We went out that night, Jonathan’s first night in Boston. The event was a sedate one-a musicale, with a piano and a singer of no renown-but still I wouldn’t have thought it a good idea to take him out while he was in shock and his mind too unsettled. Secrecy was Adair’s byword-he’d impressed that on us all with tales of being suspected of witchcraft and barely escaping violent mobs, fleeing on horseback by moonlight, leaving behind a fortune that had taken decades to amass-and who knew what Jonathan might say in the state he was in. Adair would not be dissuaded, however, and we were dispatched to search through the trunks for a suite of evening clothes for Jonathan. In the end, Adair commandeered Dona’s gorgeous French frock coat (Jonathan being as tall as Dona but broader through the shoulders) and had one of the maids slave for a few hours on alterations as the rest of us powdered, perfumed, and dressed to introduce Jonathan to the city.
Only he couldn’t go forth as Jonathan, could he? “You must remember to introduce yourself by another name,” Adair explained, as servants helped us don capes and hats under the chandelier in the foyer. “We cannot have word getting back to your little hamlet that Jonathan St. Andrew has been seen in Boston.”
The reason was obvious: Jonathan’s family would be looking for him. Ruth St. Andrew would refuse to accept that her son had simply disappeared. She’d have the entire town searched, the woods and river, too. When the snow melted in the spring and still no body was found, she would deduce that Jonathan had left on his own and she might cast an even wider net in an attempt to find him. We couldn’t leave a trail of crumbs behind, clues that could bring someone to our door.
“Why do you insist on taking him out tonight? Why not let him recover first?” I asked Adair as we clambered into the carriage. He regarded me as he might a simpleton or a noisome child.
“Because I don’t want him cloistered in his room, brooding over what he has left behind. I want him to enjoy what the world has to offer.” He smiled at Jonathan, though Jonathan only stared moodily out the carriage window, oblivious even to Tilde’s hand playing provocatively with his knee. Something about Adair’s answer didn’t sit right with me, and I’d learned to trust my instincts about when Adair was lying. Adair
The carriage took us to a tall, stately house not far off the Boston Common, the home of a councilman and attorney whose wife had gone mad for Adair, or I should say, had gone mad for what he represented: European aristocracy and sophistication (if she only knew that, in truth, she was entertaining the son of an itinerant field hand, a peasant with blood as well as mud on his hands). The husband left for their farm to the west of the city whenever the wife hosted one of these parties and it was just as well, as he would have died of apoplexy if he’d known what went on at these events and how she spent his money.
In addition to hanging on Adair’s arm for much of the evening, the councilman’s wife also tried to interest him in her daughters. Despite the fact that America had recently won its independence and thrown off a monarchy in favor of democracy, some were still enamored of the idea of royalty, and the councilman’s wife probably secretly wished to have one of her daughters marry into a title. I expected that when we arrived, she would descend on Adair in a flurry of taffeta skirts and curtsies, ushering in her daughters to stand a little closer to the count, until he could peer down their decollete with no trouble.
When Jonathan stepped into the ballroom, there was a hush and then a twitter ran through the gathering. It would not be an exaggeration to say all eyes turned to him. Tilde had taken his arm and now ushered him to where Adair stood, speaking with the hostess.
“Allow me to introduce you,” Adair began and then gave the councilman’s wife a name to remember Jonathan by, Jacob Moore, deceptively common. She looked up, momentarily speechless.
“He’s my American cousin, would you believe it?” Adair threw an arm affectionately around Jonathan’s neck. “Through family in England on both our mothers’ sides. A distant branch of my family…” Adair trailed off when it was apparent that no one-for the first time since he’d arrived in America-was listening to him.
“Are you new to Boston?” the hostess asked Jonathan, her eyes never leaving his face. “Because I would remember if I had seen you before.”
I stood by the punch table with Alejandro, watching Jonathan stumble through an explanation, needing Adair to rescue him. “I suspect we won’t be long here, tonight,” I said.
