Mistress Firebrand

by Donna Thorland

  “You should be careful what you say to a writer,” she warned, “or it will end up in a play.”

  “The words I plan to use shortly would not make it past even the liberal censors of New York.” He leaned forward and spoke them in her ear, and her face flushed and her skin heated, and he could feel the very air warming between them. “Behind the greenhouse,” he said.

  “It is too public. We could be seen.”

  “There is a cart selling masks at the entrance to the maze. Buy one, and find me when the music starts.”

  * * *

  The concerts were given on a lawn bordered by box hedges and furnished with little gilded chairs. Courtney Fairchild found one for Frances, but Jenny said she preferred to stand and her aunt made no protest. Nor did she or Fairchild appear to notice when Jenny slipped out of the green enclosure and away.

  She knew she should not go to him. It was dangerous. They might be observed together. But her desire was as strong as his, and all their care wouldn’t mean a damn if Devere’s possessions turned up in the wrong hands: because then she would hang. Facing such a prospect, she was resolved at least to die with no regrets.

  Jenny found the cart at the end of the path and bought a simple moretta mask, the kind shaped like an egg, in black silk velvet, with a little cord attached to the mouth and a paste jewel meant to be held between the teeth like a bit. It would give her an excuse for not stopping to speak with anyone on her way to the fountain, and unlike the fanciful cat and peacock masks, it should attract little attention.

  She heard the musicians strike up as the pretty brick greenhouse came into view, and she realized that the structure lay just on the other side of the concert lawn, separated only by a tall line of beeches. Miss Wainryte’s voice, familiar to Jenny because she had been employed often to sing at the John Street before the British commandeered the theater, floated through the trees, one of Haydn’s Scottish songs.

  O Sandy, why leav’st thou thy Nelly to mourn?

  Thy presence could ease me,

  When naething can please me:

  Now dowie I sigh on the bank of the burn,

  Or thro’ the wood, laddie, until thou return.

  There were fires still burning in the greenhouse even at this time of year to keep the orange and lemon trees warm, their leaves waxy green in the flickering light, their fragrance drifting over the lawn.

  Tho’ woods now are bonny, and mornings are clear,

  While lav’rocks are singing,

  And primroses springing;

  Yet nane of them pleases my eye or my ear

  When thro’ the wood, laddie, ye dinna appear.

  Devere was waiting for her around the back, leaning against the brick wall, where empty clay pots were stacked in neat rows and benches too weathered to use in the garden were stored. She could still hear the music, which meant that they could be heard, so she tried to pick her way silently across the gravel, but that proved impossible.

  He looked up when he heard her approach, and his eyes widened and gleamed black in the reflected light when he caught sight of her mask.

  She lifted a hand to remove it, but he stepped quickly to forestall her, capturing her wrist and holding it away from her face. “No,” he said, speaking softly. “Leave it on. It will help us . . . focus on discretion.”

  That I am forsaken, some spare not to tell:

  I’m fash’d wi’ their scorning,

  Baith ev’ning and morning;

  Their jeering gaes aft to my heart wi’ a knell,

  When thro’ the wood, laddie, I wander mysel.

  Inside they might be overheard, might already have been seen. The windows were large and the fires bright, and the whole of the orangery interior one open space dotted with trees. Devere drew her into the shadows of the little walled enclosure, her shoes crunching over bits of broken pottery, and he bade her lean back against the brick.

  She wanted to kiss him. She was conscious of the jeweled bit between her teeth, its contours smooth against her tongue, keeping her mouth slightly open but making speech impossible. He surprised her by dropping to his knees in front of her and lifting her hem. Up and up it went like a stage curtain until it met her hands. “Take it,” he said, pressing bunches of silk into her palms. She grasped the stuff in handfuls, gown and petticoats and chemise all together, cool air swirling around her ankles, calves, and knees.

  He placed his hands on her thighs. “Higher,” he said.

  Then stay, my dear Sandy, nae langer away,

  But quick as an arrow,

  Hast here to thy marrow,

  Wha’s living in languor till that happy day,

  When thro’ the wood, laddie, we’ll dance, sing, and play.

  She drew the curtain up, up, up until the edges of her stays were visible and so was everything else: her own coppery curls, his thumbs parting them, her pink flesh, and his pinker tongue swiping her center.

  The strangled sounds in her throat died behind the closed mouth of the velvet mask, the jeweled bit and the silken cord stilling her tongue.

  He was not silent. He laughed a little, then licked her again, then described for her in perfect detail what it was like to do this to her, how much he enjoyed this little game.

  It did not last long. She did not last long. When her climax took hold of her, she lost her concentration and her mouth opened. The jewel fell out. The mask dropped from her face. Devere caught it deftly. He sat back on his heels and looked up at her with a hint of smug satisfaction.

  “I would kiss you,” he said, “but then you would carry the scent with you all night, instead of being able to hide it here.” He touched the part of her that was still trembling, and she convulsed again. Then he stood and tugged her skirts out of her hands, which were curled like claws around the silk. He smoothed her gown until she looked almost presentable. She stepped away from the wall on unsteady legs.

