From up close it seemed incredible that the house had gone up in less than a year. It was three stories, with columned porticos on the second and third floors and a mansard roof of dark, Charlestown tiles. A double stair, edged by wrought-iron railings, led to the portico on the second level. Inside it was repeated, this time by a curving, free-standing double stair rising from the entry hall.

  “It’s a hell of a place for an Irish farmboy to be living,” Christopher said once he’d caught his breath.

  “Oak and cypress throughout.” He slid open the door to his study and chased out a workman fitting wainscoting. “What’ll you have? I’ve some fine Irish whiskey here.”

  “Lord, yes. I’ll take the whiskey” He lifted the glass Michael handed him. “Dia’s Muire Ihuit.”

  “Dia’s Muire Ihuit agus Padraig.”

  “Ah, it’s angel’s milk. You’ve no idea what they’re calling whiskey these days.”

  Michael sipped, then set his glass on the desk. “I’m thinking you didn’t come here to compliment my house or my whiskey, nor to speak the old tongue, neither. You’ll see I’m being direct. After all, it’s been a year, and I’ve not seen a hair of you.”

  Byrne sighed. “I could say I was feared you’d be big headed with your fine plantation was why I didn’t come, but it wouldn’t be true. No, I’ve just been lazy, lad. Too lazy to get on a horse and come.”

  Michael sank into a wing chair and gestured for Christopher to take the other. “Yes. And now something’s put you on your horse. What?”

  Byrne grimaced. There wasn’t going to be an easy way to get to it. “Gadsden’s gotten the Charlestown merchants to agree to non-importation, you know. He’s heading the committee to enforce it.”

  “So. It’s politics again, is it?”

  “Yes. If you’ve seen the non-import you’ll recall there was a list of exemptions.”

  “A few,” Michael said dryly. “Everything a planter needs to operate.”

  Christopher grimaced. “Well, it was the only way we could bring you planters to agree, and it wouldn’t have gone without you.”

  “Who’s ‘we,’ Christopher?” Michael’s voice was quiet, but his gaze was firm. “Gadsden? Timothy? Who? You ask an awful lot, but you don’t tell much.”

  Christopher hesitated. “All right, then. Yes, they’re in it, and others you wouldn’t expect. Your fine friend John Rutledge, for one, and Henry Laurens, ever since he twisted the customs inspector’s nose on the Bay. Do you want more names?”

  “No.” Damn it, these weren’t just the cream of the colony. They were his friends. “What is it you want?”

  “We want a tighter agreement, a real agreement, to shut down the imports entirely till those damned Townshend duties are gone. But we need more backing from the planters. Talk to them, man. You can’t turn me down this time.”

  “Damn it, man, it doesn’t make sense. How can we do without paper, or glass, or lead, or any one of the other things on the list? Be reasonable. They’re even taxing tea!”

  “For God’s sake, don’t you see that’s why we have to stop them now?” Byrne’s eyes blazed. “If we let this get by, they won’t stop. And they’ll add more till there’s never a hope of us stopping them. God’s teeth, Michael, you know the English. They won’t even slow till they’ve got us by the throat, making us pay for the air we breathe.”

  Michael sighed. Christopher was right. He didn’t want to mix in politics, but—“I’ll think about it. I’ll be wagering you have a list of the planters you need swayed?”

  Christopher did. A long list of men, along with what Michael should offer this one, but only if he had to, and what he should on no account say to that one; exactly what kind of backing he should try for; and how to get letters to a safe place in Charlestown.

  With that Michael threw up his hands. “Enough, Christopher. I’ll talk with these men, and that’s all. That’s all, I say. No secret letters, nor any of that. I’m not a spy, for God’s sake. Now, we’ll talk of something else. You. How is it with you?”

  “I’m saving my money, keeping away from the cards. In four years, I reckon, I’ll be owning my own ship. And maybe taking a wife.”

  “A wife! Have you a girl in mind?”

  “It’s early days for that, yet. I’m still trying to find that little serving girl you were tumbling. I know you were. There’s no need denying. But I haven’t seen her anywhere.”

  “She married a shoemaker.”

