This lady had risen more slowly and merely gave a languid nod in acknowledgement of Mercy’s second curtsey. “Quite a transformation, from what I hear.” She spoke across the two girls to her sister. And then, “Dear Abigail, what a miracle worker you are.”
“Is she not?” said Mercy warmly. “I cannot begin to thank her. Or you, ma’am,” to Mrs Purchis, “for your wonderful kindness.” To Abigail’s relief, she was using her purest accent, and the two older ladies exchanged surprised glances before embarking on what struck both girls as a prearranged set of questions.
“You are Miss Phillips?” asked Mrs Purchis, unnecessarily, but more kindly than she had intended.
“Yes, ma’am. Mercy Juliet Phillips. The Juliet was for my mother. She died … back in London … two years ago … when I was fourteen.”
“And your father?” Mrs Mayfield broke ruthlessly through the little sympathetic silence.
“Is a printer.” She used the present tense defiantly. “And a writer. He said the two went together. Only—in London—nothing went right. So, after Mother died, he sold everything, except his press, to pay for our passage. He had to work as an indentured man, to pay for shipping the press.”
“Indentured!” Mrs Mayfield was shocked. “Why, he might as well have been a slave. Sold at auction, like so much beef on the hoof!”
“Yes.” The girl’s lips folded hard on the word. “Some of your customs over here struck us, Father and me, as quite strange, ma’am. It was not precisely the welcome to a land of liberty that we had hoped for. But Father was lucky. Mr. Johnston, the editor of The Georgia Gazette, was in Charleston that day. He bought Father.” She used the word “bought” defiantly.
“I’ll warrant he did,” said Mrs. Mayfield. “Once he knew about the press! He wouldn’t have wanted Mr. Phillips setting up in competition. He’s making a nice thing of that paper of his, by all accounts.”
“I remember now.” Mrs Purchis intervened before Mercy could speak. “Someone told me. One of James Johnston’s brothers, of course. It must have been Lewis because it was after one of the council meetings. About a stroke of luck his younger brother had had. An assistant from England who wrote like an angel. Would that be your father, dear?”
“Yes.” The unexpected kindness had the girl near tears. “Mr Johnston let Father write some of the letters—you know, that correspondence about the Townshend and Stamp acts. Father was Phil Anglius.” She spoke with pride.
“Very good letters,” said Abigail. “I remember them But … dangerous.”
“Yes.” It brought Mercy back to the present, and her thin face blanched. “It was to be a secret, of course, but it got out somehow.” Her hands clenched at her sides. “Such a secret! If I could only find out who—”
“Don’t, dear,” said Abigail.
“They were such a group of friends. If it was one of them …” And then, with an effort, “But Father always said that vengeance was in the hand of God.” This time she had used the past tense. Her head went up, listening. “Someone’s coming.”
“Hart.” Abigail was at the window. “And Francis with him.”
“Well, I declare.” Mrs Mayfield had moved over to join her. “Still in his evening dress, the wicked boy.” She threw open the window and leaned out. “Come right up here, Francis Mayfield, and explain yourself, before I have one of my spasms.” And then, “Well, Hart, what is it? Why the long face?” And, in answer to an inaudible question, “Yes, she’s here. Come on up, boy, and stop making mysteries. It’s bad for my nerves.”
Abigail moved quickly over to take both Mercy’s hands. “I’ve never seen Hart look like that. You’ll be brave, won’t you? For his sake? He’s only a boy, really.”
But Hart, when he walked into the room a few minutes later, was, visibly, a man. His square jaw was set rigid; the blue eyes that went with fair hair were sombre. He towered over his darkly elegant cousin, who was pale with lack of sleep, but every inch the European beau in black evening dress and ruffled shirt.
A quick bow for his mother and aunt, a smile for Abigail, and Hart went straight to Mercy. “I’m sorry, Miss Phillips, it’s bad news.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes. He … they …” He looked round the silent little group as if for help.
“You’d better tell her.” Francis Mayfield’s smile for Mercy was full of sympathy. “If you don’t, someone else will.”
