The sorting, he decided, was long overdue.
And so, even though he was thoroughly wet and miserable, he began to be grateful for the enforced solitude of the post roads waiting to the south.
God forgive me—and you, Anne, if you can, he thought as he sat with his head slumped against the planking of the Cambridge stable. Excepting a few rare ones like old Adams, it seems the way a man must go is never clear—
v
The weather improved slightly as he traveled into the Connecticut countryside, following a rutted highway that ran parallel to the river of the same name. Mindful of his pledge to O’Brian, he took care not to push the mare too hard. But though he rode relatively slowly, he ended each day the same way—aching and butt-sore.
In the town of Hartford, he managed to cadge food and a night’s rest in the public room of a tavern whose sign still bore a flattering image of round-faced King George. Anxious for news of events in Massachusetts, the landlord and his wife eagerly exchanged great chunks of hot bread and country butter and some deliciously roasted apples for what information Philip could provide. He was allowed to sleep on a bench by the hearth, warm for the first time since his departure.
But he was troubled by dreams in which Alicia’s face changed to Anne Ware’s, and back again—
By bridge he crossed to the northern end of the wooded island at whose southern extremity rose the thriving city of New York. He spent a morning in its streets, then used one of the shillings O’Brian had loaned him for ferry passage across the Hudson River to the Jersey shore. He pushed on southwestward to the town of Trenton, and paid again to be ferried over the Delaware.
On a late March day livened by a warm breeze hinting at the end of winter, the old mare set her hoofs on the soil of Pennsylvania. At Frankfort, five miles from Philadelphia, he realized with disappointment that the hoped-for solution to the riddle of his future hadn’t materialized during the long ride. His quandry was as deep as ever.
He was also uncomfortably conscious of mounting excitement at the prospect of seeing Alicia.
Of the two women, Anne was by far the more sensible and solid. And no less passionate and giving of herself than the English girl. She’d make any man a fine wife—
But she also represented uncertainty, the peril of this struggling country.
Everyplace he had stopped on the long road south, anxious men had questioned him about the chances of war.
And while he might agree with the principles for which patriots like Adams were struggling, he was still realistic enough to understand that the security—the personal safety—of all who espoused the colonial cause was vastly uncertain.
Alicia, in turn, stood for everything he had been taught to desire during all the years in Auvergne. He knew much of her world was cruelty and sham. It was a world devoted to the ruthless employment of wealth and position and power to acquire more of the same—at the expense of others. Yet even now, a part of him still craved admission to that world.
To shun a chance for entrance had been, to his mother, the greatest crime a man could commit. Sometimes he shared that conviction fervently. Sometimes he was desperately afraid of a long life of poverty, anonymity, and all their attendant dangers.
Once, inspired by the example of the Sholto family, he’d imagined starting a printing enterprise of his own here in America. The craft fired his imagination then, and still did. He’d seen first hand the power of a paper like the Gazette to move men’s minds and hearts on behalf of a cause—
But with conditions as they were, how could he count with any sureness on the opportunity to build such a business?
Ben Edes was being forced to suspend operations, Ware had said. In the turmoil and disorder of what seemed an all but certain confrontation, his accumulated wages held by Edes stood every chance of disappearing into the patriot coffers. Or of being confiscated if Edes were arrested. That little bit of money was all he had in the world. Only a very foolish person would envision a solid future in that kind of situation, he believed.
Indeed, he thought as he neared Philadelphia, if America as a whole dared to seek what Sam Adams openly desired—total independency—she would be, in a sense, what he had been from the beginning: a bastard child thrust into a dangerous world alone and unprotected; a bastard child exposed to countless risks the more timid and secure would never experience, a bastard child forced, on occasion, to kill other human beings in order to survive—
With survival itself completely in doubt
He wondered in passing whether there would be as much blood on his hands—and his conscience—if he’d been born to a higher station. He thought not.
Finally, there remained with him the tantalizing memory of James Amberly’s letter, now stored at O’Brian’s farm. He had long ago abandoned any hope of ever putting that document to use.
Yet he’d saved it.
Why?
He approached the outskirts of Philadelphia on a road crowded with market carts. The warm March breeze blew against his grimy face. Danger might well wait for him at the home of Alicia’s relatives on Arch Street. But there was still a relief in this coming, at last, to a meeting that had probably been ordained from the beginning. A meeting not so much with Alicia, he thought in another moment of sudden insight, as with himself. The compulsion to find and confront the truth of what he was, and what he wanted, was what had actually driven him onto this long road.
If only he’d been able to explain even a part of that to Anne—!
Phillipe Charboneau, the bastard heir of a nobleman, or Philip Kent, plain printer’s helper—which was he?
Time, finally, to know the answer. Perhaps it would happen in that very city rising on the horizon this bright morning.
vi
The city by the Schuylkill River was twice as large as Boston, he learned from a cart driver he caught up with just at the outskirts. The dirt tracks he’d followed from Massachusetts soon changed to smooth brick.
