by Diana Davis
Nothing else to be done for it. Fischer set a bowl on the floor, and the others dropped their handfuls of type into the bowl. Fischer took them over to the cases, and he and Shier began the arduous task of distributing them by sort and size. He held up an H to Shier. “Pica or English?”
Shier pointed at the slightly larger English-size cases and Fischer filed it away.
With this amount of type, this was no government form the boys had upset. “What was this?” Fischer asked Shier, hoping it wasn’t what it must be.
“This week’s Watchman, page two.”
Fischer grimaced and returned three pica-sized a’s to the appropriate case. “How fast can you redo it?”
“I’ll stay as late as I can,” Shier promised. His young wife surely wouldn’t appreciate that, but Fischer had to ask it.
Fischer tossed three broken T’s into the hellbox to be recast and returned to collect another bowlful from Reeve, Lowden and the apprentices. Fischer paused halfway to the type cases. Even after hours of scrubbing and two coats of fresh paint — and a year — he could still faintly see the char marks on the plaster above the corner desk.
A page of the Watchman was a significant loss, but they’d survived much worse. If he ever needed to be reminded of the cost of following one’s heart, that was just one evidence from his own life.
With a final sigh at the scorched wall, Fischer returned to the type cases. If this authoress proved to be eligible, someone he respected and could work alongside would certainly make a safer choice than Constance Hayes. For them both.
When Mama poked her head in the bedroom, Constance looked up from her novel. “Did Verity put more salve on your hand?” Mama asked.
“I —” She didn’t wish to get Verity in trouble, but Constance hadn’t seen her. “I’m fine.”
Mama frowned, tying on her straw hat. “I asked her to help you. Twice.”
“Mercy has been taking good care of me.”
“I know; we’ve asked a lot of her, and I’d like Verity to help.”
As if summoned by the conversation, Mercy came bounding through the bedroom door behind Mama, carrying the pot of salve. “There you are,” Mercy said, breathless as if she’d run up the stairs.
Where else would she be but curled up in her bed? It wasn’t as though she could write or embroider or do much else that required her hands. After nearly a week, the blisters were healing, but it would likely be much longer before she could write without pain.
Mercy kissed Mama’s cheek. “Are you going somewhere?”
“The market.”
Mercy silently consulted Constance. “We can go for you.”
“Nonsense. I’m fine.”
Mercy squeezed Mama’s hand with her free one. “Don’t overexert yourself.”
“I’ll just go down to the corner.” Mama lifted her gaze heavenward at their caution, but accepted the fan Mercy pressed into her hand. They were all fortunate the New Market was only a half block away — and that Mama was well enough to go to the market — but none of them wanted to trigger another spell.
Once Mama had gone, Mercy threw herself down on the bed next to Constance and took her burnt hand, carefully removing the linen strips. “I’ve some news for you.”
“You have?”
“I gave your tale to Cousin David.”
That hardly seemed like news. “Oh, did he like it?”
“I daresay he did.” Mercy paused in rubbing the salve on her blisters to grin at Constance. “He says he has a printer interested in it!”
Constance jerked away from Mercy’s touch. “What?”
“Oh, did I hurt you?”
Constance pulled away from her sister’s attempts to soothe her, snatching up the linen wrappings to replace them. “What do you mean, a printer? I don’t want that.”
Even if this printer hadn’t called it the worst drivel he’d ever had the misfortune to read. Constance had to steel herself. She hadn’t asked for this; she’d never intended it. “Why would David do such a thing?”
“I don’t know; I promise I didn’t ask him to.” Mercy stood and followed Constance where she’d retreated, wiping the extra salve on her petticoat. “I’m sorry. Should I tell him no, then?”
“Yes, of course.”
Mercy nodded quickly, then produced folded papers from her pocket. “Should we even read the letters?”
Constance took them with her unburnt fingers. To the authoress of “Columbia’s Fields” read the top one.
Her heart sank to the floorboards. She knew that handwriting.
This was impossible.
Should she open them? Would Fischer sink so low as to pen a letter taunting her writing a second time?
Constance looked to Mercy. “Why did David do this?”
“Miss Constance?” came Ginny’s voice from the door. Constance and Mercy turned to their housemaid. “Your Cousin David is calling.”
Constance consulted Mercy. “If you want to know why he did this,” Mercy said, “I suggest you ask him.”
She couldn’t do that, at least not in this state. Constance took a deep breath to bank her anger. She wouldn’t keep him waiting. “Come with me,” she murmured to Mercy, and her sister obliged, following her downstairs to the drawing room.
David stood, his fine coat and wig adding extra gravity to his serious expression. Was something wrong? “Yes?” Constance began right away.
David glanced at Mercy, but pressed on. “I have a message for you from Mr. Marks.”
“Another?” Mercy said.
“What?”
Constance still held the letters from him in her hand. She tried to at least hide them behind herself, but David spotted them, and his eyes and grin both grew wide. “You’re the authoress, aren’t you?”
