by Joann Simon
—particularly when your remarks are so wide of the truth!"
"And what might the truth be?"
"Precisely what I have told you. I love my husband more than any man on this earth, and my greatest desire in this world is to be reunited with him!"
Elizabeth began running a brush through her hair. "Hmmph. Well, I am certainly anxious to meet this paragon
. . . a shiphand, is he? I have seen many of that profession down at the Eastport docks, loading Papa's ships." She wrinkled her nose disparagingly. "But perhaps he is except-ional."
"He is—very exceptional."
"I will not be needing you further tonight." Elizabeth dropped her brush on the dressing table and swiveled in her chair to face Jessica with narrowed eyes. "Only, might I remind you who is mistress here, and who is maid. I would hate to have to go to Mama and tell her of your disrespectful tongue and tone—"
"You may tell your mother what you wish." Jessica's anger had reached the boiling point. "But I will not sit back and be abused or have my reputation slurred. Obviously I need this work, but there is a limit. If your mother wishes to dismiss me, that is her decision. However, you can be sure I will be quite frank with her about my treatment here, and I don't think she will be very pleased."
Jessica stormed toward the door, not waiting for Elizabeth's reaction.
When she reached the kitchen to collect Kit, she found Molly dozing in her chair. Lifting the still-sleeping child from his cradle, she gently shook Molly's shoulder. "I'm going up now."
"Oh . . . already. Must have dozed off." The woman dropped her feet from the footstool to the floor and yawned. "I'll be going up myself. Long day."
"Yes, a long day," Jessica said. She was in no mood to be sociable now, or even civil. "I will see you in the morning."
"Aye, good night, dear."
"Good night."
In her room Jessica shut the door firmly behind her, deposited Kit on his cot, and began pacing the floor. She felt tied up in knots, angry, humiliated, as she mentally reviewed the scene in Elizabeth's bedroom. The showdown she'd almost been expecting had come, and she'd certainly put her foot in it. Elizabeth wouldn't take Jessica's words sitting down. She was probably already in her mother's bedroom giving a very one-sided picture of what had occurred. Well, if all was lost, then it was lost—Jessica would find some way to take care of herself and Kit. . . how, she had no idea at the moment, especially if she were sent off without reference. If only she had thought more clearly about the future before she'd spoken! But it had been beyond her ability to take any more of Elizabeth's insinuations, the degradation of her position; her pride was too great. Nothing in her past had prepared her for this servant's world. Not submissive by nature, she could not think and feel like the other servants, who accepted their lot and had few ambitions beyond rising in the household echelon.
What would Christopher have done? He'd had to adjust to a step down in stature. But he had never been forced into servitude; he hadn't been asked to numb his mind and his spirit.
At this thought and the memories it brought with it, such a sense of desolation flooded through her that her knees felt weak. Going to the edge of the bed, she sat and buried her face in her hands.
Of what good was it to think of what Christopher would have done? He was gone! She might very well never see him again. Yet he would have depended upon her to take care of their son; he would have told her to look inside herself for the strength to go on, reminding her that they'd discussed this very possibility of separation. She could almost hear his voice whispering encouragement in her ear.
"I need you, Christopher," she cried silently. "I need you now!"
CHAPTER 6
With the end of the winter storms and the melting of ice from the harbor, the citizens of New York were sure the time was ripe for an attempted British invasion of their island. The men at the docks and at Tontines spoke in low, worried tones, some considering moving their families off the island into the countryside. Fevered activity at both the Castle Williams and Castle Clinton fortifications on Governors Island and off the Battery insured that all was in readiness in the event of an attack; small scouting vessels moved stealthily along the coastline, keeping a watch on the movement of British ships and sending any news back to the city.
