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When they had returned to the inn, Edward took Cassie’s hand for a moment and squeezed it. “I must seek out a parson, Cass. Please do not walk out alone. I would fear for your safety.”
“Edward, I must speak to you.”
Because he was abstracted, he did not hear the desperation in her voice. “When I return. I will not be long, Cassie.” He planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and left her.
She looked after his retreating figure helplessly. Tonight, then, she would have to tell him. If he changed his mind, he could always tell the parson that it had been a mistake.
Edward returned bearing the tale of having found a Mr. John Morrison, a hook-nosed Presbyterian parson, who, as best Edward could determine, was as discreet as they could wish.
“He will wed us whenever you wish, Cass. I think you will like him despite his monstrous nose. I gave him few details, but I fancy that he is musing about all sorts of marvelous possibilities.”
Whenever I wish. “Soon, I suppose, Edward.”
“There is a ship sailing for England next week. Unfortunately, I do not think I can be relieved of my responsibilities so quickly. I will speak with General Howe tomorrow. Perhaps next month we can return. Would you like to write to Eliott? At least he can be informed that we are to be married. I fancy your homecoming will be as impressive as any prepared for the king.” He paused a moment, eyeing her closely. “You must decide what is to be done about Becky Petersham. I cannot imagine that you would want her there when we return.”
“You are right, Edward. I do not think I could bear to see her again.”
He said abruptly, “Was the earl cruel to you, Cassie?”
A knot formed in her throat, and for several moments she was unable to speak. “No, Edward, he was not.”
His eyes encouraged her to continue, but she turned away. She knew that Edward wanted her to tell all that had happened to her, but he was far too much the gentleman to press her. And I am far too much the coward.
They ate dinner downstairs in the small private dining room, their host, Mr. Beatty, in constant attendance. Cassie imagined, after consuming a hearty meal of roast lamb, boiled potatoes, crisp green beans, and a thick rice pudding, that Mrs. Beatty had spent her entire day in the inn’s kitchen.
“That was a delicious meal, Mr. Beatty,” she said as their host made haste to fill her wine glass. He seemed disinclined to leave, and at a wink from Edward, Cassie said, “Won’t you please join us, Mr. Beatty?”
“Don’t mind if I do, milady,” he said, and pulled out a chair at their table. Cassie blinked, surprised that an innkeeper would want to share his guests’ company. But Edward seemed amused.
“I tell you, my lord,” Mr. Beatty said, sitting back in the high-backed chair and swirling the wine about in his glass, “this fellow, Paine, continues to have tremendous influence over the Americans. Did you know that damned pamphlet of his—begging your pardon, milady—has sold thousands of copies?”
It seemed to Cassie that she had stepped into the middle of a conversation whose subject was, unfortunately, as alien to her as this raw, unpainted city. She fastened a fascinated eye upon Mr. Beatty.
“Yes, sir,” Edward replied easily, “only last week, as I recall, you were not damning it.”
“I gave you a copy of Common Sense, my lord. I trust you have read it as you promised you would.”
“I have read part of it, sir. It is hardly common, I believe. As to the sense of it, Paine has perfected, I grant you, the grandiose style.”
“ ‘O! receive the fugitive, and prepare in time an asylum for mankind!”’ Mr. Beatty rubb
ed his plump hands together. “It has a ring to it. Unlike our squalid little island of Britain, this land does hold endless opportunity for men of every nation.”
“I would hardly term England squalid,” Cassie said, her patriotism ruffled.
“Nor would I, sir,” Edward said. “But you are right to say that life here is very different, so unstructured. It seems to me that England’s hand simply cannot encompass so many beliefs from so many nations.”
“At least New York is now safe once again in English hands,” Cassie said.
“Yes,” Mr. Beatty continued, “New York is once again safe, thanks to men like yourself, my lord, and your General Howe.”
“General Howe has upon occasion spoken of Paine,” Edward said, turning his eyes from Cassie back to Mr. Beatty. “It is his opinion, of course, that Paine’s firebrand words will lead the rebels only more quickly toward their destruction.”
Mr. Beatty said, “Aye, that’s true enough. ‘Ye that dare oppose not only the tyranny but the tyrant, stand forth!’ Yes, quite a way with words the man has.”
As Cassie sat blinking at such an appreciation of eloquence from an innkeeper, Mr. Beatty rose from his chair and patted Edward’s arm. “I’ll leave you be now, my lord. I fancy you and your lady wife have much to talk about.”
“Yes, sir, I believe that we do,” Edward said, looking toward Cassie. Mr. Beatty bowed deeply to Cassie. He stopped at the door, his sausage fingers upon the knob. “Do you know that before he started writing, Tom Paine did not seem to be able to do anything but fail? damned fellow—begging your pardon, milady—bungled being a sailor, a grocer, a tobacconist, and a tax collector. His wife even cut him loose.” Sudden humor lit Mr. Beatty’s round face, and he shook his head. “You’ll not believe it, but he could not even make a living as a corsetmaker! The—begging your pardon, milady.”
