Judas Flowering by Jane Aiken Hodge Page B

tucked the letter rather irritably under a pile of books he had just fetched from the library, and reopened his Locke.
    He was reading Locke three days later when he heard a light tapping on his door. It was a rare enough occurrenceto be surprising. At his “Come in,” the door was pushed open to reveal a strange young man older than himself and dressed with the rigorous plainness affected by so many New Englanders.
    â€œPurchis?” The young man advanced with hand outstretched. “I’m your cousin from Lexington. Well!” He had a delightful full-throated laugh. “Courtesy cousin, if you like. Cousin Abigail wrote us about you, and I am here to welcome you to New England on behalf of all the family. Mark Paston, and most entirely at your service.”
    Hart took the outstretched hand. There was something irresistible both about the stranger’s friendly greeting and about his unmistakable, fair-haired, blue-eyed likeness to Abigail. “I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “You’re very like your cousin.”
    â€œAm I? Poor girl. But what’s this?” He reached out a friendly hand to take the book from Hart. “You’re never reading Locke’s
Second Treatise on Government!
What kind of Loyalist does that make you? My mother told me I was on no account to talk politics with you, and I always do what my mother tells me, but what am I to do when I find you reading such dangerous stuff?” He laughed again and handed back the book. “There will be time at home for politics, whatever Mother says. Right now, where’s your hat, your greatcoat, your valise? I’m kidnapping you, carrying you off to the wilds of Lexington for a visit. My mother told me to bring you, and I warn you, what Mrs Paston says, goes.” And then, seeing Hart hesitate, “Do come, cousin. I’m just back from a trip to Boston and I need some good company to take the taste of things there out of my mouth. The chaise is outside; it is but to pack a shirt or two, and we’re on our way. I’ll return you, all right and tight when you feel you must get back to your studies.” And, as a clincher, “Bring your Locke, if you like, and we’ll discuss him over the Madeira tonight. Come on, don’t make me face my mother empty-handed; she’s a Tartar when she’s crossed and will slap all my sisters in turn out of very disappointment.”
    Hart could not help laughing. “How many sisters have you?”
    â€œSeven, God help me. But no need to look so scared. I’ll not let them plague you. In fact, the two eldest are married and the others are still in the nursery. But with Father dead,you can see how much I need male society. So come, pack up and let’s go.”
    Half an hour later, Hart did indeed find himself riding in the chaise of this compelling new cousin of his, and very happy to be doing so. It was high autumn now, with the leaves bright on the trees, and the weeks of lonely study lay heavy behind him. Brimful of new ideas, he had been starved for someone to discuss them with, and when Mark Paston trailed a provocative remark about Locke and the social contract, he leapt at it and they were soon arguing away like old friends. Once, Mark Paston pulled him up short. He had said something that indicated his assumption that a constitutional monarchy was the only rational form of government, and Mark held up a warning hand. “All very well with me, cousin,” he said, “but don’t, I beg of you, say things like that in Lexington. We’re pretty fierce there, you know. There’s not a Loyalist dog of a Tory left in the place.” And then, laughing that irresistible laugh of his, “If you could just see your own face! Don’t worry, I won’t let them eat you, and to tell the truth, I rather think you will find yourself more nearly agreeing with us desperate radicals than you