The Power and the Glory (6 page)

“Well, I'm grateful for that.”

His gaze took her in with the same pulse of warmth he had felt when he first met her in Paris back in '78 while in the company of Captain Jones and Benjamin Franklin. And when, weeks later following a performance of
The Barber of Seville
at the Tuilleries, they had first nestled naked on her bed and she had initiated him into the glorious rites of manhood. He had felt that same pulse when, years later, he met her again in Paris, this time under far less romantic circumstances, for he was married and the father of three children, and she was newly widowed. Her husband, Bernard-René de Launay, had several weeks earlier been seized by the mob and dragged off to the place de Grève. There they had held down this royal commander of the Bastille and cut off his head with a dull knife, then jabbed it onto a long pike and paraded it through the streets of the city.

Ruthlessly, relentlessly, the wolves of revolution had stalked his widow and their two daughters, as they did every Parisian of noble blood, and Richard had risked his life to spirit them out of Paris to the French seaport of Lorient, and from there to America on board
Falcon
. During the three-week voyage home, Agreen had served as sailing master and—so chortled the local gossipmongers in Hingham—as chaperone, in alliance with Gertrud, the brawny German woman who had been Anne-Marie's childhood nurse and who now guarded her interests and those of her daughters with fierce maternal tenacity.

“Is Jack here?” he asked, referring to the Boston widower and wealthy merchant who had finally won her hand in marriage after many months of ardent pursuit.

“Yes, somewhere. He's hoping to find time to chat with you. About business, of course. Jack's a dear, but Lord knows, he is
always
about business.” She leaned in close enough to brush off a shred of lint from Richard's white linen neck stock. “Truth be known, Richard, Adele was equally keen to travel here today. She's over there . . . with Will.”

Richard followed her gaze to see his son standing before a girl of his own age and height dressed as simply as her mother and with nearly identical physical attributes. Adele had been born Adélaide de Launay, but when the family reached America her mother had changed her name to sever as cleanly as possible her family ties to France. Beside her
was her younger sister, Frances, née Françoise, equally fetching though somewhat shorter and with straight ginger-colored hair that was shiny as a foal's. Will had his hands in his pockets and was staring down at the ground, looking up occasionally when spoken to or, more rarely, when he was doing the speaking. Jamie was nowhere in sight.

As he watched them Richard recalled his own youth. He had been as awkward and tongue-tied in the company of a pretty girl as Will seemed to be now.

“Diana is around here somewhere,” he said to Anne-Marie, “and will be delighted to see Frances. Tell her to look for a gaggle of prattling girls. Will you be staying over? Katherine and I would be pleased if you would visit us.”

“We'd love to, but Jack wants to return to Boston before it gets dark. For reasons of business, you understand.” She gave him a rueful look.

Richard nodded. “Some other time, then.”

“Absolutely. Adele will insist on it.”

They both smiled at that. Their eyes locked during a brief moment of silence that was broken only by background laughter and chatter. Richard's mind whirled with questions he longed to ask. Was Anne-Marie happy? Were her daughters adjusting to life in America? And how was Gertrud? He had heard that she was not well. But he never seemed to have either the courage or the occasion to ask them. Why, he had often wondered, was it so difficult for him to talk to Anne-Marie now? Was it because he somehow felt responsible for her fortunes in America? It was he who had convinced her to flee her adopted country and sail away with him to Boston. Was the state of her marriage to Jack Endicott, good or bad, somehow a reflection on him? Or was his reluctance something darker, the underside of jealousy, perhaps, envy of a man who now possessed what had once been so blissfully his? Whatever the reason, words failed him, and he felt a mixture of relief and frustration when her eyes shifted away from him.

“Please excuse my bad manners, Agee,” Anne-Marie said. “How are you? And how is your dear wife? I understand that you two are expecting a child.”

Agreen doffed his tricorne hat. “Yes, ma'am, we are. In just a few weeks' time.”

“That's wonderful. I am so happy for you, Agee. May God watch over you and your family.” She gave him an amused look. “And may God grant me my most ardent wish, that someday you will call me Anne-Marie, rather than ‘ma'am.'”

