Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (44 page)

If Colleen could explain the presence of Alexander Pope's risqué rhymes to her father, there was also, in her possession, a small packet of tracts and broadsides for which she could not so easily account. The pamphlets had been written by people whom Roy considered dangerous, and the broadsides were political satires that Colleen had written herself, and kept hidden deep in the bottom drawer of her dresser, beneath her most intimate undergarments. Her passion for the fiery words of freedom had flowered four years earlier, when she was sixteen. Her heart had been broken because Jason Paxton had departed for Europe to study music. Without romance's golden fantasies, she was devastated. All this she had confessed to her aunt. In fact, she'd gone so far as to show her a poem she'd written about Jason. “I can see that you're an artist,” Rianne had responded sympathetically, “but art won't bring him back. Art sends the soul soaring, but politics is the pudding of daily life. Have a taste of pudding, my dear. Look around and see what these English fools are foisting upon us. Wake up from your poetic fantasies!” And with that, Rianne gave her niece Thomas Paine's
Common Sense
.

Young and impressionable, Colleen read the tract in one fevered sitting, and learned in the following weeks to recite many lines by heart: “Examine the passions and feelings of mankind; bring the doctrine of reconciliation to the touchstone of nature, and then tell me whether you can hereafter love, honor, and faithfully serve the power that hath carried fire and sword into your land.” No, she decided; she could not serve that power. It was plain and simple, it was common sense as the title itself said. The British were tyrants who robbed the colonists of what was rightfully theirs—their fair share of commerce and trade, and, most precious of all, their personal freedom.

In the months that followed, and as America's armies of the North were beaten and ran and were beaten again, she became convinced that duty demanded she contribute to the cause so eloquently expressed and in such great danger. In a style at first strained and turgid, then more and more cutting and eloquent, she wielded the only weapon she had—her pen. For the last year, the name Sandpiper, the songbird of the coast and a natural pseudonym, had begun showing up on an occasional broadside displayed aroud the countryside and in Charleston, whose recent surrender to the hated British sword chilled Colleen's heart and redoubled her patriotic convictions.

Checking to make certain her bedroom door was closed, she quickly opened the drawer and there, beneath hosiery and chemises, found the well-worn broadsides—sheets of paper containing revolutionary lyrics—and pamphlets that reflected the passion of the patriots. And among them, there was another sheet that meant nearly as much to her as all the others combined—a letter from Jason Paxton.

The paper he had touched, the words that his hands had penned! Whenever she held it, he seemed close to her, so close that she could imagine the sound of his voice and picture his soft lips as he might have said the words himself.

Emilia, Italy

January 8, 1780

My dear friend,

I trust this finds you in robust health. I'm deeply grateful for your several letters, the last of which I received before leaving England for the Continent. News of the war distresses me, as always, and were it not for my music, my mood would be exceedingly melancholy. I suppose it fair to say that music enables me to escape the pressing reality of worldy affairs—at least for a while.

After three years in England, I'm finally seeing the rest of Europe, and for the last several months have been traveling and absorbing the sights. Autumn here is incredibly beautiful. The colors are magnificent, and as one sits a fine horse alone at the crack of day and watches the sun sparkle on the frost and bring the rainbow palette of the landscape to flaming life, one can only revel in life. For one glorious week, my companions and I stalked the nimble chamois, a deerlike creature of the mountains here. How good it felt to be outdoors and at one with nature again! As important and as glorious as music is, I must never forget that part of me that loved to tramp the woods, to scale cliffs and swing from ropes, to ride and hunt and shoot. Before art, there was the struggle to survive, and though I believe art to be the crowning glory of mankind, I also believe that the man who lives for art and art alone, and expects the harsh realities of life to somehow take care of themselves, is, no matter what his achievements, only half a man.

Philosophy aside, I must report that the art is glorious. There is a whole universe of painting and sculpture here that Americans can only imagine. And the music? Ah, the music! In Salzburg, I sat in a chamber surrounded by cherubim of glittering gold and listened to
concerti
written and performed on pianoforte, that most marvelous of modern inventions, by a man, I'm ashamed to say, younger than myself. His name is Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and if I tell you that his genius for technical perfection and lofty elevation of sentiment exceeds even the great Bach, I exaggerate not in the least.

