Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (46 page)

“Must I hear again your veneration of the musical genius of the American coloreds? Spare me, please, the—”

“All I ask is that you accompany me through the fields just once. When you hear those extraordinarily talented people sing, you'll understand that God has blessed them with a gift—”

“Really, Jase—”

“A gift that even the greatest European musician would envy. They sing neither from scores nor notations, but from the depths of their souls.”

Peter shook his head. “The same old argument. You've come home to write American music, to move out of the shadow of Vivaldi and recast yourself as native son! And I still say balderdash!”

“Say what you will,” Jason countered. “You'll know what I mean about missing things after you've been away from home for a couple of years. With me, it's music—the music I heard as a boy—the spicy rhythms, the bawdy ballads, the enchanting songs sung by the Irish and French and Dutch.”

“You're the only person I know who stoops to exalt a hodgepodge,” Peter said with a derisive snort.

“As music, and as a country, yes. You might say that America is a hodgepodge, but a delicious one at that.”

“A country? Please, Jase. I wish you'd get it right for once. A collection of British colonies.”

“Call us what you will. Our music is primitive, I'll grant you. But it has a fascination and beauty all its own.”

“Damn it, Jase! You're infuriating. You've the heart and soul of a European, and a cultivated European at that. You said so yourself. The Viennese swore you were born in Vienna, and the Italians were convinced you were one of their own.”

“When I write, I tend to take on the artistic characteristics of my surroundings. That seems perfectly natural.”

“You can explain it any way you see fit, but I doubt very much that you'll abandon the musical culture of Europe. Not for a minute.”

“You do, eh?” Jason snapped, his homecoming forgotten in the heat of the moment. “Well, perhaps you don't know me as well as you think you do.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Peter said, equally miffed. “And now if you'll excuse me,” he added, spinning on his heels and stalking away, “I have a great deal to do before we land.”

Not perhaps, Jason thought, dejectedly turning back to the rail and staring down into the water. Deception was difficult for one who'd made honesty a point of personal honor. His anguish had begun one night in Emilia, shortly after his arrival there. The night was balmy, with a soft breeze wafting the scent of flowers to him through the open window, and it had reminded him of home. As his fingers wandered over the keys, he realized he was playing the songs of his childhood and of his native land, and suddenly he was filled with a great sadness, out of which had grown a determination, in the months that followed, that he could no longer sit idly by. Sooner or later, he had to return, and do his part in the struggle to bring freedom to America.
What
, however, had taken him many months more to determine: not until two weeks earlier had he known. As usual he and Peter had been dining with the ship's captain, Henley Boswell, and, as usual he had been forced to be a deft diplomat when the conversation had turned to politics. That night, however, whether because the captain had consumed a large quantity of plum brandy, or perhaps because of the suspicion he bore of all native-born colonists, he dropped a shocker.

“Pardon me for saying this, Paxton, but wouldn't you just make the perfect spy for the bloody Patriots?” he ruminated as he drew on a long cigar. “With all your aristocratic British friends, with this image you choose to cultivate of yourself as an artist above the political fray, you've invented the perfect camouflage. Who'd ever suspect Jason Paxton, composer
extraordinaire
, as a fiendish worker for the revolution?”

The perfect camouflage. A fiendish worker for the revolution
. That was it! But how? His heart racing wildly, a great exultation filling his very being, he'd smiled as he leaned forward to replenish his glass. “No one but you, Captain,” he'd drawled, even then aware that he'd have to be very, very careful around Peter. “And even you, if you think about it, have no more reason to suspect my motives than my fugues.”

It had been an awkward moment, but he'd gotten through it well, and Peter had had the good grace never to mention it. The suggestion was there, though, and grew as an acorn grows into a great oak. Whatever form his actions took, the broad outline was clearly set in his mind. Even if it meant deceiving his best friend, he would fight for freedom.

Freedom for my country, for the land and people I love
.

Love? The lilting song grew within him, the love song which, despite the hundreds of thoughts tumbling chaotically through his mind, sang so seductively to, and in, his heart.

