The Schoolmaster's Daughter (25 page)

The door swung open and Mariah whispered, “It's all right, Benjamin. Someone here to see you.”

He lowered his cane and stepped out into the cool night air. Though it was a moonless night, he could see that it was Abigail standing in the middle of the yard. She rushed to him and threw her arms about his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder.

They had spent perhaps an hour sitting in the dark in the yard, whispering. To light a lantern would only draw the curiosity of neighbors, and attract still more mosquitoes and flies. As she walked home, Abigail wanted to find some way to tell her parents—her mother, at least—that Benjamin was safe. But they had all agreed before she'd left that they shouldn't tell anyone, except James, who was most adept at keeping secrets. It was too late to go to her older brother; the children would be bedded down; she would visit in the morning. Once Benjamin's knee was fully recovered—he said he was much better, though even in the dark she could see the damage done to his face—they would have to arrange to get him out of the city again.

Her elation over seeing her younger brother was tempered by the other thing: her moment with Samuel behind the lilac bush. Her sudden desire rose unexectedly. She didn't know whether it was because she was broken-hearted, as Samuel had suggested, or whether it was because of Samuel. Perhaps she was falling in love with him, despite what his uniform represented. Or perhaps she was just deluding herself with some notion that she could actually escape everything and find herself in a country manor in Surrey. A silly, ridiculous dream, certainly. But there was something about Samuel that made it real, possible.
If you could see me as I really am
, he'd whispered when they were behind the lilac bush,
without this blasted uniform
. But teasing, too—meaning unclothed, naked.
If I could only see you, and, admit it, I know you want to reveal yourself
.

It was true. She could only admit it to herself.
It is true
.

So many girls she knew got married while they were still in their teens, and more often than not they were quite pregnant by the time the wedding took place. Many of them by now, in their early twenties, had a brood of children. Some chided Abigail about the danger of becoming a spinster, though they also expressed some jealousy because men had always paid such attention to her. Playfully (usually) they accused her of harboring herself, trying to preserve her looks against the inevitable. But such childhood friends were now mostly preoccupied with their families, and they were at times dismissive of her when they met in the street. Once during the winter, at the market in Dock Square, a fishmonger's wife named Tilda Poole, while weighing a cod, said
Y'know, some women is just not strongly inclined
. And at the next booth Chastity, who was fond of making a joke of her name after she married William Dunne, looked up from shucking clams and said
That be true! Some just don't take to it at first, not until they meets up with a right good bowsprit
. They cackled knowingly, and as Abigail walked away, a hefty cod in her sack knocking against her thigh, she heard Tilda say
That's what the refinements will do for you
—
Latin and Greek, they won't help you see them stars at night!
And they howled as she slipped away through the crowded market.

There was no truth to it, not at all. She had unbuttoned her dress, allowing Samuel's hand inside, while his other hand clutched the small of her back so that his hardness pressed against her until they both shuddered. Afterwards, he talked about acquiring a room (he knew a woman who had a house overlooking an alley off Union Street; she was widowed and she was blind, reducing any danger of their being identified) and though Abigail had intended to say no, her only response was to kiss him again. Once they had abandoned the privacy of the lilac bush, he walked her down School Street toward home, again talking of the farm in Surrey, where he longed to live after this dreadful tour in Massachusetts was over. When he left her in front of King's Chapel, she watched him mount his horse, which he eased up into a trot as he headed toward Cornhill Street, and she recalled a fragment of her dream, where he rode toward her, his white jodhpurs spattered with blood. Fox blood, from the green fields of Surrey.

When Abigail turned to walk home, she heard a noise and looked into the shadows of the chapel. Someone was standing there behind a column. She hesitated, and, looking down School Street, which was empty—where were the ubiquitous patrols now?—she considered running for home.

“Miss Lovell?” A woman's voice, young and timid.

“Who is it? Who's there?”

