Leslie LaFoy (46 page)

“Which would be the jawbone of Governor Dun-more.”

Claire squinted to better see across the room. Ah, Cross-Stitch Sampler.

Cabbage Rose Needlepoint added, “John tells me that today they'll discuss supplying Boston overland and sending out a call for the other colonies to do likewise.”

“My Robert stands prepared to run the British blockade if necessary,” said Shirt Woman. “His brothers, William and Henry, are of the same resolve. Henry left for James City last night with the intent of seeing additional cannons mounted on the decks of our merchantmen.”

“It would be pointless to run the blockade with an empty vessel,” Gray Mitten Knitter interjected, putting her work in her lap and looking around the room. “Ladies, we must see that necessary supplies are gathered. Men, being the creatures they are, will see to the amassing of gunpowder and weapons and never once think beyond that. It's up to us to attend to the daily, practical needs of Boston.”

“Food is the most important,” noted the very rotund Pomander Maker. “If each of us was to contribute a barrel of flour and five hams from our smokehouses—”

“And medicines,” interrupted Tatter. “We mustn't forget that. If the blockade continues through the winter, they'll have need of remedies for common ailments.”

Gray Mitten Knitter nodded. “And shoes and gloves and cloth. We all have leather sitting in our warehouses that we can contribute, bolts of fabric in our sewing cottages. I, for one, am willing to do without a new dress so that someone in Boston can be warm this winter.”

There was a chorus of agreement, which Claire absently joined. She had gloves to contribute. Already made. Ninety-three pairs to be exact. Mourning gloves she and Hannah and Meg had spent three days making for those who would attend the funerals. And no one had, outside the family.

Oh, everyone had been quick to offer their condolences to Devon when they'd arrived in Williamsburg yesterday for the opening session of the House of Burgesses. And just as quick to offer an explanation for why they hadn't been able to attend the funeral for “dear Henrietta” and “poor Wyndom.” Devon had politely accepted all the stories and then made up one of his own. Wyndom had had a pistol in the waistband of his trousers, and when he'd been dragged from the carriage box, it had fallen out, hit the ground, and discharged, and the lead ball had struck and passed through Devon's shoulder. His mother, on seeing one son's neck broken and the other shot, had clasped her heart and fallen dead. And everyone had not only accepted it but had spent the first half of the day trading the lie back and forth.

The true cause of her troubled spirit, Claire admitted to herself as she glanced around at the assembled wives, was that she didn't want to be in Williamsburg or around other people. She wanted to be at Rosewind, locked with Devon in the conservatory she'd converted into their bedchamber the day of that horrible morning.
She wanted to hold him and heal his battered heart, to care for his torn shoulder. In time, with love, the light would come back into his eyes.

But time was something she didn't have. Three days. And Devon's sense of duty had called him to Williamsburg and required what little time they had to be sacrificed for the betterment of Virginia. Claire frowned down at the needlework in her lap. Her father would have understood perfectly, she realized. They were very much alike, her late father and her husband. Quiet, intelligent, and wholly committed to honor, duty, and principle.

“What is it, Anna?”

The tone of the question abruptly pulled Claire from her musing. She watched as the others tossed down their work and moved toward the window overlooking the Duke of Gloucester street.

“Our men are coming from the capitol. En masse,” someone—presumably Lookout Anna—announced.

Claire frowned, remembering that Devon had told her that the House had a full agenda for the morning session. If they were out within an hour of convening… Her stomach leaden and her heart in her throat, Claire quickly put her needlepoint tulip in her carrying bag and was already heading toward the stairs leading down to the main room when one of the other ladies observed, “They look angry. Something awful must have happened.”

D
EVON FILED INTO THE TAVERN
with his fellow burgesses, searching the chattering crowd of women for Claire. She was off to the right of the stairs, pale and silent and wide-eyed. His heart twisted at the sight of her distress, knowing that this moment was just the beginning of her heartache. And his. He had to be strong for her, resolute for them both. He threaded his way
through the group of angry men, wincing when his shoulder connected with another's. He'd worked his way halfway to her when Mrs. Randolph, standing on the third step up, called above the noise, “Peyton, an explanation please.”

