Paxton's War (39 page)

Buckley stopped at the fifth step. He didn't want to be hugged by his mother. He didn't want to see his mother. Tonight was the recital, perhaps the greatest evening of his life, and the last human being in the world with whom he wanted to contend was Miranda.

“How did you get out?” he asked her bluntly.

“Am I a prisoner?” she asked him, her eyes flashing, a series of pink ribbons cascading from her wig. “Am I not a free woman?”

Standing a few feet behind her, the albino Jack Windrow and the muscular Sam Simkins shrugged their shoulders. “We tried to tell her,” Simkins explained. “But she insisted.”

“My instructions,” said Buckley, who had wanted his two toughest aides at the recital that evening, “concerned only you and Jack, not Mother.”

“Mother was bored with Marble Manor,” Miranda piped in with her operatically high-pitched voice as she dropped her arms to her sides. “Mother was bored with caring for Father, who cares for nothing except his old maps. Your father's a fossil and I care not a whit who knows it. I've just spent the last week riding over the plantation, charging into the woods by myself, chasing off rebels. I've cleared the countryside of the dreaded Patriots. At first your men were reluctant to follow me, so I rode out with my band of women. But now the men recognize my leadership and jump at my commands. I left Marble Manor with the satisfying assurance that I've made the grounds secure. Therefore, it's with blissful serenity that I've come to Charles Town to speak to the crocuses. I dreamed of them last night. They begged for my attention, these lovely flowers that grow in Charles Town, so different from my irises, so much more expressive and in need of social intercourse. You need me, my son, to make certain that you eat not a bite more of contaminated meat before your body goes bad like your father's. My in-laws are too sick and senile to care for you, and who, may I ask, is in charge of the kitchen at this ridiculous estate? The estate should be sold at once. 'Tis far too large to be maintained, the expense is too great a burden, and the slaves are undisciplined. I shall oversee its sale.”

“You shall do nothing of the kind. I'll have you escorted back home,” Buckley said, trying to maintain his composure as he bravely came another step closer to his mother.

“You'll have your mouth washed out with lye if you're not careful,” she said as her son wisely backed away. “Now, where's this Colleen McClagan? Bring her down here at once.”

“Mother,” he spoke softly, trying to calm her, “Miss McClagan is not here.”

“You've lied before and you'll lie again. She's upstairs, even as we speak, lying in wait, in your very bed. I've come to warn you again, Buckley. Give her up or face your ruin.”

He took the remaining steps to the bottom of the grand staircase and waved Jack and Sam from the house. “We'll speak later,” he told them. “Now, Mother,” he said, finding the courage to take her hand and lead her along the hallway toward the kitchen, “it may be a good idea for you to see to my meals. You're right—my stomach is lined with God knows how many unclean beasts.”

“I'll be neither humored nor distracted.” She looked at him with penetrating gray eyes. “You're under that woman's pernicious influence.”

“You're imagining things, Mother.”

“And you lack the imagination to understand the ways of women. Who was it who said, ‘Beware of women who deceive with the eye and soothe with the body'?”

“I've no idea.”

“Why, it was I, you fool! I've been telling you that ever since you were old enough to fall prey to the temptations,” Miranda continued harping as they entered Somerset Hall's massive kitchen. “And fall you have. Time and again. With tavern girls and slave girls—and now an unruly rebel. When will your appetite be satiated?”

“Will you supervise a feast of fish for me tonight? I'm in need of nourishment.”

“Why? Will you be going out? Will you be leaving me here alone?”

“We'll eat early. I have an engagement later.”

“With McClagan, no doubt?”

“Mother …”

“I knew it! Bacchus himself, god of wine and frivolity, never drank himself into a stupor as dense as yours, my son. If you're to see that woman tonight, I'll be by your side, I swear it. Only I can protect you from a destiny of certain doom.”

Buckley began to complain. But, as he pondered the point again, he thought: Why not? Why not allow his mother to see his role in the arrest, the humiliation, and the hanging? Why not finally please the old lady? Why not show her that, when it came to Colleen McClagan, he hadn't been so stupid after all? Together, mother and son would share a satisfying last laugh.

