Paxton’s War
The Paxton Saga
May, 1780
Five years had passed—five heartbreaking, heroic years—since Paul Revere had roused the New England Minutemen and the shot heard ’round the world had ignited the American Revolution.
For the first thirty-six months, the radical Patriots of the North resisted the English onslaught, so much so that by 1778 Britain was forced to switch strategies: the new plan was to conquer the far more conservative South.
The plan worked in its initial stages. Savannah fell; Augusta fell; and in May 1780, General Benjamin Lincoln surrendered his army of five thousand as the proud city of Charleston—renowed for its alluring beauty, its lucrative commerce, and its cosmopolitan culture—fell into British hands. This was the rebels’ darkest hour. The tide had turned against them. The state of South Carolina—the great South itself—was under the command of General Lord Charles Cornwallis.
And yet, even as Loyalists rejoiced and patriots planned their next, desperate moves, even as intrigue and espionage infiltrated the plantations, the battle camps, the gunsmith shops, and the society balls, nature renewed the earth with its blissful promise of fresh green life. Spring arrived in the fertile Carolina countryside with balmy breezes blown sweetly from a docile Atlantic. Wildflowers rioted over hill and vale in extravagant yellows and blues. Lilac and magnolia filled the air with their heady, perfumed presence. And a young woman of twenty, no matter how keen her sense of politics or deep her concern for her family’s welfare, could not resist—at least not for a fleeting moment—the seductive reveries of a distant longing, the delicious daydreams of impassioned romance.…
Chapter 1
Colleen Cassandra McClagan had heard the melody before, yet something had changed. The song was stronger, clearer, louder. It sounded so close, so insistent, that she could almost make out a message. There were words to the song—a poem, a promise, a melody born of the breeze, a windsong that played upon her lips, caressed her ear, and excited her heart. Its source seemed to be the sea, that vast expanse of royal blue that glistened under the brilliant mid-morning sun.
Colleen stood atop the hill, breathed in the magnificence of the landscape that stretched before her—the sweep of white below, the clusters of budding bushes and infant grass—extended her arms to the cloudless sky, closed her eyes, and silently gave thanks for the gift of her life, the miracle of the moment. When she opened her eyes, she suddenly felt foolish for whiling away her time among violets and chirping bluebirds, foolish for ignoring the danger that surrounded her, for forgetting the hour, the obligations, the harsh reality and grave responsibilities she faced as a daughter and a citizen … and yet …
The sweetness of the song stayed with her. Her eye followed the winding coastline, miles to the north and miles to the south, and beyond to the dazzling sea. What was the sea singing? What was the sea saying? Why was the ocean’s endless blue so hypnotic? Like some exotic drug, it had her seeing things, believing things, harboring hopes too bold to express. She squinted through the peephole formed by her fist. Could she see the tip of a sail, a tiny dot of white jutting above the horizon? Could the distant vessel be the source of the song? She stared ahead. There was a ship coming to port. It was no illusion, no dream. The song was real and it was being sung for her. Finally, she allowed herself the thought: He’s on the ship. He’s coming home. Home at last …
The thought frightened her. She had dreamed the dream before, and it had proven false. Instead, there had been ships of war, ships carrying death and destruction, ships of soldiers whom she viewed as cruel jailers, men commissioned by a foreign despot to tax and tyrannize a people deserving of their own freedom. These were thoughts, though, that she dared not utter, especially not to her father, whose wild Scottish temper would explode in fury. He already suspected her sentiments, and his suspicion was enough to cause her anguish. Colleen McClagan was not afraid of her patriotic convictions; quite to the contrary. Though born in America, she, too, had the heart and courage of a valiant Scot. It was only because she loved her father with such tenderness and compassion that she would rather bite her tongue than hurt him. She understood the depth of his pain. She was all that he had in the world.
I am close. I am coming to you. We’ll be together soon.