  “I must leave,” he said, “or it will be obvious what I have been about . . . But I hope you will think of me as you stroll through the garden.”

  She would, of course. Her thighs were slick with what they had just concluded. When she took her seat next to her aunt and the man who shared her aunt’s life but not her bed, she felt a pang of longing. She knew from their example that love could survive without passion, but she wondered how long passion could abide without intimacy.

  * * *

  Devere left Ranelagh savoring his encounter with Jennifer Leighton. It occurred to him only in the street afterward that tonight he had not said he loved her. An appalling omission. He must see her again and tell her. It could be arranged. They had managed it tonight.

  His optimism faded as he walked home past the defenses that Howe was building to keep possession of Manhattan, and looked out over the water where on the opposite shore Rebel fires still burned. By the time he reached his lodgings at the King’s Arms, he was wondering how long this idyll could last.

  He got his answer the next day, when John André joined him at his evening meal in the taproom.

  “I hope,” said André, drinking ale and making himself entirely at home at Severin’s table, “that your return to civilization has improved your memory in regards to the Merry Widow’s associate.”

  “I seem to recall that you promised me Cornelia in exchange,” hazarded Devere. “Until I can lay hands on the playwright, I don’t see why I should give you the Widow’s conspirator.”

  John André inclined his head. “Just so. That is why, Colonel, I shall exert myself to deliver you Cornelia tonight. And tomorrow you will give me the Widow’s compatriot.”

  Fear twisted in his guts. “Do you have a piece of writing for me to compare?”

  “Nothing so tenuous,” replied André smoothly. “I have received information that our man ‘Cornelia’ will attend a clandestine performance of his Miles Gloriosus tonight. The
re is a group of students from King’s who play it twice monthly in a burnt-out building in canvas town. We have been allowing this gathering to grow—and it has now become a large net we can draw closed around a significant school of traitors. I’m told the play now attracts a crowd of five hundred at each performance—many of them almost regular attendees—including the rebellious sons of some very wealthy loyalists. Men Howe believes will feel obliged to put their money behind raising soldiers for the Crown, if their heirs are threatened with a spell on the Jersey.”

  The British prison hulk was reputed to be as bad as the Rebel-run mine, with the commissioner of prisoners starving the wretches confined there and lining his pockets with the money meant to purchase their victuals. And Simsbury served as a justification for it.

  “That tactic will turn known allies into secret enemies and potential plotters,” said Severin, with the bitter wisdom of experience.

  “No doubt,” said André, unconcerned. “But that is Howe’s business. I am not terribly interested in the scions of a pack of dour Dutch patroons. The general may do as he pleases with them. Cornelia is our objective, and we’ll take him tonight. If you wish to be in on the capture, be at the Battery by seven.”

  Devere affected indifference and shrugged. “Surely you have oxen to yoke to this plow.”

  “I do. I have Sir Bayard Caide’s notoriously brutal dragoons. Howe is worried the colonel’s raids on the Jerseys will turn Bergen County against us, but Caide’s men wreak almost equal havoc when we keep them bottled up in New York. A night cracking heads will provide a fine outlet for them. And there is a very useful fellow who follows Caide called Dyson. Something of a prodigy. I mean to use him on the Merry Widow’s associate, but you may borrow him tonight for Cornelia.”

  Severin’s dinner threatened to rise. He knew Caide’s dragoons, and they were nothing like the light horse troop that had “rescued” him from Connecticut. The colonel and his men were ruthless and brutal, and like Severin—or the man Severin had once been—they were tolerated by leaders like Howe who wished to avoid bloodshed on a mass scale and would countenance private murder and torture to see it done. His lieutenant, Dyson, was the worst of a bad lot: a sadist with a talent for torture.

  “That is very generous,” said Devere. His mind ran to killing Captain André here and now, of standing up quickly, offering him his hand, and pulling him close and stabbing him. Devere would swing for it, and gladly, if he thought he had any certainty of succeeding. But there was every indicator that André might be just as good as he was, and more ruthless. The man already knew Severin was at least a rival, and possibly an enemy, and he would be on his guard.

  “Will we see you, sir?” asked André.

  “Perhaps. If nothing else tempts me.”

  Severin watched André exit the taproom. He signaled for the potboy whom he had been paying ever since his arrival. Though his man of business was still missing, his wife was keeping his books and had advanced Severin funds.

  “Make sure that the captain has left,” he said, putting a coin in the boy’s hand. “Follow him for at least four blocks—more if he does anything interesting. Then run straight back here to me.”

  It took all of Severin’s self-control to wait for the boy’s return. His impulse was to hasten directly to John Street and to Jenny. To save her and possibly to throttle her because he had never been so angry—or so terrified—in his life. Not even when the soldiers had come for his mother. He loved Jennifer Leighton, but right at that moment he hated her too. Hated her for putting herself in danger and himself . . . through this.

  The boy returned to Severin’s table.

  “I followed him to the Golden Ball. He came out with Butcher Caide and another big man, and they went to the Battery. They didn’t come out.”

  He had a little time. Enough, he hoped, to intercept her. He paid the boy off and collected his sword and the two pistols he had bought at a vendue sale, along with his lock picks and his knives, and he set out for John Street.

