Lorina had seen only the proud face Nolan showed to the world. In their time together he had seemed to her carefree and blithely above the scorn and calumny that had been poured on him. From his nightmares Lorina discovered how deeply Nolan suffered the accusations made against him—steeped in months of frustration and disgrace, his ravings were heartbreaking to hear.
Dawn came, and then daylight. Nolan became quiet and the muscles around his jaw relaxed. He slept, woke, and slept again. Nolan’s iron constitution triumphed, and on the following day the fever abated. Nolan’s senses returned to him at last and, trembling, he took a sip of water.
The doctor felt Nolan’s pulse and smiled. “I am glad you are with us again, Mister Nolan.”
Nolan saw in the small circle of his room the faces of Wendell and then Alden and Lorina. They had passed the long ordeal at his side, and they too looked drawn and haggard. Nolan lifted his hand and Wendell took it in his own.
“Friend,” Nolan whispered hoarsely. Then, looking at them all, he said, “My friends.”
IT IS A HEADY THING FOR A YOUNG WOMAN TO REALIZE THAT SHE HAS BEEN THE reason for gunfire. For Lorina Rutledge, Nolan’s wounding had been the gravest calamity of her life, and his recovery one of her greatest joys.
It could be said that until the duel Lorina had not felt any particular attachment to Nolan, nothing much beyond an appreciation for his fine, attentive manners and his continuing good cheer. The nights she spent at his bedside had been like a passage through a storm. She had insisted to be allowed to help Doctor Kosinski; her father had been a surgeon, and she was not what anyone would call fainting. Through the long period of danger she impressed Kosinski and Alden alike with her determined composure. The experience kindled in her a tenderness that found delight in the small, daily triumphs of Nolan’s recovery. They were attached now, mutually, by feelings of obligation and growing affection.
Nolan’s steady improvement was seen as something of a marvel and wonderfully confirmed Kosinski’s reputation as a physician and surgeon. In ten days, Nolan was taking halting steps across the room, and the next week he was taking the air on the lawn behind the St. Charles. In the mornings, after the dew lifted, a pair of porters would bring him down the stairs and sit him in the shade of the spreading elms. There he was attended sometimes by Alden and more often by Lorina, who plied him with spoonfuls of Turlington’s Balsam and snippets from curious pamphlets by William Blake.
Lorina was touched by Nolan’s sincere gratitude—his thanks were heartfelt—and as his strength returned she found his boyish enthusiasm charming. In their conversations everything seemed mutually interesting; they pleased each other with trifles and were fascinated by the small things they had in common. After the colonel’s funeral, tattle painted Nolan as something of an infamous person. Lorina knew that Alden adored him, and she did not imagine half of the things she’d heard said about Nolan could be true. It could not rightly be said that Lorina had courted scandal herself, but they had occasionally danced. Her doting father guarded his daughter’s reputation with all the trappings of virtue. He had reason to strengthen her defenses. Lorina’s suitors were many, and only a few of them were judged suitable. At her father’s insistence, Lorina taught Sunday school at Trinity Episcopal and often read her catechism. Even if she had not strictly upheld every verse, she did know and follow the Ten Commandments, and at least three of its mortal sins were beyond any evil she could even imagine.
Pleasant to look at, clever, and rich, Lorina might have been guilty of thinking a bit too well of herself, and of generally having things too much her own way. Though others frequently made accommodation for her, she was always unabashedly herself. Lorina had her own secrets. She had concealed from Nolan the fact that her family was wealthy. A dowry changed things, she knew. Money turned men into puppies or reptiles, and she did not want Nolan to reveal himself as a whelp or a fortune hunter. For his part, Nolan did not mention the name of his father, or say much at all about his upbringing except to confirm that he had been born in Rhode Island and moved at a young age to New Orleans and then to the country of Texas.
Nolan had very few friends in Richmond before the arrival of the Fitzgeralds, and after the duel he found he had none. Wendell and Alden he had known for years, and they were unfalteringly attached. Alden Fitzgerald had once been Alden Schuyler (of the New York Schuylers), and her family was too prominent to be trifled with; there was not a chance she would be insulted in the street. She had known Philip and Wendell since they were cadets, a very happy and long time before. No gossip reached Alden’s ears, and she was not interested in the things said about a friend behind his back. Oddly, the insults Lorina heard about Nolan, especially the more outrageous ones, served only to make her more stubborn in her affection.
Nolan was not invited to the governor’s dinner, but Wendell, Alden, and Lorina were. Lorina was connected enough to make certain they were seated together at a table where they could see, but not necessarily hear, the speechification from the dais.
Between amuse and intermezzo, Lorina asked, “Please tell me, Wendell, what is misprision of treason? I have heard it said about Philip.”
“It is having knowledge of a treasonable act.”
“It is a crime to simply know of treason?” she asked.
“You might say that.” Wendell poured the wine, a dusty claret that had not traveled well. “It is a stipulation of English Common Law that treason is considered the very apex of felony—equal to regicide itself. All persons are obligated instantly to put it down. Failing to report even a suspicion of it is a crime.”
“Philip is not a traitor,” said Alden.
“Misprision of treason is unique in that guilt is determined not for acting unlawfully but for failing to act,” Wendell said. “The accusation is that Nolan knew of Burr’s treason and did not report it.”
“How I detest an informer,” Alden frowned.
“Do you think he is innocent?” asked Lorina.
“Innocence is a measure of virtue,” Wendell answered. “And I would not say that our friend is superior to other men. He’s no goody-two-shoes. If you are asking me if the charges against Philip are true, I would say that no act of treason has yet been proven—by Burr’s accusers or anyone else. Not yet.”
Wendell helped himself to a slice of venison pie and said, “At West Point, Nolan swore the same oath as I, to uphold the Constitution. All the officers of our service take an oath—not to the government, or to the president, but to the document itself, to the law of the land.
“While we were cadets, Philip came to blows with a classmate, Joseph Swift. Their disagreement was whether or not the president or the Constitution was the supreme deity. Swift had it that the commander in chief was Jehovah—I should say Moses, rather, we were after all just cadets—but Nolan held that we were all serving the law. We served it, you see. Our one loyalty was to the Constitution and not the officers appointed above us. Nolan thought that people were fallible, but the law served us all. It was a bit optimistic, but Nolan thought the ideals enshrined in the charter were more important than any elected leader. Philip insisted even the commander in chief must serve the Constitution. The spirit of the law was for Philip the burning bush. Well, Joe Swift called Nolan an insubordinate puppy. And Philip broke Swift’s nose.”
Lorina held out her glass to be filled. “He seems a confirmed