Chapter 9

“It'd be best not to see them before the performance begins,” said Frederick Pall, disguised in the soot-laden clothes of a chimney sweep, to Randall Embleton at four o'clock on the afternoon of the recital.

“You told me that she'd written a new broadside,” the major said, sitting behind his desk, tapping his fingers together, “and promised you'd deliver it. I want it.”

“I mentioned it, but she was reluctant to have it printed now. I sensed a growing suspicion on her part, so I simply left in a hurry. She didn't ask me to print a thing, and I didn't feel it prudent to press the issue. Methinks it's best to leave things as they stand.”

“I want this broadside delivered to me. You have access to the seamstress's house, do you not?”

“Through the cellar, yes.”

“And you know where she keeps her work?”

“By the press.”

“Then you'll retrieve it. Simply wait until they leave for the recital. Buckley's escorting the lot of them. Once they're gone, get me the poem and bring it to my home. Even if Paxton's begun to play, it will make no difference.”

“It's not worth my trouble.”

“You're a mercenary bastard.”

“Mercenary perhaps, but my parents, Loyalists both, were married in the Church of England.”

“How much will it take?”

“Twenty-five pounds sterling.”

“An outrage!”

“Find someone else who has entrée to the McClagan house.”

Embleton knew he had no choice. “Twenty pounds and not a shilling more.”

“I'll accept your offer, but only with the understanding that I won't be able to give you the document in front of the audience at the recital. When word gets out, my life won't be worth a pittance. The murdering rebels will see to that.”

“I'll have a man waiting by the door. Give it to him and he'll get it to me. No one will be any the wiser.”

“He'll get the broadside as soon as he hands me the silver.”

“You'll get your lucre, Pall, but I want that verse. When Paxton is through at the pianoforte, I intend to include this little Sandpiper in our cultural soirée, and I want her complete
oeuvre
, from the earliest lyrics to her most recent. I want this whole bloody city to see that there's absolutely nothing they can hide. I want the devastation to be total.”

Seeing there was no dissuading his benefactor, Pall, still in disguise, left the Old Customs Exchange and wound his way through the streets of Charleston. The evening's performance of
All's Well That Ends Well
had been canceled by Embleton himself, who wanted nothing to compete with the recital. Feeling a bit uneasy that he had to return to the McClagans', the actor spent a few hours reading
Othello
—oh, how he longed to play Iago!—before setting out on his official mission. Packing a small bag with a change of clothes, he wore his chimney sweep disguise as he walked across town to the seamstress's home. A gentle twilight was falling over the captive city as Frederic stopped some fifty yards away from his destination. There he lurked at the corner, where, after a few moments, he witnessed the arrival of Buckley Somerset's splendid carriage. In a few more minutes, they'd all be off and Pall could make his move.

“I think it's ridiculous,” Colleen said to her aunt, “and quite surprising as well.”

“You, of all people,” Rianne retorted. “You're as bad as your own father. What right have you to question
my
escort? What's more, lower your voice before he hears your rude remarks. He's downstairs waiting.”

The women stood in Rianne's bedroom as the seamstress put the final touches on her extravagant wig. It was a master-work, built upon tiers ascending to the sky. The wig was more resemblant of a tower than a hairpiece. Her gown was fashioned from startling orange velvet. Her wrists, neck, and fingers were covered with jangling jewelry. Colleen, in contrast, seemed almost retiring in pale blue. She wore no wig at all, her lustrous hair twisted in a bun atop her head.

“You're nervous,” Rianne told her niece as she applied a final touch of makeup, “and understandably so.”

“I am,” Colleen had to admit. “I couldn't sleep last night, couldn't eat all day, and …”

“Which is precisely why I've asked Billy Hollcork to attend this recital with us. A measure of security will surely …”

“But he hasn't been invited, Aunt Rianne.”

“
I've
been invited, and no doubt would not be expected to attend without benefit of escort.”

“Buckley was to take us all.”

