Touch the Sun (37 page)

Perfect, thought Meagan. Thank God for little Wong and his unremarkable taste in clothes! In the black suit, white stockings, and buckled shoes, she cut the ideal figure of a dullwitted, adolescent groom. No one would give her a second glance.

She sauntered around the room a few times, marveling at how wonderful it felt to be back in breeches. How could she have borne the sidesaddle these past weeks? Perhaps Lion would consent to a hard ride in the country; it would be glorious to sit properly on Heaven's back!

Wong's clothing had been confiscated while the butler was busy upstairs, and Meagan shuddered at the thought of discovery. No possible explanation would placate him.

So she had left word for Lion to fetch her at her room; together they would be able to escape safely from the house. At that moment, his familiar knock sounded, and after one last jaunty glance in the mirror, Meagan went to meet him.

It was a rare treat to see Lion so nonplussed. Giggling softly, she pulled him in and closed the door.

"Do you like it?" she inquired, pirouetting on the toe of one buckled shoe. "I'll allow that Wong and I may not curve in quite the same places, but the fit will do."

Lion continued to look dazed. "Meagan—"

"I know, I am a genius!"

"You are mad! Look at you! Breeches!"

"Well, honestly, you act as though I am some sort of freak! Women do have legs, you know, just like men."

"Come over here."

She could see a glint in his eyes that betrayed admiration and pure delight. Her own happiness was such that she stood still and continued to beam as he ran lean hands over her hips, then under the jacket. His touch was warm through the fabric of her shirt, almost causing her to forget to draw back before he reached her breasts.

But Lion was quicker. "For God's sake, Meagan, what have you done to yourself?"

"Well, boys don't have... those—do they?" she argued defensively. "It's a costume, after all, and it should be authentic."

Lion raked a hand through his hair. "This is utter madness! There is not another woman alive who would cheerfully garb herself in breeches, let alone—"

"I'm not any other woman. I am me. If I am odd, then so be it."

"Oh, Meagan," he groaned, feeling his lips twitch helplessly at the sight of her.

"It will be fun! An adventure! Please, don't scold me anymore. If we are going to do all that you planned, we must be off, so let's not waste another moment." She dashed back for one last appraisal in the mirror, adding as she pulled down her hat, "You must go and scout the rear hallway, Lion. It wouldn't do for me to bump into Wong!"

* * *

And so it went. Every morning, Meagan donned her groom's disguise and she and Lion combed the shops of Philadelphia until all the furnishings for Markwood Villa were chosen. The simple pleasure of shopping was transformed into an adventure by Meagan's masquerade. There was always the chance that someone would look too closely at her face or that she would forget to deepen her voice—a practice which gave Lion great amusement—or that he would thoughtlessly embrace her. His own role became crucial to the success of hers, for he had to remember to treat her as he would Joshua. Considering his feelings and a strong physical attraction that persisted no matter what clothing Meagan wore, this was a tall order.

The conspiracy brought them closer together than ever. In the evening, Meagan would take unusual pains with her appearance; she never wore the same gown twice, and her skin glowed from the scrubbing it received. No longer were her curls pinned up helter-skelter; in fact, she arranged them over and over and never felt satisfied with the results. It was as though she needed to remind Lion regularly that in spite of her fondness for breeches, she was still very much a female.

Lion needed no reminding. He burned night and day with desire and was somewhat astonished at his newly discovered control. Unable to leave her side, he virtually ignored Priscilla and dined at home, yet wondered why he subjected himself to such unceasing torment. Meagan seemed to be unaware of his agony, obviously expecting him to behave since he had given his promise. No longer wary, she happily shared his company, and Lion marveled that all the other aspects of their relationship were enough in themselves to compensate for not only the absence of physical communication but his own accompanying painful yearnings.

Even during the day, the sight of her piquant face under that ridiculous hat made him long to lift her up and kiss her. Each moment they were together reminded him of moments past; the abandon of her response when her control was washed away, the sweetness of her lips, the satiny warmth of the body now constantly hidden, the thump of her heart against his chest. The days of denial drove him mad, yet he could not bring himself to leave the cause of his suffering any more than he could break his promise to her. He guessed, rightly, that she would not have refused him a simple kiss, but Lion knew that after one taste there would be no turning back.