She ought to demand an explanation for why he’d taken the liberty of taking her private writings to the man least likely to like them, but Constance seized on the indignation rising in her chest and buried it away.
Mercy stepped in for her. “Why would you think that?”
David folded his arms, still smug. “Obviously someone you’re very close to wrote the story, as it’s in your hand, Mercy.”
“That proves nothing.” Mercy stared straight at David without turning to Constance. She was a master at keeping confidences, it seemed.
“And I gave you the letters Constance is holding not ten minutes ago, to give to the authoress.”
“For all you know, Constance is passing them along as well.”
David looked at her askance, clearly not believing that for a moment. He turned to Constance. “I hope you did write it; it’s the cleverest and most diverting thing I think I’ve ever read.”
“Diverting?” Constance couldn’t help the disappointment in her voice, even if it did betray her authorship. Was he making sport of her, too?
“Did you not want it to be diverting?”
“I wanted it to be persuasive!”
David laughed triumphantly, seized Constance by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. “It’s magnificent! I knew it had to be you!”
“Then why would you give my tale to Fischer Marks?”
He drew back, genuine confusion crinkling his brow. “Have I erred?”
A yes! nearly tore free from her lips, but Constance kept it fast. “Mr. Marks would not like my writing.”
“But he did; he said he’d never seen its like.”
“Is that a compliment?”
David’s confusion doubled. “Why would he not compliment your tale? It’s genius!”
“I never intended to print it! I only —” She broke off and scanned the green-paneled drawing room. If David was home, Congress had adjourned and Papa could be here as well. She moved closer. “I only wished to persuade Papa.”
“That is truly noble, dear. But think — you could persuade more than just your father.”
Constance demurred. “Fischer
Marks could not possibly wish to print anything I ever wrote.”
David did not argue back as she anticipated, and she was forced to meet his eyes, which were far more serious than she’d expected. “Have you never seen the way he looks at you?”
David had no idea how cruel he was being. She turned away. “I assure you you’re mistaken. Mr. Marks cannot look at me in any special way.”
“Hm.” David was quiet for a long time again, then handed her another letter, this one sealed with wax. “He asked me to give this to you, but certainly tell him no if you wish. I’m sure Amos Gallagher could be persuaded to print it if you were so inclined.”
“Amos Gallagher?” Verity swept in, and Constance cast David a silent plea to speak nothing of this.
“Yes, why?” David’s casualness was perfect, and Constance was reminded that while Verity was easily the most talented, she was not the family’s only actor.
“Mr. Gallagher is printing my play, once it’s finished.” Verity made a rapturous little sound. “It’s patriotic, you know.”
“I hope you saved me a good part.”
Verity beamed. “The hero as ever, cousin.” She glanced at Constance. “Were you thinking of publishing your story?” Somehow, the way she said the last word made it sound as though she meant to make Constance’s work sound small.
“I wasn’t,” she answered truthfully. She might be now though. Possibly.
“Should you ever change your mind, I can prevail upon Amos to consider it.” Verity was positively gloating. “It’s safe to say I have considerable influence over him.”
“He wishes to court you?” Mercy looked at Verity as if she had reason to disbelieve her.
“And why not?”
“No reason.” Mercy’s voice held high defenses. “I only ask because this is the first you’ve mentioned it.”
Verity harrumphed. “I have spoken of nothing else all week.”
Surely Mercy was merely provoking Verity; it was true that she’d talked of nothing else. She seemed ready to prove it with more voluble discourse, so David quickly took his leave. He paused by Constance’s side before he left. “Read the letters and leave word at my house if you wish to make a reply. Oh — and he wanted you to know that his sister would probably appreciate a call.”
Lydia? “Is she well?”
“Phineas Brand has stopped pursuing her for the moment. Marks seemed concerned.”
“What are you murmuring about?” Verity called, flouncing herself upon the couch.
“Telling Constance all the goings on of the gossip committee.” Turning away from Verity, David aimed a conspiratorial smirk at Constance.
He would keep her secret then — and she would keep his. And Fischer’s. Constance gave him a little nod. She forced herself to make conversation with Verity for a few minutes so her departure wouldn’t seem precipitous, then retreated to their room to read the letters from Fischer.
She began with the ones Mercy had given her. It still stung her to read the deliberate, controlled hand again, but she forced herself to focus on the words. The editorial feedback was quite good, except she had no intention of softening the kingfisher, even if it were for Fischer. Especially if it were for Fischer. Still, it would make Gérard all the nobler to refer to him as a steed, and she’d add back Solomon’s debate, and take the sound writing advice: do not use words your audience does not understand.
The second letter dealt with the business of publishing. Rather than requiring her to pay for the costs of printing, he was confident enough in the success of a pamphlet that he offered to pay for the costs from the proceeds and pay her a portion of the sales as well.
He was sincere, then? He liked her tale and found it that compelling?
“Connie,” her sister called. She looked up to find her oldest sister striding into the room. “Mercy wanted me to check on you. She’s chaperoning a call from Mr. Gallagher. To talk about printing Verity’s play.” Temperance’s tone implied that was not the printer’s first objective, but Constance didn’t know him enough to judge.
