Chapter 4
August passed like a dancer, graceful and sweating. Frog song thrilled from the reed grass, raccoons hunted among the ripened cornstalks, and turtles slumbered away the afternoons on gray rocks comforted by the sun.
At Merry’s home the cook boiled the rutabagas Merry had drawn, and served them in a lamb pie on the fourth Tuesday of the month.
An owl with long downy ears took up residence in an old squirrel’s nest inside the walnut tree that overlooked the garden, and Aunt April was pleased because it would keep the mole population down.
Henry Cork went to the Quaker meeting house and preached violently and at length about the Holy Virgin and the Catholic saints until the Quakers were driven from their own building.
And the unicorn came often. Merry could feel it when she came to her room at night, waiting in the twilight behind the dark folds of the curtains.
The pictures from the tavern were to be the last that she would draw for Carl, who had said not so jokingly that it would be better to let a few British spies wreak havoc with the war effort than expose Merry to that much danger again.
Merry was ashamed of the new secret woman inside her who questioned whether he cared for her so deeply or whether he was worried about how he’d explain things to their father if anything happened to her.
Even under the blight of that cynical thought she missed him, and she wasn’t likely to see him again, or Sally and Jason either, until Sally’s wedding, which would be next June, war permitting.
Merry had worked and reworked the sketches Carl wanted, and the results had pleased him.
She had been able to draw not only the traitor but the man he had been with—the pirate John Farley, whom Rand Morgan had come to the Musket and Muskrat “only to frighten,” which, Carl had told her later, had included cutting off the little finger on each of his hands.
She had drawn Morgan as well, and the boy called Cat, although not without a lingering, superstitious fear that the act might make them materialize before her.
Carl had sent the sketches to the Secretary of the Navy, William Jones, for use at his discretion.
The only face she could not draw well was that of the blond man who had hidden her from the other pirates.
Each sketch she made was wrong in one way or another.
No matter how hard she tried to capture them, his tantalizing features remained memorable in their effect on her, elusive in their reproduction.
It was difficult to draw such a beautiful face; her hand seemed to rebel against that unnatural perfection.
Or perhaps some secret avenue of her mind had closed him off and shut away the sweet pain of remembered passion.
It had all become less real to her with the waning of the month; the spying, the seacoast tavern, the pirates, and Devon.
Hot and sticky September filtered in, bringing moments when she even asked herself if his kiss had been another fantasy like those her imagination had made for her in the past.
And as the days of September began to lessen and the night at the seacoast grew further away it became less real as well, gathering to itself the arabesque curlicues of legend.
She would play the evening through in her mind like a playwright working on a script, and give it different endings and plot twists: She salvaged her pride with fierce resistance; she resourcefully captured the pirates single-handedly.
Then there was the one ending she couldn’t acknowledge.
It had come to her in a dream of scruples abandoned and fear tossed away, a dream of submission and resultant joy, her senses reeling with the warm, sweet scent of his skin, his golden hair like silk under her fingertips.
There was something in the power, the energy, the intelligence of this man that made him different, the way gold is from copper, and diamonds from glass chips.
Anything he chose to do, he could have done well; why had he chosen to do it with Rand Morgan?
Quick riches had been Carl’s guess, for Devon wasn’t a man who seemed likely to be content with little.
But there, how quickly one could fill with speculation the vacuum of the pirate’s background and identity.
He was a man who would remain a mystery, and the secret would likely die with him on the blood-slicked deck of a burning ship.
Life had waxed more complex. Merry would sit by the duck pond in a clump of ferns watching the water beetles scud between the lily pads and think about the secret people she had discovered hiding inside her, the whimpering child who had appeared at her first taste of real terror, and the woman learning desire in the arms of a pirate. Surely she must exorcise them both.
Her home was safe and as rich in pretty domesticity as it was sterile in challenges to the soul; it was as though she were living in the clean, pink interior of a moon shell.
The months passed in fluid order, filled with precious detail and suppressed longing.
