Another Small Kingdom (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-nine

I
n his comfortable rooms Darcy drank tea with Bentley. To the outsider, had one been present, they would have presented the perfect picture of Boston, rich, relaxed, confident and without any care to trouble their days.

Bentley held a letter out to Darcy.

‘It came today.'

Darcy took it, read it, then handed it back.

‘What the hell was he doing there?'

‘A good question and one to which I wish I had an equally good answer.' He put away the letter. ‘All I know is that our lawyer friend is murdered in New Orleans and that St Clair is also dead, perhaps even at Macleod's hands.'

Darcy looked up from his cup in surprise.

‘What makes you say that?'

‘Macleod runs off from Boston leaving some cock-and-bull story behind. Now we find he turns up dead in New Orleans just after St Clair is murdered. Wouldn't you say that was all a little bit too much to be coincidence?'

‘You mean Macleod was sent to kill St Clair?'

‘It's possible. He spoke fluent French, could handle a firearm, was brave enough and knew how to obey orders. At least he did when I knew him as a soldier. One way or the other it looks like he became yet another expendable unit in our dirty game. I shall miss him, Darcy, indeed I shall.'

‘Well I can't say I will.'

‘No, I dare say you won't. Still, we can't let these things trouble us too much. St Clair's death is a nuisance but nothing more. His main usefulness was past, he had become little more than a posting stage now that the operation is pretty much in place. What we must concentrate on now is what you brought back from Washington.'

‘Ah, so I'm finally to be told what was in that mysterious sealed parcel I was sent to Washington to collect and run all the way to Philadelphia to pass on. Seering you rushed me off with a wounded hand I hope it was worth it.'

‘Your hand survived so that's no matter. What you were given was the first part in the finalé of our enterprise.'

Darcy put down his cup.

‘Really? We're ready at last?'

‘We are and the first step is already in train. A few years ago a journalist called Callender published a pamphlet. It was a virulent but populist attack on Jefferson's opponent, John Adams, claiming he was a monarchist and deeply involved in political corruption. Jefferson used his secretary, Lewis, to put Callender up to it and Callender expected to be well paid if and when Jefferson got to be President. Once Jefferson got the Presidency, Callender thought he'd get to be Postmaster of Richmond as his reward. But Jefferson gave him nothing. Callender had money troubles and his political enemies, of which there were plenty, were making things hot for him so he went to Jefferson, but Jefferson sent him packing. As you may imagine, it wasn't hard for friends of ours to persuade him to publish, in the Richmond Recorder, that Jefferson has for many years kept as his concubine one of his own slaves, a woman named Sally Hemmings. She masquerades as his housekeeper but does her best work on her back apparently.'

‘That's a bit tame surely? Jefferson's a widower and any slave owner might do much the same even with their wives alive.'

‘True. But Jefferson isn't any slave owner and Sally Hemmings isn't just any slave. He's President and she's his late wife's half-sister.'

‘The Devil she is! Has there been any issue?'

‘I don't know and don't much care. Slavery's a powder keg waiting to be ignited and Sally Hemmings will be the match we shall use.'

‘It'll split the country, North against South. Ohio has already come out against it.'

‘They have, but made damn sure they won't find themselves becoming home to black runaways from Kentucky across the river. They'd line the banks with men carrying muskets first. Without slavery cotton is finished and, if cotton is finished, so is the South. If this is properly handled, and believe me it will be, North and South will soon be at each other's throats. When that happens the country will welcome with open arms any strong man who can step in and save us all from civil war. Can't you see, Darcy, it's not the fact of Sally Hemmings, it's the timing.'

‘I see. One more thing, not in itself so very important, but among so many others.'

‘Exactly. We don't want actual war, we want the threat of war. From now on your job will be to see that the pot keeps boiling. The Federalists will take up the story but you must see that they take it up with a vengeance.'

‘And our strong man?'

‘Not yet, Darcy, not yet. He must be seen as the one with clean hands, not for the South nor yet for the North. Neither a die-hard Republican nor die-hard Federalist. An honourable outsider with a proven record of service to his country. Most importantly one who seems to seek nothing for himself, one reluctant to put himself forward for high office. A man all true Americans can trust because he offers the nation peace and security and asks nothing for himself.'

‘Well, tea hardly seems appropriate to this occasion, Bentley. I think brandy is called for.' Darcy went to the table where the brandy and glasses stood and returned with two glasses. ‘When will I get to know the name of our nation's glorious saviour?'

‘In time, Darcy, all in good time. Come, Darcy, these are your rooms so you must choose the toast. What shall it be?'

‘How about, to the beginning of the end?'

‘Yes, I like it. I'll drink to that, sir.'

And they raised their glasses.

‘To the beginning of the end.'

‘The beginning of the end indeed.'