He took pleasure in letting the mare amble for an hour through the wide, tree-lined streets. He was impressed by all the splendid homes, churches and mercantile establishments. He also took note of the numerous street lamps, so unlike the dim, smoke-stained globes of Boston. The Philadelphia design featured four flat panes of glass, topped by a funnel, presumably to let the smoke rise into the air. He asked a stranger whether the lamps were Dr. Franklin’s invention. The stranger told him they were.
On all the main thoroughfares, Philip saw well dressed people. Gentlemen in velvet, with walking sticks. Young ladies with parasols; the most elegant wore vizards to shield their delicate skins from the glare of the noon sun.
Vendors hawked fresh vegetables and something called scrapple on the corners. By the busy wharves, Philip saw trading vessels of every size and description. Though he was exhausted from the trip, the noise and animation of the town buoyed his spirits.
But he remembered the need for caution the minute he began making inquiries about the whereabouts of Arch Street.
He located it near Chestnut, one of the main arteries of the town. This much done, he turned the sweating mare back to the riverfront. He quartered her at a seedy inn called The Ship, securing a small, airless room under the eaves. For one night only.
He waited until dusk on that Tuesday before making his way toward Arch Street on foot. On Chestnut, he spoke to a vendor just throwing a cloth over his half-emptied cabbage cart. The man was familiar with all the well-to-do residents of the area. He directed Philip to a large brick residence fourth down on the right-hand side of Arch.
“Everyone in town knows the Trumbulls,” the bearded farmer commented. “The mister owns the biggest ropewalk ’twixt New York and Charleston. And a mighty loyal Tory he is, too. But the household’s in mourning—”
Already starting away, Philip turned back swiftly.
“For who?”
The farmer spat on the lamplit bricks. “Why, lad, such fine folk don’t confide everything in the likes of me! All I know
’s what I hear and what any eye can see. Walk up that way—you’ll see it too.”
Whistling, the old man shuffled off, pushing his cart.
First scanning the block for signs of watchers who might have been posted for his arrival, Philip strode along the walk next to the high black iron fences that protected each house. He was walking on the side of the street opposite the Trumbull home. When he was in position to get a clear look, he broke stride and caught his breath.
All windows in the two-story structure were draped, barely revealing the hint of lamps glowing inside. On the imposing downstairs door hung a somber wreath trailing black crepe ribbons—
For Roger Amberly?
He felt a brief, vicious satisfaction at the possibility. The emotion shamed him as he hurried on by, and returned to the rowdy waterfront inn.
Over a tankard of beer at a corner table, he scrawled a note to Mrs. Alicia Amberly, in care of the Trumbull Residence, Arch Street. The message inside was simple—one sentence long:
A friend desires to know the cause of the household’s bereavement.
Then, after chewing the end of the quill a moment, he signed P. Charboneau.
He hired the landlord’s boy to carry the note, and gave him explicit instructions:
“That is to be delivered into the hand of the lady to whom it’s addressed, no other.”
“Right, sir.”
“And you’ll wait for any answer.”
“Got it.” The lad hurried out.
Philip hitched his chair around so that his back was to the corner. From that position he could peer through the smoke and the press of noisy sailors and dock workers and watch the door. The tavern clock chimed nine.
Philip bought another tankard of beer, drank it all. He grew drowsy as he rubbed his aching legs. His muscles were still not accustomed to the rigors of days on horseback.
The beer helped dull the discomfort. It lulled him into a doze that was suddenly broken by the footsteps of someone approaching his table.
He opened his eyes, startled by the sight of a tall, cloaked man in a tricorn hat. The man peered down at Philip with ill-concealed disdain.
The tavern boy stood behind the stranger, obviously apprehensive. The man threw his cloak back over his right shoulder far enough to reveal servant’s livery—and a brass-chased pistol in his belt.
“Are you the gentleman who sent an inquiry to the Trumbull household?”
Philip’s palms started to sweat. He didn’t like the way the man’s hand rested on the broad belt, so close to the pistol. He tried not to show his concern as he answered:
“I am.”
“Charboneau—that’s your name?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow, there will be a room waiting for you at the City Tavern—are you acquainted with it?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
The curl of the man’s mouth suggested knowledge of some illicit purpose behind the note and its reply. “The lady to whom you addressed your inquiry wishes for me to acknowledge it. You will be contacted at the City Tavern at the proper time. You understand, of course, that it may not be for some days, due to the household’s distress—”
“A death—” Philip began, still wondering whether it was all an elaborate ruse—and the servant might suddenly haul out the pistol and shoot him. He slipped his hands to the edge of the table, ready to overturn it as an impromptu shield.
But the man made no menacing moves. In fact, he behaved as if the entire conversation was beneath his dignity. Still regarding Philip with arrogant amusement, he replied:
“A death indeed. The lady’s husband, Lieutenant Colonel Amberly.”
It could still be a trap; lies. But Philip tried to look sympathetic as he asked:
“When did it happen?”