  “A shoemaker! Ah, the pity. And you. Have you thoughts of bringing a wife to this palace?”

  Michael looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “It does seem empty without a woman, doesn’t it? Almost as if it’s waiting for her.”

  “Any particular one, lad?”

  Michael produced a laugh. “No, of course not. But even I’ll not stay a bachelor forever. Look, can you stay a few days? We’ve more than one night’s talking to do. I’ll have Daniel row us upriver this afternoon for some fishing.”

  In September of 1769, Michael began his first harvest. The straw was still green, the grain waving high above the water before the sluices were opened and the fields drained. The hands moved down into the impoundments, crossing in stooped rows, sickles flashing. The grain was left lying on the stubble to cure. When the last field was done, it was time to go back to the first and carry the grain to be cleaned, first by hands with flails on a large circular floor, then by one of the new cog-machines driven by a pair of oxen.

  Present through the entire harvest were the rice birds. They were lean when they came in their streaked winter feathers, but they fattened quickly. Michael laid aside fowling pieces for slaves who did nothing from dawn to dusk but stand at the fields and shoot, but the thousands that fell made not a dent in their greedy numbers. But they were toothsome, made sweeter, perhaps, for having gorged on his rice.

  With the end of the harvest came no rest. Hogs and sheep were slaughtered, and cattle, too, and put up for the winter. The corn and potatoes and beans had to be sorted, the best kept aside for the spring planting and the rest put away. There was more land to clear, and boards and scantlings sawed for the outbuildings yet to be finished. Shingles had to be made, and staves and oaken hoops cut for the coopering of rice barrels. It was close on to Christmas before Michael could make the trip to Charlestown. And to the reward he sought for all his labor.

  Once installed in rooms at Dillon’s, he hurried to the Church Street house, pausing only briefly before he knocked at Mr. Carver’s study door.

  “Come in.” Carver, deep in piled papers, broke into a smile as soon as he saw his guest. He popped to his feet. “Michael, you’ve no idea how good it is to see you. Your visits have been all too few.”

  “There’s always work to be done, sir, and I’ve no mind to hire an overseer.”

  “And it prospers?”

  “It’ll make four tierces the acre, for sure.”

  “Excellent, excellent. What am I thinking of? Here I haven’t even offered you a drink. Will you have brandy? Or Madeira?”

  Michael took a deep breath. Strange, how some things could make a man feel like a footling boy. “Sir, I’ve come to you on a matter of some importance.”

  At the formal tone Carver set the brandy back down. “And that is?”

  “I wish to ask for the right to pay court to your daughter, Elizabeth.”

  “Indeed.” The old man suppressed a smile. “And have you spoken to my daughter about this?”

  “Well, sir, in a manner of speaking …” Michael realized with rage he was blushing.

  “Oh, Michael, Michael.” Carver was chuckling at his discomfiture. “I can think of no man to whom I’d rather give the right. Will you have that wine now, in celebration?”

  “No, thank you, sir. Eliz—Miss Elizabeth is waiting.” Confound it! He colored like a boy again. “Excuse me, sir.”

  When he slid the door shut behind him, Elizabeth was there. Except for a certain brightness of eye she didn’t seem excited at all, bored almost. He decided women just took such things more matter-of-factly.

  “He said yes.”

  She tucked her arm in his and led him into the drawing room. “Of course he did. But Michael, I wish you’d asked him for my hand.”

  “A forward little baggage it is!” he laughed, and pulled her into the triumphant circle of his arms.

  Elizabeth was not yet satisfied. “You have your plantation. What more can you be waiting for?” She stiffened. “There isn’t another woman, is there?”

  “Lord, no. You know you’re the only one.” He carefully blanked a certain Santee widow from his mind and kissed her thoroughly and often as he spoke. “I want everything for you. The very best. I want a nice, conventional courtship, and a properly long betrothal. And a proper wedding. We’ll have no more behind-the-bushes in our lives. I love you.” He drew back. “For the moment, I’m afraid, I have to go out. Business. No, I mean it.” He gave her one more kiss for a good-bye, and then another. Then, as good as his word, he left.

