Camden and Monroe arrived at Independence Hall early on that first morning. It was only today that a sufficient number of delegates had arrived in Philadelphia to constitute a quorum and the area was bustling with activity. Workers arranged the hall where the convention would convene. Delegates mingled and engaged each other in conversation. Camden merely tried to take it all in.

A short time after they arrived, they were approached by a man that Camden did not recognize. Mr. Monroe greeted him and said “Mr. Mason, this is Camden Page. He is apprenticed to Mr. Joseph Randolph of Richmond and has come to Philadelphia as my assistant. Mr. Page, this is Mr. George Mason.”

Camden shook the elder man’s hand and found that even after the meeting with Washington, he had not yet quite adjusted to the experience of meeting such prominent men. Here, standing in front of him, was the man who had had such a substantial role in drafting not only the Virginia Declaration of Rights but also the first constitution for the independent Commonwealth of Virginia. He was relieved when he perceived that he would not be expected to speak, unsure whether he would find himself temporarily dumbfounded in Mason’s presence.

“I come on a matter of some urgency, Mr. Monroe. May we speak in private?”

“Yes, of course,” said Monroe. “May I ask whether it is a matter to which Mr. Page may be made privy?”

“Certainly!” exclaimed Mason. “If he is to assist you in the most effective manner possible, then I am sure you will want him to participate in our conversation.”

The men found a small room away from the crowds and shut the door. The air was warm and stale, but Camden supposed that whatever Mr. Mason had to say, he prized secrecy above all else for the time being.

“The convention will convene today for the first time,” Mason began, “but significant work has already been done by those who arrived before us. It is nothing official, of course, but I have received information that Governor Randolph will present a plan authored by Mr. Madison. It is not merely a proposal to repair the Articles, but rather a complete revision. It would, in fact, be an entirely new constitution and a radical departure from the present form of the general government.”

Monroe straightened his jacket and then scratched his head before responding. “Mr. Henry suspected as much, although perhaps not something of this magnitude and not so quickly. We are prepared for this, are we not?”

“I believe so, yes.” Mason sighed and then continued. “I suppose I only wish that the proposal should have come from some corner other than our own, not from fellow Virginians. The Commonwealth will certainly wield significant influence at this convention, so it is with disappointment that I have come to learn that the first proposal from Virginia will be the one that means to cast aside our present constitution. I am sure you know that such a course can only end in one thing, Mr. Page.”

Camden was startled at being addressed directly. He was fairly confident, however, that he knew what Mr. Mason meant. “It would lead to the consolidation of sovereignty in a single, national government. I suppose.”

“I appreciate your humility, young man, but you need not merely ‘suppose’ on that point. No doubt your mentor has ingrained in you the lawyer’s tendency to couch statements in such terms and for that I cannot blame you. However, in your assisting Mr. Monroe, I counsel you to do him the favor of setting that habit aside for the present.”

Camden nodded in agreement. “I shall do my best, sir.”

“I do not believe that the plan shall be introduced today. We have time, but I believe preparations must be made to introduce a competing plan, one that will address specific concerns with the Articles without rewriting them altogether. Would you and Mr. Page be so kind as to meet with me this evening at the coffee house around the corner from my lodgings?”

“Certainly. Surely we must also enlist the counsel and support of other delegates. Have you anyone in mind for that purpose?”

“I have, in fact, yes. I have invited them to join me this evening as well and shall be pleased to make introductions at that time. Until then, gentlemen.”

Mr. Mason excused himself from the room. Monroe hung back for a moment and tugged on Camden’s shirt so that he would do the same.

“Until we know better where matters stand, it would be to our advantage not to be seen meeting privately with any particular delegate” he said.

One of Georgiana’s favorite Burwell family traditions took place every Sunday afternoon and this one was no different. The whole family was gathered in the sitting room and the windows let in a fresh breeze that filled the room with the full spectrum of smells that accompanied late spring.

James Burwell, ever the patriarch, always sat at one end of the room in order to be able to observe the entire family at once. Today he was engrossed in the Sunday paper; it was not his usual reading fare, but no one could deny that there was much to read about in the papers of late. Elizabeth, always the dutiful lady of the house, was at his side putting the finishing touches on yet another of her intricate needlework pieces. Randolph, Georgiana’s brother, who had turned fifteen less than a month ago, was trying--and failing--to hide a military history inside the cover of the theological treatise he was supposed to be studying in preparation for his university entrance exams. Georgiana knew that her father would be most displeased, but found no reason to play the tattler today. Her younger sister, Mary Anne, still only a child, really, at just twelve years of age, was following in her eldest sibling’s footsteps and diving headlong into a novel. From across the room, it appeared to be Gulliver’s Travels. Georgiana herself had read the book or pulled it off the shelf just to reminisce enough times to recognize it at a distance.

