SH04_Empire

by Edward Cline

  “You are a man of many radical parts,” commented the musician. “You are also a planter, are you not?”

  Hugh nodded. “Yes. I am master of Meum Hall.”

  “‘Meum Hall,’” mused the young man. “‘My hall,’ or ‘My home.’ I like it. Someday, I hope to have a chance to name my own abode.”

  “A proper name for one’s home deserves as much serious thought as the name of a child, or the title of a book.” Hugh studied the face and figure of the musician, who seemed to be the same age as he.

  “It is a distinctive name.” The stranger paused. “I have also heard that you are the son of a baron, and the nephew of an earl.”

  Hugh said, “I neither advertise nor exploit those facts, sir.”

  “May I ask why not?”

  “They are more a burden than a benefit, if truth be known. I have always striven to escape their influence.”

  The musician commented on the success of the concert, and praised Etáin McRae. The two men talked for a while on that subject. At length, Hugh said, “Although I helped her choose her music, it occurred to me this evening that Mr. Handel’s Coronation Anthem seemed an inappropriate piece to perform at this time.”

  “I had not heard it until this evening,” said the musician. “It is mainly choral, is it not?”

  Hugh nodded. “With a proper orchestra. I heard it performed once in London, at the King’s Theater, not long ago.”

  “Then it must have a libretto, a spoken leitmotif.”

  “Yes,” said Hugh. “‘Let thy hand be strengthened…Let thy right hand be exalted.’ There are more lines that concern justice, mercy, judgment, and truth. Mr. Handel wrote it to celebrate the accession of His Majesty’s grandfather.”

  “I envy you for having heard it in a true concert theater.” The young man paused. “Why do you suspect it was inappropriate to perform at this time?”

  Hugh studied his companion for a moment, then asked, “Have you read the Proclamation?”

  “Yes, of course,” answered the stranger. “Why, only last week, our host — well, he, and Mr. Wythe, and Mr. Randolph, we often play for ourselves on Tuesday nights, and talk of things — his honor commented on the Proclamation, in answer to some bold questions of my own. I am not at liberty to divulge everything he said about it, but he spoke…darkly.”

  “Has he had from London any intimation of new taxes to be laid on the colonies?”

  The musician nodded and smiled. “Our host confided in me that some years ago, Mr. Pitt informed him that it may be necessary to create a special levy on the colonies, once the war was concluded, to meet some of the costs of winning it. Our host cordially advised Mr. Pitt that such a measure would be ill advised. The temper of Englishmen here — with which his honor is not only more familiar, but sympathetic to — would not long tolerate it, nor would their purses.”

  Hugh grinned pointedly. “That, taken together with the lyrics of the Anthem, could only cause me to realize that the Anthem was inappropriate.”

  “I see. Do you doubt the efficacy of the Proclamation?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Not at all. What I doubt is its intent and purpose.”

  The musician narrowed his eyes in thought. “You and I are not quite of the same mind, sir, but near enough that I have enjoyed our talk.”

  Hugh nodded. “And I enjoyed your performance this evening. You must have had formal instruction.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said the musician. “But, other than a brief introduction to the instrument by a tutor some years ago, I have had no formal training in the instrument. It was necessary to teach myself. I do not miss many notes, and am working to bring some spirit to my playing. It is not enough to merely play the notes of a composition. One must imbue them with some character.”

  “That is a sensible philosophy of music with which I entirely agree.”

  “I am fortunate that the Governor asks me to perform with him and his circle. It obliges me to aim for perfection.”

  Hugh was certain that his companion was not much older or younger than he, yet the other’s manner toward him was that of deference to wisdom and experience. He was not sure he was comfortable in that role, but he was amused. They spoke again of music, pacing back and forth together in the Palace yard in the cold air that neither of them seemed to notice. At one point in their conversation, Hugh remarked, “I believe that a man ought to adopt some work of music as his private overture to the opera of his life.”