In Vienna, I was privileged to hear the
divertimenti
os Josef Haydn, Mozart's teacher, a strangely introverted man whose work rivals the ethereal joys of his extraordinary student.

I've now reached my destination. I write you from Emilia, a section of the Italian peninsula wedged between Bologna and Milan. I'm in the city of Parma, at the Conservatorio di Musica, where, with the gracious help of my Charleston patrons Robin Courtenay and Piero Sebastiano Ponti, doors and opportunities have been opened to me. I'm studying composition with the masters of
opera seria
and
opera buffa
while also spending much time in the nearby city of Cremona, where the sons of Antonio Stradavari craft violins, the sweet sounds of which fill my eyes with tears.

Yet amid such lovely and lofty strands, why is my heart so heavy? For days a fog has covered this mysterious city. This morning is bitterly cold and uncomfortably humid, and how I long for the fragrance of magnolia! These years away from home seem an eternity. I've been living a long, beautiful dream, but one that soon must come to an end. I can escape no longer. I've arranged passage back to America. Look for me in the spring, Colleen.

My various motives can and will be explained later. Suffice it to say that I'm not unaware of the terrible ways in which my homeland has suffered. From afar, I've felt the pain inflicted from every quarter. Even the sublime genius of Herr Mozart cannot assuage my pain. I've learned that though I dearly love the music of this ancient continent, there is an even deeper love within my soul … for the place of my birth.

Your letters and lines of poesy, my loyal friend, have been of comfort to me, and I only wish I could have found the time to write more often. This will have to be my final word to you before we see one another again in Brandborough. Please convey my regards to your distinguished father and your kind aunt.

With sincere affection, I am your friend, Jason Behan Paxton

Sincere affection! Loyal friend!
Why not
love?
she wondered. Why not
passion?
Of course he couldn't be expected to include such words. She was glad that he had responded at all. And naturally she was overjoyed that he was actually coming home. She thought back over their long separation. He had written only three letters in four years, and each with the same friendly but distant tone. Had he fallen in love? Would he return with a wife? Surely he would have mentioned a marriage. But, just as surely, the women in the courts of London, Salzburg, and Paris were devastatingly beautiful and irresistibly enchanting. What would he say when he saw her? Certainly he'd consider her provincial, and yet he'd taken the time to write, which meant he cared—at least a little. He must have been impressed with the European writers she told him she'd read, in French as well as English. She'd mentioned her favorite poets, and surely he realized that she was no fool. In her long letters, hadn't she displayed an understanding of the political turmoil that South Carolina faced? Yet, strangely enough, when it came to politics, he had been mysteriously silent, except to indicate his sympathy to the plight of his own people.

But how could he not be sympathetic? He was an artist, and artists were sensitive people, and together they would be artists dedicated to the cause of the revolution. If only she had sent him the poems that expressed her true feelings for him instead of those celebrating the Carolinian countryside in rhyming couplets! Yet, how could she—yet a child, no doubt, in his memories—have told him the truth? How she wished she could send him a portrait of the woman she'd become!

Colleen's eyes went from the letter to the open window. The breeze was blowing stronger, the ship was in full view and nearing port. She found herself trembling ever so slightly. Even in a letter so brief, his words had intoxicated her. She could feel the sincerity of his emotions, the depths of his very being. How lonely he must have been! How lonely she had been without him!

“You'll not insult your Mr. Somerset by making him wait. Do you hear me, lass, or shall I say it again?” her father's voice rang through the house.

“I'm going to my bath, Papa. I won't be long.”

“Don't do no good fo' me to heat water, girl, ya lollygag aroun' an' let it git col'.” As thin, tall, and gnarled as a split-rail stuck upright in the ground, Portia stood with arms on hips and glowered as her mistress ran up the steps of the bathhouse.

