Judas Flowering

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Hart!” But, as happened so often in the close quarters of the little Georgia, they were interrupted. This time it was by Bill, who had established himself in Jem’s place as personal servant to Hart and now brought a message from Bougainville himself, inviting Hart and Mercy to dine with him on his Guerrier.

  “They want to fete the Reb Pamphleteer, I have no doubt,” said Hart. “Do you wish to go?”

  “I suppose it would be a courtesy. Particularly if I am to sail with them?” Her tone made it a question, but he ignored it.

  “It’s for today,” he said. “I suppose you’re right. We should go. Things are bad enough between the Allies as it is.”

  “Yes.” It was what she had thought, but managed not to say.

  “They’ll be in full dress,” he said gloomily. “And laugh behind their hands at our plainness.”

  But when Mercy joined him on deck, there was nothing plain about her. She was wearing the low-cut bronze satin that had so scandalised him that time in Savannah, and her hair, loose in ringlets about her shoulders, seemed to take back some of its colour from the satin. She smiled at his look of shock and swept him a low curtsey which let him see she had done something to the neckline of the dress so that it was considerably less revealing than before. “I may be the Reb Pamphleteer”—she smiled up at him and rose gracefully—“but I thought I would show our French friends that we are not all bluestockings in America.”

  “You’re showing them a great deal,” he said angrily.

  She laughed and twisted a light gauze scarf round her shoulders. “Is that better? I’m sorry I left my emeralds behind. I feel undressed without them.”

  “Who bought them for you?” He had longed to ask the question.

  “Mr Gordon.” And then, laughing, “Oh, Hart, your face! But it’s not fair to tease you. He bought them with my money. The way things were in Savannah, jewels were the best thing to buy, if one could only come at them. I am afraid I shall regret them when I start earning my keep in the West Indies.”

  “Earning?” How could he not have thought of this?

  “Well.” She smiled up at him. “It was careless of me, I know, but I left my savings behind along with the emeralds. Anyway, I have no doubt there will be some rich French planter who just needs a Reb Pamphleteer as governess for his daughter.”

  “You’d do better to come to Charleston with me.”

  “Are you telling me or inviting me? But here is Bill to tell us the boat is ready. I do hope the French have something better to give us than the year-old provisions they’ve been starving on. I’m hungry!”

  She was the only woman on the Guerrier. She was the Reb Pamphleteer. In that dress she would have been the centre of attention anyway. No, thought Hart, angry with himself all over again, it was not the dress, it was that sparkling, intelligent look of hers, the breathless interest with which she was listening as Captain Bougainville talked of his passion for natural history.

  But another of the guests, Count Dillon, had crossed the big cabin to join Hart. “Captain Purchis, I had the pleasure of meeting your mother when I was in town today. I have a message for you from her. She asked me to tell you she is anxious about Miss Phillips.”

  “Anxious?” Impossible to keep the hostility out of his tone.

  “Yes. I told her that we hoped for the pleasure of mademoiselle’s company on the voyage to the West Indies, and she asked what I thought would become of her when we got there. Well, she had reason, had she not? Besides”—an elegant uplifted hand stopped Hart’s attempted interruption—“she told me, forgive me, that they had been living on Miss Phillips’ savings since the British took Savannah. I was to say she was infinitely regretful, but now things are so bad in the town she has had even to pawn the emeralds mademoiselle left behind. I know it is painful for you to hear this from me, and I apologise, but it is something, your mother said, that you need to know.”

  “It is indeed.” Hart made a supreme effort. “And I thank you.”

  Dillon bowed and went on remorselessly. “It was a fine gesture on d’Estaing’s part, that invitation, but I think he did not quite consider what kind of a reception mademoiselle might get in the West Indies. Loyalties are divided there as they are here, monsieur, and her reputation goes before her. Would you hire a lady, a young and beautiful lady who had run such a house as she did and—as man to man—acted the spy to boot? Would you hire such a one to teach your daughter? And there seems only one other profession open to her.”

