Marcia Talley - The Last Refuge

‘Twelve colonies have sent delegates,’ Washington was saying when I tuned back in. ‘I, as you know, represent Virginia.’

‘Only twelve?’ Alex Mueller asked, being the dancer, not the historian among us. He’d clearly skimmed over the history tab in his orientation packet and hadn’t exactly been poring over books in the library.

‘Georgia is a state full of convicts,’ Washington replied, as if that explained everything.

Melody piped up again. ‘Like Australia?’

‘Exactly like Australia.’

‘What are you meeting about, then?’ Melody asked.

‘We’re there to discuss the taxes that have been levied against us of late by the British Parliament. You’ve heard of the Boston Tea Party?’

Melody and Gabe bobbed their heads.

‘That was our first act of protest. Now we’re considering a boycott of all trade with Britain if King George III doesn’t heed our petition and redress our specific grievances.’

‘We have a similar situation here in Annapolis,’ Jack chimed in. ‘Two days ago, the brig Peggy Stewart arrived in Annapolis carrying at least a ton of tea, as well as fifty-three indentured servants. Stewart has paid the tax so that the human cargo can be off-loaded, but in spite of the tax being paid, customs is justly refusing to let the tea come ashore. There’s to be another meeting of the committee in two days time, but until then, we have a stalemate.’

As Jack nattered on as if sucked through a time warp into 1774, I fought the almost overwhelming urge to stick the oyster fork underneath my wig and give my itchy scalp a good scratch. Fortunately, Jeffrey arrived – dressed in white gloves and full livery – bearing a platter upon which our roast pig lay in all its splendor.

Jack staggered to his feet, swayed unsteadily, and led a round of applause. Accompanied by a chorus of ohs and ahs , Jeffrey set the platter down in front of his master who admired the beast for what seemed like a full minute – holding a carving knife in one hand and a fork in the other – before bringing the knife down and whacking off its left front leg.

I averted my eyes from the massacre going on at the head of the table and motioned to Jeffrey. I needed a drink. Jeffrey made another round with the wine, and when my glass was full, I took a sip. Then another.

Jack began slicing meat off the thigh. ‘Mrs Ives?’

‘Yes, Mr Donovan?’

‘I’ve decided that I need to put my money where my mouth is. Kindly inform Cook that from this day forward until the British government comes to its senses, no tea will be served in this house.’

I was primarily a coffee person, but a mid-afternoon cup of tea was one of my favorite pick-me-ups. ‘I’ll see to it first thing in the morning, Mr Donovan,’ I lied. Then I turned to our guest, lowering my voice to a whisper. ‘Ever since Tales of the City , I’ve just adored Laura Linney. So, tell me. Is she just as nice in person?’

After the butter cake and the fresh berries, George Washington leaned back in his chair, folded his napkin, sighed with contentment and insisted on giving his compliments personally to the cook. Karen was sent for and when she arrived, she stood in the doorway with her head modestly bowed while Washington offered a toast in her honor.

The ladies adjourned to the parlor for coffee, so the men could get on with their port and tobacco of choice. Around six, Jack appeared at the parlor door, red-cheeked as St Nick and just as jovial. ‘Let the dancing begin!’ he announced as he tottered in my direction. With each shaky step, my dread increased. I squeezed my eyes shut – Go away, go away, go away – to no avail. An eternity later, he paused in front of my chair, bowed, extended his hand and said, ‘Mrs Ives, will you do me the honor?’

Amy scooted out of the parlor behind him and before long, I could hear her pounding out an ‘A’ on the harpsichord so Alex could tune his violin. I was trapped, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of Washington/Morse, so I dredged up a smile, pasted it on my face, and allowed Jack to lead me into the central hallway. Behind me, Melody squealed, and a few minutes later she, too, was escorted into the hallway by the Father of our Country himself.

Paca House didn’t have a proper ballroom, so the servants had cleared the hallway of furniture for the occasion. At the far end, near the porch on the garden side, Amy sat at the harpsichord. Holding his violin, Alex stood in front, his backside nestled into the natural curve of the harpsichord case. Alex tapped his bow on Amy’s music stand, setting the tempo, as Jack led me onto the dance floor. George Washington followed, partnering Melody who must have been blushing furiously under the layer of zinc oxide. From opposite corners we bowed to our partners, and the minuet began.

I curtseyed, Jack bowed, his forehead glistened with sweat. We traced an invisible Z on the dance floor, passing each other diagonally without touching. I sniffed. Jack smelled like a combination of old sweat and Earl Grey tea. We joined hands to the right. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘what is that cologne you are wearing?’

We joined hands to the left, turned. ‘It’s called Number Six,’ Jack said. ‘First introduced in 1752 by an apothecary in Newport, Rhode Island named William Hunter.’

On the next pass, both our hands came together in a chaste little turn, before we ended up in the corners where the dance had begun. As Jack escorted me to the sidelines, he added, ‘Number Six is George Washington’s favorite. He even sent some to the Marquis de Lafayette as a gift.’

I curtseyed. ‘Your attention to detail, sir, is extraordinary.’

‘It’s astonishing, isn’t it?’ Jack said with a slight bow. ‘Not only can we live, eat and play like colonials did back in 1774, we can smell like them, too.’

‘Astonishing,’ I deadpanned.

‘Caswell-Massey still makes Number Six,’ Jack informed me, chest puffed out importantly like a banty rooster. ‘Perfumes are like fine wine, Mrs Ives. This one, now, has a delightful undertone of anise, with bergamot and lemon in the top notes. In the middle, there’s a faint lavender tone.’

I flipped open the fan attached to my wrist by a silken cord and began flapping it furiously in front of my face. Locker room in the top notes , I was thinking, with a faint undertone of old tennis shoe .

French, released for the evening from her kitchen duties by papal dispensation, bounced into the hall just then, clean-scrubbed and beautiful, dressed in one of my gowns. She grabbed Michael’s hand, and they joined us for the reels and country dances. Everyone danced with everyone else, and at one point, we all hummed the tune aloud so Amy and Alex could join in.

‘I don’t know how they did it,’ I puffed to Colonel Washington as the reel finally ended. ‘Dancing is a lot like work!’ I pointed in the direction of the punch bowl with the tip of my fan. ‘I fancy another glass of punch, sir. How about you?’ When Washington nodded, I served us each another ladle. ‘We can drink the water these days, sir, I know it’s safe, but back then?’ I took a sip from my glass. ‘Our founding fathers must have been staggering around from sunup to sundown. How they got any work done, let alone came up with the Constitution of the United States of America is a complete mystery to me.’

Washington raised his glass. ‘We are made of stout stuff, madam.’

I smiled up at the future Father of our Country. ‘Indeed.’

Jack sidled up to Washington just then, picking up where he had left off at dinner about the Peggy Stewart situation. I seized the opportunity to excuse myself to tell French to help Karen spread out the buffet supper in the dining room, then suggested that everyone join me in the parlor for a game of cards so that Amy and Alex could give their musical fingers a well-deserved rest.