Wide is the Water (19 page)

‘They make me feel a million years old,' she confided to Ruth after a particularly long morning of calls.

‘You don't look it, Mercy dear.' Ruth smoothed a fold of her white muslin dress. ‘I'm glad you agreed with Miss Shippen that we should wear white. It makes one feel alive again somehow.'

‘Dear Ruth!' Mercy stretched out an impulsive hand to press hers. ‘I don't know how I would have managed without you. Yes, I think Miss Shippen was right about our
blacks. There's not much she doesn't know about the way to go on in Philadelphia. She looked thoughtfully down at her own white dress, remembering how she had longed, back in '74, to wear black for her father and how Hart had insisted that she must bow to the government decree that mourning was unpatriotic. He had given her the ebony mourning locket with a piece of her father's hair that she was wearing now, the one piece of jewellery she had not lost in that desperate flight from Savannah, since she never took it off. But now it held Hart's hair.

‘If only we'd hear from him,' she said.

‘Hart?' Ruth understood her at once. ‘I know. It is strange. What can have happened to him, Mercy?' It was spring now, with the wide Philadelphia streets all awash with melting snow, and still there had been no word from Hart or about the
Georgia.

The news came at last in a letter from Abigail that had taken an inordinate time on its smuggled way from British-held Savannah north through the chaos of Georgia and South Carolina. The dirty, dog-eared missive enclosed one from Hart to his mother, which, in its turn, had been enclosed to Sir James Wright.

‘I am so sorry,' wrote Abigail. ‘I expect you have heard from Hart himself but thought you should have this at once. Dear Mercy, what can I say?'

Hart's letter to his mother, brief, scrawled, almost illegible by now, told of his capture by the British ship
Sparrow
, of the good fortune that her captain was his cousin, and then the black news: He was on his way to England.

‘He wrote his mother.' Mercy handed the letter to Ruth. ‘And did not trouble to write to me.'

‘But, Mercy,' Ruth protested, ‘he would have written to Farnham.'

‘And the letter would be here by now,' said Mercy bleakly. ‘Since I paid that man Golding for his horses, he would have no reason for not sending it on to me, and you know that in the main the posts between here and Boston are reliable.'

‘It might have been seized by the British.' Ruth was grasping at straws.

‘Or it might not have been written,' said Mercy. ‘He doubtless began with his mother and then had no time for me.' She looked again at the date on Hart's letter. ‘So long ago,' she said. ‘I am surprised we have not had news from New York, by way of
Rivington's Gazette
.' She paused at the sound of a knock on the door. ‘It's not the hour for callers.' She listened as their young maid went running to the front door. ‘Who can it be?'

‘It's Mr. Brisson, ma'am.' The girl, Betsy, dropped a quick curtsy. ‘He makes his apologies and says it's urgent.'

‘Show him in, Betsy.' Brisson had been away for a few weeks, and Mercy had been surprised to find how much she missed his friendly, reliable support among the pitfalls of Philadelphia society.

‘Mrs. Purchis, Miss Paston.' Charles Brisson was splashed with mud as if he had just arrived in town. ‘Forgive me for coming to you like this, but I thought I must tell you at once, break it to you –' He stopped, looked at Mercy. ‘But I see you know. You have heard already?'

‘About my husband? That he is a prisoner. Yes, I have just heard this moment.'

‘From him? Oh, I am
glad
.' And then, on a different note: ‘That you have heard from him, I mean. The news itself is terrible; I had hoped to break it to you more gently. That he should be carried to England! Please God they are not too hard on him there. But what does he say, ma'am, if I may ask?'

‘Not much,' said Mercy. ‘He wrote his mother. My cousin Miss Purchis has sent it on to me. But how did you hear of it, Mr. Brisson?'

‘I've been at the North,' he explained. ‘I picked up a copy of
Rivington's Gazette
in a tavern on the way back. Of course, you can trust the New York Tories to make the most of such a piece of news. They know all about your husband's activities during the attack on Savannah, I'm sorry to have to tell you, ma'am. But nothing, thank God,
of yours.' He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and handed her a dog-eared newspaper. ‘I paid the landlord of the inn a small fortune for this. I thought you would wish to see it yourself.'

