by Diana Davis
He desperately needed to work on the Wiscombe case — they had a hearing tomorrow — but he also had thirty pounds. He’d never even seen that much money in one place. That was more than three months’ pay for his family, including Rose’s weekly half guinea.
Logically, he ought to deliver the money to Mother and go back to work, he knew. But how was he supposed to think of work when Temperance Hayes had just showered him with affection?
Instead, he bought everything he could think of that they needed and hadn’t been able to buy: new shoes that wouldn’t pinch for Bess, stockings and pins for all the girls, a decent cloak for Meg, an entire winter’s worth of firewood at the best price he’d ever seen, and on and on. When he bought an orange for the girls to share — possibly their first — Owen finally realized he was being far too extravagant.
He hurried home, parcels stacked practically to his chin. There had never been such a day in the Randolph household, not even Christmas when his father was still alive. Caps and mitts for everyone, apples, flour, even sugar, and beautiful red yarn for his mother, who cried simply because it was her favorite color. Plus twelve pounds leftover.
“But Owen,” Mother said once everything had been distributed. “You got nothing for yourself?”
Had he not? He surveyed the room and his sisters delighting in the other frivolity he’d bought them: pink satin ribbons. “I suppose I didn’t.”
Mother could barely reach to touch his cheek. “My dear boy. You work yourself far too hard for us.” She counted back four pounds into his hand. “Go and buy fabric for a new suit for yourself.”
He kissed her hair. “Thank you.”
Much as he needed a new suit, Owen wasn’t quite as excited to buy something for himself. He quickly selected something hard-wearing and blue, which he figured would be serviceable. He had more than a pound leftover to return to Mother, but as he turned to go, he stopped short. On the counter behind the merchant was a scattering of gold rings. They’d likely taken them in payment.
This was truly, deeply mad, he knew, but how was he supposed to be anything else with an unprecedented windfall in his pocket and Temperance’s kisses on his cheeks?
“How much for one of those rings?” he asked.
“One pound.”
Owen counted the coins in his palm.
Truly, deeply mad.
More than a week passed, and Temperance had not heard one word from Godfrey. If the man was trying to court her by driving her mad, he might be even better at strategy than she was.
Temperance glanced around the drawing room at her family gathered before the marble fireplace: Mama and Papa on the couch beside her chair absorbed in their books, Patience and Constance scribbling away, Verity and Mercy mending socks.
This was exactly what she was hoping for: peaceful, warm, leisurely evenings before the fire. A family gathered around after supper to simply enjoy one another’s company.
She pulled the yarn from the extra rounds of her second mitt’s ridiculously long thumb. She simply kept getting distracted, her mind wandering down silly paths.
She meant to plan how she could see Godfrey again. She couldn’t contrive to run into him at the theatre; she had no way of knowing when he might go. If he even went. It was too cold for most activities out of doors. Godfrey had given no clues as to what he enjoyed — she’d even resorted to charming his father to try to learn more about his likes and dislikes, to no avail. Apparently the man was either the dullest person on earth or a complete enigma.
He’d seemed to enjoy the board game, although Temperance had beaten him, as promised. She wanted to make sure their next meeting was on a more neutral ground.
Oh, Euphemia, of course. Euphemia always loved to host gaming parties. Surely a merchant like her father would have at least a passing acquaintance with the Sibbalds. She’d have to call on Euphemia in the morning and suggest the idea.
A knock sounded at the door, and Polly answered. Where was that Ginny? Off with her new beau? Temperance tried to be patient and focus on her yarn. She knew it couldn’t be Godfrey, but she was still allowed to hope, wasn’t she?
“Good evening,” a familiar voice greeted them.
“Owen!” Temperance exclaimed. “How do you do?”
He smiled at her, that winning, radiant smile, but spoke to Papa. “Hayes, could I consult with you? On a legal matter?”
“Of course, my boy.” Papa gestured at the seat next to him on the couch. Next to Temperance.
Owen didn’t take his gaze off Temperance until after he was seated. Temperance let him pull out the papers he’d brought and talk over the contract provisions while she carefully picked up the live stitches on her knitting pins. She kept stealing glances at Owen, so half of her stitches ended up backwards, but she’d right them on the next round.
Temperance slid her hand into the mitt to measure it: she’d unraveled too much too far. No matter. She three rounds while Papa and Owen talked.
Was that a new coat he was wearing? She couldn’t remember seeing him wear navy blue before. Even in the firelight, it made his eyes even bluer.
Owen flipped through the pages of the contract, pointing out various clauses to Papa. Temperance wasn’t listening very closely, but it did seem Papa mostly just confirmed what Owen had already thought as he’d written up the contract.
Patience had said he was a good lawyer. Temperance grinned like a fool at her knitting. She was so proud of him.
Owen tucked the papers in his satchel. He couldn’t be leaving already, could he? She let go of her yarn to touch his arm, and he turned to her.
“Is this a new coat?”
“Oh, yes, do you like it?”
“It’s very nice.” She rubbed the fabric, a step up from the rougher homespun of his previous coat.
