The Constable's Tale: A Novel of Colonial America

by Donald Smith

  An hour later, Harry hailed a cabriolet to take him back to his inn, taking care to hold his borrowed suit, wrapped in a muslin sheet, as flat as possible to avoid wrinkling.

  As soon as he was back in his room, he took from his pocket the folded sheet of paper containing the secret pattern of the Masons and got to work.

  CHAPTER 19

  54: Play not the Peacock, looking every where about you, to See if you be well Deck’t, if your Shoes fit well if your Stokings sit neatly, and Cloths handsomely.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  HE FIRST TRIED OUT THE CODE PATTERN WITH AYERDALE AS THE unknown word. The resulting translation of the inscription on the back of the brooch looked like gibberish. Then he tried RICHARD. Same result. Then, RICHARD AYERDALE, and RICHARDAYERDALE.

  Nothing.

  He found himself wishing Maddie were there. With her love of riddles, her knack for stretching her mind beyond the limits of the apparent, maybe she could help. Of course she could, he thought sourly. She would be only too happy to prove that her betrothed was not only a cruel tyrant but a murderer as well.

  Discouraged, and feeling drowsy on account of his inability to sleep soundly in recent days, he left his efforts at code breaking long enough to take a nap. He awakened with a start. The cast of light coming through the window indicated the day was drawing to a close. Soon he would need to bathe and try on his borrowed finery and make his way to the ball.

  But not until he tried out one more idea.

  It was something that had materialized in his mind during his nap and in fact had helped bring him back awake. He had been dreaming about Ayerdale’s plantation. Trying to envision what life would be like for Maddie on the banks of the James River. Looming before him was the stone pillar bearing a name.

  ROSEWOOD

  It did not take him long to make a new code using Ayerdale’s ancestral landholding and try it out on the inscription on the brooch.

  When he was finished, he laid his pencil on the table and stared at the paper for a long time, the set of letters his effort had produced.

  It was complete nonsense.

  *

  He arrived at the ball late and on his way to being drunk. He had stayed inside his room at the inn into the evening, taking long swigs from the rum he had purchased from the innkeeper. It was a nice rum. From a nice inn, in fact. He was sharing the bed with only one other man, a well-mannered sort from New York in town on business. The man had not yet come up, so Harry had the place to himself. No one to pass judgment on this relapse into his old liberal ways with a bottle. He had the bottom of this one in sight when it came to him that George Johnston, who had been so kindly and helpful, might be disappointed if he did not see Harry with his lent suit. It would be a terrible breach of manners in the new world Harry supposed he was becoming used to moving in.

  The house was in the country, only a few miles from the center of Boston, a district called Jamaica Plain. The name having some connection to the Caribbean island that was furnishing the British colonies with sugar, rum, and slaves. Or possibly it was a misunderstanding of some old Indian name. The driver seemed to be having an argument with himself for Harry’s benefit about this bit of Boston lore.

  The house looked new, confirming the driver’s story that it had been built only recently by a merchant who had become as rich as a mogul in the shipping trade. A proper dancing room, bright with lamps and candles, occupied most of the second floor.

  “Your suit looks most well on you,” said Johnston, who spotted Harry immediately despite the scrum of guests. They were all in glittering clothes, the ladies accoutered in jewels, men in lace jabots and powdered perukes. A sprinkling of British and American military uniforms among them. In fact, his borrowed suit was not a bad fit at all except around the waist of the britches, which was a little loose on Harry. But this small imperfection was covered by the rakishly cut jacket, a dramatic shade of maroon with silver brocade trimmings and buttons. Harry had indulged himself in some minutes of self-admiration in front of his room’s cheval glass before leaving. He reckoned he cut quite the figure even without a wig. As a general rule, Harry preferred not to cover his full head of chestnut hair, which he fastened in back with a black ribbon.

  The small orchestra was on a rest when he arrived. Johnston took him straight to the home’s owner, one Elihu Pearson, an energetic-looking man on the younger side of middle age, and the handsome woman by his side, whom Johnston introduced as his wife. They were conversing with a circle of equally fetching people.

