Last Pages. Oscar Mandel

to, complete the plunge.

      “The man I rescued yesterday was our agent.”

      Madeleine’s mouth opened. She stared at Nicholas and then brought out, “And you knew it?”

      “Of course.”

      Something came into Madeleine’s eyes that would have alarmed Nicholas had he not been intent on the plunge.

      “We were expecting him with important messages from the mainland. They proved even more important than we thought. I love you, Madeleine. I will tell you my deepest secrets.”

      “Don’t,” she whispered.” But he was listening only to himself, plunging.

      “We have been summoned, my uncle and I, to meet the new commander-in-chief at Cambridge.”

      “If my mother heard this!” was the thought that crossed Madeleine’s mind. But what she said was, “To do God’s work.”

      “I knew you would think so. I am nothing now, Madeleine, but the doors are opening to me. Your Nicholas is now a privateer.”

      “What is a privateer?”

      “Almost a pirate!”

      “I understand—a corsaire—for your people’s sake.”

      “Yes. But this is only the first link. At Salem a great man is waiting for me. He wants to equip the brigantine which is to sail under my command. My private share of the booty is an entire fifth, Madeleine, nothing to be sneered at. But now comes my second man. A gentleman in a high place in the army, who undertakes to purchase whatever I capture, sight unseen, lock, stock, and barrel. Do you follow me?”

      “I think so,” said the girl faintly.

      “My third man is a banker in Philadelphia. The moment I have got my first two winnings in my pocket, he will advance me, what shall I call it? a majestic sum of money. And then—”

      “You will be a nabob.”

      “We shall see! A year ago, when the Parliament ruined our sea trade, I joined in an expedition against the Shawnees, deep in the West—”

      “Did you kill many Indians, Nicholas?”

      “Kill or be killed. And they have nearly killed me more than once! At Niagara Falls—but that’s another story. In Virginia I met a fascinating person—a Judge Henderson—I can’t tell you all the particulars now, Madeleine, but they’re magnificent! Henderson bought land from the savages for next to nothing—a few pounds sterling—a sack of trinkets—plenty of rum, too! More land than your French king possesses. Tell me, how well do you know our country?”

      “I’m very ignorant.”

      “Have you heard of the Kentucky, the Ohio, the Cumberland?”

      “Yes. They are mountains and provinces.”

      “They are also rivers. With land in between. A country unto itself. We’ve given it a noble name—Transylvania—and in that country Henderson is holding a splendid tract for me. No one knows about this, Madeleine, except you.”

      “And your uncle.”

      “I should say not! Not about this nor about anything else I have told you. He has more important concerns. General Mayhew is going to lead an army. You needn’t be ashamed of us, you see. But where was I?”

      “Your land, and the savages.”

      “I am entrusting you with my secrets, Madeleine.”

      “They will die with me,” said the girl, but the image of her mother’s face took space in her mind. She felt a strong wish to stop Nicholas, but strong too was her curiosity. As for Young Nick, why, he had never spoken, never revealed, never discoursed, never had a confidante, and now, joyously completing the plunge before a charming girl, he exulted in his vision.

      “Land!” he cried, holding her hand, “Land and more land! You and I will be lord and lady! Your princes of the blood will come and kiss our hands. But Henderson wants hard cash on the table. And that is why I forged that long beautiful chain.”

      “You’re extraordinary” was all Madeleine would say.

      “With special beauties in it. An estate at Concord, a chocolate mill …But we’ll not live in Massachusetts, you and I. Virginia is the place for us.”

      “Why?”

      “Because you’ll feel at home there. They will treat you as you deserve. You’ll be waited upon by a retinue of glistening Blacks. Oh Madeleine, I’ve been prating like a fool this half hour—sordid mercantile affairs, but how else could you learn that we are not unworthy of you? I love you. You are as beautiful—”

      “As the chain you forged?” she asked with a sad smile.

      “The chain is to bind you with,” was his tender reply.

      Madeleine gently withdrew her hand.

      “Nicholas, I’m a little dizzy.”

      “And I’m a boor! I haven’t even offered you—”

      “A glass of water will do. My mother is expecting me for dinner.”

      Nicholas called Ruth, who brought a pitcher of water and a glass from the kitchen. “Such marvelous stories,” said Madeleine, and again Nicholas failed to hear the sadness in her voice. “Only in America can one hear such stories. I feel so old. Let me go back now to my inn.”

      “But have I no answer from you? No hint? No kind word? I must be gone within days, and I love you. But are we still not worthy of you?”

      Of course, she wanted to cry out, “Are we worthy of you?” but she said, “My mind is troubled. Except for this, Nicholas: Your secrets are safe with me. But not with everybody. Remember the one important thing I said when I came to your house.”

      “Which one, Madeleine?”

      “Not to speak—”

      “Before your gossipy—”

      And she was gone, more troubled than he could guess. He was not untroubled himself as he watched her from a window. “I babbled and babbled,” he thought. “Was this a blunder? No, the French are with us. And though I worship her, that was love in her blue eyes too, and love on her thirsty lips, as sure as fish can swim.”

      11

      MADELEINE DID NOT know that her mother, from the top floor of the inn, had seen her turn from Main into Oak street and understood that she was going decidedly toward the Mayhew house, obviously out of concern for Nicholas. She had to admit to herself that this time, Madeleine might do better work than her mother.

      Soon after, Aimée strolled to the fruit and vegetable market, where she bought a peach and ran into Ruth, the Mayhew cook who also helped Priscilla in her household chores. Ruth was an elderly, cheerful, chubby, red-cheeked woman born and raised on a Nantucket farm. Being talked to—affably, too!—by a French marquise was destined to be entered as a choice page in the book of her memory. Their talk was of fruit and vegetable, of prices, of market customs, of Ruth’s duties, of the fine Mayhew house, and then Aimée asked, “If the Mayhew men decide to travel, will you be going with them?” To which Ruth replied, “Oh no, not I, madam, not at my years!” But Aimée realized suddenly that she ought to have asked “when,” not “if.” It was too late.

      Returning to her rooms, she was glad and eager when she heard her daughter climb the stairs. Let dinner wait! She must hear Madeleine out. “I know where you have been,” she said as the girl was taking off her hat. “How is the charming young man?”

      “Oh, Mr. Mayhew is quite well. A little sneezing, he told me, no other consequence.”

      “Did you see the so-called seaman? This is capital.”

      “I did not.”

      “Did