The Messenger

by Siri Mitchell

  I grabbed the brown-colored coat from its peg and pulled it on.

  “You’ve a wig, haven’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “At least you’ve not gone into a decline that steep. Well. Where is it?”

  “It’s in the trunk somewhere.”

  He threw the lid open and rummaged through it for a moment. “Ah. Found it!” He walked it over to the fireplace and held it up to the light. Poked at it here and there. Held it out in my direction. “I suppose it will have to do. Though you really ought to have it redone. If it’s not too late. Have it made into a cadogan, with the queue looped back upon itself.”

  It was fine just the way it was. Especially after having not been worn for more years than I cared to admit. I snatched it from him and pulled it down atop my head.

  “Tsk, tsk. That will never do. Your own hair is much too long. Have you a razor? I’ll cut it for you myself.”

  “And slit my throat in the process. No.” I pulled the wig from my head and threw it back into the trunk. Knocked the lid down with a nudge from my foot. “My own hairs will have to do.”

  “Have to do! You shouldn’t ‘have to do.’ You’re owner of the King’s Arms! You must have money laid by. You ought to do better than this.” His indictment included my wig, my clothes, my room. My very life.

  I ignored him, turning to put on my better pair of shoes. Clamping one of them between my knees, I pulled off the plain steel buckle and replaced it with the carved German silver. “And what is the point of all of that? When it doesn’t really matter? What girl would want me?”

  The only reply to my brutally forthright question was a snore. Straightening, I saw John sprawled across my bed. I tossed his hat onto his chest.

  He woke with a snort. “Ah . . . yes. Well, then. What was I saying?”

  “You were remarking upon what a sorry life I had constructed for myself.”

  “I rather bungled things, didn’t I?”

  There was a moment of awkward silence between us.

  “Well . . . there’s still Miss Sunderland.” He said it as if she were some second-rate prize. As if a girl worth ten Polly Penningtons should somehow be considered less. For some reason, a great seething rage threatened to explode from within me.

  I took a moment to caution myself. What did John’s opinions truly matter? The important thing was the prison escape. And to arrange it I needed the help of both he and Hannah. “Yes. There’s still Miss Sunderland.”

  By the time we reached Pennington House I was sure the invitation was better refused than honored. “I really don’t think I ought to go in.”

  “And why shouldn’t you?’

  I eyed the grand door that stood closed, above us. “Why should I?”

  John took the stairs with sprightly steps. “She’s cowed you!”

  “She has not.”

  “She has!” He laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day when Jeremiah Jones was afraid of a girl. Too good!” When he finally finished laughing, he came back down, grabbed me by the elbow, and dragged me to the door. “If her family has installed themselves here at the Penningtons’, she’ll have a whole line of men paraded before her nightly if I’m not much mistaken. It wouldn’t do to absent yourself from her for too long.”

  “She’ll make a mincemeat of me over her brother.”

  “Just tell her you’ve talked me into granting her the favor.”

  “I’ll not.”

  “You’ve too much pride.”

  I’d not enough as far as I was concerned. If I did, I wouldn’t be walking around like some altar boy in my best clothes. But I couldn’t deny that it felt good to wear a waistcoat again. And my pair of silver buckles.

  “You’re far too handsome to absent yourself from the female population.” There was a note of wistfulness in his words.

  “Nothing a new suit and a fistfight couldn’t do for you.”

  “Women do love a man in uniform. At least that’s what I’ve noticed about these Philadelphia belles. The girls in England couldn’t care a fig. They’re after what’s in a man’s pocket, not what he wears on his back.”

  “Good thing your heiress kept her hands where they belong, then. What’s her name again?”

  “I call her my Brunhilda. She thinks it’s a compliment. In any case, don’t remind me of her. I plan to enjoy myself this evening to the hilt.”

  “Ah, yes. Before the sword of matrimony severs you from your pleasurable pursuits forever.”

  As a servant opened the front door and ushered us into the front hall, I was smiling. John was looking decidedly morose.

  15

  Hannah

  “I don’t see why I must attend.” Mother was helping me into my gown so that I wouldn’t require the services of Jenny, the enslaved woman. I dressed each day in my parents’ room to avoid her unwanted help.

  “This house is not our own. We must be peaceable . . . and thee were invited.”

  “Only so that I could entertain Jeremiah Jones.” He was so embittered that I doubted any person could accomplish that task.

  “Thee must be kind to that man.”

  He wasn’t very kind to me. But Mother didn’t know of our intrigues and she must never learn of them. And so I nodded and tried to smile.

  She put out a hand to straighten the modest ruffle that issued from my sleeve, then kissed me on the cheek and whispered into my ear, “Go see if thee can aid thy cousin.”

  Polly was already being aided by hands much more able than mine. As I walked into her bedroom, Jenny was helping her into her stays while Doll was waiting with a gown.

  “Hannah! You must change for supper. My guests will be here any moment.”

  “We are not in the habit of changing.” Friends valued simplicity more than propriety. Polly changed for dinner every day and then again for evening entertainments, but I was as dressed as ever I would be. My gown may have been dark plum in color, but it was made of the finest silk.