“Tell me what?” asked Mercy. And then, “Please, if there’s worse, I’d rather have it now. All at once.”
“Yes. Miss Phillips, you must believe me. The fire killed him. He was dead, for certain, when you and I got away. Only, later, sometime in the night, someone must have come back and”—he swallowed hard—“scalped him.”
“Indians!” screamed Mrs Mayfield. “And you’ve left a trail straight here.”
“I’ve done more than that, Aunt.” He looked at her squarely. “I’ve sent some of the men out to bring the body in for burial.” A firm hand stopped a further tide of protest, and his mother and cousin looked at him with surprised respect. “Will you mind, Miss Phillips, if we bury him here, in our family plot? Less noise, that way. And if, as I hope, you are going to stay with us …”
“Is she going to stay here?” Anne Mayfield was gobbling like an infuriated turkey hen.
“I hope so,” said Hart again. “With your permission, Mother?” And then, to Mercy, “I’m afraid, whoever came back, they finished the job on your house. There’s nothing, today. Nothing.” He looked, suddenly, less than his seventeen years. “I’m sorry. I should have sent a guard out last night. Done something. It’s my fault.”
“Oh—the house.” She dismissed it. “But, Mr Purchis, you’re sure. About Father? That he was dead?”
“Dead as a doornail.” It was suddenly apparent to all of them that not only was Francis Mayfield still elegant in evening dress; he was also still afloat on his evening’s wine. “Believe me, Miss Phillips—” And then, awkwardly, “Haven’t been presented, your pardon. Deepest condolences, but, word of honour, I know what I’m talking about. The fire killed him. Nothing could hurt him after that. Dr Flinn will say the same.”
“Doctor?” She was holding herself as stiff, almost, as the corpse they were discussing.
“We’ve sent for him,” explained Hart. “I thought … thought you’d want it. And”—he hesitated, colouring—“the Reverend Zubly. You won’t mind?”
“Damned rebel,” said Francis. “Told you you should have asked her first.”
“No,” said Mercy with her quiet little dignity. “I’m—grateful, Mr Purchis. Father said—” She swallowed a sob and went steadily on. “Father would have liked …” She stared around at them blindly. “Oh, please …”
“Come, dear,” said Abigail. “You’ve had enough.”
“But you’ll tell me? When they bring him?” The appeal was directly to Hart.
“I’ll tell you.” He opened the door for the two girls, then closed it behind them. “Thanks, Francis. You were quite right; it was best to tell her.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Francis’ mother plaintively. “Where do you come in, Francis?”
Francis laughed and yawned. “Terrible late night at the St George’s Society. No, no, Mamma, no need to look so shocked. Not cards, just drink and talk. On my way home in the blissful dawn I met Cousin Hart here, looking like death, on his way out. So, good cousin that I am, I went too. And a deuced unpleasant scene it was. I hope to God you’re right, Hart, and it wasn’t Indians.”
“Horrible enough either way,” said Hart. “That a white man would do such a thing.”
“Yes,” said his mother. “You’re sure, Hart? That the poor man was dead?”
“Kindest to say so,” said Francis. “And probably true. My advice, at all events. You’d better make sure Dr Flinn bears me out for that poor girl’s sake. Plain little thing, ain’t she? What do you reckon to do with her, Hart?”
“Care for her,” said Hart
. “If she’ll let us. You won’t mind, Mother?”
“Of course not, dear.” They were all aware that the balance of power in the household had somehow, imperceptibly, shifted overnight, and that his request was now merely a matter of courtesy. “She’ll be company for Abigail. They seem to have taken a fancy to each other.”
“Time you got that girl married off,” said Mrs Mayfield. “How old is she now? Nineteen if she’s a day and not a prospect in sight. Pretty enough, too, if you like them blond. Pity your uncle left no money, Hart. If he had, perhaps that New England missishness of hers wouldn’t matter so much.”
“Don’t fret, Mamma.” Her son had taken her point and smiled at her lazily. “She may be pretty as a pink, but I’d as soon pay my addresses to that little shrimp of a Miss Phillips.”