  Luckily for Hart, the company rose just then to toast the King of France, and his point made, Dillon tactfully moved away before it was possible to speak again. Hart got through the rest of the occasion as best he might, watching Mercy, who was penniless and, so far as he could see, without either reputation or future, flirting light-heartedly with one French officer after another. At last it was time to go. “I must talk to you.” His grip on her arm was one of iron, but she did not flinch.

  “Not on the Georgia!” She turned back for a last, smiling farewell to Bougainville. “In fact, I have a favour to ask of you. Could we possibly go to Winchelsea before we return to the ship?”

  “Winchelsea!” It was a whole new chapter of suffering. Though it was still well within the Allied lines, he had refused to visit the house since he and Dr Flinn had left it burning.

  “Yes. Dear Hart, I know, and I’m sorry. But perhaps you forget. My father’s grave is there. The way things are going, I may never come back to Savannah. I would like to say good-bye to him. To tell him I did what I could.”

  It seemed to him to sum up the whole disaster. But if she could face it, so would he. He gave the orders to his men, ignoring their surprised looks, and settled himself beside her in the stern. “A successful party.” His tone was drier than he intended.

  “Very.” She smiled at him blandly and lapsed into the French they both spoke. “I’ll say one thing for the French: they have manners. They may have been convinced, to a man, that I’m a harlot and a spy, but they treated me like the lady they don’t think me.”

  “Mercy!”

  She smiled again, provokingly, and put up her parasol to keep the sun off those too-white shoulders. “Father always said facts were best faced.” She lapsed into English, twirling the parasol in her hands. “I wonder how the McCartney girls have fared.”

  “What made you think of them?”

  “Parasols—and spying. This unspeakable war has made informers of us all. Come now, Hart, what were you when you came to see me in Savannah back in August?”

  “A spy!”

  “Thank you. But at least you and I have only changed sides once, Hart. Unlike Francis.” A shiver ran through her despite the heat of the October sun. “Hart, do you think it was quick?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “And we couldn’t have saved him?”

  “Not possibly. Besides, if we had, he would have turned on us.”

  “I’m glad you see that. I was afraid, perhaps you were minding.…”

  “Of course I mind!” Explosively, “He was my cousin. My aunt’s son. And the blackest kind of traitor. Why did he do it, Mercy?”

  “For Winchelsea. William saw that. I was afraid you never would. He didn’t care which side won, so long as he ended up as Mayfield of Winchelsea. I don’t wonder you couldn’t see it, so fond of him as you were, but Lord, I was afraid for you, back when we were all young.” She sighed. “How long ago it seems.”

  “A lifetime.”

  “Do you know you have touches of white in your hair? It suits you. I wonder if I shall find I have too, if I can ever get all this dye out.”

  “I hate it.”

  She smiled at him lazily. “You’re the only one. Do you not think it might win me a rich husband down in the West Indies?”

  “Mercy, don’t!” Presently, he must tell her that his mother had pawned the emeralds on which she doubtless counted for security in her new life, but not now, with the rowers so close. It must wait for their a
rrival at Winchelsea, one more misery added to the general wretchedness of this “homecoming.”

  They landed at last at the new landing stage. “Where first?” he asked as he helped Mercy ashore.

  “Oh, the house, don’t you think, and get it over with? Hart, I’ve wanted to say I am so sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s my fault. I know it. So do you. If I hadn’t made a fool of Gordon, taken his wine, let him imagine things—The British would never have suspected him. It would none of it have happened.”

  “Nonsense!” Why did this enrage him so? “He was mad. That was all. It was bound to happen and, in a way, I’m not sorry. I could never have lived there again. Won’t get the chance now. It’s all just part of the general horror.”

  “Our part. I loved it too, Hart. You made me very happy there. All of you. You were so kind. Made me an American.”

  “All of us? Mercy, there’s something I have to tell you. That Frenchman, Dillon, gave me a message from my mother.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I suppose she had no time to write.” He had minded, horribly, the casual publicness of that message by a stranger, betraying, as it did, Mercy’s penniless state and his mother’s responsibility for it. “Mercy, did you really support them all on your savings? On what I’d paid you?”

