The Last Refuge (26 page)

Melody wore a coral gown in a similar design. My descent into the spring house to look after Alex had ruined the blue gown I'd planned to loan Amy, so Melody and I were lacing her into my blue ruffled gown instead.

I extracted one of the birds, a robin, from the aviary I carried on my head and stuck it into Amy's wig, adjusting it so that it seemed to be peeking out of a curl just over her left ear. ‘There, perfect!' And indeed she was. In that gown, and with that flawless face, Amy would send any colonial swain into a deep swoon.

I hoped Paul was immune.

I dusted a little more powder around my shoulders and puffed some into my cleavage. ‘Done!'

At four o'clock, the appointed hour, Jeffrey rang a bell summoning us to the entrance hall. All day, I'd been hoping for a message from Founding Father, informing me that Drew Cornell had been found. At first I thought the bell might be heralding a courier, but no. It simply announced that our coach was waiting outside the gate. Amy, Michael and French would have to walk the two short blocks to the State House, but Jack Donovan's socially-prominent family would be transported in style. The other servants – Karen, Dex and Jeffrey – would not be attending the ball at all. Bonfires had been built on the back campus of nearby St John's College for all the slaves, indentured servants and other ‘lower classes' where food and an unlimited supply of punch would be provided both before and after a colorful fireworks display.

Our beautiful coach, Jack Donovan informed me as he escorted me down the walk, had been modeled on one Robert Carter had imported from London for Nomini Hall in 1774. On loan from Colonial Williamsburg, the coach had a black roof, while the doors were painted pea green. It rode on four golden wheels, the rear wheels considerably bigger than the front, and was driven by a liveried groom who sat atop the left hand horse, one of a pair of gorgeous grays. Mist filled my eyes, and I had to blink it away. I was walking into an Arthur Rackham illustration.

As I leaned down to gather up my skirts before climbing into the coach, Jack's eyes drifted to my cleavage.

I was tempted to smack him once upside the head.
Shove those eyes back in your head
,
buster. These boobs
,
such as they are
,
are already spoken for
, but I gritted my teeth, forced a smile, slipped my gloved hand into his, and stepped up into the coach.

Melody scooted in beside me, bouncing on the leather seat. ‘This is totally awesome!'

‘Awe-some,' echoed her brother.

Jack had one foot on the step and was about to launch himself into the coach when he suddenly reversed direction, planting both silver-buckled shoes firmly on the curb. ‘What the hell?'

I stuck my head out the coach window. A rider on horseback was clattering down Prince George Street, heading our way, hell bent for leather. When he reached the coach, the rider pulled his mount up short and leaped from the saddle, leaving the reins to dangle in the dust on the pavement. ‘A message for Mrs Ives,' he panted.

‘I'll take that.' Jack reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a coin. ‘Thank you,' he said, and handed the coin to the breathless messenger who pocketed it, remounted, and rode away at a more leisurely pace.

I climbed over Melody's voluminous skirts and scrambled out of the coach. ‘May I have it, sir?'

Jack turned the message over in his hand, studying it curiously. ‘It's from Founding Father,' he informed me unnecessarily. I could tell that from the distinctive red seal.

I extended my hand, and Jack laid the message on it. Without hesitation, I tore open the seal and read, ‘Drew Cornell taken into custody outside your home. No harm done.' The note was signed simply, ‘Jud.'

Hand pressed to my chest to calm my racing heart, I took a deep breath.

‘Is everything all right, madam?' Jack inquired with a look of genuine concern.

I folded the note, tucked it into my pocket and smiled. ‘Everything is fine, Mr Donovan.' I offered him my hand. ‘Shall we proceed to the ball?'

Back inside the carriage, sitting next to Jack and opposite Melody and Gabe, I relaxed against the cushions as the horses clip-clopped up Prince George Street and turned right on Maryland Avenue, heading straight for the State House. As we approached our destination, I noticed that LynxE had provided coaches for some of the other VIPs, too. One after another, the horses clattered around the circle, drew to a halt at the foot of the State House's steep stone staircase, and disgorged their opulently attired passengers. Shortly after we alighted, a golden chariot pulled up carrying the superintendant of the Naval Academy. While the uniformed driver controlled the horses, a footman hopped off the rear to assist the Admiral and his wife. An open landau arrived next, then a small, two-seater chaise. It was a regular
Who's Who
of eighteenth-century modes of transportation, including guests arriving on horseback and on foot.