Georgiana was in her usual place, at the far end of the room nearest the full-length windows. She treasured those times during which she could lose herself, whether in contemporary novels or the other worlds of Greek mythology, but she always preferred to do so while having a window into the real world. At the moment, her mind was certainly far away from her family’s home in Richmond, but it was not on a deserted island with Robinson Crusoe and Friday as the pages in front of her might have suggested to an observer. Rather, her thoughts had carried her to Philadelphia, a place she had never visited and to which she had only the most tenuous of connections.

“Father,” she asked, “Is there any news of the convention in Philadelphia in the paper today?”

“Pardon me, my dear, what did you say?” the Senator responded. Georgiana had not looked too closely before speaking up, but it was more than the occasional Sunday afternoon when her father would take to reading the paper and doze off as he read. She smiled to herself at the thought that he did not want to be teased about falling asleep.

“I was just wondering whether there is any news in your paper from the convention in Philadelphia. Is there?”

“No, I don’t believe there is. Nothing new, in any event.”

“Oh. Well, have you had any word from there, perhaps?”

“No, I have not.” The Senator furrowed his brow in confusion. “I must say, Georgiana, since when have you taken such an interest in politics?

Georgiana realized--she hoped not too late--that inquiring too deeply into the progress of the convention might make her father suspicious. Indeed, although she had read many political works over the past few years, she had never expressed any sustained interest in such topics to her father. He believed that women lacked both the particular skills necessary to grasp politics and the constitution to bear the often rough and tumble world in which he operated on a daily basis. Georgiana had no immediate desire to disabuse him of those notions.

“It is only that I know sometimes these sorts of gatherings are the occasion for balls and dances and some newspaper accounts often take note of the women and their fashions. But you say there is no news at all.”

“I see. Well, in fact, I believe there was just such a gathering at the home of Mr. Peter Tobin, a businessman of considerable means. However, I see nothing about that in the paper nor is it the kind of news likely to be deemed so urgent as to be carried back to Richmond with any kind of haste. But I shall remain alert to such stories in the future and show them to you if you wish.”

“Yes, thank you, father.”

Father and daughter went back to their reading--or napping--and Georgiana hoped that her deflection had worked. It was not completely untrue: she did want to know about the social gatherings and was curious about the fashions. She was sure that no young lady on the verge of turning nineteen could deny an interest in such topics. However, she was more interested to hear anything that might be news of the convention itself and, by association, Mr. Camden Page. Surely he had now arrived and had time to write, but the wait had come to be more trying on her patience than she had imagined it would be. If she had not received a letter by her birthday--this coming Saturday, in fact--then she resolved to write another letter to him. Under any other circumstances such an idea would have been outrageously forward of her, but given that she had written the first letter to begin with, she did not think it would do any harm.

Monroe returned to their lodgings rather late one evening. Camden had just finished his reading for the day and had begun writing his reply to Georgiana’s first letter. He had wanted to write as soon as he opened the letter that day in the coach, but simply had not had the time.

“Take some notes for me, please, Mr. Page” he said upon entering. Camden sensed that he was either weary of the convention or frustrated or both. He fumbled about for a few clean sheets of paper and prepared to write.

“Today there was a plan proposed by Mr. Randolph of Virginia,” Monroe began, “that would, in my opinion, do nothing less than effect a complete re-writing of the Articles. To call it an amendment would be to do violence to the very definition of the word. Although all plans have been assigned to a committee for further study, I made clear to the convention that our duty was to see how the Articles may be improved, not to discard them entirely. There seemed to be a few who more or less agreed with that general sentiment, but I must speak with them individually to determine precisely where they stand.”

Camden wrote as quickly as he could, making things only so neat as would be necessary for him to decipher his own handwriting later.

“During a brief recess in the proceedings, I was approached by Mr. Madison, who wished to inquire whether I would meet with him to discuss the plan introduced by Mr. Randolph. I told him that I saw no reason why such a meeting could not be arranged, but nothing firm has been established as of yet.”

