Caxton (21 page)

* * *

And one of them was right, and the other wrong — about England.
Both men were certain of it. This was the nature of their rivalry. Yet, for
the moment, even this did not much concern them. Nothing else divided
them but England. Not even Etáin McRae.

Jack Frake had grown in love with her over a period of years. This did
not mean, however, that he had not noticed other women. But all other
women had disappointed him. Some telling things in their words or
behavior smothered any interest he may have shown in them. Moreover, in
atime when courtship demanded that a man be humble and self-deprecating to a woman whose special esteem he labored to win, Jack could not
force himself to observe the ritual; he could not be what he was not. It
required a dishonesty and charade that revolted every fiber of his being; he
did not tolerate it in anyone, least of all in himself. Although he was neither boastful nor vain, he could see no reason why he should wear the
domino of humility. In a society whose leitmotif was largely a masquerade
of manners, he was artless by choice.

This was one reason why he loved Etáin; the capacity for falsehood,
intrigue, and mannered modesty did not seem to exist in her, just as it did
not exist in himself. She loved him, he was certain, though she had never
said so. He fully expected her to say so, when she was ready, when her
pride and perspective matched his own. When she was certain.

Hugh Kenrick, unaware of the depth of the problem he posed for Etáin,
was only preparing to fall in love with her. Like Jack, he saw a girl-woman
who was steadily progressing toward full womanhood. He, too, was willing
to wait until she revealed her permanent, self-molded character. He
watched her grow, in the years after his arrival in Caxton, with the same
fascination with which he had noted the progress of his mother’s portrait
long ago through the careful, selective strokes of Emery Westcott.

Unlike Jack, he had been wounded in the most painful way a woman
could contrive to hurt a man: by rejecting him for his virtues. A woman
scorned might seek vengeance to salve her injured pride. A man so scorned
may also seek an impossible justice. Or, he may simply shut himself off
from feminine company until his pride regains its senses and stature. There
was now no other woman Hugh cared to contemplate, except from a wistful
distance. He saw crude traces of Reverdy Brune in all but Etáin. He did not
doubt that a woman such as Selina Granby, regarded as the most beautiful
in Caxton, would in time become a mature, responsible woman, once the
realties of adulthood imposed themselves on her. But, to him, an adulthood
without passion was as deadening as a childhood without vision or hope.
He could imagine such a life, but it was never quite real to him. He could
observe it in others, but it did not concern him.

As with Jack, the discriminating milieu of loneliness moved Hugh to
raise the stakes of solitude, not from a wish to spare himself the sapping
drudgery of a conventional, passionless marriage, but rather to gamble on
the existence of a just goddess. Like Jack’s, his core being was attuned
solely to the enrapturing company of a scintillating paragon, to a woman
who was indivisibly and alluringly noble.

E
arly in 1763, the Caxton
Courier
published the marriage banns of three engaged couples: of James Vishonn and Selina Granby; of
William Granby and Eleanor Cullis; and of Morris Otway and Annyce Vishonn. The nuptials would have been performed that spring in
separate ceremonies in the homes of the brides’ or grooms’ parents, but
Reece Vishonn persuaded all the concerned parties to agree to a triple wedding at Enderly, officiated by Reverend Acland for a special fee. His private
reason was that since two of the children were his own, they would have
been married in his home anyway.

The unusual event also gave him an excuse to combine it with a special
ball to mark the Treaty of Paris, signed in February and officially
announced by Lieutenant-Governor Fauquier at the opening of the new
session of the General Assembly in mid-May. Word of the treaty had
reached Caxton in late April from ship captains fresh from London. Once
the planter had the idea of a wedding-ball, he wasted little time getting out
word of it. Soon after, rumor reached him that the Governor himself might
even attend, arriving in his resplendent gilt coach-and-six. The possibility
sent Reece Vishonn and his wife, Barbara, into joyous if subdued hysteria.
Fauquier did not come, though the general disappointment in this was lessened by the attendance of three of his Council members, who reported that
the Governor was “overly pressed with the business of his office.”

Jack Frake attended the affair. Reece Vishonn kept a nervous though
discreet eye on him the whole time, afraid that he might engage the Council
members in “provocative politics.” Jack reassured his host at one point
after the wedding ceremony, “Have no fear, sir. For the moment, I have said
all I need to say about the consequences of the peace.”

Jack shook his head. “Quite the opposite, sir. I am certain that its management will prove to be a challenge to the skills of liberal men, who must
either be replaced by
petit
tyrants, or become themselves tyrants.”

Reece Vishonn glanced around, hoping that no one else in the crowded
ballroom had heard this. Then he sighed. “Really, sir, a little faith in your
fellow men might greatly contribute to your happiness.” He added, “I mean
no insult, sir, but speak in the role of a friend and fellow planter.”

“None taken, sir,” said Jack with a smile. “However, I must point out
that what you and the others fear, has already begun. The empire is not
secure. No doubt you have read Mr. James Otis’s remarks in the
Gazette
concerning the constitutionality of writs of assistance. Mr. Otis lost that
case in Boston, but the words were spoken and are a matter of record.
Then, there is the matter of the uprising of the Indians on the far frontier,
led by this chief, Pontiac. If I wish the empire any success, it is that His
Majesty’s troops can extinguish it. That is the extent of my faith in my
fellow men.”

