“Sooner done, sooner over.”
“You find my company so trying?”
“Why,” said Lancey, casually, “I hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. I’m just surprised you bothered to ask for the lantern. It’s more your custom to borrow when no one’s looking, isn’t it?”
She was conscious that Justin drew alongside, was grinning down at her, but she gazed straight ahead.
“You don’t forgive quickly, do you? Or forget?”
“No,” she said, “why should I?”
“It might be more—charitable,” Justin chuckled, destroying the gravity of his voice. “Live and let live. Throw not the first stone. We are all children of iniquity, and each sins in his—or her—own manner.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lancey faced him, hands clenched, as she asked. She knew what he meant. He was hinting that she had sinned at the Brick Gables inn with Dirck van Zandt. She had been waiting for him to mention it again, welcomed the chance to scotch his wrong impression.
“Why, nothing. I was merely quoting the preachers of my boyhood.”
The dancing dark eyes belied his assumed innocence. He was teasing, sure of himself and of her. Lancey lowered her eyelids, forced herself to stay unflustered. She wanted to find out how much he knew before she shouted a denial.
“Preachers long ignored,” she said.
“We listen,” Justin agreed, “but we do not hear.”
He thinks me a girl of easy morals, Lancey decided, but he is more interested than shocked or disgusted. It gave her a feeling of power. If she could provoke a flat statement, a flagrant remark, she would not mince words. Justin’s ears would sting for weeks!
“Lancey!”
The hail came from behind them. Turning, Lancey instantly recognized the stolid figure lumbering along the path. Oh, no, she wailed inwardly, not Jan Elmendorf! Not now!
“Wait a minute, Lancey!”
Jan sounded breathless. His hurry was more a Scamper than a run, but it covered ground. Lancey was very conscious of Justin’s amused interest. He was standing at her elbow, head cocked as he watched the approaching sailor.
“Ah, yes.” Justin’s murmur was critically aloof. “Elmendorf from the Lydia. Another victim, Mistress?”
Lancey had time only to glare before Jan reached them. He was panting and red-faced, but beamed with pleasure.
“Lancey,” he said, “what luck to catch you! I only have a moment. Got to get back to help unload the sloop. But, I wanted you to have it first off. Here!”
He thrust a paper wrapped parcel into Lancey’s hands. She was still so annoyed by his appearance that she stared at the package in bewildered silence. In size and shape it seemed to resemble a small skillet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Open it.” Jan, gasping, choked on a laugh, apologized. “I ran all the way from the landing. Go on, unwrap it!” The paper rasped under Lancey’s fingers as she tore away the wrappings. Sunlight was caught suddenly by glass, turned it to a golden oval. For an instant the reflection dazzled and blinded her, then she knew the gift for a hand mirror. It was pewter backed with a plain wooden handle, but the glass was flawless.
“Oh, Jan.”
“It is what you wanted?”
“Of course!” Justin’s nearness laid a constraint on her pleasure. If only Jan had picked another time for his presentation! She knew it wasn’t his fault, and yet she blamed him. She tried to sound gracious. “It’s perfect. But—you shouldn’t—I mean—”
Jan’s grin made his face even broader. He said, “My pleasure, Lancey.”
“Aptly put,” said Justin Pattison.
For the first time Jan seemed conscious of an onlooker. His head swiveled toward Justin; his mouth dropped open, closed with a click. Scowling, his voice dropped to a surly growl.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Pardon Cash,” said Justin easily, “proved more amiable than your Captain Benjamin. I’m a fisherman now, Master Elmendorf.”
“Lancey?”
“That’s right,” Lancey said. “He’s helper in Pardon’s boat.”
Jan’s scowl deepened. He glanced suspiciously from girl to man, and back. He said, “He ain’t been bothering you, Lancey?”
The attitude was familiar and unwelcome. Jan is a fool, Lancey decided, if he thinks I like his glowering at every man who talks to me! Justin’s smile added to the sharpness of her answer.
“Of course not! Mind your manners, Jan!”
“Yes,” said Justin.
Tensed muscles tightened the sleeves of Jan’s coat. He took a step toward the other man. Head lowered, he said, “Do you tell me this?”
