beau. And so loyal to George the Third I reckon he'd take off his hat and bow to his effigy on a silver coin. If there were such things anymore.” He laughed.
“I always pay my gambling debts in paper. It comes much less expensive.”

After some discussion, Mrs Purchis took Abigail into town with her at the end of May to make sure that the Purchis house in Oglethorpe Square was ready for occupation. “You know what the town servants are like,” she reminded Hart. “They will have let all go to sixes and sevens in our absence.”

“Most likely. You'd best take a few stalwarts from here. You must not over-exert yourself, Mamma.”

“Thank you, dear boy. You can rely on me to take good care of myself. All shall be ready when you come in on the third.”

“And Francis goes with you?” Hart had thought Francis' acquiescence somewhat doubtful, and wished to be reassured on this point. “I do not want you and Abigail to be left alone in town.”

“I should think not. No knowing what the mob may not get up to by way of celebrating the King's birthday. I shall be glad when you get to town, Hart.”

“I'll try and get there by the second. The worst of it is, I don't think Miss Phillips should be there too long.”

It earned him a sharp look. “Mercy Phillips is very well able to take care of herself, as I have had reason to tell you before. If you ask me, she has positively bewitched the servants, and there's Abigail dotes on her, and as for Francis … if I were your Aunt Anne, I believe I would encourage him to go back to Charleston, whatever it cost.”

“Oh?” He blushed suddenly.

“Yes, indeed. I'd never have believed it, but I really begin to think it's a case with Francis. Quite unsuitable, of course. Hopeless. And poor Abigail … though, mind you, it's a blessing in a way. No money there either. But I wish I knew what Francis sees in that plain little Mercy Phillips.”

Plain?
He asked himself the question. He had more sense than to put it to his mother.

“I do hope it is all for the best.” Mrs Mayfield had joined Hart and Mercy on Winchelsea's Corinthian portico to watch the carriage out of sight and receive a last wave from Francis, who rode beside it. “Were it not for my poor nerves, I would almost have been tempted to go too.”

“Yes.” It was what Hart had wished. “If you will excuse
me, Aunt, I will get back to work. The sooner we can join them, the happier I shall be.”

“Work,” she sniffed. “Do you think of nothing else, Hart?”

“Not much, right now. There's so much to do, if I am to get away as I wish, at the end of the month.”

“So soon?”

“Well, yes. You know it is the quiet time here on the plantation, and it will give me a chance to get myself established at Harvard, and, I hope, do a little preparatory reading before things begin in earnest in the fall. I'm afraid I'm going to find myself a sad dunce among all those bright boys.”

“And so much older, too,” said his aunt with malice. “You'll be Gulliver among the pygmies with a vengeance.” And then, turning her irritation on Mercy, “Well, Miss Phillips, in a dream again? Had we not best try on that dress of mine, if it is to be ready for the birthday?”

Mercy, who had indeed been dreamily watching the end of the avenue, where the carriage and its attendant horseman had finally disappeared, pulled herself together with a start, gave Hart a smile of muted sympathy, and followed the older woman into the house.

“I'm glad to have a chance to talk to you,” said Anne Mayfield as Mercy fastened the buttons of the refurbished silk down her plump back. “I've been meaning to this age, but there's never a chance, somehow, with the house so full.”

“Yes?” Mercy had her mouth full of pins and spoke round them, with difficulty and some constraint.

“I feel it my duty,” began Mrs Mayfield. “Ouch! Be careful where you put those pins, child.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am.” Put ruthlessly into the position of servant, Mercy found herself equally understanding and resenting it. But why should she? Besides …

“It's about my son, Francis,” went on Anne Mayfield, and felt Mercy's hands stop for a minute, then go on, more busily than ever, with their pinning. “I told him some time ago that he must leave paying such obvious attention to poor little Abigail. It was just at the time you came, as a matter of fact. He saw my point, of course. Poor Francis. He must marry money.”

“Because he has spent so much?” Mercy had pinned the last dart in the heavy silk and stood back to consider the result.