“That is only a rumor, sir,” Vishonn said. “There has been nothing in
the
Courier
or the
Gazette
about an uprising.” He paused for a moment to
think. “But, if it is true, what of it?”

Jack shrugged. “Will a military problem be employed, in time, in the
solution of a political one?”
Vishonn scoffed. “I am not aware that there is a political problem, Mr.
Frake. But, I do agree with you about solving the Indian one. If I did not
know any better, I would say that you were a personal advisor to Lord
Amherst on how to best deal with the savages. You
and
Mr. Kenrick, so I’ve
heard.” The planter leaned closer to Jack and said in a near whisper, “I’ve
also heard that Fauquier has nearly convinced Lord Amherst to visit Virginia to see for himself what a tidy state he has put it in. Sir Jeffery
is
our
true Governor, after all. He is so close to the colony, but has been overly
pressed himself with his duties as commander-in-chief and Governor-General.”
“And you would plan another ball,” said Jack, “should he decide to
accept Governor Fauquier’s invitation?”
“Without question, sir,” chuckled Vishonn. He glanced around again.
“Well, there is my wife, waving to me with another problem. Please, enjoy
yourself, sir. And thank you for expressing your good wishes to my son and
daughter.” Reece Vishonn rushed away.
The McRaes were there, as was Etáin with her harp, and as were the
Kenny brothers and almost enough guest musicians from Williamsburg
that, together, they nearly composed an orchestra. Jack spent most of his
time with Etáin and her parents.
In the placid interval between Quebec and the avalanche of events that
was to overtake Virginia and the colonies, Caxton had recovered from, and
reconciled itself to, such local disturbances as the manumission of Hugh
Kenrick’s slaves; Jack’s decision to free his remaining slaves, over their
protests, using the same “Quaker” ruse; Hugh’s conduit, which attracted
the curiosity of some planters beyond Queen Anne County after Wendel
Barret ran a description of it in the
Courier
; Reece Vishonn’s attempt to
duplicate the conduit on his own land with iron pipe, without success; and
the defeated bill, introduced in the House of Burgesses by Edgar Cullis and
William Granby, to impose an eleven-pence per pipe levy on imported
molasses and a three-pence per pound levy on West Indian spices, over and
above what was already imposed by Crown customs collectors, for the purpose of establishing and administering a Virginia-controlled maritime
piloting service on all the colony’s bays and rivers.
There had also been some controversy over the proposal by the
vestrymen of Stepney Parish to approve Hugh’s offer to make available
from his brickyard the materials to create walkways along the shop fronts
on Queen Anne Street, in exchange for a six-year abatement of parish
tithes for Meum Hall. Hugh had hired an itinerant brickmaker, Henry
Zouch, to repair the disused kiln on his property, with the ultimate goal of
making and selling bricks to the rest of the county. Substandard or marginal bricks could be used, he explained to Vishonn and the other
vestrymen, to lay down walkways. “Think of the advantages, sirs,” he told
them. “The proprietors would have cleaner floors, you would have cleaner
boots, and the town could boast of an amenity lacking even in Williamsburg. The mud and dust that we accept as an unavoidable nuisance, could
be baked into sturdy, durable rectangles on which to tread with a confident
foot.” The matter sat unresolved on the vestrymen’s official agenda; the
twelve notables were evenly divided on the practicality of the idea.
At the wedding-ball, one Council member enquired after this remarkable young man, Hugh Kenrick, who eschewed his title, who introduced the
novel ideas, who had freed his slaves. Reece Vishonn had wanted to introduce Hugh to the man — he was quite as proud of having such as person
as his neighbor as he was of Enderly — but the master of Meum Hall was
not in Caxton for the festive occasion.
Hugh Kenrick was aboard the merchantman
Roilance
, bound for
England.

* * *

In April, Hugh received a letter from his father, who wrote: “I have
ventured into a realm I once disdained and swore never to soil my hands
in: politics. I will say no more on this subject. The details can be wrung
from me by you only in person. Your mother and I hope that you are sufficiently intrigued by this teasing revelation that you will think of favoring
us with a visit, if only to satisfy your probable astonishment. My son, you
have been away for five years! Must we remind you of the last time we saw
you, when we waved worried farewells to you in Weymouth Harbor, and
you to us from the deck of the
Sparrowhawk
? Our last sight of you was a
speck of white sail on the horizon, as it carried you to Plymouth and
beyond. I would undertake such a voyage myself to see you and the property — your sketches of it that you sent us are themselves intriguing — but
I do not trust your uncle enough to absent myself from Danvers or London
for so long a period of time. I will say this much, though: Your uncle is one
of the reasons I have purchased a seat in the Commons….”