“This will not be as easy as Adair thinks.” Alejandro lifted his cup in their direction. “You cannot hide
There was a more immediate concern, I thought, as I observed Jonathan and Adair together. The women flocked not around the European aristocrat but the tall stranger. They stared at him from behind their fans; they stood blushing at his elbow, waiting to be introduced. I’d seen those expressions before, and I realized at that moment that it would never change. Wherever Jonathan went, women would try to possess him. Even if he didn’t encourage it, they would always pursue him. As trying as the competition had been in St. Andrew, now Jonathan would never be mine alone. I would always have to share him.
Tonight, Adair seemed content to let Jonathan be the center of attention; indeed, he appeared to pay close attention to the partygoers’ reactions. But I wondered how long that would last. Adair did not seem the type to live in someone else’s shadow, and there never was any choice but to let him be the star. Jonathan himself had no choice.
“I fear there will be trouble before too long,” I murmured to Alejandro.
“With Adair, there is always trouble. It is just a matter of how bad.”
We stayed longer than I thought: the night was starting to surrender to the purple bloom of dawn when we returned to the mansion in quiet exhaustion. I saw that, despite himself, Jonathan appeared to have come out of his shell a little. High spots of color-an excess of drink?-spotted his cheeks and he was definitely less tense.
We climbed the stairs in silence, the sharp report of our heels on the marble floor echoing through the great, hollow house. Tilde tugged at Jonathan’s hand, trying to direct him to her room, but he slipped from her grasp with a shake of his head. One by one, the courtiers disappeared behind the gilded doors to their bedchambers until it was only Jonathan, Adair, and myself. I was about to escort Jonathan to his room, to share a few words of reassurance and, with any luck, be invited to keep him warm under the covers, when I was stopped by an arm thrown around my waist. Adair reeled me in close to him and, in full view of Jonathan, ran his free hand over my bodice and my derriere. He kicked open the door to his private chamber.
“Will you join us tonight?” he said with a wink. “We should make this a night to remember, to celebrate your arrival. Lanore is quite capable of pleasing both of us; she’s done it many times before. You should see for yourself: she has a gift for loving two men at the same time.”
Jonathan blanched and stepped back.
“No? Another time, then. Perhaps when you are more rested. Good night,” Adair said, as he pulled me in behind him. There was no mistaking his message: I was a common whore. This was how Adair meant to kill Jonathan’s affection for me, and I realized in that instant that I’d been a fool to doubt Adair’s ability to make good on it. I barely looked at Jonathan’s face-shocked, hurt-before the door slammed shut.
In the morning, I gathered my clothing in my arms, and in my shift and bare feet, stood outside Jonathan’s bedchamber, listening for signs that he was awake. I craved in the strongest way to hear the quotidian noises of his morning ritual-the rustle of bed linen, water splashing in the basin-thinking that would make everything right. I had no idea if I could face him. I wanted the kind of reassurance a child gets from a parent’s face after he’s been punished, but I lacked the courage to knock. It didn’t matter: it was completely still within, and given the long, complicated day he’d had, I shouldn’t have doubted he’d sleep a full twenty-four hours.
Instead, I washed in my room and dressed in fresh clothing, then made my way downstairs in the hope that, despite the early hour, the servants would have set a pan of coffee brewing. To my surprise, Jonathan sat in the small dining room, steaming milk and dry bread on the table before him. He looked up at me.
“You’ve risen,” I said.
He stood and pulled out the chair opposite his. “I’ve kept farmer’s hours my whole life. Surely you remember that about St. Andrew. If you slept past six in the morning, the entire town would be talking about you by noon. The only thing for it was to be on your deathbed,” he said wryly. A sleepy young man carried in a cup and saucer, splashing coffee clumsily over the edge, then set it at my left hand, nodded, and left.
Although I’d thought all evening of how I might explain myself to Jonathan, I’d come up at a loss. I had no idea how to start, so I fumbled with the delicate handle of the cup. “What you saw last night…”
Jonathan held up a hand, a strangled look on his face, as though he didn’t wish to speak but knew he had to. “I don’t know why I reacted the way I did last night… You’d told me your circumstances plainly in St. Andrew. If I
