“I guess not, with all this weather. But he’ll sure be glad to get the furs.”
Caleb beat his hands together, then blew on them for warmth. “I can’t remember much about him, Nathan. Is he like Father?”
There was a small interval of silence; then Nathan shook his head, a thoughtful stirring in his eyes. “No, Caleb, he’s not like Father.” He paused and the sound of the iron shoes on the frozen ground punctuated the cold silence, and a small smile touched his broad lips as he added, “But then, nobody else is like him, either!”
“Well, I sure hope they ain’t finished supper yet,” Caleb said. “My belly feels like my throat’s been cut! I’ve sure heard a lot, though, about how fancy Aunt Dorcas is. She might bow up over having us at her best table, dirty as we are.”
“Might be right,” Nathan nodded, then added with a touch of warning in his voice, “Don’t think they’ll chuck us out for being trail worn—but you keep your revolutionary talk to yourself, Caleb. You mind what Father told us about Uncle Charles.”
“Yaaaaa! Makes me sick!” Caleb scowled and gave Dan a hard kick. “Think of Winslows being a bunch of Tories!”
“That’s what I mean!” Nathan said sharply, and he reached out and grabbed Caleb’s arm strongly. “You keep that talk to yourself while we are here—and stay away from that rabble that calls itself Sons of Liberty, you hear me?”
Caleb turned suddenly, and his customary smile faded. His square face turned stubborn, and for one instant Nathan had the feeling that he was looking into his father’s dark eyes. “I’ll say what I think, Nathan—here or anywhere else!”
Hot words leaped to Nathan’s lips, but he bit them off. He and Caleb had been through this many times, and it always ended with both of them white-lipped with anger. No use to argue with him, he thought wearily. Mother and Father feel the same way, so it’s no wonder he’s getting to be a fire-eater. But he only shook his head, saying in a reasonable tone, “Look, just keep your political opinions to yourself, Caleb—while we’re here. Because if you don’t, we’ll get sent home quick, and Father won’t ever let us do anything like this again.”
The latter warning seemed to have some effect, for Caleb quickly shut off his protests and said only, “Well, guess you’re right about that, Nathan—but it goes against the grain!”
Darkness fell quickly, and they managed to get lost inside the city, so that by the time they pulled up in front of a large white house on the outskirts of town, Nathan had to lean down and put his face to the sign. He made out the letters, straightened up, and said, “This is it. Come on.”
A long ice-packed drive led to the house, and the rising wind made the frozen branches click overhead as they passed beneath. Tying their horses to an iron fence that set off a flowerbed, they mounted the high steps, and Nathan gave a couple of firm raps with the heavy brass knocker on the massive door.
Caleb shifted nervously as they waited, and finally he said, “Maybe we should have gone to the back door.”
Nathan stared at him, then said, “What did that sign say over the door at the warehouse?”
Caleb thought, then answered, “The Winslow Company.”
“That’s right—and my name is Winslow. You go to the back door if you feel like it.” He turned to hide a smile, for his taunt had done exactly what he’d expected—turned Caleb stubborn, which wasn’t too hard to do in any case.
The door slowly opened, just a crack, and a black face appeared. “The family is at dinner. Is you expected?”
Nathan shot back, “Not all the family’s at dinner. Go tell your master his nephews from Virginia are here!”
The steely quality in Nathan’s voice must have startled the black man, for he quickly opened the door, and gave a nervous nod, saying, “Oh yas, indeed! You gentlemen come inside, please.” He shut the door behind them and gave another nervous nod. “I’ll tell Mistuh Winslow you is here!”
He turned to go, but at that moment, a voice called out from down the long hall, “Well—well! What’s this? Is it you, Nathan?”
A tall man with bright blue eyes and reddish hair had emerged from a set of double doors and now came forward. He held out his hand, gave Nathan a firm grip, then slapped him on the shoulder, “My word! Are you ever going to stop growing, Nathan? And you, Caleb—” He turned to shake hands with the younger boy, and there was a light of amusement in his bright eyes. He laughed in delight, and reached out to give the boy a sudden hug. “Why, you’re Adam Winslow!” He looked again and shook his head. “My word, you’re the image of your father when he was your age, Caleb!”
