Jack Donovan had sent Dex out to the street to keep watch while the rest of us bustled around the house taking care of last-minute chores. I was in the dining room fiddling with an arrangement of chrysanthemums and heliopsis in a cut crystal vase when young Dex came tearing through the front door shouting, ‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’
Within minutes, our entire household converged on the landing where Jack arranged us in two lines, one on each side of the steps, fussing over the alignment as if we were cars on his showroom floor. After switching Amy and French – the pecking order had to be maintained – Jack vacillated between positioning himself at the foot of the steps or at the massive front door, finally deciding that he’d stand near the gate so that he could be the first to shake George Washington’s hand.
Spectators lined Prince George Street, too, their cameras on lock-and-load. Someone had provided them with miniature flags – the fifty-star variety – but probably nobody noticed, they were flapping so briskly.
We heard the fife and drum before we saw it – playing ‘Yankee Doodle’ and ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home,’ which I thought was a Civil War song, but never mind. As I strained on tiptoe to see, two drummers and a fifer appeared. Dressed in red uniforms, they led the little parade straight down the street in our direction. Directly behind the musicians, mounted on a white horse, rode George Washington, accompanied by two uniformed aides, also on horseback. Sitting straight-backed and tall in the saddle, Washington looked splendid in a dark blue uniform decorated with gold braid and epaulets, as if he’d stepped right out of a portrait by Charles Wilson Peale. As he drew closer, Washington lifted his cocked hat, and the crowd went wild.
‘Who is that?’ Amy whispered. ‘He looks familiar.’
‘He really looks like George Washington, doesn’t he?’ I squinted, trying to focus on the actor’s face. Jutting brow, square chin, a prominent nose, the actor’s imperial features fairly screamed authority. No wonder Washington had been unanimously chosen to lead our fledgling nation. ‘Wait a minute! I think that’s David Morse!’
‘Who’s David Morse?’
‘The actor who played Washington in the John Adams series on HBO.’
Amy pressed a hand to her breast. ‘No way!’
Washington’s entourage halted at our gate and the actor dismounted, handing his reins to Jeffrey Wiley, Jack’s valet, who had been standing on the curb.
‘Welcome to Patriot House!’ Jack’s voice rang out.
Again, the crowd cheered.
‘Take care of the horses, Jeffrey, and ask Cook to rustle up something to feed Colonel Washington’s men.’
Standing on the steps directly across from me, ‘Cook’ gave Jack the evil eye, but she waited until Colonel Washington had passed into the entrance hall, curtseying along with the rest of us, before motioning for French to follow her down the steps and around to the outside door that led to the kitchen.
‘Think Karen’ll poison Jack’s hot milk tonight?’ Amy wondered.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ I said as I led the rest of the household into the entrance hall.
Gabe, being the youngest, was the last to be introduced. He’d been waiting patiently by the punch bowl, hands locked behind his back, but when the moment came, he bowed slightly at the waist and said, as if he’d been practicing, ‘Welcome to Patriot House, your majesty.’
Washington snorted. ‘I’m but a humble colonel from Virginia, my lad.’
Gabe blushed, flustered. ‘Can I touch your sword, sir?’ he stammered.
With an indulgent smile, Washington unbuckled his belt and handed it and the sword over to Gabe, who sagged under the weight. ‘It’s heavy, isn’t it, son?’
Gabe nodded.
Jack Donovan snapped his fingers and Jeffrey appeared out of nowhere to relieve Washington of his hat and Gabe of the sword. I took the moment to lean closer, look up into the actor’s face and whisper, ‘You’re David Morse, right?’
George Washington winked a bright blue eye and said, ‘It’s been a long, hard ride, madam, and an even rougher crossing on the ferry. If that bowl contains punch, I could certainly use a cup.’
By the time dinner was served at three, we were all a bit tiddly. Jack lurched toward the head of the table while I sat down (carefully!) at the opposite end, one hand steadying my wig to keep it from slipping over my eyebrows. After I’d been seated, Colonel Washington took the chair to my right. His entourage, I learned after the food had been fulsomely blessed, had assembled on the campus of St John’s College, where they’d been filmed in front of McDowell Hall, another Georgian treasure that had been built in 1742 by Thomas Bladen, the Maryland colonial governor.
