“Thank you.” She eyed him over the cup rim. “May I call you Michael?”

  “If you wish, Miss Elizabeth.”

  “Done, then, Michael,” she said with a laugh that showed her perfect small teeth. “Now you must call me Elizabeth.”

  “That I will not. ’Tis a thing for intimates and family. So would your father think, and rightly.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Poo. It’s no such thing. If you don’t, I’ll, I’ll call you Poo. So there.”

  It was Michael’s turn to laugh. “A dire fate. Very well. I surrender. Elizabeth.”

  “Mr. Jean-Baptiste Fourrier and Mr. Justin Fourrier of Les Chenes.”

  Many eyes turned to the door, Michael’s among them. He’d never seen the elder Fourrier. What sort of man had produced Justin?

  In any company it would have been Justin who drew the eye first, but Jean-Baptiste who kept it. To his son’s satins, he was plainly dressed in black velvets. At first glance he seemed a shorter, gaunter copy, Justin with every spare inch and ounce boiled away, but the second left no doubt which was the original. There was power to him. Cold, dark power. And if Justin’s eyes were vulture’s, his were viper’s. They looked for no weak prey, but took the strong as well.

  With a start Michael realized that Jean-Baptiste was headed for him, Justin trailing behind. Elizabeth had disappeared from his side. He straightened himself.

  Carver had seen the Fourriers’ direction, and moved to cut them off. Now he stepped in front of them. His voice was hearty. “It has been a long time since you’ve been in my house, Jean-Baptiste. It’s good to have you here.”

  Jean-Baptiste motioned toward Michael. “That is the one. There could not be two to fit that description. What does he do here?”

  Carver stiffened. “He is a guest, Jean-Baptiste.” Steel crept into his voice. “My guest, as you are.”

  The planter’s eyes flicked coolly from Michael to the merchant. “He is a servant.”

  “And he is my guest.”

  Jean-Baptiste’s lips thinned. “Your—guest—attacked my son with a sword. For striking a free man, the penalty is twenty-one lashes with a cat-o’-nine-tails. So? For attempted murder, how much?” The eyes weighed carefully. “Five hundred lashes, perhaps more. I wish no death for an attempt. But a lesson must be learned. Perhaps seven hundred.”

  “No,” Carver said calmly. “I would be called to testify, my friend.”

  “You would testify against a gentleman, for such a one as this?” His voice was suddenly expressionless.

  Michael felt as though he was hiding behind Carver. He had to speak. “I’ve no fear of an honest hearing before an honest magistrate.”

  Jean-Baptiste eyed him unblinkingly. Slowly he turned to Carver. Once more for a Fourrier Michael had ceased to exist. “I will speak to you of this later, Carver.” The Fourriers turned, and strolled across the room.

  It took an iron effort of will for Michael to keep still. The muscle in his cheek jumped with the force of his rage.

  “I’m glad to see you can control that temper upon occasion,” Carver said.

  “Upon occasion, sir.”

  “Yes.” The merchant hid a smile. “Now, Michael, there are men here you must meet. Young Rutledge first—”

  Michael was led away, hearing no more than half of what was said. Where had Elizabeth gone? She’d asked for him, and called him Michael. And run away without a word’

  He roused himself; John Rutledge was saying “—and Bull announced this morning that all the stamped paper’s been off-loaded at Fort Johnson.”

  “Then it’s all been for nothing,” Michael said softly.

  Rutledge halted his glass halfway to his mouth, surprise on his patrician face. Just Michael’s age, the lawyer was already spoken of as a man to watch in the colony’s politics. He looked at Michael now as if seeing him for the first time. “Exactly, Mr. Fallon,” he said finally. “For nothing. This time.”

  Most of the talk was inconsequential chatter, though; the Middletons sternly kept to social fripperies. After half a dozen conversations and twice that many cups, he slipped outside to the veranda. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. The wine didn’t help.

  He leaned on the bannister and breathed the dark night air deeply. It helped sweep away the wine fumes. A faint noise drew his eye to the end of the veranda, on the edge of the moonlight. He could barely make out a woman. It almost looked like—yes, it was Elizabeth. He started down the porch toward her.

