Bellewether

  William had married well. Deborah, his wife, being the daughter of a judge, had brought money and connections to their union that helped William rise in both respectability and wealth. His house was built entirely of brick, a full three stories high, its windows sashed and glazed with finest glass. And since Lydia’s last visit, he had added at least one more servant to his household. The girl who held open the door to admit them was not someone Lydia recognized, though it was clear she’d been told to expect their arrival.

  Not blinking an eye at the sight of an enemy officer there on the doorstep, the servant stepped back for them and said to Lydia, “Mr. and Mrs. Wilde are in the parlour, miss.”

  They weren’t alone. They had another visitor, a tall, well-built young man who stood as Lydia and Mr. de Sabran entered. Had it been another person, Lydia might have believed he’d stood to show respect, but she knew “respect” was not a word that ever featured in this man’s vocabulary.

  “Cousin Silas.” She was much relieved to hear her own voice held the proper notes of coolness and composure. Though she did not offer him her hand he held his own out notwithstanding, knowing it would be the height of rudeness to refuse him, and she was too well brought up to behave rudely in her brother’s house.

  The light brush of his kiss across her knuckles was a victory, and his mocking eyes made sure she knew he knew it. “Cousin Lydia.”

  Before they could say anything of note to one another, William intervened, and coming forward took her two hands warmly in his own, erasing Silas’s unwelcome touch before releasing her to greet the man who stood behind her, patiently observing.

  “Mr. de Sabran,” said William, with his usual good memory for names, “I’m glad to see you once again. How was your voyage?” Then he caught himself, and said, “Of course, forgive me, I forget you don’t speak English,” and to Lydia’s surprise asked something briefly in what sounded to her ears like French.

  Mr. de Sabran made a short reply in that same language.

  Still surprised, she turned to William. “When did you learn to speak French?”

  “I can speak several languages.”

  Deborah, his wife, confirmed this as she rose from her chair. “It’s true. So long as no one wanted to converse more broadly than ‘good morning,’ ‘how are you,’ ‘did you enjoy your voyage,’ and ‘what is the best price you can give me for your cargo?’ ” With a smile, she leaned to embrace Lydia. “His French may sound impressive, but I should suspect that with that phrase he’s reached the limits of his knowledge.”

  Lydia liked Deborah, who in age stood nearly halfway between Lydia’s own twenty years and William’s thirty-six. She was golden-haired and elegant and graceful in her movements, as befitting the society in which she had been raised, but she was fair of mind and quick to laugh and kind. She held her hand now to Mr. de Sabran as William introduced them, then she turned again to Lydia and said, “But you’ll be wanting to refresh yourself, I should imagine, won’t you? Have you eaten any dinner?”

  They’d had cheese and bread and apples on the sloop, but Deborah did not seem convinced that much would carry them until the supper hour.

  “I’ll tell our cook,” she said. “She can, I’m sure, make something light for you. Will you have tea as well? Or one of William’s ships has lately brought us some fine chocolate, if you’d rather that.”

  Lydia was not altogether keen on chocolate, but she’d watched Mr. de Sabran force his tea down every morning and pretend that it was pleasant, and she guessed he would be grateful for a change, so she said, “Chocolate, please.”

  The same girl who had let them in the house now saw them upstairs to their rooms. Mr. de Sabran’s was on the floor above hers. Still, when Lydia had washed her face and hands and smoothed the wildness from her hair and brushed her gown’s folds into order, she emerged to find him waiting for her on the landing. He’d been standing leaning with his shoulder to the wall, but as she exited her room he straightened, gave his short and customary nod, and fell in step behind her on the stairs.

  Down in the parlour, Silas had entrenched himself in one of the fine armchairs by the window, the curtains newly drawn against the fast-descending evening.

  William’s house was furnished to reflect his status as a man of consequence. The walls of his parlour were hung with a rich painted paper brought over from England, the draperies matching the blue of the floral design, and the oil-burning lamps in the sconces set on every wall were reflected by round shields of mirror and silver.

  The pot for the chocolate was silver as well, as indeed was the tray that it sat upon, holding a large dish of very small cakes, and the cups they were given were fine painted porcelain.

  She wondered what Mr. de Sabran thought, faced with opulence after their own plainer home. She had given no thought until now what his own home might be like, although she supposed she’d assumed from what Joseph had said of the men of the Troupes de la Marine, and the image she’d shaped in her mind of Quebec, that he’d come from a more rustic background. Yet he did not look out of place at all, here in this room drinking chocolate, the porcelain cup held in his hand with an ease that surprised her.

  Not out of place, but not at home.

  He was keeping apart from them, as was his usual way—sitting off to one side in a chair she suspected he’d chosen because it afforded him views of the door and the window at once.

  Joseph did that, too. It was an instinct gained from having been in battle, she suspected, so a man might then see the approach of any danger.

  William tried a few times to include Mr. de Sabran in their conversation by addressing him in slow and simple English, speaking over-loudly, until Lydia was moved to comment, “William, he is French. He is not deaf.”