“That will do,” Lancey said. She was furious with Jan. His mulish obstinacy always irritated her; this behavior in front of Justin was unpardonable. Light flashed, glittering, as she shook the mirror under Jan’s chin. “Another word, Jan Elmendorf, and you can take this mirror back!”
“Lancey—”
“I mean it. You needn’t think it gives you any right to question my acts! It’s a nice gift, and you have my thanks, but I’ll talk to whoever I please, whenever I please!”
“I just thought——”
“Do you want me to have this mirror?”
“You know I do.” Jan was sullen, but cowed.
“All right, then. Thank you.” Lancey wished the scene ended. She only hoped that Justin would hold his tongue, not goad Jan into further antics. As grandly as possible, she said, “Now, you’d better not keep Captain Benjamin waiting.”
“Oh.” Jan blinked as he remembered his duty.
“Come visit when you’re free. Hester will want to add her thanks to mine.” Lancey thought the invitation inspired. It would lead Justin to think that Jan’s gift was for the Quist household.
“Soon as I can,” said Jan, at last aware that she found the stranger’s presence awkward. Not all pleased he glared at Justin, was turning away when he swung back. “Oh, I nearly forgot.”
What now, Lancey thought, exasperated.
“We spoke the Aunt Namina, Lancey. Downriver in the Tappan Zee.”
“The Aunt Namina?”
“Judah Paddock’s whaler.”
“Ten Bush,” Lancey said, heart leaping. “Downriver, Jan?”
“Aye. They passed here in the night. But I talked to Ten Bush. He’s fine. Said he wrote you about sailing.”
“We never got it.” Lancey shook her head dolefully. She’d kept constant lookout for Ten Bush’s ship, but it had sailed past while they slept. Now her brother was gone, probably already out to sea, and they’d been robbed of a final glimpse.
“It’ll come. You know the post.” Jan guessed at her feelings, tried to ease them. “Ten Bush is fine, Lancey.”
“Thank you, Jan.”
“Well.” Jan’s wriggling fingers tried to express his thought, failed. “I’d better get back.” He went reluctantly, gazing over his shoulder.
Justin watched the girl. The mirror hung unnoticed from her grip as she stared moodily at the river. She really was fond of her brother, he thought. Then, he smiled cynically, deciding she was fond of many males.
“He’ll come back,” he said. “And bearing gifts, too.”
“Too?” Lancey’s eyes flashed; she raised the mirror. “You mean like Jan?”
“Not exactly. Your Jan’s a swain.”
“He is not!”
“Sticks out like a carbuncle. Poor dolt.” Justin shook his head in exaggerated sorrow. “How can a simple sailor vie with a rich van Zandt?”
There it was at last, Lancey thought, out in the open. She looked Justin straight in the face, irrelevantly aware once more of the white forelock, the quizzical, scarred eyebrow, the sardonic glee.
“Listen,” she said, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, or what you think.” Her voice was cold and flat. “But nothing besides a shared supper passed between Dirck van Zandt and me at the Brick Gables.”
“Nothing?” Justin
drawled the word, saw the quick color rise in her cheeks. “While I watched your clothes dry in the kitchen?”
“The clothes were soaked.” She gave the reason, disdained from explaining more fully. If he wished to think she supped naked, he was welcome. She gazed at him with cold dignity, neither outraged nor intense, putting him to the test.
“Either you are a liar,” said Justin, impressed, “or young van Zandt is a fool.”
“It could be that I am chaste.” Lancey did not emphasize the statement. With a shrug, she dismissed the subject. She had told the truth; let him believe or disbelieve. She could only judge that by his future attitude.
“Come along,” she said, “and get that lantern.”
CHAPTER 10
Saint Nicholas, my dear good friend,
To serve you always was my end;
If you now me something will give,
Serve you I will as long as I live.
LANCEY QUIST, MENDING THE SECOND BEST NET, CHANTED THE old Dutch Christmas song as happily as she had ever piped it in childhood. She wasn’t conscious of words or language, but fitted the movements of her needle to the rhythm of the familiar tune.
