Integrity's Choice (Sisters of the Revolution Book 5)

by Diana Davis

  Constance faltered. He had known all along the kingfisher meant him; he’d even given her editorial suggestions on the character in both volumes so far.

  I do not mean to concern you or guess at your identity before you are ready to disclose it. But, if I may, I would endeavor to acquaint you with me more personally, so that you do feel comfortable doing so in time.

  Never. Never. Never.

  Fischer continued telling a little about Lydia — that was quite humorous, as she knew for a fact he’d scarcely seen his sister all month — and their home. She skipped the paragraph about “our lovely gardens,” then straight to another paragraph about . . .

  Was she really reading this?

  It was his story about pickling grapes with his mother, sneaking half of them into his mouth, horrifying and then humorizing his mother. It was a sweet story, one that she had loved since he wrote it in her first letter over a year ago.

  She should not feel so protective over one of Fischer’s favorite childhood memories, but somehow, sharing it with Jeanne Dark, not knowing that was her — it was the greatest intimacy he’d shown her yet as Jeanne Dark.

  Why did she ever have to fall in love with Fischer Marks?

  She wished there were some way she could tell him how awfully he’d treated her, how he’d shattered her heart and continued to grind the pieces, how furious she was. But even if she had the courage to march down to the shop, even if she caught him at a time when no one else was around, even if Gérard and Solomon themselves escorted her, she could never, ever do that. The mere thought filled her with dread.

  She still loved Fischer enough that she couldn’t bear the thought of wounding him with her angry words.

  And that stupid, foolish, naïve love only made her hate him more.

  Constance took up her quill and wrote of the kingfisher. Swooping in with some dispatch he found important, until both Solomon and Gérard told him in no uncertain terms that his contributions to the cause had never mattered much and to leave them to their important work.

  She frowned at the page. That was an insult, to be sure, but it could not convey how deeply he’d hurt her.

  There was but one alternative for the kingfisher. He alighted on a fence rail, watching the proceedings, wishing he were strong enough and important enough to be of any real use.

  And then a gunshot rang out, and with a little puff of his ostentatious blue feathers, the kingfisher was no more.

  Constance made a note at the top of the document to mention the servant’s gun somewhere earlier and read back over the addition.

  The kingfisher was no more.

  That made her feel no better at all. She tucked away the volume and lay down upon the bed.

  Could she send this story to Fischer? Obviously he knew the bird was him. Would he take this as a threat? An end to their courtship? That would be fine with her; she should have ended it the minute she knew he thought Jeanne Dark was anyone else, but she’d never found the words. She never seemed to be able to tell anyone such difficult things. It was much easier to accommodate them or say what they needed to hear and worry about herself later.

  But now Papa hated her writing and had been mad at her, and Fischer Marks courted Jeanne Dark, although Constance had refused him.

  David had been right. She hadn’t meant to deceive anyone, but she’d made a tangled web indeed.

  Never was any man happier to have his genuine offer of courtship refused than Fischer was to have been rebuffed by Constance. At least, that was what he told himself whenever he had a moment to think. Fortunately, he did not have long to think indeed, because even he wasn’t sure how long he could believe himself.

  By now, demand for Columbia’s Fields and Columbia’s Fires had grown so great that printing the weekly Watchman was a task relegated to the compositor and apprentices, now that Ellis was besplinted and back and bypassing Fischer whenever possible. Fischer, who’d hardly had to operate a press in over a year, had spent as much time inking and pulling the devil’s tail as he did attending to the business.

  And no time whatsoever remembering Constance, how she fought back her fury, politely, even sweetly, refusing. And did she have to look so lovely in blue at the party or feel so perfect in his arms?

  None of that mattered if she didn’t wish for him to court her. He was courting Jeanne Dark, he had to remind himself. Even if his heart persistently insisted otherwise. Even if she hadn’t written to him in nearly two weeks, consistently repeating that she was busy.

  Even if all his work did little to distract him from those moments nearly a week ago with Constance. And every time he’d seen her in the last month.

  What a fool he still was.

  “Mr. Marks?” Walter’s voice broke into his thoughts — of Constance, of course.

  “Yes, Walter?”

  “May we eat dinner?”

  “Oh, yes.” He fished two shillings from his pocket. “Bring me something, won’t you?”

  “I will, sir.”

  Fischer had little doubt that Walter would give his mother the money and bring back a bowl of whatever she’d made them, but that was better than stale bread and hard cheese again. “Ellis,” Fischer began, but the younger apprentice skittered away, avoiding Fischer’s eyes.

  Would the boy never forgive him? He probably shouldn’t. Did he wish to be released as an apprentice? Fischer wouldn’t keep him here against his will.

  Reeve finished inking the forme he was working on, and Fischer folded the paper down over the type. “Go eat, and check for the dispatches while you’re out,” Fischer told Reeve. The superintendent quickly complied, leaving Fischer to his work. Fischer cranked the rounce to move the carriage under the platen, pulled the devil’s tail, then repeated it for the other half of the page.