  “At first I did. Why else do you think I took that salary from you? I trusted Saul Gordon as little as I did Francis. It was merely taking your money in order to use it for your best interests. And by the time it was used up, the place was self-supporting.” She laughed. “Lord, they were poor card-players, those British officers. But generous. Well, it’s easy to be generous with looted goods. They said we made them feel at home. I think they specially liked being beaten at whist by your mother and aunt.”

  “You don’t mean to say they played too? Mother and Aunt Anne?”

  “Of course they did. I’ve never seen them enjoy themselves so much. And their health’s better, too. Your mother’s not needed her drops this age, and Mrs Mayfield hardly speaks of her nerves. At least, not before Francis—I don’t know now. I even begin to think that Mrs Purchis has forgiven me.”

  “Forgiven you?”

  “For being right about Saul Gordon. I think she must have, don’t you, or she would not have troubled to send you that message by Dillon. Oh, dear, I hope they manage to get things going again without me. I told Abigail, before the three of them left for the island, that if anything should happen to me she would just have to come out of her decline and take over. I hope she does.”

  “Decline? What do you mean?”

  “Poor Abigail. The only Loyalist among us, and she couldn’t face the British officers. Not after she sent Giles Habersham away. I wonder if he will ever come back. Oh, Hart, look! At least the ilex avenue is still there.”

  “A miracle they didn’t cut it down for firewood.”

  “Lucky the siege didn’t last longer or they would have.”

  They both knew that when they reached the avenue they would be able to see the place where the house had been. She reached out and took his hand. “Don’t mind it too much. Do you know, I have the strangest feeling that this isn’t the end. That you’ll be back, to rebuild.”

  “As a British slave?”

  “Never! As a free American. Just because things seem so bad right now, we mustn’t forget what we’ve accomplished. Think! Four years ago, there was no such thing as the United States of America. Now, we’ve a government, an army, allies. And more sympathisers even in England than you would imagine. I used to get messages, secretly, to the Reb Pamphleteer: encouragement, even money. We won’t despair, Hart. We mustn’t. Oh!” They had reached the avenue and could see the blackened ruin of the house. “Oh, Hart!”

  It was worse even than he had expected. The blazing ruin he had left had still had the outline of a house. But, built mainly of wood, it had burned almost to ground level. Only here and there a blackened tabby wall stood crazily among the rubbish. And, somehow worst of all, in its burning the house had scorched its surrounding trees so that they too shared the general look of desolation.

  “Please, Mr Hart, don’t go any nearer!” The small black boy had run up so quietly that they had neither of them seen him come. “Grandpa says it ain’t safe!”

  “And who are you?” Hart looked kindly down at the eager young face.

  “You don’t remember me?” He was disappointed, but not surprised. “I’m Bill Junior. Grandpa sent Mother and me and a couple of others to keep an eye to the place till things is better. It’s sure good to see you, Mr Hart, and Miss Mercy. But don’t you go no nearer, please. It’s my job to see no one does.”

  “And very well you are doing it. Thank you, Bill Junior.” Hart reached into his pocket and brought out a coin. “And thank your mother and the others, too.”

  “I will, sir. And we’ll be ready to start right in building when you come back.” He grinned equally at them both and turned to run off as fast as he had come in the direction of the servants’ huts, which still stood beyond the wreck of the house.

  “You see,” said Mercy. “They know we’ll win.”

  “Yes. Maybe they’re right. I don’t know. Mercy, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. Now.” He turned his back on the ruined house and set his jaw as he gazed down at her.

  “Yes?”

  “Your emeralds. That was the other thing Dillon told me. That my mother had pawned them.”

  “Well, of course,” said Mercy, “that’s what they were for. We all knew that. They were our emergency reserve. Oh!” She saw it. “You thought they were mine. Well, in a way 1 suppose they were. But once I’d left them behind.… Sensible of her, I think. Don’t mind it, Hart. I’m much more capable of earning a living than they are.”

