Touch the Sun (19 page)

Smith eyed her speculatively. "Well, that's better. You looked positively ill for a while at the market. Is your ankle hurting you?"

"It's much better." Meagan gave her a rueful smile. "Don't mind me. I seem to be having my ups and downs these days, but I never stay down for long."

"Good for you. You know, you ought to ask for a respite. Perhaps you've been working too hard, even during your journey to Philadelphia."

"I'm going to. Kevin Flynn has asked me to visit Peale's Museum with him this afternoon. I gather everyone will be away at some reception—"

"Oh, yes! The Powels'." Smith's hazel eyes twinkled above her pink cheeks. "Hmm... Kevin, is it? He seems like a nice fellow—if a bit waggish."

Meagan sighed softly. "Yes, and he makes me laugh, which is no small accomplishment these days. As for the waggish part—you needn't worry about that, for I am in no danger of losing my heart to him."

They were approaching Mansion House and Smith slowed her walk, searching Meagan's face.

"Wouldn't you like to talk about whatever is bothering you, my dear?"

She blushed and looked away. "I can't. But it's nothing that can't be resolved with a bit of time and determination. I can be very determined!"

Smith put a smooth hand on her cheek. "I wish you luck. And, if you ever need a friend—"

"I'll remember. Thank you."

Bramble was turning down Bingham's Court toward the back entrance. "Be quick!" she called sharply over her shoulder.

Smith grimaced, whispering, "You'd think
she
was head housekeeper!" She paused, trying to decide whether or not to say more and finally gave in to temptation. "I shouldn't mention this, and indeed I do not mean to gossip, but I'm sure I can trust you not to repeat this confidence."

"Of course you can."

"Well, Wickham and I have been told that Bramble is to be replaced before the month is out."

"You must be joking! She is a wonderful cook!"

"That is neither here nor there. Apparently Mrs. Bingham has gotten her hands on an available French chef. The mistress is very enamored of all things French and this cook will be a status symbol whether he has any talent in the kitchen or not!"

"Oh, dear! Has Bramble been told?"

"No."

"It will destroy her!"

"I'm well aware of that. The question now is whether or not her pride will allow her to stay on in second place—taking orders in the kitchen from someone else."

Meagan looked ahead to the stiff, self-righteous woman who was striding past the orangerie and shivered as she imagined Bramble's reaction to this turn of events.

* * *

Meagan arrived just in time to assist Priscilla in her preparations for the reception at Mayor Powel's. It was being given in honor of the many members of the new Congress who had arrived in town that week, stopping over on their way to New York. Word had reached them that their business in the new Capital could not begin for at least two weeks so they lingered in Philadelphia to enjoy its lively social whirl. Priscilla had heard at the theater that James Madison was now in town as well, his arrival delayed by the week he had spent at Mount Vernon. Apparently, he had been joined there by John Page, where the two of them had encountered Robert Bland Lee from Alexandria. Meagan was all too well acquainted with each member of that trio and she panicked anew at the prospect of meeting one—or all—of them in Mansion House or on the street. It made her groan to think that the town was probably teeming with people who had met her in Virginia...

Priscilla had chosen one of her finest new gowns for the reception. Fashioned of ivory silk, it was embroidered with a scattered repeat pattern in blue and green. The tight, elbow-length sleeves were edged in rich lace as was the round-necked bodice and the petticoat that showed behind the open skirt. Meagan helped her dress, arranging the
cul de Paris,
a little cushion attached to the underskirt, which was placed on the buttocks. There was a special corset, designed to make the breasts more prominent, which was lined with a piece of triangular wire, curved and padded. Over all of this went the gown itself, finished off by a handkerchief, knotted like a fichu, which covered the neckline. It was held up so stiffly by the 'pigeon's breast' that it almost reached Priscilla's chin.

Still, in spite of all the false curves, the effect was striking. Priscilla's waist looked tiny, her neck long, and her face lovely. Anne Bingham's abigail had taught Meagan to apply special French cosmetics so skillfully that they were almost impossible to detect. Around her neck, Priscilla wore a long gold chain with an enameled watch attached. Meagan dressed her auburn hair so that it was full at the sides, with soft curls falling over her shoulders, then topped the coiffure with a large Florentine straw hat, tied under her pretty chin with a satin ribbon.

Meagan had already laid out a fan made of embroidered silk that and a little pearl-encrusted box called a
necessaire,
holding such indispensable items as perfume, a watch key, tiny scissors, ear and nail cleaners, a pencil, and a little ivory plate on which to make notes.

As she helped Priscilla dress, Meagan listened with unwilling interest to her extravagant tales of her night at the Southwark Theater.

"There was a marvelous dance. I believe it was called a hornpipe, performed by a man named Darlang, or—"

"Durang," Meagan corrected.

Priscilla narrowed her eyes briefly. "Yes. Well, he was dressed like a sailor with a lovely red vest. The amazing part was that he seemed to
fly
onto the stage. Lion said he had jumped from a trampoline though I'm not quite sure what that is..."

Priscilla went on to describe the performance of
The Roman Father
in sadly sketchy terms that only added to Meagan's suspicion that her mind had been more on her surroundings than the play. Apparently, the Binghams had obtained seats befitting the wealthiest family in America, and Marcus Reems had accepted Anne's invitation to share their box. Meagan imagined that it must have been an exhilarating evening for Priscilla to be seen by all of Philadelphia society in the company of the Binghams and to be sitting with not only a handsome fiancé but his attractive rival as well.

Priscilla took one last pleased look in the mirror then went out into the hallway to join the Binghams. Only William was waiting there, his face looking more flushed than usual.

"Ah, Priscilla dear! You are looking splendid as always. Lion will be a proud man today with you by his side! Anne is still dressing. I do hope she will be ready soon, for the hour grows late..."