Over soup, the discussion moved on, focusing on the business of the Continental Congress at Carpenter’s Hall in Philadelphia. While French bustled about the table removing the soup plates, the room fell quiet for a moment.
Melody, evidently forgetting that in this century, children remained silent unless spoken to, took advantage of the pause in conversation to comment, ‘Mr Rainey taught us about the First Continental Congress in school.’
‘It may be the first Continental Congress,’ George Washington pointed out with a grin, ‘but we don’t call it “first” because the second one hasn’t happened yet.’
Below her powdered ringlets, Melody wrinkled her snow-white brow, as if trying to work that one out. Like me, she wore a thin veneer of zinc oxide on her face. We’d brightly rouged our cheeks and lips, but Melody looked surprisingly un-clown-like, while I could be applying for admission to Ringling Brothers Clown College. Up in my room that morning, giggling, Melody’d plastered a tiny half-moon to her cheek where a dimple ought to be. She’d argued for a half-moon patch over her left breast, too, but I’d put my silk slipper-clad foot firmly down. Breast patches are for harlots. Now you know.
‘Twelve colonies have sent delegates,’ Washington was saying when I tuned back in. ‘I, as you know, represent Virginia.’
‘Only twelve?’ Alex Mueller asked, being the dancer, not the historian among us. He’d clearly skimmed over the history tab in his orientation packet and hadn’t exactly been poring over books in the library.
‘Georgia is a state full of convicts,’ Washington replied, as if that explained everything.
Melody piped up again. ‘Like Australia?’
‘Exactly like Australia.’
‘What are you meeting about, then?’ Melody asked.
‘We’re there to discuss the taxes that have been levied against us of late by the British Parliament. You’ve heard of the Boston Tea Party?’
Melody and Gabe bobbed their heads.
‘That was our first act of protest. Now we’re considering a boycott of all trade with Britain if King George III doesn’t heed our petition and redress our specific grievances.’
‘We have a similar situation here in Annapolis,’ Jack chimed in. ‘Two days ago, the brig Peggy Stewart arrived in Annapolis carrying at least a ton of tea, as well as fifty-three indentured servants. Stewart has paid the tax so that the human cargo can be offloaded, but in spite of the tax being paid, customs is justly refusing to let the tea come ashore. There’s to be another meeting of the committee in two days time, but until then, we have a stalemate.’
As Jack nattered on as if sucked through a time warp into 1774, I fought the almost overwhelming urge to stick the oyster fork underneath my wig and give my itchy scalp a good scratch. Fortunately, Jeffrey arrived – dressed in white gloves and full livery – bearing a platter upon which our roast pig lay in all its splendor.
Jack staggered to his feet, swayed unsteadily, and led a round of applause. Accompanied by a chorus of ohs and ahs, Jeffrey set the platter down in front of his master who admired the beast for what seemed like a full minute – holding a carving knife in one hand and a fork in the other – before bringing the knife down and whacking off its left front leg.
I averted my eyes from the massacre going on at the head of the table and
motioned to Jeffrey. I needed a drink. Jeffrey made another round with the wine, and when my glass was full, I took a sip. Then another.
Jack began slicing meat off the thigh. ‘Mrs Ives?’
‘Yes, Mr Donovan?’
‘I’ve decided that I need to put my money where my mouth is. Kindly inform Cook that from this day forward until the British government comes to its senses, no tea will be served in this house.’
I was primarily a coffee person, but a mid-afternoon cup of tea was one of my favorite pick-me-ups. ‘I’ll see to it first thing in the morning, Mr Donovan,’ I lied. Then I turned to our guest, lowering my voice to a whisper. ‘Ever since Tales of the City, I’ve just adored Laura Linney. So, tell me. Is she just as nice in person?’
After the butter cake and the fresh berries, George Washington leaned back in his chair, folded his napkin, sighed with contentment and insisted on giving his compliments personally to the cook. Karen was sent for and when she arrived, she stood in the doorway with her head modestly bowed while Washington offered a toast in her honor.
