‘Don’t you need to see the score?’ Amy wondered.
Alex clamped the violin under his chin. ‘This one’s in my repertoire.’ He raised his bow, then lowered it again, turning to address Melody. ‘Mozart wrote this piece when he was eight years old. Think about that.’ He raised his bow again, nodded to Amy, and they began to play.
Ten minutes of magic ensued.
As the last note of Alex’s violin faded away, we sat silently, still mesmerized, until Melody broke the spell by leaping to her feet, applauding like a groupie at a Stones concert.
Alex held out his hand, Amy slipped hers into his and allowed him to guide her out from behind the bench. Standing side by side, hands raised aloft, the two musicians bowed deeply. After a moment, Alex raised Amy’s hand to his lips and kissed it. Even in the candlelight, I could see her blush.
Jack, who up to this time had usually sat through family activities like a gargoyle and whose taste in music (I imagined) ran to praise songs like ‘Shout to the Lord,’ surprised me by clapping and chanting, ‘Encore! Encore!’ along with the rest of us.
Alex dropped Amy’s hand. ‘I think it’s time for some audience participation, don’t you, Amy?’
He returned to the harpsichord, shuffled around through the music, coming up with a handful of booklets composed of folded sheets of parchment, sewn through the center fold with red string. One copy contained the score, which Alex handed to Amy. For us, there was no music, only lyrics to songs popular in the 1770s, collected – according to the handwritten title page – by a soldier named Colonel George Bush from Delaware. Alex made a circuit of the room, passing out the booklets, uttering words of encouragement along the way: ‘Come on! Everybody can sing! Yes, even you, Mr Donovan,’ that charmed the socks off everyone.
‘I’ll go first,’ he said, returning to the harpsichord and indicating to Amy which song he would like her to play. Amy played a short introduction, so we could pick up on the tune, then Alex began leading us in a song of flowers and spring and unrequited love of a swain for a country maid named Katharine Ogie. Like good little do-bees, we joined in, but by the time we reached the end of the song: ‘Clouds of despair surround my love, which are both dark and fogie, Pity my case ye powers above, else I die for Katharine Ogie,’ we’d dropped out, one by one, totally mesmerized by the sound of Alex’s sweet baritone.
Once again, Melody was on her feet, applauding. ‘Your turn now, Amy!’
‘What shall I sing?’
Alex leaned over Amy’s shoulder and turned to the next page in the booklet, smoothing it down. When it wouldn’t behave, he kept a finger on the corner so it’d stay put.
‘I’m afraid my voice isn’t nearly as fine as yours, Alex,’ Amy said, placing her fingers on the keys, gazing up at him sideways through her lashes.
‘Sure it is. Go on. We’ll sing with you.’
‘I’ll be sight-reading.’ She grinned. ‘So don’t expect much.’
‘Saw you my hero, saw you my hero, saw you my hero, George?’ Amy sang, leaning forward, squinting, to better see the words and music as she played. Alex paced behind her back, conducting his motley chorus with his bow.
‘Hark, from the hills, the woodlands, and dales, (we sang)
The drums and the trumpet alarms.
Ye Gods, I give you charge of gallant hero, George
To return him unhurt to my arms.’
I was just thinking, ooooh, bad choice, when Amy’s head drooped, and her hands flew from the keyboard to her face. She rocked forward, then burst into tears and ran from the room. After a moment of stunned silence, Jack Donovan blustered, ‘What’s the matter with her?’
Alex bowed, abandoned his violin and rushed out of the room after her.
SEVEN
‘I explained to Mr Donovan why I came unglued while I was playing the harpsichord the other day. The advice he gave me came from the heart, but unfortunately it was all about Jesus.’
Amy Cornell, lady’s maid
A week later, I awoke just as fingers of light began to creep around the edges of the curtains. I propped myself up on my pillows and lay in bed with the coverlet tucked under my chin, listening to rain drum against the roof and gurgle along the gutters. I couldn’t stop thinking about the abrupt ending to what had been an otherwise delightful musicale, and the text message Amy had received in the dressmaker’s garden and wondering who could be so cruel, and why.
