Hamilton's Battalion Page 29

  “Yes. Walking is good for the constitution,” Mrs. Hamilton said. She smiled as if remembering something pleasant, and Mercy could see the resemblance in the two women, then—a resemblance that was more than the shared pain between them. “I have some matters concerning the orphanage to deal with that came in with the post. There was also something for you, Mercy.”

  She handed over a slip of thick, rough-edged paper that had been folded and sealed with a dollop of wax. Mercy didn’t recognize the hand behind the scrawl of her name, but there was something about the way the letters sloped to the right, as if running full-tilt toward the future, that made her heart beat a bit faster. She wanted to rip the seal off immediately, but no. She would wait.

  Patience. Temperance. She’d worked hard on developing those habits in her daily life. She couldn’t throw them away after one trip to the theater.

  She tucked the letter into her apron pocket, then walked over and helped Angelica with her shawl.

  They walked slowly through the gardens, arms linked. Mercy ignored the weighted flap of her apron pocket in the wind.

  “Do you think that birds have music in their souls?” Angelica asked suddenly, and Mercy leaned her head to the side as she pondered the question.

  “I would say so. They sing beautifully, do they not?”

  “I’m of the same mind,” Angelica said, pleased with Mercy’s answer. “Do you think birds can love?”

  Mercy was struck with the memory of a bird flying by with ribbon trailing from its beak. “They mate, and build nests, and raise children. I suppose they can love, in their own birdish way. Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t you see?” Angelica looked at her as if the point was obvious, then continued when Mercy simply stared. “Music can make you feel anything: happiness or sadness, longing or excitement. If the birds can create their birdsong, then they must be able to feel. And if they can feel, they can love. Imagine what that’s like, being able to fly and to sing and to love! It’s not fair, really. I wish I was a bird.”

  She flapped her arms playfully and gazed up at the spring sky, and Mercy inhaled deeply. She should have warned the woman, reminded her that flying too high was dangerous, but Angelica was enraptured by the sparrows wheeling overhead. Mercy followed her gaze. When was the last time she’d looked up instead of at the ground? Appreciated birdsong as something other than an indicator of the time of day?

  “It must be quite something,” Mercy said. The letter in her apron slapped at her thigh again, as if seeking her attention. Quite as distracting as Andromeda herself.

  “Do you think I should read the letter I received, Miss Hamilton?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Angelica responded, gaze still on the birds. “I love receiving letters, don’t you? I expect one from Philip soon. He always writes from school. Whom is yours from?”

  “Mine is from…” Mercy pulled the paper out and unsealed it, and a wave of something too close to happiness went through her. Too close to a bird wheeling and chirping, carried on invisible currents.

  “An admirer?” Angelica guessed.

  Yes. No. She shouldn’t be. Oh, but I want her to be, though.

  “A…friend, I suppose.”

  “Friends can be admirers,” Angelica pointed out helpfully.

  Mercy read, keeping in step with Angelica’s amble.

  Dear Mercy,

  I hope your voyage back to the wilds of Harlem was not too taxing. I admit, I was saddened to see you go, and not just because your dress was in the same sorry state as when you arrived. While it’s no secret that you find me a bit vexing, I am having some difficulty finding a matching flaw in your person. I suppose you are somewhat priggish, but I don’t find this trait a flaw as it pertains to you. I do hope to have the pleasure of your company again, if only to see if I’m mistaken about that.

  I imagine The Grange to be a lonely place, and thus I offer myself to you. In friendship, I suppose. That’s a start.

  Curiously yours,

  Andromeda

  The letter was bold, and possibly dangerous if anyone else had opened it, but Mercy would wrinkle her brow about that later. For a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself the throb of possibility in her blood. The remembrance of Andromeda’s fingertips on her jaw, so close to brushing her bottom lip. Four knuckles pressing into her back. Then she folded the paper and tucked it back into her pocket.

  Mercy had been quite sure that she was above such foolish emotion, but even her mental reprimands could not stop certain notions from stirring. She wanted to press her hands to her chest, to push and push until she crushed that fledgling feeling beneath her palms like an insect.

  Never again.

  “You look sad now,” Angelica remarked.

  “Just a bit fatigued,” she said. “Shall we head back?”

  Angelica looked at her with sympathy and nodded. “Let’s.”

  My dear Mercy,

  I dined at Lady Bess’s today and found that I missed your company. There was no one to give me peevish looks when I spoke too loudly, or to write my every word down as if I was a person of consequence. Was it really only a few hours that we passed there?

  I remember that the tips of your index finger and thumb grew dark with ink, but that seemed to be the one bit of mess in the world that didn’t aggravate you. I also remember that before your coach carried you away from the Grove, you spared me a rare smile, one that I should like to look upon again.

  My recollections may be wishful thinking, though—you did say I had a way of making even the mundane seem grand. I thought you were quite grand from the moment I saw you, so you might be able to imagine what I think of you now.

  Fondly yours,

  Andromeda

  My dearest Mercy,

  I have been hoping that you would muster a bit of your namesake and find a moment to respond, but no matter. My aforementioned overconfidence will carry us through in the meantime. How go things at The Grange? I hope you find your work agreeable.

