Judas Flowering (41 page)

The familiar stableyard was thronged with men and horses. He edged himself and the officer's big bay into a corner near William's quarters and waited for a chance to speak to him privately. Here, blessedly, was the one person he could unreservedly trust. But what was going on in the house? He could hear music, now, from the big downstairs room, fiddles scraping away, and then a voice he knew too well raised in song. He had not known Mercy could sing like that It was one of the many mocking, marching tunes that had sprung out of this war and that each side appropriated from the other. But Mercy's diction was good and her words clear. It was the British version of “Yankee Doodle” that she was singing. He listened, left hand clenched on the horse's reins as verse after taunting verse rang out and ended amid a roar of masculine applause. Sensing his fury, the horse began to fidget.

“Hey!” William's voice. “You over there, watch your horse!” And then, coming closer, “Jesus Christ!”

“You Willliam?” He made it the idiot's drawl. “The officer said you was to mind him better this time or he'd tell Miss Phillips of you.” William had come round beside him, apparently to help him quiet the horse, and he added in a whisper, ‘William, I must see Miss Phillips. What the hell's happening here?”

“Plenty,” said William. Then, louder, “Here, give me a hand stabling this brute.” He led the way to the end stall, from which a small door led into his own quarters, “Quick!” William tied up the horse and pushed open the door. “This way, sir!”

“But, Amy?” Hart hesitated.

“Dead,” said William. “Some soldiers got hold of Delilah. She tried to save her. We won't talk about it. No one come in here but me.” The dusty, neglected cabin confirmed his words. “You'll be safe here, Mr Hart, till I can get to Miss
Mercy. But—” William had always seemed old to Hart, now he seemed antediluvian, a white-haired prophet of woe from some black bible. “Do you want to see her, sir? Is it safe?”

“What do you think?” Incredible to be asking it.

“I don't know, and that's God's truth. There's been strange things gone on in this house since the British came. Well, you've seen—”

“And heard,” said Hart grimly.

“That singing. Yes. She's turned your house into a club for them. Dances with them … gets up plays … acts with them … and gaming tables in your office. Mr Hart, I never thought I'd see the day.”

“And my mother?”

“All the ladies seem well. All dressed up like the Queen of Sheba, save only Miss Abigail, and she does nothing but sit in her room and cry, her Sally says, since Mr Habersham went away.”

“He's gone?” This was bad news indeed.

“Yes, sir. Miss Abigail, she wouldn't see him at first, and then, when he came back from Charleston, they quarrelled something fierce. I reckon he didn't much like what's going on in this house either. She don't wear his ring no more. But Mr Francis is here, sir.” No mistaking the note of warning in his voice. “Splendid he is in his green uniform. Thick as thieves with the British officers. And sweet as honey with Miss Mercy. He and Mr Gordon fought, a while back. About her, I reckon. They're both in there now, drinking Madam's punch, acting friends, and talking April and May to Miss Mercy. She's … she's changed, sir. I don't rightly know if you should let her know you're here. If you must see someone, I'd much liefer fetch Miss Abigail. Besides, I don't reckon I could get to Miss Mercy before midnight, when the officers leave.”

Hart ground his teeth. “Then I'll wait till midnight.” What a blessing he had arranged alternative meeting times with Jackson. “And when it gets dark, I'm going to climb up the back porch and see for myself. Is the vine still there?”

“Yes, sir, but I doubt it's safe. There's a Mr Miles Miss Mercy has put in to run things instead of Gordon. If he was to catch you.… He pounced on me, when I came back, gave me a bad moment. Ask me, he's sweet on her, too. They all are. I don't know what's got into her, Mr Hart, and that's God's truth.”

“I'll be careful.” Impatiently, “But before I talk to her, I must see.”

“Very well, sir.” William was too used to taking orders to protest further, “I'll fetch you something to eat.”

The food was delicious, and sickened him. Patriots lived on messes of corn and rice meal, traitors on imported delicacies like these. It was a long time till dark, and he had nothing to do but sit and listen to the cheerful comings and goings in the yard, as servants brought or fetched their master's horses, At last, William appeared, grey faced with anxiety. “If you really must, sir, it's quiet now in the yard.”