Meagan approached him, feeling unusually shy. "Mr. Bingham, might I have a word with you?"

Hearing the refined, softly melodious voice behind him, he turned to find the little black-haired maid about whom Lion had spoken. Since that first night, he had meant to have a closer look at her in an effort to discover what his friend was about, but he had seldom seen her at close range. There was undoubtedly something unique about the girl, for neither her face nor her voice were those of a common servant. Her features were delicately made, her skin as translucent as a pink and ivory shell, and when she looked up at him—what amazing eyes!

"Most certainly, Miss—"

"South, sir."

"Of course. Do pardon my memory." He gave her a hearty smile. Bingham was a man confident of his charm, for what he lacked in physical attributes he made up for with the aura he exuded of power and wealth. Anne was truly his better half, for she brought her beauty and charm to unite with his intelligence and wealth. In his mind, the resulting combination was matchless. Anne emerged at that moment from her suite of rooms, looking as breathtaking as always.

"I am ready, William. Let us go."

Beaming, he tucked her hand through the crook of his arm. "Momentarily, my dear. Miss South desires a word with me."

Anne lifted an eyebrow at Meagan, who met her gaze unflinchingly. "Do tell," she said coolly.

"Yes. I only wanted to ask Mr. Bingham if I might have the afternoon free."

William laughed good-naturedly. "Why, I certainly have no objections, but perhaps you should be asking Captain Hampshire. After all, he is your actual employer. He'll be here any minute if he's not downstairs right now, and..."

Anne broke in quickly. "Now, William, we needn't waste Lion's time. I'm sure he would be agreeable to this if you are." She turned her beautiful eyes on Meagan. "Do behave yourself, South. You'll be expected home to attend Miss Wade before dinner."

With that, she turned and swept away down the hall, her saffron silk skirts rustling. Bingham gave Meagan one last distracted smile before going after her, Priscilla at his side.

It was a long way down to the end of the stairway, but after a minute, Meagan could hear Anne's vivacious greeting for Lion Hampshire. The sound of his voice, typically dry and amused, drew Meagan to the top of the stairs like a magnet. She allowed herself one quick glimpse of his arresting face, which appeared to be smiling down at Priscilla, before forcing her feet to back away. As she made her way toward the rear stairway, Meagan determined that she would make a success of the afternoon she was about to spend with Kevin Flynn.

Chapter 15

Flynn's plan to take Meagan to Peale's Museum proved to be inspired, for she was utterly delighted with the place. Having grown up outdoors in the meadows and woods of Virginia, she felt right at home with this stuffed menagerie, set in recreations of their natural habitats.

"I had heard that he had done wonders..." Meagan murmured, her face flushed with pleasure, "but I never dreamed..."

The entire seventy-foot museum had been built onto the back of Charles Wilson Peale's home, located on Lombard Street, directly south of Mansion House. Meagan learned that it had begun as a picture gallery to display his famous portraits of Washington and the other notables he had known during the war. Apparently, it did not take long for Peale's interest in nature to intrude; the first additions were sketches of mammoth bones found in a New York swamp. His notorious enthusiasm was soon at a fever pitch. He began badgering friends and acquaintances from far and wide for items like alligator skins, wild ducks, and silk grass... even approaching Benjamin Franklin for the body of his dead French Angora cat. Much experimenting had to be done before a suitable technique was arrived at for preserving and stuffing the carcasses; but the results were amazing.

During her tour of the museum, Meagan found herself forgetting that the animals were dead. Peale had constructed a variety of natural environments including a rocky grotto and an artificial pond made from mirrors. Animals of every description were posed against these backgrounds, including bears, tigers, snakes, exotic birds, and even a mongoose. Flynn laughingly told Meagan that the latest rumor was that Peale had acquired a swarm of East Indian insects.

"Nothing is too absurd to be believed where Mr. Peale's museum is concerned," he chuckled.

"It is a splendid project," Meagan replied earnestly.

They had already been there two hours, determined to get their shilling's worth, and finally Meagan left the animals to examine the portraits. At the upper end of the room hung a life-size portrait of George Washington that took Meagan's breath away.

"It's a perfect likeness," she said softly, and Flynn gave her a curious glance.

"'Tis a fine specimen of a man, indeed."

After looking over the other paintings, most of which were of heroes from the Revolutionary War, many of whom Meagan readily recognized, Flynn led her over to a rather bizarre display.

"Wasn't sure if you'd enjoy this, but you don't strike me as a swooner!"

She gave him a grin, which changed to an expression of revulsion at the sight of several Indian scalps. The next exhibit was a set of rattlesnake fangs mounted under a magnifying glass.

"You were right to save the worst for last!" Meagan told Flynn with a weak laugh. "It makes it easier for me to take my leave."

Flynn set a leisurely pace for their walk back to Mansion House, despite Meagan's attempts to go faster. Ever fearful of encountering someone who knew her, she pulled the hood of her pelisse up so that it covered as much of her face as possible.

"You wouldn't be cold?" Flynn inquired with surprise. The late afternoon air was barely cool and the sun still shone cheerfully.

"Not really, but I've felt a slight case of the ague coming on and I'm rather afraid of making it worse out in this open air."

She avoided looking at him directly, focusing on the coaches passing them on Third Street. A striking black and green phaeton pulled by a pair of ebony horses turned off Spruce Street and came clattering toward them. Fascinated, Meagan's eyes were on the handsome horses, their glossy dark manes flying in the spring breeze. As they passed, she saw the passengers—Marcus Reems, looking lawless in a fluttering black cape, and the fashionably-garbed Clarissa. They sat close together, deep in conversation.

Meagan's mind was spinning as Flynn guided her across Spruce Street. Why were the two of them together? What could it mean?