A few minutes later, there was a gentle knock on the door hidden in the wall next to my bed, followed almost immediately by Amy, backside and petticoats first, carrying a tea tray. As had become her routine, she set the tray down on the table between the windows, then turned to draw open the curtains. She stood at the window for a few seconds, staring out into the cool, gray day, watching the rain sluice sideways against the antique glass. ‘Good day for ducks,’ she said.
Amy turned, reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter, sealed with a familiar red blob of wax. ‘This came for you a few minutes ago,’ she said, propping the letter up against the sugar bowl on the tray.
‘I’m beginning to dread these letters,’ I confided. ‘If it’s from our Founding Father, as I suspect, I think I’ll need tea first.’
‘Allow me.’ Amy smiled, set the silver strainer over my cup and poured a cup of tea through it. She set the strainer containing the damp leaves aside, added a thin slice of lemon to the cup and brought it over to me where I still lay, like a slug, in bed.
‘Amy, you are a gem,’ I told her, lifting the cup and saucer from her hands and taking a sip. ‘Should you ever need a letter of recommendation as colonial maid of all work, you need only to turn to me.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ It was good to see her laugh. ‘If there’s nothing else you need, I’ll go wake up the children, then.’ She curtseyed and let herself out the way she had come.
The secret door to my room opened left off the service staircase, and a similar door, I had discovered, led off to the right, directly into Melody’s room, the one adjoining mine. That room had once belonged to William Paca’s ten-year-old niece who had come to live in Annapolis as an orphan, and had died there, probably of tuberculosis. I hadn’t told the story to Melody, worried that if she knew the truth – that little Henny Dorsey had literally died in her room – she would have freaked. I’d been in Melody’s room, and I had to admit that being there gave me a creepy feeling, too.
I could hear Melody moving around next door, singing ‘You Make Me Feel’ by Cobra Starship, when Amy returned to help me dress. ‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked as she laced me into my stays.
‘Not very,’ she replied. ‘My windows are tiny, but you know what I see when I look out? The Naval Academy chapel.’
The cornerstone for the chapel, a Beaux Arts treasure designed by architect Ernest Flagg, had been laid in 1904. Amy’s room, in the west wing overlooking the garden, would have an unobstructed view of the chapel’s magnificent dome. ‘If our Founding Father were here right now,’ I teased, ‘he’d tell you that was impossible. The chapel won’t be built for more than a century.’
Amy simply stared at me. Unwittingly, I must have hit a nerve. I felt like a total shit when she explained, ‘It’s kinda ironic, but three years ago, Drew and I were married in that chapel.’
I laid a hand on each of her thin shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. ‘Oh, Amy, I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth.’
‘It’s OK, Hannah. I miss him, sure, but it’s over now. Drew’s dead. I’ve sold the condo. The furniture’s in storage. It’s time to move on.’
Next door, Melody had turned the volume up. ‘You make me feel that, la la la la la, you make me feel so, la la la la la …’
The moment was so not-according-to-the-script that Amy and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. ‘At least somebody’s happy,’ Amy said.
I picked a hand mirror up from my bedside table and studied my face in the early morning light. ‘My eyebrows are pitiful. There’s a bit of a uni-brow th
ing going on here.’ Still holding the mirror, I turned to Amy. ‘What did they use for tweezers back then?’
‘Tweezers? I’m sure they go back to Egyptian times. Do you want me to ask the diary cam?’
I laughed. ‘No, I’ll do it. I have to do something with these eyebrows if I’m to be seen in polite company.’
With a nervous glance out the window, Amy said, ‘I laid out your green silk today, but with the weather …’
I hopped out of bed, opened up the trunk at its foot and started pawing through it.
‘If they think I’m going to wear a silk gown in this weather, they’re crazy. Homespun will do nicely, I think.’ I pulled out a dark blue gown. ‘What do you think about this?’
‘Nice.’ She handed me my petticoat. While she waited for me to step into it, she said, ‘Drew and I really didn’t have all that much time together. First it was the training, then he was deployed.’ She shrugged. ‘You know what they say after the wedding ceremony, when you walk through the arch of swords on the chapel steps and they whack you on the butt?’