He was out and across it in a flash, feeling for the great, cord-like trunk of the old vine, climbing swiftly up, dark among the darkness to look in at the window of the back drawing-room. Velvet curtains, drawn back to let in the air, gave him a clear view. Everything was different, everything changed for the vulgar worse. Brilliant white paint, swags of gold here and there, chandeliers, imported goods. At the moment, the room was empty, but he could see through its open door to the one beyond, where scarlet coats danced with white dresses. The sound of the music came clearly through the open window. Maddening not to be able to see more. And incredibly dangerous to stay here, silhouetted against the light for anyone who looked up from the yard.

There was a buffet table of cold refreshments in the room. Wine and punch and glasses stood ready. No servants. What kind of a club was this? What precisely was this room used for? Assignations, of course. Now a green-uniformed officer guided his partner in through the open door. Red lights in the high-piled hair; bronze satin cut far too low off the white shoulders; the face tilted provocatively up at her companion. Dear God. Mercy. And Francis. Francis looking quickly back over his shoulder, leading her to the corner of the room invisible from the dancers. Francis bending for a confident kiss, his hand on her breast.

“No! Francis! It's not safe.” She pulled away from him, but not in anger.

“Nonsense!” He had her again. “We're rehearsing, aren't we? I can't rehearse too often with you, my beautiful little love.” But the music in the next room had stopped, and be let her go as two more couples entered the room. Saul Gordon and Bridget McCartney, a strange Hessian officer with Claire.

“One of your most brilliant evenings, Miss Mercy.” Saul Gordon seemed very much at home as he poured cordial for the ladies and punch for the men. “I trust you found the new consignment of wine to your taste?”

“Dear Mr Gordon, I don't know how I could manage without you.” She smiled up at him over her fan, her colour high from the recent exchange with Francis, her eyes sparkling. Another smile drew the Hessian officer into her circle, and she said something incomprehensible to him that won her a glow of gratification and made him visibly her slave. He broke into a flow of guttural German and she listened with breathless interest, while Francis and Saul Gordon glowered at each other, and Bridget and Claire carried on an artificially animated conversation of their own.

“Mr Hart, please.” William's agitated whisper from below brought him back to his senses. He had seen enough. Too much. He climbed swiftly back down the vine.

“Mr Miles has just come in,” whispered William. “He helps Miss Mercy lock up most nights. You must get back to my hut, sir, quick.” And, once there, “Do you still want to see her, sir?”

“Yes! Fetch her as soon as you can, but don't tell her who it is. Say it's a message from Mr Habersham. That should bring her. If she's not to be trusted, I'll know what to do.” His left hand felt inside his grimy shirt for the knife it had learned to use. Could he really mean to kill her?

Might there not, still, be an explanation, an excuse? Blackmail by Francis? But she had been enjoying herself. Playing the three men off against each other. Triumphant … beautiful … glowing from Francis' permitted kisses. Did she let Saul Gordon kiss her too? Press his soft hands where Francis' had been, on that exposed breast? His own hands sweated at the thought, and he looked down in surprise to see the useless fingers of his right one curling slightly, as if even they were trying for a stranglehold on that slim neck.

The knife would be surer. He loosened it in its sheath, staring out of the cabin window at the house, where windows were darkening now, one by one. Behind him, the hut door creaked, and he whirled round to see her sanding there, dimly illuminated by the lantern she carried. William had not dared give him a light, so she could not see him. “You're from Mr Habersham?” When she lifted the lantern, to try and make out his face, it picked out the red lights in her hair, green
stones flashing round her neck, the great expanse of white skin, the scandalous, clinging bronze dress. Francis' questing hand must have found a nipple to play with. No wonder she had had that purring look of satisfaction.

“Who are you?” His silence had disconcerted her, and she took a quick step backwards, her hand on the door-latch.

“You don't remember?” He caught her hand, with a quick recognition of its firm, strong smallness, pulled her into the room, and fastened the door behind her.

“Hart!” She took a step backwards and put the lantern down, gazing up at him, her eyes wide with tears. “Dear God, it's you at last!”

“So you actually recognise me—and back away. Wisely. I'd not have recognised you. Strumpet!”

“Hart!”