Christopher listened calmly to the speculations and fears of other New Yorkers, knowing the invasion would never occur. It was a period of waiting for him, of persevering, of giving the pain in his heart some time to heal. He was getting to know this growing metropolis very well, from the tip of the Battery up to Canal Street and beyond, once renting a hack and riding as far north as the quiet environs of Greenwich Village and the still-sylvan lands to the east of that community. Some building was going on north of Canal as the population outstripped the original city boundaries, but the majority of it was clustered to either side of the Broad Way, where the mansions of merchant princes had begun rising before the war. Farther to the east and west were scattered wood frame dwellings and spanking new rows of middle class town houses with their three-story brick Federal facades.
Where the Broad Way stretched farther north, following the Post Road and stage routes toward the Haarlem River, there was nothing for the traveler to see but miles of open countryside, fertile farmland, country estates, posting houses and inns along the stage route—a very beautiful and soothing sight indeed, Christopher had been told, if one wanted to escape the bustle and congestion of the city proper.
A controversy was at the boil over the development of this open land; in New Yorkers' minds the concern took second place only to the war. The Commissioner of New York's Plan, drawn up by John Randal, Jr., showed the whole of the island above 14th Street cut into neat squares, with streets and avenues running monotonously north-south, east-west, without park or commons; with hills to be leveled, streams and ponds filled and culverted. A loud and angry outcry had gone up when, in 1811, the plan was published. Christopher heard protests everywhere, from Robert Bayard and even Mawson, who generally was not one to concern himself with anything unrelated to shipping and the sea. "It's idiocy!" he'd exclaimed one evening in the Ship's Tavern as he, Christopher, and a few other dockworkers sat together polishing off a few ales. "Never saw a more foolhardy scheme. What man wants to be cooped up in a boxed-out city with nothin' to see beyond his window but a score o' streets and buildin's just like the one he's on!"
"Certainly not you, Mawson," Christopher smiled. "We all know you would fast fade away if out of viewing distance of a harbor."
" Ayuh. But 't'would kill any man's spirit. And how they plan fillin' all them streets? Take half the folks livin' on the East Coast to do it."
Christopher made no response, knowing that indeed one day, in order to accommodate the population, those blocks would be filled with buildings tall enough to dwarf even the imposing steeple of Trinity Church.
"Couldn't agree with you more, Mawson," nodded one of their fellow drinkers. "Never heard tell of a town with all straight streets. Look at London, one of the finest cities of them all—not that I hold any likin' for them Brits, now, but least they got the sense to let a place grow up the way it should, according to the lay of the land and a man's habits. Bah! Plan's a fine waste of tax money, that's what it is!"
Christopher's explorations, however, rarely took him up into the contested area of town. Foot travel confined him to the narrow, meandering streets between the East River docks and the Hudson. His course might bring him down Water Street or Pearl, through the commercial district, perhaps stopping at Samuel Fraunces's tavern for an ale; then down onto State Street, which curved behind Battery Park, the gracious homes along the street facing out toward the park and the blue harbor beyond; north again past Bowling Green, up the Broad Way, the address of some of the most prosperous inns and hotels as well as private residences in the city, then up beyond Trinity Church to the new City Hall with its surrounding park. At other times he would wander west to the banks of the Hudson and, standing
on a rise of land, view wharf after wharf of idle merchantmen. The majestic cliffs that were the New Jersey Palisades rose in the distance, trimming the wide, smoothly flowing river.
Only once did he venture to Paradise Square and the Five Points District, on the site of the old Collect Pond, north of the upper end of Pearl Street. Since it was the notorious reputation of this area of brothels, taverns and unsavory characters that had saved him on his first morning in New York, his curiosity was aroused. As he stood at the corner of Cross Street, overlooking the square where five streets converged to give the district its name, he saw a scene of sometimes sad and rundown two-and-a-half-story, gable-windowed buildings, snug against each other, smoke spewing from every chimney. On each corner was a grocery or a liquor store, shouldered up to a tavern or a down-at-the-heels boarding house. The square was alive with pedestrians going in all directions, ducking in and out of the tavenis and stores, fighting for a right of way with the abundance of pigs routing freely in the trash-filled gutters of the muddy street. Raucous calls and jeering voices echoed across the square; a peal of female laughter drifted out from one of the taverns. Over his head a window was flung open. Only experience with the life in his own nineteenth century London gave him the presence of mind to step quickly to the side before the contents of a chamber pot sloshed malodorously onto the sidewalk to trickle off into the gutter.
