by Diana Davis
The delegates that Papa had been walking with yesterday?
That still left three opposed to independence, didn’t it? Willing, Humphreys and Papa, voting against Dr. Franklin, Wilson and David?
Unless . . . “Did he . . . ?”
Before David or Gilbert could answer, the door behind them opened. The four of them moved to admit Papa, and Constance practically ran to him. “What has happened?”
Papa scanned the people in the entryway and frowned. “The proceedings are secret.”
“Papa!” Constance and Patience entreated.
He met Constance’s gaze. “You are a most gifted writer, my dear.”
She had not thought it was possible for her broken, worried heart to feel any fuller. “Thank you, Papa. Did you . . . change your vote?”
“I did. And I told Morris and Dickinson we must all take this stand unanimous. As Franklin said, ‘We must all hang together, or we’ll most assuredly all hang separately.’”
The quip put a damper on the joyous mood.
Papa and David and Gilbert had just committed treason. If they did not win this contest, they would, indeed, hang.
David was the first to break the silence. “Well, it will surely take the Congress years to finalize the text of the declaration Dr. Franklin’s been helping with. Come, I must tell Cassandra. Join us for dinner?”
At the mention of a meal from his superb cook, Verity and Mercy bounded down the stairs to join them. Everyone fell into step to follow David through the house and garden and mews, but Papa stopped Constance to embrace her. “I feel as though I haven’t spoken with you in an age, my dear.”
“You’re not upset with me?” Constance asked.
“Upset with you? Why would I be?”
“You were so upset about the pamphlets. Before you knew they were mine.”
“I was, perhaps even after I knew.” Papa paused, thinking over his words. “I wish you had told me the truth sooner.”
“Papa, I should never want to argue with you.”
He smiled at her, as kind as ever. “I know, but I wish you hadn’t kept how you felt from me.”
Constance turned away. “You would not have liked it.” She did not add the conclusion: he would not have liked her.
“I would have managed my own feelings — just as I have done every time my daughters have grown away from me — and loved you all the same.”
She couldn’t find the words to frame the question beyond how was that possible? “And changed your vote?”
“That was your pamphlets’ doing. I took a real effort to understand your perspective, and I saw that we are already in a war, and we cannot enter into this endeavor as a house divided. That these principles are worth this price.”
“You’re not still angry with me?” Her voice betrayed some small sliver of her sadness and fear after he’d burnt her pamphlet.
“No, no — oh, my dear child.” He hugged her again. “I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
Not trusting her voice again, Constance smiled and nodded.
Papa took her hands and squeezed them, and they started away, but before Constance made it out of the entryway, a knock sounded at the door. She told Papa she would catch up and returned to answer.
Lydia stood on the steps.
With independence on her mind, Constance would not entertain any thoughts of how sad she would be to not see Lydia hereafter — but she could not mention the morning’s vote. “Good afternoon!”
“Afternoon.” Lydia held up the bundle in her arms. “I can’t stay, but I had to return your gown.”
“Oh, thank you, but you needn’t have.” Constance would have rather Lydia kept the reminder of the day she’d met Fischer, but she didn’t wish to offend her friend. She accepted the bundle. Something in the uneven weight seemed to indicate it held more than merely her gown and petticoat. Could Lydia have slipped another loaned novel in with her clothing?
Before she could ask, Lydia took her leave and hurried off.
Constance glanced around. The house was quiet. She wasn’t terribly hungry after a long, tense morning.
She hurried up the stairs.
Constance laid the bundle on the bed, gently unfolding the linen wrapper. Inside, her gown lay carefully folded. She lifted the gown off the petticoat, and between them lay not a novel but a leather travel journal.
Constance had seen one very like this before — in Fischer’s hands and in his room.
Did she dare touch this? Right from the start, Lydia had seemed rather obvious in wanting the two of them to court. But surely there was no hope of that now, not after what Constance had done.
She picked up the leather volume and turned it over in her hands. These books held his innermost thoughts, he’d said. She had no right to those.
Of course, Fischer had read her poem without her permission or even her consent.
And what difference did it make? She sat on the bed to peruse his draft book.
Dated in February and March of 1775, the first several pages were outlines of Watchman editorials, several of which she’d read. Seeing his thought process was intriguing, especially to see when he slipped into French in his notes. But why would Lydia bring her this?
She skipped to April 24, the date of Temperance’s wedding. A draft of the story about the battles of Lexington and Concord filled two pages, then the next page began another entry, apparently of the same date.
Today I have met the most wondrous woman I have ever beheld, he’d written.
Constance paused. This was clearly no editorial. He’d been so excited he’d written about it in his draft book? He could mean Constance, but he’d met her and Patience at the same time.
