Revolution

by Edward Cline

  “A republic? Banish the thought! A nation, a government with a graceless executive who was not royal, who had no anointed divinity or hereditary rights or lineage traceable to Adam? Inconceivable! A republic had been tried; the result was a dictatorship — Cromwell! That experience seemed to prove the necessity of a king! James the Second, it was decided after some heated debate between the Tories and Whigs, had abandoned or abdicated the throne. In a juvenile fit of pique, before taking flight, he destroyed the writs for a new Parliament, tossed the Great Seal into the Thames, and ordered the disbandment of the army, hoping that by committing these acts of regal vandalism, the country would fall into turmoil and anarchy, and consequently facilitate his return, on his own terms, by force of arms, or in answer to a plea and an apology. His actions were deemed disgraceful and dangerous behavior.

  “The Tories adhered to the principle of hereditary right to the throne as a divine attribute, and absolutely necessary to a stable polity. The Whigs had progressed to the idea of the Crown or throne as a Parliamentary entitlement, a status bestowed by grace and sufferance of both Houses: in the Commons, in the name of the people; in Lords, in the name of the nation, not necessarily the same as the people. The Tories believed that a throne should rule, requiring only tacit recognition by the ruled and deserving obsequious submission to its edicts, imperatives, and pleasures. The Whigs believed that a compact should exist between the king and people, with removal from the throne as a supreme penalty for law-breaking and abuse of that compact.

  “The Whig position was an expression of Mr. Locke’s theory of the right relationship between government and the governed. But applied to the political knowledge of the time — ” Proudlocks paused to interject “and this is Mr. Reisdale’s analogy, not my own — this was akin to clothing the elephant in the best haberdashery.”

  Everyone at the table chuckled at this, except James Brune.

  Proudlocks continued. “And these are my queries: The compact between the king and the people sanctions rebellion against a law-breaking king. But is the compact between Parliament and the people so well-founded and inviolate that it forbids rebellion? If Parliament becomes as abusive as a king, what difference should it make to the abused that the abuser is many-headed, and not single? Are not their liberties being violated by one or the other? If our excellent Constitution is so proof against tyranny, why must these questions be asked, in these troubling times?”

  Jack Frake remarked, “Parliament believes that rebellion is sanctioned. That is a one-sided compact, clearly evident in its latest actions.” He smiled at Proudlocks. “Forgive me the interruption, John. Please, continue.”

  Proudlocks smiled in answer, then concluded, “Parliament is a legislative body, the king, an executive one. Should that make a difference? Let us consider the charge of treason. If one resists or speaks out against the depredations of royal agents, is that action more or less treasonous than opposing the agents of usurpant Parliamentary legislation? Reason compels me to say they are coequal.”

  “Excellent, John,” said Reisdale. He looked around the table. “I did not assist him in the composition of that dissertation, ladies and gentlemen. It is all of his own effort.”

  “Bravo, John,” said Jack Frake.

  “Well done, sir,” said Hugh Kenrick.

  Proudlocks nodded in acknowledgement with a grin. “Thank you, sirs,” he said, and took his seat again next to Reisdale.

  The conversation remained on politics, and as it coursed around the table, James Brune sat in speechless shock. He uttered not one word, literally. The nature of the talk left him stunned and blank; he only knew that such talk was unthinkable in London among his own circle.

  He glanced at Reverdy; she was sitting and listening to it all with a faint smile. He noted that her eyes lit up somehow when she looked at Hugh. He realized that she and Hugh had reconciled and reunited. What that implied he refused to contemplate.

  He choked on his own silence.

  “James wished to suborn not only the Constitution and Parliament, but the entire nation,” said Hugh. “Well, Sidney said it first: Absolute monarchy, such as James sought, depends on corruption.”

  “It was seven recalcitrant bishops who refused to order the clergy to recite the Declaration of Indulgence, and an infant boy, James’s son, who caused the Revolution of 1688,” said Reisdale. “James wanted an heir, and got one at the last moment. And the bishops, tried and acquitted of seditious libel, were hailed as saviors of the nation.”

