by Eric Flint
“In consequence, we planned carefully for these days when so many people would come to Oranjestad, for this opportunity to fix it in so many minds as a hub not only of commerce and power, but society, opportunity, and entertainment. So naturally, we always envisioned a party, but particularly a dance, an event where new romantic friendships may be kindled and so, start to bind all our islands together with even stronger ties. But in all of those considerations, no one ever stopped to ask: ‘but who shall oversee this party?’”
He looked up at Government House, the façade of which was three stories high. Its wings and the rear extension were only two floors. “We considered the space we needed; we allowed for food and drink, where they would be prepared and in what quantities. We asked for volunteers to help with that service and promised tariff relief as an incentive, and so accrued more willing hands than we know what to do with. We even contacted the musicians among us, who used the last two days of strolling the streets as a time to rehearse and prepare.”
He sighed. “We were military men approaching this objective as we would any other: identify and gather resources at the time and place where they are needed.” He huff-laughed again. “But somehow, we missed the final analogy that should have been the first thing we determined: to recruit a knowledgeable commander for this enterprise.” He glanced at Anne Cathrine.
“Admiral, even if I was capable and willing to take on this great enterprise”—God forbid! I’m better at a council table or commanding defenders, and I’d prefer the dangers of either before the drudgery of this!—“I am expected to be at the party. I was honored to have so many notes sent to my house expressing the fond hope that I might reserve a minute of the evening to spend with its sender.” She smiled. “I also know what those requests really mean. They are oblique attempts to gain access to my ear. The majority of those correspondents hope to enlist my support, or acquaint me with an issue germane to their own interests, or speak to any one of a number of important people who are routinely in my circle of acquaintance: Hannibal Sehested, Governor van Walbeeck, you, my husband, even my father.”
She put a hand to her head; it was really rather dizzying as, speaking it out all at once, she realized just how big a fish she had become in this little pond. “I agreed to dozens of such brief meetings that will, I am sure, all go on too long. Governor van Walbeeck prevailed upon me to do so, if for no other reason than these are all persons who are wealthy, influential, or ambitious. And the more of them who know that they will be able to speak with me, the more of them will attend. And the more of them who attend, the more prestigious the event becomes, and so the desire to be seen at it spreads like wildfire. And so it has. And so I may not be absent from the event, given the role to which I am already committed.”
At about the halfway point of her explanation, Tromp had again folded his hands patiently in front of him. “That is why I am asking you to give us only an hour now. To answer the questions of the volunteers and servers, not officer them through the event. We lack the knowledge to tell them what will please the guests the most, what music and dances were last in fashion, how and when to best serve food and drink.”
“But I do not know these things.”
“Perhaps not, but they will listen and obey what you tell them, Lady Anne Cathrine.” He smiled. “You may constantly point out that you are ‘only’ a king’s daughter, but they still refer to you as ‘the princess.’ Without that voice of authority, they will continue to bicker with each other. You need not be knowledgeable, but even so, you will have far more knowledge than any of them, simply by dint of having been present at such expansive entertainments.”
An hour. She really didn’t have the time. But on the other hand—
Her future was here, she realized in a sudden rush. This New World, this place far away from the viper pits of Danish—no, of European—nobility: this was where she felt more vibrant, more alive, more useful, than she ever had in her entire life. And maybe, just maybe, she could have a hand in guiding it to evolve toward . . . toward what?
Toward something better, affirmed a blunt, practical voice in her head. Toward a community where one’s daughters and principles and “friendships” were not employed as chess pieces in a sweeping, unending, and insufferable game of accruing and preserving power. She did not envision a Utopia; she already knew too much of human nature to consider that anything more than a quixotic dream. But she could help make this New World better, perhaps much the same way that Grantville had wrought wondrous changes in the old one.
She turned to Tromp. “Yes. I will help. Would you be so kind as to escort me there?”
* * *
Three hours later, Anne Cathrine emerged from the same door, where Tromp—who had been called to other matters—had agreed to meet her when she sent for him. She was exhausted but energized. She did not care much for the topics upon which she had been called to make decisions, but, well—she most certainly did like making decisions. And here in the New World, she was not being pushed behind those who held power; she was being drawn forward to wield it. Her thoughts flashed to Eddie, and she felt blood rushing to the places where thoughts of him usually hastened to.
But upon seeing Tromp, she stilled that as best she could and nodded at him. “I believe you shall find that this evening’s entertainment will still be chaotic, but at least its delivery shall not be divisive.”
He bowed deeply. “Lady Anne Cathrine, you have done all that I could have hoped and more.”
“Then Admiral, I wonder if you will do something for me in return.”
Tromp was too experienced to be giddy at the prospect of furnishing recompense for her efforts; it was the way of kings and their families, and it was one of their least welcome habits. He stood, almost stiffly. “Certainly.”
She gestured at Government House behind him. “This place is a mystery. I would have you explain it to me.”
He frowned. “I am not sure what you are referring to, Lady Anne Cathrine.”