  “Harry is touring New England,” Johnston said, making it sound like a leisurely wander. He added, before anyone could ask further, “He owns a plantation in North Carolina.”

  There was the briefest silence. A touch of disappointment, Harry judged, that he could not have been from Virginia or South Carolina.

  “It would seem likely some of your timber and pine pitch have found their way into the sailing vessels I build,” said Pearson. To the others in the party he explained, “North Carolina is our chief supplier of such things.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Harry. “We do most of our business through factors in Boston and New York.”

  “Then,” said another one of the gentlemen, “my father at this very moment might be walking a deck that was made seaworthy thanks to your plantation.”

  “Harry,” said Johnston, “may I present Joshua Loring Junior, high sheriff of Suffolk County? His father commands one of the ships now with General Wolfe on the Saint Lawrence.”

  “Would that I were with that brave captain this very moment,” said yet another fashionably dressed worthy who had just walked up. Almost in unison, the men bowed and the ladies curtsied. He continued, “General Amherst seems to think I can be of more use here in Massachusetts Bay trying to recruit militia than actually taking part in the battle.” He added with a wry smile, “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “Governor, may I present a friend of mine from North Carolina?” said Johnston, noticing the man noticing Harry. “This is Mister Harry Woodyard. Harry, meet Thomas Pownall.”

  He looked young for a governor. Maybe only eight or ten years older than Harry. Otherwise not much different in appearance, especially with Harry clothed every bit as admirably. Harry thought he even saw some resemblance between himself and the New Englander. He remembered what Johnston had said earlier about natural aristocracy: Flowers born to bloom in the desert. He had a fleeting glimpse of himself ten years hence proposing his annual budget to the General Assembly. Being addressed as “Your Excellency” in the desert of North Carolina. Why not?

  Harry bowed and remained silent. By the men’s smiles, he judged he had made the correct choice of behaviors.

  “I have yet to visit North Carolina,” said Pownall. “But I look forward to doing so.” His accent was less British than New England in Harry’s ears, which were becoming attuned to the Yankee way of talking. “I’ve heard good reports of your militiamen. They performed yeoman service to the redcoats when we took Fort Duquesne.”

  “I thank you on their behalf,” said Harry, the high-sounding words coming out with surprising ease.

  “I’m just thankful that things are finally going our way again,” said Pownall’s wife. “At times it has seemed the French guess our every move in advance. It was almost as if they were employing a mind reader.”

  A knowing titter greeted her remark. At the same time, Harry caught the high sheriff aiming a hooded, unamused glance at another in the party, a man dressed in the uniform of a Massachusetts militia major. Browning by name, if Harry remembered his introduction correctly. Browning returned Loring’s look as if in some silent communication. Harry could not guess what this meant but reckoned it was something.

  The orchestra had returned to their instruments. Couples began forming, answering the leader’s call for a minuet. Early in his tutelage under the judge, Harry had been made to learn this dance. He did not care for its mincing steps, which, when demonstrated b
y the large-bodied McLeod, seemed comical. Harry was more favorably disposed to country dancing, which he had learned as a boy from his mother. Its broad, energetic movements appealed to him. But he supposed such was beneath the dignity of high-quality people. The thought brought to mind another snippet from the Rules. “Associate yourself with men of good quality if you esteem your own reputation; for ’tis better to be alone than in bad company.” Was his family bad company?

  Two by two, the guests took their leave and headed for the dance floor. “My own companion for the evening abandoned me for the lavatorium just before you arrived,” Pownall said to Harry when they found themselves alone. “I suppose for now you and I are just a pair of unattached souls.”

  “My wife would surely enjoy this,” said Harry, watching as the couples began to move around. “She loves to dance.”

  “You’re a fortunate man, then. So far, I am sorry to say, a permanent dancing partner has eluded me. I love the ladies, but it may be that I love them all equally.”