“Mr. Somerset can accompany you and Joy. I prefer to go in Billy's wagon, which, he told me, has been freshly painted and tonight, just for the occasion, will be pulled by both his horses. He's a kind and considerate man, he is, and has been patiently courting me for years. I fear that I've treated him with something less than proper respect, inviting him through the back door, as it were. Well, I've had enough of my own hypocrisy. You're right to think that these are fearful days. We must surround ourselves with friends—people we can truly trust—no matter what the social costs. As far as my fine lady clients are concerned, if they think less of me for befriending a tanner, they can take their business elsewhere. Let them find a seamstress in this war-tom city whose wares compare to mine!”

Colleen listened carefully to her aunt and admired her even more for her strength of character. “Would that I could forgo Buckley and ride to Embleton's with you, Aunt Rianne.”

“You needn't fear. Jason's music will surely calm the boiling blood of these English beasts, at least for this one evening. Let us descend. I think your Mr. Somerset has arrived.”

Hardly able to contain his impatience for the events of this delicious evening to unfold, Buckley had successfully convinced himself that his mother's presence would not be a hindrance. In fact, he thought it a brilliant touch: by bringing Miranda into Rianne's home, the unsuspecting rebels would be thrown off track even more.

If Rianne's wig was a tower, Miranda's resembled a baroque church, a sculpted mass of fabulous curls and dips, a dazzling work of flamboyant art. She walked with Buckley into the seamstress's home, her queenly purple gown trailing behind her. Still not apprised of the true situation by her son—he could never trust her with such delicate information—Miranda saw her role strictly as his protector.

A servant of Rianne's escorted them into the parlor, where Billy Hollcork, whose formidable physical presence came as a shock to Buckley, stood waiting for Rianne in an ill-fitting dark waistcoast.

“Hollcork?” Somerset asked the man who for years had done tanning work for Buckley's grandfather.

“Pleased to see you, Mr. Somerset,” Billy said, taking Buckley's relatively small hand and shaking it with such force that the aristocrat winced in pain.

“What are you doing here?” Somerset asked, not bothering to introduce his mother, who was too preoccupied inspecting what she considered the tawdry furnishings to be offended.

“I'm taking Miss McClagan to the recital.”

“You are, are you?” Buckley commented as he looked over the tall, powerfully built tanner. Somerset's mind raced with questions. Why was Rianne taking this man, this peasant, to the recital with her? It made no sense. But alas, thought Buckley, dressed in an impeccable ensemble of green scarlet-edged wool and sleek red-brown boots, it also made no difference. No doubt Hollcork was part of the rebel clan. Somerset regarded Billy's thick neck and envisioned his massive body swinging from the gallows. The more the merrier.

Minutes later, Rianne, Colleen, and Joy entered the parlor. Surprise registered on the three ladies' faces as they encountered Miranda Somerset, standing erectly, a turquoise-jeweled cane by her side.

“It's been years, Miss McClagan,” Miranda said to Rianne. “When was the last time? Oh, yes. When I commissioned you to make a gown that came out ridiculously wrong.”

“It came out splendidly right, Mrs. Somerset,” the seamstress shot back, “if perhaps a shade too sophisticated for your taste.”

“My son tells me your sophistication has led you to request this gentleman to, shall we say, attend to your needs tonight.” Miranda nodded toward Hollcork, indicating she had heard every word exchanged between Buckley and the tanner.

“Would that your beloved husband could tend to your needs,” Rianne retorted, well familiar with the gossip concerning Buckley's father.

“Husbandless spinsters,” Miranda said, addressing her son, “are notoriously jealous women, prone to acts of moral repugnancy.”

“Frustrated matrons,” Rianne replied, addressing her niece, “are given to foolish redundancies, malicious behavior, and mindless accusations.”

“Seamstress or not,' Miranda quipped, pointing accusingly to the bottom of Rianne's gown, “your petticoats are showing.”

“I'm afraid,” Rianne retorted, “that it's your senility that is showing. Those are not petticoats, but part of the outer garment.”

Joy and Colleen stood watching, spellbound by the confrontation between the two women: Miranda short and tense as a nervous bird; Rianne taller and every bit as feisty. So intense was the animosity that Rianne had forgotten to introduce Joy and Colleen to Billy, which she finally did with apologies to all.