“Because he needs so much, poor boy,” said his mother.
“Such refined tastes! Only, when I told him that it was hardly fair to raise false hopes in Abigail's silly head, I had not thought how he would set about making the position clear to her.”

“You mean”—Mercy could not resist the tiniest hint of cockney—“by setting his cap at me.”

“That's just what I mean. I am only relieved you recognised it for what it is.”

“Ah, but do I?” asked Mercy. “And for the matter of that, do you?”

“My poor child, if you are deluding yourself that he is in the least serious, I am more glad than I can say that I have nerved myself to this extremely painful conversation.” She was enjoying every minute of it. “My poor Frank has been an incorrigible lady killer since he was first breeched.”

“What a pity, in that case, that Mr Mayfield hasn't bagged a fortune yet,” said Mercy drily. And then, firmly changing the subject. “What do you think, ma'am? Will it do?”

“Why, yes.” Grudgingly. “I really believe it will. No doubt about it, child, you're a marvel with your needle. Where in the world did you learn?”

“Behind the scenes at Covent Garden Theatre.” Mercy began unbuttoning the dress with hands she would not let tremble. “We were constantly remaking costumes there. This is nothing to it.” She did not let herself add that this particular job reminded her vividly of letting out dresses for elderly actresses who would insist on staging yet one more “final appearance.” Things were quite bad enough between her and Frank's mother as it was.

She missed him more than she liked to admit to herself, and made a succession of good resolutions after that painful talk with his mother, but it was still impossible not to look forward to the birthday celebrations. Her own dress, inevitably left to the last, was of a fine muslin with black dots that she had found lying, still in its bolt, yellow with age, in one of the seldom-visited attics of the house, Mrs Purchis, on being shown it, had exclaimed and remembered. It had arrived from England the year the French and Indian War broke out, and in her distraction, she had put it away and forgotten all about it. Of course Mercy might have it. “But no black ribbons, child.” She had anticipated Mercy's plan. “Hart says there must be no hint of mourning. Are you sure you can make it fit to wear?”

“Oh, yes.” As always, Mercy was amazed at the prodigality of life at Winchelsea. Mrs Purchis would undoubtedly have given the shabby-looking bolt of material to one of the maids. Mercy descended to the wash-house and washed and aired and bleached and starched until the material came up as good as new, if a little shrunk. But there was plenty of it, and not much of her. She made it up as simply as possible, by a pattern she remembered using, once, for a last-moment Ophelia at Covent Garden, and was delighted with the result. It was just the thing, neither mourning nor otherwise, neither in style nor out of it. “He loves me”—she was sewing buttons down the back—“he loves me not.” They came out even and a superstitious tear fell on the last one. And serve her right, she thought, for thinking so much of Frank Mayfield, with her father only three months in his grave. What would Father have thought of Frank?

She found herself boggling at this question and was grateful to be disturbed by Hart, who had sought her out with the news that he would be ready to leave next day. “I promised my mother I would try and get us there by the second, and I think we can do it. You'll be ready?” He looked down at the billowing material in her lap.

“Oh, yes. Mr. Purchis?”

“Yes?”

“Could I wear just one bit of black ribbon? For Father?”

“What did my mother say?”

“She said no.”

“Well then.” But the disappointment in her small, pointed face hurt him. “Wait a minute.” He left her, hurried up to his room, created chaos in a cedarwood chest, and returned triumphantly with an ebony locket on a fine, gold chain. “Wear this.” He handed it to her. “No one can mind that. We all had them when my aunt died—Abigail's mother,” he explained.

“Oh, thank you. I would dearly love to borrow it.” She was playing with the catch of the glass-fronted locket and it opened, revealing the fine curl of hair that had slipped invisibly to one side. “Oh!”

“I'm sorry. It's my aunt's.” They looked at each other in silence, remembering her father's scalped head.

“I'll pretend it's his.” She pushed the pale curl gently back into the centre of the locket. “Just for the day.”

