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  Touch The Sun

  Special Author's Cut Edition

  A Beauvisage/Hampshire Novel

  by

  Cynthia Wright

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 1978, 2011 by Cynthia Challed Wright

  Cover by Kim Killion

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Thank You.

  For Richard Randall, my treasured friend for 50 years

  Part 1

  Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools,

  Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules;

  Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line,

  And plenty of pins of American pine:

  For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,

  Our government firm, and our citizens free!

  —Frances Hopkinson

  "The Raising: A New Song for Federal Mechanics"

  (March 1788)

  Chapter 1

  January, 1789

  Winter sunlight glanced off the last bits of melting ice that hung on the pecan trees like diamonds. Meagan Sayers, astride her horse Laughter, rode under the dripping branches and on into the open fields beyond.

  The ground was muddy but Meagan rode every day unless the weather threatened the footing of her horse. She insisted that it was for Laughter's sake, but in truth, she grew more restless than the dappled gray gelding when forced to stay indoors, and these past weeks had yielded an unbroken procession of rain and snowstorms.

  Pecan Grove was one of the largest Tidewater plantations in Virginia and boasted the area's finest mansion, next to Mount Vernon. However, by no stretch of imagination could Meagan fit anyone's conception of a Southern belle. The picture she made now, galloping across the soggy meadow astride Laughter, was typical. Since childhood, she had kept in the stable a cache of boys' clothing that she had begged from the young grooms and which she had changed into whenever she had an opportunity to ride.

  Meagan's parents had always reveled in a world of foxhunts, horsebreeding, dancing, card-playing, and travel. She had seldom seen them, and when she did, they merely patted her on the head while passing in the hall. Early on she had put their inattention to good use, growing up a free spirit who rode with the skill and daring of any man, her raven hair flying freely like a banner. She eluded her governesses, choosing to take books from the library, and spent her afternoons reading under a pecan tree in the meadow.

  The summer of 1788 had been like all the rest. Russell and Melanie Sayers had sailed to France to cavort at Versailles and Paris, but their daughter had pleaded to remain at home. With guilty sighs of relief, they agreed, for Meagan fought them every step of the way in their intermittent efforts to civilize her.

  Now, galloping out into the waterlogged meadow, Meagan's mind returned to the October afternoon when she had learned of the shipwreck. James Wade, a lifelong neighbor, had ridden over to break the news of her parents' deaths and she had found herself reacting more strongly to his repellent, "brotherly" embraces than to the tragedy of losing both mother and father in one blow. Since then, she'd waited for the grief process to begin, but to no avail. Meagan felt a tightness in her breast at the realization that she had not loved her parents enough to mourn their deaths. And yet, her intuitive common sense told her that affection must be earned, and it was not for her to feel guilty because they had not known how to love anyone but themselves.

  A voice was calling from the shelter of the pecan trees, and reluctantly Meagan reined in Laughter, turning him back toward the house. She found one of the stable boys waiting for her.

  "Mr. Wade and his sister are in the big house, ma'am."

  Meagan made a face, but knowing they would sit and drink tea until she arrived, decided to get it over with. Sliding from Laughter's back, she handed the reins to the stable boy and ran off toward the imposing Georgian brick house.

  Flora, the large black cook, frowned as Meagan came into the kitchen but refrained from scolding. The girl was disheveled, her breeches grimy and her hair loose and windblown. Yet, who could resist her? Petite in stature, Meagan exuded energy and good health with glowing cheeks, an impudent, winning smile, and sparkling eyes of deep violet. She marched right through the kitchen, down the hall into the parlor where four generations of Wades and Sayerses had shared tea.

  Priscilla and James were beyond surprise at the sight of Meagan's scuffed figure in the doorway. They had known her all their lives, and despite the efforts of her mother, she had rarely been seen in a proper gown in all her eighteen years.

  "Well! I see you are taken care of!" Meagan exclaimed, noting James's generous portion of brandy.

  The Wade siblings, ever proper, smiled at their hostess, who dropped into a wing chair.

  Slinging a slim booted leg over the rose velvet arm, she grinned. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  James, dark-haired and pudgy, squirmed slightly. "Meagan, you act as if nothing has changed. We have been worried about you and only wish to be reassured concerning your state of mind..."

  She softened somewhat; her gaze traveled from the lecherous James to his willowy, auburn-haired sister. The two girls had been incompatible friends since infancy, yet Meagan's heart warmed maternally toward Priscilla.

  "I don't mean to seem flippant, but you two certainly are aware that my existence doesn't depend on Mother and Father! After all—"

  "Meagan!" warned Priscilla. "You must learn to show respect—"

  "Oh, pooh!" she broke in, resisting the desire to use a stronger word. "I happen to feel that honesty is a better virtue. Priscilla, you know perfectly well that you and I have never agreed on anything. I cannot believe that you continue to preach to me now! I have thought at length about Mother and Father, and I feel satisfied with the answers I have reached. I need no advice from you!" Meagan had lifted herself partway out of the chair and James watched her breasts strain against the boy's jacket she wore.