  “Oh. I thought—I mean, for a party, would you like to borrow something of mine? I’ve a light striped silk in a pale green that would do quite admirably. It is almost spring, after all.”

  “No. But I thank thee for thy generosity.”

  Irritation and something much like pity shone from her eyes. She turned to allow Jenny to lace her stays. “Oh! Mr. Jones is coming. Was I wrong to have him invited? To provide you with some company?”

  Aunt Rebekah had already warned me of that fact. “It was kind of thee to think of me.”

  Her smile shone like a beacon. “I knew you fancied him!”

  “I—I don’t—I mean—”

  “He’s a very handsome man beneath that mess of hair. Even despite his manner of dress. Which is very singular, if you’ll pardon my saying. And I’m quite certain he returns your interest.”

  “I can’t think why he should—”

  “Because you’re lovely. You really are. With your fair hair and gray eyes. Any man would find you pleasing. Except . . . you mustn’t mind if I ask you to leave me Major Lindley.”

  “Of course not. I mean I am a Friend.”

  “Your body may be, but your heart is not.”

  She had inverted it; the reverse was true. It should be true, in any case, though I was beginning to suspect that perhaps it was not. It was in this state of confusion that I descended the stair in the wake of my cousin. That she had put such thoughts of Jeremiah Jones and hearts into my head!

  I looked up from my thoughts to find him watching my descent.

  Consternation did the queerest thing to my stomach, and I found myself hardly able to look away from him. By the time I reached the bottom stair I could tell that a flush had colored my cheeks.

  He bowed. “Miss Hannah.”

  “Hannah.” Did he choose to disregard the simplest of requests?

  He bent over my hand before I could remember to snatch it from him. I did not need such pretenses of courtesy. No one did. And especially not from someone who welcomed wi
cked men into his tavern.

  “I know that you do not require such shows of propriety, but others seem to find scandal in their absence. Please believe me when I say that I wish nothing other than to honor your person.”

  “Thee would honor me most by treating me as the least.” And if he left me alone altogether, that would be even better.

  Major Lindley had offered his arm to Polly and was escorting her into the parlor.

  “It would behoove us both if you would draw less attention to us.” Jeremiah Jones’s blue eyes had turned the color of a stormy sky.

  I found it odd that he was so changeable in his moods. It did not recommend him as a man of peace. “Then perhaps thee would do me the kindness of treating me as I request to be treated.”

  “If I do that, if I call you by your Christian name, then some might assume there is an agreement between us.”

  “There is, is there not?” Despite every modicum of good sense that cried out for me to disassociate myself from him.

  “An agreement of marriage.”

  Oh!

  “Have no fear. No one with their wits about them would think that a girl like you would favor a man like me.” He was scowling by the time he finished speaking.

  A man who was not a Friend? Of course none should think I would marry a man who was not a Friend. In any case, he did not seem to expect a reply, so I walked toward the parlor to join the rest of the party and Jeremiah Jones followed behind.

  I spent the better part of the evening trying to decide why it was that people wasted so much of their time on vain pursuits like music and dance. Jeremiah Jones spent the better part of the evening studying the dancers with a yearning that made me think he wished to be among them.

  “Do not feel as if thee must remain by my side, Jeremiah Jones. Thee may dance if thee would like to.”

  He shifted in his chair to face me. “I can’t. Not anymore.” He’d said it as if it was the worst of pronouncements.

  “ ’Tis not so terrible a thing, not to be able to dance.” I’d not danced for my entire life.

  “Then you must never have done it.”

  I was startled by the ferocity in his vehemence.

  “I was once considered the best dancer in the colony. You cannot know how it feels to be held up as the epitome of a gentleman, to be the coveted guest of a ball, and then be cast from polite society. To be considered no one at all.”

  He was right: I did not. And I might not ever understand how it might make a man feel, but I understood that he suffered still from what had befallen him. “I am sorry, Jeremiah Jones, for all of the pain that it has caused you.”

  “You? Sorry?” His brows came together and he began to say something, but then he must have thought the better of it, for he closed up his mouth. Jaw working, he rose and left the room.

  I might have been humiliated, but no one seemed to notice. Everyone was dancing. No one was paying any attention to a Quaker maid, dressed in a simple fashion, sitting in the corner. With all of the noise and with everyone’s attention given to dancing, I decided I would not be observed if I slipped away. And if God allowed, perhaps I would be well into sleep before Polly retired for the night.

  I had just rounded the corner into the hall when I walked straight into the sturdy chest of Jeremiah Jones.

  “Forgive me, Miss—Hannah.”

  “The fault is entirely my own.” Had I not been so eager to flee, then he would not this moment be clutching at my arm with his hand, struggling to keep his balance. I cupped my own hand beneath his elbow and righted him.

  His temper seemed not to have improved, for he wrested his arm from me.

  “I apologize for what I said to thee earlier—”

  “You’ve no right to speak of things that don’t concern you.”