  Here in Montgomerie, I’ve been wildly busy. The costumes for the show are coming along, but other plans are not running as smoothly. The building next door to my shop is for sale. I wish to purchase it, and to open a boarding house for people in the neighborhood. The proprietor wishes to sell it to someone else. I won’t speculate as to why he believes this fellow a more attractive prospect than me. We’re all well aware of how attractive I am, after all.

  Don’t fret (I will be presumptuous enough to presume that you might fret over me); I don’t believe in failure. With that said, you should expect another letter soon.

  Persistently yours,

  Andromeda

  The growing familiarity of the letters should have put Mercy off. It did not. She received and read, received and read, and after the sixth letter she finally did what she’d said she would not.

  It’s common courtesy, she told herself. It would reflect badly on the household if I didn’t.

  She picked up her quill and wrote a response.

  She wasted eight sheets of good paper due to a shaky hand, muddled words, and stilted sentences. Eight sheets in the waste bin only to produce this stunning bit of verse on the ninth:

  * * *

  Dear Andromeda,

  I have very much appreciated your correspondence. I hope all is well with the shop and that you are able to successfully purchase the building. All is the same here at The Grange.

  Your obedient servant,

  Mercy Alston

  * * *

  She hemmed and hawed about the letter for a full day. She wanted to say more, so much more. She wanted to tell Andromeda how the letters had awoken feelings that left her tingling, like blood rushing into a limb gone numb. She wanted to tell her that she thought her incredibly brave for her attempts to purchase a building. She wanted to tell her that she did fret over her, and in more ways than Andromeda could imagine. But that was too much to contemplate.

  She posted the insipid little letter.

 
; She wrote in her journal before bed: Copied interview with a Mr. Porter on the subject of Hamilton’s creation of the treasury. Did the laundry—new detergent was a success. Wondered if there wasn’t some way to retrieve that blasted letter from the post. Honestly, what was I thinking? Three lines of banality buffered by rote cordiality. She will laugh when she reads it. She will know me for the fool I am.

  She waited for a response.

  Chapter Six

  Andromeda didn’t quite know what she was doing with these letters. She had thought to send one or two. Charming missives to put a smile on Mercy’s face. The nervy woman had obviously been hurt in the past. Andromeda had wanted to soothe that hurt, and then…what exactly?

  When she was inventive and impulsive with her dress designs, she often succeeded, but that was because she was working from a basic template. She already knew the approximate shape of the finished product, and when she’d have to cut the final thread. What she had started with Mercy had no such set ending point. She was weaving instead of sewing now, and that was a task she’d never before attempted.

  When Mercy had finally responded, the reply had been surprisingly short, given her obvious affinity for writing. But it hadn’t been a rejection. Mercy had proven herself more than capable of serving up cutting remarks, so Andromeda had taken heart in the lack of them.

  There had been a shyness to the letter that Andromeda had found endearing. And the next time Mercy had written there had been less formality, more words, and more…Mercy.

  Dear Andromeda,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I am glad to hear that you are kept so busy with your business pursuits. I’m sure the costumes for the players will be more than adequate. I have seen only two of your designs, but they were both pleasing to the eye. Although I rebuffed your previous offer, I am indeed in need of a new dress.

  Any news about the building you seek to purchase? It seems such a brave venture, buying your own building and starting not one but two businesses. I always thought of ownership as something for other people, so much so that I forget it’s something afforded to us, too. It seems I’ve been mistaken in my assumptions about many things.

  Your obedient servant,

  Mercy

  Dear Andromeda,

  Last night I went into the garden with Miss Angelica to watch the meteor shower. Did you see it? I imagine perhaps you were up to something more enjoyable; if you were, you missed quite the sight.

  For a while, clouds obscured our view, but then a fortuitous wind pushed them onward in their journey, revealing the brilliant star-studded night sky. Most of the stars appeared to be stationary, except for a few that seemed to tremble with excitement for the descent of their brethren, making their final journey. We waited, and waited, and we were rewarded. One, two, three—too many to count. Brilliant, beautiful streaks of light! My heart leapt in my chest that such magnificence might exist and that I might look upon it. It was the second time I have encountered that particular sensation in recent memory.

  Yours cordially,

  Mercy

  * * *

  Mercy’s letters, read sequentially, were like a flower unfolding, petal by petal. Andromeda wanted more; she wanted the full bloom.

  She had more pressing matters to attend to, though, like speaking with Mr. Porter about the purchase of the building. She reminded herself of that as she waited outside the office of the man who held that goal in his hands.

  The door to the office pulled open and he stuck his lined face through the door. “Miss Stiel?”

  “Mr. Porter. How good to see you.” She smiled.

  He didn’t return the sentiment, simply turned and went into the office, waving over his shoulder for her to follow him.