Monroe continued in this same manner for nearly half an hour, feverishly emptying the contents of his head, lest the recollections and insights spill out while he slept. Camden tried to keep up, wishing in vain that Mr. Monroe would pause just briefly in order that some of the information could be digested. Learning anything from the discourse, however, would have to be reserved for later. Finally, he finished, and by that point Camden thought that he looked as exhausted as he sounded. He knew the look in Mr. Monroe’s eyes from having seen it in his family after a hard day in the fields. That a man could appear so exhausted from merely sitting in a room and talking and then recalling the events and thoughts of the day was almost too much to believe. And yet here he was and the fatigue that emanated from seemingly every pore of Mr. Monroe’s body was undeniable.

A few minutes later, Monroe collapsed into bed and fell into a deep sleep--and a well-deserved, one at that, Camden thought. Camden would now need to transcribe his own writing into something usable for Mr. Monroe, but calculated that he still had time to pen his letter to Georgiana. He set his scribblings aside and pulled out the sheet of paper over which he had been hunched in anticipation when Monroe had arrived.

“Dear Miss Burwell,” he began, although the formality of it grated on him. Nevertheless, he resolved that he would not allow himself to make any more costly breaches of social convention.

Dear Miss Burwell,

I was very much delighted to receive your letter of May 4 upon the day of my departure from Richmond en route to Philadelphia. I must apologize for delaying my reply for so long, but the journey and now attending to Mr. Monroe in preparation for the convention simply has not afforded me any time to myself during which I might write to you.

Please be completely assured that your desire that we should make better acquaintance of one another is one that I wholeheartedly share. Under the circumstances, I do not at all think it too forward of you for you to have written as you did.

I greatly appreciate your prayers for a pleasant journey and you may take heart that they have been answered. Mr. Monroe and I were accompanied along the way by various other travelers, but all of them proved to be pleasant people and makers of interesting conversation. We arrived in Philadelphia and I am pleased to report that our accommodations at a local boarding house have proven to be much more than adequate. Mr. Monroe has been terribly busy with all of his work at the convention and it has been my pleasure to assist him in any way that I can.

Along the way I have been able to read Amelia, the book in which your first letter was delivered. Have you read it? I would be most interested to learn what you thought about it. I hope that you will choose to continue our correspondence, for if the books in which your letters are delivered are all of such a quality as this, I will find my mind greatly enriched.

I look forward to your next letter with great anticipation and until that I time I remain your humble and obedient servant,

Camden Page

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

June 5, 1787

Camden set the paper aside. There was still room to write, but he supposed that it would be a simple enough matter to append a postscript at some later time. Now he must busy himself with organizing Mr. Monroe’s notes, a task that could take considerable time. He was expected at Mr. Johnson’s office early the next morning and did not want to appear in that setting as if he had not slept all night. He trimmed the wick on another candle and applied himself to the work at hand.

Several days after penning his first reply to Georgiana, Camden was jolted out of his reading when Monroe burst into their room with somewhat more haste than usual. The business of the convention must have ended hours ago, Camden thought, and the last light of dusk would shortly fade into night.

“Mr. Page, you must deliver a message for me.” Monroe quickly scratched out a short note, folded it, and scribbled something on the outside. “Please deliver this to Mr. Charles Cotesworth Pinckney. He may be found at the address I have written there.”

“Yes, right away, Mr. Monroe.” Camden took the letter and headed for the door. Upon reaching it he turned back and asked “Shall I wait for a reply, sir?”

“No. Just deliver the message. It’s urgent that Mr. Pinckney get the message tonight, but I shall speak to him first thing tomorrow morning at Independence Hall before we convene for the day.”

Camden hurried down the stairs and out the front door. Stepping outside, he realized that it was somewhat darker than he had initially thought. Street lamps had already been lit and he reflected on how different the same scene could look with only a change in the lighting.

It was only after a few minutes, perhaps halfway to his destination, that Camden thought about the message he had been tasked to deliver. He entertained no thought of opening it, but it struck him as at least a little odd that Mr. Monroe would have such an urgent message to deliver to Mr. Pinckney. Of course, Camden could only learn about the convention through what Mr. Monroe set down each evening for Camden to transcribe, but one of the things that Camden had pieced together very early in the process was that Mr. Pinckney was firmly on the other side of many issues from Mr. Monroe. Where Monroe favored a cautious approach aimed at finding ways to amend the Articles, Pinckney clearly preferred a complete revision. Where Pinckney favored a consolidation of more power in a general government, Monroe held fast to retaining the full sovereignty of the states. Still, despite those stark differences, perhaps the note regarded some compromise proposal that might have interested Mr. Pinckney. The only way to find out was to deliver the message and wait for more information from Mr. Monroe.

