TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

ADAIGO - STAVE XXVII

S T A V E

XXVII

Elliot, in his spanking first issue: shoes blackballed and white leather chalked, dodging muck on his way to Elfreth's Alley.

Odd – to see a single Guardsman, all pristine, negotiating traffic; they always come in herds with bands playing, and if not bands, then fifes and drums for the whole bloody street to give way and feel honoured for it. High-toned bastards. And this one, like some Macaroni late for a ball, better yet, a masquerade with that stone face. A bloody terror. God help the wench with whom he dances; she might as well stroke a bear and be eaten for it.

Not that Elliot cared, striding boldly like a Guardsman. So it was with his kind – what old bowed Pensioners would not stand ramrod straight to God Save The King? Even more so on this Sabbath with the Scripture reading: "Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away." What he cared for Christ, he could not tell, but he longed for the New Creature.

He checked the black ostrich feather in his pocket – that it hadn't broke. What maid would not be pleased by such a present? And there was the ring.

Elfreth's Alley was a narrow passage heaped with snow. "Libby Coffyn." He said the name aloud and grinned till he thought of Obedience and a dark heat rose, she and MacEachran – good riddance. In the snow, footprints, a woman's to the Coffyn house – Providence, and him a new creature.

He rapped on the door without hesitation which was opened by a Negro girl.

"Who is it, Rachel?" a man called from within.

She looked up, a prettiness he could not place and eyes that made him falter. "Who is it?" she repeated.

"Private Elliot," he said softly so not to harm her, "of his Majesty's Coldstream Guards."

"Rachel?" the man asked again.

"A British soldier, Mr. James." Decorous but not subservient, and Pure, untainted by Whiteness.

"Coming . . . Sir?" A short, stocky man, forced to look up. What surprise.

Elliot stiffened; did the gentleman not see? He's the New Man.

Introducing himself again, he recounted his assistance to Miss Libby.

Mr. Coffyn stiffened. "I am aware. Do come in . . . for a few minutes. Rachel, fetch Miss Libby, please."

Elliot, a duck of his head though the lintel was high enough and Coffyn allowed him little ground in the small front room.

"Good Sabbath, Mr. Elliot," Libby said, coming down the stairs. "What business brings thee here?"

Elliot bowed. "No particular business, Miss, other than to say, 'hallo' and inquire that

You're well."

"I am well," she said, anchored to the stairs. "Thyself?"

The scar across Elliot's face, to Coffyn's eyes, glistened like a graveyard worm.

And Elliot with a disarming smile. "I am also well."

"I'm glad – " and stared as if she expected him. "Come and sit."

Coffyn stepped aside and Elliot unlatched the hatt-cap strap under his hair now grown

back and queued in the grenadier's fashion. "My apology coming unannounced, you must be occupied."

"The Lord's Day, Mr. Elliot, a day of rest and contemplation," Coffyn said.

"It is. I've come from Church Parade and my duties for the day are finished."