From down the sidewalk a brightly gowned young woman approached, rouged lips and cheeks garish on her otherwise pretty face. As she neared Christopher, she appraised him openly. She paused beside him and looked up with large brown eyes, her smile a clear invitation. Firmly, he shook his head in the negative.
"Can't believe you mean that, sir, else what're you lookin' for in these streets?"
"Not interested."
With a pout and a whispered obscenity, she moved on in search of a more willing prospect, her skirts swishing over the dirty cobblestones.
Christopher didn't remain much longer. The place and its inhabitants reminded him too forcibly of the Seven Dials and East End slums of London—so forcibly that for a moment he felt that he was back in that city again. With a shake of his head, he turned back to the more respectable areas of town.
In the warmer spring and early summer days, Christopher found a haven in Battery Park. Walking over the green lawns under a leafy canopy, he could stand at the promenade at the water's edge to gaze out over the harbor, in the distance the hills of Staten Island, before him the round stone fortification of Castle Williams on Governor's Island. A brisk, salty breeze carried away the more unpleasant city smells as it blew in off the water. He could fill his lungs with the clean air, think back to spring mornings at Cavenly . . . cantering his stallion across the endless fields and pastures of lush green, soaring over hedgerows, walking down a meandering woodland path enjoying the mingled scents of damp earth and new-mown hay, the perfume of field flowers wafting on the breeze. How different things were now—how much had happened since the days when he was the earl of Westerham, lord and master of his own magnificent estates.
He was never alone in the park. There were many pedestrians strolling the paths: workers like himself, or fashionably dressed residents of the town houses along State Street and the Broad Way. The women wore high-waisted dresses, unfurling parasols to protect their complexions from the sun. Their escorts were top-hatted gentlemen in morning coats and breeches of the finest broadcloth; immaculately white cravats were tied elegantly at their necks.
Unescorted young women, too, mixed with the crowd, plying their trade, though more discreetly here in the park; and young children scampered across the grass under the watchful eye of parent or nursemaid, their calls and laughter filling the air.
Christopher saw a young child just learning to crawl across the blanket his mother had set out in the sun, and felt the sharp stab of his loss. Kit would be that age now, just learning to navigate on his own; just beginning to explore his world. Was Jessica at that moment sitting on the sunny lawn of their Connecticut home, watching Kit move in just such a way, relishing the glorious spring? Did they miss him as much as he was missing them? He tried to imagine his son as a toddler, as a growing boy, a young man. His son. What a wonderful sound those words had. Whatever else he had lost, at least he would always know that he had left behind something of himself; that the love he and Jessica had known, oh, so briefly, had borne fruit. . . a son, a family line that would forever link them together. Would Jessica tell their son of his true heritage? Of the Westerham blood in his veins? That had the child been born in a different age, he'd have been a nobleman, heir to an earldom? Once they'd discussed it, and agreed that when Kit was old enough to understand, he should know the incredible truth of his father's journey through time. Yet now, with Christopher gone, perhaps Jessica would decide the truth was better left unsaid. If she did, how could he blame her? What other choice did she have? He would never know her decision. A feeling of sorrow swept over him.
Yet despite his suffering, physically he couldn't have been in better condition. The labors at the docks had firmed his already hard muscles into perfect tone and now, with the warmer weather, had brought a rich tan to his arms and face. He was sometimes aware that covert glances were cast his way by women on the streets, by ladies passing in sleek carriages; but he was unselfcon-scious of his own tall, broad-shouldered frame, his handsome features: his gently curling dark hair, the chiseled planes of his face, his strong cleft chin, his penetrating blue eyes. His proud bearing demanded attention despite the rough workingman's clothes upon his back. But the admiring glances had little effect on him. There was only one woman who could rivet his attention, and she was in another world.