“Yes, ma'am,” Agreen replied, grinning.

Just then a great roar of applause rose up from around the platform. They turned to see a rather short, stubby man of advancing years approaching the much taller and more robust Benjamin Lincoln. The shorter man was dressed in a plain suit of light brown cloth, a bottle-green waistcoat, and a white shirt and neck stock. His round head was bald on top, though sprouting out from its sides were thick mounds of gray hair and sideburns flecked with white. Nothing about him, however, suggested either frailty or aloofness as he waved out at a crowd pushing in from all sides.

“Who is that, Richard?” Anne-Marie asked. “Why all the ado?”

“That's our president,” Katherine Cutler answered. She had walked up alongside her husband and slipped her arm proprietarily through his. “Hello, Anne-Marie,” she said just a shade too sweetly. “How nice to see you. Richard didn't tell me that you were coming today.”

“Hello, Katherine. It's nice to see you too. You look lovely, as always. And don't blame Richard for anything. I didn't tell him we would be here. It was Jack's idea. He so enjoys talking commerce and always appreciates an opportunity to pester Richard about it.”

“I see. Will you be staying long?”

“Alas, no. We must take our leave shortly. Jack needs to return to Boston.”

“What a pity,” Katherine said, smiling graciously.

The applause eased as Benjamin Lincoln offered an introduction that was hardly necessary. John Adams was a Braintree man, a South Shore man.

“We should move in closer,” Katherine said. “To hear what Mr. Adams has to say and to pay our respects to Mrs. Adams. Caleb and Pappy are there already,” she added, using the family nickname for Thomas Cutler.

“I agree. Will you join us, Anne-Marie? Agee?”

“You three go ahead,” Anne-Marie said. “I'll find Jack and then we'll join you.” She bowed slightly to Katherine and sent Richard a mischievous twinkle before parting.

 

“RICHARD, YOU SHOULD HAVE WARNED me about Anne-Marie. You know how much I hate being caught unaware.”

They were in their bedroom on the second floor of their home on South Street. Richard had taken off his waistcoat and neck stock and had cracked open the window to admit the cool autumn air. From outside
they could hear a dog bark, but other than that only the small nighttime sounds of the village broke the silence.

“How could I have told you when I didn't know, Katherine? I haven't seen Anne-Marie in weeks. She doesn't inform me of her every intention.”

“Surely you suspected she might be here.”

“As no doubt you did. Besides, you heard her. Coming here was Jack's idea . . . and Adele's.”

“Adele? What does she have to do with this?”

“Apparently she has eyes for Will.”

Katherine threw up her arms. “Oh, wonderful. That's just perfect. That's exactly what we need!”

Richard lit a second candle from the one he had carried into the room and came over to where Katherine stood with her arms crossed firmly over her chest. He set the candle on the table next to the bed and gripped his wife gently by the shoulders.

“Come now, Katherine. Why do you always get unhinged when Anne-Marie's name is mentioned? She means you no harm. She has told me many times that she wants to be your friend.”

“Oh posh, Richard! Those are just words. They mean nothing. Even a dullard can see that she still has feelings for you. I heard people tittering and twittering behind my back all afternoon—the same sort of blather I hear every time Anne-Marie appears. Which is far too often for my taste.”

“You're making a haystack from a blade of grass, Katherine. It's just good-natured fun. Our friends and neighbors mean no harm or insult to you.”

“It may be just good-natured fun to you and Agreen and General Lincoln. But I assure you it's not good-natured fun to me. Too many people around here are having too much
fun
at my expense.”

“Busybodies like that live in every town. They have nothing to crow about in their own lives and so they inquire into the lives of others, hoping to find the excitement that they lack. Pay them no mind.” He leaned in to kiss her. She let him, though she placed her palms flat against his chest, denying him full access. “Besides,” he soothed, “have you quite forgotten your own past affairs? What about the legions of handsome young men who paid court to you in Fareham? One of them, a Royal Navy captain—remind me, what was his name? Ah, yes, Horatio Nelson, that's it—was so entranced by your charms that he asked you to
marry him. And I seem to recall that you accepted his entreaty.” He kissed her again.