  It was all very well, Elizabeth thought breathlessly, for him to kiss her like that. But to traipse off that way! Business? She knew what business that was. He’d another woman somewhere. He’d kiss her and caress her till she lay awake all night, then go out and enjoy himself in the arms of another woman. Well, they’d have their proper marriage, and it wouldn’t be after any long courtship and betrothal. She’d see to that.

  Michael’s business took him up the Bay, to a house he’d visited often before. Or at least the rooms behind. This time he climbed the front stoop and knocked on Christopher Gadsden’s door.

  In the drawing room the curtains were drawn and the lights low. Gadsden was there, and Peter Timothy and Christopher Byrne and others he recognized but didn’t know by name. Gadsden rose to greet him. “Welcome, Mr. Fallon, to my home, and to the cause.”

  “I thank you, for the first, but not the last, Mr. Gadsden. I’ve done as I said I would among the planters, though with precious little result, but I’m no joiner of causes, yours or anyone else’s.”

  Gadsden eyed him sharply. “We’ll accept your reluctance along with your aid. For the time, at least. Now tell me. You say you had little success with the planters? Do they not favor our cause?”

  “I didn’t talk causes.” He glanced at Byrne, who shifted uncomfortably. “I thought you knew that. What I did was talk taxes, the duties and what they add to the cost of running a plantation. All agree they’re an unfair burden, but they’ll not let their land lie fallow and their livelihoods go to ruin to fight it.”

  “But if you had talked cause,” Timothy broke in, “they would have seen. God, must our rights and liberties depend on not endangering planters’ livelihoods? Let them put their livelihoods, and their land, and their blood, if need be, into the fight. The cause of freedom is a holy one.”

  “Come, Peter,” Gadsden said restlessly. “It no longer matters. You see, sir, we’ve decided we can do quite well with the agreement we have.”

  A slow burn began in Michael. “You mean to say I’ve run around talking men into something you don’t need? You could’ve put Christopher back on his horse and sent him to tell me.”

  Gadsden spread his hands blandly. “Mr. Fallon, we trust you, but we aren’t fools. As you say, you’re not a joiner.”

  Michael’s jaw tightened. “All right then. I’ve done as I said, and there’s an end to it.”

  “Please, I didn’t mean to anger you. Stay and join the conversation. Tonight we talk of Mr. John Wilkes, and the money the Assembly voted to his aid.”

  “Mr. Wilkes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fallon,” Gadsden said. “Mr. Wilkes. Three times imprisoned and expelled from the House of Commons for his attack on George III in the forty-fifth issue of his paper, the North Briton. Three times re-elected from prison by the people. The cry in London is, Wilkes and Liberty. Now, if only William Pitt could forget he’s Earl of Chatham and remember he was once the Great Commoner, we’d have two great voices raised for our liberties.”

  The conversation became general, and everyone took a chair. How much opinions had changed, Michael thought, in a few short years. Once they were all loyal subjects of the King, and it was the Parliament that ravaged their rights and destroyed their liberties. Now the Assembly could send ten thousand pounds to pay Wilkes’s debts, and him a man whose preoccupation was twisting the King’s tail. The waters were getting deeper.

  13

  Thomas Carver studied the reports on his desk. Non-Importation was ridiculous in that summer of 1770. A merchant would be accused of importing prohibited items. He’d say it was ordered before the agreements, the Committee would say it didn’t matter, and the goods would be stored under bond. Carver snorted. It wasn’t coincidence that the stored goods were always the sort that wouldn’t be damaged by long storage. It was enough to make him regret his own adherence.

  On the other hand most merchants were adhering to the agreements, including many of the smaller ones who would be ruined if they continued. The trouble was the Committee made up for its leniency on the few with severity against the many. There was the case of Ann Matthews, for instance. A widow, she had no money to pay storage on goods ordered before the agreements. On finding they were being damaged by the weather, she broke open the cases and sold the goods. The Committee promptly published her name as a violator. On pain of displeasure of the Committee, and of having their own names published, no one could do business with her.

  The widow hadn’t given up, though, and the new South Carolina and American General Gazette had risked giving her a hearing. She’d named the names of men who had cases similar to hers, but who weren’t proscribed. Mr. Edwards. Mr. Lightwood. And Mr. Edward Rutledge, John’s brother. Still the Committee refused to relent.