“Whore then, if you prefer it. How many of them have had you, Mercy Phillips, and what do you get for it? Besides pleasure, of course. No wonder you wanted me out of the house. Did you hope I'd die? I slept eighteen hours. Would you have thought yourself careless, or careful, if I had never waked?” His eyes, raking her satin-clad body, had now focussed on the jewels at her neck. “Whose emeralds, pray? Francis? Or Gordon? No need to ask what they bought. Dear God, and I thought to come to you for help!”

“Help?” His tirade had silenced her, but this won him a quick look and the one, breathless question.

“Help I'll not ask now. I'm a Yankee still, but not the Doodle you think me. Yes, I heard you singing it for them, heard them laugh and clap you. I saw you with them, Mercy. I climbed the vine. Saw you and Francis. The enemy. Our enemy, I thought. How long ago did you sell out to them, Mercy? Did you perhaps know I was on that hulk of theirs? Did you and Francis laugh over it? If so, you played me a pretty scene of drama when I came home, but then, I understand, you do play a pretty scene. What plays do you put on in my drawing-room, you and your English friends?” His left hand was under his shirt, feeling for the knife. “Did you ever play Desdemona, Mercy Phillips?”

“No! Hart!” Only her eyes—wide, frightened, and yet, somehow steady—were as he had remembered them. They stopped him, for a moment, hand still on the hilt of the knife, and she went on, “I don't blame you for what you think, nor for being so angry. But you must listen, Hart, before
you kill me. If you do, they'll all starve.”

“Starve? What do you mean?” His hand still clutched the knife.

“Idiot! Have you thought of nothing but yourself? If I'd not drugged you, got you away, you'd be dead, and serve you right, and the rest of us in prison for harbouring you. As it is, Winchelsea is gone—the British have it for a hospital, and Francis has the promise of it. Saul Gordon had sold out to the British, God knows how long ago. He proved to their satisfaction that you had no assets in Savannah. Your mother had the house, and nothing else. So I've been running it as a kind of club for British officers. They come, they enjoy themselves, they pay, they play and lose.” She started to add something, then checked herself with a quick look at his set face. “We're paying our way now. Kill me, cause a scandal, get caught, and your mother, your aunt, and Abigail will be on the streets. But you're not going to kill me.” She took another step backward, folded her fan, twisted its handle, and held a needle-sharp knife. “You called me strumpet, Hart Purchis, and I'll not forget. The English officers don't. I've made a joke of this, but it's a joke they remember.”

“Mercy.” The fingers of his right hand were moving again, was it in an attempt at murder or a longing to touch those white shoulders. What should he do, what believe?

“Well.” A shrug of the tantalising shoulders. “I can't stay. I'll be missed, and for all our sakes you must not be caught here. Tell me, Purchis, have you come here only to insult me?”

“No! Mercy!” Was he asking for mercy? It almost felt like it. “I've come … I can't trust you!”

“You must, I think. This is more important than you and I, Hart.” She twisted the hilt of her stiletto and it was a fan again. “There!” She moved a step nearer to him. “Now, even with one hand, you can kill me with the knife of yours if you still think me a traitor.”

“William does.”

“Of course William does! What use would I be if the very servants knew I was playing a double game. Quick, Hart. Kill me or tell me what you need to know. There's no time for talking.”

More than anything in the world he wanted to touch the white shoulders, to let his hand travel down, down along the edge of that provocative satin gown. Her eyes, meeting
his with that same steady gaze, knew this. “That's no answer,” she said.

“No. No.” He held out his empty left hand. “Mercy, I can't kill you, so I suppose I must trust you.”

“Good.” She took it, the fan dangling harmlessly from her wrist. “Now, what's your errand? I promise, I can get it where it should go.”

“I believe you. God knows why. Two things. First. If General Lincoln and Admiral d'Estaing attack Savannah, how much help can they expect from within?”

She looked at him squarely, sadly. “Not much. I can answer that. I've watched. I know. The real patriots are gone—to Charleston, to the West Indies. It's only the turncoats who remain, and I doubt they'll turn again. There's no spirit left here. It was so quick, so sudden.” A long shudder shook her. “So horrible. Men bayonetted in the streets as they tried to surrender, their wives watching. Did William tell you about Amy and Delilah?”