by Diana Davis
Not that that did him any good. “Good evening.” He finally made it back to where Lydia waited on the path.
“What was that about?”
“Nothing.”
Lydia laughed at him. “You cannot be serious.”
Fischer didn’t answer. He’d certainly humiliated himself enough tonight.
He wouldn’t have been humiliated if Constance had accepted . . . would he?
This was what happened when he heeded his foolish heart. Constance’s presence was more intoxicating than the single glass of madeira he’d taken at the Harrisons’. Holding her in his arms for only a few moments had made him take leave of his senses entirely for an hour.
Constance might have said Patience was bright, but clearly Constance was far smarter than Fischer.
Lydia stopped across the street from the churchyard. “Explique maintenant.”
He did not wish to explain now, or he would have already done that.
When he did not stop, Lydia followed. “Did you speak to Constance? Did you try to mend things?”
“No, I simply stared at her until she was discomfited and left.”
“That could have only taken a few seconds. What did you do for the other three minutes you were inside?”
Fischer speared her with a wry glare. “Your wit is not appreciated tonight.”
“Is that why you’ve stayed away?”
“No.” Surely she didn’t wish for him to bring up the night he’d thrown Brand out and yelled at her or the night Brand had attempted to elope.
Fischer had grieved Lydia more than enough.
She let them stroll two more blocks in silence. “Do you still love Constance?”
“What would it matter if I did?” She didn’t wish for him to court her. “It’s for the best,” he finished.
“I do not understand you, Fischer.”
He let the conversation lapse. She didn’t have to understand him, much as he wished she could. He’d settle for understanding himself. Or Constance.
Was it his imagination, or had she actually seemed angry for a moment tonight? He hadn’t meant to offend her, though perhaps her sister was right.
If she was angry, that would be the most affected she’d been by him since he’d ended things a year ago. Even in that moment, she was as calm as ever, taking her leave of him and walking off to meet her father. She had not walked home hanging on Hayes’s arm. She had not shed a tear.
Not that Fischer wanted to hurt her, far from it. But he’d come to understand that, as kind and attentive as she had been to him, she must have treated everyone that way. She had never seemed the slightest bit disturbed by anything.
She had never seemed like she’d cared enough to have been slighted.
He had taken leave of his senses tonight. Even if he was madly in love with her, he had no indication whatsoever she returned those feelings.
“Fischer?” Lydia ventured. They were nearly to Broad Street. “Will you stay at home?”
He didn’t answer. Did he trust himself not to further upset Lydia? Not to be so selfish?
Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was the one who’d been selfish all along. Trying to force Brand away or force Lydia to tell him the truth. Trying to court Patience Hayes and Jeanne Dark and now Constance.
He couldn’t make her happy. She’d never been that much in love with him in the first place, but if he had persuaded her, if she had tethered herself to him, he could only imagine how unhappy she would have been at this moment.
He had to stop pestering her, while the most he’d hurt her was touching her healing burns.
Fischer and Lydia reached their own little plot. In the dark, the flowers all seemed ghostly shadows of their normal selves.
“Victor.” Lydia used Maman’s French nickname for him again. “Come home.”
How could she want that? “I wish that I could.”
Lydia gaped at him, uncomprehending. “Of course you can. It is your house. I mean, you are the one who rented it.”
It wasn’t that simple. “It’s better for everyone if I don’t.”
“Better — why would you think that?”
How could he tell her he wouldn’t afflict her this way? Certainly she wouldn’t believe him capable of harming her, despite evidence to the contrary. Not that he was a danger to his sister — just her happiness. “Lydie,” he murmured. “I hurt you.”
“Do you mean to never try to mend?”
When Fischer did not answer, Lydia spoke again. “Do you not wish to be happy?”
“Of course I do, but not at the expense of someone I care about.”
Lydia frowned. “I cannot understand you. You distance yourself from me, and I know you love me, no use pretending otherwise.”
Fischer allowed a little chuckle. “Not for a moment.”
“You have loved Constance for a year, and yet you will not court her. You court a woman you do not love.”
“How did you know about Miss Dark?”
Lydia regarded him with curiosity creasing her brow. “What do you mean?”
“Did I tell you I was courting Jeanne Dark?”
“Oh, Fischer.” She sounded like a mother whose little boy had meant well but had gravely erred. “Who is she?”
Was he the only Philadelphian who hadn’t known it was an alias? “I don’t know yet. She accepted my suit but now only writes of business.”
Lydia scoffed. “She ought to suit you well, then.” She shook her head with a loud sigh. “I was referring to Patience Hayes.”
Fischer said nothing.
“Why would you do that?”
Had he not explained this enough to her, to Patience, to himself? “Patience Hayes — Brand — is intelligent, helpful, an excellent editor —”
“And the sister of the woman you were falling in love with only a week before.”
He swallowed. “Yes.”
“Were you trying to hurt Constance?”