The first week of April was gone before Markwood Villa's purchases were complete. Only the master bedchamber remained to be filled, a task Meagan had purposely postponed. Priscilla's furnishings had been difficult enough, but Lion had casually refrained from mentioning the room's future occupant when they picked out the new Hepplewhite four-poster and its various accessories. There was no way to camouflage the purchase of his own bed, however, and Meagan was tortured throughout by images in her mind of Priscilla curled up on it, her head resting on Lion's hard brown chest. By the time they decided on a suitably handsome bed and gray and ivory drapes for it, she felt physically ill.

Leaving John Folwell's shop, Lion took one look at her drawn face and sensed the problem.

"Well, that's that! All we have to do now is stand back and tell them where to place the furniture."

"When will the men bring the carpets?" she asked weakly.

"Tomorrow. I hope that dubious crew I hired to paint the interior is done. You are right. I do need a bigger staff. Someone should have been out there to supervise more often."

"There is time yet for that. You would have no problem finding servants if you kept slaves like everyone else."

"Not everyone." He smiled slightly at her dubious expression. "All right, almost everyone, but not I. You know how I feel—"

"Yes, Lion, and I agree! You don't have to argue the point with me. Save that speech for your future wife."

He put a tentative hand on her arm in spite of the people milling about. "Meagan, you look a bit pale. Would you like a walk? We could head toward the State House—"

"Yes. Yes, I would like that."

They left Heaven and Hellfire tethered to a post and started off in a westerly direction. The weather was fine and Philadelphia's citizens were out; the poplar-shaded footpaths were crowded with the lower classes while the more wealthy passed in their open carriages.

Meagan's innate good spirits were revived by the sunshine. They strolled past every sort of shop, from apothecary and blacksmith to milliner and bootmaker. There was even a comb shop, with hand-carved combs of tortoiseshell and horn displayed in its window.

Lion made easy, distracting conversation, pointing out every building of interest and answering all Meagan's questions as her curiosity returned. He showed her Jefferson's corner room at the Indian Head Tavern where he had labored over the Declaration of Independence while noisy parties and meetings continued downstairs. Farther on, they made a detour up the cobbled lane to Carpenter's Hall, originally the site of the First Continental Congress, and now the meeting place for the Library Company.

"The Company grew out of Doctor Franklin's Junto Club," Lion explained. "We have a room up there for our books and another for a collection of objects the doctor has christened 'Philosophical Apparatus.'"

"His inventions, I suppose!" Meagan added, laughing. "The Junto Club was for discussion, wasn't it? Morals and philosophy and such?"

"Basically. The Library Company was born when they added books. It is still essentially a gathering of good minds for the free exchange of ideas; the guiding principles are freedom of opinion and truth for its own sake. Heady stuff! Doctor Franklin drew up most of the rules and one of them is that there must be intermittent pauses in each meeting for the wine glasses to be refilled and drained."

Meagan laughed. "Isn't he wicked!"

"You sound terribly disapproving," he mocked.

"Oh, I love wickedness. You should know that by now!"

One of his eyebrows shot up at that remark; he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing her right there on the street. Meagan, however, was unaware of her imminent peril, for she was eyeing a negro who wheeled his oyster barrow a few houses away.

"Could we get some?" she pleaded.

It was Meagan's first taste of this famous Philadelphia food, and at first she shuddered at the slimy texture. The oysters were gray, with the tang of ocean salt still noticeable, and Lion showed her how to add just the right amounts of lemon and horseradish. Her pluck won out. She ate the things until it seemed natural, like any other native who had been raised on them. Lion watched, smiling, as she conquered her revulsion with typical enthusiasm but finally pulled her away when he feared she would be sick from downing too many.

They passed a host of other vendors on their way to the State House: youngsters hawking fragrant bread or flowers, fruit-girls with their hampers of cherries and strawberries, and negroes selling steaming pepper pot. Lion was thankful that Meagan had not brought her basket, for he knew that she would stop and buy until it was full.