And with every minute, the land, and home, came closer.

Chapter 3

“'Bout time ya git out of that bath 'fore ya turn into a prune, Miss Colleen.”

Portia's voice shocked Colleen from her reverie, in which she'd floated off and washed herself in a dream of memories, reliving that farewell kiss that had stretched from a few seconds to a few years. How long could such kisses last? How long could a dream endure?

The water was decidedly cool; the sun had crept far enough across the sky to slant through the lower corner of the single ventilation window high in the wall. Colleen stepped from the tub into the waiting sun-warmed towels Portia had prepared. She put on a long, comforting robe of green satin, a Christmas gift from Rianne, and walked to the east side of the house, where she stole another glimpse of the shimmering sea. The ship was still there, much, much closer. As she stood and stared, shivering slightly in the cool sea breeze, she heard the song, and though she wanted to stay, to look and listen, she turned away and hurried to the house.

When she opened her bedroom door, her father, his eyes filled with rage, was waiting for her. In his hands was her copy of
Common Sense
—and Jason's letter.

“How dare you?” Colleen flared, instinctively taking the offensive. “Not even a father has the right to rummage through a woman's private possessions.”

“Private!” His voice quivered with anger, pain, and shock. His eyes were red, his hands shook. “This
Common Sense
is the most public nonsense I've ever laid eyes upon! It's rubbish, I say. My sister and her scatterbrained ideas be damned, but you, you'll have none of this, do you hear? None of this!” he swore, ripping the book and the letter with one quick movement.

Colleen ran to collect the torn papers from the floor. “You have no right!” she cried, tears springing from her eyes. “No right at all!”

“In heaven's name, daughter, can't you see that you're endangering our very lives? This is no childish game, as your aunt would have you believe. This is war, child. Have I not told you often enough of the Battle of Cullodeen? Need I paint more pictures of the maiming and murdering? The English think themselves cultivated gentlemen, but I've seen them on the field of war and they're animals, raving beasts without mercy or sense. When it's territory they want, no barbarian has ever slaughtered with more vengeance. And this is their territory, lass. They wanted Charles Town, and, by God, they took Charles Town. Wasn't that enough to convince you and that daft aunt of yours? They'll keep these colonies, and there's nothing we can do, nothing we should do, to stop them. Try and we'll be trampled like helpless kittens.”

“I know how you feel.” Her back to her father, Colleen stood in front of her desk as she struggled for composure. At the very least, she was relieved that he hadn't discovered the revolutionary poetry written by her own hand. “I understand, I do, Father, but I was born in this country, not in Scotland, and I see it all differently. My own attitude …”

“Attitude? You're a woman, and women need not have attitudes when it comes to matters of the world.”

“I read, I think. I can't help but form opinions. Did not God give women brains?”

“God gave women obedience, that's what, missy. You'll forget your Mr. Paine and you'll also forget your Jason Paxton. His return to Brandborough is of no concern to you. Why, his own father will have naught to do with him. He's a man without station or hope of prosperity, and politically dangerous to boot. The farther you stay away from him or any of the Paxtons, the better off you'll be.”

Colleen turned to face her father. She wanted to show him the patriotic verses she had written—not to spite him, but to make him proud. Yet she knew it was impossible to change his views. He was convinced the Paxtons were political poison, and he was inflicted with an irrationally unassuageable fear of the English. No matter what she said, he wouldn't in a thousand years understand the frustration she felt as a woman committed to a cause in which she believed so fervently. Instead, she remembered the way he'd stayed awake all night a week earlier to save the life of a baby lamb. She remembered how he'd cried when, at daybreak, the tiny creature had died. As she looked at her father, a wave of compassion crossed her face.