The woman stepped away from the column's shadow. She was barely five feet tall and her clothes were filthy. “My name is Molly Collins.”

XIV

Hunger and Other Carnal Afflictions

A
FTER
A
BIGAIL LEFT,
B
ENJAMIN AND
M
ARIAH REMAINED
sitting in the dooryard.

“Thank you for arranging that,” he whispered.

“You know what this means?”

He did, but he didn't say anything.

“You'll be away, again. She'll talk to your brother—they'll get you out of Boston.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I will be alone here. I fear that more than anything.”

“I'll return, Mariah.”

“This will go on and on. You get out, no knowing when you return.”

“You could leave Boston, too.”

“I could. Maybe I should. But this is my father's house.” He could barely see her in the dark. “I cannot just leave it.” Her voice was quivering. “It is not so easy for me, what with my father just dying.”

“There's something else,” he said. “Isn't there?”

She turned her head away, and then said, “How's your knee?”

“Better, much better.”

She got up and came to him, gently sitting on his lap. “How's that?”

“It's fine.”

She hugged him tightly, her cheek pressed against the side of his head, and he could feel the warmth coming off her skin, which always smelled faintly of salt from the harbor.

As they walked beneath a streetlamp, Abigail got a look at Molly Collins's face. She wasn't yet twenty, boyishly slender in the hips, but with a powdered bosom that was pushed up so that it seemed on the verge of spilling out of her bodice. Black kohl was smeared around the eyes, which made the whites seem large and protuberant, as though she were in a state of high expectation. Her mouth was painted, full, beckoning, and there was a tiny scar running at an angle down from the corner of her lower lip. She'd already lost some teeth and when she spoke there was a slight whistle about the S's.

Boston was full of prostitutes and since her youth Abigail had been fascinated by them. She was warned, of course, to avoid them, but often she and her friends used to follow such women through the streets, dispersing only after they had been treated to a barrage of foul language, accompanied by hurled stones and dirt. Her friends liked to taunt them, but Abigail always found them as sad as they were interesting.

“There's a soldier wants to talk to you,” Molly said. “Name's Lumley.”

“You know him, and you knew Munroe.”

“I know me lots of men. Soldiers, sailors, and not a few that parade about in a coach-'n'-four with fine liveried footmen.”

They were heading toward the waterfront, until Molly took Abigail's sleeve and led her down an alley. “These patrols, you know. In my profession you learn that they move like clockwork. This way we'll avoid one that come up from Long Wharf this time of night.” She walked quickly but with a slight limp, and there was the sound of her toe dragging along the cobblestones.

“'Ere we ahh,” she said cheerfully.

She led Abigail up a narrow set of stairs that groaned under their weight, until they came to a door, which she opened with a key. Inside, the room was lit by one dim lantern and the air reeked of perfume and unwashed clothes. Lumley sat at a table by the window, looking out on the harbor, and through a door that had been left ajar Abigail could see a plump girl lying on a cot, snoring gently.

Lumley got up and held the other chair for Abigail, and then sat down across from her. Molly went to a cabinet and brought a bottle of rum and three tumblers, which she filled without spilling a drop.

Lumley looked exhausted. “You are dressed in small-clothes,” Abigail said.

“No more uniform for me,” he said.

As she returned the bottle to the cabinet, Molly sang softly:

Fifty lashes I got for selling me coat

Fifty for selling me blanket

If ever I 'list for a soldier again

The devil shall be me sergeant
.

“In the taverns we often sing ‘The Rogues' March,'” Lumley said, attempting a smile. “And now the boys are singing it for me. I've hardly ventured out since that night we were on Trimount. Molly here tells me they're all searching for me.”

Abigail turned to Molly. “The soldiers, none have been here?”