All around was the Federal spirit. Signboards had been painted over to include the word so that everywhere Meagan looked were Federal livery stables, Federal taverns, shops boasting Federal hats or furniture.

The birthplace of that intoxicating word was located a short distance away. The State House was far enough from Society Hill that Meagan had yet to see it, though her childhood was rich with tales of the place. It seemed that every man who ever visited her family had just come from there, after the Continental Congress signed the Declaration of Independence when she was only four, or after the Constitutional Convention just three years earlier. She had heard descriptions of Philadelphia's State House from everyone from Washington to Jefferson to Madison, but none of it had prepared her for the throb she felt in her breast when Lion said, "There it is."

Handsomely constructed, the building seemed haloed with idealism and pride. Within it had been formed concepts that men had fought for and died to win; intangibles made tangible, "inalienable rights." Staring at the cream-trimmed bricks, Meagan recalled a snatch of Thomas Paine's
The Crisis:

Heaven knows how to put a proper price on its goods; and it would be strange indeed, if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated.

* * *

Robert Morris, punctual as always, had been in New York for a month, waiting for the rest of Congress to arrive. In fact, the ballots for the election of President and Vice President had only just been counted two days ago, on April the sixth, and Robert had sent a letter to his wife by special messenger to relay the news.

When the boy arrived, grimy and breathless, a liveried servant intercepted him in the doorway. The letter was then properly delivered on a silver salver to the elegant parlor where Mary Morris poured tea for her guests, Anne Bingham, Priscilla Wade, Eliza Powel, and Caroline Beauvisage. The women clustered together when Mary recognized her husband's seal, all of them anxious for the final word and some hint of when they might expect to journey to New York.

"He says that it is official; General Washington was elected unanimously, and Mr. Adams shall be Vice President, though his margin of votes was considerably narrower!" The women laughed knowingly at that. "The inauguration shall take place on the thirtieth day of this month and Mr. Thomson is leaving immediately for Mount Vernon to convey the news of victory to the General."

The conversation was thick with plans and predictions from then on. Unfamiliar with New York town as well as most of the people being discussed, Priscilla soon grew bored. Finally, she reached over to tap Anne's satin sleeve and smothered a yawn.

"Couldn't you show me the house? I am finding this conversation awfully dull!"

Anne was in a good mood and so agreed quite readily.

"You know, there is speculation that the new President himself may be living here before the year is out," she confided to Priscilla when they reached the stair hall. "Robert has a great deal of influence and he has already begun coaxing General Washington to locate the capital here instead of in New York."

"And he would turn over his own house?"

"He has done so before, during the General's other periods of residence in Philadelphia. You may be sure that if this becomes the seat of government, so shall his home be here." She pointed to the glossy floor.

It was a beautiful mansion, in keeping with Morris's reputation for wealth rivaling the Binghams'. Everything was polished to the highest possible shine; brass fittings had been used lavishly throughout the house. Mary Morris was a lovely woman with a sweet face and temperament; the decor reflected her own understated elegance. Little of the opulence of Mansion House was in evidence, but each piece of furniture proclaimed its value in the richness of the wood and excellence of its craftsmanship.

Upstairs, on the second of three floors, Anne led Priscilla through a sitting room to view the charming gardens and orchard below which were surrounded by a red-brick wall. The front of the house looked out over the fifty-foot-wide High Street and its intersection with Sixth, an area of town quite different and far away from Society Hill. Anne paused at a window in Hester Morris's bedchamber, watching the parade of rich and poor on Philadelphia's busiest street, while Priscilla inspected the daughter's furnishings.

"Well, well..." said Anne at length, "if it isn't the ever-absent Lion Hampshire, walking the footpath amongst the chimney sweeps and pigs! Someone told me that one can never see him in his carriage anymore. It's a wonder he hasn't contracted some hideous disease." Narrowing her eyes, she leaned closer. "It would seem that he has acquired more new servants than just my Bramble... I'm certain I have never seen that boy before."