Roy saw her concern and responded by lowering his voice as he sat on the edge of her bed. “You're a bonnie lass, Colleen, and I want you to enjoy a long, healthy life filled with peace and joy. The thought of you in grave peril is enough to make my heart stop beating. I wish nothing more than for this war to leave us alone. I profess nothing but neutrality, though it's clear that the advantage rests with the Crown. If that be the case, why fight the advantage? Am I wrong when I say that my fondest wish is to see you a great lady? The Somersets are aristocracy, my love. One of the most eminent, strong, and powerful families in the colony. Their holdings vastly exceed those of the Paxtons, and they're more sensible people, more practical. They understand who governs here and are content to work with the Crown. Young Buckley is the heir to the fortune and he, too, is a practical man. His feelings for you are strong, Colleen. Strong enough”—he hesitated, then plunged on as he knew he should have days earlier—“to ask for your hand. I—”

“What?” Colleen asked, shocked. “What?”

He had anticipated her reaction, but was determined to press ahead boldly. “You heard me, lass. He asked for your hand. Last week on the Commons in Brandborough.”

“Surely you—”

“I told him he has my blessing.”

“Father!”

“As long as you agree, of course,” he amended hastily.

“I'd never—”

“Listen to me, Colleen. Just once, listen to me. You don't have to say yes this instant, but I beg you not to say no, either. Think about it, lass. Think about it and ask yourself if you want to deny me the pleasure of seeing my grandchildren grow up on a fine plantation so I might visit them in the evenings and kiss their sweet brows. Is that asking too much? Is it wrong for me to seek that solace for my old age?”

Collen chose her words carefully. “I understand what you're saying, Father, but I also must be true to what I feel in my own heart.”

“Poetry! Drivel! Nonsense!” He was off the bed again, his hands shaking, his voice exploding with renewed anger. “Words your mother might have spoken before she ran off with that wild, drunken woodsman. How in the name of a merciful God she could have left a five-year-old child, and why”—he eyed the miniature music box that rested on her desk—“why you keep anything of hers is something I'll never fathom.”

“It's all I have of her,” Colleen said in a whisper.

“A wanton—that's what she was. A wanton and a witch.”

Every time this discussion occurred—and it had come up dozens of times over the years—Colleen felt inexplicably moved to defend her mother, even though there was no reasonable defense to be made. Once again, she wanted to argue, but this time she stopped herself because his face had turned beet red and she feared for his health. “Yes, Father,” she said at last, knowing her subdued tone would calm him.

“There. You see?” Mercurial as ever, Roy's mood changed rapidly, and his rage was soon replaced by a kindly smile. “A little loyalty isn't so difficult after all, eh?” His shaking having stopped, he walked to Colleen and embraced her warmly. “Now get dressed, child, and behave yourself. Trust your old papa. Believe him when he says he loves you. Believe him when he says he wants no harm to come to you. Only happiness for the rest of your days.”

More than anything, Colleen wished she could reassure him that she would respect his wishes and obey his commands, but her tongue choked on the words.

“Eh?” Roy asked, his hands on her shoulders. “Eh?”

Nothing had changed, and it never would. Tired of the argument, Colleen found a smile. “I understand, Papa,” she said noncommittally. “I believe you.”

“Good. Good! Now, where's Portia?” Enlivened, he hurried to the door. “Portia!”

“Right here, suh,” came the maid's voice from the kitchen.

“My daughter needs dressing,” he bellowed, winking at Colleen as he left. “Must she wait all day?”

Portia entered and, sensing the terrible tension, said nothing as she helped Colleen dress. A long gown of yellow gauze—a scarce commodity since the beginning of the war—had been embroidered by Rianne with whirls of lavender and green. It was Colleen's happiest gown; and yet, looking at it, her mood remained melancholy. The sadness she felt thinking of her father—his narrow-mindedness, his intolerance, his warped view of the war and women—couldn't be expressed. One way or another, she had to live with him. To abandon him in any form or fashion would be to repeat the act of her mother, and she was afraid he wouldn't survive another blow like that.

She stood perfectly still as Portia placed the gown over her head, then closed her eyes as the maid combed and collected her hair in two long rolls that fell symmetrically on either side of her head and covered her small, delicate ears. Since pins were scarce, the coiffeur was secured by long, slender thorns that, in Colleen's eyes, became symbols of her own pain.