How could she deny the words to the song? The white speck on the horizon grew and blossomed like a lily until a full set of sails was visible. The melody set her heart racing. Was it just another cruel hoax, another unfulfilled fantasy? He had been gone forty-eight months, exactly fourteen hundred fifty days. She prayed that there would be no more numbers to count, no more surreptitious markings to hide each morning in the secret compartment of the miniature music box which, despite the fact that it had belonged to her mother, Colleen could never bring herself to destroy. She cherished the box and the tiny doll that danced atop its etched surface, just as she cherished the daily ritual of remembering him, his wildly curly hair as he …
“Colleen!” The voice of her father carried from their house at the southern foot of the hill. “You don’t want to be late now, lass. Your Mr. Somerset won’t want to be kept waiting. Come down here this very instant!”
“Yes, Papa!” she cried, catching one last glimpse of the ship—closer, it was coming closer—as she raced down the hill.
Dr. Roy Wallace McClagan studied the vision of loveliness running toward him. He couldn’t help but see how, at age twenty, his daughter so closely resembled her mother, Sheena. At once, the thought delighted and alarmed him. It had been a decade and a half since Sheena had left him. Her desertion and the bloody battle of Cullodeen, during which, at age sixteen, he had seen his fellow Scotsmen mercilessly slaughtered at the hands of the English, had hardened his heart to wars and women. The single exception, though, was the girl who had grown into the woman who offered him the purest love he had known in his lonely lifetime. Watching Colleen—the wind playing with the long tresses of rich blond hair that danced beneath her bee-bright bonnet—he was almost frightened by her beauty.
Her face was illuminated by sparkling amber eyes that revealed a quick intelligence. Her forehead was noticeably high, her flawless skin the color of pearl. With prominent cheekbones accented by deep-set dimples, she expressed a sense of spirited motion. Her smile sang. Somewhat below average height, her slim waist and small breasts added to her youthful, fresh-faced appeal. Her lithe, limber body revealed both a daintiness and a daring. Was her beauty centered in her generous, alluring mouth or her thin, delicate neck? It was difficult to determine, for Colleen’s physical appeal went beyond the elegance of her slender nose or the way in which her eyelashes fluttered and curled. In her fiery eyes, her father saw the sun rising over the Highlands of his native land. His daughter blazed with life.
How long could he keep her? When would she leave him? Her smile rivaled the radiance of summer as he watched her race toward him with the grace of a fawn. Well, now, he reminded himself, he had decided already; of course she’d marry, and marry soon, a marriage good for her and good for him. Buckley Somerset was a gentleman and, more to the point, he was wealthy. What more could a father ask for his daughter? Buckley’s plantation was but a few miles from McClagan’s humble farm. It would be fine indeed to watch his grandchildren grow up in such a secure and opulent setting.
“Good morning, Papa,” Colleen said breathlessly, kissing him on his salt-and-pepper whiskers. His brow, normally knit in a series of nervous furrows, relaxed for the first time that day. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’ll be on time.”
“But will you be civil to the gentleman?”
“Civil and sweet,” she promised.
“And sincere,” he reminded her. “’Tis a rare quality in a woman, lass. A quality far more precious than gold.”
Colleen looked into her father’s kind but weary eyes. At fifty, he looked at least twenty years older. He reminded her of a frail bird. His back was bent into a painful stoop. Without his customary wig, his thin strands of white hair were tossed about by the wind, making him seem especially vulnerable. He often spoke of quitting his practice, but Colleen never believed him: he would never abandon the suffering children whom he so lovingly attended, the elderly men and women, even the stray puppies and kittens, the ailing birds and horses, toward all of whom he felt a personal and compelling responsibility to nurture back to health. When his remedies failed, he was despondent for days. But when his cures took, his heart filled with gladness.
Colleen just didn’t have the heart to tell her father how Buckley Somerset, for all his power and wealth, bored her to tears. Somehow, sometime later she would tell him that he was absolutely unacceptable to her as anything more than a polite escort. But not on the day of the annual Brandborough Spring Fair, a sprawling picnic that promised an afternoon and evening filled with pleasant diversions. “What a lovely spring morning,” she said, taking her father’s arm and heading toward the house. “You can see practically all the way across the ocean.”