‘Did all the carriages come from Colonial Williamsburg?' I asked Jack as I rested my hand on his forearm and we climbed the staircase that led into the building.

‘So they tell me.'

I'd been to the State House on several occasions, but for my companions, who had come to Annapolis from out of town, it was a revelation. ‘Ooooh,' said Melody when we stepped into the great hall. Tall columns lined both sides of the shotgun-style hall, and the geometric arrangement of black and white tiles accentuated its length.

‘We're in the rotunda,' I told her. ‘Look up.'

Steadying our wigs, we gazed up into the dome, still brightly lit by the sun, where a replica of the flag of the Continental Congress was draped.

‘Madam?' A liveried slave held his hand out for my cloak. I untied it, and while Jack was lifting it off my shoulders, I moved further into the hall.

The music had already begun, but I couldn't see the musicians. ‘Harpsichord, violin and flute, I think, don't you, Jack?' But he had already taken off with Gabe, joining a group of gentleman standing on the side of the hall near the grand staircase over which hung, I knew, the famous portrait of George Washington resigning his commission as commander-in-chief of the Contenental Army, back when Annapolis had actually been the capitol of the United States of America.

Melody executed a pirouette, taking in the view. She pointed. ‘Oh, look! The musicians are sitting up in the balcony.' Gliding, as if on wheels, she drifted toward the room immediately on our right where a sumptuous banquet had been prepared.

Formerly the Old Senate Chamber where George Washington had actually resigned that December day in 1783, the room – painted a violent shade of blue – had been undergoing restoration. For the event, construction had been temporarily halted and the room furnished with three long tables, covered with white linen, literally sagging under the weight of an enormous variety of ‘cold collations,' including oysters on the half shell, sliced meats of every variety, whole fish, pickled eggs, breads, dumplings, cakes and pies, as well as several dozen dishes that I didn't recognize, at least not from a distance.

Taking pride of place on a raised platform on the other side of the room sat something much more recognizable: a punch bowl, nestled amid a sea of short, squat glasses.

Candelabra stood everywhere: some illuminating the tables; others, tall as coat trees, lined both walls of the hall that would serve as the ballroom for the evening. As we wandered down its length, nodding and smiling at other guests, two slaves appeared with long-necked candle lighters, touching the flame to each of the wicks, even though sunset was well over an hour away.

‘This is like a high school dance, isn't it?' Melody observed as I was poking my nose into a room to our left, which had been set up with a half-dozen card tables.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Girls on one side of the room, boys on the other. How lame.' She rose on tiptoe, waved. ‘Look, there's Amy!'

I motioned for Amy to join us. I opened my mouth to tell her what I'd learned from Jud about Drew, but just then, the dancing began and the opportunity passed. A dozen couples took to the floor, and to the strains of Bach's Minuet in G, bowed to the audience and to each other, and began the elegant dance.

The rest of the audience – women on one side and men on the other as Melody had pointed out – simply observed, commenting from time to time on the performance of the dancers as if it were an Olympic event: ‘Ooops, she slipped up there. Should have been a right hand turn,' or, ‘Who taught him to dance? The football coach?'

As we watched, slaves began making rounds with trays of punch. Amy took a glass when it was offered to her, and I was considering reaching for one, too, when Jack suddenly materialized at my side and snagged one for me as the slave cruised by. He held up a finger to the man – wait! – and snagged a second glass for himself.

‘May I have one, too, Papa?' Melody asked with a smile to melt the coldest heart.

Jack considered his daughter, no doubt taking in the dress, the wig, the makeup and the undeniable fact that his little girl was nearly a woman, and handed Melody his glass. When the slave came around again, he got another for himself.