“I take that as a compliment, Uncle Charles,” Caleb said at once. He did not make quick judgments, and the instant warmth of Charles Winslow had caused him to throw up some sort of a wall. Nathan had seen it often, not only in Caleb, but in his father as well. Both of them were slow to judge, while he himself (often to his own chagrin!) gave his loyalty readily.
“We’re a little late, Uncle Charles.”
“Late!” Charles stared up at his tall nephew, then shook his head in wonder. “We didn’t think you’d make it at all in this storm, Nathan!” Then he clapped their shoulders, saying, “You go get washed up—Benjamin, take my nephews to their room. Get them some hot water to wash with. We’ll hold dinner until you can get there, boys.”
“Yessuh, Mistuh Winslow!”
“Well, all our clothes are on the wagon, Uncle Charles,” Nathan said, looking down at his mud-stained clothes. “We can’t come to dinner like this!”
“You come as you are, Nathan,” Charles said at once. “I don’t think a little honest dirt from hard work will kill us!”
He gave them a smile, then turned and walked quickly back to the dining room off to the left of the wide hallway. It was an enormous room, for one of his demands for a house was that it be able to handle large dinner parties. Two massive fireplaces faced each other, and the heavy logs that popped and roared kept the room warm. The dining table was over twenty feet long, and it was covered with blinding white linen. Two giant chandeliers reflected their myriad candles on the silver that lay beside the five places set at the end next to the door.
“Mary, set two more places,” Charles said to the black woman who stood by the wall.
“Two places? For whom?” Dorcas Winslow looked up sharply, her brown eyes reflecting her displeasure. She was an attractive woman, dressed in high fashion, even for a simple family dinner. Her dark brown hair shone in the candlelight, and the diamonds on her fingers winked as she raised a hand to pat it carefully. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“It’s Nathan and Caleb—just got in with the furs.”
“Couldn’t they wait until tomorrow?” Dorcas murmured. She loved ceremony, and any distractions that broke into the rituals of their affairs displeased her.
“Well, Mother, you couldn’t ask them to sleep in the warehouse, could you now?”
The speaker was a young man who sat directly across from Charles, and there was a teasing note in his clear voice as he looked at Dorcas. “After all, they are family, aren’t they?”
“I suppose, Paul,” she said slowly, then added, “But they’ll have to learn some manners if they stay here with us.”
“I expect they’ll have good enough manners,” Charles said easily. “Virginians are just about the most hospitable people you’ll find, Dorcas.”
“Backwoods manners are not exactly what I like to see in my own home, Charles.” She sighed and said, “I know you want them here, but it’s going to be difficult.”
“I do want them here,” Charles said, and there was a sudden firmness in his voice. He was too heavy, and his face was marked with the signs of good food and too much liquor, but at times the vigor of his youth flared out, and at times like that the family had learned to avoid argument.
He picked up his wineglass, took a swallow, and looked around, saying, “We need some strong fresh blood in the business. I know you don’t like Adam, Mama, but you’ll have to adm
it he’s a strong man—and I suspect these boys are just about the same.”
“A stubborn man—I never trusted him!” Martha Winslow was seventy-two, but there was no weakness in her. She stared at her son with sharp black eyes, and added, “You were always a fool about Adam—but he never cared a pin for you—nor for any of us!”
Paul Winslow sat back, his quick mind analyzing the scene before him. He knew much of his family history, but he had never understood the hatred his grandmother had for her stepson, Adam Winslow. Once he had asked his father about it, but Charles had shook his head, saying, “She always hated him, Paul—even when he was a child. I think she was jealous of his mother—but she’d never admit it. Just don’t think about it.”
As the old woman stubbornly said, “You’ll regret any dealings you have with that man!” Paul glanced at his mother and saw that she agreed with the sentiment—but for a different reason, he suspected. Suddenly he turned his head and caught the gaze of Anne Winslow, his fourteen-year-old sister. She had been listening quietly, but she missed little, Paul knew, and he winked at her, which made her drop her eyes.