“What I want to see is you all prim and proper, so hurry and dress. This is no occasion for skimping, mind you. I’ve set Portia to heating water for your bath, so run along. And dress in your best. I’d wear that white silk headdress if I were you. Indeed, I would.”
She didn’t bother to answer. With no intention of wearing a headdress and veil more befitting a wedding than a picnic, she dismissed the thought and, pausing only to look over her shoulder, hurried to the house.
The house that she and her father shared stood at the base of the hill. It was a simple structure, yet spoke volumes of its master. The front rooms were for sitting and dining, and the spacious back room, which faced the great hill, was used as the doctor’s study. In between were two bedrooms. Colleen’s faced the open sea and her father’s looked toward their farmland to the west. The entire house was dominated by Roy’s profession, and smelled of an apothecary. Dozens of jars of ointments and salves stood on shelves in the hallway and along window ledges. Medical tomes lay open on every available surface—tables and stools, desks and chairs. A large variety of anatomical diagrams hung from the walls of his study, the hallways, even the small kitchen. Portia, their loquacious housekeeper, complained constantly about the macabre figures, but to no avail. Dr. McClagan was a man obsessed with his work, and his work followed him from room to room. Because he was a physician of greater instinct than organization, his surgical tools—pewter syringes, tortoiseshell tweezers, scalpels, screw tourniquets—might be found anywhere.
Colleen appreciated her father’s impassioned relationship to his work. His compelling concern to broaden his knowledge, hone his skills, and cure the world’s ills was the finer side of his character. It was exhilarating to live in a household where learning and healing were unending preoccupations. The overwhelming presence of medical paraphernalia, however, no matter how intriguing, could also be oppressive.
In all the house, Colleen’s bedroom was her refuge, a space of her own special decor and design. The room was serene and feminine, and had been decorated largely by her paternal aunt, Rianne, who in many ways served as her friend, mother, and confidante. Rianne had come to America to care for Colleen some fifteen years earlier when Sheena McClagan had shocked everyone by abandoning her husband and young daughter. Rianne hadn’t been surprised. A spinster, she’d expected the worse from the moment her brother had set sail for the colonies in 1750. She knew her brother, knew that he was of a breed that seemed to attract misfortune, so she waited. When he wrote with joyous expectations of being apprenticed to a surgeon, she waited. When he told her of his marriage to a brown-eyed beauty of Scottish descent, she waited. When word reached her, in 1760, of Colleen’s birth, she tempered her joy with gloomy premonitions. Her brother was too happy, things were going too well. At last, the missive summoning her to the colonies had arrived: Sheena McClagan had run off with a wild-eyed woodsman, leaving Roy to raise a daughter alone. Six months to the day after receiving the letter, Rianne arrived in Brandborough, and in short order became Roy’s housekeeper, and Colleen’s friend, mother, and confidante.
The new world opened new vistas for Rianne, as it had for so many others. Always a willful, independent woman, she soon had found that domestic duties couldn’t satisfy her love of worldy commerce, and within a year she had become the proprietess of a dressmaking shop in Brandborough. By the time Colleen was fifteen, even Brandborough wasn’t big enough for her, and she made preparations to move to Charleston, thirty miles north along the coast. Roy had roared in protest, but Rianne was convinced that Colleen no longer required her presence, and her brother’s mannerisms had become less and less to her liking. She loathed the smells of his medicines, she deplored his reclusive, studious ways, and found his temper intolerable. She respected his deep humanity and devotion to the sick and wounded, but that wasn’t enough.
For Colleen, the lure of moving to Charleston was almost overwhelming, but Roy had refused her permission to accompany her aunt because the big city was too sophisticated and rife with pretense and decadence. Even more than his daughter’s beauty, he treasured her natural, untarnished personality. He thought of her as a lovely country lass, an innocent farm girl who shouldn’t be exposed to the sinful society of city life. What frightened him the most, however, was that Rianne had become a Patriot, and he wasn’t about to let his darling daughter get involved with politics. “Mark me well,” he’d warned his younger sister as her carriage, loaded with all her earthly possessions, pulled out of the yard. “Those half-crazed notions of yours will get you shot.”