I did, and I said so, but she reminded me of it anyway. ‘“Welcome to the Navy, Mrs Cornell.” I was twenty-five years old, and thought I knew everything, but nothing really prepares you to be a Navy wife, does it? A users’ manual would have come in handy.’
Amy helped me into my dress, pinned the stomacher in place, then watched, head cocked to one side, as I arranged a scarf around my neck. Once that was done, I could no longer ignore the letter that sat on the silver tray, its official wax seal staring at me accusingly like a big red eye.
I snatched the letter from the tray, plopped down in the chair, slipped my finger under the seal and opened it up. ‘Oh, blast, hell and damnation!’
‘What is it?’
‘It seems that George Washington is passing through Annapolis on Saturday, a stopover on his way from Mount Vernon to Philadelphia for a meeting of the Continental Congress. He’s representing Virginia, no surprise. He’ll be staying here overnight. Damn.’
The color drained from Amy’s face. ‘The George Washington? As in the first president of the United States?’
‘Bingo. But he’s only a colonel. He won’t be president until …’ I paused to think. ‘… until 1789. That’s fifteen years in the future.’
‘But, all our bedrooms are taken! Where will Colonel Washington sleep?’
‘Good question.’ I thought for a moment, tapping the letter absent-mindedly on my cheek. I certainly wasn’t going to move in with Jack Donovan, even if the staff could scrounge up a bundling board somewhere. ‘We’ll give Washington the best bedroom, no question about that. Jack will have Melody’s room. That means that Melody will bunk with me, on the trundle bed.’ Just thinking about playing ‘musical beds’ made me tired. ‘I’ll have to tell French. We need to make sure we have clean sheets.
‘Founding Father also reminds me, in case I’d forgotten, that today’s market day. The vendors are expecting us; I’m to pay a visit to the Maryland Table stall. Oh, Amy! Do you think I can get out of it? I hate the idea of going out in this rain. Call me cynical, but I think the producers planned it on purpose.’
‘Planned what?’ Amy wanted to know as she tipped the tea kettle over the wash basin.
‘This evil weather. I can just hear them thinking, what could be better than to send Hannah to market on a rainy day? Watch how she ruins her shoes.’
‘You should wear your pattens,’ Amy suggested.
I’d tried out the pattens, a kind of high-heeled wooden clog that strapped over your shoes and supposedly kept your shoes and the hems of your skirts dry. But after clack-clack-clacking around the house in a pair of them, teetering like a drunk, I decided to give them a pass.
‘Your water’s ready, Hannah,’ Amy reminded me. ‘Best to use it before it gets cold.’
I dipped the flannel in the water, wrung it out and pressed the warm cloth to my face, being careful not to drip water on my dress. Note to self. Wash first. Dress second. After a moment, I said, ‘Karen will be accompanying me, of course, but it doesn’t say anything in the letter about not taking my maid along.’ I draped the damp cloth over the rim of the bowl. ‘Would you like to come, too? Get soaked along with me?’
Amy drifted to the window, pressed her forehead against the glass. ‘I admit it would be a relief to get out of the house. Melody is driving me crazy with all her mooning over some pimply-faced cowboy named Tim back in Texas. They’ve only been separated for a couple of weeks, but you’d think it was a year.’
‘Don’t be too hard on her. I remember being crazy in love at her age. When my father got transferred to San Diego from Norfolk, I thought I was going to die. I’m still crazy in love, believe it or not, and Paul and I have been married for more years than I care to count. If you look to the far right, you can almost see my house from here, but Paul might as well be on the other side of the moon.’
‘At least you’ll get to see Paul again …’ Amy’s voice broke.
‘Amy, I know what you told me earlier, but I can tell you’re not over it.’
She flapped a hand in front of her face. ‘No, no, I’m all right.’
But I didn’t believe her, not for a minute.
After I sat down at the breakfast table, I shared the news about George Washington’s visit with Jack. I thought he’d be delighted, or nervous, or apprehensive … something, but from behind a facsimile copy of the Maryland Gazette, he merely grunted. Melody looked bored, and Gabe was busily sawing his cinnamon toast into skinny, one-inch rectangles called soldiers. I wondered what the latest news was on Katherine’s condition, but decided that now wasn’t the best time to inquire.