“No, I swear it.” He’d only hoped to drive her from his mind with someone whom it would actually make sense to marry. And Constance was mostly unaffected by it, except for the time she’d seen him kiss Patience. Even then, days later, she’d acted as though it had never happened. “Were hurting her even in my power.”
Once again, Lydia gaped at him, uncomprehending. “In your power?” She took hold of his arm. “Will you not see reason?”
“I am seeing reason.”
“Fischer, Constance was in love with you. You were in love with her. You ought to stop running from her and court her!”
“If it makes you happy, I asked her tonight and she declined.” He was fairly certain of that, anyway.
She groaned. “Fischer, whatever happened between the two of you, if you love her, you must try to mend. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
“It cannot be everyone’s lot in life to be happy.”
Lydia aimed a glare at him. “Forgive me for loving you enough that I wished that for you.” She shook her head again. “Stay at the shop if you wish. I’ll bolt the door in five minutes.”
Fischer watched her stride off into the shadows of the porch. He watched his watch to wait the five minutes, then started back toward town.
Did it signify that Lydia also wanted him to court Constance?
Not if Constance said otherwise. What a fool he was for asking. There was nothing left to mend. Nothing had truly changed between them in the last year. He’d let himself forget for an hour, but Constance was right. He hadn’t changed his mind. He had not ended things with her without a good reason.
He tried to fight off the memory, but walking the dark streets offered little distraction.
—
He’d trudged through these same dark streets last year, the night of the fire. As soon as he’d arrived home and closed the door behind him that night, Lydia had sprung from the drawing room. “There you are! You had me so worried. How is the shop?”
/> “Fine. Did Constance get home safely?”
“Yes, though I practically had to drag her. She’s worried about you.”
Fischer only nodded.
“You’re certain you’re well.”
“Yes, Lydia,” he snapped.
She shrank back and he immediately apologized. She was only concerned about him; he didn’t need to snap her nose off.
“Did you not go to see her?” she asked, her voice smaller.
“No.”
Lydia hugged her arms around herself. “Were you going to ask to court her?”
Of course he was, because he was a supreme fool. He didn’t answer her, but turned for the stairs.
“I wish you would,” Lydia murmured. “I like her very much.”
Fischer paused on the stairs. He liked her very much, too. In fact, he’d go so far to say that he loved her, and if he continued to see her this much, he’d fall further still until he was beyond all hope, all help.
“Does she ever remind you of Maman?” Lydia asked.
He whirled around. “What?”
“I mean, have you ever seen that faraway look in her eyes, like she’s off in a dream world?”
Fischer steadied himself on the railing. He had seen that look, multiple times.
“I don’t know,” Lydia continued. “Perhaps she’s composing a poem.”
That did sound like Maman, lost in her own world. She’d done that more and more before she’d left them.
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He walked upstairs to his dark room.
This had all happened before. His first love, a sweet girl named Abby, had done that, withdrawing into her mind. Disappearing entirely for days. At the time, that had only made him love her more, in some perverse, infantile way.
Finally, somehow his father had gotten wind of all that, and had told him in no uncertain terms what he had to do.
You must never see that Abby girl again.
Fischer had protested that they were in love, that they planned to be married when they were of age. His father had laughed, bitterly.
A person like that can’t love you. She doesn’t live enough in this world to love anyone but herself.
When Fischer had protested further, Father had grown angry, stalking about his study. Fischer had taken an embarrassingly long time to understand that, though he would not back down from his initial request, Father wasn’t really referring to Abby.
He was talking about Maman.
We made a critical error, he said. We were too much in love. We lost sight of what would truly make one another happy.
If I’d loved her properly, I would have left her in France. She was never going to be happy here.
Father cradled his head in his hands. I loved her too much. I was consumed by it until I couldn’t see reason. Promise me you’ll never make that mistake, Fischer. Give me your word of honor: you will never get so wrapped up in your own feelings for a woman that you lose sight of what’s most important to both of you.
Fischer knew how he himself had injured Maman, but he didn’t understand his father, not then. He’d still given his word.
And the very next day, he’d broken it, running straight to Abby, convincing her that they had to elope right away. They’d scarcely gone a mile before he’d broken her ankle. She was back in her parents’ house before they knew she had gone, and he’d never been allowed to speak to her again. Father had been right all along.
No wonder Fischer had nearly lost everything in the fire. He hardly deserved to have saved even a single paper, let alone emerge mostly unscathed. He’d gone down that same path again and once again nearly dragged an innocent person along with him.
Fischer lay back on his bed. Father was right. He had to do what was best for both of them, no matter how much it tortured him now.
Or Constance. But it was truly a mercy: the longer he lied to himself that this was all fine, the more he would eventually hurt her.
He’d fallen into a fitful sleep and risen before the sun, leaving a note to ask Lydia to bring Constance to State House Square at two o’clock.
He’d hated to make her an accomplice to this, but he couldn’t drag it out any longer.