“That is
not
a fair comparison,” she protested hotly. “Horatio and I may have been betrothed, but we never allowed our relationship to . . .
progress
the way yours apparently did with Anne-Marie.”

“That was years ago, Katherine. I was young and impressionable, and her country and mine were not at war with each other. If anything, you should thank Anne-Marie. She made me realize once and for all where my heart truly lies. Remind me: was it not
you
I begged to marry me?”

She blinked once, sighed, and blinked again. Slowly she slid her hands from his chest to his hips.

“You have a glib tongue, Mr. Cutler, I'll give you that. But don't you go getting smug on me. I still . . .” She looked down. “Here, what are you doing?”

“I am undressing you, Mrs. Cutler, as you can plainly see.” He was loosening button under button on the front of her dress. When he had them all undone, he eased the bodice from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “Since my kisses aren't having the desired effect, I find I must resort to stiffer measures.”

She suppressed a smile. “The children . . .”

“Are in bed. If they're not asleep, their doors are closed.” He scooped her up in his arms and carried her over to their four-poster bed. “So if just this once you could temper those rock-shivering moans of yours, no one will be the wiser.”

As he stretched her out on top of the red-and-yellow-checkered bedspread and began removing the remainder of her clothing, she reached in as best she could to undo the buttons of his trousers. “Richard Cutler,” she murmured, “you are a wicked man. Satan will strike you down.”

“No doubt he will, my lady,” Richard murmured in reply. He slid her last line of defense down her long, slender legs and tossed the cotton undergarment aside. Quickly he peeled off his own clothing. “And when he does, I shall rejoice in the certainty that I will be spending eternity with you.” He gave her an arch look before delving into the garden of delight planted there before him.

Baltimore, Maryland November 1797

“T
ILGHMAN ISLAND, SIR, closing to larboard. Shall I tack her around?” Caught daydreaming, Richard Cutler cursed under his breath. It was the last thing he should be doing while sailing in these ever-narrowing waters. But as
Elizabeth
approached Maryland's Eastern Shore on a close haul, Richard's mind had been swamped by memories of a man with whom he had served on board
Bonhomme Richard
during the war. A Londoner by birth, a naval gunner by trade, Henry Sawyer had come over from the British side vowing that when the war was over he would leave behind everything bad in his life in Southwark and swallow the anchor somewhere among the eelgrass and cattails of the Choptank River. Sadly, it was not to be. Early on during the battle with HMS
Serapis
in the North Sea, Henry Sawyer's dream of living out his days as a Marylander died the instant an 18-pounder on the lower deck misfired and exploded into shards of scalding iron.

Richard glanced down at the chart cradled in his lap. “Give it another half-cable, Mr. Wadsworth,” he called back from the mainmast chains. “The water is deep close in, eight fathoms at a minimum.”

“Another half-cable, aye, Captain.”

Richard rose and walked slowly forward past duck-trousered sailors making ready to ease off the jib sheets and lay the sloop on a northwesterly course toward the old colonial capital of Annapolis, a town made rich by the slave trade.

It was a bracing November day. A brisk northwesterly breeze persisted, but it carried little of the blustery cold it had when Richard had departed Hingham in the single-masted topsail sloop a few days earlier.
Elizabeth
was one of the smaller vessels in the Cutler merchant fleet, yet built seaworthy enough to withstand foul weather. He gripped the forestay and gazed out upon the thick woodland splendor of Tilghman Island and beyond, across the wide mouth of the Choptank River past Cook Point. He had been in the Chesapeake Bay before, back in '81 during the siege of Yorktown, but the demands of war had kept him along its southern perimeter from Cape Charles to the Potomac. Never had he ventured this far north, and what he had seen thus far confirmed the lore of a place that bordered on legend for both mariners and lubbers: a coastline laced with peninsulas, coves, and inlets where fresh and salt water converged to provide excellent anchorage and hauls of bounty for the fleets of oystermen, crabbers, and other watermen who worked these tidal estuaries. Geese, gulls, ducks, osprey, and terns abounded, swooping low over the water or soaring high above in flawless V formations, their calls at once piercing and pleasing to the ear.