  Elizabeth smiled to herself. When he’d not seen her, she’d had to kick the bannister. Now she fanned herself slowly and moved down into the garden, careful that her steps were slower than his. When his first step crunched on the shell path behind her, she whirled as if startled.

  “Why, why, Michael. You surprised me.”

  He stopped short. Why could this girl make him feel awkward when no woman ever had? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll leave you.”

  She put a hand on his arm. “There’s no need for that. I would enjoy your company.”

  She tucked her arm in his with the casual assurance that he’d do as she wanted. He walked beside her, breathing in her scent, aware of the moonlight on her shoulders, dappled through the leaves. But Elizabeth was Carver’s daughter.

  “This is wrong, Elizabeth. You, walking alone in the dark with a man.”

  “Poo.”

  He sighed. “It could be dangerous.”

  She turned to him, eyes luminous. “Would you be dangerous?” she asked ingenuously.

  “I—” He looked down at her almost in a trance. Those half-parted lips, so soft, so inviting. He swept her into his arms and kissed her fiercely, long and deep. Suddenly he pushed her away. “Oh, God,” he said thickly. “That dangerous.”

  Violet lynx eyes regarded him for a minute, then her arms were around him, her face buried in his coat. “Don’t say that. Don’t.” She trembled. His kiss had been more than she’d expected, more than she’d dreamed. She tingled down to her toes; her lips felt swollen.

  Gently he smoothed her hair. “You don’t know, child. I’ll take you inside.”

  “But I’m not a child, Michael. I’m a woman. I have a woman’s feelings. For you.” She let her voice drop plaintively. “You do have some feeling for me, don’t you?” She held her breath.

  His face twisted painfully, and his hands felt suddenly helpless. “I love you, girl,” he said at last. “God help me, I love you. But it cannot be. Your father likes me well enough, but I’m scarcely what he’d want in a suitor. He’d set the constables on me as soon as he found out.”

  Elizabeth smiled to herself and sighed in relief. Thank goodness he’d brought it up. She hadn’t been sure how to. “Then he mustn’t find out.”

  “Elizabeth, I can’t—”

  “For me? Please?”

  And then he had her in his arms again, kissing her. And she was kissing him back. And he was drowning. Drowning. Thank God for kind Mary. Lightning bolts indeed.

  The next evening the Carolina Packet, under Captain Robson, dropped anchor. Rumors flashed that more stamped paper was on board, that George Saxby was among the passengers, a hundred wilder things. Men howled against the stamps and all who supported them. Then delegations from the Assembly and the Liberty Boys were invited on board the ship by Robson. There were no stamps. There was no George Saxby. There was news, however. Saxby was on the Heart of Oak, Captain Gunn, that had sailed on the hour with the Packet. She must make Charlestown soon. The speechmakers withdrew, the gatherings dispersed to wait.

  After a weekend of secluded corners with Elizabeth and nights with Mary, Michael came late to the warehouse door on Monday. Catching hold of a boy running by, he pressed twopence on him. “A pot of coffee, Sam, hot and black, as soon as you can get it here. The rest is yours.” As Sam darted off he shouted, “And strong enough to float a spoon.” There was much to be done if the ships were to clear before the first.

  He climbed to his office, but for once he couldn’t fix his mind on the trade, not even after half Sam’s coffee was gone. He was uncomfortable over Elizabeth.

  He didn’t like it, going behind her father’s back like that. And that was ridiculous. He’d tumbled many a girl behind her father’s back, or under his nose, if need be. But he respected Thomas Carver, and, more, liked him. And Elizabeth was no tumble in the hay.

  He made a noise at even thinking of her so. She was a goddess, a virgin goddess, and he’d keep her so. He meant to marry her, when he was a merchant and not a penniless bondsman. He’d marry the girl, and he’d not besmirch her honor in the meanwhile, neither by allowing their snugglings to be known nor by allowing them to go too far.

  Faith of the Lord, but it was hard, though. In her innocence the girl did things, letting her hands wander where they shouldn’t. And her kisses were. enough to turn a man upside down and cross-eyed. Three little days, and he couldn’t have made it sane without Mary.