  The musician laughed and replied, “That is a unique and true observation, sir! But you must own that not so many men lead lives that would merit symphonic interpretation. I myself do not expect my own life to earn, on those terms, better than the tune of a country-dance. You see, I am planning a career in law, and my librettos would be limited to what I say in country courts and the General Court here, for my clients. And, if I enter politics, and run for burgess, I would not expect my overture in that respect to be more than a lullaby. However, that is the only contingency I would attach to your notion, sir, which is an intriguing one, worthy of a treatise.”

  Hugh scoffed lightly. As he said it, he felt foolish, but he wanted to say it. “Do not dismiss your future life so lightly, sir. You may accomplish great things. You seem to be a well-read man. You should recall how many great men in the past had humble origins and, at your age, nurtured humble, unexceptional estimates of themselves. I am thinking of men such as Mr. Locke, and many of the composers we have heard this night.”

  The musician said nothing for a while. Then he asked, “Have you chosen an overture for yourself, sir?”

  “Not yet,” said Hugh. “I have heard much great music, but none that has moved me to assign that purpose to it.”

  They were passing the rear entrance to the Palace ballroom that led to the gardens. A black servant came out then, came down the steps, and whispered something in the musician’s ear. The musician nodded once, and the servant went back inside. “My apologies, sir,” he said to Hugh, “but Mr. Wythe is asking me to join him and some other gentlemen to accompany the Governor in an impromptu performance requested by Mrs. Blair. Will you excuse me?”

  Hugh chuckled. “Of course. But you have the advantage of me.”

  The young man looked shocked, and he blushed. “Oh! A thousand pardons, sir!” He held out a hand. “Mr. Thomas Jefferson, of Albemarle.”

  Hugh smiled and reciprocated the gesture. They shook hands. “It was my pleasure, sir. When I visit Williamsburg again — perhaps when the Assembly sits in the fall, and the theater here has a program of plays — we can continue our conversation.”

  “Yes. I would like that.” With a brief bow and a last friendly smile, the young man turned and rushed up the steps and back into the Palace.

  Hugh shortly followed him. Inside, Reece Vishonn took him aside and, in a low voice, said, “Sir, I did not know that you had so much influence with the Governor.”

  “Nor did I, sir. If I have any influence, it is addressed to his more reasonable side.”

  The older planter scrutinized Hugh for a moment. “I have heard that Mr. Granby, the son, has expressed a desire to move to his father’s property up-country, to Frederick, and to vacate his seat in the Assembly for his county.” He paused. “Have you ever contemplated a political career, sir?”

  Hugh frowned, then laughed. “I can’t imagine a drearier prospect than a political career, Mr. Vishonn.”

  “Well,” said Vishonn, “I must agree with you there. I’d lief mind my fortunes than sit in a stuffy chamber listening to lawyers joust over little matters. That is why I have stayed out of it.” The planter pursed his lips. “But I do believe the time is coming when, like it or not, a political career may become necessary.” He paused again. “Do think on it, Mr. Kenrick.”

  Hugh did not think on it. That evening, in his room at the Raleigh Tavern, he took a sheet of paper and a pen and began making notes for an essay on the subject of a “life overture.” But he could not concentrate. He would think of
a point and begin to develop it, when the image of Etáin would again break his train of thought — the image of a poised, confident, resolute girl with ribbons adorning her mob cap and hair, weaving for herself and her auditors a world of unsullied beauty as her fingers flitted with graceful, symmetric energy over the strings of a harp.

  Until now, he had not thought this could happen again. He did not encourage it. Etáin had looked at him many times this evening, especially while she was playing, her glance telling him that her music was meant for him alone in the crowded ballroom. He had merely smiled at her, permitting himself no more than the expression of happiness for her that a patron or benefactor might feel for the successful debut of a protégée.

  If he had no rivals, he would not have hesitated to ask for her hand in marriage. But he could neither forget his rival nor her words of years ago. He could only ponder: I lost one love to a lesser man, and endured it. Could I bear to lose another to a better man, or to an equal? He glanced at the notes he had made on the paper, and asked himself: Will a somber dirge haunt the overture of my own life?

