The Schoolmaster's Daughter (17 page)

“Please forgive me,” he said. “I'm so preoccupied.”

“Not at all,” she said, standing.

“You see it has been arranged that I may safely leave the city with a quantity of medication, with the understanding that it will be used to the benefit of captured soldiers who are injured, as well as provincials.”

“That is most considerate.”

“General Gage is that,” the doctor said. “Quite so, for an adversary.”

“Is he?” She stared at him a long moment. “That's—interesting to know. I'm to accompany my father to Province House this afternoon, in fact.”

“Really?”

“Yes. There's a meeting between the general and representatives of the city.”

“Well …” Dr. Church looked about the room as though he were trying to find something. Suddenly, he took a step toward her and said, “Abigail, I—you may have heard, or perhaps you will hear things about me, about the way I conduct my affairs, and I want you to know that I …” He seemed to give up, at a loss for words, until finally he said, “Just know I have always held the greatest affection for … for you.”

Awkwardly, he extended his hand and she took it. There was something about the way he said
you
. He didn't seem to be referring to her—or to her alone. She wasn't sure to whom he was referring, and when he released her hand she turned away quickly and walked to the front door. He accompanied her, and they said goodbye, though she didn't look at him again as she stepped out into the fogbound street.

Exactly at one o'clock, a coach and four, accompanied by a small detail of soldiers, arrived in front of the house. It was a well-appointed vehicle, and while they traveled the short distance to Province House Abigail had the distinct impression that her father was solemn—they might have been on the way to a funeral.

“It should never have come to this,” he said, gazing out his window. “There is a reason for authority and order, and by challenging it Bostonians could very likely destroy their own city.”

“If that authority is unjust, Father, why not challenge it?”

He smiled and said, “Fog's in.”

“Don't treat me as though I were some pet kitten that can't possibly understand.”

She turned and stared out her window, refusing to gaze at him during the remainder of the trip.

When they arrived at Province House, they were assisted from the coach by footmen and entered the governor-general's mansion by the front door. The lobby was elegant, the furniture of fine polished wood and luxurious fabrics. At least two dozen Boston men were present, all Tories, and perhaps twice as many members of General Gage's staff, including Colonel Cleaveland, who made no attempt to acknowledge Abigail's presence. There were other women, most of them wives of some of Boston's representatives. After some initial mingling in the lobby, the men were sequestered in a room, the double doors closed behind them, while the women were ushered into a vast living room which had walls lined with enormous portraits and a grand piano at one end. Tea was served by a fleet of maids, and the Boston women gathered in small groups and talked quietly. Abigail took her tea and stood at a window where she could look across the courtyard at the stable.

When Mrs. Gage came into the room, all the women got to their feet and curtsied. She was famous for her wardrobe, and Abigail had never seen such satin gloss. Her hair was wrapped in a silk turban which today was the deepest blue imaginable. She spent time talking with various groups of women and finally came down to the end of the room where Abigail had remained, staring out the window.

“And you are Master Lovell's daughter, I understand.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Abigail curtsied. “I'm not sure why I'm here.”

“Of course you are,” Mrs. Gage said. She had a direct gaze that was unsettling; it seemed to place added significance to every word she spoke. “Your father wants to display you before the officers under my husband's charge.” She looked Abigail up and down. “My dear, when this meeting concludes, you should prepare yourself for a stampede of men in uniform, vying for your attention.” She glanced out the window a moment, and then said quietly, “But this is not your first visit to Province House, I believe. Our groom Seth tells me you were here not long ago.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Mrs. Gage sighed. “I won't miss much of what Boston has offered. You must realize I seldom escape this house. Yet a pretty prison it has been, and I'm particularly fond of the orchard and the stables. I'm from Pennsylvania, and my father raised horses.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Gage, are you leaving Boston?”

Now she stared at Abigail so long, it seemed she was unable to answer, until she said, “I had hoped to return to Pennsylvania, but with the fear that hostilities may eventually engulf all the colonies—well, it's simply out of the question. American-born though I may be, my husband insists that I sail to England. I get out of prison, so to speak, though this may be a more severe form of punishment, as my loyalties have of late been called into question.” She smiled weakly. “American-born, as I said.”

Abigail didn't know what to say. Most disarming was the fact that Mrs. Gage continued to smile as she gazed out the window. And then there was a commotion in the lobby as the men adjourned their meeting.

Turning to Abigail, Mrs. Gage touched her hand for a moment. “You will give my regards to your brother James?”

“Of course, Ma'am.”

“Now I must see to the punch.” Then Mrs. Gage moved toward the dining room, where a buffet had been laid out. A boy, not more than thirteen, dressed in a blue satin jacket and breeches, sat at the piano and began playing.

The rooms became quite festive, as though they were gathered to celebrate some momentous occasion, a wedding or a christening. Abigail fixed her father a plate and when she brought it to him, he was engaged in a conversation about the evacuation process that was just beginning. It had been confirmed that Bostonians sympathetic to the rebel cause would be granted safe passage to the country, and likewise Tories out in the villages would be allowed to enter the city, where they would remain under the protection of the British army. During the meeting, General Gage had apparently been very clear that the homes of those who departed the city would be shuttered so as to not suffer any undue harm. Father expressed support for this endeavor, arguing that no matter what happened in the countryside, Boston would remain a bastion for loyalists, who inevitably would be rewarded for remaining true to the king. The men he was talking with were in full agreement, though one man, a Mr. Alsmire, said that from his house on Copp's Hill he could see that British soldiers were beginning to construct a redoubt facing northwest across the water. Some officers, quite disrespectfully, he noted, were using gravestones on the hill for target practice. Charlestown to the north, another man said, and Dorchester to the south—that's where the damned provincials are gathering their forces, and General Gage must do everything possible to protect Boston. Once the militia gains a foothold in those hills, they will be able to bombard portions of the city mercilessly. Another man, Joseph Towle, whose merchant ships had long been confined to port, said that supplies would become scarce—even if General Gage lifted the ban on commerce, vessels trying to leave the harbor could be bombed and sunk. To which another said in disgust that the provincials had neither the forces nor the armaments to threaten Boston. He had heard that the bonfires that could now be seen burning on the hills of Dorchester and Charlestown were just that, bonfires, tended by only small, ill-equipped bands of men who lacked both discipline and leadership.