We remained on the sidelines, sipping, watching the dancing, and all the time I was thinking, where the hell is Paul? In the meantime, I couldn't seem to get rid of Jack.

Out on the floor, the dancers took a final bow and drifted off the dance floor, the ladies fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with lace handkerchiefs, although I couldn't imagine what had been so strenuous about the leisurely dance they had just performed. Almost immediately, another minuet began and Jack asked me to dance. I couldn't graciously refuse, so I nodded, took his hand, and let him lead me out onto the floor, smiling at me all the way in a proprietary way that gave me the willies.

We bowed to the audience and to each other, traced a Z-pattern on the floor, touched hands, and circled around as Alex had taught us. Jack's face was flushed, as usual, his brow beaded with sweat.

Paul! I need you!
I longed for my husband to approach, tap Jack on the shoulder and say, ‘Excuse me, may I cut in?' but that kind of dance etiquette wasn't invented until the middle of the First World War, so I was out of luck.

At the end of the dance, we bowed to each other and to the audience, then Jack escorted me back to the sidelines where Amy had been watching. ‘Not bad, Jack,' Amy said, then clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, sir.'

‘Whew!' I said, snapping open my fan and putting it to good use. ‘Who knew a minuet could be so strenuous?' I didn't want Jack to think I was ready for another spin around the floor. Fanning furiously, I looked around for the children. ‘Where's Melody? And Gabe?'

Amy pointed with the tip of her fan. Standing with Melody on the sidelines on the other side of the dance floor was a youth I recognized as one of the homeschoolers that augmented Michael's classes at Patriot House. Judging from the hot-eyed looks the teens were exchanging, and the redness of the boy's ears, I thought that Cowboy Tim back in Texas might well be history.

‘What's that young man's name?' I asked her.

‘That's Jason.'

‘Nice lad.' Jack drew himself to attention, pointed out one of his cronies from Middleton Tavern and said, ‘Excuse me, Mrs Ives, but I see someone I need to talk to.'

I couldn't imagine what they had to discuss – it was all make-believe, wasn't it? – but I was glad to get rid of him for the moment. Besides, in spite of the reassuring message from Jud, I was getting really worried about Paul. Had something gone wrong?

‘Have you seen my husband, Amy?'

‘Hannah, I have never met your husband.'

I felt my face redden. ‘Of course you haven't. Well, if you see a handsome, elderly-statesman type wandering around looking lost, that's probably Paul. In the meantime, I'm going to take a look around.'

‘Don't worry about me, Hannah. Michael and French arrived a few minutes ago. I think they're exploring the card room, so I'll catch up with them there.'

I began my search in the banquet room, selecting a few olives from a bowl on the table, popping them into my mouth, and then wondering what I was going to do with the pits. I began looking around for a receptacle. Sitting in the far corner of the room, almost invisible in the gloom and partially hidden by a curtain, I nearly stumbled over Gabe, head bowed, his knees pulled up to his chest.

‘Gabe! What are you doing hiding over there?'

‘Why can't I go to the bonfire with Dex?' he whined. ‘This place is booooring!'

‘As your father probably explained, it's because you are a young gentleman, and Dex is supposed to be a slave boy. Slave boys didn't get to come to dances, unless they were working.'

His lower lip quivered, but he held himself together. ‘That totally sucks.'

‘I totally agree with you, Gabriel, but that's the way it was back then.'

Gabe had something in his hand. As I drew closer, he tucked it behind his back.

‘What do you have there, Gabe?'

His eyes were wide, innocent. ‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

He stared at me in silence.

I held out my hand. ‘Let me see.'

Reluctantly, with exaggerated slowness, Gabe drew out his hand. ‘It's an iPod Touch,' he told me. ‘I'm playing Angry Birds.'

An iPod. The little devil. ‘I thought you turned your iPod in?'

‘I did, Mrs Ives, honest. I found this one.'

‘You found it? Where did you find it?'

‘In a china pot in your room. When you were sick? Remember?'

Truthfully, except for extended conversations with long-dead French philosophers, I had very little recollection of what happened during my extended bout with the dreaded H3N2 virus. I held out my hand. ‘Give it to me, please.'