  Two days later, driven by a desire for a resolution, and by a desire to see Etáin again, he called on the McRaes at midafternoon tea. He found her and her mother minding the father’s store while Ian McRae was down on the waterfront on business. Madeline McRae said, “The Galvin from Liverpool has arrived, and Mr. McRae is expecting cargo on it.” She sensed the object of Hugh’s visit, and dismissed her daughter. “Go, fille,” she said to Etáin, “entertain Mr. Kenrick, but first bring me a cup of Bohea.”

  In the parlor, Etáin seemed happy to see Hugh, and nervous. His calls always had a purpose, and their times alone together were rare and special. At the Governor’s Palace, surrounded by so many people and immersed in social protocol, she had been able to spend less than a minute with him. She said now, laughing, “Mr. Vishonn told my father at the Palace that had he a spare son, he would order him to court me, so he could some day welcome me as a daughter-in-law!”

  Hugh smiled as he watched Etáin fix the tea. “Mr. Vishonn would not have said that, had he been sober. I would ascribe his remark to one too many glasses of the Governor’s sillery.”

  “Hugh!” exclaimed Etáin. “It is not like you to tease!”

  “I was not teasing you, Etáin. Mr. Vishonn often decants his soul in direct proportion to his helpings from the punchbowl. You see, he asked me that evening if I would think of standing for burgess.”

  Etáin paused in her chore to study him. “That is an amusing thought — you, as a pompous burgess! He ought to have known better than to ask you that.”

  “He does know better,” said Hugh. “However, it is an amusing property of wine that, depending on the volume of its consumption, it can either erase knowledge, or warp it with what appears to be true knowledge.”

  “Well, then you shall have none here!” said Etáin. She paused, though, and asked, “Unless you would prefer it to tea?”

  Hugh shook his head. “No, thank you. Tea will be fine.”

  She finished preparing the tea, poured him a cup, and took a cup back out to her mother. When she returned, she sat down opposite Hugh and asked, as she fixed her own tea, “Have you so much idle time that you call today?”

  “It is not an idle call I pay, Etáin,” said Hugh. He put down his cup and saucer on the tea table that stood between him and the girl. “I…am anxious to know if you are close to solving your riddle.”

  The cup and saucer in Etáin’s hands froze in the air. After a moment, she put them down, too, and said, with gentle regret, “No, Hugh, I have not.” She saw the look of resigned acceptance of her answer on his face. She studied him for a moment with undisguised fondness. “You should know that the day after we returned from Williamsburg, Jack called on us, and he took me for a stroll along Queen Anne Street. Of course, he knew about our going to the Palace. Everyone in Caxton knew. Mr. Barret is to write a little item about the concert for the Courier.” She paused. “Jack asked me the same question, Hugh.”

  Hugh cocked his head in surprise. “Prompted, no doubt, by disquieting jealousies of his own.” He shook his head. “You see, Mrs. Vere came to town that day to find some cinnamon and oranges for the wine cake she knows I like, and saw the two of you, and, in the course of complaining about Mr. Rittles’s prices, let drop that little complaint, too.” He paused. “That is partly why I am here.”

  Etáin’s expression of discomfort changed to one that was unconvincingly distant. “You both honor me with such worry, Mr. Kenrick. And I am presuming that you, as well, appreciate my dilemma…and know that I am not insensitive to your own…and to his…. ” She picked up her cup and saucer, took a sip of the tea, and rested the delicate porcelain on her lap.

  Hugh knew that she was exerting a self-control that was not natural to her. He felt proud of her, and wished he could rise and embrace her. He saw in her eyes that she knew this, and would not protest if he did. But his impulse was arrested by the sight of her and the stature of the woman she was becoming. So he said, “Well, until you have solved it, I will press you no more for a decision.” He added, “Neither Jack nor I has a right to.”

  Etáin nodded slowly, then said, “But, until now, neither you nor Jack has pressed me for one, although,” she added with a brief smile, “my parents are perhaps as anxious as are you.”

