The Whiskey Rebel

When I looked at her, prepared to offer some tepid apology, I saw that something had changed with her-softened, perhaps broken. Her chin was lowered toward her chest, a hand raised to her face. She was crying. Tears ran down her face in slow, thick globes. She wiped at one eye with a delicate hand. “You were gone, Ethan. You left, and I knew why you left. You could not bear for your shame to taint me. I don’t know if that was noble or selfish, or if those things can even be distinguished, but I was alone. You were gone and my father was dead. Jacob was kind to me, he wanted nothing from me, and he was-he was like a father to me. He was so much older that I did not even notice when his interest became something other than fatherly, and I was already so used to depending upon him that marriage, when he proposed it, seemed inevitable.”

I ought not to have said it, but I was full of drink and had no will to control myself. “He does not seem to me paternal but cruel.”

She turned away. “You embarrass me.”

“I am sorry,” I said.

“No, don’t be sorry. You must never be sorry after what you’ve endured. My God, Ethan, what have you done to yourself? You did not have to let the blame attach itself to you.”

“You know the reason. I could not bear the cost of extricating myself.”

“I could have. You tell yourself it was the right thing, the glorious thing, to do, to sacrifice yourself for a great cause, but did you stop to think of those it would hurt? Did you think of what your nobility would cost me?”

I took a step closer to her. “You must leave him, Cynthia, before it is too late.”

“Leave him? How am I to leave him? Am I to take my children and flee pe

“Cynthia,” I said.

She stopped. “I am sorry. I have no business venting my rage on you, but I am trapped, and I rage like a trapped creature. I ca

I had no heart to tell her that her husband, whose money alone now offered her solace, was likely ruined.

“You ca

“I have been with that devil since I was a girl. You are too late to rescue me. You are impulsive, but there is nothing for you to do.”

“I am not prepared to leave you, Cynthia.”

“You must leave. Only…” She looked away.

“Only what?”

“Only, you must see me again.” She set down her empty glass and left the library.

B ack at the gathering, I tried to make sense of our conversation. What did Cynthia want from me? Perhaps even she did not know. I hardly knew what I wanted from her. A dalliance? I could not ask her to compromise her position so. She was not some pretty housewife of an obscure gentleman farmer or merchant. She was a prominent lady, close friends with the most known and beloved woman in the city. Because of her friendship with A

Not so far from where I stood, Cynthia’s radiant face showed no sign that she had wept. Indeed, she now laughed most heartily in a small circle of people, including her brute of a husband. He hung upon Cynthia’s arm-no signs of cruelty now-and smiled at this comment or that, occasionally dared a rasping laugh that sounded like dry leaves rubbing against one another.

I saw no sign of Lavien-or Hamilton, for that matter-which was just as well. I strode about the room, trying hard not to take another glass of wine. I think I would have surrendered to temptation, but I looked up and saw a familiar-looking man, plump and red-faced, and knew him at once, though I could not say how. I continued to study him, his little eyes and blunt nose-all so porcine-and perhaps would still not have known him if it had not been for the girl next to him. She was equally porcine, though younger and less plump, and with a mass of yellow hair. She was the girl in my stolen timepiece and he the owner.

I walked over to him, bowed, and held out the watch. “Sir,” I said, “I believe I saw you drop this in the street several days ago. I attempted to run after you to return it, but my way was blocked. I have carried it upon my person ever since in the hope of finding its owner.”

He took the watch from me, his fat fingers moving with surprising gentleness. “Why, I never thought to see it again. I must ask your name, sir, that I may know who to thank.”

I bowed again. “Ethan Saunders, at your service.”

“What? The traitor?” He must have regretted his words, for his red complexion now purpled.

I bowed again. “I am not he. That man and I merely share the same name.”

He wished to make more conversation, but I demurred and excused myself to wander more. There, standing by himself, looking morosely at a portrait upon the wall, was Jacob Pearson. With little to lose, I approached him, probably with more boldness than clarity.

“Why, ’tis Jacob Pearson!” I cried. “Good heavens, man, it has been years.”

He turned to me and smiled reflexively. In an instant his smile faded and then returned, this time quite false. “Sir, I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You look to me familiar, but I ca

It was a well-executed lie, I will grant him that. “It is Ethan Saunders. We knew each other during the war.”

Pearson glanced across the room until he found Cynthia, locked in conversation with her friend, Mrs. Bingham, and another woman, also quite striking, whom I did not know. They did a passable job, I thought, of pretending not to observe me and Pearson together.

“Yes, of course.” He let go of my hand. “I heard you were dead. Or was it disgraced?”

“Disgraced,” I said. “But enough of my ignominy. Tell me, Mr. Pearson, where have you been this last week?”

“Why does everyone wish to know? Not ten minutes ago Hamilton himself was troubling me with his questions. I see not why it is the world’s concern. You do not like my saying so? It is rather bad for you, then, for it is my custom to speak as I like. For what does a man rise to consequence if he must guard his own tongue?”

“I can think of no reason.”

“And why are you here at all? Can it be a man like you has been invited here? I must ask Mr. Bingham what he means.”

I saw no need to answer this implied threat. If he wished to issue a challenge, I could certainly answer it. “There’s been considerable speculation about your absence,” I said. “Some have talked about your properties in Southwark, and others of your interest in the Million Bank. Surely you can shed some light upon the subject?”

“I suppose my wife has been talking. Let me tell you something.” He put one of his enormous hands upon my shoulder. I did not like the feel of it. “There’s more to wish for in a wife than beauty. That is my advice to you.”

My stomach clenched at this mention of his wife. I could not let it go unanswered. “You have strangely large hands,” I said. “It’s as though they’ve been flattened by a great stone. You’ll forgive me for talking freely, but I also like to say what I feel. What is the advantage of being disgraced if a man ca

He studied me, looking me up and down, his sharp nose bobbing like a blade. “I think this conversation has taxed me long enough. Now I must away to look for Mr. Duer.”

Pearson wandered off, and it occurred to me that I had not seen Duer since our conversation. Could it be, I wondered, that he did not want to see Pearson? Duer appeared to have no interest in or respect for Pearson, yet Pearson spoke of seeking out the speculator the way one speaks of seeking out a friend. Those answers would have to wait, for here and now I could pass the time in gazing openly upon Cynthia.