Touch the Sun (24 page)

Priscilla tried again. "I suppose the confectioner is busy preparing treats for tonight."

Anne thoughtfully tapped a long, polished fingernail against her cheek. "Hmm?"

"'Twas nothing important. Dare I ask what has distracted you?"

"To be frank, I was rather wondering about your little maid. She seems quite—unique."

"Yes," Priscilla agreed, almost grudgingly.

"Where did she come from, do you know? Was she with your family from birth? How long has she been your personal abigail?"

"Why—uhm—" Priscilla flushed as her mind groped awkwardly for a plausible lie. Anne, however, was a master at reading others' expressions, even at detecting telling inflections in the voices of her partners in conversation.

"There
is
something unusual about her, isn't there!" she declared triumphantly. "I insist that you tell me all, Priscilla dear. And do not fret. There is no one more trustworthy than I."

In a way, it was a relief for Priscilla to expose the masquerade to Anne Bingham, for she had never become adept at her part in it. Haltingly, she pieced together the story, careful to point out the fact that Meagan had masterminded the entire scheme from the start.

"She always was a bit wild," she concluded to an amazed, attentive Anne. "I never really understood her even though I suppose we were best friends all our lives. That is, if Meagan could have a best friend. She spent what I considered a depressingly huge amount of time by herself. Most of the time in breeches, riding her horse astride like a boy. I declare, talking about it now, it sounds like some wild tale I am making up..."

"Oh, I believe you, though I confess that she must be a bit touched to have thrown away a position in Boston society in favor of becoming a servant!"

"I agree! The day she brought over the letter from her father's solicitor, saying that she would have to go to her aunt, I told her that her opportunities to find a good husband would undoubtedly increase in Boston. All she needed to do was start behaving like a proper lady! Meagan always was stubborn, though, and unmanageable even when her parents were alive. At first, I think she expected this to be a lark... Now I'll wager she's changed her mind."

A thin smile curved Anne's mouth. "No doubt. I wonder that she hasn't given up the deception and gone to her aunt."

"Oh, you don't know Meagan. She'll never give up. She'll probably surprise us all in the end—find some way to bring it all off in her favor. My brother used to say that she reminded him of a kitten the way she always landed on her feet."

Anne nibbled at a pastry, carefully framing her next question. "Strange you should say that, Priscilla. I was wondering if you think Meagan could have any interest in Lion. Do you take my meaning?"

"Well, I'll confess I've had my worries in that respect," Priscilla replied airily. "No more, though. After all, as far as he knows, she is only a mere serving-girl. Secondly, Meagan has never been particularly interested in men. She wouldn't begin to know how to flirt with Lion and I don't think she'd care to. Lastly, I have the impression that your coachman is keeping her occupied and out of trouble. 'Tis strange to think of aristocratic Meagan Sayers from one of the grandest plantations in Virginia carrying on with a servant, but I don't doubt that she may be more at home with that type."

"I'm sure you are right. Sayers, hmm? I have an idea that I was acquainted with her parents. In France, I believe."

"No doubt. They were there often." Priscilla leaned forward anxiously then. "You will promise never to breathe a word of this? Why, poor Meagan lives in absolute terror of being discovered and sent off to that old aunt in Boston. I did give my word..."

"And I give you mine, dear Priscilla. Absolutely nothing could persuade me to divulge the truth about Meagan's past to
anyone!"

* * *

"You are going to be in trouble if you aren't downstairs before the guests begin to arrive," Meagan warned. "Can't you just choose one? Must you try every patch in the box?"

Priscilla pouted prettily. Her winged eyebrows had been darkened with burnt cloves and she seemed to be enjoying watching herself in the mirror, lifting first one brow and then the other. Meagan personally thought that she looked absurd, but she knew any advice from her would be ignored.

"I simply cannot decide between
la passionie,"
she pressed a star-shaped black patch near her left eye, "and
la coquette."
The second speck of silk was heart-shaped, carefully positioned on Priscilla's upper lip.

Meagan winced at Priscilla's French accent and the expression froze on her face as she studied the two appliques and overdone makeup. "Oh, do wear them both. The total effect is simply indescribable!"

Priscilla flashed her brightest smile, closed her patch box, and stood up. "I should hurry along. Anne did stress punctuality."

She straightened the folds of her mistress's elaborate gown, arranged the powdered curls around her shoulder, and forced a smile. "Your looks will be—unequalled."

"Why, thank you, Meagan," Priscilla murmured, her voice honeyed with condescension.

Emeralds gleaming against her white throat, she swept from the room just as Wickham's voice rumbled below, "Senator William Maclay!"

Meagan set about putting Priscilla's boudoir in order. As she gathered up discarded undergarments and organized the clutter of cosmetics on the dressing table, she tried to ignore the cheerful voices and swells of laughter from downstairs. A heavy loneliness stole over her heart, and before she could force it back, a vision filled her mind of Lion and Priscilla dancing, smiling, touching...

Bitter tears pooled in her eyes, clinging like stars to the thick lashes. She opened the
semanier
to borrow one of Priscilla's handkerchiefs and it was then that she noticed the fan which they had forgotten.

Priscilla had conceived the notion herself of wearing combs in her hair with miniatures of Washington painted on them and having a silk fan embroidered to match with a scene showing him at Mount Vernon. A little gold chain was attached to the fan so that it might be clasped about her waist.

Meagan thought the scheme was typical of Priscilla's taste, but she also knew that once the fan was missed she would be the one to hear of it for days to come. With a sigh, she picked it up and set off for the back stairway.

Minutes later, she stood in the darkness of a hall which joined the brightly lit drawing room. Only a few richly garbed figures were already there, while the crowd in the entry hall grew even as she watched. William, Anne, and Priscilla stood together in a row at the doorway, greeting the guests as Wickham announced them and Smith and other maids took their wraps.

