by Diana Davis
“Fischer,” she began, “I am so sorry that I shouted at you and burnt my story to spite you.”
“I deserved all that and more. You may do it again if you like. You may do it every day.”
Constance laughed. How he’d missed that sound.
“And I am sorry,” Fischer said. “I thought that . . . if I were madly in love with you, I could only hurt you. And in trying not to hurt you, I only hurt you more.”
Her gaze faltered, and she nodded.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured. “Is there anything I can say to convince you?”
“No.” Before his heart stopped entirely, she added, “You’ve written enough.”
With one sonnet?
Constance reached into her pocket and pulled out a soft leather journal — his draft book. Fischer couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. She was not supposed to read that. “Lydia may have snuck this to me,” Constance confessed.
“She has been meddling since the day I met you.”
“So I’ve read.”
Fischer took back his draft book, shaking his head at Lydia. When had she stolen this? Had she gone back in after he’d seen it last? The audacity.
“We are even now, since I never consented to you reading my poem in the first place, let alone expected you to print it.”
“You didn’t?”
“No.”
Ah. He remembered — Patience had been busy, and he’d offered to help with the poem she was reading. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I only read the first two pages last year.”
She gasped, a hand to her heart. “What? But I read all of your poem.”
“My poem was fourteen lines; yours was fourteen pages! And I’ve read it now.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
“And I actually quite liked the prince. Though he could be a little less vain.”
“Not vain — fashionable!”
“I see. Well, I loved the princess.” Fischer met Constance’s pale green eyes again. “‘Forgive my shame, which caused thee so much pain’?”
“I will try.”
“And I will try to be worthy of that, every day,” he vowed.
“Will you not cast me off?”
“Never.” Fischer held out his hand, and Constance placed hers in his. “And if I hurt you —”
“When,” she corrected, and he froze. “You’ve already hurt me, and I you. It is inevitable, but it isn’t the end of everything.”
“Yes — when we work to mend.” The message bore a surprising amount of hope. “So when I hurt you, I will do everything I can to make it right. And I won’t forsake you, especially not without any explanation.”
She squeezed his fingers. He dropped his draft book, took her other hand and raised them both to his lips. “Constance Hayes, we’ve known each a very long time indeed now, and I still think of you constantly.”
She gazed into his eyes. “I love you, Fischer Marks.”
“And I love you.” He kissed her fingers again, then pulled her closer, moving her hands to his shoulders and sliding his around her waist. “But I cannot kiss you like I kissed your sister.”
Constance straightened. “I beg your pardon?”
Oh, he should not have brought up Patience and especially not kissing her right now. “I mean, I cannot kiss you that way because if — when — I kiss you, I will not be doing it because I’m supposed to. I will not be thinking of this as a business partnership — although you would be in every way an asset to me, my home, my business and my life. I will not be wishing you were someone else.”
Her serene smile warmed his heart.
“I will kiss you, Constance, because I have wanted to from the very first afternoon we shared in this garden. I will kiss you, and I will never wish to stop. I will kiss you because I love you.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” Constance said, but her gaze did not hold doubt. “You do not seem to be getting to the kissing at all.”
That was easily remedied. He pulled her closer and gently kissed her soft lips. “I love you,” he whispered.
“Then kiss me again,” she whispered back.
Fischer obeyed, again starting softly, slowly. He pulled her closer a moment but hesitated. Was he being too insistent? Greedy? Ravenous?
Constance twined her fingers into his hair, not letting him pull away yet. Her lips moved over his, earnest and fervent, as if they’d both been waiting more than a year for this moment, and it was here at last.
There was no such thing as too wrapped up, and Fischer surrendered himself to this moment — to love Constance Hayes.
By the time the kiss came to an end, Fischer was tingling from his scalp to his soles. “I love you!”
“I love you too.”
“I feel as though I could defeat the entire British Army singlehandedly.”
Constance giggled, light and musical. “Please do not attempt it.”
He kissed her again. “Marry me.”
“What?” She pulled away. “We hardly know one another, Fischer.”
“I know that you calm any room you come into. I know how I feel when I’m with you — settled and accepted. I know you have an exceptionally weak stomach, but you can take charge of a situation, even if there’s blood or flames. I know you are brilliant and intelligent and well read.”
“We’re not even courting,” Constance pointed out. “This is too fast.”
“I’m sorry; we shall proceed absolutely no faster than you wish.” He held out a hand again, and she tentatively accepted it. “But may I court you? Please?”
“Yes.” She allowed herself to be tugged closer for another kiss. “Oh, what time is it?”
Fischer checked his watch. “After eleven.”
“We must go to the reading of the declaration!”
“Did I mention I love your patriotism?”
She beamed at him. “And I yours. And your passion for liberty, and your care for your sister, and your solicitude.”
“Thank you.” He tucked her hand into his elbow. “You may tell me more on the way.”
She laughed. They passed through the house, collecting Fischer’s coat and hat and sister. Lydia gave them space on the way, which allowed them to duck into every other alleyway for a quick — or not quite so quick — kiss.