  He hung the paper to dry and wiped his brow, surveying the drying pages. They would finish the impression of Columbia’s Fields — its third — by nightfall, and then, he hoped, the apprentices would be done with The Watchman so they could do a quick run of that tonight while the apprentices helped the binder. With any luck, this impression of Columbia’s Fields would be in the shop before the previous one sold out completely.

  He needed another impression of Common Sense, Wilson’s pamphlet on Parliament’s authority, the New York pamphlets . . . Fischer sighed and went to check the pigeonholes’ inventory.

  “How’s our stock?” he asked Zechariah.

  Zechariah looked up from his ledger book. “Low. Columbia pamphlets are the most dire need. Gallagher’s bill is due tomorrow, but we still stand to collect a neat profit.”

  “Thank you. You had better get your dinner.” Fischer nodded for Zechariah to leave, and the clerk did so eagerly.

  Normally Fischer was familiar with his stock and the demand for it, but his time had been pressed harder and harder since February between Common Sense and Columbia. If they were to gain independence, perhaps Wilson and the New York pamphlets would be moot.

  Well, there were nearly seven minutes altogether that he hadn’t thought about Constance.

  Fischer swallowed a groan and marched himself upstairs to his little apartment. This was not how he’d envisioned success: sleeping above his shop in his narrow and uncomfortable rooms, with the rest of his employees strewn about the floor as often as not, eating whatever and whenever they could, two nights out of a month to himself, both spent hunting for Jeanne Dark but gravitating toward Constance.

  Nearly thirty and not married. Not close. Not courting the right woman.

  What good was success if he had no time to enjoy it and no one to enjoy it with? What was he supposed to do, hire someone to take his place at the press while he bought new suits, played the gentleman and gallanted about?

  That might have been appealing years ago. Now it sounded even emptier than filling his hours with work.

  Fischer sank down at his desk. He ought to write Jeanne Dark. They were both too busy to communicate, b
ut he knew how these things were supposed to go. He’d tried to follow the prescribed steps with Patience. He’d do the same for Jeanne.

  And just as he had with Patience, he might never stop wishing she were Constance.

  Neither Patience nor Jeanne could ever be her. Would he ever find his way out of Constance’s orbit?

  He had to. She had given him no choice.

  Fischer sharpened a quill and opened the ink bottle.

  My dear Miss Dark, Thank you for your diligent work on your tale.

  He gave her a general report: the third impression of Fields was done, then they would start on the second of Fires, hopefully finishing in time to start on the third volume. Would Farms or Freedom make a better title for the story encompassed therein? Pamphlets were on sale in New York and Boston, with Charleston and Williamsburg soon to follow. He’d have to get an accounting from Zechariah to send her pay for this week.

  Fischer stared at the page. This could have been any letter to any author he was printing, except that Paine’s profits were donated to supplying the Continental Army. Fischer had tried, desperately, to foster a relationship of any kind with Miss Dark, but for all he knew, she’d sneered at his silly boyhood tale.

  It was the first one he’d told Constance in a letter. Perhaps it only made sense to tell if one had been sharing pickled grapes with the recipient the day before. She must have forgotten all that by now, but here he was, thinking that was the perfect memory to endear himself to Jeanne Dark.

  Everything came back to Constance. Every effort he made at courting another woman — it was probably even the reason he’d pursued her sister, hoping he could settle for someone near to her.

  There was only one way to end this heart-rending obsession.

  To turn to a more personal matter, Miss Dark, I must renew my request to meet with you again. I hate to interrupt your work, but it has been long enough without a response that I am concerned my suit is no longer welcome. If that is the case, please inform me so that I may recover.

  Fischer frowned at himself. If he’d been in love with Jeanne Dark, he likely never would have recovered from her rejection. He had yet to right himself from Constance, after all.

  He had to move forward from her. If he did not do so now, he might lose another year nursing his broken heart.

  I do not wish to impute ill will or reluctance where there may be none. If there is, perhaps, some concern that causes you to hesitate, some shame that has prevented you, please accept my assurance that nothing short of bigamy would stop my suit if it is still welcome.

  Fischer hated himself more with every word. It was true, at least, but not addressed to the right person.

  Still, he had to finish this. It was the only way he could see to move forward from Constance.

  If you are still amenable to receive my addresses, please present yourself at the offices of The Watchman this Saturday, the 29th, at half past 8 o’clock in the evening.

  Or if that appointment does not work, supply another. Or simply reply.

  Fischer pushed the letter aside. That smacked of desperation.

  But he was desperate. He had already attempted in vain to free himself from the hold Constance held on his heart with courting another; at least he could fill his hours with company to distract him from her and to help his shop. He needed no affection if they could at least work together, and Jeanne had already proven they could.

  Then he had only one more thing to add.

  No matter your name or reputation, if you are open to my courtship, I shall offer for your hand.

  Fischer dried and sealed the letter and returned to the shop. Beaufort would be by this afternoon or evening, and the deed would be done.

  Perhaps one day he would stop thinking of Constance.

  Constance had resigned herself to her fate so much that by the end of June, she didn’t even bother hiding when David came around. In fact, she had rather avoid Papa’s further wrath since he’d burnt her pamphlet last week, so the Beauforts’ nursery was a much safer place than her own house.