  As the governor was talking, Harry thought he caught from a corner of his eye a flash of lavender. A gown. Or so he imagined. But when he turned in that direction, it was gone.

  A trick of the mind, no doubt.

  He turned his attention back to the floor as the dancers began their prancing, circling steps with varying degrees of success. A remembered fragrance of minty purple flowers settled over him.

  “There she is,” said Pownall. “Excuse me.”

  The governor of Massachusetts walked toward the door where the lady was standing, now in clear view. Took her hand and escorted her onto the floor. As she followed, the Baroness de la Roche spared Harry a smile.

  CHAPTER 20

  99: Drink not too leisurely nor yet too hastily. Before and after Drinking wipe your Lips breath not then or Ever with too Great a Noise, for its uncivil.

  —RULES OF CIVILITY

  HARRY FOUND HIS WAY TO THE PUNCH BOWL. HE LADLED HIMSELF a cup, drained it, refilled, drained again. Trying to make sense of Jacqueline’s being in Massachusetts Bay. He recalled she had worked for Governor Shirley, something having to do with his household, if he remembered correctly. Not cleaning and dusting, but overseeing that and keeping his social calendar. A suitable occupation for a lady with aristocratic bloodlines, a governor’s palace being about the closest anything in America came to an actual royal setting. This man Pownall was Shirley’s successor. Maybe she had come to Boston to find a new situation, the new governor of Virginia having no need for her. If they got a chance to speak privately, congratulations would be in order on her ability to find favor with important men.

  Someone began vigorously poking his back. Really hammering, as if with a closed fist. He turned to see a man of advanced years in a faded yellow woolen jacket, which looked too warm for the season, and a peruke that had gone for some time without benefit of powder.

  “Do you mind yielding the ladle?” he said when he was sure he had Harry’s attention. Harry handed it over, realizing that he had been holding it for a good while.

  “My name is Hansen,” he said as he dipped out a portion of punch. “I own this place. While you are in my house, you must not hog the punch bowl.”

  “My apologies,” said Harry. “By the way, I thought the house belonged to that man over there.” He gestured toward the dance floor, where the Pearsons were expertly stepping to the music.

  “Lived here most of my life,” Hansen said, paying no notice. “Made my fortune in trading furs with the Indians. I treated those men like my own children, and they loved me for it. Never gave me a bit of trouble, except for the odd petty theft here and there.” He shrugged, spilling a little punch on his waistcoat. “I never made any fracas, as the youngsters say. Just wrote it down as a cost of making money.”

  A young woman came up and in a proprietary manner began leading Hansen away. Harry returned her sad smile with an understanding nod.

  He felt the punch coming together with the rum from earlier in the evening and making common cause. Fresh air seemed called for. Something head clearing for the carriage ride back into Boston. A meeting with the baroness did not seem out of the question, either. He found himself wanting to be sober enough to put words together should that come about.

  When he had arrived at the mansion, he had noticed a balcony on the third floor; as good a place as any to air out.

  The climb up the staircase attested to his condition. He was all but breathless and staggering by the time he reached the top. Shadows from wall candles played about the hallway as he made his way to the door he judged led to the balcony. He knocked softly and, getting no reply, opened it and walked in.

  It was a large room, also fitfully lit. The walls lined from floor to coffered ceiling with books. At one end was a hearth nearly large enough to walk into. In front of it, a reading table. A sofa and chairs occupied the middle of the room, and at the end opposite the fireplace was the balcony he had seen from the front, its opening half concealed behind partially drawn curtains.

  He stepped through the veils and outside. Below, a line of carriages waited, lit by large basket-shaped torches atop poles dug into the ground at intervals. From this angle Harry could fully appreciate the grandeur of the grounds, the care with which they were laid out. A fortune’s worth of plantings and labor. The air was cooler than what he was used to in North Carolina at this time of year, a season that, he realized, was quickly slipping by. It was the beginning of the third week of August. Mild ends of summers were among the rewards of living in New England, he supposed. He shuddered to think how cold it must get. But with a fireplace such as he had just seen, he imagined no one in the Pearson family suffered.