  A servant appeared with the teapot and a fresh cup and saucer for Meagan, giving the room's occupants a chance to cool down.

  "Have you heard any news concerning your father's estate?" asked James when the girl had gone.

  "Nothing very encouraging. Mr. Bumpstock, Father's solicitor, has written to me saying that my father appears to have been in debt. Of course, he insists on keeping me in suspense. The final word will hopefully arrive before the end of the month, but knowing Mr. Bumpstock's tendency to putter..."

  James was downing his brandy—rather piggishly, Meagan thought—and licked his lips, savoring the last drop.

  "My dear, I do hate to rush off, but there are some matters I should attend to. I am traveling to Philadelphia tomorrow, but I simply could not depart without seeing you again to be certain you are well." He stood up and crossed to her side, bringing his face so close that Meagan wrinkled her nose at the odo
r of brandy that enveloped her when he spoke. "If you should need me before tomorrow, I would gladly rush to your side at any hour."

  "I will keep that in mind, James dear, but don't lose sleep waiting for my summons." These words were delivered with her sweetest smile, a tactic that never failed to confuse the recipients of her sarcasm.

  "I'll be going then. I am sure you two have a great deal to chat about, so I'll send the carriages back later. Good day!"

  When he was gone, Meagan looked curiously in Priscilla's direction. "Philadelphia! What takes your charming brother there?"

  "In truth, he's going on my behalf. He hopes to arrange a match for me."

  "Oh? Do go on. The suspense is excruciating!"

  Priscilla preened. "If all goes well, I should be the wife of a wealthy man by spring. Isn't it exciting? I shall be one of Philadelphia's social leaders!"

  "For heaven's sake, you goose, James hasn't even left yet! Do you imagine he can simply go into a shop and pick out a wealthy husband for you?" Meagan's voice sharpened with irritation as she jumped up to pace the Oriental rug. She fumed silently at James Wade. Priscilla was too frivolous to realize it, but Meagan knew that James had been squandering the Wade fortune ever since their own father died. He had drunk and gambled and traveled to excess, somehow believing that West Hills could run itself. And now, Meagan could clearly see that he intended to sell his sister the way he had already sold paintings, horses, and precious land.

  "Goodness, Meagan, you should know that James would do anything for me. He says that I should have a position in life to equal my beauty. Isn't that sweet?"

  "Sweeter than I can stomach," Meagan muttered, then turned to look straight into her friend's eyes. "Are you truly happy about this? Do you wish to marry a stranger?"

  "James wouldn't pick someone horrid, and after all, there are more important considerations than love. I wasn't aware that you were particularly romantic." She eyed Meagan's breeches and unruly curls. "I wouldn't be surprised if you are jealous. I don't seem to recall any marriage proposals coming your way lately."

  Meagan tensed like a kitten ready to pounce. "I could answer that in a dozen different ways that would doubtless send you into a faint, but from years of experience, I know that nothing reaches through that lovely coiffure of yours."

  Priscilla sniffed. "I will forgive your rudeness. It is probably due to the strain of your grief. Speaking of which... people are wondering what you intend to do now that your mama and papa are... gone." She sighed and shook her head mournfully.

  Refilling her own teacup, Meagan dropped back into the wing chair. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "Certainly you are aware that you cannot stay here... alone—"

  "As a matter of fact, I am not aware of any such thing! I've been alone here most of my life. Besides, 'alone' is a rather academic word since there are more servants than I can count. Furthermore—" she gestured angrily with a tiny hand "—it happens to be no one's business but mine!"

  "You are so silly. Do you expect everyone to just ignore you? A girl who has scarcely had her eighteenth birthday?"

  "Yes!"

  "Well, they won't. For your own good! You must begin to think of your future—a husband—"

  "Mind your own business!"

  "Meagan!" Priscilla's lovely face was flushed. "Even James has been worrying about you. He's suggested that you might come to West Hills after I am gone—"

  "No!" She exploded, jumping up again. "Why can't everyone just leave me alone? Just because I have different ideas about life and happiness, I'm labeled a misfit!" She could feel the elegant paneled walls closing in. "I'm sorry. I know that I'm a miserable hostess, but this room drives me mad. I've got to finish my ride before the sun goes down."

  Her anger had evaporated, but she emanated a brilliant energy as she impulsively leaned down to kiss Priscilla's cheek. "I'll have Flora send you some more tea and some cakes. Wish James a—successful trip."

  With that, Meagan darted off to the kitchen, where she passed along the tea instructions to Flora. The old cook followed behind to the door, wiping her rough hands on the white length of her apron as she watched Meagan run across the garden.

  "That chile is roundin' the corner," Flora muttered to herself. "I been afraid of what would happen when she's forced to grow up. My little laughin' baby... Is those tears of hers 'cause she's findin' out there's no place for her in this ugly world?"

  Chapter 2

  Franklin Court, like the rest of Philadelphia in late January, was veiled by plump, wet snowflakes. A half-dozen inches had accumulated on the ground with no end in sight, but inside the new three-story library wing, all was cozy. Benjamin Franklin was feeling better today and, having dressed, was sharing a cup of tea with his daughter.