‘Oh, thank you!' She shook the paper and moved over to the window to read the smeared print of the broadsheet, half-hearing Charles Brisson engage in his usual friendly, almost brotherly chat with Ruth. The report was short and to the point. The British frigate
Sparrow
, Captain Richard Purchas, had outfought and sunk the privateer
Georgia
and had made a prisoner of her notorious captain, Hart Purchis, known for his activities during the attack on Savannah. Since the
Sparrow
was on her way to England with despatches, the pirate Purchis would no doubt meet the fate he deserved when he got there.

‘You must not take it too hard,' Brisson joined her at the window. ‘They are not barbarians, the British. He doubtless had his letters of marque. He will be treated as a prisoner merely. I am sure of it.'

‘Thank you.' She looked up at him, tears in her eyes. ‘If only I had heard from him.'

‘It is strange. But as Miss Paston says, he would most certainly have written to you at Farnham.'

‘And I have not had the letter after all this time? How long did it take you to come down from Boston, Mr. Brisson?'

‘Much longer than it took you from Farnham. Now the thaw has begun, the roads are terrible. You must be patient, ma'am, and hope the best.'

It was not easy. Her gnawing anxiety was exacerbated by a stream of callers whose sympathetic amazement that she had not heard from Hart was merely a last straw. A week passed, another, and still no word came from Farnham. Instead, there was a further report in
Rivington's Gazette
– an issue brought her this time by George Palmer. There were rumours, according to the
Gazette
, that the capture of Captain Purchis's
Georgia
had been made earlier by disaffection among her crew.

‘All my fault!' she told Ruth. ‘They thought me a Jonah. No wonder he did not write to me.'

‘I am sure he did,' said Ruth.

‘You're a good friend, Ruth dear. To both of us.'

It was already evening when Hart and Dick rode into London across Westminster Bridge. The big lighted building ahead was Parliament itself, Dick told Hart. Lights moving on the wide river below them were on boats, probably taking parties to the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall and Ranelagh. ‘I'm sorry you won't get your first view of the city by daylight.'

‘No matter.' Hart tried to sound as if he cared. But how should he when his thoughts were so horribly divided between his dead mother and his living cousin? It had been more than high time to get away from Denton Hall. When he said good-bye to Julia, he had suddenly found himself wondering whether she was not aware of his growing, uncontrollable feeling for her. Vain fool that he was, as she smiled up at him, he had almost found himself imagining that she shared it.

‘Not long now.' Aware of his companion's dark mood, Dick kept his voice determinedly cheerful. ‘And a hot supper waiting. Lucky for us Parliament hasn't risen yet, or we'd be thronged with carriages this side the bridge. My father will be still in the House, of course.' Was there a hint of relief in his voice? ‘Here we are,' he said at last. ‘St. James's Square, and this is Charles Street, and the house illuminated for us, so they have had my message. You'll be glad to get to your bed, Cousin.'

‘Forgive me,' said Hart as they dismounted. ‘I've been wretched company.'

‘And I like you the better for it. One must mourn … Ah—' The door of the high, narrow house had swung open.
‘Here's Jones to make us welcome. You got my message, I see.' He turned to address the tall man in livery who trod down the steps towards them.

‘Yes, sir, and thanked God for it, Mr. Richard. Your father's at home, sir, and Mr. George.'

‘George!' Dick handed his reins to a boy and hurried up the steps, beckoning Hart to follow him.

A lighted hall; more servants in livery; the sound of furious voices. No wonder the footmen looked scared, Hart thought, as Dick strode across the hall and threw open a door.

‘Not another penny, sir!' The speaker swung round as the door opened behind him, and Hart saw a red face clotted with anger under the bag-wig. ‘Dick,' Mr. Purchas greeted his younger son. ‘You're just in time to stop me giving your brother the horsewhipping he deserves. Gad, sir.' He swung back to face the tall young man who leant negligently against the chimneypiece. ‘If I could only break the entail, I'd cut you off this minute in Dick's favour.'