The ladies adjourned to the parlor for coffee, so the men could get on with their port and tobacco of choice. Around six, Jack appeared at the parlor door, red-cheeked as St Nick and just as jovial. ‘Let the dancing begin!’ he announced as he tottered in my direction. With each shaky step, my dread increased. I squeezed my eyes shut – Go away, go away, go away – to no avail. An eternity later, he paused in front of my chair, bowed, extended his hand and said, ‘Mrs Ives, will you do me the honor?’
Amy scooted out of the parlor behind him and before long, I could hear her pounding out an ‘A’ on the harpsichord so Alex could tune his violin. I was trapped, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of Washington/Morse, so I dredged up a smile, pasted it on my face, and allowed Jack to lead me into the central hallway. Behind me, Melody squealed, and a few minutes later she, too, was escorted into the hallway by the Father of our Country himself.
Paca House didn’t have a proper ballroom, so the servants had cleared the hallway of furniture for the occasion. At the far end, near the porch on the garden side, Amy sat at the harpsichord. Holding his violin, Alex stood in front, his backside nestled into the natural curve of the harpsichord case. Alex tapped his bow on Amy’s music stand, setting the tempo, as Jack led me onto the dance floor. George Washington followed, partnering Melody who must have been blushing furiously under the layer of zinc oxide. From opposite corners we bowed to our partners, and the minuet began.
I curtseyed, Jack bowed, his forehead glistened with sweat. We traced an invisible Z on the dance floor, passing each other diagonally without touching. I sniffed. Jack smelled like a combination of old sweat and Earl Grey tea. We joined hands to the right. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘what is that cologne you are wearing?’
We joined hands to the left, turned. ‘It’s called Number Six,’ Jack said. ‘First introduced in 1752 by an apothecary in Newport, Rhode Island named William Hunter.’
On the next pass, both our hands came together in a chaste little turn, before we ended up in the corners where the dance had begun. As Jack escorted me to the sidelines, he added, ‘Number Six is George Washington’s favorite. He even sent some to the Marquis de Lafayette as a gift.’
I curtseyed. ‘Your attention to detail, sir, is extraordinary.’
‘It’s astonishing, isn’t it?’ Jack said with a slight bow. ‘Not only can we live, eat and play like colonials did back in 1774, we can smell like them, too.’
‘Astonishing,’ I deadpanned.
‘Caswell-Massey still makes Number Six,’ Jack informed me, chest puffed out importantly like a banty rooster. ‘Perfumes are like fine wine, Mrs Ives. This one, now, has a delightful undertone of anise, with bergamot and lemon in the top notes. In the middle, there’s a faint lavender tone.’
I flipped open the fan attached to my wrist by a silken cord and began flapping it furiously in front of my face. Locker room in the top notes, I was thinking, with a faint undertone of old tennis shoe.
French, released for the evening from her kitchen duties by papal dispensation, bounced into the hall just then, clean-scrubbed and beautiful, dressed in one of my gowns. She grabbed Michael’s hand, and they joined us for the reels and country dances. Everyone danced with everyone else, and at one point, we all hummed the tune aloud so Amy and Alex could join in.
‘I don’t know how they did it,’ I puffed to Colonel Washington as the reel finally ended. ‘Dancing is a lot like work!’ I pointed in the direction of the punch bowl with the tip of my fan. ‘I fancy another glass of punch, sir. How about you?’ When Washington nodded, I served us each another ladle. ‘We can drink the water these days, sir, I know it’s safe, but back then?’ I took a sip from my glass. ‘Our founding fathers must have been staggering around from sunup to sundown. How they got any work done, let alone came up with the Constitution of the United States of America is a complete mystery to me.’
Washington raised his glass. ‘We are made of stout stuff, madam.’
I smiled up at the future Father of our Country. ‘Indeed.’
Jack sidled up to Washington just then, picking up where he had left off at dinner about the Peggy Stewart situation. I seized the opportunity to excuse myself to tell French to help Karen spread out the buffet supper in the dining room, then suggested that everyone join me in the parlor for a game of cards so that Amy and Alex could give their musical fingers a well-deserved rest.