  She’d marked it, had Mary, with a catty remark that earned her a smack on the bottom. And then there’d been a spell of making up. A long spell.

  When Christopher barged in at mid-morning Michael shook his head. “Not a word. I’ve work to be done, no time to do it.”

  “Too much time between some mort’s legs. You should keep your women in their place, and that’s not interfering with your politics, even in a roundabout way Tell the tart to leave over.”

  “Watch your mouth, man. She’s no tart.” He stopped; he hadn’t meant to snap like that. “A gentleman,” he said in a lighter tone, “never talks about his lady.”

  “But we’re neither of us gentlemen, lad. We’re Irish.” He whooped at his own humor. “Look you, now. Since Saxby’s back—”

  “Saxby’s back? When?”

  Christopher dropped into the extra chair. “Lord, man. Did she keep you that wrapped up, then, that you don’t know what’s happened? Saxby’s ship arrived two days ago. He knew the temper of the town, and came ashore at Fort Johnson, to hole up with Lloyd. Then, yesterday afternoon, this made the rounds.” He tossed a folded broadside on the desk. “Surely you heard the celebration, the church bells ringing?”

  “I took it for more of your lot carrying on.” The sheet purported to be a free and voluntary statement of George Saxby and Caleb Lloyd. Because their office had proven so odious and disagreeable to the people, it said, they would not carry out the duties of it until the question could be decided in England.

  “Is this legitimate?”

  “Aye, man. They had it rowed across the city yesterday before services. It’s real enough. Come down the Bay at the foot of Broad, and you’ll see. Saxby and Lloyd should be here soon.”

  Michael snatched his hat and followed.

  The streets were packed from side to side when they arrived and they had to force their way an inch at a time. The crowd was even bigger than on the night of the gallows, Michael saw. It was the same crowd, too—sailors and alley sweepings, doxies and tosspots, mixed with mechanics and artisans. This time the mob was definitely festive. He refused more than one proffered bottle, but there wasn’t a hint of anger at it. The drinkers were happy.

  “The mob as usual, Christopher?” Michael asked wryly.

  “Look you to the balconies, man, and the windows.”

  Every window above the crowd was filled, the balconies packed tight—crammed with silk-coated men. He recognized several of them, planters and merchants. Including, he was surprised to see, Mr. Carver.

  The merchant saw him at the same instant, and also seemed surprised. Michael frowned. Did Carver think he was in the cause? Perhaps he took his presence here for proof. After a moment Carver nodded and returned to watching the river through a spyglass.

  A boat was making its way to shore, a Union Jack at the head of it. Then a puff of air spread the flag slightly; the word Liberty was stitched boldly across the center. A shout went up along the river. Silence fell as two men were helped ashore. The welcoming delegation, their friends who had arranged this, formed nervously around them. A way opened before them, a path to a platform built on the back of a wagon.

  After a moment’s hesitation the escort moved toward the improvised stage. The men inside their circle seemed calmer than they. Michael recognized the spare features of Caleb Lloyd. The other, prosperously portly, must be George Saxby.

  It was Saxby who was first to mount the platform. For a moment he surveyed the throng. Taking a deep breath, he held aloft a rolled parchment.

  “This,” he said loudly, “is my sworn declaration.” In the quiet his words carried to the farthest reaches of the press. “Until the united application of the several colonies for the repeal of the Stamp Act is received, and until it is known whether the Parliament will still determine to enforce that act, I will not exercise the office of Stamp Agent. This I do solemnly declare and protest before God Almighty.”

  The street exploded in shouts and cheers. Saxby solemnly handed the written copy of his pledge to his escort and left the platform to be replaced by Lloyd. Once more silence fell and once more the pledge was made.

  At his final word a solid mass of noise arose. It seemed every man in the street was shouting at the top of his lungs. Church bells began to ring, just a few at first, then more and more, till every bell in the city was pealing. Drums appeared, and fiddles, horns, and hautboys, playing a score of tunes that merged into the pandemonium. Over it all cannon from the Artillery Company and ships at anchor sounded their own salute.

  Someone had fetched the Liberty flag from the boat, and with it in the fore the two men were paraded down the street, Saxby looking overwhelmed, Lloyd relieved.

