Fortunate Son (17 page)

She put two fingers over his mouth, silencing him. “Ya might ask me,” she breathed. James's eyes relaxed as he started to smile. “Ya've never asked me,” she continued. “I want to know ya'll never leave.”

James's hands began to shake, but he grasped hers anyway. “I would never
leave ye. Never in a thousand lifetimes.” Her tears came freely now, her mouth and eyes smiling. He brought himself to his knees, gently pulling her to join him. His mouth went dry. “Laura Johansson…Laura….” he began stiffly. The tree frogs had begun their chirping croaks that sounded like a choir chanting, “Ask-her. Ask-her. Ask-her.” He whispered, “Laura, I love ye.” He moved a few strands of her hair behind her little ears. The tree frogs were getting louder. “Laura, will ye do me the honor of marrying me?”

The gleam in her eyes said everything.

Gunnar and Pehr bolted into the press house, panting and red-faced, screaming about an imaginary nasty beast with long sharp teeth that had just chased them up the dirty Richmond street. “Settle yerselves, lads,” James greeted Laura's younger brothers with a chuckle. “Ye wouldn't want to knock over—” An earsplitting clatter ripped through the small room as a cluster of gutter sticks and drying poles crashed to the rough floor.

“My apologies sir,” said Pehr as he began picking the wood pieces off the floor.

“Ya're a dafty!” exclaimed Gunnar, laughing.

“Am not!”

“Dafty! Dafty!”

“Lads!” James drew in a deep breath, then blew it out noisily. “‘Tis all right Pehr, truly. I've done it myself.” He offered a reassuring smile.

Gunnar was already by the press, inking his fingers. “What's this?”

“‘Tis an English press,” answered James, stepping closer. Something scurried across it. “Ah, ‘tis just a bug!” He grabbed a turn-stick, presenting it as a sword. “On guard!” he barked at the bluish-black bug. “Ye devil! Stand t' meet yer doom!” Both boys were transfixed and chuckling at the same time. James put forth a grand flourish of parries and thrusts, then stomped his foot as he lunged, startling the boys. “Auuhhww!” he bellowed, pretending to have become impaled on the spindle-arm. “The rogue's bettered me, lads! Tell yer sister I won't be . . . making it home . . . for dinner.” He slumped over the press-carriage, keeping one eye open to keep from the ink tray.

“Mama's making lutfisk,” Pehr retorted dryly. “Ya're better off staying dead.”

“Ha!” James sprang back, laughing.

“Good fight, James!” Mr. Morris called out as he entered the room. He had the shambling grace of an aging man.

James gave them all an elegant bow, then flicked the ink-sodden critter from the coffin-tray. “Best there's no paper in there lads or we'd had beetle prints crossing Mr. Morris's type.”

“Read these for me?” Morris's tone being more demand than request, having resumed its flat-rock proportions—cold and grey. He laid a stack of newspapers on the table near the window.

“Aye, sir. London?” James regularly read the English papers, looking for items Morris might wish to copy into his Richmond Gazette.

Morris blinked in confirmation, then shuffled back out the same door. The Johansson boys pulled James's attention. They had taken to fencing with sticks. He watched them as they played, momentarily transfixed. They flung their sticks high, crashing them against the other. James's eyes blurred into a haze of memory. The boys were now drawing, painting with coal-dust paint, the darkest of colors, black images, memories of him and Seán, a flickering shadow, a memory that would not hold, a vision that would never go away. Suddenly, Morris's blubbery face and ill-fit wig appeared in the closed window. He shouted hoarsely through the glass, “Mind you do them before tea!”

James nodded as he turned to the boys. “Lads! Lads!” They settled from their duel, their sticks rattling to a stop. “I have a riddle for ye.” He watched their eyes. “Listen carefully. Lil' Jenny Whiteface has a red nose. The longer she lives, the shorter she grows. Eh? What is she?” He studied their vacant expressions, awaiting one of the little brains to snap alive, to capture the answer from the delicacy of youthful reason.

“Don't know,” said Gunnar. “What is it?”

“Nah, me either,” Pehr piped.

“Ah, fie! Do ye think I'll let it slip so easily? Think on it awhile. Let yer minds stew. Maybe it will come to ye. Like a sudden flame. Like a candle!” He smirked at himself. “Now lads, I've work t'do. Ye'd best run along.”