It was, she thought, an April morning made for singing, clear and warm after a night of gentle showers. The early sunshine felt good, baking pleasantly through the back of her dress as she sat, tailor fashion, facing the river. Across the Hudson the tree covered cliffs looked freshly washed; the foliage displayed its deep, cool greenery with gay pride. The water itself showed the changing shimmer of blue brocade as the sunken channel in mid-stream imposed its deeper hue on the tide.
Sing a song of old Kris Kringle
While the sleigh-bells loudly jingle;
If he now something will give
Serve him I will as long as I live.
The hammering behind her stopped, and the quiet hushed Lancey. She glanced over her shoulder to meet her father’s broad grin. Hendrick had been smashing bluestone fragments in a burlap bag; he dropped his mallet, slung the bag over his arm. His slow voice was amused.
“You have the seasons mixed, yes, Lancey?”
“Yes and no,” said Lancey, laughing. “The weather is spring, but the feeling is Christmasy. A day like this gives promise of carnival, of something happening, anything! Can’t you just feel it, Pa?”
“It is a nice day.”
Hendrick carried the bag of bluestone to a vat of water. He dipped it, began to swish it around to make the solution used for cleaning the nets. Lancey smiled at his bent figure, aware that with fisherman superstition he would never comment on coming hours.
“And getting nicer, Pa.”
“Meanwhile,” said Hendrick, gruffly, “how are you coming with the breading of that net?” He used the technical term for the intricate needlework that formed and knotted the mesh.
“Nearly finished.” Lancey flattened the patch with a palm, watched the needle glint as it flashed in and out. She recalled the wild tossings of the floats when the net was torn. “What do you suppose ripped such a hole, Pa?”
“Sturgeon, mayhap. Or peelican.”
“Must have been a big one.”
“Big enough. But if the mesh hadn’t been worn at that spot it might have held.”
They heard the whistling before they saw the whistler. Lancey, recognizing Yankee Doodle, was not surprised when Justin Pattison swaggered into the yard. Coatless, he was swinging the borrowed lantern from one hand, and twirling his tricorne around the other. He interrupted his trilling to call a greeting.
“Morning, Hendrick.”
“Morning, Justin.”
“Brought your lantern back. We owe you for a fresh candle.”
Lancey finished her work, biting the last knot tight, cutting the needle free with a deft slash of knifeblade. She was too happy, too sun drenched, to be wary of Justin. There was no reason for her cheerfulness except the day’s glory, but that was enough. Her question was loudly gay, friendly.
“You didn’t go out in the rain?”
“No,” Justin said, “we didn’t. It stopped long enough for a short drift just before dawn.”
“How’d you like our river at night?”
“I liked it.”
“It’s the best time.” Lancey, arms filled with billowing folds of net, struggled to her feet. “So still and hushed you can hear every tiny ripple. Lights blue on the water, and stars dancing overhead.” She laughed at her own enthusiasm. “Not that you saw any stars last night.”
“Overcast,” said Hendrick.
“It didn’t matter,” Justin said. “There’ll be other nights. It was cold, and damp, and we didn’t catch anything, but it still didn’t matter.” He sounded serious, frowned at Lancey as he spoke. “There was something about just drifting in the darkness. Pardon and me and the dory.”
“And the river,” Lancey said.
“And the river.” Justin’s smile mirrored the girl’s as he reached to help her. “Where do you want this, Hendrick?”
“Lancey knows.”
“In the shed.” Lancey tried to be casual. She was delighted that Justin seemed to share her own feeling about night fishing. For all his practical approach to life, his bitter outlook, he had been impressed. She, too, had been unable to express that experience adequately. It isn’t because it’s Justin, she told herself, it’s anybody who really appreciates the river.
They worked together in comradely silence, storing the net in its box. Lancey accepted Justin’s deftness without comment. He was a fisherman, and ought to know the tricks of the trade. Somehow, this morning, she did not think of him as either ex-soldier, or newcomer.
Hendrick’s grunt drew their attention. They came out from under the shed to find him standing rigid, listening. Lancey, holding her breath, managed to hear sounds that cut across the familiar riverfront noises—a steady, muffled beat; the clink of metal. Justin identified them at once.