After we’d eaten supper, dancing began again until everyone was drooping with exhaustion. Even Derek and Chad seemed to have fallen asleep on their feet, propped up in their respective corners, the red eyes on their cameras relentlessly winking.
Around ten o’clock, we adjourned to the parlor for a second round of cards. Eventually, French dropped out to help Karen put away the food. That’s when I noticed that Gabe had curled up on a loveseat in the parlor and fallen fast asleep.
‘Amy?’ I gestured at Gabe with the cards in my hand.
With a sideways glance of apology to Alex, Amy laid down her cards and in a rustle of silk, rose from the table. ‘It’s time the children were in bed. I’ll take them. Michael,’ she added, ‘will you play out my hand?’
Michael assumed Amy’s chair and I invited Alex to take mine, leaving the four men to play on while I observed from the loveseat that Gabe – grinding his fist into his eyes – had just vacated. In the meantime, Jeffrey Wiley, our reliable valet cum butler, kept everyone’s wine glasses full.
At the end of the next round, George Washington stifled a yawn with his hand, then excused himself, with apologies, from the game. He bowed to Jack. ‘I thank you, sir, for your generous hospitality.’
I jumped to my feet when George Washington did, and he made a beeline for me then, took my hand, kissed it and said, ‘Thank you, madam, for a most delightful evening.’
I curtseyed and thanked him right back. It’s not every evening that you get the inside scoop on what it’s like to portray Detective Michael Tritter on television, making life a misery for Doctor Gregory House.
‘I’m for bed, too,’ Jack announced, and headed upstairs to Melody’s room, while Michael set off for the west wing with Alex, who would be sharing a trundle in his room.
A colonial housewife never trusted the fine crystal to the care of her servants, so I collected the dirty glasses that were scattered about the house and carried them downstairs to the sink where French and I would wash them in the morning. Then, I headed for bed myself. The long case clock in the upstairs hall was striking eleven thirty as I crept past, the candle in my hand casting flickering shadows against the wall. Not wanting to disturb Melody, I pushed the door to my bedroom open slowly, then slipped inside.
A candle still burned on the bedside table, but the bed was already occupied. Amy had removed her shoes and stockings and was fast asleep, propped against my pillows with Gabe’s head cradled in the crook of her arm. She’d been reading them a bedtime story – the book lay open, f
ace down, on her chest. On the trundle next to the wall, Melody was snoring gently.
I tiptoed to the dressing table, removed my wig with a quiet sigh of relief and arranged the instrument of torture on its stand. Using my fingers, I fluffed up my hair, digging vigorously into my scalp. I doubted that I’d picked up any fleas, but it sure as hell felt like it.
I turned to consider my options. My bed scarcely had room for two, let alone three, so I smiled a motherly smile, blew out the bedside candle – waste not, want not, as Jack Donovan, the Patriot, had been known to say – picked up my own candle, still flickering on the dressing table, and quietly left the room.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the LynxE camera mounted on the back wall. Time to make an executive decision, Hannah. Shielding my candle with one hand, I tiptoed across the floorboards and descended the Chippendale staircase.
TWELVE
‘I cornered Amy on the back staircase the other day and gave her a kiss. Unfortunately, I think Hannah caught us at it. I hooked up with Amy later in the garden and we took up where we left off. As long as Amy’s here, I think I’ll be able to hack it.’
Alex Mueller, dancing master
Less than five minutes later, I stood on the second-floor landing of the west wing listening to Michael (or was it Alex?) snore. It had been a long night for everyone. With every muscle in my body aching, screaming out for rest, I slipped into Amy’s room just across the hall from Michael’s and silently closed the door.
I positioned my candle on the narrow walnut table next to Amy’s bed, sat down and kicked off my shoes. I couldn’t wait to get out of my gown and the underlying stays that had not seemed quite so tight that morning – before losing the battle against Karen’s excellent food and Jack’s fine wine. I unhooked my stomacher, slipped out of my gown and let it fall to the floor. Twisting and squirming like Houdini escaping from a straight jacket, I managed to reach the ties on my stays and release myself from their tyranny, too. Last came the stockings. Almost before they had time to reach the floorboards, I had crawled under Amy’s coverlet.
The Last Refuge Page 11
