Liam stood and pumped the man’s hand. “If it isn’t our favorite whiskey rebel!”
Finn O’Brien was more like a brother than a cousin. When his parents died in a carriage accident, he had moved in with the Delaneys at the age of four. Tara was seven at the time, and Liam was the man of the house at twelve. He could still see his mother gathering all three children to herself. “I’ve lost a husband and a brother and a sister-in-law,” she would often say, “but the good Lord saw fit to bless me with another son.” For years, Finn called Liam “Uncle.” It must have tried his mother’s faith something fierce when Finn lied about his age and joined Liam’s regiment.
“Liam!” With a voice bigger than his body, Finn boomed above the noise of the tavern. “Speaking of dreams, I brought mine, too. Sit.” He tossed his hat onto an iron hook protruding from the wall. Water dripped from its rim to the floor.
Tara hurried away and returned with a glass tumbler. She slammed it on the table before Liam. “Be polite,” she whispered, clearly recalling he didn’t drink hard liquor. When Finn pulled a bottle from inside his cloak, she said, “Tell me you’ve brought barrels more of the stuff. We’ve been clean out for months.”
“I already unloaded them from my wagon, and they’re safely in your kitchen as we speak. Now, Liam, it’s high time you tried the famous Monongahela rye. Home brewed by yours truly.” Finn poured the dark brown whiskey into the glass.
Liam brought the tumbler to his nose, and his nostrils burned at its mere proximity. It wasn’t only the sickly heat of whiskey he smelled, though, but something earthy and sweet. Honey, perhaps, or maple. It smelled almost smooth, if such a quality could be smelled. He took a small sip. Then, shaking his head, he whistled low. “Whiskey is not my drink, old friend. But if it were, I’d choose yours.”
Finn dropped into the chair beside Tara. “Just as well. You could never afford my prices.” His laugh was a merry roar and impossibly contagious. The teasing about Liam’s slender resources was well justified. Until he’d acquired his land last year, his frugal lifestyle as a schoolmaster in small towns outside Philadelphia had included boarding with students’ families for six months at a time. It was no way for a man to live, especially one on the wrong side of thirty.
Liam pushed the tumbler across the table toward Finn. “Speaking of prices, how are you getting along with the whiskey tax? Doesn’t that cut into your profits?”
Finn cursed under his breath and finished off the remaining whiskey. As he leaned his elbows on the table, his face shifted from mirth to fury. “Tyranny if ever we saw it, eh, Liam? The British taxed us, and we resisted. We fought a war and won. We were patriots. And now our government has the nerve to tax our whiskey, and as soon as it’s made, even the barrels we never sell. They must know we use whiskey to pay our field hands and barter for trade. So, the tax would not just cut into my profits, it would eat them up altogether. If we let it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning we’ve agreed to disagree.” His one brown eye sparkled mischievously.
Liam squinted at his cousin. “You and the tax collectors?”
“Almost all of us with stills and the tax collectors. They stopped coming around long ago. Didn’t take but a couple of them getting tarred and feathered for them to learn their lesson.”
Liam clasped his hands behind his head. “You can’t think they’re done trying to collect, though.”
“If anyone else proves fool enough to come for the tax, I’ll be hanged before I give him the first coin. A fellow by the name of Fisher paid the taxes. Wanted to do the right thing, he said, but it took nearly every last coin. He was going to get out of Washington County and start over in Kentucky. Ain’t no way he can leave now.”
Liam’s forehead knotted. “An ill-advised tax, to be sure.” He knew what it was to feel stuck and out of options. So did Finn, and more than most. Militia veterans had not been paid for their service during the war except in worthless paper bonds, which Finn had traded for land in western Pennsylvania. The men there were even rougher than the terrain, and Finn lost his eye in a brawl, ending his days as a carpenter. The whiskey trade was all he had left.
“A right shame,” Tara said, shaking her head.
