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hell.”
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    Edward wandered the streets and visited dramshops for most of the afternoon. Twice he almost turned his steps toward Lydia’s house but decided he was too angry.
    Sunset found him by the State House at the northwest corner of Broad and Meeting. In the crossway grateful citizens had erected a marble statue of William Pitt, honoring the great statesman’s defense of the colonists when theyprotested the Stamp Act. Edward gazed up at St. Michael’s steeple and listened to the sweet notes of the eight bells announcing the hour.
    The sky was pale as his hopes, the stars dim as his future.
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    The fine single house of the Bell family, stucco on brick, fronted the harbor at Oyster Point, sometimes called White Point. It overlooked a vista of marsh grass, the middens of bleached oyster shells, and the partially constructed fortifications he’d seen when he sailed in. In the hazy dusk the lanterns of Commodore Whipple’s warships rode the gentle swells of the evening tide.
    The three-story house was rectangular, the narrow end toward the street. A gate on the east side led into a walled garden dominated by a live oak taller than the house. A long piazza with the family entrance in the center faced the garden. Tom and Eliza had built the house at the end of the Seven Years’ War, when Bell’s Bridge shared Charleston’s economic boom, and many merchants and planters “bragged in brick” to announce their newfound affluence.
    Candlelight washed the windows of the front room on the ground floor that Tom used for a combination office and library. Edward went in through the garden and the piazza. Pharaoh, the aging black house man, greeted him and said his trunks had already been delivered. He found his father writing in a leather-covered book with a gilded clasp, one of his diaries. Tom Bell had filled several in Edward’s lifetime. The room was warm and welcoming with its dark furniture and walls of bookshelves.
    The books were there because of Eliza. Shortly after her wedding, Eliza Trott had taken over her young husband’s education. Tom had learned only basics at the St. Philip’s Free School, which was no longer favored by the gentry because it attracted too many poor children.
    Eliza had directed Tom’s reading; instilled in him a lifelong passion for learning. Tom supported the Charles Town Library Society and kept a private collection of over two hundred volumes, weighted heavily toward works on dissent. Locke and Rousseau were there, aswere Cato’s Speeches, The Independent Whig, Davila’s History of the Civil Wars in France, and several works on revolutions in the Roman republics. From these books had come Tom’s conviction that the Crown was interfering with Englishmen’s rights to self-government and full enjoyment of life, liberty, and property, said property including human beings.
    â€œI saw Adrian,” Edward said without preamble. “He informed me of his wedding plans.”
    Tom laid down his quill, more sympathetic than he’d been that afternoon. “Several times your mother suggested I write you. It wasn’t my place. Adrian should have. Your brother often avoids the hard choices. I’m afraid he’s a secret Tory.”
    Edward slumped in a chair, stuck out his legs, picked a bit of dried dung off his boot. His eyes looked sunken, shadowed with strain. After a prolonged silence Tom said, “What will you do?”
    â€œSpeak to Lydia about it. Ask for an explanation.”
    â€œShe was never formally promised to you, Edward.”
    He stamped the floor. “My own damn fault. I should have seen to it. I was too confident of her feelings.”
    â€œWhat if she’s determined to marry Adrian? What will you do then?”
    â€œI don’t know. Join the militia. Give myself up for cannon fodder. Doesn’t make a hell of a lot of difference, does it?”
    Tom sat silent, unable to find