‘Yes, but you can't, can you?' George Purchas wore his own hair in elegant confusion round a handsome face very like Julia's, but marred by obvious marks of dissipation. ‘I know you'd like to cut me out in favour of good little Dick here, but as you can't, had we not best put our heads together and think how best we can pay these honourable debts of mine? It won't help Dick's promotion in the navy, nor yet Julia's slender chances of marriage, if I'm known to be languishing in the King's Bench Prison. You should have seen me sooner, Father dear, not let me get to this extremity.'

‘I'll see you in hell before I pay your debts again,' said his father. ‘Haven't you done enough harm already? Julia's dowry—' He stopped short, seeing Hart for the first time. ‘We're forgetting ourselves. Dick, present your American cousin. As for you, sir.' He rounded once more on his elder son. ‘Think yourself lucky that I let you spend the night here. We will talk more in the morning.'

‘And to more effect, I devoutly hope. Cousin Hart' – he
moved languidly forward, smiling a smile of immense charm and holding out a hand – ‘welcome to England. You see, we treat you quite as family.'

‘Family be damned,' said his father. ‘Get to your room, sir, and don't try your wheedling on your cousin. Now go!'

For a moment, looking from one to the other, Hart thought George Purchas was going to defy his father. Then, smiling lazily, he made them all a sardonic, graceful bow. ‘Your most obedient.' The mocking tone belied the words, and he swept them with one last impartial, challenging glance before he turned and left the room.

‘God give me patience!' Mr. Purchas pushed both knuckles against his forehead as if to keep it from bursting open. Then he took a deep breath and turned to Hart. ‘Welcome to London, Cousin, and my deepest condolences. You must let us be your family now.'

‘Why, thank you, sir.' Hart was touched that the older man had remembered his loss through all his own rage. ‘You're all so kind. Mrs. Purchas, Miss Julia …'

‘My Julia.' The frowning face relaxed. ‘She's worth ten of her brothers. More sense in her little finger …' He turned to Dick. ‘I've sent for Busby to come first thing in the morning. This is a bad business of George's, and of course, he's right, damn him. Dearly though I'd like to, we can't let him rot in the King's Bench Prison.'

‘Is it really as bad as that?' asked Dick.

‘As bad as possible. He lost ten thousand to that adventurer O'Brien at the Cocoa Tree the other night. And God knows what else he owes besides …' He turned with an attempt at a smile to Hart. ‘You see we are treating you quite as one of ourselves. And that reminds me – your sad loss – you'll need, I have no doubt, to be thinking, however reluctantly, about your own position. I cannot recommend our Mr. Busby too highly if you should need professional advice. I can tell you, he knows more about our family than I ever shall. I spoke of you to him – I trust you will not mind it – and he actually brought out a map of your estates at Winchelsea in the Savannah.'

‘It's more than I have ever seen,' said Hart. ‘But of course, those estates are in British hands now.'

‘A terrible war,' said Mr. Purchas. ‘Cousin against cousin, brother against brother. We Whigs have been against it from the start. Let us drink to a speedy end to it.'

‘With all my heart,' said Hart.

He slept late next morning and was waked by Dick's man Price, with an armful of Dick's clothes. ‘Mr. Dick sent you these, sir. London togs, to keep you going until you're fitted out with your own mourning. And he says to tell you that Mr. Busby is here and should be ready for you when you've had your breakfast. Mr. Purchas and Mr. Dick have been with Busby since nine o'clock,' he confided.

‘And Mr. George?'

‘Left in the night, sir. Said the bed was too hard. “If you should need me,” he says to the footman, cool as a cucumber, “my club will find me.”'

‘His club?'

‘The Cocoa Tree, sir.'

Mr. Busby was a neat little man in shiny black and a tie-wig. He looked exhausted from his long session with Mr. Purchas and Dick but greeted Hart with enthusiasm. ‘The American heir,' he said. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Purchis, and I trust you will let me serve you in every way I can. It's a question, I understand from Mr. Dick of … er … funds?'

‘Precisely so,' said Hart. ‘You call me the American heir, Mr. Busby, but I must tell you that the greater part of the American estate – the plantation and house at Winchelsea – has been sequestered by you British. And for all I know, the house in Savannah as well.'

‘Unfortunate.' Mr. Busby put his hands together and looked severely at the fingertips. ‘Most unfortunate. But there is, I understand, also a question of a house in Charleston?'