“It was originally built as the Governor’s House. I remember the first time I saw the inside of it.”
Tromp nodded. “The New Year’s party. Just six months ago.”
“Yes. A quaint and intimate event compared to what will be held here in but four hours. But between that first event and this one, and without any announcements, it became Government House. Two immense wings to either side, an even greater expansion to the rear to create a great hall.” She began walking in the direction of the house she and Eddie had been given as the senior representatives of a foreign power. “Why these changes?”
Tromp put his hands behind his back, head down, and considered a moment before answering. He resembled a school master, again.
“There are ticklish subjects involved in this explanation. I will trust that you will not share them with anyone except your husband.”
“He is not already aware?”
Tromp shrugged. “Very possibly. It was not purposefully kept from him. But he was busy with the planning and preparations for the interception of La Flota, and there was no reason to distract him with such details.
“So: when the time came for Jan—Governor van Walbeeck—to take up residence in the Governor’s House, he decided it would be unwise. After seeing the almost desperate merriment of the New Year’s Party, he came to realize that the building was sorely needed by the community as a place to gather, whether to celebrate, debate, or mourn.
“He also perceived that, although it is a colonial tradition that the governor should have a separate, and large, residence, there were political frictions here on St. Eustatia which made that inadvisable. Too many of our people were still living in tents. And if resentment for that privilege struck even the smallest sparks of resentment, our political opponents—this island’s stubborn and increasingly obstreperous slaveholders—were likely to attempt to fan those sparks into a conflagration.”
Anne Cathrine frowned. “Could they have succeeded, do you think?”
&
nbsp; Tromp shrugged again. “Even if they had not, van Walbeeck foresaw that if the slaveholders made so overt an attempt to undermine our authority, that act would draw permanent battle lines. Even if the colonists were indifferent or unfriendly to their cause, the resulting pall of discord and animus would not readily dissipate. Morale would have suffered when we needed it to be strong. So van Walbeeck elected to retain his apartment in the fort until a more modest domicile could be built for the governor’s use.
“Within weeks, however, we began discovering yet another reason why we needed to convert the Governor’s House into Government House; we needed more space for our administrators and officials. More specifically, with the USE’s fleet permanently in the New World, and trade ties rapidly increasing between the cast-off communities that had once been England’s possessions, we found ourselves appointing a harbormaster, a customs and tariff office, a sheriff, a court of justice, a deeds and titles registry and archive.”
Anne Cathrine raised an eyebrow. “I have been told that Spanish colonies often do without such formalities for years, even decades.”
Tromp nodded. “And that is quite true, but that is because their leadership in the New World follows the true nature of governance in Spain itself: highly centralized autocratic power. They only introduce additional layers of control when they must, which creates a rigid, tiered hierarchy in which even the lowest positions are as often filled by nepotism as proven qualifications.”
Anne Cathrine smiled. “Whereas you innovative, independent, and contentious Dutch rely on public offices not merely for order, but to prevent excessive centralization of power.” She smiled wider when Tromp glanced at her sharply, surprised, but also pleased. “My father has made quite a study of your government. He admires it. He also fears that if that model becomes popular in Denmark, it might undermine his throne.”
Tromp chuckled. “Yes, because our system is so much better: a marginally competent civil service shot through with a double skein of bribery and cronyism.”
They shared a laugh. They then walked in silence for almost a minute.
Anne Cathrine looked up at him. “So, you do not feel the Dutch system is much better than a monarchy?”
Tromp frowned, head down as he walked and reflected. “I simply meant to underscore that it is by no means perfect, or even particularly fair.” He paused as they arrived at her door. “But I will not serve an absolute king, and would die fighting to keep my country from having one. If I felt otherwise, our half century of struggle against the Spanish means we were not fighting for our freedom, but over whose collar we would wear.”
She smiled slowly. “I shall see you again tonight, Admiral.”
“That shall be my honor and my pleasure, Lady Anne Cathrine. Here comes Pudsey; my happy duty escorting you is at an end.” He bowed and left at a brisk walk.
Pudsey approached. “That seemed a most serious talk you were having with the admiral, Lady Anne.” He tried to inject a lighter tone. “From the looks on your faces, it seemed as if you might be solving the problems of this old world.”
“No,” she mused, looking after the admiral’s retreating and entirely average figure, “we were talking about how best to build this new one.”
Chapter 23
Oranjestad, St. Eustatia
Leonora was grumpy. Yes, she had reason for disappointment, but it went beyond that. First, the seamstress who was to make necessary changes to the one gown she had brought from Denmark was overdue and her services were absolutely required. Leonora was still only fourteen and just six months’ worth of bodily change—much of which was quite welcome!—absolutely required alterations or profound embarrassment might ensue.
Secondly, after spending half an hour fretting over the tardiness of the seamstress and ineffectually primping, Sophie returned—announcing her arrival with a set of sharp knocks to the door of their shared toilet. Leonora had been deeply involved in her third attempt to adjust her hair and the surprise turned her untrained touch into a brief eruption of startled fingers that ruined her already dubious handiwork.