  Hugh frowned. “Are you afraid to make a decision?”

  Etáin shook her head. “I will not be, when I have found an answer.” She studied him again. “Is it because you fear my answer, that you are anxious?”

  “Yes, I own that it is that. It is, I think, the only thing I fear.”

  “Dear Hugh,” said the girl, “you will not lose me, whatever decision I make. You must remember that as your rival is not a Boeotian, I am not a…sister of your Reverdy.”

  Hugh grinned in concession. He was pleased that she remembered their first conversation years ago, at the celebration ball at Enderly. It was then and there that, facing him and Jack Frake, she had first posed the riddle: Which of you is the north, and which is the needle? “I know that about both of you,” he said. “It is always on my mind, as a reproach to my anxiousness.” He paused. “Why can you not decide between us, Etáin?”

  Etáin put down her cup and saucer. “Because you are so much alike in everything I think is admirable in a man, yet so different in your approaches to things. You are like twins. Together, you and Jack are my Gemini.” She stopped, and then said, “But, there is a…flaw in one of you that I have not been able to ken, because I do not think it has manifested itself.”

  “A flaw?” mused Hugh. “I cannot imagine what that might be…in Jack. As for myself…well, I am as mortal as he. One of us is the north, and one the needle. Am I Castor, or Pollux? But,” he sighed, “I am happy that we comprise your Gemini. It is no small honor you pay us, and some consolation to me, at least.”

  Etáin said, “Jack asked me those same questions, Hugh. And I gave him the same answers.”

  “It would be like him to ask them,” remarked Hugh. “How can you know that a flaw exists in one of us, if you cannot identify it?”

  “Because you both have done something, or said something, that seems to tell a distinction between you. I am not even certain that it is a flaw. And I have been unable to identify what it is.”

  Hugh sighed again. “Well, until you do, I suppose we shall conform to the story of the Gemini, and Jack and I consider you as our sister, Helen. There, however, the analogy of our Olympian myth grows skewed. There is no Paris to steal you away, and Caxton is no Troy.”

  He saw the fondness in Etáin’s eyes dissolve to love. “That is one of your sadder virtues, Hugh,” she said. She rose then, came to him, and bent to brush a hand lightly over his face. “I still have the penny you gave me at the ball. It will never be spent.”

  It was the first intimate evidence of her feeling for him. Hugh closed his eyes at the touch of her cool fingers and palm. He allowed himself to raise a ha
nd, and pressed it against her unseen waist.

  Etáin lingered for an immeasurable second, then stepped away. “I must go back to the shop.”

  Hugh looked up at her with loving gratitude. “Yes. You must.” He glanced down at the tea service. “Thank you…for remembering our first encounter,” he whispered.

  “Thank you…for it,” whispered the girl in turn. With a rustle of her skirts, she turned sharply and left the parlor.

  Hugh followed her back into the shop a moment later. He exchanged a few words with Madeline McRae, and then left. He mounted his horse and walked it leisurely back to Meum Hall, somehow happy about his short time with Etáin, but only just then wondering what she had meant by his “sadder virtues.”

  * * *

  Ian McRae returned to the shop near dusk. His wife and daughter both noted that he looked unusually dour. He said little, except to inform them that he had arranged to have his modest cargo — plows, hammers, nails, pewter dishes, tinware, kettles, muskets, and sundry household necessities, all specially ordered by his customers — drayed up to the shop the next morning.

  After their supper that evening, he waited until Madeline and Etáin had cleared the table of the last of their meal, then took a letter from inside his coat and dropped it on the table. “That came today, on the Galvin. Sutherland and Bain are ordering me back to Glasgow, and instructing me to settle all the accounts here.” He glanced at the shocked, attentive faces of his wife and daughter. “If I were not in arrears to the firm, I would resign and begin my own trade here, or in Norfolk. But I have been too generous in my terms with my customers, it would seem, and so I am in arrears, and we must comply.” He paused. “Etáin, you may stay, provided you marry.”