She is not only beautiful, but she has a presence that exudes peace, even in the midst of the tumult of her drawing room.
Patience was often very quiet, especially in a big gathering like that.
I was so taken with her that Lydia said if I didn’t stop staring, her family would be forced to defend her honor. I induced Beaufort, who is married to her cousin, to introduce us.
Constance paused. Perhaps she ought not to read further if it would upset her. Perhaps Fischer had always loved Patience and had only entertained Constance because she’d made herself convenient in visiting Lydia. Perhaps he’d even hoped to gain access to Patience through Constance.
But would Lydia have really brought her something that might break her heart further?
She read on.
I fear I may be lost already. Her name is Constance Hayes.
Her breath caught in her chest. He thought all those things of her?
She flipped the page and found a draft of the first letter he’d sent to her, with its story of pickling grapes with his mother. Then the second, with a story about coasting down the snow-covered hills of Boston as a boy. And the third and the fourth and the fifth. Between them, amidst notes for editorial and articles, he’d jotted down lists of things they’d said in their last encounter, things he’d noticed about her, even what she was wearing.
Then she reached the fatal day, May 10, the night of the fire.
All is lost. I can never have Constance.
That was all he’d written. The following day, the day he’d met her in State House Square and put an end to their romance, he’d written, She is better off without me. I can never, ever hurt her.
An elliptical reference to his parents followed, enough that Constance gathered that his father had cautioned him against love past the point of reason. That did not lessen the pain he’d caused her, but it did make her heart go out to him. What kind of father said such a thing?
She paged through drafts for a few of his Letters from the Colonies essays. The next leaf was dated May 27, and Constance froze. That was the date he’d kissed Patience.
She couldn’t make herself read this. Especially not after the way she’d humiliated herself Saturday night, revealing she still thought of
that day, that she somehow retained some deluded fantasy that he might have kissed her instead.
I have hurt her. The one thing I tried most desperately not to do. But to keep myself from loving Constance, I linked myself with her sister. I am a fool. This could only injure her.
There were no letters or stories from his courtship of Patience, no notes on what she said or how she dressed, no declarations about her. Nowhere in the record did he name Patience at all. Beyond that, into June, even after Constance was certain Gilbert and Patience had begun courting, were simply more editorial and essay drafts, his handwriting growing tighter and tighter as the weeks passed.
Constance turned over a leaf and found it was the last in the book — but the pages continued in her handwriting. She recognized this: her first letter to Fischer.
She opened the book wider to find that someone had used neat stitches in strong linen thread to bind all of her letters together and then sew them into the draft book. Not a sewing stitch — a bookbinding stitch.
Fischer had saved her letters after all. She paged through them — every last one was there, even the final letter she’d sent the day of the fire, half of it missing and the edges charred.
If they were all bound together, he’d done this sometime after she’d sent the last of them. Even after he’d cut their connection, he’d cared, at least enough to save and preserve her letters.
Constance closed the book. It was gratifying, in a way, to see that Fischer truly had been swept up in his love for her, just as she had been for him. But after the way she’d treated him — the way they’d treated one another — how could they ever hope for a happier future?
There was none. Constance placed the volume under the false drawer bottom and the gown and petticoat with the rest of her things on top. Then she lay on the bed.
If only she had tried harder to rein in her rage.
Fischer drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to focus on the dispatches to assemble the news for the week’s Watchman. It felt false to be writing of events in New York or Boston when the most important event in the world had occurred right here just two days ago.
“Marks,” Zechariah broke into his thoughts. “Fancy men are multiplying.”
Fischer briefly considered a jest, as Beaufort had — was it two? — children, and Hancock’s wife, Fischer’s childhood friend Dolly, expected their first later in the year, but that would be lost on Zechariah. Instead, he thanked his clerk and followed him back to the public part of the shop. As he had figured from Zechariah’s statement, both Hancock and Beaufort stood waiting, well-dressed as ever. And smiling.
Though he wasn’t certain of the reason yet, Fischer found himself smiling back as he greeted them. “How can I help you gentlemen today?”
Hancock held out a rolled paper, and Fischer accepted and unrolled it.
In bold handwriting across the top, it proclaimed itself to be A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled.
His eyes moved over the page:
When, in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume, among the Powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these, are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.
The declaration continued with further ideals from Locke and Rousseau and then a list of grievances against the king. It closed with the oath that for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor. John Hancock’s unmistakable, ornate signature followed, along with the witness of Congress’s secretary, Charles Thomson.
Fischer looked up at the two delegates before him. “We’ve done it.”
Hancock nodded, beaming. “We’ve approved this to be printed as a broadside immediately, with a reading at noon at the State House Monday next.”