  “And a Dutch stadtholder and his designs to contain Louis the Fourteenth, who also made the Revolution possible,” said Hugh. “William of Orange was not so much interested in healing English political strife as securing Dutch independence from France. Becoming King of England would obtain that security. Healing the strife was merely a means to his end. A united England would checkmate French designs on the Netherlands. What a piece of statecraft!”

  “And the King of France laughed up his sleeve at it all, and did nothing, not even move against the Dutch,” said Reisdale. He added with a chuckle, “That was his contribution to the Glorious Revolution.”

  “All important factors of the event,” said Hugh, “but none of them fundamental.”

  “What was fundamental, then?” broached James Brune.

  “A lingering memory of liberty,” answered Hugh, “and a reluctance to repeat the regicide of the Civil War.”

  James Brune noticed an object that rested upright in one corner of the supper room, a furled banner on a staff. He ventured to ask his host, “I recognize the stripes there, Mr. Frake. In the midst of all the extraordinary politicking in this county, were they perhaps purloined from a hapless East Indiaman?”

  Jack Frake explained the origins of the banner of the Sons of Liberty.

  When his friend was finished, Hugh added, “I believe the lieutenant was as discouraged by our banner as he was by our presence, that day.”

  “Discouraged, and confused,” said Reisdale.

  Jack addressed the Brunes. “Undoubtedly Hugh has told you of my own origins and my association with a smuggling gang in Cornwall.”

  “Yes,” answered James Brune. “That, also, is an extraordinary story.”

  “It is the banner that my friends lacked, when they stood up against the Crown.”

  Etáin said, “I helped sew that banner.”

  The Brunes were then treated to a second telling of the day that Caxton defied the Crown.

  When they were finished with dessert, the men repaired to Jack’s library, while Etáin took Reverdy to her music room, which also boasted some shelves of books.

  * * *

  Etáin asked, “Can you read notes?”

  Reverdy replied, “Of course. But you would be surprised at the number of famous singers in London who cannot.”

  “I have transcribed much for my harp, and the dulcimer over there. Lately, I converted Mr. Handel’s ‘Dettingen Te Deum,’ and I have the words to it, as well. An uncle in London sends music to my mother, who sends it to me.”

  Reverdy said with enthusiasm, “I have heard it in London. It is enthralling.”

  “Jack does not care for any of the lyrics to anything I have played. Nor do I. But it is their sense he enjoys, as do I.”

  Reverdy asked, “Is there a chorus here, or perhaps a private society of singers?”

  “None that I know of. Perhaps one exists in Philadelphia. Certainly, none about here. If there were, I would know of it.”

  Etáin crossed the room to a table on which were stacks of paper bound with string. She showed Reverdy her collection of transcriptions, laboriously studied and written on blank sheets specially printed by the late Wendel Barret. Next to the table was a cabinet that held more music, designed by her husband and built by Moses Topham, Morland’s carpenter.

  Reverdy glanced through the sheets of Etáin’s transcribed Dettingen Te Deum. “Oh, this is wonderful, Etáin!” She turned to face her hostess. “May I call you Etáin?”
>
  Etáin nodded.

  “Thank you.” Reverdy took the bundle of paper and sat in an armchair, then continued. “I shall never forget the first time I heard the ‘Te Deum’ at the Opera House. Even when I listen to certain passages of it now, in my head, I experience the same thing, a kind of uplifting — being transported off the earth, not caring if I were thrust back down onto it to my death. Just to have experienced it once is some kind of reward. But you must know that once is not enough. And, then, of course the words to it are irrelevant. One wonders what Mr. Handel felt as he composed it.”

  Reverdy looked at Etáin again. “Oh, Etáin! I pity you for not ever having heard it as it was meant to be heard! The chorus! The orchestra! The great drums that seem like cannon, beating in time, insisting that one rise, and all of it together propelling one and the music upward to some kind of heaven. Not to the heaven that any minister would preach about in church, but to a glory whose roots are somehow temporal, somehow more immediate, and meaningful, even though one is lifted up from the earth.… Oh, I don’t know how else to put it! You see, I have never had a reason to describe it, until now. God forgive me, but what I feel in those moments has little to do with Him.”