“Adam’s all right, Mother,” Charles said adamantly, his face flushed as it often did when he was crossed. “He’s kept his end of the business going well enough. And we need to keep the fur trade open. It’s the most prosperous part of the company.”
“Are they wearing Indian clothes, Father?” Anne piped up. She was a thin girl with her father’s auburn hair and fair skin. Her bright blue eyes came from him as well.
Charles stared at her, then leaned back and laughed, “Indian clothes? Why, no, sweetheart, of course not!”
He was very partial to Anne, so he carefully explained how that some years ago, he and his brother Adam had divided the family business—with Adam moving to Virginia to handle the fur trade while he himself stayed in Boston to take care of the other aspects and the shipping. But Paul knew there was more to the separation than that; there had been almost no contact between the two families, and there had to be some reason.
He was still pondering on the matter when footsteps sounded and he looked up to see two young men enter. One was tall and fair, and looked so much like his own father it gave him a small shock. The other was short and dark.
“Well, here they are!” Charles stood up and waved a hand toward the two, saying gaily, “This is Nathan and this is his brother Caleb. Let me introduce you to your relatives, nephews. This is my wife, Dorcas; and my mother and your father’s stepmother, of course, Mrs. Martha Winslow. This is my son, Paul, and my daughter, Anne.”
Paul rose to his feet and walked around the table, saying with a smile, “Strange we haven’t met—but better late than never, eh? Come now, you two sit down and eat.”
Nathan and Caleb sat down, both feeling awkward, and as the black servant placed food before them, Nathan said, “I apologize for our clothing, but—”
“It’s quite all right,” Dorcas said in a tone that implied just the opposite.
“Did you see any Indians?”
Everyone laughed, but Anne’s question eased the tension, and Nathan said, “No, Anne, it’s too cold out for Indians, but I’ve seen lots of them back home, and I’ll tell you some scary stories about them.”
“You eat up now, and then you can tell us about Adam and Molly,” Charles urged.
The food was good, and after Nathan and Caleb finished, Charles plied them with questions about Virginia—some about the family, but more about business. Nathan answered as well as he could, and his answers pleased their host.
All might have gone well, but suddenly Martha Winslow asked, “And has your father gotten rid of his erroneous ideas about the King?”
Before Nathan could answer, Caleb said loudly, “Why, ma’am, I expect my father’s opinions on King George are about what any honest man’s are—that he’s a fool and not in the least interested in the freedom of his subjects in these Colonies!”
He’s done it now! Nathan thought, but even as he tried to come up with some way to smooth the situation over, Paul Winslow took over. He said easily, “Now, Grandmother, we won’t have any political arguments!” Getting up with a smile, he walked around and stood behind his mother and grandmother, and placing a hand on each of their shoulders, he said, “My cousins are probably worn out from a hard trip—and we have a lot of things to do in the next few weeks. There’s a ball tomorrow night at Uncle Saul’s and I want to show off my Virginia kinfolks. We’ll have some of these pale Boston maidens falling at your feet, I can assure you!”
He went on easily, and Nathan drew a sigh of relief. He knows how to handle them! he thought with envy.
Later that night, when he and Caleb were finally in bed, he said, “You nearly ruined us with that rebel talk, Caleb. Keep quiet, you hear me?”
“You better worry about all those ‘pale Boston maidens’ Paul is going to throw at you,” Caleb muttered faintly, then fell into a sleep so sound that he did not hear Nathan’s drowsy reply. “You keep your mouth shut and I’ll take care of the pale Boston maidens!”
* * *
“Oh, Abby, can’t you hurry? The music’s already started!”
Abigail Howland looked up from the French mahogany dressing table at Ellen Alden and gave a languid smile. “It will be the same crowd we’ve had for months, Ellen.” She looked back into the mirror; then a thought struck her and she lifted a pair of hazel eyes to the tall girl who was pacing nervously back and forth across the room. “But I suppose you’re thinking of Daniel being with Mercy Williams, aren’t you? He’s been giving her some pretty hot glances lately. If you don’t make him propose to you pretty soon, she’s going to get him.”