And Merry tried to let the pleasing minutiae of her days blot the gloss from her newly awakened senses.
Autumn was warm, wet, and golden; the mosquitoes were intolerable. To repel them, each night until the first frost Merry slept with brown sugar burning on coals in a chafing dish near her bed and woke daily to the sharp tang of charred sugar.
In October she husked corn with the housemaids.
The project lasted a whole week because Aunt April despised as too plebeian the American custom of inviting the neighbors over to a husking bee.
For days the fresh garden air was busy with the rustle of dry husks and the snap of cobs cracking and laughter as well, for Henry Cork did his best to claim the traditional kiss from any maiden who came across a red cob, and the housemaids pelted him with smut ears in lively battles.
November brought them chillier days. The itinerant woodchopper came in his coarse boots, carrying his broad ax and his canvas bundle. When he moved on again, there was an artfully balanced stack of wood by the horse barn for their winter fires.
Christmas! Mistletoe and red holly berries, ribbons and wax candles, chains cut from gaily colored paper and hung in swags around the drawing room, and Aunt April at the aging spinet playing “The Boar’s Head Carol” and “When Christ Was Born of Mary Free.” On Christmas morning Merry and April sat through services in the unheated church in itchy woolen mittens and heavy caps under their best bonnets and then walked home to the delectable meal April had prepared of stuffed roast goose, brussels sprouts with almonds, roast potatoes, apple Yule logs, mince pie, and a plum pudding sprigged with holly and glowing blue brandy flames.
In the evening they sat by the hearth nibbling on oysters cooked with lemon on toast that her aunt called angels on horseback, and opened and exclaimed happily over their gifts: light imported cologne to Merry from April, a lilac gauze scarf to April from Merry, and to both of them a generous length of pale-green mohair for new drawing-room window curtains from Merry’s father, and a three-volume set of Mysteries of Udolpho from Sally.
And that night as they walked arm in arm to their bedchambers they both agreed that no Christmas together had been happier.
In January Merry sewed the new drawing-room curtains with her aunt and made twelve fine, large cheeses, and in late February, when a traveling showman came to the village with a moose to display, Merry snuck off in Henry Cork’s company to see it.
For nine pence one purchased a ticket to see the beast and a handbill praising its excellence.
The handbill read: “The properties of this fleet and tractable Animal are such as will give pleasure and satisfaction to every beholder.” Fleet the Animal proved to be, but tractable it was not.
Through some mysterious expedient that Merry suspected was related to Henry Cork’s presence near its cage, the moose got loose, bit the showman, and galloped off into the woods, providing a great deal more pleasure and satisfaction to all beholders than its hapless owner had anticipated.
Far away the war raged, and the town children ran under gray skies shooting each other with stick rifles and hiding as scalping parties behind the starkly winter-bared trees.
The parson’s youngest son stole away to become a drummer for the 56th Virginia Militia, and the Richmond Enquirer was thick with advertisements like the one urging: “Gentlemen wishing uniforms embroidered in a prompt and neat manner will please apply to No. 6 Babcock Alley.”
The campaign against British Canada had failed miserably.
At the Chateauguay River a sizable chunk of the American Army got lost in a swamp and shot each other up, while the main body fled in wild retreat before a small British force when the British buglers sounded a dramatically overconfident charge.
Merry heard through her father that Carl had retired to winter quarters at French Mills with Upham’s 21st Infantry, where the food and housing were abysmal and the sanitary conditions of such a nature that a gentleman could not relate them in a polite communication to his daughter.
And from Sally came the tidings that Jason was ill but improving from a Tower musket ball in the hip, taken in a skirmish against braves from Weatherford’s Red Sticks near Fort Strother, on the southern frontier.
In a flurry of concern Merry sent wool socks to Carl and one of the homemade cheeses to Jason and received back a friendly note from Carl and a very funny letter from Jason about the adventures that had befallen her cheese on its way to him, as deduced from its condition on arrival.
They said little of what they must be suffering, and their courage awed and inspired Merry.