As he’d spent the night on the trundle in Michael’s room, I had expected the dancing master to be joining us for breakfast, but his chair at the table sat empty. ‘Where’s Alex?’ I asked.
Michael scooped some melon out with his spoon. ‘He ate earlier in the kitchen. He said he had to go over to Brice House to check out the ballroom. Apparently, there’s to be a dance there next week.’
‘A dance? Is that something we’ll be invited to attend?’
Michael chewed his melon, looking thoughtful. ‘Almost certainly. I’m sure our friendly neighborhood Founding Father will be sending out invitations soon enough.’
I spread a bit of butter on my bread and added a dollop of Karen’s homemade strawberry jam. ‘What’s so fascinating about the newspaper, Jack? Surely, that’s old, old news.’
‘You’ll find this interesting, Melody,’ her father said. ‘A fellow named James Hutchings is announcing a sale at Broad Creek Ferry on Kent Island. Listen. To be sold, several negroes, the time of several servant men and women, household furniture, several horses and some black cattle. They will be disposed of at public sale, for ready cash or tobacco.’ He looked at his daughter over the tops of his reading glasses. ‘Imagine. Humans being sold for tobacco.’
‘As if …’ Melody muttered into her porridge.
Jack glared at her over the top of the newspaper. ‘What did you say, young lady?’
‘Nothing, Father.’
Jack flicked a crumb off his vest and returned to the paper. ‘“The time of several servant men and women,”’ he quoted. ‘That means indentured servants, Melody, like French.’
Melody grunted.
‘I’m going to market today, Mr Donovan,’ I informed the master of the house. ‘Is there anything in particular you require?’
‘Oh, can I come, too?’ Melody interrupted before her father had a chance to answer my question.
Her father shot her a withering glance. ‘You’ll be in school today, young lady.’
‘But you let me skip school to go to the dressmaker,’ Melody whined.
‘That was different. School today and every weekday, and there’ll be no arguments.’
‘Sir, do you think Gabe’s too young to start Cicero?’ Michael Rainey inquired. ‘As a republican, albeit in Roman times, he undoubtedly inspired ou
r founding fathers. John Adams is quoted as saying of him, “As all the ages of the world have not produced a greater statesman and philosopher united than Cicero, his authority should have great weight.” I couldn’t agree more.’
Melody rested her head against the back of the chair, crossed her eyes and made a face at the ceiling.
I reached out and grabbed her hand, jerking the little madam back into proper sitting position. ‘That’s enough! Well-bred young ladies don’t behave like that at table.’
Had it been my imagination, or did Jack Donovan’s plump lips twitch with approval?
Michael Rainey grinned. ‘Perhaps Miss Melody would prefer to study a book I found in the library this morning: The Ladies Compleat Letter Writer?’
Wisely, Melody picked up her spoon and resumed eating her porridge.
Gabriel, on the other hand, seemed eager to start his lessons. ‘Mr Rainey is teaching me math tricks, Father. Do you want to hear a good one about nines?’
Donovan laid the paper down, picked up his coffee cup and took a sip. ‘Yes. Do tell me all about the nines, Gabriel.’
‘What’s two times nine?’ Gabe asked his father.
Donovan furrowed his brow, feigning deep thought. ‘Eighteen?’
‘Right! And one and eight added together make nine.’ Gabe bounced excitedly on the edge of his seat. ‘Three times nine is twenty-seven, right? That’s a two and a seven, and two plus seven makes nine! Four times nine is …’
But as usual when math came into the equation, Hannah Ives, mistress of Patriot House, tuned out.
EIGHT
‘Hannah showed up in the kitchen with her cookbook this morning to go over the menu for dinner tomorrow. I can read the damn cookbook myself, of course, but that’s not the way it works. So I listen to her read and I measure out the ingredients and I keep my mouth shut. I’m making an independence cake. I hope George Washington appreciates the effort.’
The Last Refuge Page 8
