New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [177]
“Grey Albion?” James stared at him, and almost remarked that he feared he might find it difficult to think of Albion as a friend any more. But he quickly recovered his manners and said politely that, indeed, he had fond memories of living in the Albions’ London house.
“I learned in Charleston of Albion’s deep attachment to your sister,” André went on. “And it was charming to hear from her that his regard for her is returned.”
“Ah,” said James.
“Let us hope,” said André, “that when this unfortunate war is concluded, in one manner or another, these two charming young people may be able to find the happiness together that they desire.” He paused. “Perhaps I may witness it,” he shrugged, “from above.”
James said nothing. He looked down at the floor, thought for a moment and then, having formed his face into a pleasant mask, inquired: “If they do marry, was it your impression that Grey means to return to live in London?”
“Without a doubt. The family’s situation there, I understand, is very agreeable.”
“It is,” said James, and rose to go.
“There is one thing you could do for me, my friend,” said André now. “I have already made my request to the general, but if you have any influence with him, you might be kind enough to urge my case. A spy is hanged like a criminal. It would be a kindness if he would allow me to be shot like a gentleman.”
In October, her father told Abigail that he’d received a letter from Grey Albion, to say that the army was moving north. It seemed that Cornwallis thought he could roll all the way up the east coast. John Master was less sanguine.
“Clinton’s worried. He says Cornwallis isn’t a bad commander—he’s vigorous, and always on the attack, but that’s also his weakness. Unlike Washington, Cornwallis has never learned patience. After his recent victories, he’s the hero of the hour, and with all his aristocratic connections, he deals directly with the ministry, and thinks he can do as he pleases. Clinton is now forced to send men to support him, but he’s afraid Cornwallis will overreach himself.”
He did not say so, but Abigail understood what her father was hinting.
“You mean that Albion may be in more danger than he thinks, Papa.”
“Oh, I dare say he’ll be safe enough,” her father answered.
Late in the year, Clinton was forced to send still more troops to help Cornwallis. He placed them under the competent command of his new recruit, the traitor Benedict Arnold.
James Master had not gone to André’s execution. André’s request for a firing squad had not been granted, but he’d been allowed to fit the noose around his own neck, and had done it skillfully, so that when the cart was pulled away and he dropped, his death was almost instant.
However, in the months that followed, James had brooded constantly on what André had told him about Abigail. Had he been able to visit his sister he would certainly have confronted her about the matter at once. But short of getting himself smuggled into the city—at the mere thought of which Washington would have been outraged—there was nothing he could do. He had started to compose a letter to his father, but had laid it aside for several reasons. It was clear, firstly, that Grey Albion was not in New York, and so the relationship was hardly likely to advance at present. Nor was it a subject he cared to trust to a letter, which might always fall into the wrong hands. But most of all, he felt a sense of hurt, both that Abigail should have acted against his