The room fell silent as their president turned to his wife, bowed slightly, and answered, “Governor Dun-more has formally dissolved the Virginia Assembly.”

The women gasped and Mrs. Randolph asked for all of them, “Why?”

“He apparently considers the House of Burgesses' resolution calling for a day of fasting and praying on behalf of Boston to be seditious.”

The room erupted with outrage.

“Seditious!”

“To pray and fast?”

Devon never took his eyes off Claire. She worked her way through the crowd to his side, coming into the circle of his arms just as an indignant and defiant female voice demanded, “And if we were to send them a ham or a pair of shoes, would we be guilty of high treason and hanged for it?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone step up onto a chair. “I have ten hams for Boston! Who is willing to hang with me?”

He recognized the voice, felt Claire start. Amid the chorus of offers, Devon leaned down and whispered in her ear, “That's Patrick Henry. If we run out of cannon-balls, he'll volunteer and manage to incite a riot before we can get him tamped down the barrel. Cooler heads will prevail, sweetheart.”

“Gentlemen! Ladies! Please!” It took a moment, but the room stilled and quieted. When it had, Peyton Randolph went on. “By a show of hands, gentlemen members… all those in favor of convening the Virginia Assembly extralegally, please signify.”

The price they would pay would be dear. Devon
lifted his right hand and saw that every man in the room had solemnly done the same. The die had now been cast.

“All those opposed?”

The raised hands came down. Not a single one went up.

“I can see,” Peyton went on, scanning the crowd, “that while we have the quorum necessary for the vote to stand, we're lacking a member or two from our numbers. So that the business of the colony of Virginia can be conducted in a rightful manner, this body will recess until nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Mr. Richard Henry Lee will see that the missing members are notified and present at this place and at that time for the conduct of legislative business. Come prepared to work without rest, gentlemen. For the present, we stand adjourned.”

As his fellow burgesses found their wives and began to go, Devon gave Claire a quick hug and then stepped from her side and into the path of Peyton Randolph. “Mr. Randolph, a moment of your time please.”

“Rivard,” Randolph said, nodding slowly, “I have a special task in mind for you. I'd be most appreciative if you'd work on a committee with Mr. Jefferson for the purpose of drafting a document detailing for the world our present grievances with Parliament. Along with that, I'd like for the committee to prepare a list of possible actions we may reasonably take in response to both our own crisis and that facing the citizens of Boston. I'll open tomorrow's session by formally proposing the formation of the committee and the nature of its task. Are you agreeable to serving?”

“I am. With one request.” Randolph cocked a brow in silent question, and Devon took the first deliberate step. “My wife has been summoned to Philadelphia and then on to England as a witness in a legal matter. I'd thought to see her aboard a ship bound that way in three days' time. But given today's events and the potential consequences on my time, I think it best if she departs
as soon as possible. With your permission, I'll be absent from tomorrow's morning session so that I can see her safely departed from the James City docks.”

Behind him, he heard Claire stifle a cry. Taking a deep breath, he endured the pang that shot through his heart.

“It's a thoroughly reasonable request, Rivard. And a wise, thoughtful decision on your part. We have much to discuss and decide in the coming days, and better you be gone from our ranks at the first of it than in the more critical days that will follow.”

“My thinking exactly, sir.”

Peyton Randolph nodded and then, to Devon's dismay, turned to Claire. Offering her a bow, the president of the House of Burgesses said, “My sincerest apologies, Madam Rivard, for the disruption of your travel plans. And my deepest appreciation for your willingness to understand and accommodate the needs of Virginia and the American colonies. I wish you a safe and speedy journey to England and back.”

Claire's chin came up a tiny notch and she found a gracious smile. “Thank you, Mr. Randolph.”

Feeling her strain, Devon stepped to her side and slipped his arm around her waist. “Should there be anything requiring my immediate attention, sir, I'll be on the road to James City today. Several of my servants will be en route there from Rosewind in the early hours of the morning if you need to send a message through them.”