Pehr bolted for the door, then stopped when he discovered Gunnar was not following. “Can ya teach me to be a sword fighter?” Gunnar asked.

A transitory pall. “Me?” James's eyebrows peaked. “I am not a sword master.” The boy's eyes were pleading, a plea for adventure, a plea belying danger, a boy's plea that so often begets his doom. James broke. “I'll have a go at it for ye. Fencing is a good discipline.” He took a breath. “Yet, another time.” As the boys scampered out, he called to them, “I'll be askin' ye that riddle again this eve, before yar Pa lights the candles. Think hard upon it.”

Moments later, James was rifling newspapers. He selected several and carried them to the small bench outside, along with a quill pen and an inkwell. The first one was the latest issue of
The Daily Post
, dated August 2, 1742, now two months old. The paper fluttered in the air, causing him to shift his back against the light breeze. His gaze scoured down the long thin page. He skimmed the accounts of King George II and his entourage, slowed in the paragraphs mentioning the auspicious activities of certain Dukes and Earls, skipped stock quotes, notices of oratories, lease announcements, and court renderings, then flipped it over to review the listing of recently published books. What he would give to be able to read those books. Finally he set the paper aside, weighting it with the ink well. He had found nothing Morris would care to repeat. He perused the next one. After a half-hour of reading and marking only a few items for Morris to consider, he picked up a three-month-old issue of
The Daily Post
.

“Good day, James.”

James looked up to see a giant reining a two-horse team to a halt. “Good day t'ye, Mr. Johansson. Did ye see yer lads?”

“Aya, they'll be along shortly,” said Bjorn, pipe in hand. “Fine day.”

“Pleasant. Is Laura in town with ye?”

He nodded. “She and her mama. At the mercantile. Join us?”

“Nay, but I thank ye for asking.”

“Ya don't appear to be working.”

“I'm working indeed.”

“Reading papers?” Bjorn's inability to read often seasoned his humor. “I beg ya not to exhaust yerself. My own labor awaits ya.”

“No doubt it does.” James smirked at the man, his future father-in-law. He had met no kinder man. Not since Fynn. But he could only remember the sentiment of Fynn. A wisp of warmth. Safety. Gentility. Anger at men and things that had scared James. Bjorn was something the same. A confused reflection of Fynn, the thick butcher Purcell, and a bit of Mr. Clowes, all alloyed into one massive Swede. But without the aura of violence
obbl
i
gato
. That concomitant corona that enveloped his secret memory of youth. Pain, tears, cold, running, darkness, fear.

Bjorn tapped the reins and the wheels creaked forward. “I'll send Laura.”

“Thank ye sir.” James watched the wagon away, then returned to
The Daily Post
. Finding nothing for Morris on the front, he flipped to the back. Again he skimmed the royal doings of court and slowed on certain peerage. Something snagged him. He read it again. He froze.

Mother was dead. A cold tremor ran across his chest, down his arms and hands. He read it again. Motionless. Minutes passed. Fourteen years passed. Over and again he read it. All clarity of reason flushed from his brain. He fell void. He sat hollow. He thought he might vomit. He stared at the words. Mary. Duke. Died. Arthur. Died. Age. Mary. 1728. Died. His fingers loosed. The breeze cut in and caught the paper, stealing it across the street. He watched it go. He could still read the words. But he could not remember her face.

“James?” Laura was there. “James?” She was standing there. He could see the hem of her skirt, her boots beneath. “James? What is it?” He saw her feet walk by, saw her retrieve the paper. Saw her sit beside him. “Yar scaring me James.” He couldn't speak. For the first time, he wished Laura would go away. “What is it?” She moved in front of him and crouched down, trying to see his face. She tried to lift his chin. “James?”

“I can't. I'm sorry,” he muttered. He had to go. He pulled himself to his feet and walked away. The air crossed his face. He realized he had tears on his cheeks.

“James!” Laura cried, following him. “What happened?”

He walked faster. Angry at himself. Angry at his tears. Angry at Laura for being there. Angry at his mother. Angry at the years of his lies. Angry at the damn tears. He glanced back. Laura was no longer following. She was standing in the street. A horseman passed, blocking his view. Then a carriage. Then he saw her, her blonde hair loosed, her eyes down. What was she doing? God, she was reading the paper. He hurried away.