  With a start Michael realized that Christopher was shouting at him. “What?”

  “They’re taking them to Dillon’s,” the other shouted. “Will you come with us?”

  Michael thought of Mr. Carver and shook his head. “No, you go on. I must see someone.”

  The flow swept Christopher away. As Michael struggled against it, toward the house where he’d seen Carver, Justin Fourrier came out on the steps. There were others of his ilk with him, finely dressed planters’ sons, casually arrogant. It was Fourrier who caught Michael’s eye.

  Justin inspected the passing crush as if sniffing a bad odor. “It’s treason,” he said to friends loudly. “Damnable treason, and there should be hanging for it.”

  “Words to get a fancy rooster plucked,” somebody called from the crowd.

  Fourrier bristled and glared. “They should send in troops and hang the lot of you rabble,” he shouted.

  His friends quickly closed ranks, but the crowd only jeered, those who took any notice at all. It was a day of victory.

  As Michael pushed out of the crowd and started up the steps, Mr. Carver came through the door. “Sir, I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Oh, Michael. I saw you with Christopher. I’m afraid those rumors about him are right.”

  Michael could only stare blankly. “Rumors, sir? What rumors?”

  “I’m afraid he’s one of the Liberty Boys.”

  “Because he was here? Mr. Carver, I was here, and a thousand others who’re never a member of the Liberty Boys.”

  Carver shook his head. “No, he’s one of them, all right.”

  Michael phrased his words carefully. “Will he lose his position should he be?”

  “What? Oh, no. He’s a good officer. Besides”—he lowered his voice—“the time may come when it’s well to know someone in the radical camp.” The crowd had thinned enough for them to move, and he led away from the direction they’d gone.

  “Sir?” Michael couldn’t believe his ears.

  “It seems they’ve won today. The Liberty Boys, I mean. They’ve stopped the stamps—for the moment. But if it’s to be stopped for good, we merchants will have to do it.”

  “Merchants! Do you mean to ally yourselves with Gadsden?”

  “Come, Michael.” Carver sighed patiently. “Merchants can’t function when there’s riots and anarchy. We need peace and law for trade to go on, contracts to be risked. And not law enforced by bayonets. We can’t get it except by ending the Stamp Act.”

  “But how? You’re scarcely one to march in the street, with the rabble here. Will you petition the King, sir?”

  “Not the King. Our brother merchants in England. Colonial merchants owe hundreds of thousands of pounds to English merchants. However, we will say, due to the unrest and disorder brought on by the Stamp Act, we are unable to pay a farthing on what we owe. How long do you think it’ll take them to start pounding on the doors of Parliament? I’ll tell you, Michael, they may prate of rights at meetings of the Liberty Boys, but this battle will be fought and won, and open rebellion averted, for the value of trade.”

  On the first day of November, as Thomas Carver had predicted, the courts closed their doors, the Customs ceased issuing clearances, and the port of Charlestown closed.

  Michael closed the door to Mr. Carver’s study behind him and walked over to warm his hands at the fire. “These March days may be warm enough, but the nights still think it’s winter.”

  Carver finished bundling some papers and tied a cord around them. “It is unsafe to go to the bridge so late. Footpads took three last night. They grow bolder daily.”

  “In daylight, sir, I’d have to crack more sailors’ heads. They blame the merchant houses for closing the port, and for their troubles with the soldiers.”

  Carver nodded. There were more than a thousand ships in the harbor, and not a one could stir from anchor. The sailors were ashore with no place to go, no work to do, and no money to spend. The soldiers said the sailors stole to finance their drinking; the sailors said they couldn’t walk the street without being hauled off to the Provost. It was an explosive mixture, and someone was always striking sparks.

  “Shipments from Mueller and Corwin are due any day,” Michael went on. “Even leaving your own rice at the plantation, I’ll have the devil’s own time figuring where to put it.” He turned suddenly. “It’s going on for four months, sir, that nothing’s gone out.”

  Carver rubbed his face with both hands. “Governments work slowly, Michael. We’ve been patient four months; we’ll be patient four more, and four beyond that, if need be.” He rose and took up his hat and stick.