“’Tis tyranny, plain and simple,” Finn added. “I resisted it from the hands of the British, and I’ll resist it now.” His declaration crescendoed over the din of the tavern. Heads turned to listen. “I gave the best years of my life for the cause of liberty—so did you—and I’ll not see my freedoms trampled on by British-aping easterners with no concern for us on the frontier. Mark my words, the West will split from the East if this keeps up.”
“Hear, hear!” a diner shouted, fist raised. “Resist! Vive la whiskey rebels!” He pounded the table, making dishes clatter.
“Vive la liberté!” cried another. “Down with King Washington and his puppeteer, Hamilton! Down with tyrants! Vive la France!”
Liam had heard enough. Exhaustion weighting his eyelids and limbs, he pushed himself up from the table. “I sympathize, Finn. I do. Just remember that this is the capital before you raise any liberty poles around here.” He bade them good night.
“So early?” Tara kissed his cheek. “Well, I don’t doubt but that you’re worn to the bone with travel.”
“How much travel are we talking, from here to your place?” Finn asked.
Liam kneaded the muscles in his neck. “My farm is on the edge of a settlement more than a hundred and sixty miles north of here.”
Finn whistled. “You’ve got to be near the border of New York up there.”
“Not too far from it.”
Finn’s brow rippled. “That’s no easy journey. What is it that brings you here?”
Liam placed his hand on Tara’s shoulder. “Aside from the chance to see my darling sister? The mail. I’m an express postman between the settlement and Philadelphia. I’m on rotation with a few other riders, so I only make the trip once every four or five weeks. It puts a little extra cash in my pocket and lets me keep an eye on Tara.” He winked at her.
Standing, Tara gave him a halfhearted punch in the arm. “I have work to do. Finn, I’ll send up a plate of food for you, all right?” She hurried away.
Finn thanked her, then turned again to Liam. “You’re talking about a round trip of more than three hundred miles over rough terrain. Don’t tell me you use your farm horse.”
Liam shook his head and rubbed his hand over his jaw. “The manager of the settlement owns a Narragansett Pacer, and we use her. He covers the cost of keeping my horse, Red, in the livery while I’m gone, on top of paying the fee for making the trip.” Since Liam didn’t own any livestock outside of Red, he could leave the farm for short periods. “There’s no better horse than a Narragansett for the journey, but it still takes a good four days in the best of weather.” Liam covered a yawn. He and his mount both needed to rest and refuel. “I’ll be here two more days.”
“Glad to hear it. Good night to you, then. See you on the morrow.” Finn saluted Liam, who returned it.
Greeting Jethro, the barkeep, as he passed, Liam wended through tables to the stair that took him to the third floor. Tara had assigned him his old bedroom, though it hardly bore any resemblance to childhood memory. The mattress creaked as he sat and pulled off his boots.
After lighting the oil lamp on the bureau, he shuffled to the washstand in the corner of the room. He poured water into the basin, then splashed it over his face and toweled dry in front of the looking glass on the wall. Two floors below, American voices sang the French revolutionary song, “Ça Ira.” The jaunty tune was fast-paced and bright, and the patrons were no doubt swinging their tankards and pints to the French lyrics. The men below might not understand what they were saying, but since Liam had learned the language while training to be a schoolmaster, he had no trouble translating. It’ll be fine . . . the aristocrats, we’ll hang them!
Liam stared at his blue-eyed reflection, catching a glimpse of the father who was
fading from memory. “Hang the French,” he muttered as he turned away, for it was the French who had killed his father when Liam was seven years old. True, King Louis XVI and Lafayette had helped America win its independence from Britain, but the French people had since beheaded their king and imprisoned Lafayette. Liam had no stomach for the head-chopping tactics of the revolutionaries, and the aristocratic refugees he’d met were an idle and arrogant lot. Taken all together, Liam was hard-pressed to invest himself in the fate of the French Revolution—especially when the fate of his own country’s still hung in the balance.
Chapter Five
For the third consecutive night, Vivienne was awakened by blood-curdling cries from the other side of the wall. There were two people in Martine’s room, though no one ever mentioned the child. The crying tonight was awful, and Martine was weeping, too.