He covered her hand on his arm with his own, just letting it rest there. He always did that.
She was starting to like it.
Owen turned back to Papa, leaving his hand on hers. She’d meant to keep knitting, but she supposed that could wait.
Across the room, Patience caught Temperance’s gaze. Patience had stopped working on her papers with Constance and was looking between Temperance and Owen. Frowning.
Oh, Patey was always frowning. Did she not like to see Owen successful? Patience could be sour at times, but could she really begrudge an old friend his happiness?
Temperance refocused on Owen, still busy working. She squeezed his arm and withdrew to get back to her knitting. She finished two more rounds and had started the cast off when she caught a few words of Owen’s conversation. “Still haven’t been able to depose the witness against Cooper.”
Antony Cooper? Was he still working on that case? It had been weeks, and now he was getting important paying clients like Sibbald. He didn’t have time for the number of charity cases he’d told her about.
Patience would know what to do when it came to the law. Temperance looked to her little sister, but Patience was staring at Mama as if she could communicate with some sort of dark magic. Mama pulled herself to her feet. She leaned over to kiss Papa on the forehead. “I must be off to bed.”
“I’ll follow you shortly,” Papa promised.
That didn’t seem to be what Patience intended to silently tell Mama, because she shot out of her seat after their mother. Constance continued scribbling, but Verity and Mercy snuck off to the dining room, probably to try to find the last of the afternoon’s tart.
Temperance focused on her knitting, casting off the final stitches, breaking the yarn, using the needle tips to weave the end in. There, a pair of mitts.
Papa stood, and Owen did also to bow to him. Did he have to go? It really wasn’t that late. Papa bid them all good night.
“Owen,” she said before he could walk away. He looked back to her, and she gestured to his seat. He instantly took it again, resting his arms on arm of the couch between them.
“Did I hear you say y
ou were still working on Antony Cooper’s case?”
“Um, yes? I can’t just drop a client like that.”
“Can’t you?”
Owen searched her eyes, concern growing in his. “He’s depending on me. He trusted me.”
“Can you trust him? To pay you as he’s promised?”
He averted his gaze.
“Dear, I know you can’t go back on your word, but how are you to have time to help your clients like Sibbald and Mordecai if you take on every charity case?”
He began to respond, but found no words. He still focused on her hand on his arm. “Would that make you happy?”
“I — it isn’t about me.”
He looked up and nodded as if he understood.
He always understood. That was merely one more thing she’d always loved about him.
Temperance scooped up the mate to the mitt she’d just finished and offered them to Owen. “Do you think Meg would like these? They came out a bit small for me,” she lied.
“Oh, she’ll appreciate your thinking of her.” He took them and inspected them approvingly.
See? It wasn’t that hard to be charitable without risking one’s livelihood.
Across the room Constance yawned loudly. “We should be off to bed too,” she said pointedly.
Did she not like Owen either? Perhaps that was what she and Patience had been scribbling about, not revising another epic poem.
“I suppose I should let you go,” Temperance acknowledged.
“I’ve rather a lot of midnight oil to burn,” Owen admitted.
Both of their tones were full of reluctance. They all stood, and she and Constance walked Owen to the door. Polly provided his great coat. Ginny must have been off with her new beau again.
Temperance and Constance climbed the stairs, Temperance casting one last glance over her shoulder at Owen. He smiled up at her until she was out of sight.
Constance sighed. “What must it be like to fall in love with someone as handsome as Mr. Randolph?”
“Oh, call him Owen. Mr. Randolph is so formal; we’re old friends.”
“Friends?” Constance turned to her, but in the dark of the stairs, Temperance couldn’t read her sister’s features. “Friends,” she repeated, as if the word were worrisome.
Why would it be worrisome?
Perhaps she had been too hard on Owen. He had such a good heart to want to help people. Perhaps there was a better way, one where he could take on whatever cases he liked and not have to worry about money so much.
On the very next stair, the idea struck her: the solution to both their problems was one and the same — Euphemia Goodwin. Euphemia could invite Godfrey and Owen to a party, and with a little encouragement from Temperance, surely Euphemia would fall for such a handsome swain. With a rich wife, Owen could take on all the charity cases he desired.
Temperance nearly clapped, the plan was so perfect. Well, one thing bothered her about it — she certainly didn’t like to think of Owen with Euphemia — but the whole solution was far too neat to give that thought any heed.
She would call on Euphemia in the morning. How quickly could her friend put together a party?
Late in the morning the day after he’d visited Temperance — or, rather, Hayes — Owen hurried to straighten his case files on the office table. The Cooper case was creating far more paper than he’d expected, and Mordecai’s contract was going to be even longer once he had a clerk add the clause Hayes had endorsed last night.
The law was awfully complex sometimes.
He was supposed to be on a hunt this morning, but with the third client Beaufort had directed his way, Owen had lost the last scraps of time he might spend socializing. He stuffed the papers into his satchel. He’d compromised with Beaufort on his way out: he’d meet them at the coffeehouse afterwards, as long as Beaufort didn’t push another client on him.
“Early dinner?” Hayes’s voice came from behind him. He found Hayes standing in the door to his study.