  Perhaps I should have left then, but even among Friends it would not have been polite. Following Christ’s example, when there is enmity between us, we seek to remove it, not flee from it. “Perhaps thee are right. And if that is the case, then again, I must apologize.”

  He looked me over for one long moment, his face finally relaxing. “Would you care to return to the parlor?”

  No, I did not. But I had been bid to attend and I did care to do as I had been instructed.

  “I promise not to snap at you.” He bowed. “We are supposed, in fact, to have an interest in one another.”

  We were? I knew Polly had amused herself with such fancies, but I hadn’t counted intelligence among her strongest attributes. “But . . .” My hand was plucking at my sleeve ruffles before I realized and my cheeks, once more, were stained with a blush.

  “It works quite well to disguise our association.”

  “It . . . does?”

  “And it would also explain—to any who are watching—why we happen to be in each other’s company so often.”

  “I will not lie to thee, Jeremiah Jones. I can have no interest in thee other than the salvation of thy soul.”

  His smile disappeared. “I would never have imagined otherwise. I assure you.” He had seemed almost warm an instant before, but now the glower had come back into his eyes.

  “My Meeting would not hesitate to disown me.”

  The color of his eyes lightened and the corners of his lips turned as if preparing for a smile. “And my own friends would surely demand if I had my wits still about me. Had I any friends, that is.”

  When he offered his arm to me, I accepted it and we went back into the parlor together—the girl who could hope for no understanding among Friends and the man who, apparently, had none.

  16

  Jeremiah

  I left Pennington House with John and the other soldiers. We walked up Spruce Street together. One of the officers whistled a merry tune while another danced a jig. As we passed by an alley, their steps slowed, then came to stop entirely in front of one of the city’s numerous brothels.

  I kept on walking.

  “Jonesy! Off to bed so soon? Stay. Come in with us.”

  In with them. To the brothel. I paused in my steps.

  John left his comrades and walked toward me. “Just because you’re war-scarred doesn’t mean you have to be a monk.”

  I turned from him and began to walk away once more.

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’ve heard one of the girls has a soft spot for the lame and the crippled.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “Hey!” He stopped me with a hand to my shoulder. But still I wouldn’t turn to face him. “You didn’t . . . I mean . . . you weren’t injured there too, were you?”

  As if that could be any worse than what had happened. “Don’t be a blockhead.”

  His hand left my shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  I looked past him for a moment into the building. It was filled with soldiers and scantily clad women. I longed—in that brief instant—for a simple touch. For a girl’s soft hand and delicious scent. I longed to think that I mattered to anyone at all.

  “No.” I shook my head, pushed into the dark of the night, and walked on. The pain of being alone would only be doubly compounded were I to pay for the pleasure of being bedded.

  “Don’t be . . .” The rest of John’s words were lost to the wind.

  And so I went back to the King’s Arms alone. Undressed myself alone. Fell into bed alone. Yet still I was not alone in that spartan room, in that big bed. A small, quiet voice haunted my thoughts.

  I am sorry, Jeremiah Jones, for all of the pain that it has caused you.

  I wished her voice would leave my head. What would a Quaker know about flirting and dancing and courting? How could a Quaker know how much everything depended on how agilely, how gracefully you comported yourself on a dance floor?

  Dash her eyes! Those cool, dispassionate, all-seeing eyes.

  She had no right to speak to me of dancing. Not when she didn’t even know the steps to the simplest of country dances.

  I am sorry, Jeremiah Jones.

  I am sor
ry.

  She hadn’t spoken the words in pity. She’d spoken them in sorrow. The words had been weighted with the same grief that I felt. As if she also mourned what I had lost. The moment she had spoken, I had felt like weeping. I felt the press of years of unshed tears in my chest. At my throat. In my eyes.

  She was sorry.

  No one had ever said that they were sorry. No one had ever acknowledged that the man I used to be existed no more. That it was a pitiful shame something like that had been allowed to happen. Mostly, people just pretended that I wasn’t there; life went on around me. And mostly I pretended I didn’t care. But no one had ever, not once, said what she had. And for that I felt a terrible, dreadful rage build inside me.

  No one. Not one.

  Not ever.

  A single ragged sob escaped my throat. So I clawed at my arm. At the stump where the ache was near constant. The pain attacked with such vengeance that when tears came, it was on account of the arm and not the other.

  It wasn’t on account of her words.

  I woke early, before dawn on Saturday. I always woke early. What reason did I have to linger abed? But that morning I was awakened for cause of a sensation. I reveled in the feeling for a moment before I looked with dread at what my eyes could not deny. I could have sworn my hand was back. If I closed my eyes, I could even feel pain pulsing back and forth between its fingers. But when I opened my eyes, I could not deny its absence. It was not there. It had not been there for many years.

  I did not believe in it, but I could feel it.

  It did not happen often, but neither did pain ever fully leave me. It was as if the ghost of my former self were mocking the miserable reality of my present self.

  It was best just ignored. In time it would go away. It always did. But it hurt like the devil while it lasted.

  Go away!

  I dashed some water on my face, then threw some at my hand that was not there, wondering if it might quench the pain. It only dropped straight to the floor.