“Yes, sir. How many copies?” He checked with both men, but neither of them had substantial experience with the size of an impression. “Two hundred?” Fischer suggested.
“We could do more,” Hancock offered. “I’d pay for more.”
Beaufort cast him a dubious glance, moving only his eyes. Fischer fought to keep a neutral expression. He was the contracted printer for the Congress; the Congress would be paying the bill. On the other hand, Hancock was also his patron. “Two hundred should be sufficient.”
“Perfect. How soon can you get them done?”
Fischer skimmed at the text again. “We’ll work all night if we have to. Shall I put it in the Watchman as well?”
“Naturally,” Beaufort said. “Print it everywhere.”
Hancock and Beaufort shook his hand and took their leave. Fischer wished he hadn’t released the temporary assistants he’d engaged for the Columbia pamphlets already, but they’d make do with what they had. He addressed the clerk. “Go and buy us more lamp oil, if you please.”
Zechariah obeyed, and Fischer strode to the back. His younger apprentice, Ellis, stood closest to the door, and Fischer laid a hand on his shoulder. “Halt the presses, clean the formes, pie the type!”
The apprentices and assistants looked up from the government form they were working on. “We’ve an order to print a broadside of this immediately.” Fischer held up the paper. “A declaration of independency.”
Reeve cheered as Fischer delivered the copy to Shier. He scrutinized the document. “Pica for the body?”
“Indeed.” That size of type should fit the text on a single sheet. “Walter, get the paper. Ellis, mix more ink. I’ll do the footer,” Fischer told Shier. He pulled the small capitals to spell out the final line of the broadside and assembled them onto a composing stick: PHILADELPHIA: PRINTED BY FISCHER MARKS.
“Any time it refers to the states, put it in small capitals,” Fischer instructed. He pointed to the phrase United States of America in the concluding paragraph. “Put it in English size here.”
Shier gave him a sly expression, as if to say he did know how to execute his job, and Fischer acknowledged his expertise and let him do his work.
Fischer turned away to check on his apprentices’ progress. Ellis didn’t skitter away when Fischer arrived at his back to observe him mixing the ink, careful of his splinted fingers.
“A little more oil,” Fischer suggested gently.
Ellis whirled around and threw his arms around Fischer’s waist. Fischer was excited for the declaration, too, but he hadn’t known his little apprentice was such an ardent patriot.
“Thank you again!”
For not casting him off? Fischer patted the boy’s back and set him about mixing the ink once more.
He was halfway across the room before he stopped and looked back at Ellis. All this time, Fischer had been so certain the boy hated him because Fischer had injured him.
But the boy’s broken bones had mended. And so had the breach between them, or it had at least begun to.
His relationship with Lydia had mended when he’d come back and tried to remedy the breach between them.
Wasn’t that exactly what Lydia had been trying to tell him about Constance? He hadn’t done enough to mend their breach. He’d cast her off instead and tried to tell himself Constance didn’t hate him because he hadn’t hurt her yet.
Of course he had hurt her. Lydia was right. Probably about everything.
Fischer headed back to check on Shier’s progress. He read over the Congress’s declaration again. They’d really done it. They’d broken with England. And all it took was these simple words on this piece of paper
.
He had tried to make a declaration of his own once, but very ineffectively, and his timing was definitely wanting. She’d never believe his words after what he’d done to her.
Well, that was what Lydia had said, too, wasn’t it? He had to do more than just say the simple words. He had to show her.
He’d hurt Lydia, too. What had she said? He’d apologized, and that was a good start, but she wanted him to stay and show her through his actions.
He’d already tried the exact opposite, running away from her, but Lydia had insisted that avoiding her had helped nothing. What if everything he’d believed was wrong?
What if Constance also would want him to try to mend how he’d hurt her? He wanted her to mend regardless of whether she’d ever see him again. But if there was any hope whatsoever she might love him . . .
Life’s sweetest joys might also be his.
Instead of the bitterness of the other night, this time the realization came with hope.
Then he would have to do something. But what?
He could print her poem, but he didn’t have her permission, and she might not want that. Violating her wishes once again could only make things worse. He couldn’t bear to hurt her again.
Fischer looked down at the declaration one last time. Perhaps there was still a way to make a declaration of his own. Words would not be enough, but they might make a start, at least enough to show Constance he meant to do better. Even if she could never love him again, he meant to mend, every time he hurt her.
But he would have to let her decide if that was what she wanted. As Lydia had said, he’d already made too many decisions for Constance. He had to let her decide for herself.
He consulted with Shier and Reeve. “After the broadside, set the text again for the Watchman. Front page.”
“Usual columns?” Reeve asked.
“Yes, all three.”
Shier eyed the text. “This will only take two. Notices in the third?”
