The Rebels: The Kent Family Chronicles (56 page)

Gil looked genuinely concerned as he returned the book to his pocket. “If you abandon your enterprise, what will you do?”

Philip shrugged. “I might have a stab at a different trade. In another city.”

“Printing is all you know!”

“That’s true. But without Anne, I’ve damned little heart for it.”

“My friend, it saddens me to see you grieving so deeply,” Gil said. “It makes you sound like an old man at twenty-five.”

“Twenty-six. That’s about half an average lifetime, don’t forget.”

“Still, you talk like a veritable ancient. I’ve been only a week in Boston, but I’ve noticed it almost constantly. A change since we last saw each other—a distinct and unhappy change.”

“I’ll remind you that any new business is taxing. Especially when you wonder if you should continue with it. I wasn’t aware of sounding ancient, however.”

Sensitive to Philip’s sarcasm, Gil veered the subject slightly:

“I was quite impressed by your shop, I might say.”

“Over and above the gamble on the book, I have to fight like the devil to get orders. Old Rothman’s a fine gentleman, though. He’s used all of his contacts to help me. But other people would pay him much more than I do for the loft space. So he’s pressing me about a lease. Gently, but pressing nevertheless.”

“The chandler is the father of the young man from your mess, am I not correct?”

“Yes. Royal’s still with the army—”

Philip sat down on a stone fence, folding his hands around his knee. It seemed to him that he heard drumming in the sunshine; distant drumming. Voices crying
“Push on—!”

He shivered. But the illusions refused to depart. He heard Anne’s laughter—

He searched for the spot where he’d rowed to their very first picnic. Centuries ago, it seemed. Melancholy, his eyes lingered on the strip of beach.

“Philip, you mustn’t think of giving up so quickly,” Gil said suddenly. “I venture Kent’s will prosper if you only give it time.”

“I’m fearful no one can really prosper till we have peace again. And the war goes on.”

“Ah, but in our favor! Such a change since a year ago! The splendid Colonel Clark’s victories—both British posts in the northwest taken, and that perfidious Hamilton forced to surrender at Vincennes! Captain Paul Jones sailing his
Ranger
into Whitehaven in England and spiking the very guns of their fort! Now the rumors of conciliation attempts being undertaken by Lord North—let us hope the Paris commissioners stand fast. Nothing short of independence. Full independence!”

Philip rubbed his right leg absently. “They’d better not settle for anything less. Thank God for the French, anyway. Without your country, we wouldn’t have a fraction of the negotiating power that we do now.”

It was true; especially since the preceding December, when King Louis XVI’s council had elected to recognize the United States as a fully independent nation.

“So it is a bright picture!” Gil said with false cheer. “And I hope to brighten it more by taking this leave and returning to Paris. I am going personally to the king, to request a larger fleet, additional troops—believe me, Philip, it is only a matter of time before the war is decided in America’s favor. Of course, until it happens, there will continue to be pulling and hauling on both sides—”

“They
have
captured Savannah. And they seem to be mounting a campaign down south.”

“Yes, but Clinton’s strategy is most interesting. More important, I believe it is significant.”

“I honestly haven’t paid that much attention—”

“Since Monmouth Court House, the British have not committed an entire army to the field anywhere. I think they scent stalemate or defeat in the wind—just as I scent victory. If not this year, then within twenty-four months. Thirty-six at most. I’d wager on it.”

“I hope you’re right”

“France’s entrance into the war has turned this to a global struggle. The sort of struggle England can least afford. We are harassing her from the Indies to the Indian Ocean. She can no longer give full attention to you rebellious Americans—”

Gil’s jab at his friend’s shoulder, lightly delivered, produced no response. Nor did another forced smile. Philip continued to stare moodily at the sunlit hills, the ships at anchor, the raw buildings of the new Charlestown rising where the old one had burned.

Gil perched on the stone fence alongside Philip, frowning now:

“I begged General Washington’s permission to sail from Boston in part because I wanted to see you, my friend. I’m afraid I almost regret doing so.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I wouldn’t pretend I’ve been in the best spirits since I came home last summer.”

“One cannot mourn forever, Philip.”

Philip didn’t answer.