  After a moment, Etáin replied, “I understand. I have listened to it in my head, too, as I do all the music I transcribe. I can only imagine what you have heard, and so must envy you.” She smiled tentatively. “And your late husband — did he feel the same thing?”

  For a moment, Reverdy wore an expression as though she were trying to remember to whom Etáin was referring. Then she sighed and shook her head. “I don’t think so. I quite forgot about him at those times, and never spoke to him about it afterward. I knew he would not understand.” She paused. “I don’t mind your having asked that. Alex was a good person, but he was not capable of that.”

  “Hugh is,” said Etáin with an unintended emphasis of warning. However, she was smiling at Reverdy with approval, although the object of her scrutiny did not know it.

  Reverdy nodded. “Yes, he is. He has been that for as long as I have known him.” She laughed and remarked, “Well, George the Second, in whose honor the ‘Te Deum’ was composed, was a rather dull person, I have read, his victory at Dettingen notwithstanding. I am certain that listening to it must have taxed the ability of the poor dear to stay awake during its performance.” She changed the subject by turning again to Etáin’s collection of transcriptions. She nodded to the table that held them. “I have only seen so much music in Signori Berlusconi’s studio!” She leafed through the collection. “Do you play these often?”

  “Not as often as I would like. Only at balls and on other occasions. Mostly at Mr. Vishonn’s place, and sometimes at the Palace. There is not much occasion for concerts here, except on the usual holidays.”

  Reverdy looked at the harp that sat in the corner of Etáin’s room. “May I trouble you for a sample of your art? Hugh says you are worthy of the best concert halls in London.”

  Etáin grinned. “He exaggerates, of course.”

  “I think not, Etáin,” answered Reverdy. “If you understand him in the least, you must know that Hugh does not exaggerate anyone’s virtues…or vices.”

  “That is true.” Etáin clasped her hands together. “What would you like to hear?”

  “The ‘Te Deum.’ ‘We praise thee.’”

  “That is the best part.” Etáin rose and went to her harp. She tested its strings to make sure it was in tune, then played the selection. It took her about five minutes to finish it.

  But halfway through it, she noticed that Reverdy’s eyes had suddenly glistened in an overture to some uncontrollable emotion. Then the woman abruptly looked away, removed a lace handkerchief from her bag, and dabbed the tears that had begun to stream down her face.

  With only an imperceptible pause, Etáin continued to play. When she was finished, she rose and went over to Reverdy. She said, “We can be friends.”

  Reverdy looked up at her hostess. “What do you mean?”

  “You love this…and you love Hugh.”

  “How could you know…?”

  Etáin simply smiled, took the handkerchief from her guest, and with it removed the remaining tears from Reverdy’s face.

  Reverdy did not protest. When Etáin was finished, she took back her handkerchief, and said, “I have never heard the harp played so beautifully, Etáin. Hugh did not exaggerate your abilities.” After a pause, she asked, in a solemn, quiet voice, “He was in love with you once, was he not?”

  Etáin nodded. “Yes. And I with him, up to a point. I think he would say the same thing about me. But I chose Jack, who has been my future for as long as I have known him. And now he is my present, as well.”

  “I had…have a similar regard for Hugh. I fought it, but it was useless.”

  “They are both forces of nature, are they not?”

  Reverdy nodded, and smiled weakly. “Yes, they are that. Things and men that seem to be obstacles to them always manage to remove themselves from their path, or surrender, or else be swept aside.” She paused. “And, they are…stars,” she remarked, remembering what she had told Hugh.

  Etáin suddenly reached down, took Reverdy’s hands, and brought her to her feet. Then she kissed her on the cheek. “Yes. We can be friends,” she repeated.

  Reverdy overcame her shock at the gesture, and reciprocated by bussing one of Etáin’s cheeks. “Yes. We can be friends.”

  Etáin’s eyes sparkled with delight. “Reverdy…may I call you Reverdy?’

  “Yes, of course…Etáin.”

  “Reverdy, let us imagine that we are to give a concert, and select a program of music!”

  Reverdy sat down again in the armchair. “That would be fun! Then we must rehearse together. Are there any other musicians we could perhaps call on?”

  “There are a few men near town who can play the violin and the flute. The Kenny brothers, and in Williamsburg, many other persons, as well.”