  “Harry?” said a tuneful voice behind him. The second syllable of his name given the playful lilt that had charmed him once before. With a rustle of taffeta, Jacqueline stepped onto the balcony.

  “I saw you leave and followed as soon as I could. It would have been terrible to miss a chance to say hello.”

  Harry said the first thing that came into his mind. “Where’s the governor?”

  “Oh, Tom is busy with some of the other men at the punch bowl. He is a dear, but the price one pays for keeping company with great men is abandonment at the drop of a glove.”

  “I’m surprised to see you in Boston. I thought you loved Virginia now.”

  “I wouldn’t rule out returning there someday. But I’ve just been offered a position here through a friend. I’ll be teaching the French language to children of a good family.”

  “Your friends move in high circles. How long have you known Mister Pownall?”

  “I met Tom when I was part of the Shirley household. He and William were political enemies. But William is gone now.” She said something in French, then translated, “Life continues.”

  Harry felt a stab of jealousy and in the next instant realized how mistaken it was. He had no more claim to Jacqueline’s affections than to Maddie’s.

  “I suppose this might grow into something more?” he could not resist asking. “With the governor, I mean? Or maybe it already has?”

  “Tom is a sweet man. And I won’t be shy: we’ve had our moments, even before William left. But I doubt Tom will ever be interested in anything permanent. He’s too much the sport.”

  She sat down on the balcony’s sole piece of furniture, a rattan sofa with overstuffed cushions. Giving Harry a tantalizing glimpse of the swell of breasts. She took Harry’s hand and pulled him down beside her. “Now, tell me how you have fared since Williamsburg. Have you found your killer?”

  He summed up his activities since leaving Williamsburg, how his search had led him to Philadelphia, then Boston. The road seeming to end here. Except he now knew something about the inscription on the brooch.

  “I feel I’m very near to figuring out its meaning. I grasp the way the code was made. It’s only left to learn a secret word that is the key to unlocking it, but so far I’ve had no success. The truth is I may be no closer to finding the Ca
mpbells’ killer than the day I rode out from New Bern.”

  She turned and looked directly into his eyes. “Here is what I think, Harry. I fear that as close as you are to learning that secret, you are just that close to terrible danger.”

  “You may be right. People have tried to kill me twice now. Once in Maryland and again aboard my ship to Boston.”

  Jacqueline inhaled sharply. “I knew it. Did you recognize your attackers? Have you any idea who sent them?”

  “Robbery can’t be ruled out as a reason the first time. My friend Noah Burke—you met him in Williamsburg—was with me. He was carrying a great deal of money, something I didn’t even know until later. He was killed, but they got no money. The second attack—the one on the ship—is a complete mystery.”

  As he spoke he wondered how closely Jacqueline was listening. Her eyes seemed preoccupied with his lips. Following their movements. Her eyes dark and liquid in the moonlight. Reflections from the torches below playing over them.

  “Harry,” she said when he was finished, “I won’t pretend. I’ve thought of you often since we parted. Have you thought of me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she touched his hand. Her breath was warm on his neck. Suddenly it seemed the world beyond the balcony was falling away, leaving him and this strangely beautiful woman slowly tumbling through a void. Adrift in a universe far from New England, America, the earth itself. A world where he was unmarried and had no responsibilities, no concern other than satisfying his hunger to run his hands over Jacqueline’s unclothed body. Feel her pressing against him. In this new world, he had the power to keep this rare prize for himself, to will it so that she would never again know the touch of another man.

  They kissed, more furiously than lovingly. Bumping, squeezing, grappling. The sleeves of Jacqueline’s gown slipping farther down her shoulders as the struggle went on. He fumbled with the buttons at her back. She seemed to be trying to wriggle away, which only increased his determination to hold her fast. Suddenly she somehow managed to bring her hands together at his chest and push him back. Hard. It seemed she was strong as well as lovely.