Chapter Forty

M
acleod was considerably alarmed by the attack on him and the attempt on Marie's life.He had taken passage at once on the first ship travelling north, a slow coaster that made several stops and ended its journey at Wilmington, Virginia. From Wilmington they had gained passage after three days on a ship headed directly for New York. From there, Macleod knew they would have no difficulty in completing their journey.

Marie had remained calm and seemingly untroubled by the delays and discomforts of the long, slow journey. Macleod put the change down to the attempt on her life in Charleston. He assumed that it had made her realise, at last, the true gravity of their position. Whatever had caused the change he accepted it gladly because his mind was fully occupied trying to work out how to get her to agree to go to Washington instead of trying to take what she knew to the British.

Macleod's assessment of Marie's manner was somewhat wide of the mark. Once into the sea voyage from Charleston, Marie had had time to reflect on her situation and how she had dealt with it, and she was not happy about either. She was penniless and a fugitive who had survived one attempt on her life and might expect others to follow unless she could reach safety. As for her actions since the murder of her husband, she had behaved throughout like a child. Since leaving New Orleans she had been by turns petulant, pouting, cajoling and shrewish as the mood had taken her, and she had cast Macleod in whatever role best suited her mood. It was the behaviour of a child and a spoilt child at that.

At sea, and not having to share a cabin under the pretence of being married she had been grateful for time to think, not only about what had already happened to her and what might yet come to pass but also about herself, who she was and what she wanted to become.

She had grown up a happy and indulged child and her happiness lasted until she was sixteen. At seventeen she had become a wife and at eighteen had achieved the status of a pretty caged bird, called on to do nothing, think nothing and say nothing. The happy child had gone but it was not a real woman who had taken its place. It was a half-child, a crippled child, a pretty doll, but a broken one.

From Wilmington to New York she felt lost in her reflections and time seemed suspended. She was lost on an inner journey that should have begun years before.

That gentle, dreaming half-world ceased abruptly when the ship docked at New York. New York stunned her. She didn't have time to see much. They changed ship and were on their way within two days, but what she saw was enough to make her revise her views from top to bottom. She was shocked by the size of its buildings, by its abundant dirt and the incessant noise and clamour. Its activity and energy confused her. Most of all she was frightened by the city's obvious and overwhelming contempt for the individual. The New York Marie encountered, albeit briefly, was a buzzing hive packed with frantic, faceless hordes always on the move. Marie de Valois, the society beauty, the lady of fashion, the epitome of Southern grace had finally come face to face with – Industry. The Southern Belle beheld that almost mythical beast, the North.

On setting sail once again her thoughts had ceased to be detached and reflective. In only two days New York had changed her. The city had opened her eyes to a horizon of possibilities she had never even guessed could exist.

The women of New York were not delicate, refined creatures to be cared for and pampered and in return be gracious and amusing. She had seen women, well-dressed women, moving almost as equals in the thronging hordes, jostled and jostling, women busy making a place for themselves, women with minds of their own and spirits to match. No matter that she had seen little and understood less, no matter that hers was merely a glimpse round a curtain. As New York receded she finally knew that what she would become was hers to make for herself. She must be like those women in New York, she would be jostled by circumstance but she would respond in kind. Whatever she had been, she would now become a real woman and a capable woman at that. She needed to think and act independently, to make decisions and follow them through. She needed to embrace the spirit of the brutal, dirty, energetic, awful, marvellous North.

And Macleod saw none of this. Macleod saw her quiet and gave thanks that she was so, for he was as busy with his own thoughts for the future as she was with hers. So it was that they travelled for days on end together, miles apart.

The Marie de Valois who disembarked at Boston saw herself as a sort of Jeanne d'Arc figure, a woman who could not only survive in the world of men but succeed and excel. When Macleod stood next to her on Boston dry land he felt a great surge of relief. He beamed a smile at Marie as if to say, look, here we are at last and it is wonderful.

The new Marie accepted the smile with a mixture of nobility, suffering and a new strength of purpose.

Macleod thought she looked tired, and that possibly she was hungry.

‘Boston at last, home and, I think, safe now. I'll arrange for our things to be taken to my house and then take you there so you may eat and rest. Wait here.'

Macleod strode off and Marie stood and watched him go.

Was she safe? Would this man whom, in truth, she hardly knew, help her to get to the British and real safety or would he betray her?

Then she realised that Macleod had been right. She was tired, no, not just tired, weary. And she
was
hungry, hungry for real food, a hot meal served at a dining table with wine in crystal glasses. She wanted quiet and rest and comfort. Well then, she would let him provide for her immediate needs and, once recovered, she would consider what was her best course of action.

Macleod soon returned.

‘I've arranged for a carriage to come and take us and our things to my house.'

‘I would be happy to walk if it is what you wish.'

Macleod grinned. Nothing, not even a liberal dose of Marie's humility could dampen his spirits now he was back in Boston.