“Oh, sure they 'ave, Love. We've got to eat, y'know.” She rolled her eyes toward the low, beamed ceiling. “We pack him up to the attic while we're entertainin'. In an hour's time some Regulars will be comin' over from the Two Palavers, if they can still walk a straight line. So it's best you conduct your business and be on your way.” Molly went into the other room, and as she closed the door she said, “A girl's got to make herself presentable, now, don't she?”

Lumley picked up his tumbler of rum and tossed it back.

“You ran off, Corporal Lumley,” Abigail said.

“I know I did. Had to, and please don't call me corporal no more.”

“Did you know I was brought before an inquiry into Munroe's death?”

“I heard. Molly and Eliza acquire all sorts of information.”

“They suspect I killed him,” Abigail said, “and it has been suggested that even if they can't prove it, they may make it seem to be so.”

“Believe me, Miss, I'd speak on your behalf if it would do any good, but that's not likely. They'd rather put a noose about me neck and swing me from the Great Elm on the Common.”

“I suppose.” Abigail rarely drank rum, and then only on the coldest of winter nights, but now she took a sip and waited as its heat spread down through her. “You knew Munroe was up on Trimount, too. There was testimony that beforehand, you and he were in a tavern, and that you left together.”

“We started out from the tavern, yes, but we argued, which was to your benefit. It allowed me to stay behind and come up later to meet you.”

“And who did Munroe meet?” She nodded toward the now-closed door. “Molly and Eliza, they were mentioned at the inquiry.”

“They
killed him?” Lumley said. “Lord, no, not them. They can take a man's money without doing him in. I don't know who it was, but I can say that Munroe was eager to get up there. He was glad to leave me behind and climbed the hill with great urgency. He did fancy the ladies.”

“What did you argue about?”

Lumley gazed out the window momentarily. “My loyalty. Munroe was beginning to suspect my intentions.” He looked her squarely now. “I've got to get out of Boston. They'll catch me eventually. You can help, I know you can. Your brother James, I know he's thick with all of them. He can arrange it.” He waited, and then said, “It's not some trap. I'm not spying for General Gage, if that's what you think.”

“These things are difficult to determine. Everyone must be cautious.” Abigail finished her rum and began to get up. “I'm sorry but I can't help you—”

Lumley reached across the table and took hold of her wrist, forcing her to settle back in her chair. She tried to pull free but his grip tightened as he leaned toward her. “I have information, which your brother might use.” He nodded, and then let go of her wrist, looking apologetic. “When we met on Trimount, I mentioned something that I'd only heard in rumor, but since then I've heard more.”

Abigail rubbed her wrist. “Noddle's Island.”

“Yes,” Lumley said. “You know how food is scarce in Boston. Dogs, cats disappearing. Chickens fewer by the day. It's mostly all salt fish. The troops are hungry. There's plenty of smuggling going on, but it's not enough to feed an army, and our good friend Tommy Gage understands that there's nothing worse than a hungry soldier.”

The following morning, Abigail persuaded James to venture out for some air. Since the Latin School had closed, he rarely left his house. She took his arm—his gait was erratic, unstable—and they walked down to the granary burying ground.

“Shall we rest?” she said, when they reached the bench where she had sat with Rachel a few days earlier.

“I think so.”

She helped James ease down onto the bench; his face was white, as though he'd never before been in the sun. Despite the heat, he'd insisted on wearing a wig.

“How does it go at home?” he asked.

“Mother is emptying the larder, feeding all of their Tory friends.”

“I heard about the inquiry. Father actually came to talk with me about it. This hearing, and that gash on your head—he's worried about you. He conceals his affections often, but that's not to say they're not there.”

“I know,” Abigail said. “When I was confined to bed, he sat for hours in my room, his books open in his lap, muttering in Greek and Latin.”

“You have some news?” he said. Surprised, she glanced at him and he smiled weakly, squinting into the morning sun. “Somehow I don't think this stroll is purely for my constitutional wellbeing.”

“I do have news, yes. I saw Benjamin. He's well. You know he was captured and interrogated, but he's all right. Healing.”