Sup With the Devil

the world—”

“I promise you, Aunt, the horse picked up a stone—”

“Oh, aye, and there was an earthquake and an Indian attack . . .”

All three women laughed. “They were honestly no trouble,” said Pattie, with a slightly nervous glance at Aunt Eliza, who was, after all, a well-off lady and might take exception to a servant entering into a conversation uninvited.

“Lord, no,” chuckled Elizabeth Smith. “Johnny and Nabby went off to school this morning, good as gold. I’ll send them on to you when they come back, unless you’d care to stay for dinner . . . You’re sure? Let me at least have Cuffee carry that package of yours, then—”

Cuffee was one of the Smith household slaves. Virginians—and the sons of West Indian merchants like Mr. Pugh—weren’t the only ones in the Americas to hold black men in servitude.

“’Tis only a few books, not a bale of hay!”

It was, in fact, seven books: rather large, heavy, and old, their thick leather covers smelling of mildew and smoke. As Weyountah had remarked, there was no reason for Abigail to think that George Fairfield’s murder had had the slightest thing to do with the books he’d bought from Narcissa Seckar—there were plenty of other reasons someone might have wanted to make away with a young Tory captain of militia who had apparently tupped every woman in Middlesex County. Considering the content of the missing volumes and the presence of young men like St-John Pugh in the vicinity, their disappearance last night from George Fairfield’s room might have had nothing to do with their new owner’s murder.

And the fact that part of the original collection had been in Arabic only coincidence.

But she had felt better, knowing that the books would not be in Horace’s room that night.

Seven

Midmorning Thursday brought a note from Governor Hutchinson.

My dear Mrs. Adams,

I well remember our brief meeting and the kindly concern that you showed for an unfortunate stranger whom Fate had brought beneath my roof. Please do attend me this afternoon following dinner, and I will do what I can for you. If as you say the matter is ‘not one of politics,’ it will be a most welcome relief at the present moment.

Sincerely,

Thos. Hutchinson

Abigail suspected that had she not included, in her request for a few minutes of Hutchinson’s time, the reassurance that her visit was not a political one, the reply would have been merely, Send a petition to my secretary . . .

And so it might prove, she reflected, glancing through the kitchen windows at the angle of sunlight in the little yard. Pattie was emptying the mop-water into the gutter of the little alley that connected the yard with Queen Street—it was shocking how quickly street-dust and the general griminess of town living accumulated in a house, even with only two days of not being mopped. Abigail ticked off tasks in her mind as she tucked the note behind the household tablet on the big oak sideboard: butter to be churned—thank Heavens Their Majesties Cleopatra and Semiramis were producing milk again after the winter’s drought!—lamps to be cleaned and set ready for evening, dinner to be started, mending . . . And all before she could justify to herself even touching that satchel full of young Mr. Fairfield’s papers.

The “worthies” of Boston ate their dinners later than workingmen and the wives of peripatetic lawyers, so probably she could walk to Marlborough Street at six and find His Excellency back in his office . . .

Oh, drat it, the bread needs to be got up . . .

My dear Mrs. Adams sounded promising, however. From a drawer in the sideboard, Abigail pulled out a piece of paper, then—considering its rough yellow surface—replaced it. When Pattie—fourteen years old, brisk, and pretty, the dark-haired daughter of one of their neighbors on the farm back in Braintree had lived almost as a daughter in the Adams household for over a year—came back in and hung the mop-bucket in its place by the back door, Abigail said, “Would you scald the dasher and the churn for me, dear? But do not get the butter started—I won’t have you doing my work for me; you’ve enough to do on your own . . . Yes, my darling,” she added as Charley—just a few weeks short of four years old and filled with resentment that he no longer had Uncle Isaac’s garden to play in—“I’m sorry you can’t go back to Aunt Eliza’s, but you can’t.” She lifted Tommy as the younger boy held out his arms. Twenty months old, he had recently figured out how to untie his leading-strings from whatever piece of furniture he’d been fixed to and was running everywhere now with happy abandon and was going to get himself killed, Abigail reflected, before he reached his second birthday . . .

“I will be out in exactly two minutes—Yes, Charley, you can come with me . . .”

With the boys tugging at her skirts and at each other’s, she went down the hall to John’s study, sat the boys firmly on the chairs there (For all the good that’s like to do . . .) and, on the fine smooth English legal paper from John’s desk, wrote a quick precis of the events of Tuesday evening and yesterday: that George Fairfield, a scholar at Harvard, had been murdered in his room by person or persons unknown; that all evidence showed that his slave Diomede had been drugged; that items were missing from Fairfield’s rooms that a robber could have taken; but that the Reverend Dr. Langdon (whom Abigail knew was no friend to Hutchinson) was stubbornly insisting that Diomede must be the culprit because as a slave he must have hated his master enough to do murder, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Without your assistance in the matter, the unfortunate Diomede will be returned to his master’s father in Virginia and will surely suffer the extreme penalty for a crime of which he is almost certainly innocent. In the name of justice, sir, please consider either taking the necessary steps to have the case tried in the courts of Massachusetts, or at the very least, stay this unhappy man’s deportation until some enquiry can be made into the actual circumstances of the event, for he surely can expect no justice once he leaves these shores. Yours sincerely, A. Adams.

And a blot, because Tommy, overwhelmed with the endless weight of enforced stillness, was moved to pull Charley’s hair, setting off a train of circumstance that precipitated both boys against their mother’s chair.

One day I am going to run off to the Maine Assizes myself and let John stay here and make butter . . .

Petition in hand and, for the sake of propriety (a convention she privately considered silly), escorted by her daughter Nabby, Abigail walked the quarter mile along Cornhill to Marlborough Street at six and presented the Governor’s note to the Governor’s butler at the handsome three-story brick mansion allotted by the colony to the representative of the Crown. Just as well, she thought, that John IS away at the Assizes . . . To her assertion a few months ago that she had never found His Excellency to be other than polite and considerate, John had simply roared, And I suppose you’d think well of a WHOREMASTER who was polite to you?

If he were not passionate, about politics as well as all other things, she supposed, he would not be John . . .

But it was best that she, and not he, was in charge of this particular portion of the effort to save an innocent man from death.

A dozen men—most of them well-off merchants, to judge by the quality of their clothing and wigs—occupied the chairs of the handsome tapestried parlor to which the butler showed her; the Governor’s son-in-law Mr. Oliver