And let me next—assuming that your Forgiveness be granted—beg that you will come to me. I am astonished by the Strength of Feeling caused me by the Sight of your Face, captured in Paint and Canvas, and even more by the Need that has grown in me to see your Face truly before me. I can but hope that you would also like to see mine.
If you will so far forgive me as to come, I have sent Instructions to Lord John Grey, who will arrange your Passage to London and provide Funds for your Travel.
I am, sir, your most Humble and Obedient Servant—
and your Father,
Malcolm Armistead Stubbs, Esq.
PostScriptum: Your name is Michel. Your mother had a Medallion, given her by her French Grandmother, with the image upon it of Michael, Archangel, and she wished you to have his Protection.
May 10, 1780
Savannah
IT WAS A STORMY day, and cold on the quay, with a strong wind whipping up whitecaps on the river and bent on whipping off their hats, as well. The tender had almost finished loading—its last load, bound for the cargo holds of the army transport Hermione, waiting at anchor.
“Have you ever been on a ship?” William asked suddenly.
“No. Just canoes.” Cinnamon was twitching like a nervous horse, ready to bolt. “What’s it like?”
“Exciting, sometimes,” William said, in what he hoped was a tone of reassurance. “Mostly boring, though. Here, I brought you a going-away present.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and drew out a small jar of murky liquid and a smaller vial with a dropper.
“Just in case,” he told Cinnamon, handing these over. “Dilled cucumber pickles and ether. In case of seasickness.”
Cinnamon eyed the gifts dubiously, but nodded.
“You suck a pickle if you feel queasy,” William explained. “If that doesn’t work, take six drops of the ether. You can put it in beer if you like,” he added helpfully.
“Thank you.” The wind had restored Cinnamon’s usual ruddy glow. “Thank you,” he said again, and seized William’s hand in a grasp of crushing earnestness. “And tell your sister—how much … how much …” The tide of rising emotion choked him, and he shook his head and wrung William’s hand harder.
“You told her,” William said, easing the hand free and repressing an urge to count his fingers. “She was happy to do it. She’s happy for you. So am I,” he added, patting Cinnamon affectionately on the forearm, as much to avoid being seized again as from the very real affection he felt. “I’ll miss you, you know,” he added diffidently.
He would, and the realization struck him like a blow behind the ear. He felt suddenly hollow, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Moi, aussi,” Cinnamon said, and looked down at his new boots, clearing his throat.
“All aboard!” The naval lieutenant captaining the tender was glaring down at them. “Now, gentlemen!”
William picked up the new portmanteau—a gift from Lord John—and thrust it into Cinnamon’s hand.
“Go,” he said, smiling as hard as he could. “Write to me from London!”
Cinnamon nodded, speechless, then, at another irate shout from the tender, turned and lumbered blindly aboard. The tender’s sails dropped and filled at once, and within a minute, they were in the middle of the river, flying toward the unknown future. William watched the little ship out of sight, then turned back toward Bay Street with a sigh, his sense of loss tinged by envy.
“Au revoir, Michel,” he said, under his breath. “Now who am I going to talk to?”
125
A Woman of the Second Type
Savannah
ONCE CINNAMON HAD GONE, William moved from the small house they had shared back into Lord John’s house, at his father’s invitation. Amaranthus, Lord John said firmly, needed company.
“She doesn’t accept invitations,” he’d told William, “and only goes out now and then to the shops—”
“She must be in low spirits,” William said. He’d meant it jokingly, but the way in which his father glared at him made him feel ashamed. “Surely you’ve told her that no one knows?”
“Of course I have,” Lord John said impatiently. “So has Hal, with a surprising amount of delicacy. She just hangs her head and says she can’t bear to be seen. ‘On display’ was the rather odd way she put it.”
“Oh,” said William, somewhat enlightened. “Well, that does make more sense.”
“It does?”
“Well,” William said, a little awkwardly, “as a young widow, and the mother of the heir to Uncle Hal’s title … she’d attract—I mean, she did attract a good deal of … interest? At parties and dinners and that sort of thing, I mean.”
“And enjoyed such interest very much, so far as I could see,” his father observed cynically, giving him a sidelong look.
“Quite.” William turned aside, picking up and pretending to examine a Meissen plate from the sideboard. “But now she’s been … er … exposed, so to speak … even if only among us …” He coughed. “I think perhaps she feels she can’t act the part of a beautiful young widow, and, um …”
“She’d feel somewhat conscious, flirting with fatheaded young men, knowing that even if neither Hal nor I was present, we’d likely hear about it. Hmm.” Lord John appeared to find this dubious, but plausible. Then he made the next—inevitable, William supposed—deduction.
“After all, what would she do if one of the bright young sparks she touched caught fire and asked for her hand?” Lord John frowned, the next thing having occurred to him. He looked hastily over his shoulder, then moved closer to William and lowered his voice.
“What would she have done if that happened and we didn’t know the truth?”
William shrugged and spread his hands in an affectation of complete ignorance.
“God knows,” he said, with complete truth. “But it didn’t.”
Lord John looked as though he wanted to say something else, but instead merely shook his head and moved the plate two inches, back into its exact position.
“Perhaps she could go to luncheons, or tea parties, or—or quilting routs?” William hazarded. “Things with just women, I mean.”
His father laughed shortly. “There are two kinds of women in the world,” he said. “Those who enjoy the company of women and those who prefer the company of men. For one reason or another,” he added fairly, “it’s not always to do with lust or marriage.”
“And you imply that Amaranthus is not one of the first type.”
“William, it’s sufficiently obvious that even you will have noticed it, and I assure you the other women have. Women of the first type dislike women of the second type, particularly if the woman of the second type is young, beautiful, and possessed of either charm or money.” He ran a hand through his hair, still thick and blond, though showing traces of white near his face. “I suppose I could beg Mrs. Holmes or Lady Prévost to ask Amaranthus to a hen party of some sort, but I very much doubt that she’d go.”