Fischer didn’t care who saw them. He felt as though he could do anything if Constance Hayes was his. Probably even fly. Had they been in an upper room, he might have attempted it.
Several times on the blocks between kisses, Constance pulled a small journal from her pocket and made notes as they walked, relying on Fischer to keep her from walking into or tripping over anything.
“May I ask what you’re writing?”
“Ideas,” she said. “For new stories. And rewriting the third volume of Columbia’s Fields.”
“Not planning on shooting the kingfisher this time?”
She glanced at him. “You saw that?”
He kissed her forehead. “I saved whatever I could from the pages. But I deserved far worse.”
“Well, I can always put the kingfisher on the rack. Or the farm’s waterwheel, perhaps.”
“Those are ideas, I suppose. Put them in your book.”
She pretended to comply and tucked the journal away until the next idea struck her.
By the time they reached State House Square, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder. With Lydia, they moved as close to the platform as they could. Fischer could hardly object to the press forcing him close enough to Constance that he could hold her in his arms without anyone’s notice.
Beaufort — Lieutenant David Beaufort — was announced by the city’s sheriff, and he took the dais. They couldn’t have found someone with more presence to proclaim their independence.
Beaufort read the declaration in a stirring, commanding voice, and the crowd was rapt. He rang out with the final lines, pledgin
g his own life, fortune and sacred honor along with the other delegates’. The crowd cheered three huzzas, the State House bell pealed, and the crowd suddenly shifted.
“The king’s arms!” came the cry.
“What are they doing?” Constance murmured.
“The king’s arms — the sign with his arms is in the courtroom, above the bench.” Fischer gestured at the State House. Patriots had removed similar signs around the city over the last week.
And then the tension shattered, and men rushed for the building’s doors. Had he not been here with Constance and Lydia, Fischer likely would have run with them. But the news — and tearing down the arms — was not foremost now as the crowd began to break and run.
Fischer held Lydia and Constance as close as he could, cutting toward the platform across the tide of men. “Beaufort!” he shouted.
Beaufort spotted them and helped Constance and Lydia out of the crowd. Fischer climbed onto the platform as well, along with other people seeking refuge. Beaufort took note of his presence with Constance and gave Fischer an approving smile, which Fischer returned.
“It appears we shall have a bonfire,” Beaufort said, his voice wry.
“Do you think so?” Lydia eyed the crowd.
“Oh yes, I brought the flint and steel.”
Fischer would have assumed his patron was speaking in jest, but he actually produced the articles and handed them to a man in the crowd — Captain Carter, his brother-in-law.
Within moments, the crowd brought the large wooden sign with the king’s arms: a shield in the center with symbols of George the Third’s European realms, flanked by a lion and a unicorn. The sign was cast on a waiting pile of casks, and several people struck the sparks. Shortly the arms were in the midst of a roaring flame.
“One battle is over,” Beaufort murmured, “but a much larger one has begun.”
They were a country of their own now. Lydia slid her hand into Fischer’s, and Fischer slipped an arm around Constance’s waist. They had the work of a lifetime ahead of them, but he had no doubt they’d accomplish it. Together.
Verity Hayes hurried down the stairs, two at a time, to collect the roses her sister Constance was to wear in her hair. Fischer Marks, Constance’s intended, was just pulling the door closed behind himself when Verity made it to the bottom.
“Fischer picked these himself,” Mama informed Verity as she handed over the bouquet. “What a lovely gesture!”
“It was, rather,” Verity agreed. Surprising, considering Fischer’s thoroughly pathetic initial attempts to woo Constance. How like Constance to be so forgiving and accommodating; no wonder everyone in the family loved her.
Verity hurried back up the stairs to the sisters’ shared bedroom and found Constance poring over a patriotic pamphlet. “Careful; you might smear the ink,” Verity cautioned.
Constance looked up and smiled. “It’s all right. I’ve read this one before.”
“I didn’t mean on the page! I meant for you to watch out for your hands and fingers. You don’t wish to appear before all and sundry with ink stains. Now, look what your husband-to-be has left you!” Verity handed the flowers to her sister.
Constance buried her nose in the blooms. “It was sweet of Fischer to bring these by when he must be so busy tying up loose ends at the print shop,” she sighed.
“Certainly he has more important business on his wedding day.” Verity had sworn off printers herself, but hopefully Constance’s marriage would turn out better than Verity’s ill-favored liaison with Amos Gallagher had. “Which of the flowers do you wish to wear in your hair?”
Constance selected a few of the roses, and Verity started pinning them in place, careful not to disturb the curls she’d spent hours perfecting. Constance went back to her pamphlet, making a show of holding it by its edges.
Verity had only just placed the last flower when their other sisters arrived to help Constance into her gown — a cream silk painted with grapes and vines. The gown was borrowed from their cousin, and Verity had offered to alter it so that Constance didn’t have to appear in something all of Philadelphia society had already seen, but both Cassandra and Constance had demurred.