Pulse trotting, Vivienne left her chamber and brought her fist to Martine’s door—then remembered to open her hand and scratch against the wood instead, for this had been the custom at Versailles. “Martine?” she called to the queen’s former lady-in-waiting. “It’s Vivienne. Please, won’t you let me in? I’m worried about you.”
Martine opened the door only as wide as her slender shoulders. How frail she looked without the trappings of the court. She sniffed at the hem of her sleeve. “Oh, Vienne!” she cried in an urgent whisper. “I have a secret.”
“If you’ll pardon my saying so, you’re not keeping it very well—at least not from me. You might as well share the burden you bear.”
“I have to trust someone, even if he doesn’t.”
Vivienne frowned. “What do you mean?”
She looked over her shoulder toward the sound of a whimpering child. “I can’t do this alone anymore. I need a friend.”
“So do I,” Vienne choked out, surprised to find her throat suddenly tight.
The door swung wide enough to admit her, and she stepped through. The chamber smelled sweetly of Martine’s orange-scented perfume, but it looked much like Vivienne’s. A washstand, a chest of drawers, pegs on the wall draped with gowns—one of which was half retrimmed with the lace Martine had purchased from her.
But there, huddled on the bed in a pale pool of candlelight, was the shuddering form of a child, perhaps eight or nine years old. His knees were tucked under his chin, and he rocked back and forth, the mattress squeaking with every movement. Untidy waves of blond hair lay on his head.
Vivienne took a few steps closer but dropped to her knees when she was still a yard away. “Hello there, monsieur. I am Vivienne, your new neighbor. I should also like to be your friend, if you’ll let me. I haven’t many others here, you see.”
The boy lifted his head to peer at her over his knees. Tears welled in his wide blue eyes. “I don’t know you.”
“Perhaps we can get to know each other,” she offered.
He curled onto his side and faced the wall.
“Is he unwell?” Vivienne asked Martine, rising.
“Pains in his legs and back keep him in bed most of the time. And he is terrified. I cannot console him, though I’ve tried. Nights are the worst, as you’ve observed. He dreams he is still in Paris, and relives scenes too dreadful . . . too dreadful.” Martine pressed her fist against her mouth. When her shoulders shook with silent sobs, Vivienne pulled her into her arms. If this woman had been lady-in-waiting to the queen, there was no end to the terrors she had seen.
“I don’t know what to do for him,” Martine rasped as she released Vivienne’s embrace. “The governess at the palace was much better with children than I’ve ever been. I want to help him now, but how can I, when I cannot face down the past myself?”
Vivienne didn’t know much about children. But she knew about fear. And she knew what it was to feel trapped.
“What is his name?”
“Call him Henri.”
Slowly, Vivienne approached the boy and sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s all right, Henri. You’re all right. No one will harm you now.” She laid her hand on his back, and he flinched. “I won’t hurt you. We are all friends here.” Martine stood over the bed, her nightdress gleaming in a moonbeam. “You are safe.” Vivienne hoped Martine believed it, too.
When the boy’s breathing steadied, Vivienne spoke in low tones. “In the daylight, could we not tempt him to come outside with us? Perhaps he would like to watch the boats in the harbor, or the horses at auction on market days. Would he be amused by catching a fish?”
“But his pains. I can’t make him walk when it hurts him so.” Martine’s smile felt apologetic. “To bed with you, now, Vienne. I’m sorry we stole your slumber—and yet so grateful that you cared enough to come.”
In the morning, Henri was still on Vivienne’s mind as she hurried through an early breakfast. While he and Martine both seemed chained to the past, Vienne must look to the future. She needed to sell the rest of her lace. Perhaps she could even establish a partnership with a dressmaker or milliner. Fueled by hope, she bundled three lengths of lace into her satchel and headed out.
Along South Second Street, she heard more French spoken than English. With the exception of City Tavern near the corner of Second and Walnut, many of the storefronts advertised French specialties: baguettes, pastries, ice cream, cheeses, wines. As she headed north toward Market Street, display windows showed various imported goods. At last, she came to a dressmaker.
