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Authors: Eileen Charbonneau
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heard herself demanding.
“Only once! And she was full of courage, like you … . No, not like you, nothing like you. Fayette says I must not talk of her, because you will think of it as a sin because it was not sanctified, and the money he paid for her favors, and—”
“You miss her. You loved her?”
“No. Yes. She said she would come back, she promised! Did she lie? Am I so hideous, so damaged?” He ground his teeth in frustration. “Wrong. I’m doing it all wrong.”
“Doing what, impossible man?”
“You are angry?”
“Yes!”
“As angry as you get with Fayette?”
“Fully as angry!”
His mood underwent a sea change. “This is good!” He laughed. Then he kissed her.
Judith felt the urgent breath bursting from his nostrils across her wet cheek. When she shivered, his lips pressed harder against her yielding mouth. She felt his even, gleaming teeth under her tongue’s bold sweep. Her fingers raked the abundance of his hair shamelessly as he probed her mouth. The kiss sweetened with the raisins of his imaginary plum duff. Joy followed on the heels of surprise, both unfettered by thought. He pressed so close she felt the taut sinew of his muscles, the bones underneath, the strong heartbeat, farther still. Fayette’s kiss in the apothecary had paved her way toward this one, she thought, when it ended.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
He smiled, taking her hands in his, swinging them in a small, graceful arc. “Stolen your soul,” he admitted, like a boy caught pulling the tail of a cat. “A small part only, but you will have to come back to us for its return.”
“I will come back,” she said. “But not for my soul. I’ll come to bring thee home.”
“I cannot leave without Fayette, Judith.”
“I know,” she whispered.
Fayette slouched in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the rafter. “Mon dieu!” —he announced his presence. “For this I have bribed the
yeoman for ice with my medal of the Egyptian campaign? For a woman with rose cheeks, full of life and health?”
He stormed in, stepping over their clasped hands. Eli Mercer, his shirt tucked hastily into his breeches, followed.
“I’m well now, Papa.” Judith assured his anxious eyes as she took his hand, linking her father to her flushed young lover.
Fayette snatched the worn book from the floor. “My Moliere!” he shouted at his charge. “You could have just as easily torn pages from your bloody Shakespeare!”
T he Standard ’s bow shrouded in mist as the launch pulled farther toward shore. Judith raised her arm to the men’s farewell.
The English frigate had performed its small duty of delivering the Quakers and the letters of the men at Dartmoor. It would sail on. Captain Willis stood in full-dress uniform on the quarterdeck, ramrod-straight as if he were made of tin.
He’d remained beside Judith during her farewells, and so she could only hold Fayette’s hand a little longer than the rest as she gave him her gift. He’d stared down at the black cut paper.
His silhouette placed him high on the mizzenmast, where he’d served in his prime. It had been Washington’s suggestion to place him there. Judith had not been sure Fayette would view it with approval. She should have relied on the younger man’s instincts. As Fayette regarded her gift, his sharp eyes had lost their icy cynicism. For one lovely moment, they’d almost darkened. It was as if he’d turned part of himself into Washington, so that she could see them both for this last time.
From her native shore, with the packet of the Dartmoor prisoners’ letters under her arm, Judith looked out to sea. The land sounds were strange, as was the solid dock beneath her feet.
“The coach waits,” her father urged. “They cannot see thee any longer,” he said more quietly, touching her arm.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m coming.”
As his footfalls faded, she whispered the last verse of a lullaby. Practical songs, lullabies,
“Only once! And she was full of courage, like you … . No, not like you, nothing like you. Fayette says I must not talk of her, because you will think of it as a sin because it was not sanctified, and the money he paid for her favors, and—”
“You miss her. You loved her?”
“No. Yes. She said she would come back, she promised! Did she lie? Am I so hideous, so damaged?” He ground his teeth in frustration. “Wrong. I’m doing it all wrong.”
“Doing what, impossible man?”
“You are angry?”
“Yes!”
“As angry as you get with Fayette?”
“Fully as angry!”
His mood underwent a sea change. “This is good!” He laughed. Then he kissed her.
Judith felt the urgent breath bursting from his nostrils across her wet cheek. When she shivered, his lips pressed harder against her yielding mouth. She felt his even, gleaming teeth under her tongue’s bold sweep. Her fingers raked the abundance of his hair shamelessly as he probed her mouth. The kiss sweetened with the raisins of his imaginary plum duff. Joy followed on the heels of surprise, both unfettered by thought. He pressed so close she felt the taut sinew of his muscles, the bones underneath, the strong heartbeat, farther still. Fayette’s kiss in the apothecary had paved her way toward this one, she thought, when it ended.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
He smiled, taking her hands in his, swinging them in a small, graceful arc. “Stolen your soul,” he admitted, like a boy caught pulling the tail of a cat. “A small part only, but you will have to come back to us for its return.”
“I will come back,” she said. “But not for my soul. I’ll come to bring thee home.”
“I cannot leave without Fayette, Judith.”
“I know,” she whispered.
Fayette slouched in the doorway, his shoulder pressed to the rafter. “Mon dieu!” —he announced his presence. “For this I have bribed the
yeoman for ice with my medal of the Egyptian campaign? For a woman with rose cheeks, full of life and health?”
He stormed in, stepping over their clasped hands. Eli Mercer, his shirt tucked hastily into his breeches, followed.
“I’m well now, Papa.” Judith assured his anxious eyes as she took his hand, linking her father to her flushed young lover.
Fayette snatched the worn book from the floor. “My Moliere!” he shouted at his charge. “You could have just as easily torn pages from your bloody Shakespeare!”
T he Standard ’s bow shrouded in mist as the launch pulled farther toward shore. Judith raised her arm to the men’s farewell.
The English frigate had performed its small duty of delivering the Quakers and the letters of the men at Dartmoor. It would sail on. Captain Willis stood in full-dress uniform on the quarterdeck, ramrod-straight as if he were made of tin.
He’d remained beside Judith during her farewells, and so she could only hold Fayette’s hand a little longer than the rest as she gave him her gift. He’d stared down at the black cut paper.
His silhouette placed him high on the mizzenmast, where he’d served in his prime. It had been Washington’s suggestion to place him there. Judith had not been sure Fayette would view it with approval. She should have relied on the younger man’s instincts. As Fayette regarded her gift, his sharp eyes had lost their icy cynicism. For one lovely moment, they’d almost darkened. It was as if he’d turned part of himself into Washington, so that she could see them both for this last time.
From her native shore, with the packet of the Dartmoor prisoners’ letters under her arm, Judith looked out to sea. The land sounds were strange, as was the solid dock beneath her feet.
“The coach waits,” her father urged. “They cannot see thee any longer,” he said more quietly, touching her arm.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m coming.”
As his footfalls faded, she whispered the last verse of a lullaby. Practical songs, lullabies,
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