  Beside the window, Silas smiled. “Indeed. I should imagine that his hearing will be very sharp indeed while he is in our city. There is much news to be gathered here.”

  Lydia looked at him. “If you suspect him of being a spy, you have no one to blame but your father, for thrusting him into our midst in the first place.”

  As the words fell out she knew she’d made a fool’s mistake. She saw within her cousin’s eyes the gleam that had, from childhood, meant he was about to twist the knife. And so he did.

  He smoothly said, “I’m sure my father did not think it would be a great burden for you, since you’ve had the room to spare within your house these twenty years to shelter others not your family. If he was mistaken, if it is a burden, you have but to tell me. I am sure he would be happy to relieve you of your guests,” he told her. “All of them.”

  The threat, though velvet-toned, was clear, and Lydia reproached herself for having selfishly forgotten Violet’s safety was not something she had any right to put in jeopardy.

  She cast her eyes down, swallowing her pride to show him deference. “It’s no burden.”

  Deborah deftly moved the talk to other things, while Lydia exchanged a glance of shared frustration with her brother. With all his wealth and influence, he could do nothing either; only hope, as did they all, that Uncle Reuben would not choose to change the rules of their arrangement.

  Turning from William she noticed that Mr. de Sabran was studying Silas. His features, impassive, gave nothing away of his thoughts, though she would have been interested to know them.

  She wondered, too, what the French officer saw when he looked at her brother.

  She’d always believed she saw William more clearly than most, but what she’d learned from Henry of the Monte Christi trade had left her vision fogged with doubts.

  If Daniel was in Monte Christi, not Jamaica—and the more she cast her mind back over what Captain del Rio had remarked, the more she felt sure it was so—then William had much to explain, though she knew she would not get the answers she needed this evening.

  Her brother had risen and looked as though he were preparing to leave. “That’s the problem with this time of year,” he complained. “It’s too cold not to have a fi
re, but then you’re always drowsy. I’ll just take a walk to clear my head. No, Silas, stay and keep the ladies company. I won’t be long.”

  Since William knew—and in many ways shared—her opinion of Silas, she wasn’t sure why, when her cousin had risen to leave as well, William would tell him to stay. But this wasn’t her house or her parlour, and she could do no more than try to control her tongue and not shame Deborah by causing an argument.

  She found it difficult.

  Silas hit all of her sensitive points with his questions. He asked after Joseph. He feigned interest in how their family was managing after her mother’s death, probing the places he knew were still hurting and raw. And when that failed to get an appropriate rise from her, he turned the subject again to the captured French officers.

  “I must say, I was unaware,” he said, “that they could travel.”

  “Well, they can. With the permission of a magistrate, and if they are accompanied.”

  “It seems unkind of Uncle Zeb to put this burden onto you, with all you’ve been through. Could he not send Benjamin?”

  She thanked her day of travelling for having slowed her brain enough to give her time to analyze his words before replying. It was obvious his sympathy was insincere, but there was something . . . Benjamin, she thought, with sudden certainty. He did not know where Benjamin had gone. Perhaps he’d heard a rumour but he did not know, and looked to her now to confirm it.

  She denied him that. “I’m glad to come. It has been far too long since I’ve seen Deborah and the children. Are they hiding?” she asked, turning to her sister-in-law, and the talk then shifted to her tiny niece and nephew who were staying for the night at Deborah’s parents’ house.

  “They can be very noisy,” Deborah said in summing up. “We didn’t want to inconvenience you while you were here.” Which was a fair enough excuse, if slightly spoiled by her quick glance at the corner where Mr. de Sabran sat in silence. Had she been a mother, Lydia knew she too might have thought it would be best to shield her children from the presence of an enemy beneath their roof. And it was only for two nights.

  Silas seemed surprised to learn she was not staying longer. “It must be important business then, to bring your French lieutenant all this way for such a short time.”

  He was digging again, furtively, just like a sleek destructive creature in the garden seeking hidden roots on which to feast.

  She knew what was bringing Mr. de Sabran to New York. He had told them, through Mr. de Brassart’s translation, that one of his men had been wounded and was now in fear of his life, and she knew William had made arrangements himself to accompany Mr. de Sabran in the morning to visit the wounded man. But Silas needed to know none of that, so she only replied in her most offhand way, “I don’t bother myself with the business of men.”

  From the front of the house came a knock at the door and a murmur of low voices out in the entry hall and then the housemaid came into the parlour, a message in hand.

  “It’s from William,” said Deborah, on reading it. “He sends apologies but he has met with a friend and accepted an offer to sup with him. No, Silas, do stay.”

  It was one of the longest, most wearisome evenings that Lydia could call to mind. She would gladly, when supper was done, have excused herself under some pretext and gone up to bed, only she became gradually certain that Deborah was actually trying to keep Silas occupied—keep him from leaving the house.

  And when Deborah sat down at the harpsichord and asked, “Come, Lydia, sing us a song,” there was a faintly pleading light within her glance.

  Lydia disliked singing on demand. She sometimes sang in private, and she knew her voice was passable, but had it not been for her sense that Deborah truly needed her to sing just now she never would have risen from her chair and done so.