  Carver must do something for her. Discreetly. The Liberty hotheads turned on anyone who showed open disagreement with them, whether he violated the agreements or not. They’d managed to run William Henry Drayton out of town. Of course, he’d persisted in attacking them with letters to the Gazette, sneering letters, openly contemptuous of what he called the vulgar herd.

  His daughter’s entrance gave him a start. He watched her cross the room, lit by the July sun, and wondered again, as he often did of late, how the little girl had been so suddenly replaced by this regally beautiful woman. “You come to talk to me seldom of late, my dear. I assume you are in want?”

  She opened her fan with a practiced snap. “Why, Papa,” she said with a smile, “you know I am a dutiful daughter. Though if you really wanted to do something for me, you could make them stop this embargo. There’s not a scrap of lace in the shops, nor a hat I’d be willing to give to Samantha.”

  He laughed. “I wave my hands and it all vanishes. Oh, dutiful daughter, the Committee isn’t so easily disposed of.”

  “Oh, bother the Committee! They’re just a bunch of horrid men, shipping a gentleman like Mr. Drayton off like that.”

  “He left in a cabin he paid for,” Carver said slowly. “Listing him among returned cargo was simply the Committee’s idea of further ridiculing him.” He stopped suddenly. This wasn’t like Elizabeth. She hated politics; it was the quickest way to lose her attention.

  She hurried on. “Isn’t it wonderful about the new fish market at the foot of Queen Street? It’s said they’re going to clear the streets of fishmongers.”

  “Elizabeth,” he broke in, “you don’t care one iota about the Non-Importation Committee or William Henry Drayton, and you have as much interest in fishmongers and fish markets as you do in Cathay. Out with it.”

  She worked her fan and studied the toe of her slipper. “Louisa Forbes just returned from her honeymoon. She’s Louisa Richardson, now. She’s invited me to Fairhope for a visit.” Her father shifted in his chair; she hurried on.

  “It’s very cool there this time of year, and there hasn’t been a single case of fever. There’ve been three in Charlestown, already. Papa, you know I don’t like admitting I’m afraid, but between the fever and the heat, well—” She opened her eyes very wide and turned a pitiful face to him.

  He didn’t believe this talk of fear. People could have been dropping in the streets, and she’d have fought tooth and nail against leaving, had she wanted to stay. Fairhope? It was less than an hour’s ride from Tir Alainn. He didn’t mind at all. In fact, he was beginning to look forward to Fallon as a son-in-law.

  “All right,” he said. “You’ll take Samuel and the closed coach. We can spare a livery boy as well as Samantha. Now when is this visit to take place?”

  Elizabeth stared at him, her next set of arguments tumbling over the tip of her tongue. It took a moment to shift them. “Samantha will be enough.” She thought furiously about her wardrobe—the new dresses being made, the furbelows her green needed. “My invitation is for Saturday. Oh, thank you, Papa!” She would have to add an order with Madame Marie today.

  When she closed the bedroom door behind her, she was shaking. She’d been so clumsy. But then, this was so important. Thank God her father didn’t know how important.

  As the carriage swept into the drive at Fairhope, Elizabeth worked her fan doggedly against the heat. The leather curtains had had to be lowered against the dust kicked up by the horses. It’d been a choice of swelter or choke to death in the dust. Lord, how she hated travel.

  There was Louisa, now, running down the steps followed by a train of slaves for the baggage. “Elizabeth! Dear Elizabeth! How good to see you!”

  Elizabeth embraced her briefly for the heat. “Dear Louisa. It’s been so long.” Still the same too-slender girl with a face more pixieish than pretty, she thought. Whatever had Henry Richardson seen in her?

  “Do come in. I’ll have Mandy bring us some cool ratafia. And you’ll want a chance to freshen.”

  “You can’t imagine how wonderful that sounds. The roads are miserable. How pretty everything looks.” And it did. Large and in the double-house style, the house had a broad front stair and wrought-iron work at the windows. Flower beds wrapped it in color.