Temperance had always been the best of all of them when it came to men. If she’d been in Constance’s position last year, surely Fischer never would have cast her off.
“Tippy,” Constance sighed. “I’m at a loss.”
“Whatever’s the matter?” She joined her on the bed with a pointed glance at the letters.
She explained about Mercy and then David sharing her story, and Fischer’s offer of publication.
“Ah,” Temperance said. “You’re upset someone likes your work and believes in it enough to put his money into it?” She gave her a teasing smile. “Very difficult decision.”
“I didn’t intend to share my tale. I only wrote it for Papa.”
Temperance slid an arm around Constance’s shoulders and squeezed her. “It’s very good of you. Even David hasn’t been able to change Papa’s mind, but if anyone can, I believe it’s you.”
“Thank you.”
“So why not print it? Won’t Papa still likely see it that way?”
That was true.
“Is it because of Mr. Marks?”
Constance fixed studiously on her letters. “Why should that make a difference? Because he failed to court Patience?”
“Because he failed to court you.”
Constance didn’t lift her gaze. It was hardly a surprise that Owen had told his wife some time in the past year that he’d delivered a letter from Fischer to Constance. But Fischer had never said such a thing in any letter. Temperance couldn’t know that.
“May I see the tale?”
Constance handed it over and stared at the last letter, the one David had handed her personally, the only one that was sealed with wax. What could this one hold that was so different from the others?
A knock sounded at the door, and both sisters turned. Temperance’s husband stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”
“Of course, Owen dear.” Temperance laughed at the courtesy, though this wasn’t her bedroom any longer. “Come and read this.” She checked with Constance to make sure it was all right.
Constance nodded. It was intended for the family, after all.
Owen perched on the edge of the bed, and Temperance moved to share the pages with him. Constance couldn’t help but think of one of her earliest memories, finding the two of them together in one of Papa’s great office chairs, poring over a book. She hadn’t realized Temperance was teaching Owen to read at the time.
They both seemed just as absorbed now, so Constance broke the seal on Fischer’s third letter. It bore no greeting, but after two letters it seemed silly to suddenly begin addressing her.
I hope I do not make myself obnoxious in addressing you. I cannot express how much I enjoyed your writing. It is the most delightful tale I’ve had the privilege to read, and I would be most honored if you would allow me to print it as a pamphlet. I believe it could powerfully persuade the people of Pennsylvania and beyond to pursue the cause of liberty. Your tale could truly be instrumental in securing our independence.
Constance slowed down and reread the paragraph. Did he truly mean such praise? She’d never intended to impress anyone outside their family, and she never expected to earn Fischer’s good opinion for any reason, but especially not her writing.
Further, I am personally entranced by this story and the person who wrote it.
What? Personally entranced?
Did he know she’d written it? David had seemed quite certain even before she’d confirmed it. He certainly could have told Fischer what he suspected.
And then there was what David said when he gave her the letter: “He asked me to give this to you.”
He had to know it was hers. Could Fischer really mean this?
A tumble of unwelcome emotions passed through her mind. He had made it very clear a year ago that he would not actually be courting her — that he did not believe himself suited to her. That he couldn
’t make her happy.
She had wanted to shout in that moment — he had made her happier than anything she’d ever experienced in the short weeks they’d spent dining with and writing to one another. But she realized he was merely being kind, that he’d meant she did not suit him and did not make him happy. And her anger would have accomplished nothing, so she’d locked her heart fast and made her escape as quickly as she could.
But now he was personally entranced? By her?
The anger was still there, a hot rush of steam in her heart — but she could never tell Fischer that. It wouldn’t do at all. If he’d already felt she wouldn’t suit him once, surely censuring him would not win him to her side now.
If this tale sells half as well as I hope it does, Fischer continued, we shall need a sequel posthaste. He gave some further feedback there, ending at a point of maximum suspense rather than the grim ending that she’d designed to show Papa how desperately his action was needed.
Moreover, I would have correspondence from you if that is possible. I wish to know how you came to be persuaded to the cause and what inspired this story, and every other detail you would care to share with me.
In their letters the year before, they’d shared many such details. He wanted to renew that connection?
It really seemed a sincere desire.
If this has not offended you, I would love to know all. But first, if you’ll consent to let me print your compelling tale, I must know what I am to call you.
Sincerely Yours, Fischer Marks.
Her fingers began to ache from holding the letter, and she switched hands to let her tender burns rest. Constance wished the salve for her hand could do more for her heart. But perhaps this letter was the very solution she needed.
At least he hadn’t concluded with the same intimacy he’d used last year. Even his first letter had been signed Ever Yours, F.
“Constance,” Owen said, surprise ringing in his tone. She looked up from her letter. “You wrote this?”
“Mercy was the scribe.” She held up her bandaged hand.
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever read.” Owen beamed at her, and she couldn’t help but return her sweet brother-in-law’s smile. “Truly, it would win the king himself to our cause.”