“No, no. You must keep the locket.” He smiled at her,
but with embarrassment. “You can see it's not much use to me. And”—he hesitated for a moment—“no need to pretend. I thought you might want—I cut off … from the back of his head … I wondered whether to tell you.…” In moments of acute discomfort, like this one, he still blushed a schoolboy's blush.

“You mean! My father … and you never told me. Oh.” She jumped up and let the muslin fall where it would. “I
do
thank you!”

William, the coachman, had brought the phaeton back from Savannah, and early next morning had it ready on the carriage sweep. One of the light waggons Hart used on the farm had been loaded up with Mrs Mayfield's big box, Mercy's tiny one, and Hart's carpet-bag. Mercy and Hart were waiting in the morning room. Of Mrs Mayfield there was no sign. Hart sighed, took a turn about the room, and looked for the twentieth time at his watch. “We'll be late for dinner,” he said. “Mother is counting on us. Mercy, would you very much mind—”

She did mind, but there was no help for it. “Of course not. Very likely it's some problem of her dress. I'll go directly.”

She found Mrs Mayfield apparently ready, but standing at her window, gazing out, a letter crumpled in her hand. “Oh, it's you!” She greeted Mercy without ceremony. “Tell Hart I want to see him.”

“Here?” Mercy cast a quick glance round the big, untidy room, so unlike any other at Winchelsea. Where Martha Purchis relied on home-made soap and toilet water for her complexion, her sister's dressing table held a shabby battery of the tools of beauty's trade. Even now, with, presumably, the most vital potions packed, the room reeked of orris root, powder, and other unidentifiable odours.

“No. Tell him I'll be with him this instant.” She was treating Mercy like a servant, and they both knew it. “Oh, and first, hand me my fan, there's a good girl. And my vinaigrette. I've had bad news.”

Her skin, mottled under the rouge, confirmed this, and Mercy, sorry for her, did as she was bid and hurried down to warn Hart. “Something's wrong, I'm afraid. She's had a letter.”

“I know. From Charleston.” He turned as Mrs Mayfield
entered the room. “I'm sorry, Aunt. Mercy tells me you have had bad news.”

“Mercy, is it?” Mercy had never seen anyone but an actress bridle before, and she made one of her quick notes on human behaviour while Mrs Mayfield sank into a chair, angrily fanning herself. “Would you believe it, Hart, my tenants have quit my Charleston house, without warning, and without paying what they owe me! It's the most monstrous thing you ever heard of! I'll have the law on them if it's the last thing I do. Why, without what they pay I don't know how I shall contrive. I shall have one of my spasms, I know I will!”

“They are English, are they not, Aunt?” Hart spoke into her furious silence.

“Yes. I thought the English were such models of good behaviour! To hear Frank speak, they are all perfect paragons. Well, let's just wait to hear what he says about this. And to make bad worse, they have sailed already. They say they don't feel safe in Charleston. Not safe! In Charleston! I ask you.” She uncrumpled the letter she was still holding, and looked at it again. “Yes, sailing the day they wrote. Of all the unprincipled …”

“Yes,” said Hart. “I do hope it doesn't mean they know something we don't. We must tell Governor Wright about this, and the sooner the better. Are you ready to go, Aunt? You will wish to discuss your course of action both with Sir James and with Francis, will you not? But, I'm afraid, if they have actually sailed for England, you have not much hope of redress.”

“No.” She was getting angrier by the minute. “They were friends of Frank's, too. He put them in touch with me. I'll have a word to say to that boy.”

“Privately, I do beg. We must not do anything to spoil the birthday celebrations.”

Like Winchelsea, the Purchis house in Oglethorpe Square had been built with Martha Purchis' money and to her specifications. Still homesick, she had had it planned like a Charleston single house, with an end fronting the street and high, screened porches along the shady garden side. Her husband's one stipulation had been that the simple one-storey frame house in which his own father had lived during the early days of Savannah must be preserved, so there it was, small and shabby beside the gleaming white paint of the new house.

“Goodness!” Mercy had never been in this part of the town and was amazed at the size and style of the house. “It's grander than the Governor's Residence!”