So many times on a crowded sidewalk, he'd glance up to see a woman of the same height or coloring; perhaps a pair of dark-lashed greenish eyes, a face of the same cast as Jessica's. His heart would begin pounding; he'd rush forward —only to find a stranger, any perceived resemblance to Jessica fading into nonexistence. And then he'd think himself a fool.
After all, what hope did he have of finding her here?
Mawson, who'd developed an interest in a serving girl at one of the more reputable taverns, found Christopher's lack of interest in the opposite sex surpassingly strange. Not once in the months he'd known Dunlap had he known the man to satisfy his needs with a woman.
"Hell, man," he said, exasperated when Christopher once again refused his offer to introduce him to a woman.
"What ails you? That mess up in Five Points can't have put you off to the ladies! One bad apple don't ruin the whole bunch."
"I know, Mawson, and it was my own stupidity that evening that did me in."
"Then let me set you up with a nice girl. Abbey's got a friend, pretty as can be. Wouldn't be just no rollin' in the sheets. Abbey's a nice girl—only waitin' tables at the tavern to help out her family. Her father was put out of work when the shipyards closed. Wasn't as lucky as me."
"She seems like a fine young woman."
"That's a fact. And so's her friend. What do you say? This comin' Sunday? Take the girls for a stroll?"
"I appreciate your offer, Mawson. Honestly I do. I am sure the girl is delightful, but I think not."
"You're not lookin' for another one of them tumblers, are you?"
"If I was, I would have no difficulty in finding one."
"Then what the devil's eatin' at you? Ain't natural. One'd begin to think that—" Mawson stopped abruptly.
"What would one begin to think?" Christopher's voice was deceptively mild.
"Now calm yourself, man. Didn't mean that to sound the way it did. No one's thinkin' a thing. Leastwise not me."
"I sincerely hope not."
"Just seems to me it'd do you a bit of good to get out with some female flesh once in a while instead of broodin'
'round by yourself."
"Your point is well taken, Mawson, and I can see you will give me no peace until I give you some explanations."
The truth was out of the
question, of course. Instead Christopher manufactured a story close enough to the truth that he wouldn't inadvertently contradict himself one day.
"There was a woman. . . I do not like to speak of it, but I loved her very much. I still do. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. It ended very unfortunately."
"Didn't mean to pry. We've all had our ups and downs with the ladies."
"This was a bit more than that. There is no point in going into the details. Suffice it to say I have not gotten over it yet. I need time to think and be with myself for a while. I suppose you might say my first evening here was an angry reaction."
Mawson was silent, registering the seriousness of Christopher's tone. "So that's the way it was. Often wondered.
Always thought you too sharp a fella to get taken in like the veriest greenhorn. Sorry for my earlier remarks."
' 'Understandable.'
"That one of the reasons you pulled out for New York?"
"Yes."
"And why you don't talk much about your past?"
"Do I not?"
"Not noticeable; an' I've got to know you better'n most."
Christopher only nodded.
"Won't bother you again 'bout the women. Just tell me if ever you're interested."
"I shall, Mawson."
"Call it a night, mate?"
"Ayuh, that we should." Christopher grinned. So perfectly did he mimic the other man's speech that Mawson looked up startled.
"Not used to hearin' my own talk 'round here lately . . . not since the war started up, leastwise. You funnin' me, Dunlap?"
"Not at all, but occasionally I feel so starchy."
"True, you could let a bit out and not miss it."
"I was speculating, too, that the 'ayuh' can only derive from the old English 'aye,' which makes you more a British speaking person than most of the citizens in this country."
"And here's the bottom of my tankard to you, limey," Mawson laughed.
"We will discuss this further another evening. For now, to Hester's and to bed."