  The library reflected his personality even more than the rest of the house, serving as a showcase for his inventions, most of which were in constant use. Clean, even warmth beamed out from the latest Franklin fireplace; the arm-extender lay where it had been put just minutes before, used by the doctor to reach a book on the top shelf.

  At eighty-three, he looked frail and thin yet as alert and confident as ever. The constant pain from his bladderstones had driven him to take large doses of laudanum, even opium, but he remained in control of his spirits. They were higher than ever today.

  "Ah, Sally, this tea is just the thing! Be sure to have a full pot when Lion arrives. He'll need some warming up!"

  "Tea?" she echoed doubtfully.

  Her father laughed. "Gad, you are right! Is there brandy?"

  "Waiting on a tray downstairs, Father."

  "Good, good." He sipped his tea in silence for a moment, gazing intently at his middle-aged daughter. Children and hard work had aged her, but her fuzzy gray curls and white mobcap framed a face as kind and warm as any Franklin had known.

  "You seem thoughtful," she commented. "You aren't in pain, are you? Do you want to lie down?"

  "No, no! I was just thinking—about Lion. Do you remember the first night he came here?"

  "Why... yes. Summer before last, wasn't it? I recall that it was raining and very warm and you were upstairs pedaling that treadle-fan—"

  "Naked as a baby!" he supplied happily. "I'll never forget Lion's expression! You know, that was the first day of the Constitutional Convention. The thunderstorm kept me at home and Lion came along that night with the delegates who reported to me."

  "That's right! I remember now that he became a delegate of sorts after that. It seemed odd at the time..."

  "He had just returned from the Orient with a magnificent cargo. I really slipped him into that Convention before he knew what had happened, but it certainly turned out well. With my illness, he became an extra set of eyes and ears for me on the days I couldn't be there, and I'd wager that the experience had a lasting effect on him."

  "Lion Hampshire?" Sally scoffed, rising to her feet. "Certainly the man is bewitching, but it has always been my impression that his interests lay more along the lines of adventure, women, and money!"

  A cynical voice answered her from the doorway.

  "My dear Mrs. Bache, I am devastated to hear your description of my character!"

  Sally spun around, her rosy cheeks deepening to scarlet. "Lion, I—meant that in the best way—"

  The man's looks were enough to tongue-tie any female, and Sally Bache was no exception. He seemed taller than ever, his shoulders broader, his skin more deeply tanned, and his tawny hair windblown. When he smiled, white teeth flashed and ocean-blue eyes sparkled. Sally watched him cross the room, the epitome of powerful grace, and her plump hand went cold as he lifted it to his lips.

  "Mrs. Bache, I admire a woman with opinions. Do not back down now!"

  She gulped. "Why, Lion, you know how fond we all are of you. It's wonderful to see you again. I hope your voyage was a success! I hope you have been eating. It looks as though you've lost weight..."

  "The farther my ship got from Cathay, the less appealing that
stored food became. However, I'm certain the problem could be corrected with a few of your celebrated meals."

  She blushed again and Dr. Franklin spoke up from his chair, "Is my daughter so entrancing that you can spare neither a glance nor word for her sick old father?"

  Lion laughed and Sally exclaimed, "I think I heard the children calling! I'll be back in a moment with your refreshment."

  She hurried out of the library and Lion settled into a cozy red chair across from Franklin's. Leaning forward, he grasped the frail hands of his mentor. "I can't tell you how wonderful it feels to be home again and to see you up and about. How are you?"

  It had been more than a year since Lion had left for Cathay and he was alarmed by Franklin's apparent deterioration. The wispy fringe of hair that brushed his shoulders was visibly thinner. So was the doctor himself. His back was bent, and chronic pain had etched hundreds of new lines in his face, but the warmth in his expression was undimmed.

  "Right to the point, as always, eh? Well, I've been better. My body may be withering away, but I find that the energy in my mind remains undiminished. The conflict which ensues between my mental and physical abilities is mighty frustrating!" He paused as though to rest. "I can see how you are! You're looking splendid; the sea air must agree with you."

  They conversed at length about Lion's experiences in China and the latest developments in America until Sally Bache returned with Lion's brandy. Apparently, there was some crisis involving Franklin's grandson Benny that she wished to discuss with her father, so Lion leaned back in his chair and let his thoughts wander.

  Sipping the brandy reminded him of the enormous amount of the stuff he had bitterly consumed since his return to Philadelphia three days ago. How was he to tell Dr. Franklin what was really on his mind? It was the old man's fault, after all! Persuading him to attend the Constitutional Convention on a permanent basis... including him in the elite group that met almost nightly in the dining room at Franklin Court. Washington, Madison, Robert Morris, not to mention Franklin himself. It had turned out to be the sort of experience that left Lion with a craving for more, a burning desire to be one of these men whose brilliant minds and courage were shaping the new, idealistic nation of America. Day after day in the stiflingly hot East Room of the State House, Lion had been unaware of the changes taking place inside himself; he only knew that he loved every moment of debate, even the longest, most pompous speeches.