And of course, once Sophie had settled in to her own pre-dance preparations, Leonora had to stay calm and casual in her choice of topics while her curiosity—her desire to know how the earl of Tyrconnell had departed, and how Sophie felt, and what she meant to do—was threatening to burst out of her mouth, as if it were a rabid mink spinning and clawing inside of her.
She settled down for another attempt at her hair, this time with the benefit of Sophie’s calm advice. Indeed, Leonora was so set upon her efforts that the end of her tongue protruded from her lips, as if it were an external rite meant to placate the demi-deities of Focus and Determination. But no sooner had she made some appreciable progress, than the door banged open and Anne Cathrine came racing in, the overdue seamstress following just behind. Even more startled by this second interruption, the consequent ruin to Leonora’s hairstyling efforts were still worse and, to add insult to injury, she had nipped the tip of her tongue.
Anne Cathrine excitedly discoursed about Government House and Tromp and a New Start in the New World and having to make an immense number of decisions about the party that sounded unbearably dull to Leonora. In other words, it was more evidence that the universe did in fact revolve around Anne Cathrine, who punctuated her departure with a hug that ruined yet another of Leonora’s attempts to tame her hair. Despite entreaties that Anne Cathrine very likely did not hear, she did not return to help fix the damage she had wrought.
Leonora was missing—for the fifth time in as many minutes—her older sister’s skill in the arts of efficacious primping and improvised makeup when there was yet another knock on the door. My word, are we to prepare for a party or answer summonses?
Sophie Rantzau glanced at Leonora. “A reply to a knock is at the discretion of the king’s daughter,” she murmured.
Well, bother; I suppose that’s true. “Yes?” Leonora called toward the door.
“It is I, Edel Mund. May I enter briefly?”
The two young women exchanged glances. Leonora knew what she wanted to do: ignore the Medusa-in-mourning who had inexplicably come to their doorstep at this most unprovidential moment. But instead she said, “Yes, of course, Lady Mund.”
The door opened, and Edel Mund, more spare and pale than ever, entered and nodded severely at Leonora and Sophie, her eyes questing into the further corners of the room.
“My sister is not here,” Leonora explained. “She is preparing for attending this evening’s entertainment, I’m afraid.”
Edel Mund nodded again. “I see. Then I will ask you to be so kind to convey to her the message I share with you here. I extend my apologies, ladies, but I must refrain from attending that affair, despite your sister’s kind solicitation for my presence. It would still be—unseemly for me to do so.”
“—even if I were disposed to go,” Leonora finished silently for the middle-aged woman. “I hear this news with regret, but fully understand.” What I do not understand is how long you intend to mourn your husband.
“Also, I would be most grateful if, when next you see Dr. Brandão, you would tell him that I wish to volunteer my services to him, as well. I expect I would be a passably capable nurse.”
Leonora nodded, quite sure that what Edel lacked in bedside manner and compassion she would make up for in efficiency and reliability. “I am sure Dr. Brandão will be delighted to welcome you into our little hospital.”
Edel made no response, other than to bow slightly, her black shoulder wrap hanging. “Ladies, I am sorry to have intruded at so inopportune a moment.” Without any sign of haste, she was nonetheless out the door with remarkable speed.
Leonora blinked, shrugged, returned to the task of securing yet another errant wisp of hair in its proper place. “Lady Mund is a most peculiar person,” she observed. “And I can only imagine that her continued mourning intensifies her peculiarities.”
Sophie Rantzau, whose long, gleaming hair remained infuri
atingly perfect without any apparent effort on her part, looked at the closed door with solemn gray eyes. “I suspect we are seeing more than the oddities of her character or the distraction of extended mourning.”
“What do you mean, Sophie?”
“I mean that, in the terms of life as she has chosen to live it, volunteering to help with the sick and wounded is a form of penance.”
“Penance? But for what? Edel Mund is hardly a model of Christian charity or joy, but neither does she seem a great sinner. What could she have done to make her feel compelled to do penance?”
Sophie Rantzau’s tone suggested she was sharing a secret rather than a comment. “For many of us, penance is owed not for what one has done, but for what one did not do.”
Leonora looked overcautiously at Sophie. The tall young woman was still staring at the back of the door. “You said that with great conviction. Personal conviction.” Leonora was tempted to say more, but knew that she could not, not unless she wished to chase her silent friend’s own emerging truth—or confession?—back into whatever deep hiding place it had inhabited before Edel Mund’s odd visit had summoned it forth.
“My name,” Sophie said softly. “Has it never struck you as strange?”
Leonora, who had been holding her breath in anticipation of a great revelation, was taken off guard by this strange redirection. If it was, in fact, a redirection. Perhaps it was merely an oblique means of approaching the painful core of whatever truth Sophie kept buried. Because certainly, no one would be as laconic as she unless they were, in fact suppressing something. “I have never thought there is anything strange about your name. Also, I am unsure which name you mean: your Christian name or surname?”