“Say what you will, brother,” Rianne had called back, “but no dim-witted Tory will intimidate the likes of me or keep me from making a pretty pound.”
She had proven to be right. Her shop was soon deemed one of Charleston’s finest. Her designs were copied from the latest fashion dolls laboriously acquired from London and Paris, and her needlework was unparalleled. Even during the war years, with fabrics scarce and the value of currency uncertain, Rianne managed to prosper. She caught the attention of the most socially prominent, and within less than a year found herself an accepted member of Charleston’s artistic elite. That she was a shameless but discreet gossip did her little harm. Her female customers loved her not only for her speed and craftsmanship, but for her titillating news as well. Her acquaintances numbered beyond mere society. She seemed to be on intimate terms with every artisan and artist in the city. Her passion for the arts—for music and painting, for cabinetry and poetry—was insatiable and sincere. And because she refused to return to Brandborough and its provincial ways, Roy and Colleen, at Colleen’s insistence, were forced to visit her in Charleston.
The trips became the highlights of Colleen’s year. On one such stay, Colleen met Ephraim Kramer, a master printer with whom she would later collaborate politically. And on another trip, Rianne arranged for Josiah Claypool, a craftsman whose skills rivaled those of the great Thomas Chippendale himself, to design for her niece a four-poster bed and secretary-wardrobe of rare beauty.
Of all Colleen’s possessions, from great to small, she loved the furniture the most. Fashioned from gleaming cedar and cypress, the two pieces were perfectly matched. Neatly tied chaffs of wheat had been delicately, painstakingly sculpted along the thin posters, which sat upon carved claw feet. It was there, beneath a floral canopy, where she dreamed, but it was at her desk where she wrote and read.
And what a magnificent desk it was! With a chest of drawers below and a wardrobe above, the writing surface folded out from the furniture’s center and contained a dozen tiny compartments and miniature drawers that Colleen kept filled with the deepest expressions of her secret heart. There was room for books: Tom Jones and Pamela, recently devoured with a passion that surprised even herself, had been presents from Rianne; Pope’s wicked Rape of the Lock sat at the bottom of the pile, so that her father might not notice.
That she was reading such literature might well upset him, but, even if discovered, she was sure he would grudgingly understand because he knew that, as much as she loved the farm, she loved words, ideas, and poetic images even more. He was aware that she invented verse of her own, and though he considered such endeavors foolish and inappropriate for young ladies, he realized that there was little he could do to stop her: like his sister, his daughter had a flair for the artistic.
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 of 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.
Standing next to Jason, Peter, the solider, maintained an unflinchingly correct and straight-backed posture. His chiseled chin and clear green eyes spoke of discipline and determination. Flaming orange hair peeked out from beneath his wig. His face was covered with freckles, giving him a strangely boyish quality further contrasted by his uniform, a blood-red coat decorated with silver lace, and tight white breeches tucked into jet-black boots. He was wrapped in a campaign cloak of Mazarine blue whose deep rich exterior added to the somber effect. His leather helmet sported a scarlet plume from its brass crest. The helmet’s black facing provided a distinct background for the skull-and-crossbones insignia worn by all members of the Seventeenth Light Dragoons.
From Jason’s lips emerged a simple melody that broke the silence between him and his English friend.
“Writing something new?” Peter asked.
“Not really. I’m not sure where it comes from.” Perplexed, he tried to shrug it off. “One of those melodies that comes from … somewhere … and then sticks with you.”
“Jase, I swear that your tombstone will carry the inscription: ‘He died in the middle of a new melody!’ Back home, when I had one of the loveliest ladies in all Londontown awaiting your company, you were holed up in your room with your bloody flutes and lutes—composing!”
“But I’m not composing, Peter. Just listening. Remembering, perhaps, but if I have heard it before, I can’t figure out where.” Poignant and evocative, the seductive lilt carried him back to the hot summer evening when he’d brought Casey, one of his, father’s favorite hounds, to Dr. Roy McClagan’s farm beneath the high hill overlooking the Atlantic. Casey had been inexplicably dragging one hind foot for days, and while McClagan examined the dog in his study, Jase happened to glance into one of the side rooms and see Colleen.