Ellen was a slender girl with earnest brown eyes and auburn hair. “I—I wouldn’t have a man I had to force into a proposal!” she said tightly.
“Mercy isn’t as choosy as you, I think.” Abby gave her shining brown hair a pat, then rose and led Ellen out of the room. As they went down the curving stairs, she said, “I can tell you how to get a proposal out of Daniel.”
She spoke softly for a few moments; then suddenly Ellen’s eyes opened wide and she cried, “No! I couldn’t do that!—and neither could you, Abigail!”
“Men fight for land, for money, for power,” Abby said. “But women fight for men!” She suddenly paused and nodded her head toward the milling crowd below. “There’s Daniel—and I’ll give you one guess as to who’s dancing with him!”
“It’s her!” Ellen moaned. “Oh, Abby, I love him so!”
“Well, let’s see what can be done,” Abby smiled. For the next half hour she busied herself with pushing Daniel Mains into the proposal that Ellen wanted to hear. Actually, it meant nothing to her, but Abigail Howland was bored with Boston, and it was a challenge to her. She herself had turned down more proposals than most girls ever had, but then she was beautiful, witty—and her father, Saul Howland, was one of the wealthiest men in Boston.
She enjoyed the only game possible for a woman—men; and it gave her some pleasure to maneuver the hapless Daniel Mains. In the space of thirty minutes she had devalued the character of Ellen’s rival, elevated his opinion of Ellen herself, and when she left the two alone it was obvious that if she played her cards right, the tall girl had her fish hooked.
“At it again, Abby?” She turned with a smile to face Maury Simms, come to claim her for a dance. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of twenty-six, who had been her suitor for a time, but had given up in despair. Now as they danced he said with a grin, “Giving Ellen a little help, are you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Maury,” she said, but there was a smile on her red lips and she laughed aloud, saying, “Men are such fools!”
“Yes, we are, aren’t we?” Maury had gotten over her, and it was one of her pleasures to be with a man who wasn’t stalking her or her father’s money. “But not all of us. Paul Winslow’s no fool—not like me. I don’t think you can maneuver him as you do the rest of us.”
�
�Oh, I don’t want to maneuver anyone, Maury.”
They finished the dance, then joined a group at the long table crowded with wine and food. Emily Rauter was one of them, and she smiled briefly, saying, “Your dress is beautiful, Abby.”
“Thank you, Emily—you look wonderful.”
Maury stood there with a broad smile on his face, thinking, They hate each other so well—both of them would like to tear the other’s face to rags with their fingernails.
But that wasn’t true—not so far as Abby was concerned. She knew that Emily wanted Paul Winslow desperately, but it didn’t bother her. She had taken more than one man away from Emily.
“Who’s that with Paul?”
They all looked across the room to see Paul Winslow coming toward them, accompanied by a very tall young man with red hair. “Oh, that must be Paul’s country cousin,” Maury said. Then a thought struck him, and he said with a smile, “Better leave that one alone, ladies—he’s not available.”
As he had suspected this statement made both women raise their eyes for a closer look at the tall man. “What does that mean, Maury?” Emily asked.
“Oh, well, in the first place, according to Paul, he’s probably a frightful patriot—which makes him ineligible right off—but even worse, he’s a minister. Parson of some sort.”
“He may be a minister,” Abby smiled, “but he’s a man.”
“Better leave him alone, Abigail,” Emily said smoothly. “Paul might not like your paying attention to his cousin.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we, dear?” Abby smiled, and moved across the floor to meet the pair.
“Well, we don’t need tigers in this country,” Maury smiled at Emily. “Not as long as you girls are around to eat each other alive.” Emily did not listen, for she was watching carefully as Paul introduced his cousin to Abby.
“And this is the most beautiful woman in Boston, Nathan, Miss Abigail Howland.”
“Pay him no heed, Mr. Winslow,” Abby smiled and held on to Nathan’s hand for a second longer than necessary. “You can’t believe a word this man says—but a Virginian like yourself, why, a girl could trust you, I think.”
The Gentle Rebel Page 5
