TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE LV

S T A V E

LV

"You're to remain in New York and continue your engagements," Howard instructed over a late-night supper in his rooms. Unprecedented to have her over, always meeting in Public and in Daylight. "I expect you to take care of yourself. Your illness concerned me."

Lost to bed for weeks in a melancholy humour. Cancelled an engagement.

Just as well, Howard thought, give the affair time to blow over. He penned a message of support. But a second cancellation, then a third, followed by a note from Tildon: she'd not been to lessons for weeks. Howard called on her and found her greatly altered. "The girl's as pale as a ghost!" Mrs. Grisham said she'd seen it before. The English Malady. "Nonsense," Howard said and procured a doctor straightaway.

A faint pulse, the physician said. Primum non nocere – his first inclination, and if that didn't work, he'd purge the trouble by the least inviolate method – bleeding. "If it be the Blues, they'd be purged; she'd be weak, but in a better mood."

Obedience slowly recovered, Howard checking in from time to time while this Negro woman nosed about with Mrs. Grisham having to direct her to some chore.

The other night, Obedience's first recital in weeks, her voice altered – an ache in the timbre. A lower tessitura, projecting from a deeper place, she no longer need woo.

What's happened to Mrs. M.? Has scandal improved her genius? A tragic heroine – good gossip. Big Lives – big Art. Not that they really cared. A distraction though with the war and all – the French sneaking about the Atlantic from Rhode Island to the West Indies, the Loyalists, depending on the town, either the ruling power or literally thrown out.

"I'm recovered," she said, sitting juxtaposition to Howard.

"And Mr. MacEachran, he is doing well?"

"So I hear."

"You've not seen him?"

"I have not. I can't."

"Can't?"

A turn of her cheek. "I cannot face him."

"Sorry – that," Howard with sympathy. "I did not mean to scold you that afternoon . . . You're a grown woman. You just need to know which is the right bed and at the right time . . . If that is what you wish to do –"

An uncomfortable silence.

"Are you distressed about going south?" she dissembled.

Howard with a quick sip of wine. "I volunteered. O'Hara is now brigadier."

"Your pardon, sir." She opened her silk fan to press over her cluster.

"None needed, MacEachran." And settled back. "It's been difficult for you. So many fall victim. Look at poor Cathcart – got Miss E. in the family way – had to marry her – dad's Lieutenant Gov'nor. A lively girl, Lady Cathcart, though would've been just another fille mere if she had not Station . . . Cathcart would've abandoned the poor child to her shame showing as big as a house. But he's devoted to her now and loves their infant girl. A happy little family. Too bad for the circumstance. Cathcart's not a bad sort – war makes good men blackguards, but they're fine fellows back home. To keep perspective, one must retain a sympathetic heart . . ."

What is it – listening to him, his voice on the back of her neck. And not just him, but felt it coming to his house, a shadow beyond her sight. She felt it at night. It awoke her.