Gil sighed, tried to start the one-sided conversation on yet another tack:

“I would like to see the remains of the redoubt where you fought.”

Philip raised a listless hand. “There.”

“You won’t come with me?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Damme, you are a gloomy one!” Gil indicated the small figure scuttling across the sunny landscape. “If you have no thought for yourself, have a thought for that child. You’ll pardon me for saying so—” Philip glanced around sharply, hearing the echo of Mrs. Brumple. “—but sometimes you treat him as if he were some Hessian’s brat instead of your own son.”

“I told you, Gil, I have a lot to do these days. For one thing, I’m rushing to finish a circular to promote the Paine book in other cities.”

“Yet at the same time, you are uncertain whether it’s worth the effort!”

Philip said nothing.

“No wonder the boy suffers,” Gil murmured.

Philip jerked his head up, defensive again:

“Mrs. Brumple is a very adequate housekeeper. She feeds Abraham—sees to his clothing, his naps—he doesn’t want for anything. Our—” The unconsidered word seemed to bring a shadow across Philip’s eyes. “—our investment in the privateers paid off handsomely. Of course much of it’s tied up in equipment and loft rental and the new book. But I’ll always make sure there’s enough left for Abraham’s needs.”

“His material needs. A woman you have hired as your housekeeper is no substitute for a father’s attentions and affections.”

Philip rose quickly.

“Did you come here to see the redoubt or to lecture me, Gil?”

Gil flushed. “The former. Again I beg you to excuse my impertinence.”

Philip sighed. “If you’ll excuse my temper. It must be obvious that I’m having trouble with it lately.”

Gil asked softly, “With the boy?”

“With everyone.”

The admission was a hard one, but truthful. The months since he’d come home from the camp at Haverstraw Bay had been confused, hectic—and miserable. Everything he had confessed to the young marquis he felt twice as deeply inside:

Once, he had looked forward to every step involved in establishing his business. The purchasing of two second-hand presses—the hiring of two devils—the long hours spent meeting delivery deadlines on his first hard-won orders for handbills and broadsides all seemed devoid of the joy he’d anticipated from the days when he first caught the excitement of the printing trade at the Sholto shop in London.

Reality, somehow, hadn’t matched his expectations. Without Anne to share it, his life was nothing more than a succession of tiresome days and fretful nights. It was an emotional strain to make his frequent visits to the cemetery in Watertown, though he felt he had no choice.

He’d erected a headstone in Watertown, alongside the one marking the resting place of Anne’s father. He’d erected it even though no mortal remains would ever fill the grave—

Gil had been eyeing his friend speculatively for several moments. Now, finally, he jumped to his feet.

“Philip, I regret to say I must renege on one arrangement we made.”

Philip’s dark eyes narrowed. “What arrangement?”

“My promise to take your letter to your father the duke, and see to its smuggling across the Channel to England.”

That, at last, got a strong reaction:

“You promised to do it! I haven’t written him in a couple of years—”

“Yes, I realize that. However—” Gil pursed his lips, shrugged. “—you are not precisely being a cordial companion. I frankly resent being treated in such boorish fashion.”

For a moment Philip believed his friend was wholly serious. Then he saw the faintly mocking gleam in Gil’s hazel eyes. He didn’t immediately comprehend the reason for it, though.

“Here I am,” Gil continued, “faced with my final night in America—my ship due to sail shortly after sunrise—and I will go to this very fine late supper which has been arranged in my honor, but the whole evening will be spoiled by memories of my friend’s glum spirits.”

“If this is some elaborate joke, Gil, I fail to understand it. I’m not trying to ruin your damn supper party!”

“Never mind—just take my word, you have. I cannot do a service for someone who treats me so shabbily. However—” He arched his brows, studying the slow-sailing clouds. “—if, for example, you were to show your sincere interest in my well-being—”

“How?”

“By accompanying me tonight.”

“What?”

“I said I would like you to accompany me to the supper party.”

“Out of the question.”

“You’re engaged?”

“There’s a cracked leg on one of my presses. I planned to go back to the loft yet this afternoon and start on the repair. I imagine it’ll take me a good part of the evening—”

“Ah, pouf! Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“I’ve got to finish that blasted circular!”

“You are inventing excuses,” Gil declared with an airy wave.