  Dusk was coming on by the time he arrived, and he found the house much changed. No firing glasses lined the stoop; no discarded clothing fluttered in the breeze. The door was opened by a servant—the maid whose appearance had served as Jenny’s model for her disguise the night she had met him at Vauxhall and they had made love for the first time.

  The ground-floor parlors were no longer outfitted for late-night parties. The card tables were demurely shut and pushed up under pier glasses, the damask chairs fitted with ticking covers, one whole side of the great double parlor dominated by a simple table with two chairs and two distinct work spaces.

  He observed all this in passing, because once he gave his name, the maid showed him up to the little parlor where, months earlier, he had not so happily been reunited with Angela Ferrers. This evening found Frances Leighton in the same chair the Widow had occupied on that occasion. Devere did not wait upon formalities.

  “Where is Jenny?” he asked without preamble.

  “Not at home,” she replied brightly. “Shall I tell her you called?”

  “I need to find her, Frances. She’s in danger. You both are. Captain André wants the Merry Widow’s accomplice. He wants you. And he wishes to trade me Cornelia for your name. He knows she will be at this blasted play tonight, and he has Caide’s dragoons ready to storm the place and take her.”

  Frances Leighton paled. “She has already left.”

  “Where precisely does this performance take place?”

  “In canvas town. There used to be a Dutch church on Lumber Street. They play in the ruins.”

  Devere cursed. He knew the church, knew the street. It had been a poor but respectable enough enclave before the fire. Now it was a rabbit warren of tipple shops and makeshift brothels, with dirty sails stretched across the rotting carcasses of the burnt houses where once secure families now struggled to eke out a living amongst the squalor. Caide’s dragoons would not care. They would decimate the place if ordered to it, and gladly.

  “I am going to get her out of there, Frances. I am going to bring her here, and then you are both going to pack your belongings and come with me.”

  “Where can we possibly go, Devere?” asked Frances Leighton. “New Brunswick isn’t safe for us. Howe plans to drive down into the Jerseys next month.”

  “I have family in Connecticut,” he said.

  She raised a plucked eyebrow. “Do you, now?”

  “Don’t pretend to understand me or my family, Fanny. You have no idea how few choices we had. It is not always so very easy to do what is right.”

  She gave him a sad little smile. “It is never easy,” she said. “Go and get Jenny. I will pack.”

  “You mustn’t tell Fairchild where you are going,” he said. “It would place him in an impossible position.”

  “No, it won’t,” said Frances Leighton. “He has scant regard for what others think of him. Private honor is more important to him than public reputation.”

  And, like that, Severin knew how this woman understood his old friend. Courtney was nothing like his sister, Phippa, or indeed like others of his class and country. God grant that Courtney’s uncommon nature might bring him more happiness than had Phippa’s conventional turn of mind.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

  She acknowledged him with a regal nod of her head. He left her to pack her things and slipped out the back door, just in case anyone had followed him.

  * * *

  The old Dutch church on Lumber Street had been built of local stone, but that had not saved it from the ferocity of the fire. The curved eaves were gone, burned away along with the gambrel roof and the cupola, so that only a low box of charred stone remained. The gothic window arches were covered in sail canvas that glowed warmly from the lights within, and the curving nave was roofed in more of the same.

  If he had not known this was Ne
w York, he might have guessed he was on the outskirts of Rome or Naples, such was the ruined atmosphere of the place. Until he saw a flash of movement, the glint of steel at the end of the street—Caide’s dragoons, keeping out of sight until André was certain their prey was inside the trap.

  If Jenny was here, he was going to have a hell of a time getting her out.

  For all of the squalor, the old church was unmistakably a theater tonight, marked as such by the presence of the orange sellers and whores—some of them far, far too young—plying their wares to men and women dressed in silk and lace. A brewer’s cart was parked in the alley alongside, kegs tapped and beer flowing, while across the street at a plank-bench-fronted stall, a tot of throat-burning rum could be had at half the price with twice the effect.

  Inside the church was an empty shell, benches, pulpit, and sounding board all burned away, only black soot to mark where they had once stood. Someone had piled bricks and laid timbers across them to make seating for the pit, and scaffolding to create a primitive gallery, and at the nave end palettes were stacked on barrels to form a stage. Candles had been set into crevices in the stone with mad abandon, but any hazard of fire was of little moment because there was almost nothing left to burn.

  Severin pulled his cloak close about him—he doubted his scarlet regimentals would be welcome here—and scanned the crowd in the uncertain light. He could not fault André’s intelligence. There were at least five hundred people jammed into the ruined church, and half a dozen recognizable faces: sons of prominent Tories, some of them stupid enough to bring ladies with them. The players were mostly students, which was to be expected. Professional theater had always faced opposition in America, but college theatricals were tolerated, and at some institutions encouraged as excellent rhetorical training for the pulpit and public life. Scholars, of course, were naturally inclined to radicalism, forever in bed with that engine of sedition, the press. And because there were so many students here, there was open recruiting for the Continentals going on in one corner, while elsewhere pretty young demireps shimmied their way through the rows, pretending to look for seats, and finding them in the laps of gentlemen with coin.