“In that case”—his Aunt Purchis rounded on him—”I’ll thank you to stop looking April and May at Abigail, and breathing sweet nothings into her ear. It ain’t fair, Francis Mayfield, and if your mother hadn’t spoken out, I would have. Frankly, I thought it was bonnet over the moon with you, and I’m afraid it is with her, poor child. If you’re hanging out for a rich wife, I suggest you go and do it in Charleston.”
“Nothing I’d like better,” said her nephew promptly. “What do you say, Mamma?”
“That we can’t afford it, of course, stupid boy. Not till your debts are paid, and God knows when that will be.”
“Oh, those debts! Shall I never hear the end of them.” His handsome, saturnine face modulated into the sulks, then brightened. “Never mind, if it really comes to war with England, there’ll be no more question of sending money across the Atlantic. To pay debts or anything else.”
“War with England?” said his mother. “You can’t be serious, Frank.”
“Of course I’m not. Just some talk I heard last night at the club set my teeth on edge a bit. There are a lot of hotheads down in St. John’s Parish who think they could run our affairs better than the King, God bless him. And now, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m for my bed.” He yawned elaborately. “I’m too tired to make sense. But wake me in time for the funeral, Hart, there’s a good little cousin. Must pay my respects to the poor printer, for Miss Phillips’ sake. I suppose it will be today?”
“Better so,” said Hart. “This evening, I hope. As quietly as possible. What worries me,” he spoke to them all, “is the matter of Mr Phillips’ press. Someone had been searching, last night, after I left … someone who may, we must face it, have found poor Phillips alive, questioned and killed him. No way of telling whether they found the press or not. They certainly searched hard enough. But if they haven’t found it—well, we all know what a printing press is worth, with the country the way it is. Right now, Mr. Johnston has the only one here in Georgia, and though he keeps things pretty even in the paper, everyone knows he’s a Loyalist at heart. The Liberty Boys would give their eye teeth—and any life that stood in their way—to get hold of a press of their own.”
“I wonder if Miss Phillips knows where her father hid it,” said Mrs Purchis.
“She said not,” her son told her.
“I hope she spoke the truth.”
Chapter 3
Hart’s wish for a quiet funeral was to be frustrated. Inevitably, news of the killing reached Savannah in the course of the morning, and before either the doctor or the minister had arrived, people started coming out from town in twos and threes, some by boat and some, the longer land way, on horseback or in the light carriages that were used for traffic between town and country houses.
By now, the body lay in a cool ground-floor room in one of the plain coffins the estate carpenter kept always ready. Hart had wanted the lid nailed down over that savaged head, but had felt in honour bound to consult Mercy Phillips first and had been surprised by her fierce refusal. “I must see him,” she said, “and if you’ll give me my way, so shall anyone else who wishes. Who knows? There may be truth in that story in the play that blood flows again at sight of the murderer.”
“But surely the murderer would never come,” said Hart.
“How do we know?” They were talking in a small, seldom-used downstairs parlour from whose window they could see the sweep of the drive with, already, a little group of people, quietly, respectfully waiting. “People always loved Father,” she went on. “There might, perhaps, be someone who did not dare be seen not to come. And now, please, Mr. Purchis, may I see him?”
“If you are sure. But, first, while we are alone—Miss Phillips, I’m anxious about you. You said last night that you did not know where your father had hidden his press. The more I see of you, the harder I find that to believe. Other people may well feel the same. Mind you, the press may have been found already. There was a search made last night.”
“At the time of the scalping?”
“Probably.” He was treating her as if she was another man. “Impossible to tell whether it was found or not. But, if not, you must see—”
“That I am in danger? Yes. They tortured once. They would again. Well”—she smiled up at him—“for what it’s worth, Mr Purchis, you have my word that I do not know where Father hid his press.”
“And what is it worth? Your word?” Francis Mayfield had come quietly into the room, soberly dressed now for the funeral.
“As much as yours, I daresay.” She turned from him to Hart. “May I see Father now, please?”
Hart and Francis exchanged glances, then, “If you’re certain,” said Hart, and “I’ll fetch Abigail,” said Francis.
