“These are good cakes,” I said.
She nodded her thanks.
“The raisins-a nice touch. Raisins make everything better, I think. Some prefer plums, or even apricots, but when it comes to dried fruit, I shall always take raisins.”
She said nothing.
“Pamela.” I tried again. “I like the name Pamela. It is very pretty.”
This kind observation solicited no response.
I tried again. “From Spenser, I believe.”
She stared at me.
“He is an English poet.”
She scratched the bridge of her nose.
“He wrote The Faerie Queene,” said I.
She blinked.
“It is,” I attempted, “a very long poem. Long and dull.”
More blinking.
I began to fear that I had misjudged blankness for determination and that my friend Leonidas had married a stupid woman. I supposed he knew best his own domestic felicity, but I feared Mrs. Pamela must make for dull company.
“My husband told me about you,” she said at last.
“And what did he say? Nothing too unflattering, I hope. Ha-ha!”
She took a sip of tea. “He told me you were a wastrel and a scoundrel, but that you have a sentimental heart for so selfish a creature.”
“Your husband has ever been an excellent judge of character,” I said, now feeling nostalgic for the Spenser discourse. And the raisins.
“He told me that you are, by nature, the sort of man who would despise the practice of slavery, but you held on to him for as long as you could because it was the only way you could conceive of to keep from spending your days alone. Is that true?”
“I cannot say,” I told her, suddenly feeling warm. “Mrs. Pamela, I did not come here to make you uneasy.”
“Then for what did you come? Why do you trouble us?”
“That is something I must discuss with your husband.”
This answer must have offered some offense, for the good woman did not trouble herself to respond. Thus we sat in silence for near the better part of an hour, though she was so good as to refill my teacup two times. By the time the front door of the house opened and closed and footsteps approached, I was quite ready for a chamber pot. Leonidas entered the room, still wearing his greatcoat, flakes of snow freshly melted upon it. He had removed his hat and still held it in his hand when he noticed me. I grinned at him. He looked at me, and never had I observed such a look of rage upon his face-and never on anyone’s face outside of warfare. His dark face twisted; his eyes widened and then narrowed.
“What are you doing here in my home?” His voice was calm; perhaps that was what made me so easy.
I stood. “I beg your pardon. I do not mean to disturb your domestic peace. I should never have troubled you if it were not important-if someone’s convenience other than my own were not at issue.”
He appeared to give the matter some thought. He took another step toward me and sniffed like a beast. “You haven’t been drinking. Have you at last reformed?”
“I suppose I have. It is amazing how people can change for the better.”
“I’ll not believe it.”
“Leonidas, I know you are angry with me, and if I cannot truly understand the depth of your anger, it is only because I cannot know what you have known. I shall not attempt to justify my actions or place them in context, to help you see what justice must: that on balance I have treated you well, and better than you could have hoped for from another.”
“How dare you-”
I held up my hand. “I do not care to hear it. Not because it is just or unjust, but because Cynthia Pearson is in danger, and I need your help. Her husband has absconded with her and her children, and no one knows where. I had hoped you might inquire among the servants and see if you might learn what others cannot.”
“You come to me for a favor? I want nothing from you.”
“Can you not recognize a plea not for myself but for a woman’s life and for the life of her children? You would hold a grudge against the life of two children?”
“Leonidas,” his wife said softly. “You must not be stubborn to the point of cruelty. You need not like him to help him in this.”
“I will not have him stand here and pretend his motives are something other than selfishness. He claims to want to help others, but it is only desire that motivates him.” To me he said, “What are the names of these children?”
It was true that I did not know, but I saw no need to demonstrate that he had so successfully taken my measure. “Julia and Dennis,” I said, very quickly too.
Leonidas said nothing for several long moments. Then, finally, he nodded. “If I can learn anything, I shall let you know.”
I stepped forward with my hand out. “You are a good man. I knew I could depend upon you.”
He only stared at my hand. “It does not mean we are friends. It only means I will not let others suffer because you have earned my enmity.”
I sniffed. “Right. Well, thank you, even so.”
“If I have more to say to you, I will go to you. You are not to return to my home. Not under any circumstances. Now leave.”
The two of them followed me to the door, as though I could not be trusted to find it, or to leave without helping myself to some of their goods on the way. Leonidas opened the door. I stepped through and turned, removing my hat and bowing.
The lady of the house met my eye, daring me to turn away. “I do not find Spenser at all dull,” she said.
Her husband slammed the door.
H amilton had not brought me into government service, not really, but here I was, speaking to him, to Washington, working alongside his principal spy. I could not ignore what I knew, and I could not leave him to his own peril.
That being the case, the next day I rose early, just after nine in the morning, dressed myself neatly, and strolled to the Treasury offices on Third, where I casually asked to have an audience with the Secretary. He saw me almost immediately, and I took a seat across from him in his small spare office.
“How can I help you this time, Captain?”
I coughed into my fist. “I wonder if there has been any progress in your dealings with Duer.”
He leaned back in his seat. “When this matter is resolved, I want you to come see me. I wish for you to work with Lavien, if you think you can do so. You’ve proved your worth to me, and you seem to have mastered yourself considerably. This is the second time you’ve been here without the stench of drink upon you.”
“I am flattered, and you may depend upon me, but why must we wait?”
“Because at the moment there is nothing for you to do-either for you or Mr. Lavien. I am in touch with my men in New York, and I know what Duer plans. He is still attempting to control the six percents; he is still borrowing dangerously. And he is about to learn that we have begun proceedings against him for the money he embezzled while upon the Board of Treasury. The word will spread-on its own or with our help-and it is but a matter of weeks, perhaps only days, until Duer collapses and the bank is safe. You have played no small role in this, Captain, and I am grateful. You may be certain I will do all I can, in addition to offering you employment, to make certain the world knows you and Fleet were falsely maligned those many years ago.”
“Lavien told you.”
“He did.”
“If all this is true, why do you keep me at arm’s length now?”
“You are of no use to me,” he said. “I cannot depend on you.”
I tried hard not to show my anger. Or was it my shame? “What do you mean?”
“I mean you ask about Duer because you are interested and involved, but it is not what is upon your mind. You want to find Pearson, the man who destroyed you, killed your friend, and stole the woman you loved. You want to find his much-abused wife and children. The Revolution is won, and while I don’t doubt your patriotism, I do not expect you would be able to put any assignment I might give you before your duty to Mrs. Pearson. Find her, bring her to safety, and then you may come work with me.”