“That’s not so, I—”

“Why bother with repairs and circulars if you intend to give up your trade?”

“I haven’t definitely decided to do that—”

“But you’re thinking about it. So neither repairs nor advertisements are that urgent. Besides,” Gil hurried on as Philip started to protest again, “there’s a practical reason for my desiring your company. The kind family issuing the invitation to me has also included another guest. A young woman who is the niece of my host’s wife. Since I am a married man, the host and hostess have arranged for my partner for the evening to be a grand dame quite advanced in years. Some antique relative of Mr. Hancock’s, I believe. But the other lady I mentioned—a young widow—is thus far without a suitable compan—wait, wait, hear me out!”

Philip had limped off along the stone fence to stare at the cloud-dappled sky.

Gil rushed after him, still speaking in that light, half-mocking tone:

“You needn’t curdle up so! You might enjoy an evening of feminine companionship.”

Gazing obliquely at Philip to see if he’d piqued his curiosity, Gil waited. Philip merely scowled. Gil went on in spite of it:

“The young woman is from Virginia. Her name is McLean. According to my host, she is pretty and quite intelligent. To have dinner with her, while possibly a pleasant diversion, should not be construed as an attempt at matchmaking, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

It was, in part, but Philip didn’t admit it, saying instead:

“Hauling a stranger along, Gil—that’s ridiculous.”

“Let me decide that, please. Will you go?”

“No, of course I won’t go. I doubt the lady would care to have someone like me for a partner. I mean—” He spread his fingers downward to indicate his right leg. His mouth twisted in an ugly way. “—I’d hardly cut a fine figure dancing.”

“There is to be no dancing. But your concern is revealing. I’ve suspected you were overly anxious about your injury. You probably pay it more heed than anyone else would.”

“I
am
a cripple.”

Gil shrugged again. “You are if you think you are. It is that simple, I believe.”

“To you.”

“So you definitely will not go?”

“I’ve already answered that.”

“In other words, you reject your friend and his interest in you?”

Philip uttered a long sigh. “If you insist on putting it that way, yes.”

“Very well. I shall have my secretary return your letter to the duke.”

“Damme, you promised—”

“Ah, but I have my price.”

“Lectures, supper invitations—
what the hell is this all about?”

Suddenly the Marquis de Lafayette grew completely sober-faced. He looked much older than his years as he laid a compassionate hand on Philip’s arm.

“It is about you, my friend. It is about your life, which must go on even though your beloved wife’s has ended.”

Gil spun and thrust one hand toward Abraham scampering on the sunlit hilltop in the distance.

“Will you consign him to misery the remainder of his days just so you can revel in it too? I think that is decidedly short-sighted. And selfish. Earlier, I tried to suggest that every grief must have an end. You paid no attention—”

“My wife
died
because I was away when I should have been
here!”

“Why
should you have been here? Explain to me exactly—why? You professed belief in the army’s purpose, did you not? You pledged yourself to that purpose, did you not? You committed yourself to helping deliver this new nation into freedom—freedom for each man to choose his own path without consulting kings or ministers. I am a foreigner, but I have the distinct impresssion that what has happened in this country in the last few years now means more to me than it does to you!”

“That’s a damned lie. I believe it was. worthwhile to—”

“Faugh, you do not believe it was worthwhile at all. Otherwise you would not throw it all away.”

“Throw
what
away, for Christ’s sake?”

“The future that has been and is being so dearly and preciously won! You make a mockery of the struggle. You no longer care about the future! Oh, you run about pretending to be busy—you substitute frantic motion for authentic purpose—but you’ve admitted you’ve lost hope—abandoned yourself to wallowing in grief—even reached the brink of throwing away the career you once hoped to create for yourself in this country! If all of that weren’t so, you’d clearly see, for example, that your behavior is creating an irreparable gulf between yourself and that boy. No, don’t deny it—I saw how he looked at you a few minutes ago! In twenty years you’ll have no son worthy of inheriting what you’ve begun, because what you’ve begun is already disappearing in apathy and bitterness. Your son’s love will have disappeared too—and no doubt your son himself, when he’s old enough to flee the moody creature who’s a father in name only! I repeat, do not argue—I am not finished!” Gil cried, cheeks scarlet now.