  “Wonderful! Do you happen to have the music for Mr. Vivaldi’s ‘Echo Concerto’?”

  * * *

  That evening, as they watched Hugh and the Brunes leave Morland, Jack grinned at Etáin. “I have never seen Hugh so composed and happy.”

  “I am happy for him,” said Etáin. “I would have been happy for him had he married Selina Granby. You know that she had her hat set for him, and not all at her parents’ urging, either. But Reverdy is different.”

  “How so?”

  “She does not wish to love him. But she does.”

  Jack was silent for a while. “Do you think they will marry?”

  “If she is wise enough, she will marry him. She knows it would be her salvation.”

  Jack glanced at his wife. “Did you discuss that with her?” he asked, a little astounded that Etáin, so stingily private in social and private matters, would discuss such a subject with another woman.

  Etáin shook her head. “No. I have merely seen in her what Hugh has seen.”

  When the party returned to Meum Hall, James Brune almost immediately begged his retirement, leaving Hugh and Reverdy on the front porch of the great house. Mrs. Vere, alert as always, came out and offered the couple refreshments. Reverdy declined, as did Hugh. “Good night, Mrs. Vere,” he said. The housekeeper went back inside the house.

  Reverdy and Hugh sat again in the porch chairs. “Did you enjoy the evening, Reverdy?”

  “Yes, more than any of the other occasions. Mr. Frake is an unusual man. And Etáin is delightful. We have so many interests in common.”

  “I expected you both would discover that,” said Hugh. “Jack is my dearest friend, and Etáin — Etáin is special to me.”

  Reverdy looked at him. “I know how special.” She paused. “I suppose that when she chose Jack over you, it was not over a ‘cargo of virtues.’”

  Hugh shook his head. “Quite the contrary, Reverdy. It was because his was greater than my own.”

  Reverdy folded her arms and looked at the night
sky. It had cleared, and stars were visible. “Somehow, since coming here, Hugh, my past life diminishes in my eyes, and I feel ashamed of it.”

  “Is it shame you feel, or regret?” Hugh reached over and took one of her hands. It was cold from the night air. “Whichever it is, it is time that you forgive yourself. You must contemplate the pedestal again, tell yourself that you are worthy of it, and step back onto it. I know that you are capable of that, my dear, and seeing that capacity, I wish you to stay here, and let James go on by himself.”

  “Stay here?” whispered Reverdy, confessing to herself that the possibility had often invaded her thoughts for the past two weeks. Sometimes it had been a welcome invasion; at other times, not.

  “As my wife, or as my mistress, I care not which. Just so long as you are here.” Hugh paused. “You must know how much your presence graces and completes my life, Reverdy. I hope that you may say that about me, now that you know it is not so terrible and burdensome a thing.”

  Reverdy stared into his eyes. “I can,” she whispered again. “And I do know.” Then she raised the hand that held hers to her lips. She let it linger there for a moment, then said, “I must think about it, Hugh.”

  “Of course.”

  * * *

  Chapter 16: The Lieutenant-Governor

  In Williamsburg, on a chilly, late November afternoon, Lieutenant-Governor Francis Fauquier found, near the bottom of a pile of important correspondence his secretary had placed on his desk for him to peruse, a letter from Hugh Kenrick of Meum Hall, Caxton, requesting the honor of being married by the Lieutenant-Governor, in his capacity as head of the church in the colony, to Mrs. Reverdy Brune-McDougal, recently widowed, at his earliest convenience.

  The Lieutenant-Governor was flattered by the request, but more surprised, for he did not think the young man was either marriageable or the marrying kind of man. He liked the fellow, but considered him too flinty and headstrong. Almost arrogant! What woman could tolerate him? Fauquier pondered the paradox for a moment, then shook his head in amused defeat. He had noted more perplexing unions amongst the populace here. Who was he to judge ideal matrimony? He set the letter aside, and later dictated to his secretary an answer to Mr. Kenrick, setting a date for the ceremony in early December. He was more than curious to meet the woman who would wish to share a life with that rambunctious troublemaker. He did not know this lady; the name was not familiar to him. Perhaps Mr. Kenrick had met her in Boston or Philadelphia.