TEARS OF THE FOOT GUARDS

SCHERZO - STAVE XLI

S T A V E

XLI

“Obedience,” Mrs. Grisham called through the bedroom door, her face incandescent from the candle she held in the tin cake-pan holder. “Obedience.” She tapped.

The latch clicked. Obedience behind the crack with eyes heavy. Firelight like dancers on the wall and the room hot with an odour of marigold. A chair at the window through whose panes glimmered the Manhattan night. “Sorry,” her tired voice, “I was dozing.”

“You’ve a visitor,” Grisham said like a splash of cold water. “And I can see you’re not in a state.”

“A visitor?” Her eyes cleared. 

“A soldier.”

“MacEachran?”

“No, I would’ve told you if it were your husband.”

Obedience winced, a vice in her abdomen. “What time is it?”

“Quarter past eleven and Grisham’s away. We’re alone and here you have callers . . . You need not see him . . . ”

“An officer or private man?”  

“An officer and by the look of him, somewhat drunk I’d say.”

Not Elliot to her relief. “Did he give a name?”

“He did,” Grisham said flustered, “but I didn’t catch it. What stranger calls at this hour? What business is so pressing it can’t wait until morning? This is a proper house.”

“I assure you I invited no one. I’m so tired I fell asleep in the chair.”

“If you did invite someone, I hope you would inform me.” 

“I respect this house and would not jeopardize my place in it and especially your good graces.”

Elizabeth Grisham shook her head. “I’m not accusing you, my dear. But this city is full of soldiers wandering about the evening brawling, the officers worst of all – how can one feel safe in their very home?”

“I think I might know who it is.”

“Shall I send him away?”

“No, I’ll see him, but come with me. It will put him off.”

Captain Dalrymple commanded the center of the parlour in a snowy watch-coat whose wool was already beading water. “Mrs. MacEachran,” he said with a bow.

Obedience abashed. “Captain Dalrymple.”

“My apology, ma’am. ‘Tis late and you are not prepared for my call.”

“Mrs. Grisham, this is Captain Dalrymple who takes music instruction from Mr. Tildon at the same lesson as me. Captain, Mrs. Elias Grisham, the mistress of the house.”

“Madame.” Dalrymple hazarded another bow, his eyes glassy. “And Mr. Grisham?”

“Away on business and back tomorrow,” she replied standing like a sentry.

“I shall not keep you.” He reached into his cloak. “I have this book of Italian and –”

“And you were in the neighbourhood,” Obedience said.

“No, ma’am. I came out of my way. I found it at a bookseller on Ann Street this evening as he was closing up and when I saw it, I purchased it on your behalf. Captain Coote and I,” he motioned toward the front door and the officer in the street, “have been to the lodge and then dined. We’re now to the Tables. Tomorrow, I am a week in the lines and will not see you until my lesson with you another week hence. So rather than have you wait, I thought I might chance your inconvenience to deliver it. I believe Mr. Tildon has begun your lessons. Am I still to be your tutor as we agreed?”

“Waiting in the street?” Mrs. Grisham interjected, not to be accused of bad manners.

“Well, have him come in.”

“Oh, no need, Madame.” Dalrymple with an easy smile. “Captain Coote is a hardy soul. The cold will do him good from all the Madeira; he’ll need his wits at the tables. No, just this one thing. So Mrs. MacEachran, you want the book?”

“Yes,” Obedience said clipped. “How much?”

“Five and sixpence.”

“Indeed.” Such expense. “I’ll get it.”

Dalrymple chuckled. “No need.”

“I insist,” she said, looking at Mrs. Grisham.

“Settle at our lesson.”

“Thank you.”

Dalrymple lingered, obtuse to her misery. “My pleasure . . . You know, you may come out with us if you wish. We’ll be your footmen and at your beck and call.”

“Thank you, no,” Obedience said.

“I think you might enjoy it. You’ll be as safe with us as in your very home.”

“No thank you, Captain.”

“Very well,” Dalrymple said boyishly. “Excuse me then, Coote and I must be away with fortunes to win and dragons to slay. Madame.” He nodded to Mrs. Grisham and left.

Mrs. Grisham quick on the door. “Tell him not to do that again.”

“I will.”

“Gentlemen,” Grisham scoffed.

“My apology, Mrs. G., you know the way of it.” 

“I do, Mrs. MacEachran. Tell him not to do it again or I shall defer to Colonel Howard.”

“No need, but he will be helping with my Italian.”

Grisham ruffled like a barnyard hen. “Have him help you here and in the light of day. Don’t let him lure you to his quarters. You know officers and their ways . . . Agh – too much. Too much, my dear. Now I’m unsettled. I was going to retire . . . Come to the kitchen for tea.”

“No thank you, Mrs. G. I too want to turn in.”

“Then a cup of hot claret.”

“Truly ma’am, I need no sedation. I’m ready to fall into bed.” 

In her room, she threw the book.

Privileged little weasel – Am I so easy? To invade my home? Compromise my place? I am married and Colonel Howard’s protégée.

She reached for the door latch and called down, “Mrs. Grisham!”

“What, my dear?”

“May I have that hot claret?”

******************

An American wingback, more restful than barracks beds and a premium. Next to it a pedestal table with the Italian book. A strike of Midnight from the clock downstairs. She drank from a floral patterned mug, a large one, filled to the lip and steaming. The hot wine hit and the Chinese figures on Worcester porcelain, at quick glance, appeared to dance. Better to sit than lie in bed.

Damn the cramps. She’d not felt such for the past three years.

The price of Prosperity, and her eyes fell upon Dalrymple’s book.

Stupid Dalrymple. His stupid book. She might throw it again, but opened the cover expecting an inscription.

None.

The wine spun her head. He wants her to pay for it. She’ll have MacEachran thrash him –  No, that would get them both killed . . . Such things happen: a lieutenant in the 63rd was up for murder of a grenadier – the man was found beaten in the officer’s apartment. Had he trucked with the grenadier’s wife? Or were they Sodomites and something gone wrong? In such matters something always goes wrong. But if she wanted Dalrymple to ‘fall up the stairs’, she’d have Elliot do it. Just a whisper in his ear.

The room tossed like a ship.   

James Dalrymple and his beautiful voice.

She inspected its inside cover again. Nothing. She flipped to the back. Nothing still. No sentiment. No writing from him to her. She threw the book hard. It fell open, the glue cracking. She breathed the way she would after a slap, her cheek aglow. Billy would slap her hard. She could rarely predict it and it seemed it was never Billy who struck her, but someone else – reflex mostly, the way a parent hits an unruly child. She made him do it, a thing he abhorred, for as he said he was a man of patience and could never deliberately harm. “Mrs. Gill, Mrs. Gill, no wonder your husband beats you.” “My husband does not beat me.” “Then he should.” She’d hit him – slap him across the back of the head in the Publick House when he would not come home. He didn’t want her. Couldn’t stand her touch and all the world tearing at her skirts. His file mate wanted her.

The candle dying. Her eyes heavy. Out the window, the Manhattan lights extinguished. The claret dropped her off –  

She startled and rubbed her arms. Rubbed her mouth. The room in firelight from the hearth. She stood and stripped, rushed to the washing basin and filled it. Took a drink from the pitcher and spit it out. Took another drink and spit and spit and spit. Lathered her hands with bar soap and thrust them between her thighs. She grabbed the chemise and used it as a rag, thrusting back and forth, then dried and soaped again.