  She and Mercy had come to play with David and Cassandra’s girls Thursday afternoon. They still hadn’t sent the third volume — nor had she come to a good conclusion after the kingfisher’s ignominious death. She’d only been able to console herself that at least Fischer was also too busy to write.

  David entered the nursery, and from the gleam in his eye, Constance knew right away her luck had fled in that regard. Sure enough, he held up a letter. She glanced around the room. Cassandra had gone to meet with the housekeeper, and Rose, the nurse, had stepped out for the moment.

  Papa must not have accompanied David home, probably staying to discuss how best to oppose the push toward independence, or perhaps just to not face her. Verity was at home in the shed toiling away on her latest drama, and Mercy was on the couch tickling baby Katherine’s belly.

  “Does he write to Jeanne Dark?” Constance asked wearily.

  David checked the occupants of the room; finding only his daughters, Constance, and Mercy, he relaxed. “He does.”

  With a sigh, Constance held out a hand. Elizabeth slid off her lap and ran to play with her blocks.

  Constance did not need the empty platitudes Fischer was happy to give anyone except her, nor did she want to see another memory that she’d thought precious when he’d shared it with her.

  He began, as usual, with the business report. “Sales are good,” she reported and folded the letter.

  David raised an eyebrow. “That was a lot of writing to say sales are good. And you could have inferred that if he’d only sent this.” He handed over a purse.

  Constance reopened the letter and skimmed the rest of the contents.

  Fischer was offering marriage to Jeanne Dark, no matter who she was? As long as she wasn’t already married, but that only made sense after everything Lydia had gone through over the last month.

  “Is it bad news?” David asked.

  “I’m not certain.” She felt — she didn’t know how she felt.

  Yes, she still loved Fischer. She could have accepted his suit two weeks ago — if she didn’t also hate him so much. But how was she supposed to feel when he went and offered his hand to a complete stranger? How serious had his addresses to Constance been if he were pursuing Jeanne so assiduously now?

  “Certainly seems like bad news.” Mercy reached for the letter, but Constance moved it out of her grasp. David did not do Mercy the courtesy of playing along and snatching it from Constance’s hands. She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket.

  She could nothing more say to him. All she wanted was for the charade to end. Any lie she told to Fischer, any letter she induced Mercy to write to him, any message sent through David could only draw the web tighter around herself. She wanted it finished.

  The fastest and most direct way would be to present herself at the appointed time so Fischer could withdraw his offer and his suit. She could give him the final volume. Then it would all be over, and she would be free to accept her share of the money and stop agonizing over a man who would never see her as anything more than a fool.

  That gave her one day to finish the final volume of the tale. “Please excuse me, David, Mercy, Elizabeth, Katherine.” She curtsied and hurried out.

  Unfortunately, footsteps followed her. She wheeled back around to see David. “Yes?”

  “I know you’ve tired of hearing this, but can you please try to give Marks another chance? No matter what he may say, he has never altered one whit in how he regards you.”

  “Fischer Marks?” Cassandra’s voice carried from behind David, and they both turned to find her in the corridor. “Oh, I would like him for you, too, Constance. Anyone at the Assembly would feel the same with how he danced with you. If you’re so inclined,” she hurried to finish.

  “Thank you, cousins.” Constance curtsied again and headed for her house.

  Could they be right? Had Fischer actually t
ried to court her because he’d finally accepted that he did care, and only offered for Jeanne because she’d refused?

  No. She couldn’t really believe that. He could not have been serious two weeks ago. He would surely end his suit as soon as he knew Jeanne Dark’s real identity.

  Either way, this would all be over soon.

  For only the fourth time all month, Fischer sent everyone in the shop home before sundown. He had time enough to change into his best suit and groom before his watch read half past. He didn’t have to look like he’d been working in the summer’s heat as though the devil were after him all day. Not wanting to seem overeager, he paced upstairs.

  Jeanne was late.

  Or Jeanne was not coming.

  It was nearly fifteen minutes before the shop door opened. His nerve seemed to tumble down the stairs before him.

  Fischer laughed at himself. Very sentimental for someone who was courting for decidedly non-romantic feelings.

  Not just courting. He’d promised to offer for her.

  The nerves that a moment before might have had him rush down the stairs now made him hesitate. Jeanne had come, agreeing to his offer. No matter who she was, who her people were, or what she looked like, he had promised. He’d given his word, and he was bound by his integrity, the very thing that had kept him from offering for the woman he would always love.

  That was the only thing that made him hesitate. But Constance Hayes would never be his wife, no matter what he did tonight. So why not marry someone brilliant enough to keep him printing and selling around the clock?

  The twilight had grown long enough that Fischer lit a taper to see him down the stairs — where he stopped. The woman standing in his shop was not Jeanne Dark at all. “Constance?”

  She turned away from reading the broadside tacked to the wall. “Good evening.”

  Fischer fought back a groan. Now, of all times, she would come to him?

  Well, he couldn’t just put her out. “Did you like Columbia’s Fields?” He should have asked much sooner.