“That’s a horse. Walking.”
“Aye,” said Hendrick, “but here? Who——?” Puzzlement left face and voice as he nodded. “Ah, of course! Dirck.”
“Dirck?”
“Must be, Lancey.” Hendrick turned to Justin. “He’s a young friend of ours, Dirck van Zandt.”
“I have seen the gentleman.”
Lancey nearly hooted at Justin’s polite tone. She was suddenly sure that her father was right. Mischief seemed to bubble inside her, race along her veins. I knew, she thought, that this day had a reason for raising my spirits! She had wanted these two men to meet, awaited the encounter with relish!
“You must meet him, Justin,” she said, and dared him with her eyes.
“I don’t mind,” Justin said.
The coaly bay mare walked sedately into the Quist yard, and Dirck van Zandt saluted from the saddle. They were both, Lancey saw with satisfaction, looking their best. Meda’s coat had the gloss of polished cedar; mane, tail and stockings were as black as her master’s boots. Dirck, in a bottle green riding coat, and buff breeches, fairly shimmered in the sunlight. He glanced at Justin Pattison, but he addressed father and daughter.
“Greetings, Hendrick. Compliments, Mistress Lancey.”
“Hello, Dirck,” said Hendrick, “it is good to see you again.”
“Master van Zandt,” said Lancey, “may I introduce Master Pattison.” Her casual tone lessened the formality of the polite formula.
Hendrick, with a snort, said, “Dirck meet Justin. Is this the courthouse?”
Both young men bowed. Justin, straightening, kept his face impassive. This van Zandt was even more of a popinjay than he’d expected. Not Solomon in all his glory, he thought. He’d seen the man at von Beck’s tavern, but never so finely bedecked.
Dirck’s thoughts were masked behind a courteous smile. Justin Pattison was a new factor in the problem of Lancey Quist. The fellow was tall, well built, not ill favored for all his dark visage. A girl might find that showy silver coxcomb in his hair attractive.
“Honored,” murmured Dirck.
Justin said, “Pleasure.”
Nothing could have pleased Lancey more than their strict adherence to proper etiquette. Hendrick’s presence made it obligatory; she hoped her own made it difficult. Justin stood beside her, and she could sense his hostility. Dirck, mounted, was a trifle harder to fathom.
“No law today, Master Dirck?” she asked.
“Blame this fine April weather,” Dirck said. “Even Master Kent could not withstand it. He took to his garden and the study of Greek, but I doubt he construes three lines.”
“The law,” said Justin, “sounds like an easy taskmaster.” He made the remark with careful lightness. The horseman represented everything he disliked—inherited wealth, entrenched position, patroon manners—but he was not unaware of Lancey’s watchful nearness. I’ll be damned, Justin decided, if I’ll perform for her like a trained bear!
“You do not know James Kent.” Dirck dismounted with reluctance. He judged Pattison to be inches taller, and hated to yield the advantage. “He holds the law a sacred testament, and knows more of it at twenty-four than many of his elders. He couldn’t be a sterner teacher if he was sixty.”
“A smart man,” agreed Hendrick.
Lancey walked forward to stroke Meda’s nose. The mare was restless, but submitted. Dirck smiled at the girl, turned to her father.
“Are you busy, Hendrick? Or could you ferry me across the river?”
“Ferry you?”
“And Meda?” Lancey echoed Hendrick’s surprise.
“She’ll swim, of course. She’s done it before without trouble.”
Justin gave the mare a quick inspection. He didn’t question Dirck’s statement, but resented its calm assurance. Let the master ride, Justin thought, and the beast swim. Since the decision was Hendrick’s, he said nothing.
“Well,” Hendrick said, frowning, “I don’t know, Dirck. We’re not busy, but—”
“Why didn’t you go to the landing?” asked Lancey. “They’d get you across quicker.”
“I’ve been there,” Dirck said. “The barge is on the other side, and there are five or six wagons lined up waiting. I don’t want Meda swimming in a crowd, and I’d like to get to Newburgh by lunch time.”
Shad Run Page 13