He’d known her, of course, as everyone in Brandborough knew each other, and though the brightness of her eyes had attracted him he’d never seen her as more than an alert, inquisitive child who was forever asking questions about his music. Suddenly, though, his perception of her changed radically. Sitting before an oval-shaped mirror no larger than her hand and silently brushing her silken blond hair ever so slowly, ever so deliberately, her head fell back and dipped forward with each elongated stroke. Candlelight gave her skin the color of rich gold, soft and pure, and accented the amber color of her eyes. He was fascinated by her beauty, and though he knew he should turn away, he couldn’t.
That she had seen him, too, was obvious, for the soft sway of her body was clearly calculated. Her calculations worked. When she rose from her chair to acknowledge his presence with a greeting and invite him to the porch, where they might view the star-filled summer sky, he was unable to refuse. Nor could he, minutes later, refuse her advance—or was it his?—when, under the silver light of a crescent moon, he felt her heart beating madly against his, felt her lips, moist and warm, felt … But her father’s jubilant announcement that a long, sharp thorn embedded near Casey’s spine, and undoubtedly pressing against a nerve, had been successfully removed, separated them with a start.
In the months that followed, they became friends. Five years younger than he, only fourteen at the time, she was amazingly well read for a country girl and could discuss William Shakespeare or Roger Bacon, Dante and Molière, and even Jason’s favorite—a secret they shared between themselves—the French essayist Montaigne. Her interest in his music was gratifying, and she learned quickly the names of composers and, with his tutelage, the rudiments of reading music. If he had deeper feelings for her, he wasn’t inclined to explore them. Rather, being careful to maintain their friendship on a strictly platonic plane, he looked upon her as a companion, and a younger companion at that. And it wasn’t until the day of his departure for Europe that he’d tasted her lips again. Yet, suddenly, four years later, that final kiss, along with the first one, had come back to haunt him.
For Peter, the music led not to the past, but to the future. Two years earlier—already they were close friends—Jason had shown him a pair of miniature portraits he had received from his home. “My sisters,” he’d said, laying them on the table. “Were my descriptions apt?”
Why, he could not say, but Peter’s heart had raced even as he effected a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Not at all. They’re far prettier than your words indicated. Far prettier,” he drawled, indicating the first. “This would be, what’s her name? Hope?”
“Aye. Hope Elaine. And the other’s Joy Exceeding.”
Jason had spoken at length about his sisters, but nothing had prepared Peter for seeing the portrait of Joy Exceeding. She was, in a word, beautiful. Her face was thin and of a patrician cast, with a slight upturn to her nose. Her hair was similar to Jason’s, light brown in color and gently waving. She was the second born, he remembered, and got her name from her mother’s exceeding joy at the sight of a second girl. It made no sense whatsoever to him for she was certainly no more beautiful than many women he had known, but he was stricken, and from that moment on, though keeping his true feelings hidden for over a year, found it impossible to keep her from his thoughts.
And finally, he would meet her, see her in person, hear the sound of her voice. Each spin of the taffrail log brought him closer. How ironic that his first trip to the new world was to land him at Brandborough, the very home of his friend, and of Joy Exceeding. And how ironic, too, that the reinforcements he led were being sent to help subdue and secure the Carolinas, in direct contravention to everything Joy Exceeding’s father, Ethan, believed. “You haven’t forgotten your promise to introduce her to me,” Peter said aloud, suddenly breaking the silence between him and Jason.
“What?” Jason asked. “Oh, Joy. No. Of course not.”
“And your father … Damn it all! I can see it now. The English captain calls on the patriot’s daughter. What a fine mess!”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Jason said, tongue in cheek. “It might not be a very good idea—”
“Now wait a minute.” Peter laughed. “I’ve looked at her picture until I’m blue in the face, and read every word of her letters until I’m sure I know her. You can’t go back on me now, old friend.”
“And so I shan’t,” Jason said. His eyes met Peter’s, and his hand gripped his arm in a firm clasp. “You have my word,” he promised solemnly. “And beyond that, you have my friendship.”