After twenty minutes of walking, he was across the James River, beyond Richmond, moving south. The whitewashed bell tower of the Mt. Olive Church rose over a hill. He walked up the front steps and opened the creaky door. He knew the place. He had helped build it. He knew it well. He attended its services, smiled at its people, sat in its pews each Sunday. Beside the Johanssons. An occasional wink at Laura when she sang in the choir. It felt right to be there. It was empty. So silent that his footsteps echoed. He approached the pulpit, moved past it, and leaned his back against the wall. His knees buckled, and like an autumn leaf loosed from its stem he slowly fell, sliding down the wall to the cool floor. He stared ahead. He had lied to Laura. He had lied to himself for so many years. After an hour, he had decided nothing. He had come to no conclusions. He was still trying to remember his mother's face but it would not come to him. His tears were dry, gone. But the coldness in his stomach remained. The church door opened. A silhouetted feminine form moved in the light.

“James?”

He looked away.

“Aya. He's here, Papa.”

James heard the horses, the wagon rolling away. She was moving toward him. She gathered her blue skirt, knelt, then turned to sit beside him. “Vill ya not talk to me?”

“In time,” he whispered glancing away. He could hear the tenderness in her voice. Her smell slowed his breath. He moved his hand to her knee and left it there.

“Vere ya reading this?” She gently laid the newspaper in his lap. He glanced down saw the passage and nodded. He read it again. She watched his eyes carefully, then asked, “Who was she?” He inhaled fully and held the air within him. Laura continued. “She was married to…” She re-read the words. “To Arthur Annesley. Were they relations of yars?” He let the breath out through his nose, closing his eyes, rubbing his eyebrow.

Over the years, since his fight with George on the banks of the Brandywine, James had concealed the truth from everyone, even from himself at times. When pressed, he had kept the stories of his past contained to a few veiled accounts of a stableman father and a mother he had never known. Laura had asked countless times, each time prodding from a new direction, always in search of more detail. But he had managed to keep her at bay. And the truth away. He had honored his promise to Mr. Clowes. The word he gave beside that collier's hearth so many years before. He had never again said who he was. And wouldn't. Until he was ready to prove it. He had kept his oath. He had not broken the pledge. That was honorable, right? Even against Laura's inquiries? That had been the right thing. Right? Perhaps. But now he could not remember why. He couldn't see the reason. Why the deception? Had Mr. Clowes been wrong to exact such a promise? He hated the falseness of his stories. He hated the feeling. And most of all he dreaded the price he knew he was about to pay. The loss of his treasured silence, the ease of lies, the veil pulled back from memories. All was about to be lost to repurchase the facts. To be true to Laura. To reclaim himself.

“James, I love ya. Ya know I do. So why—”

“She is…” he began, still whispering. “She was my mother.”

“Yar mother?”

“Aye.” He rubbed his face harder, and now with both hands.

Laura reached for the paper. “Ya said she died birthing ya.”

“I'm sorry.” He listened to her silence. “I made a promise years ago t' never tell—”

“Never tell what? The truth?”

There it was. Reflexively, he surveyed the area for anything she might hit him with. He eased a copper pitcher away with his boot. Then began. “The truth is—”

“Ya couldn't tell me the truth?”

“I just—”

“So, who are ya? Are ya even James Annesley?”

“Aye.”

She got to her feet. “Is that much true?”

“Aye.”

“Was Arthur yar father?”

“Aye.”

“So, I'm pledged to marry a man who lies about who he is—”

“Laura—”

“What else have ya lied to me about? What—”

“Nothing,
Acushla
. Truly—”

“Don't I deserve the truth? I'm sorry about yar mother, but…” She was against the far wall now, glaring at him. “Why couldn't ya have just admitted it? Ya're the son of Arthur Annesley….” She restudied the passage. “The Earl…and…Mary Sheffield. Why couldn't ya have just told me?” She stopped. She read it again. “The daughter of the Duke of Buckingham.” Her brow furrowed. But it was not in anger this time. It was something else. “Buckingham Palace?”

“I suppose so. But I didn't—”

“Why James?”

“I'm sorry. Truly, I am.” He saw she was reading it once again. “If ye only knew how much I hate to see ye upset like this.”

She gently shook her head. “I am sorry about yar mother.”

“‘Tis all right.” He half rose, then moved around to sit beside her, against her wall. She let him wrap her in his arms. “I should have told ye long ago.”