Abigail politely excused herself and drifted into the dining room, where a maid was taking an empty glass punchbowl into the kitchen. When Abigail opened the swinging door for her, the woman said, “These meetings, you know, there's no end to their thirst.”

Across the kitchen, Abigail could see out a window to the courtyard. Colonel Cleaveland was walking toward the stable; he was smoking a cigar and as he disappeared inside, he left a trail of smoke to mingle with the fog.

Abigail went through the kitchen, which was bustling with cooks, scullions, and servants, and found a door that opened onto the courtyard. She crossed to the stable, her arms folded against the cold, and upon entering the stable she was startled to find Cleaveland leaning against the first stall, one foot angled up so his boot heel rested on the gate. Her surprise was not that he was there, of course, but it had something to do with his attitude. He seemed overwrought and leaned against the wood gate as though he'd been pushed by some invisible force. For the first time she thought she could actually see him despite his uniform. He was a young man, far from home, serving in capacities not of his choosing and certainly not to his liking. When he had said yesterday that he was only trying to help, she realized he was being sincere. Prison
was
the first logical place to look for her brother. What he was telling her was that if Benjamin wasn't in a prison cell, then most likely he was free—free in a way that Samuel himself was not. His prison was the tight-fitting uniform, the red coat with gold lapel and epaulets, and buttons, so many brass buttons. She tried to imagine him out of uniform, dressed as though he were home in Surrey. There, he would be a man at ease, wearing the loose, drab attire of a country gentleman, and she imagined him wandering the fields, a walking stick in hand, accompanied by a good dog.

As she approached, he glanced up at her, and then gazed at the floor again.

“Samuel,” she said.

He removed the cigar from his mouth, exhaling smoke. “So, we're still on a first-name basis?” He smiled as he continued to look at the dirt floor and then stuck the cigar back in his mouth.

“I feel I should apologize. I behaved—I was unfair last night.” She waited but he didn't respond, didn't look up at her. “You were right, Samuel. You were only being truthful. It was what you said—about the trees on the Mall, about our churches—it was such a shock. I realize now that you were only informing me of—”

He raised his head, speaking around the cigar. “Running away is the smartest thing you can do. You're very smart, as bright as you are pretty, and you're wise to get as far away from me as possible.” He took his foot off the gate and stood up straight, giving her the impression that he was preparing to make a statement that would be definitive and final. “One piece of advice, Miss Lovell.” He dropped the cigar on the dirt floor and crushed it out with his boot, carefully, thoroughly, making sure that it had been shredded, its heat extinguished. “Leave Boston. Your father is a prominent loyalist but he should remove his entire family during this evacuation. Leave Massachusetts. New England will burn.”

“He won't go.”

“He said as much during our meeting. He may be master at the Latin School, well versed, but he's a damned fool, believe me. He thinks he's being … stalwart, brave even.” Then he raised his voice, and said, “Your father should not remain in Boston.”

“Leaving our home is out of the question,” she said. “He won't—”

“Then
you
convince him.”

“We are at odds most of the time. I can never convince him of anything.”

“I doubt that.” His voice was not just loud but angry, and a number of horses stirred in their stalls. Then, quietly, he said, “I doubt that very much.” He looked as though he regretted speaking his mind at all.

To her own surprise, Abigail stepped toward him, throwing her arms up around his shoulders, and, bringing her face up to his, she kissed him hard on the mouth. He didn't move, didn't respond at first, but then suddenly he embraced her tightly and together they fell against the stall gate, as he covered her face and neck with kisses.

When they finally let go of each other, they were embarrassed. As she fixed her hair, she glanced at him and he appeared boyishly chagrined. They walked slowly down the length of the stable, passing stalls where horses hung their heads over the gates, some eying them with hope, others with suspicion. She stopped at the last stall. There was a gray, an old horse. As she stroked its soft nose, warm air pushing out of its nostrils, Samuel stood behind her, his arms around her waist.

“I'm afraid I spoiled a perfectly good picnic last night,” she said.

At the far end of the stable there was the sound of footsteps. The light was so dim, Abigail couldn't see who it was—only that it was a man, striding toward the open door. Samuel quickly moved away from her, took her by the hand, and guided her out a door next to the stall. The chill fog was a startling antidote to the warm, horse-tinged air of the stable. They walked swiftly, arm in arm now, into an orchard, beneath rows of trees that seemed poised to lower their limbs, draw them in, and conceal them.

They sat on a bench deep in the orchard, surrounded by fog that smelled of the sea. She was chilled, and he removed his red jacket and draped it over her shoulders. They didn't talk for a while. Something had changed, something had opened up, and Abigail preferred the silence, broken occasionally by the caw of a seagull.

Finally, she said, “I appreciate your making inquiries regarding my brother. But I believe that last night you were going to tell me about Corporal Lumley, as well.”

“I had planned to, yes. Why did you ask about him?” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I barely know him, but made some inquiries and it appears he's been in a spot of difficulty. The usual thing, I gather. We have too many Regulars who drink a great deal of your New England rum, and, of course, there's the matter of women. He's known to obtain the services of prostitutes. He hasn't made any advances toward you?”

“No.”

“But there's something else, which I don't understand and must look into further—”