An eighth it shall be. I need him more than he needs me, damn his bloated belly!”
“There you are.”
“And on a Sunday the wise man knoweth how to give in order to take. The pieces are falling into place, Wallace! Christ—if we’d lost you yesterday! One missing nail will bring an empire down.”
Here Young Nick took a letter from his pocket. It was in the hand of Mr. Davis, owner of the chocolate mill. It concerned Mrs. Applegate at Concord, and informed Nicholas of a very important point, namely that she had the legal power to sell “every blessed acre” which that most Tory of couples owned in and around town. It also mentioned that Mrs. Applegate was suffering many vexations being alone at Concord as the wife of a fugitive Loyalist. One or two more frights, said Mr. Davis, and she would sell for ten shillings in the pound. Davis had her confidence and would buy for Nick when the time was ripe. “I’ll make it ripe once I arrive,” said the young man, waving the letter. “But not a word…to anyone,” Nicholas added, looking significantly up toward the Colonel’s part of the house.
Shortly thereafter, Abishai Cottle came in for work, and the three men went into the counting house, mostly to make Wallace familiar with the firm’s daily routine. After an hour or so, Nicholas returned to his rooms and prepared to set off for his daily brisk walk along the seashore. He took “staying fit” seriously. Glancing out the parlor window to look at the sky—the June sun was shining and the ground was dry—he suddenly noticed, at the corner of Main Street, Madeleine stopped as if undecided whether to continue her walk (presumably) on Main or turn into Oak Street, where the only possible goal would be the Mayhew place. She stood there for a moment, her parasol twirling slowly, then stepped resolutely into Oak Street. Nicholas jumped back from the window.
A torrent of thoughts raced through his mind. Her beauty, her coming to inquire after his well-being after the great event of yesterday, her inclination for him, but also something grander, something utterly new, as it may happen, once in a lifetime, that at the flicker of some unexpected sight or event, a magnificent world unsuspected until that moment opens suddenly in a man’s mind. “The daughter of a Marquise! My bride! Be bold, Nicholas, be bold!”
He had time to look at himself in a mirror hanging in the small vestibule and ascertain that he was presentable, and then the doorbell rang. “I’ll open, Priscilla!” he shouted to the upstairs.
“I spied you coming this way, dear Madeleine,” he spoke before she said a word. “Welcome again under our roof. Come in, come in, come in!” He led the girl into the parlor and invited her to sit in a comfortable armchair. For himself, he took a footstool and sat at her knees.
“Thank you. I came because my mother and I are ever so anxious about you. After that terrible swim. That storm. So much danger. But you seem to be well.”
“You are so kind. I did sneeze a few times. And I slept rather more hours than usual. But you find me fit to swim from here to Martha’s Vineyard.”
“And the seaman?”
“Still a bit unsteady. My uncle feels that we should keep him until he is quite himself again.”
“I hope he is grateful to you.”
“Oh yes—but, my dear—” and this seemed like a fair occasion for taking Madeleine’s hand in his. She pulled a little but did not withdraw it. Young Nick’s voice became very soft. “My dearest Madeleine (if I may), what I did yesterday is an everyday occurrence among us. We live from the sea, and alas we are apt to die in the sea. These rescues are like helping someone from an overturned carriage in Paris.”
“And yet, who else threw himself into these monstrous waves—and for a stranger? Don’t say any more; I shall believe in you, Nicholas.”
Nicholas took the plunge. His voice grew even softer.
“Forever?”
She withdrew her hand.
“Forever? What do you mean?”
“Madeleine—I cannot be near so much beauty—such grace—so much tender regard—without saying ‘Forever.’”
He had stood up saying this, taken both her hands, and drawn her gently to him. She only half resisted.
“This is not why I came,” she whispered, “believe me—do believe me.”
But Nicholas was not listening. He kissed her. She allowed him. She kissed him most tenderly in return. He gently made her sit down again, and again sat on the footstool holding her hand.
“Madeleine,” he said, “we have met only three or four times—”
And already she had kissed him! “You despise me!” she exclaimed.
“Angel of heaven! My presumption is what makes me tremble. You will think me rash—brutal—to ask you—after so brief an acquaintance—but war is impatient. Would you be a sailor’s bride—take your share of my hardships and rewards—sail with me to the end of the world—”
“I would, Nicholas, and I say it because it can never be. If I came here, it was to warn you.”
“You’re trembling, my angel.”
“To warn you,” she repeated. “You have allowed me to guess that you are Whigs, you and your uncle.”
Politics at this high moment? Nicholas’ eyes opened wide. “Of course, yes,” he said somewhat hesitantly.
“Forgive a silly girl, a stranger, a passer-by, for meddling to no purpose. But—beware, I beg you, beware!”
Nicholas was puzzled; the conversation was taking a strange turn, and going astray of his bold purpose.
“How is it you know so much, Madeleine? Because I rattled away about this and that while showing you our island?”
“Yes. And then, I have been hearing rumors, tales….”
“Our tavern’s a fine place for that! But rest assured. The island is half Whig, half Tory, and we live in peace.”
“True. But with you—there is a difference.”
“Why? Why is there a difference?”
How to reveal and yet not to betray? She whispered “Don’t speak of …things …before my mother. She—she is quite wonderful, but not always…discreet. Do you understand?”
“I do, trust me.”
Madeleine rose as if to leave, but Nicholas gently detained her.
“You shall not go with tears in your eyes.” He made her sit again and held her two hands in his. “Calm yourself, lovely, kind Madeleine. I’ll not babble in front of your mother, I promise. She is so very lively! I understand. I shall speak to her only about us, Madeleine and Nicholas. Or will you become simple Madelyn in our homely English?”
He had pronounced his own name in the French manner.
“It can never be, Nicholas, never never never.”
“Because of your rank?”
“No no no….”
“How little you know about this America of ours! Between you and me I recognize neither moat nor wall. Here we begin fresh, as in a new Garden of Eden.”
“I know. But—”
“Don’t answer yet. Will you listen to me a little while longer?”
“Of course.”
“You land among us for a few days of rest. You discover our unpolished seamen and farmers, so different from the elegance you have known. No fine carriages, no jewels, no mansions—”
“How wrong you are! I—”
“But you haven’t probed beneath the surface. Let me tell you my story. When I’m done, you shall lead me proudly to the fearsome