Last Pages. Oscar Mandel

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      “And I’m a boor! I haven’t even offered you—”

      “A glass of water will do. My mother is expecting me for dinner.”

      Nicholas called Ruth, who brought a pitcher of water and a glass from the kitchen. “Such marvelous stories,” said Madeleine, and again Nicholas failed to hear the sadness in her voice. “Only in America can one hear such stories. I feel so old. Let me go back now to my inn.”

      “But have I no answer from you? No hint? No kind word? I must be gone within days, and I love you. But are we still not worthy of you?”

      Of course, she wanted to cry out, “Are we worthy of you?” but she said, “My mind is troubled. Except for this, Nicholas: Your secrets are safe with me. But not with everybody. Remember the one important thing I said when I came to your house.”

      “Which one, Madeleine?”

      “Not to speak—”

      “Before your gossipy—”

      And she was gone, more troubled than he could guess. He was not untroubled himself as he watched her from a window. “I babbled and babbled,” he thought. “Was this a blunder? No, the French are with us. And though I worship her, that was love in her blue eyes too, and love on her thirsty lips, as sure as fish can swim.”

      11

      MADELEINE DID NOT know that her mother, from the top floor of the inn, had seen her turn from Main into Oak street and understood that she was going decidedly toward the Mayhew house, obviously out of concern for Nicholas. She had to admit to herself that this time, Madeleine might do better work than her mother.

      Soon after, Aimée strolled to the fruit and vegetable market, where she bought a peach and ran into Ruth, the Mayhew cook who also helped Priscilla in her household chores. Ruth was an elderly, cheerful, chubby, red-cheeked woman born and raised on a Nantucket farm. Being talked to—affably, too!—by a French marquise was destined to be entered as a choice page in the book of her memory. Their talk was of fruit and vegetable, of prices, of market customs, of Ruth’s duties, of the fine Mayhew house, and then Aimée asked, “If the Mayhew men decide to travel, will you be going with them?” To which Ruth replied, “Oh no, not I, madam, not at my years!” But Aimée realized suddenly that she ought to have asked “when,” not “if.” It was too late.

      Returning to her rooms, she was glad and eager when she heard her daughter climb the stairs. Let dinner wait! She must hear Madeleine out. “I know where you have been,” she said as the girl was taking off her hat. “How is the charming young man?”

      “Oh, Mr. Mayhew is quite well. A little sneezing, he told me, no other consequence.”

      “Did you see the so-called seaman? This is capital.”

      “I did not.”

      “Did you notice any signs of an imminent departure? Locked armoires, curtains drawn, a portmanteau or two ready for a journey?”

      This was a difficult moment.

      “No, mother, nothing.”

      “So you babbled about swimming and accomplished nothing.”

      “Oh, I don’t know.” Madeleine paused and then took her plunge. “Nicholas Mayhew proposed to me.”

      Aimée stared. Was she—No! she was serious!

      “Nick Mayhew proposed to you? What—what made him…?”

      She felt too late that the question was less than flattering, but Madeleine took no notice.

      “I suppose because he likes me. He likes my noble lineage too.”

      “A miracle has happened! Suddenly the girl’s an expert! Come here, Madelon!” and she hugged her daughter. “You’ll make your fortune after all. I take back the marshmallow. Tell me all about it, and don’t leave out the erotic details, you naughty baggage!”

      “Well, he wants to marry me. We talked for a long time. He was very wild, very eloquent, but of course my rank made him keep his distance—most of the time.”

      “If he talked so much, he must have given you what we require to deliver him and his uncle to Gage.”

      “He did not, mother; he talked of other things altogether. I can tell you that Mr. Mayhew is a man with a very large future.”

      “A firing squad is not a future.”

      “I’m not so sure about the firing squad. He has a very keen mind for business, mother. I wish you’d been there to listen to his projects. A brigantine under his command; an estate at Concord; huge tracts of land in the West; a chocolate mill; shiny slaves; bankers urging loans and credits upon him—I tell you my head was spinning. I kept thinking how much you’d have enjoyed it.”

      “And why was he giving you this inventory?”

      “To convince the daughter of the Marquise de Tourville that she wouldn’t be taking a dreadful tumble down the social ladder.”

      “He may have been bragging.”

      “Such details, such confirmations! No, he was extremely not bragging.”

      This prompted Aimée to go to the door, open it, look about on landing and staircase, shut the door again, pull Madeleine down into an armchair, and continue in a voice gone much lower.

      “Madeleine,’ she said, “this is serious. Stupendously serious. I am ready to forestall that British bully of a sergeant and strike. But which way? Aren’t we blinding ourselves to the wider landscape? To hear Sergeant Cuff talk, the Yankees are not the sheep we’ve been told they are. And the Mayhew men prove him right. There must be thousands of these sturdy rogues arming up and down the continent. Providence may have placed the uncle and nephew in our path to show us we were about to commit a terrible sin. If you married Nicholas….”

      “You would betray Tom Gage, your employer, your…whatever? Is that quite correct, my dear mother?”

      “Quite correct. Tom Gage is a man of the world. And I need to provide for you.”

      “Thank you, mother. Yet I don’t want to marry Mr. Mayhew.”

      “Why in heaven not? Handsome, rich, a hero, a rebel!”

      “A rebel, mother, whom you intend to deliver to a firing squad?”

      “A rebel with a ship of his own, and land in the West, and confirmations, is no rebel until I’ve made up my mind.”

      “You’re a whirlwind, mother! One moment we’re arresting Nicholas and the next we’re marrying him. I say let’s leave the island. No plots, no machinations this time, no marriage, no wretched five hundred. Please, mother. General Gage will have other work for you wherever we go.”

      “There is nothing wretched about five hundred pounds. Yet I may let them go. Tell me, did he go too far, was he gross, is that what troubles you?”

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