“This past Sunday. It appears the mourning period for widows is rather more brief than in England.”
“If that’s any of your affair.”
“I wouldn’t make the observation to anyone else. But your—association with the lady seems quite—personal, shall we say? Good evening. Sir.”
Wheeling, the man stalked through the crowd of noisy seamen and wharf workers. One growled a remark about Tories. The man hesitated, seemed on the point of reaching for his pistol—
His sly eyes moving quickly, the man assessed the numbers against him. He proceeded on toward the door, pausing only for a last, speculative glance at Philip sitting tensely in the corner. Then he went out.
Philip slept badly that night, alert for surreptitious sounds on the stair outside his room. But none came to disturb him. At last he drifted off.
In the morning, he paid for his bed and breakfast, then asked directions to the City Tavern.
The landlord laughed. “You came into a fortune last night, did you? Those are considerably finer quarters than my place. Distinguished gentlemen lodge there—some already garnering to plan the next Congress.”
“Just tell me the way,” Philip snapped.
The landlord obliged. Philip mounted the mare and set off through the clamor of Philadelphia’s market day.
His cheap, travel-stained clothing attracted the same sort of stares from the staff at the City Tavern that he’d gotten from the servant who sought him at The Ship. But he was shown to a large, airy bedroom on the second floor without question. A stable boy took Nell, to rub her down and feed her. In fact it was soon evident that someone had gone to some trouble to finance a comfortable stay. When he inquired about the cost of lodging and meals, he was informed that his bill would be handled by another person—who wished to remain anonymous.
At nightfall a girl brought in a long-handled warming pan to heat the bedclothes. Philip went downstairs.
Excellent though the food was in the busy main room, he found he had no appetite. All around him, he heard nothing but political discussion. He retired to his room at half past eight, settling into a comfortable rocking chair with a prodigious yawn. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. But he was still worn out from the eleven-day ride, and he did.
Before he knew it, a sharp sound intruded at the edge of his mind. He lifted his head, listened, picked up only the hum of conversation from below-stairs. After a moment, though, the sound was repeated.
A soft knocking.
He stood up, silently slipped to the window and freed the latch. He had already determined that in the event he was still being drawn into some elaborate trap, the window would serve as a viable escape route. It was a long drop to the brick walk below. But at least it was a way out.
The lamp burning beside the turned-down coverlet cast a grotesque shadow of his head and shoulders as he crept toward the door. He honestly didn’t know what to expect; it was possible that he might be confronted by armed men. The backs of his hands itched. His mouth had grown dry.
The knock came again, more insistently. One more step, and he reached out to open the door.
vii
The lamplight raised glints from the brasswork of the pistol in the belt of the tall servant. The knowing smile still quirked the man’s mouth—almost as if it were part of a permanent expression.
“I’m to request you to come with me, if you please,” the man said.
Wishing for a weapon as he scanned the dark-paneled hall behind the looming figure, Philip asked, “Where?”
The man gestured with a gloved hand. “Down those back stairs. To a coach waiting a few doors from here. It’s not possible for the lady who wishes to speak with you to enter a public house by the main door. Especially not this public house. She would be noticed not only because of her mourning black but because of her political associations.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Although the accommodations may be the best in the city, neither Mr. Trumbull nor his good wife would set foot in this viper’s pit. As for me, I’d burn this place to the ground—and all within it who are busy hatching treason.” The man’s muddy brown eyes showed impatience. “Are you coming?”
/> “Yes. Just a second—”
Philip stepped into the room for his surtout, blew out the lamp.
As he preceded Philip down the creaking back stair, the servant chuckled, a lascivious sound. He didn’t bother to hold the door, hurrying ahead through the warm night wind to the end of an alley. There, a high-wheeled coach and team waited, the horses fretting, the driver on the box swearing, one boot on the brake lever.
The servant handed open the coach door and stood aside. Beyond the rectangular opening, Philip could see nothing but darkness.
CHAPTER III
Alicia
i
FOR A MOMENT HE was tempted to run. If the Amberly family wished to bait a trap for Roger’s slayer, none could be more perfect than this black coach silhouetted against the rooftop chimney pots and the blurred April stars beyond.
The tall servant kept his hand on the open door. But now shadows hid his face. The team whinnied. The driver swore again.
“Step in,” the tall man prompted.
Inside, Philip thought he saw a figure stir. He couldn’t be certain. From the City Tavern, a fiddle struck up a lively air. Annoyed, the tall man said:
“Sir—if you please!”
Suddenly the figure inside leaned forward just enough to reveal its presence.
“Do, Phillipe. You’re safe. And there’s little time.”
“Alicia?”
“Of course.”
He climbed the step and plunged into the black interior. He heard soft rustlings just before the servant slammed the door. The coach creaked and swayed as the man climbed a wheel to the box. Alicia rapped the roof. The team started forward.
Philip still couldn’t see her. But he could smell a faint, bitter sweet lemon fragrance—scent or soap—clinging to her skin. And he could smell claret, strongly.