“Don't be such an ogre, Portia.” Colleen laughed, hurrying inside and testing the water with her foot. “Mmm. Just right. The day's warm enough. Slightly cool is fine, thank you.”

“Yo' backside be slightly warm, was ya my chile,” Portia grumbled. “Make a soul stan' aroun' when they's work to be done. Give me that robe now, and git yo'self in an' washed.”

The light inside the bathhouse was dim and soft, the great sweetgum tub filled with inviting water. Colleen handed Portia her robe and stepped in, sank into the water with a sigh. Slowly, neck, back, knees, calves, and thighs relaxed in the soothing liquid. Outside, a cardinal sang its repetitious song, and some wrens that made their home in the tree that shaded the bathhouse chirped softly. Inside, the stillness was a balm that, with the water, calmed Colleen's anxious thoughts. The fragrance of the rich wood, like some exotic perfume, transported her to a magic forest where, with closed eyes, she envisioned lovely maples, pines, and long-leaf poplars, and thought of Jason's slender face, the softness of his chestnut-brown eyes, which had always appeared half closed to her, far away, lost in a misty dream. It had been that very expression—she still saw it so clearly—that had rendered her helpless on the day of his departure. The day had been warm and blustery, tinged with an air of excitement, as there always was when a ship sailed. His father standing gruffly by, and flanked by his twin sisters, Jason had been bright-eyed and animated as the hour for his departure approached. The dock was crowded and chaotic as the final provisions were loaded and the crew hurried about its tasks. Horses whinnied, winches and blocks squealed, children ran about shouting and getting underfoot. And in the midst of the madness, Colleen had arrived at virtually the last minute. She hadn't planned to go to the dock—had feared she would cry or otherwise make a fool of herself—but the thought of not seeing him one more time had been too much to bear.

Had she been, then, after all, as silly as she'd feared? Stumbling, hurrying through the crowd, she'd run up to him and, her tongue leaden, had uttered a single, pathetic “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Colleen,” he'd said. “You'll write me, won't you?”

“Of course. I—”

But he'd turned away from her at the boatswain's call. Quickly, he embraced his father and shook his hand, then, Colleen forgotten, bent to kiss his sisters and started up the gangplank.

The sight almost broke her heart. Unable to control herself, Colleen had run after him and had thrown her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him, and, standing on tiptoes, found his mouth with hers. His lips were soft. She had kissed him only once before, and she remembered the sensation as though it had been the day before—the sharp, manly taste of his skin, the moistness of his tongue. Her head whirled with the intimacy of the moment, her heart beat madly as his eyes, his beautiful, sleepy eyes, registered pleasure. She backed off as he smiled. Had he felt the heat of her passion? Had he considered her silly? Had he considered her at all? But there'd been no time to know, no time to ask, because he'd turned and bade his father and sisters a final farewell and walked up the gangplank and out of her life.

Four years, she reflected as the mysterious melody from the sea returned and stirred her to life. Four years and nothing less than a revolution, a transformation from girl to woman. Four years and still, even as she soaked in the cooling water, the song whose source was the white sails moving slowly, steadily over the blue-green sea, came closer and closer.

Chapter 2

Jason Behan Paxton stood on deck listening to a strange, silent song, his eyes fixed on the distant shore he had left four long years earlier. Next to him was his good friend Captain Peter Tregoning of His Majesty's military command. The two were a study in contrast.

Both men were the same age, twenty-five, and of the same height, but while Peter was big-boned, Jason was thinly built. The musician's soft, sensitive face and sloped, smoky brown eyes gave him the profile of a poet as he leaned over the railing and pondered the deep. Draped over his shoulders was a charcoal gray woolen cape, simply but elegantly cut, that he'd purchased in Parma. The wind blew freely through the mass of springy brown curls that crowned his head, giving him an angelic look of disorderly charm. His eyes, deep-set and distant, were accented above by thick, angular brows. Inadvertently, he felt inside his cape and shirt for the gold amulet that hung on a chain around his neck. The family heirloom, passed down from his grandmother, Marie Ravenne, displayed a spreading oak tree entwined with brambles, its design a reminder of all he'd left and all that awaited him.