A bell tinkled as she opened the door to the shop, and memory rushed at her—of her own lace shop and apartment in the Palais-Royal. She should remember who she was, she decided. Lacemaker for the queen of France, not to mention other European royalty. Taking a deep breath, she strode to the counter and gazed appreciatively at the radiant bolts of silk lining the walls.
“May I help you?”
Vivienne turned to smile at the shopkeeper. “I hope so. I hope we can help each other. My name is Vivienne Rivard. I’ve just come from Paris, and—”
The woman was clearly unimpressed. Thousands had come from Paris during the last year.
“I made lace for the queen,” she started again, hastening to add, “and for anyone else who wanted it. I employed the finest laceworkers in and around Paris. Here, I have brought samples.” She withdrew each one in turn, unrolling the delicate netting onto a black velvet-covered board the shopkeeper set on the counter.
“Oh, la!” the woman said quietly as she studied the patterns and workmanship of the pieces. “This is very fine.”
Vivienne felt almost weak with relief. She had much more lace to sell, and who better to buy it than a dressmaker who could put it to good use?
“Think of how this would complement the dresses you create for your patrons.” Vivienne described a few fashions that would display the Alençon or Chantilly to best advantage.
“How much?” the shopkeeper asked bluntly. “The cost for this lace. What are you asking?”
Vivienne named her prices for each piece and offered a discount if they were taken together.
The shopkeeper wrinkled her nose and counteroffered with an insultingly low figure.
Alarm shot through Vivienne. “Are you in earnest? Do you understand the months it took my laceworker to create this work of art?” She looked more closely at the six yards of trim for a gown’s hem and remembered with a start that it was made by Lucie and Danielle. And those billowy cuffs with a scalloped edge were made by Tante Rose. They had lost their heads for this work, all three of them.
“You cannot expect to charge your fancy prices here, where refugees land with their fortunes already ruined. They may want to look like royalty, but they cannot afford to pay for it.”
Vivienne swallowed her dismay. “Will you not take one piece and see if a single patron would value it?”
“On consignment, perhaps.”
She shook her head. “Women died for this work, madame. I’ll not part with it for less than it’s worth.”
The shopkeeper sniffed. “Then I daresay you’ll not part with it at all.”
Heat washed over Vivienne. She had to sell this lace. She had no other way to support herself. Crawling back to Armand was simply out of the question.
That the idea even crossed her mind jarred her.
With her fingertips, she carefully rolled the lace and returned it to her satchel. “I regret I’ll not have the pleasure of doing business with you. Perhaps later, for the right customer, you’ll change your mind,” she offered.
“I won’t.”
Vivienne forced a smile to her lips. “Good day.”
She marched out of the shop with her head held high and resisted the urge to slam the door shut behind her. Disappointment felt remarkably like anger.
Her rapid steps propelled her from the shop and out of the French Quarter, into American Philadelphia, before she knew what she was about. North of Market Street, she stopped in every dressmaker and milliner shop she found, testing her English with the same speech she had given in the French Quarter.
“Too expensive,” said one. “I can get something cheaper that looks almost the same.”
“Consignment only,” said another.
“We specialize in British fashions, not French.”
Vivienne pressed on, until shops catering to women gave way to furniture makers, blacksmiths, grocers, coopers, and carpenters. When she hit Vine Street, the northern edge of Philadelphia, she looped west, then headed south toward the pension on Third, but with no better luck.
Her mission had failed. And she didn’t know where to turn next.
What on earth was she going to do? How long would she live in borrowed rooms? Would she pawn away this lace for mere survival? Surely not. Surely someone would appreciate its value, for the lace industry was dying along with those who made it. What once proliferated in France would soon be impossible to find at all. She shook her head with a sigh.
As she waited at a corner for carriages to trundle by, a flash of red across the street caught her eye. Shock prickled her skin, and her breath stalled.
A Refuge Assured Page 6