“Oh, no, I’m meeting Beaufort.”
Something flitted across Hayes’s age-worn features, something that almost seemed like pain. “Is he bringing a suit?”
“No — I’m sure he would have come to you if that were the case. He wanted me to meet with his hunting club.” Owen explained how he’d been taken in by Beaufort and the club and reminded Hayes the clients it had brought Owen.
Hayes signaled his approval. “Keep up the good work, my boy. You’ll be out on your own soon enough.”
He knew the words were meant as encouragement, but they chilled Owen more than the November air. Beaufort had always made a point to introduce him as the top apprentice of Josiah Hayes. If that were no longer the case, Owen would lose the entrée into his society and the steady income that kept their family out of the almshouse. He would have to find his own clients, and at the rate he was going, he had no hope of balancing that with actually working on their cases and contracts.
And he would have to do what Temperance had asked him to: stop taking the charity cases.
She was probably right. Temperance had always been sharp like that. He’d hate to go up against a lawyer with half her nous. Or her temper. But he’d always admired the way she pursued what she wanted.
Owen reached the coffeehouse and found the hunting club had already filled its tables — or, rather, formed a double ring around one large table. Judging by the somber mood of the room, the hunt had not been victorious.
Beaufort had saved the seat beside him at the table, and Owen slid in through the crowd. Beaufort grasped his shoulder but didn’t look away from the man speaking. Owen had met the Danish businessman once briefly, Abraham Markoe.
“Whether we want it or not, it has been inevitable since the moment those troops landed in Boston.”
Owen’s neck went cold. What had he just walked into?
“We’ve had problems in the past. We’ve always settled them peaceably,” pointed out a man named Benjamin. “You’ve only been here four years. What do you know of it?”
Another man shook his head. “All the way back to the Stamp Act, it’s only been building to this. Parliament has proven time and again they’re not backing down.”
Markoe pointed at Beaufort. “You were in the Congress. What do you say?”
Beaufort managed the shadow of a wry smile. “I’ve only been here four years myself; what would I know of it?”
Benjamin averted his gaze, chagrinned.
Beaufort straightened, drawing himself to his full height. “We made a declaration of rights to Parliament: life, liberty, property. To not have standing armies on our land. The benefits of the English constitution. Representation.”
“Surely Parliament will listen,” Owen said.
“You know I’ve no faith in them.”
Markoe slapped the table in agreement.
Beaufort turned to the group again. “We’ve also written to the king. He may be our last hope.”
“And if that fails?” Markoe pressed. He scrutinized each man around the table. “In the four years I’ve been here, I’ve watched the situation get worse and worse. Now there are troops on our shores.”
“You’re a Dane, Markoe,” George Fullerton pointed out. “It’s not your fight.”
“I believe in liberty. We have here the means to create a fine force.”
One man Owen hadn’t met pushed back from the table. “We can’t bring a war down on our shoulders.”
“The war has been inevitable since those soldiers landed in Boston,” Markoe argued. “We’re already invaded.”
“That’s Boston’s fight,” Fullerton said.
“And if we don’t stand with Boston and New York and Charleston?” Beaufort leaned on one arm, his posture almost collusive. “Who’ll be left to help us in our fight?”
Markoe echoed Beaufort’s posture. “We are riders, are we not?”
“A cavalry, you mean?” Fullerton asked.
A murmur passed around the table, and Owen nearly joined in himself. Forming a cavalry? Surely such a notion was premature. Surely they could still work things out. Beaufort was right: they’d appealed to the king. If nothing else, the king would listen. Surely he’d make things right with all the nonsense Parliament had been trying on the colonies. He cared about them.
Another man walked away. “This is treason,” he hissed.
“No.” Markoe placed a fist on the table, silent but firm. “We’ll not start a war. But we’ll be ready to fight when they do.”
“Let me put the word out,” Beaufort asked. “We shall reconvene tonight at Carpenter’s Hall with anyone who’ll join us.”
If he had spoken in Congress with such fervor, Owen was certain they would have already established a new Parliament for the colonies. Owen scanned the circle. The few who weren’t in agreement were already pushing away from the group.
Was he really witnessing this? Was this treason?
No. Beaufort wouldn’t risk treason. Markoe was right. It was merely a precaution. One that would be moot very soon. The king would answer their petition. He had to.
Owen remained still as the meeting broke up, handshakes all around. Surely Beaufort had wanted him to jump in after him.
He was barely keeping his head above water as it was, and he didn’t know how to swim. He didn’t even own a horse.
Even Fullerton had stayed to discuss further, but he’d been right, at least as far as Owen went. This was not Owen’s fight.
Beaufort started back to the office with him, but Owen did not wish to speak of what had happened, how he failed Beaufort. Owen launched his own conversation. “When I told Hayes I was meeting you, he asked if you were bringing a suit.”
“Did he?” Beaufort did not sound surprised.
“Not planning on one, are you?”
“No.” He laughed. “Josiah and I . . . Well, you saw what happened.”
Yes, he had, when Hayes had shouted about his brother, lost in another war.