  “I was hoping we’d be able to discuss the finalities of the purchase,” she said. “I have plans that I’d like to jump into right away, you see. There’s work to be done to get the place fit for letting and—”

  “I do believe you’re getting ahead of yourself, Miss Stiel,” Mr. Porter interrupted. He leaned back in his chair. “I have other offers for the building. Offers from people with a bit more standing than you.”

  Anger rose up in Andromeda, trying to escape from her lips, but she was impulsive, not self-destructive. Getting something from him that he didn’t want to give her would be worth more than allowing him to write her off so easily.

  She turned doe eyes on him.

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Porter. You know as well as I do that my current business is one of the anchors of the neighborhood. I provide work for young women, give back to the community, and I’m seen as a knowledgeable businessperson. I know everyone in a mile radius, and what’s more, they know me and they like me—or at the very least they respect me. I doubt anyone else wanting to buy can say the same.”

  “No one else wanting to buy is an unmarried Negress,” he said, his tone suggesting he’d listed not one but two faults in her character.

  “Oh, how sad for them,” she said, tilting her head to the side. She was bothered, but she couldn’t even get angry at this because people underestimating her usually worked out for her, when all was said and done. She got what she wanted and they learned not to let their prejudices blind them to the obvious—that Andromeda Stiel was a force to be reckoned with.

  “I currently own and operate one successful business as an unmarried Negress. Is there something about owning a boarding house that requires either acquiring a husband or transforming into a…what is the word you’d use for the white counterpart of a Negress?” She looked at him expectantly. Waited.

  He shifted in his seat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a sneeze. “Selling to an unattached woman of any persuasion is not something to be taken lightly.”

  Andromeda tried to look thoughtful, though the only thing she was thinking was how fine it would be to stick this man with a straight pin in a sensitive area. “Once the building is sold, it has nothing to do with you. I absolutely won’t let it go to ruin, but what business would it be of yours after the exchange of money?”

  She had enough money. More than enough. She had been working years now, and in addition to her shop, she’d invested in other businesses—those of washerwomen, cobblers, domestics, and many more—always getting her money back with interest. She was not rich, but she was certainly well positioned to buy the building and turn it into a boardinghouse that would be affordable, safe, and clean for the people of the Montgomerie.

  “Miss Stiel, I’ll be frank. I don’t give two figs whether you are married, or going to be married. I’m unmarried myself.” Andromeda resisted the urge to look about his messy office and kept her gaze trained on him. “But it’s not just me. There are partners, bankers, people who simply won’t take the risk. If the property were to devalue afterwards, or if you were to get with child and lose the ability to bring in income—”

  “Mr. Porter, there’s little chance of that happening and you know it.” She smiled, but she could feel the tension around her eyes from trying not to glare at him.

  He sighed. “In making business decisions, it pays to go with the lowest risk. That is not you, Miss Stiel. Unless you have plans you haven’t told me about. Plans that I could pass on to anyone who might share my reservations, perhaps?”

  He gave her a curious look, and Andromeda realized that she hadn’t just found an opening—the codger had given it to her. She galloped straight into it.

  “I do actually. I’ve been talking to a childhood sweetheart from home about our future, and it seems our affections have not waned. There’s to be a marriage soon, you see, so there’s actually nothing to keep me from buying.”

  “Excellent. And you’ll be able to provide evidence of this?” He raised bushy white brows.

  Andromeda gave him a tight smile. “Of course.”

  Her childhood sweetheart had herself just been engaged, but Andromeda would make it work. Failure wasn’t an option.

  She left Mr. Porter’s offic
e and headed back to her shop, turning over plans in her head.

  “There’s a letter come for you, miss,” Tara said when she walked in.

  Andromeda snatched it from the girl, then gave her an apologetic look. Tara simply shook her head and walked away.

  Mercy.

  No. She felt a brief disappointment when she realized it was from someone else—her letter should have arrived days ago. Her spirits lifted when she recognized her grandfather’s handwriting. She perused the short note, trying to make sense of the words. It seemed Grandma Kate had taken ill. She was recovering, but it still left Andromeda unsettled.

  “I’ll have to head up to Suffolk to visit my family again, Tara,” she said. “Will you be able to handle things here?”

  “Yes, miss. And my sister can come in, too, if you want.”

  “That would be perfect,” Andromeda said. “I should only be gone a few days.”

  She thought of her childhood sweetheart up in Suffolk, and her fiancé and his new profession, and a devious smile worked its way across Andromeda’s face.

  If luck was on her side, she might have found the solution to her problem.

  Chapter Seven

  The wind outside The Grange howled, and the sound of snow and hail battering the side of the house nearly drowned out Angelica at the pianoforte. The late spring storm had come upon them sudden and unexpected, as if mirroring Mercy’s tempestuous mood.

  Never had a week felt longer or more wretched. Perhaps she exaggerated; she had certainly experienced worse, but time and distance had dulled past pains, even the ones that had made her lose her words and lock her heart away. This new paroxysm of torturous infatuation was a fresh and inescapable torment.

  Why did I send it? Why?

  She groaned in mortification as she ran the feather duster over the bust of Hamilton in the hallway, and his stone smirk seemed to mock her inner turmoil.