Camden looked up to be sure that he did not miss the street where he was supposed to turn. Finding himself in the correct location, he turned and began to look for the third house from the corner.

Almost as soon as he laid eyes on the house to which he was to deliver his message, he heard shouting and a loud crash. Picking up his pace, he heard another crash and realized that it was coming from the house where Mr. Pinckney was lodging. He looked up to see that all of the lights inside seemed to have been extinguished. More shouting was followed by the unmistakable crack of a pistol being discharged.

Just then, three men came running from behind the house, headed away from the house and directly toward Camden. In the dim light of the street lamps, he had barely enough time to realize that one of the men carried a pistol. The men saw Camden at the last minute and split rather than try to knock him down--something they likely would not have been able to do, given his size and strength--but Camden, entirely involuntarily he later thought, lunged at the one man who tried to pass by on his left, wrestling him to the ground.

About the same time, a woman emerged from the front of the house, her apron covered in blood and shrieking at the top of her lungs.

“Help! Someone help! Please come quickly!”

As the other two men ran off away from the scene, the man whom Camden had pinned to the ground had managed to get a hand free. Whether from his boot or some other location, he had retrieved a small stiletto. Camden only barely saw the blade coming toward his throat and was able to block the man’s arm. He drove his knee into the man’s chest and heard what he concluded must have been ribs cracking. The man grimaced in pain and dropped the knife, giving Camden the opportunity to roll the man over on his stomach and pin both of his arms underneath him.

“Don’t try that again,” Camden said. The man groaned, though in response to the pain that must be shooting through his entire body, and not in direct reply to his apprehender.

Just then the first of the night watchmen arrived. Meeting the lady of the house, he accompanied her inside, and within seconds two others from the watch arrived.

“Over here!” Camden called out. “This man just came running away from the house with two other men. One of them had a pistol and this man tried to stab me with that knife.” Camden gestured toward the stiletto with a nod of his head.

Just as the two men working the watch were getting the other man to his feet, one firmly grasping each arm, the same woman with the bloodstained apron emerged from the house, with the first watchman following close in tow. At first she showed no expression at all, merely staring off into the distance. She shuffled slowly forward, stopping about halfway between the house and the street, and collapsed to her knees just beyond the gentle amber glow of the nearest street lamp. Over the growing hum of a gathering crowd, Camden could barely make out the sound of her sobbing, a sobbing which soon turned to uncontrollable weeping. Another man and woman emerged from inside the house, servants judging by their dress, and helped the grieving woman to her feet.

The first member of the watch walked with purpose over to the other two men, who were now binding the stiletto-wielding man’s hands with some rope provided by someone from the crowd.

“Take him to the jail. I will alert the aldermen that Mr. Pinckney is dead.”

It was much earlier than usual when Monroe returned from the convention hall. He merely sunk into the chair in the corner without saying a word and Camden sensed he should not be the one to break the silence. Several minutes passed before Monroe so much as moved. He let out a deep sigh.

“Mr. Page, it has been decided that the convention will take a recess in order to allow for the mourning of Mr. Pinckney. Given these events, I will leave tonight for Richmond in order to meet with Mr. Randolph and hopefully Mr. Henry.”

Monroe leaned forward, resting his face in his hands. Camden sensed that there was something more that he wanted to say, so he waited.

“You know, of course, that Mr. Pinckney agreed with Mr. Madison and others about the need for a new constitution with a stronger general government.”

Camden thought that was an odd thing to bring up at this exact moment, but he responded with a tentative “Yes.”

“Then you must also understand what it means that the man you helped apprehend was found to be in the possession of a tract calling into question the motives of those who pushed for the convention. The tract was published under the name Zeno, but it is an open secret who the real author is.”

Camden had been absorbed in his studies and his correspondence with Georgiana. Had he even known of the pamphlet he would not have had time to read it, let alone investigate its true source.

“I’m afraid it’s a secret that is not known to me, sir.”

Monroe sighed again, but this time it seemed somehow sadder.

“The author was Governor Henry.”