“Safe travels to you as well, Mr. Rivard. I'll see you tomorrow afternoon.” With another quick bow, Randolph left them.

She looked up at him and took a breath.

“Not here and not now, sweetheart,” he gently admonished, drawing her toward the door. “I need to find Edmund and get our bags into the carriage. When we're on the road, we can talk.”

He saw anger spark in her eyes. For a second he regretted
his high-handed approach and then just as quickly changed his mind. Anger would serve them both better in the short term. They'd have eternity for the tears.

Ever so predictably, Edmund stood with Zeke and the carriage. “I heard,” he said as Devon and Claire drew near.

Devon shot him a warning look and handed Claire into the carriage. “I'll be gone only a few minutes. You stay right here,” he commanded, closing the door before she could object. But not before she shot him a look that promised that he wasn't going to come back to kisses and contented sighs.

“Zeke, please stay with the carriage and Lady Claire. If she tries to run off, tackle her,” he instructed as he motioned for Edmund to come away from the carriage. When they were out of earshot, he took a steadying breath and met his friend's gaze squarely. “I need you to do a couple things for me. First, I need the petition that I asked you to draw up for Claire. Is it ready?”

Edmund hesitated before saying quietly, “I wrote it that morning. It's in my desk drawer.” He paused, then shook his head and drew himself up to his full height. “But that was before, Devon. When you and Claire were still strangers. Circumstances between you have changed since then.”

“Yes,” Devon admitted, resenting the challenge, “and they changed again this morning. I need the petition.”

“You can't do this, Devon. It's wrong.”

Anger surged through him, borne on a soul-deep wave of certainty and sorrow. He looked away, not wanting to wound their friendship. “A week ago I buried my mother and my brother,” he said when he had his emotions reasonably under control again. “I can't bear the thought of having to bury Claire, too. I'd sooner die than face that.”

He turned to meet the other's gaze and softly confessed,
“Edmund, I love her. I love her with all my heart. If she's in England, she's safe. I'd rather live without her, knowing she's alive and well, than keep her with me and put her life at risk.”

“It's her choice to make.”

“No, it's mine,” he snapped, squaring his shoulders and dredging up another measure of resolve. “And as hard as it is, I've made it. Go get the petition and take it out to Ephram. Tell him to pack his things and be at the James City docks tomorrow morning at dawn.”

“Devon, please don't do this. You're not thinking clearly.”

“I'll be back tomorrow afternoon. We can argue about it then.” He didn't give Edmund a chance to say anything else. Turning on his heel, he walked away, heading for the King's Arms to see to the retrieval of his and Claire's meager baggage.

Claire stared at the far wall of the coach and blinked back furious tears. She didn't want to be on the road. Not to James City. She wanted to go to Rosewind, with Devon. She wanted to hide in their room and let the world go crazy without them. To hell with her uncle and the courts of England. To hell with the House of Burgesses, Governor Dunmore, and Peyton Randolph. To hell with the King and all his addlepated advisors.

And to hell with Devon, too! With his damn determination to hide his grief so stoically. With his oh-so-noble sense of duty and responsibility. And especially with his imperial decrees!
You stay right here
. The hell she would. If he wanted to go to James City, then he could go without her. He couldn't drag her there by brute force. And if he wanted to try, then he'd have to find and catch her first. And damned if Zeke was going to stand in her way.

Cautiously, she lifted the curtain to see just where Zeke had taken up his watch and the best way to get past him. She found him easily enough; he was standing
with Devon some fifteen feet away. Swearing under her breath, she watched Zeke nod, take their bags from Devon, and head toward the rear of the carriage. Devon didn't follow. He stood there, his sadness so profound, so visible on his face that her anger instantly dissolved into heartache.

As he gathered himself and heaved a sigh, she did the same, letting the curtain fall back and settling into the seat. It would take them hours to get to James City, and she'd use them as best she could. And maybe, just maybe, by the time they reached their destination she'd have convinced him to change it. If she couldn't… Claire blinked back tears and lifted her chin. She loved him too much to make his pain any deeper than it already was.