On Hart’s orders, the body, in its plain coffin, had been covered with February-fresh leaves so that only the face was visible. Mercy stood there, silent, for a long moment, gazing, then, “May I be alone with him?”
Abigail, joining her five minutes later at Hart’s request, found her kneeling by the coffin, tears running quietly down her cheeks. “Mr Johnston is here.” Abigail held out a hand. “He and his friends ask if they may come in, to see …”
“Oh … thank you … yes.…” Mercy took the hand and rose to her feet. “If they wish it. Only, I don’t want—” She bent, kissed the cold cheek, then turned away, blindly, still holding Abigail’s hand. “Of course they should see him,” she said. “Some of them were probably part of the mob last night. Let them see what they have done.” Her grasp on Abigail’s hand tightened. “I’d meant to watch them, but I can’t.”
“Of course not. It would not be proper anyway. But Hart said to tell you that he and Francis will. They are coming now.” She urged Mercy gently out into the hall and up the stairs towards her own room, which was at the back of the house, as far away as possible from the crowds, who now began to move quietly forward through the open front door and into the little room where Hart and Francis stood, silent, at the head of the coffin.
Upstairs, Mercy turned almost desperately to Abigail. “Give me something to do,” she said. “I can’t—I don’t think I can bear it.”
“To do?” Abigail looked shocked. “But, dear—”
“Oh, I know,” impatiently. “I ought to be reading the Bible. That comes later. When Mother died, I cleaned the house. What there was of it.” A wry glance took in the shining upstairs hall of Winchelsea. “I can see that would hardly do here. It’s so big, it frightens me. And all those servants.”
“I’ll show you round,” said Abigail, relieved to have thought of so unexceptionable an occupation. “If we keep to the back we won’t see anyone. The air will do you good.”
A narrow back stair, used mainly, Abigail said, by the servants, took them down to a little door that led out onto the back porch.
“We could sit here.” Abigail was wondering about the propriety of going farther.
“No, please! Let’s walk. It helps me. What’s down there?”
“Oh!” Abigail joined her to look through a screen of ilexes and other evergreens towards a low wall. “It’s the graveyard. I’m sorry. I should have thought.”
“Don’t be. Could we go there? No
w? Without anyone seeing?”
“I suppose so.” Abigail still sounded doubtful. “There’s nothing beyond but the river.”
It was a mild spring morning and the grass under the trees was embroidered with jonquils, huge violets, and a blue flower Mercy had never seen before. “It’s peaceful here,” she said as they entered the little graveyard. “It’s good of Mr Purchis.” She stopped by the miniature Greek temple Martha Purchis had built in memory of her husband. “Only, not here—in a corner somewhere? Father liked to be alone. Oh! Look!” She moved away from Abigail to the corner of the lot farthest from the house, where a Judas tree stood, its leafless branches bejewelled with purple blossom. “Here,” she said. “Would you ask Mr Purchis, please? You can’t see the house. He’d be quiet here.”
That day seemed endless to all of them, but the Reverend Zubly and Dr Flinn had been out of town and did not arrive until evening. By then, the unexpected crowd of mourners had returned to Savannah. Dusk was falling and Hart had ordered tall wax candles lit by the coffin. Dr Flinn put a tentative hand among the withering leaves, then turned to look very straight at Hart. “Do we really want to know how he died?”
“Miss Phillips does.”
“It would mean delaying the funeral until tomorrow. And even then, I shall very likely not be sure. It won’t bring him back to life, poor man, and may well lead to trouble.”
“I have a wedding tomorrow,” said the Reverend Zubly. “I must leave at first light.”
Hart looked from one to the other and recognised defeat. “Very well,” he said. “I will explain to Miss Phillips.”
“Why tell her?” asked the doctor. “What she don’t know won’t trouble her.”
“Because she will ask,” said Hart. “And I’ll not lie to her. Well, I’m sorry to have got you here on a wild-goose chase, Doctor. You’ll spend the night, of course. And you, Mr Zubly.”
“Delighted.” Zubly looked rather ostentatiously at his watch. “If we are to bury him tonight …”
“Yes. I’ll just explain to Miss Phillips.”
Judas Flowering Page 3