Meagan was acutely conscious of her disheveled appearance. All the other servants who moved among the guests were models of starched perfection, while her own apron was smudged with rouge and burnt cloves, wayward black wisps of hair curled against her neck and forehead, and her mobcap was somewhat askew. All the men wore the Bingham livery and curled white wigs, and the maids had carefully powdered their hair.

With a resigned sigh, she brushed back some of her stray curls, smoothed her skirts, and went out into the brilliantly lit drawing room. There were folding doors covered with mirrors that reflected over and over the fashionable Gobelin chairs from Seddon's in London. The rosewood lyre-back chairs were trimmed with festoons of crimson and yellow silk, as were the curtains. All around, people were exclaiming over the beauty of the room and its furnishings, but Meagan personally was less than overcome. Increasingly, Mansion House and the life-style of its inhabitants reminded her of everything that she had abhorred about her own youth in Virginia.

Coming up behind the Binghams and Priscilla, Meagan wondered how to transfer the fan without attracting attention. It occurred to her that she might be able to fasten the gold chain around Priscilla's slim waist without anyone even noticing. Robert Morris's wife Mary was greeting Priscilla vivaciously as Meagan surreptitiously tossed one end of the chain and caught it at Priscilla's other hip, smiling a bit at her own skill. The fan dropped to the side as she felt for the clasp, and at that moment her composure withered as Wickham announced, "Captain Lion Hampshire!"

Against her will, Meagan's eyes sought him, watching as he pulled off soft doeskin gloves and a camel-colored greatcoat. Is it possible, she wondered in agony, that a man's looks could improve each day? His ruffled hair shone, while his eyes flashed as he laughed at something whispered in his ear by Eliza Powel. Her gaze hungrily devoured every detail of his appearance, for his clothes were flawlessly elegant as always. He wore an indigo blue suit over a waistcoat of gold and blue brocade. Unlike the other men, Lion made no great display of jewels or military decorations; he wore only the plain signet ring and a gold watch, the small chain of which glinted against the brocade of his waistcoat.

Meagan fumbled frantically with the clasp as he approached the receiving line. Priscilla felt her by this time and cast a wondering, irritated glance over one shoulder.

"The fan!" Meagan hissed, near tears.

Priscilla tightened her lips and sought to ignore the commotion at her waist.

Of course, Lion saw Meagan immediately; in truth as soon as he turned from Eliza Powel. Little more than a wilted mobcap and some rebellious black curls were visible behind his fiancée, but he seemed to sense her presence instantly. When Meagan met his eyes, all her remaining coordination vanished. Lion made short work of the greeting line, coming around beside her with a roguish look. She colored under his knowing, laughing gaze, wishing fervently that the drawing-room floor would open and swallow her up.

"Allow me, Miss South."

His long fingers brushed against her hands as he promptly fastened the clasp. Meagan shivered.

"Thank you," she whispered flatly.

"It is my pleasure to serve in any small way that I can."

It seemed that his blue eyes mocked her and Meagan longed to slap him; instead she dropped a curtsy and turned to leave.

"Goodnight, Captain Hampshire."

Lion watched with a smile as she hurried off toward the serving hall, the lace edge of her petticoats showing in her haste.

Someone else was watching as well, while handing his cape and ivory-handled walking stick to Smith. His eyes remained on her bouncing curls until Wickham called out, "Major Henry Gardner!" and the man turned toward his host and hostess, florid face beaming.

Chapter 19

Both kitchens were frenzies of activity, and Meagan found herself pressed against a wall to keep from being run down. Through it all, Bramble was organized, issuing orders to her regiment of servants as they dashed to and fro. The sideboards were heaped with every sort of delicacy as well as dozens of bottles of wine and brandy, all imported from France, while a team of perspiring cooks still labored over their bowls and pots.

Meagan was ready to seek escape back to Priscilla's chamber when Smith's welcome face appeared at her side.

"It is quite a production, is it not?" she asked with a smile.

"Quite!" Meagan agreed, laughing. "I rather fear for my life!"

"Well, when the Binghams give a party, they do it in a grand way. To tell the truth, I was on my way for a bit of air. Won't you join me?"

Meagan grinned her assent and they hurried off together toward the cool night air of the garden. It proved to be a rare, mild evening for March, and Meagan felt herself relax as they collapsed side by side on a stone bench.

"Soon enough the guests will find their way out here," Smith said softly, "but for now, we're safe."

"How did you get away?"

"The initial crush is past. The other maids can cope with the latecomers." She paused, breathing in the sweet, cool air. "That's the glory of being housekeeper. I can dismiss myself!"

Meagan smiled and closed her eyes for a few moments, comfortable in their friendly silence. After a time, she asked, "Do you ever envy them?"

Smith turned her hazel eyes, scanning Meagan's face. "I never thought to. Do you?"

"No. I suppose I do rather long for the gaiety, but I wouldn't take the place of any woman there." She laughed, and the sound was like music in the dark garden. "The patches and paint—ugh! If they could only realize how silly it is."

Smith nodded. "Miss Wade and Mistress Bingham are mild in comparison, too. Did you see some of those women? They've taken to wearing some horrid white paint on their faces. Dr. Rush told the mistress that the paint has lead in it—quite dangerous! Apparently it has been ruining teeth and causing the eyes to swell, and heaven knows what else."

Meagan made a face, but bit off her reply when she spied a liveried figure coming toward them across the grounds.

"Good evenin', ladies!" Flynn called merrily. "I thought I recognized my Meagan's sweet laughter!"

When he stopped before them, grinning, Meagan knew the reason for his boldness. The odor of Madeira assaulted them.