The sincerity in Jason’s resonant, baritone voice was unquestionable. For the three and half years Peter had known him, he had proven to be a man of easy humor, gentle manners, and uncompromising honor. They had met at the home of Peter’s maternal uncle, Sir Walpole Gatley, a distinguished harpsichordist, and, as Peter was an amateur violinist himself, they had struck up an immediate friendship.
The friendship had ripened with each passing day. Peter stood in awe of Jason’s talent: Jason was Peter’s apt pupil in the ways of a society new to him. Together often, their favorite hours were those they shared strolling along the Thames. On one such stroll, on the day after Jason had conducted his concerto for two violins at the Court of St. James—astoundingly, the king had stayed awake for the entire performance—Peter had seemed disturbed. “Doesn’t it bother you at all,” he’d finally blurted out, “that your father can’t be here to witness your success?”
Jason had laughed. “Father? My God, no. He’s the last one I’d want here. The very notion that I’d conducted before the English monarch would appall him.”
“But he’s the king!”
“You have to understand,” Jason had said gently. “My grandmother was a pirate—an incredible woman who any one of three kings tried, in vain, to hang. My grandfather, her husband, and for whom I was named, was a renegade Scottish nobleman who was outlawed and whose properties were confiscated by a king. With a father and mother like that, you can understand why my father doesn’t hold much with kings.”
“But what’s that have to do with music?”
“Your brother manages your family’s estates and is a member of Parliament. What would your father have said if Charles had given up all that for music?” Jason had asked in return.
It was Peter’s turn to laugh. “He wouldn’t have said anything,” he chuckled. “He’d’ve either choked Charles—or choked on his own bile.”
The chimes of St. Paul’s rang out over the London landscape. “Father enjoy’s music,” Jason had gone on in the relative silence that followed, “but he considers my talent somewhat of a curse. Music might be tolerated as an avocation, but when it interferes with work, he becomes furious. Of more importance are cotton and tobacco—and shipbuilding these past few years. He’s a businessman, you see, and Paxton business—and profits—comes before all else.”
“I’ve noticed that the colonists tend to be a wee bit tight-fisted when it comes to money,” Peter had replied dryly.
“That’s not the point. Father feels that our holdings have been earned through the sweat of our brows, and must be protected. Against everyone, including kings.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Jason had replied, just as relieved as his friend to quit the subject. “And the one best able to walk a straight line two hours from now pays for dinner after next Sunday’s hunt.”
For all the satisfaction that their friendship brought, however, the sticky issue of politics and the American revolt could not be avoided entirely. One winter night, shortly after they’d met, Jason seemed unusually glum.
“You’re acting distracted, old chap,” Peter had said, pulling up his collar against a freezing wind that nipped at his ears. “Something bothering you?”
“A letter from Father. This time he’s irritated about the corn.”
“The corn?” Peter had asked, not understanding.
“Aye. They had a wet fall, there was mildew, and they didn’t get the crop in on time. It’s my fault, of course, since I wasn’t there to help.”
Incredulous, Peter had stopped short. “Surely, old boy, you don’t actually work in the fields yourself.”
“But of course I do. Or did,” Jason had said.
The very thought was appalling for one of an aristocractic family, and Peter said so. “I should’ve thought he’d have simply gone out and bought another slave or two. Surely—”
“Slave?” Jason had snapped with surprising anger. “No Paxton has ever owned another human being.”
“I only thought—”
“It’s the freedom of the colored people who work our lands that enables us to compete so successfully. Free men work harder—that’s one of the Paxton creeds.”
“So you’re a proud Paxton, after all,” Peter had said, stepping back to regard this new aspect of his friend.
“I’m proud of the accomplishments of my forebears, if that’s what you mean. I’m equally proud of our colony. You’d like Brandborough, Peter, and you’d be impressed with the cultural life of Charleston.”
“Charleston or Charles Town?” Peter had asked. “I was under the impression that the city was named for one of our illustrious sovereigns.”
“And so it was. But the locals pronounce it Charleston nonetheless.”
“Locals?” Peter had inquired with a raised eyebrow. “Or rebels?”
