Chapter 5

After her father's stern lecture, Anne spent the rest of the week in her room except for brief visits to the brick necessary in the backyard. She subsisted on dry toast and smuggled strawberry preserves and managed to write Billy Fields three letters, each filled with news and gossip as well as with rather vague suggestions of her affection if not admiration for his politics and companions. She even told him about Mr. Vanmeter's visit and bragged of her fortitude. She did not tell him she had been beaten, switched like an unruly child. She wax sealed each of them and gave them to the house-maid, Philippa, who, as she had been ordered, delivered them directly to Mrs. Conroy who read and burned each one, smiling as she did so.

That Sunday Anne dutifully accompanied her father and stepmother to the small wooden church at the crossroads, sang the hymns and listened to a long and convoluted sermon on the relationships of married men and women and the obligations of their always-dutiful children. The family returned to find Thomas Vanmeter waiting in the sitting room, wearing another fancy weskit beneath his fawn-colored, long-tailed coat, his high boots gleaming, a stylish brown tie-wig on his balding head and his cheeks freshly shaved at the town's most expensive sporting house. He smelled of lavender and musk. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath foul.

Smuggled tea and various sweetmeats were served and after a half-hour or so Anne's father and stepmother left her alone with her guest.

"A pleasant day, eh, rather soft for this time of year. Would you care to go for a ride?" he asked, yanking down his vest. "My rig is quite comfortable, the horse a pacer, well trained, first class."

She declined with a tiny smile, barely moving her lips, and she planned her sallies.

"Perhaps a game of whist?" he suggested, arching his brows.

"No, I think cards a waste of time and energy."

"May I read you some poetry then, a sonnet or two? I noted many fine volumes here while I awaited your arrival? Shakespeare, John Donne?"

Anne suppressed a laugh, licked her lips and shook her head. "No, thank you sir, not today. I'm not at all in the poesy mood."

"What was the topic of today's sermon, Miss Conroy? I'm afraid I was not able to get there in time." He had, in fact, been with his favorite mulatto enjoying several acts usually termed "unnatural."

"He spoke at some length about married men and women, sir, husbands and wives, their duties and so forth." Anne produced a tiny smile.

"Really?" responded Vanmeter, producing his ornate snuff box and then thinking better of it and putting it back in his waistcoat pocket. He patted it and pulled the richly brocaded garment back down over his round belly and fingered the dangling skin beneath his chin.

"Indeed. He, the king's revered deacon who is said to have a black mistress hidden away in his manse where his third wife and many children of various colors abide, he seemed to think that women were to be subservient to their husbands, obedient in all things and at all times. Something Paul wrote as I recall." She inhaled and looked out the window, making an effort to keep her feet still, enjoying herself, proud of her phrasing.

"Saint Paul, ah yes." Vanmeter furrowed his forehead, feigning an effort to remember a passage drilled into him by his self-righteous father.

"Such nonsense," snorted Anne quickly, fluttering her fingers. "I can't believe that was the rule even back in Our Lord's time. Look at his mother at the wedding feast. Did she bow and scrape? Consider Elizabeth and her sister, if you will, and look at Magdalene by all means, washing his feet. My goodness." She almost bounced with her litany. "David and that woman, Bathsheba, the soldier's wife?" She knew her voice was getting shrill and calmed herself, sitting back in her chair and clamping her lips together, enjoying the man's discomfort. "Was Paul married?" A pair of lines appeared just above her nose and her eyes narrowed as her anger rose and her cheeks reddened. She inhaled and swallowed, grinding her teeth, feeling her heart racing. Urging restraint to herself, fearing her voice had become shrill, but she was ready for the kill.

"You do not believe that wives should love their husbands?" He blinked at her, unhappy with the direction of their conversation and impatient to either be at his courting rituals in this venue or at his usual rutting behind velvet drapery.

"Love," Anne said rather loudly, waving her raised hand. "Surely I said nothing of love. Did Paul? Love, sir? What of love? I don't believe the preacher said anything about love, wait, no," she raised a forefinger, "he did say that husbands should love their wives. Yes, he said that. I wonder how many he had in mind."

"How many? What can you be thinking?"

"Well, didn't Solomon have seven hundred or so? I assume he was supposed to love them all." Anne swallowed her smile and tried to look serious, squeezing her hands together and putting one foot atop the other to stop its tapping. "What of David's wives? I can't recall the number. Do you? Abraham, did he have two or three? Jacob, four wasn't it? And Adam, didn't he have two?"

"Ah," answered Vanmeter, feeling ill at ease, "but that was long, long ago."

"And so was Paul's letter, long ago I mean. And what of mistresses then, the minister's I mean, not the saint. Goodness, really, just imagine?" She laughed gaily but briefly. "And consorts? Do they count as wives? Didn't the young Lord Baltimore have several?"

Vanmeter held up his hand. "Let's change the subject."

She blinked at him, enjoying herself, gripping the sides of her chair, leaning toward him, her nostrils flaring, her freckled chest nearly bared. "What shall we discuss, courtesans, eh?"

"Please!" He got to his feet, his face flushed. "No more of this."

"Made his bastard son his heir didn't he, the young Lord Baltimore? Come now, sir. The proprietor himself." Anne stood and faced him, fists on hips. "Do you fear the truth? Explain this love thing to me."

"It's not proper to discuss such things with a young lady. I will take my leave."

"Coward," hissed Anne, nearly spitting on him. "Do not bother to return." She sat back down and picked up a tiny beaten biscuit with some crusty ham in it. She crossed her legs like a boy, dangled a slipper from her toes, straightened her skirt and waited for her parents to return as she heard the front door close.

"What have you done?" Mrs. Conroy demanded loudly after clattering open the pocket doors to the parlor.

Anne licked her lips. "We were conversing about religion, St. Paul for the most part, and he said we should not talk about it and left."

"Religion?" Mrs. Conroy's brow wrinkled.

"Calmly, my dear," said Anne's father. "Please sit down and we will discuss this matter." They sat, staring at the girl as she uncrossed her legs, picked up another tiny sandwich, looked inside it and then put it back on the tray. It was cold chicken.