‘Walk! Why this is Boston, this is where I live. Your arrival here must be celebrated in style. There is no question of walking.' He looked down the quay. ‘Ah, there it is.' An open carriage was making its way slowly down the busy quay. Marie watched until it stopped beside them.

She hesitated.

‘But an open carriage?'

‘Why not? The weather is warm. The drive will be pleasant.'

‘We will be seen. No, more than that, we will on display. It is too dangerous. I beg you, find us something more discreet.'

Macleod was a little annoyed. He had deliberately asked for an open carriage. He wanted Marie to see his home city. He was proud of Boston and he wanted to display it to her. Now she had raised an objection and, worse, for her it was a perfectly reasonable objection. The carriage arrived and stopped beside them.

‘Come. This is Boston, my home. We will be seen, yes, but by people who will be your friends and neighbours. There are no enemies here, I assure you.' But he could see that Marie was anything but reassured. ‘Marie, I have not brought you here to be a prisoner in my house. I have brought you here to be safe, to be surrounded by friends who will protect you. Rely on me and trust my judgement. Boston will be safe.' Macleod opened a door and offered her his hand. Reluctantly, with no other choice but to accept, Marie got into the carriage and sat down.

Macleod, pleased with himself, joined her and pulled the door shut. The driver loaded their luggage behind, mounted his seat and slowly turned the carriage. Macleod sat back with a contented smile. He told the driver to take the route round the Common. As the carriage pulled out of the dock area and crossed Dock Square and began to move through the familiar city streets in the sunlight Macleod felt sure Marie had been wrong and he was right. This was Boston, his city. These people were his neighbours. What ill could befall them here? What ill indeed?

Chapter Forty-one

D
arcy hurried along the street, took the club steps two at a time, went through the hall and looked into the large assembly room where a few men were drinking and talking. One of them looked at him standing in the doorway.

‘Darcy, come and join us. We were just discussing …'

‘I'm looking for Bentley.'

‘He was here, I saw him. Try the reading room.'

Darcy re-crossed the hall and went into another room, looked around and saw Bentley sitting reading a newspaper.

‘Bentley, I need to speak to you.' Another gentleman reader, seated nearby, lowered his paper and looked angrily at Darcy. Darcy ignored him. ‘I need to talk to you urgently. It's business and the kind of business I don't think should be kept waiting.'

Bentley folded his paper deliberately, stood up and dropped it onto his chair. They left the club reading room and walked out into the hall.

‘Well, what's so urgent?'

Darcy looked around, the hall was empty.

‘I've just seen Macleod.'

‘What!'

‘Riding in a carriage and looking precious pleased with himself.'

‘It was definitely Macleod, you couldn't have been mistaken?'

‘It was Macleod all right, still dressed like a country parson but with a damn pretty woman sitting next to him. Do you know what I think?'

‘No. Tell me, Darcy, what do you think?'

Darcy ignored Bentley's tone.

‘Dead or alive he was no more in New Orleans than you or I, it's my opinion he was away somewhere courting a new young wife.'

‘A wife?'

‘He was in an open carriage where everyone could see him and the young woman was alongside him. There's no mama, no chaperone and they have luggage at the back. They've obviously travelled together from wherever he found her and, as she doesn't look to me like some pretty bit of flotsam picked up in a port somewhere, I'd hazard a guess at a new wife, wouldn't you?' But Bentley was not interested in hazarding any guess so Darcy continued. ‘Whatever she is, wife or no wife, one thing is certain, Macleod is not dead. That report you got was wide of the mark by some distance.'

Darcy waited while Bentley digested his news.

‘Get on your way, Darcy, I need to think about this. When I've decided what we are to do, if anything, I'll come to your rooms.'

Darcy turned and left and Bentley turned to the reading room but decided he needed to think about Darcy's news and would prefer to do his thinking free from any possible interruption. He collected his coat and hat and left the club, crossed Beacon Street and walked out on to Boston Common.

What a damned unpredictable man Macleod was, gone from Boston one minute, dead in New Orleans the next and then back to life and in Boston again taking the air with a mysterious young lady. What would the erratic fellow do next? Whatever he was up to, he wasn't a man on the run from anyone, nor worried about who knew he was back.

Bentley walked on through the Park where a few cows still grazed and, with the trees, gave the place an air of countryside. His path took him well away from the few other strollers as he set himself to thinking about Macleod and his young lady and whether their sudden appearance might require him to take any action. His steps and thoughts finally brought him to the far side of the Common and the Burying Ground. He stopped and looked at the lines of headstones.

The sight of these memorials to mortality brought him to a conclusion. Yes, Macleod was proving nothing if not unpredictable and any loose cannon, even such a small one, was an unwanted complication at this time and might well require him to take some action to fix it. Fix it once and for all.