“Names change, Peter. Just like everything else.”
In the months that followed, though there were differences of opinion, the friendship grew. Jason studied hard, learned his way around the music world of London, and increased his reputation. Peter’s father, under pressure from the crown, bought him a captaincy and outfitted a company for him to lead. Both men enjoyed the hunt, and they were superb riders and marksmen. Both, in the manner of their time for gentlemen, were avid readers and conversationalists, and they educated themselves in a wide range of disciplines. Each learned to respect, as well as like, the other. And when, after Jason’s return from Italy, they learned that they were to sail on the same ship, both were intrigued as well as delighted: Peter because he had seen Jason live and work as a foreigner in England, and was curious to see what would become of his friend once he returned to his native soil; and Jason for exactly the opposite reasons.
Excitement rippled through the ship as the call came from the masthead, and a quarter-hour later America became a thin line of blue-green on the horizon. Word was sent below to Peter’s men to prepare to disembark. Sailors rushed about polishing brightwork and greasing the anchor chair and capstan. Alert, the pungent smell of salt water assaulting their senses and the sea’s fine spray refreshing them with a cool, pleasant mist, Jason and Peter stood at the rail and stared hungrily at the growing line of land.
“A hot day ashore,” Jason said finally, breaking the hypnotic melody that he couldn’t get out of his mind. “Not too muggy, though, I shouldn’t think.”
“Mosquitoes?” Peter asked, having heard too many exaggerated stories about the American variety.
“Shouldn’t be too bad during the day, as long as the shore breeze keeps them in the swamps. Tonight, though …” Jason shrugged. “Who knows? You’d best be ready to sleep under your netting.”
The conversation seemed inane to both, but perfectly suited to relieve the growing tension that gripped them. “An American song, I gather?” Peter commented waspishly, tiring of it.
“I suppose so.”
“Based, of course, on your long-standing conviction that there really is some musical tradition in your homeland.”
The best of friends could argue when nerves were strung too tightly. “Why you insist on maintaining this skepticism, I’ll never know, Peter. We’ll see it shattered soon enough, though, mark my word. Tomorrow I’ll take you on a tour of Brandborough, where you’ll hear flower vendors selling their wares with charming songs. On the plantations, you’ll hear workers sing of their toil and sorrow with—”
“Must I hear again your veneration of the musical genius of the American coloreds? Spare me, please, the—”
“All I ask is that you accompany me through the fields just once. When you hear those extraordinarily talented people sing, you’ll understand that God has blessed them with a gift—”
“Really, Jase—”
“A gift that even the greatest European musician would envy. They sing neither from scores nor notations, but from the depths of their souls.”
Peter shook his head. “The same old argument. You’ve come home to write American music, to move out of the shadow of Vivaldi and recast yourself as native son! And I still say balderdash!”
“Say what you will,” Jason countered. “You’ll know what I mean about missing things after you’ve been away from home for a couple of years. With me, it’s music—the music I heard as a boy—the spicy rhythms, the bawdy ballads, the enchanting songs sung by the Irish and French and Dutch.”
“You’re the only person I know who stoops to exalt a hodgepodge,” Peter said with a derisive snort.
“As music, and as a country, yes. You might say that America is a hodgepodge, but a delicious one at that.”
“A country? Please, Jase. I wish you’d get it right for once. A collection of British colonies.”
“Call us what you will. Our music is primitive, I’ll grant you. But it has a fascination and beauty all its own.”
“Damn it, Jase! You’re infuriating. You’ve the heart and soul of a European, and a cultivated European at that. You said so yourself. The Viennese swore you were born in Vienna, and the Italians were convinced you were one of their own.”
“When I write, I tend to take on the artistic characteristics of my surroundings. That seems perfectly natural.”
“You can explain it any way you see fit, but I doubt very much that you’ll abandon the musical culture of Europe. Not for a minute.”
“You do, eh?” Jason snapped, his homecoming forgotten in the heat of the moment. “Well, perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Peter said, equally miffed. “And now if you’ll excuse me,” he added, spinning on his heels and stalking away, “I have a great deal to do before we land.”
What