Verity’s oldest sister Temperance, and the most fashionable besides herself, eyed Constance’s hair critically. “You’ve done well,” she announced. Verity shrugged but couldn’t prevent a smile at her sister’s praise.
“Verity made me rise before dawn so she could start working on it,” Constance informed everyone.
“I wished for everything to be perfect.” One must be willing to suffer for the sake of art, though Verity had never totally succeeded at helping her sisters understand that.
“Perhaps you have a future in dressing hair, if playwriting doesn’t work out,” Patience, another sister, suggested.
Verity stiffened. “I don’t write plays anymore.” Just as she’d told Patience five months prior.
Patience frowned. “Since when? I thought you were working on that patriotic drama all summer.”
Verity didn’t miss her youngest sister Mercy’s little cough and headshake, but she pretended she hadn’t noticed and busied herself shoving the extra hairpins into a little wooden box.
“Let’s get you into that gown, shall we?” Mercy started to help Constance out of her banyan.
Temperance was just about to tie Constance’s pockets on over her stays when Verity called out.
“Wait!” Verity handed Constance the pockets she’d started embroidering as soon as she’d heard about the wedding.
Constance traced her hand over the colorful design. When she met Verity’s eyes, her own glowed with unshed tears. “These are all the flowers in Fischer’s garden.”
“I asked Lydia which ones they had,” Verity confirmed, answering tears in her own eyes.
Constance threw her arms around Verity. “I’ll treasure these forever.”
“Is there anything you can’t do, Verity?” Patience teased. “Hair, embroidery, baking . . . Oh! Surely we can expect one of your delicious cakes today?”
“Of course.” Only the most rigorous discipline of an actress kept Verity’s face serene. “Come, we must get Constance to the church.”
Her sisters had praised her, but they’d think differently about her if they knew the secret Verity had been hiding for years.
She didn’t really know how to bake.
Henry Crofton hurried from the rectory to St. Peter’s Church so he could perform a marriage between two complete strangers. He’d thought officiating over the Lord’s Supper would be his first official task in the Philadelphia parish once Mr. Duché had introduced him to the congregation before this Sunday’s services.
Though Henry had only arrived from England a few days before, he was prepared to perform his duties, as any good clergyman ought. At least Duché had shown Henry the church the day he arrived, so he was able to get to the building without asking directions.
A lone man stood in the churchyard when Henry arrived. “Are you here for the wedding?”
The man, well dressed in a blue coat that matched the embroidery on his waistcoat, grinned and extended a hand, and Henry had to shift the iron key into his left hand so he could shake. “Fischer Marks, and yes, I’m the bridegroom.”
What a relief the man had arrived early! “Wonderful! I wished to speak to you. Sorry to have to tell you this, but Mr. Duché is ill, so I’ll have to perform the ceremony.”
Marks raised both hands. “I don’t really care which vicar we get, as long as I leave with Mrs. Constance Marks on my arm.”
Henry managed a weak smile and turned the key in a stiff lock to let Mr. Marks inside. He paused on the threshold; he’d had only a brief tour of the building. “Um, where is the sacristy?”
“You don’t know?” Marks eyed him. “I haven’t been here much, sorry.”
Henry tried to recall the tour he’d been given. “You must attend Christchurch, then.”
“Not often,” Marks admitted.
Henry gave the man a sideways glance. Was he not Anglican? “You are a member of the Church of England?”
“I’m sure I was baptized at some point, but I honestly can’t remember that far back.” There was a note of laughter in Marks’s voice.
Henry attempted to smile politely. In his old parish, he’d insisted that everyone who wished to be married attend church consistently for a few months before he’d agree to read the banns. He’d also made sure that each couple received the benefit of his counsel. “Mr. Duché has, of course, already met with you?”
“Yes,” Marks answered quickly. “I paid the fee.”
“You do realize you could have avoided the license fee and had the banns read?”
“Oh, no time for banns.”
Henry studied the man for a moment. Why would someone be in such a hurry to marry that they couldn’t wait three weeks to go through the proper channels? It didn’t sound as though Duché had given Marks a sufficient sense of the gravity of marriage.
The duty would fall to Henry, then. “Since you’re here a bit early, let’s just go over a few things.”
Marks nodded. “Right. Actually, I did have something I wanted to ask you.”
Henry laid a gentle hand on Marks’s shoulder. “You can ask me anything.”
The man looked at Henry askance. “I know I’m to stand up at the front, near you, but should I wait there the whole time, or do I come in right before Constance?”
Henry pulled his hand back. “You can wait with me until just before we’re to start, but that wasn’t really what I meant when I said we should go over a few things.”
“Oh?”
“I need to make sure you understand the seriousness of what you’re about to undertake,” Henry explained.
“The marriage?” Marks confirmed. “I believe I have a grasp on its importance.”
Henry nodded encouragingly. “That’s excellent, but I must ask if you’re absolutely certain there are no . . . impediments?” Henry’s mentor had told him of a couple who’d tried to avoid banns because they knew the congregants would point out the man’s first wife was still living.