  Nor would the song Deborah played have been Lydia’s choice—the “True Lover’s Farewell,” full of sentiment.

  And yet she sang it, all five verses, and would have gone on to sing another song had William not returned, his long coat carrying the scents of pipe smoke and stale wine and the cold night wind from the harbour.

  “Silas, good, you are still here. We are in sore need of a fourth for cards,” he said, then looked to Deborah. “If, my dear, you do not mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Lyddie, I shall see you in the morning,” William promised. With a nod to Mr. de Sabran, he left them once again, this time with Silas trailing darkly in his wake.

  A moment later Mr. de Sabran stood also, bowed and said, “Good night,” to them in English, and went upstairs to his room.

  When he was out of earshot, Deborah said, “He’s very surly, isn’t he?”

  “So might we be,” was Lydia’s reply, “if all our friends and loved ones were now dead or captured, at the mercy of the enemy, and we could neither give them help nor comfort.”

  “I just meant—”

  “He has a sister and a mother at Quebec. I should imagine that his thoughts are turned to them now more than to our entertainments.”

  Deborah smiled. “That’s twice you have defended him,” she pointed out. “He does not strike me as the kind of man who needs defending, or would welcome it.” She laid an arm along Lydia’s shoulders in a hug. “And you are far too tired for me to tease you. To the contrary, I owe you thanks for helping me keep Silas out of mischief.”

  So her first suspicion had been right, thought Lydia. “What mischief did we keep him from?” she asked. “And where did William truly go this evening?”

  Deborah shook her head faintly, still smiling, and said, “I don’t bother myself with the business of men. I have heard that’s a very wise policy.”

  Lydia, for all she acknowledged those were her own words given back to her, was less inclined to obey their advice.

  • • •

  Next morning she rose early when the house was still in darkness and went downstairs to find William in his study. He had always liked to seize this time of day to do his work.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Of course.” He stood as she came in and crossed to move a cane-backed chair for her so that it would be closer to his own, beside the bookshelves.

  This had always been her favourite room in William’s house. It was not large. Its windows did not look upon a view of any consequence, but only on the brick wall of his neighbour’s house, across a narrow lane. It had few fineries—the walls were plainly panelled and the curtains unremarkable, the mantelpiece above the fire as straight and simple as they came without any adornment. William’s writing table and the chairs had been made by their father so they were more functional than fancy, and the only painting on the wall was of a field, with horses.

  She knew why this was her favourite room. It felt like home.

  And here, so she imagined, she was closer to her brother’s true self than in any other place.

  He told her, “You’re up early.”

  “I’ve a question I would ask you.”

  He sat back and interlaced his fingers, studying her across the little space that lay between them.

  She imagined she could see the wheels and gears begin to turn within his mind, and before they could put his thoughts too far in motion she asked simply, “Where is Daniel?”

  She had left the question open with a purpose—so that she could watch his eyes in the few seconds before he replied. It was not ever easy to be certain when her brother was untruthful, but she’d long observed that sometimes there was just the barest flicker in his eyes, like that in Father’s eyes when he was calculating sums in silence in his head.

  And there it was.

  He said, “Why, he’s in—”

  “If you tell me Daniel is at Kingston, and it is not true,” she interrupted smoothly, “know that I will not forgive you for it.”

  William stopped. He looked at her a moment longer. Then, like the negotiator that he was, he walked around the question. “Why would he not be at Kingsto
n?”

  She was not about to play that game. “Is he at Monte Christi?”

  “If he is, why should it matter?”

  “You know why.” She let the words hang there reproachfully between them, leaving space for his apology.

  But he did not apologize. He shrugged off her discovery of the fact that he and Daniel were engaging in illegal trade with, “Honestly, it is no crime.”

  “The king may view it differently.”

  “The king’s ships also trade at Monte Christi,” he replied, “though they are free to sail from England with provisions for the Mount and take back sugar and molasses without being charged the tariffs that we must pay here. It’s the tariffs,” he said, “that are criminal. All of these acts passed in Parliament telling us where we may sell our provisions and where we may buy our molasses and setting high tariffs that only apply to our cargoes, not theirs, so their ships out of English ports can reap the riches of trade in the Indies while our New York ships are harassed on the seas, seized, and sold in their admiralty courts. It is not to be borne, Lyddie. No, any act passed in Parliament should apply equally to all the king’s subjects, not seek to raise one and lower the other. That is unbearable.”

  “So you would trade with the enemy.”

  “I trade with Spain. What Spain does with the cargoes I sell to it, I can’t control.” While his words had the strength of defiance, his gaze could not hold hers.

  She felt calm in her anger. “You know where those cargoes are sold. Does it not even bother your conscience that those same provisions are sent to support and feed those who killed Moses? Who nearly killed Joseph?” Her voice nearly broke and betrayed her then. “William, how could you?”

  “You don’t understand.” His tone was gentle. “It is business. War affects it less than you might think. Those men in Parliament in London, they are lining their own pockets by this same trade with the French. It’s not our politics that trouble them,” he told her, “it’s our profits.”