It wasn’t fair to either of them.
None of this was.
Life’s tenderest miseries indeed.
When Constance heard the front door open, she slipped out of the drawing room, crossed the dining room and hurried up the servants’ stairs. She couldn’t know whether it was Cousin David, but she’d spent the entire week after the Harrisons’ party avoiding Verity’s melancholy over some falling out with Amos and David on the chance he’d come by with a letter from Fischer.
Which he actually had, twice, and found her despite her hiding. Her only reply, given verbally to David, had been that she was working feverishly on the third volume and couldn’t spare the time to write a letter. Neither of which were true.
Constance had even spent two days at Lydia’s house over the week, but Lydia was quite certain she was well enough to take care of herself, so Constance had had to resort to hiding whenever someone came to the door.
She lay down in her bed with her novel, but she wouldn’t be able to focus on a word until she was sure the visitor was gone.
A knock sounded at her bedroom door, and Constance tamped down a sigh. David again. She considered simply ignoring him, but she didn’t wish to be rude. He was only trying to help.
“I know you’re busy,” he said as soon as she answered, “but Marks insisted I give you this.” He gave her a purse and a copy of the second volume. Had she not received one yet?
Columbia’s Fires, the second volume of the new tale of a familiar injustice, by Jeanne Dark, Daughter of Columbia. The title was a little overdramatic, but Fischer knew the market for pamphlets better than she did. “No letter?” Constance asked, trying not to betray her relief.
David handed one over. “I imagine it isn’t long. He didn’t wish to distract you further. Wanted you to know he’d never stand in the way of your work.”
“Kind of him.” She shifted the pamphlet and purse to one hand to tuck the letter in her pocket. Though she didn’t look up, Constance could feel David’s eyes upon her. She really did not wish to explain her situation to someone who could have had no difficulties in courting his wife.
Well, perhaps Cassandra had said something about him being unkind once or twice, but they’d resolved that quickly enough and had been desperately, cloyingly in love ever since.
“Constance?” Papa’s voice carried from below, saving her from conversation. “Verity? Mercy?”
David walked with her downstairs but cut through the house to head for his own through the garden and mews. Constance found Papa in the dining room. “Oh, there you are,” Papa greeted her. “I was beginning to think no one else was at home.”
Before she responded, Papa’s gaze settled on the pamphlet in her hands. “What are you reading?”
Oh no. Nausea set in before he’d even crossed the room to her. He took the pamphlet from her. A muscle in his jaw tightened as he stared at the cover. “Columbia’s Fires? As if it weren’t already incendiary enough!” He held it up to Constance. “Have you been reading this?”
“No,” she could answer honestly.
Papa left the dining room in the direction of the kitchen, and Constance followed. More than halfway through June, they had little need of fires in the rest of the house, and that was exactly where Papa went.
Constance stopped short, pressing a hand against her stays as if that could stave off the sick wave washing over her. “Papa, please!”
He threw the pamphlet in the fire. “I asked you not to read that Dark woman’s writings. Where did you get it?” He glanced in the direction of the Beauforts’ home behind theirs.
Oh, she couldn’t give him another reason to hate David. “I bought it.”
That wasn’t true. What was she saying?
> “With what money, child? You hadn’t even a shilling last month.”
She looked down at her hands. The cream-colored purse still lay in her palm, and she held it out. “I — I’ve been selling my embroidery.”
Another lie?
“Well.” Papa’s expression softened. “I’ll pay you back your two shillings.”
“Thank you.” Though his anger had abated, Constance still had the overwhelming urge to flee. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. That, at least, was true. “I need to go lie down.”
Constance rushed up the stairs and closed the door behind her. Once she’d stuck the purse in her drawer, she went to the desk and pulled out the next volume of Columbia’s Fields.
She had not been working feverishly, but she was almost finished. She’d hoped to come to a glorious culmination for the animals, persuaded by Solomon and led by Gérard, coming to the conclusion at last that they were better off without the Farmer and his servants. Although it would surely presage another tale, one of the fight that ensued, she didn’t dare predict the future. Even what she wanted to include was still very much in doubt.
How did Papa hate her words so? Had he even read Columbia’s Fires, or had he already decided everything written under Jeanne Dark’s name was patriot lies? She was glad she’d never included an animal meant to represent Papa. She wasn’t sure she could even write him a happy ending at this point.
But she had included a character to represent Fischer. She set aside the manuscript and pulled the letter from her pocket.
My dear Miss Dark,
Thank you for your diligence in your work. I greatly admire that dedication, though I hope I may be forgiven for wishing that it did not prevent us from meeting.
Forgive me if I am too bold, but I have an inkling that you must know me at least somewhat. Of course, it would be unusual for you to accept my addresses if we had never met — though I do not censure you if that is the case. I also suppose that the kingfisher who bears news could be a great coincidence. But I would be very surprised were this to be the case.