  “You’ll have to marry me,” he said.

  “I’ll have to do nothing of the kind, Hart Purchis!” She turned on him, eyes flashing, and he knew how fatally he had blundered. “I’d rather run the brothel you thought I did. ‘Have to marry you,’ indeed! You, who never fail to believe the worst of me! If you’d seen your face, that day in Savannah, you’d know why I would rather accept a carte blanche from one of the Frenchmen who have been so good as to offer it.”

  “Mercy, no!”

  “No? Well, you may be right about that. I’d make an awkward enough mistress, would I not? And still worse a wife, particularly for a privateer captain. As you say yourself, I’ve grown used to a life of luxury. Do you think I am going to pig it on board your Georgia!” She turned with an angry swish of satin skirts and started to walk rapidly towards the trees that marked the family graveyard.

  “Mercy!” One last, long look at what had been the house, and he hurried after her. “I’ve done it all wrong; I know I have. But you must know I’ve always loved you. That’s why I minded so much.”

  “Always? And, pray, what of Bridget McCartney?”

  “Poor Bridget.” His tone dismissed her as totally without importance. But then, “Yes, it’s true; I did try to make myself care for her. After Francis had told me of your engagement to him. I was”—he sounded surprised—“I think I was angry. I had always, somehow, deep down, felt you belonged to me. So I used to visit the McCartneys, make myself pay her court. No use. When I talked to her, tried to woo her if you like, your face always came between us. Try how I would, I could not stop loving you.”

  “Oh, poor Hart, and trying so hard!”

  “What else could I do? There you were, secretly engaged to Francis … letting Saul Gordon dangle after you. And then, just sometimes, so kind, so good. And then again …” He caught her hand and pulled her round to face him. “Your father will wait. Answer me this, Mercy Phillips. Do you, by any chance, remember my asking you to marry me, before, when I was ill? Or is it such a trifle that it has slipped your memory? ‘If we survive tomorrow,’ I said, ‘marry me next day.’ And you said, ‘Yes,’ smiling that smile of yours, handed me a drugged potion, and had me smuggled out
of town.”

  “And so you are alive,” she said. “It’s a strange thing, but I prefer you that way. Your Cousin Francis arrived, bright and early next morning, to arrest you. As ill as you were, how long do you think you would have survived that? I rather think you would have been killed ‘trying to escape’ on the way to British headquarters. There would have been no wedding for us that day, or any other.”

  “But you said yes,” he persisted. “You’ve deceived me often, Mercy, but, it’s a strange thing, I don’t believe you have ever actually lied to me. So, what did you mean when you said yes? Just to keep me quiet, as you pacify a sick child with sweetmeats? Or, Mercy, that you would have if you could?”

  “Think what you like.” She pulled away her hand. “As you did when you came to Savannah and thought I was running your house as a brothel. I must go and say good-bye to my father.”

  He let her go, turning for a long, last look at the ruin of Winchelsea, then slowly followed. He found her leaning against the broken stump of the Judas tree, her eyes aswim with tears, gazing down. The grave that had been a shallow depression in the ground now had its stone. “James Phillips,” he read over her shoulder. “The truth shall make you free.”

  “You did it,” she turned to him, ignoring the tears that ran down her face.

  “I ordered it,” he said. “Years ago, before I went to Harvard. To tell truth, Mercy, I had forgotten all about it. Jem must have just gone on working on it, through everything.”

  “Jem?”

  “Yes. My man Jem. Jem that’s dead. He was our stonemason.”

  “And I’ll never be able to thank him. Oh, Hart”—she looked up at him blindly through the rising tide of her tears—“I do thank you. How did you know that was what he always said?”

  “You told me. Don’t you remember? Mercy, I remember everything. That first day, when you were so angry because you thought I had failed him. The way you played the great lady for my mother and aunt. The shirts you made for me. Twice. When I went away. You sent them after me, the second time. With no message. I’m wearing one of them.”