Hugh was doubly astonished by his father’s news, and by the years.
After a moment, while he sat holding the letter, the significance of all those
years became weightier in his mind than the news of his father entering
politics. Until he read that sentence, it had not seemed so long a time to
him. Those years had been filled with the action of his new life, and they
were no more important to him than if they were chalked strokes on a piece
of slate. He reminded himself many times over those years that he should
go home on a visit, but the reminder became a mere mental habit that
receded further and further to the back of his consciousness, driven there
by the immediate concerns of a vigorous, headlong life.

He had frowned, and read on: “Matters between your uncle and me
have grown so acerbic that we can no longer share Windridge Court. Our
staff are also in bitter conflict with your Uncle Basil’s. We have therefore
taken a long lease on a gracious house in Chelsea called Cricklegate from a
merchant of Mr. Worley’s kind acquaintance. It was designed by Mr. Robert
Adam, and comes well-appointed. It is on Paradise Row, close by to Cheyne
Walk, not far from the river. We have arranged for your sister Alice to
attend a ladies’ academy at nearby Gough House, run by a Mrs. Pemberton,
the widow of an East India Company merchant….

“There has been some progress on the new Blackfriars bridge. The first
arches are completed, and our Portland quarry has supplied a goodly tonnage of stone for it. They are only just now planning to fill up the Fleet
Canal to make a new avenue of it. I cannot, however, help but draw similarities between the bridge and the political situation. The road of peace has
begun, but all I see before us is a chasm gusting with the winds of uncertainty, anger, and avarice….

“By the time you read this, Parliament will have adjourned until
November. Lord Bute is not expected to remain at Treasury for long; that
is, most hope that he will have surrendered the seals of office before the
next session of this Parliament. He is disliked and opposed for a number of
reasons, not least of which is the treaty he has concluded with France.
Although it and the peace preliminaries were violently debated in both
Houses, some aver that he overcame the opposition with base trafficking in
bluster and favors to secure enough votes for approval, so that the treaty
could receive the king’s assent. This favorite of His Majesty is nonetheless
so detested that even Sir Charles Pratt, who is His Majesty’s counsel and a
member of the Privy Council (and lord justice of the Common Pleas — he
is a man to watch!), is one of many who are whispering the notion that the
French minister Choiseul paid Lord Bute handsomely for ‘delivering’ the
treaty. Lord Bute has not one supporter on the Council, excepting the king
himself, who must weep in secret in his closet over the difficulties encountered by his mentor and friend.

“Adding to Lord Bute’s universal unpopularity is his commitment to
the proposed cider tax. The western counties have already promised wholesale civil disobedience if it is made law, even though their representatives
may vote for it. Perhaps the sole person in the kingdom who might express
some gratitude for Lord Bute’s tenure is Dr. Samuel Johnson, who, as you
must have read in the colonial newspapers, was awarded a pension last
year by Lord Bute from the king’s secret service fund. Dr. Johnson must
have gulleted a full tankard of his own pride to have accepted the emolument. It was a pension, tendered by a Scot no less, and only he can know
which he claimed to have abhorred more. Well, even a court jester may
retire with some dignity, but some men of great lights and accomplishment,
it seems, exhibit an unbecoming humility that ranks them beneath the most
craven fool, a humility, I believe, founded on duplicity….

“But once Lord Bute is gone, and a new government is formed, the
great question that will occupy everyone’s minds and labors will be how
this nation is going to pay for its victories….”

There were other matters and subjects reported in Garnet Kenrick’s
letter. “Mr. Worley has disposed of the tobacco you sent. M. Edouard-César
Bric, a commercial agent who purchases for Dutch and Danish interests as
well as for the French Farmers-General, has remarked that your leaf is
among the best quality he has ever seen, and hopes to purchase more. He
intimated to Mr. Worley that he may even venture to the colonies to
appraise their trading situations. The French seem to be as eager to get back
to business as the English.”

His father also discussed some business concerning the
Ariadne
and the
Busy
, but returned to politics again. “Lord Edgremont is ailing and not
expected to survive the year…. Henry Fox was created Lord Holland, Baron
of Foley…. The Marquis of Rockingham, young though he is, is proving to
be ever as much adept as his late father in politics. He appears to be inactive in these matters, but is quietly assembling a party of allied seats in the
Commons. He nearly beat me to the seat I have purchased…. I was proven
wrong about the partnership of your uncle and Sir Hennoch Pannell. They
work well together, it seems, Sir Hennoch being the glove, and your uncle
the hand….”

Garnet Kenrick ended his letter with another plea: “Your mother,
Alice, and I wish most earnestly that you will come, for we are aching to
see the man who has reported to us in his letters his many triumphs in Virginia. Perish the thought that his Herculean labors have so cost him such
affections for us that he must think twice about presenting himself before
proud and happy parents after so long a sojourn…. We are going to Cricklegate in June, so you must address your correspondence there, or perhaps
appear on our doorstep….”

The letter dropped from Hugh’s hand. In that instant he decided to
visit England for a while. There were some plantation matters he wanted
to see to first over the next few weeks. And after he arranged with Mr.
Settle and Mr. Beecroft how to manage Meum Hall while he was gone, he
could leave with an easier mind. He drew forth a sheet of paper, picked up
a quill, and wrote a reply to his father, briefly stating his intention to sail
for England in early May.