Shad Run

by Howard Breslin

  “Well,” Jaycock said, grumbling, “I’ll expect you to make it up out of this supply.”

  “If there’s enough,” Lancey said. Strangely, she felt neither relief nor elation. In the past she’d regarded the beating of Jaycock as a victory. Now, it was merely a stale, familiar routine.

  “I’ll haul it for you,” Jan said, hoisting the sack onto his shoulder. “I ain’t busy.”

  Lancey hesitated, then shrugged. She tossed him a shawl, watched while he draped it to protect his burden. Jaycock, not bothering with farewells, whirled on Nell with an oath.

  “Are you going to idle there the whole morning?”

  The two voices, his scolding, the girl’s protesting, followed Jan and Lancey from the common room to the front door. Outside, the drizzle was still falling with gloomy steadiness. They trudged through the slick mud of the road, passed alongside the inn, picked their way down the path behind it. When they reached the level of the riverfront Jan clumped forward until he was in step with Lancey.

  “I been wanting to talk to you, Lancey.”

  “What about?”

  “Ain’t there something you’d like me to fetch from New York town?”

  “No,” Lancey said. Jan was a crewman on the Lydia, but she wouldn’t entrust him with any buying even if she had the money. “I’ve no coin to spend.”

  “I was thinking of a—a present. A ribbon like. Or a comb.”

  “Thank you, but no.” The thought of a gift was tempting, but she would not be beholden to Jan Ehnendorf. He was bad enough without encouragement. Does he think, she asked herself, he can buy me with a trinket?

  “They have wondrous things in the market, Lancey. There’s lace, and looking glasses, and—”

  “I said, No, Jan.” She had caught the note of pleading in his voice, and her own was not as tart as she wished. Still, it did make her refusal plain. He wasn’t deaf; he’d heard her. “If you go wasting your money on such things it’s no fault of mine!”

  Wet as it was, Jan’s face brightened. He said, “Such things as what, Lancey?”

  Well, she thought, if he’s that stubborn in spite of all I’ve said, at least he can buy something I’d like. She wavered between comb and mirror, made a fast decision. “Oh, a looking glass—I mean a real, clear one with a handle—would cost much too much.”

  Jan’s lips moved, as he silently repeated her description. “That’s no matter,” he said, “if I want it.”

  “That’s up to you,” Lancey said, and swiftly changed the subject. “Why hasn’t the Lydia sailed? Usually Captain Benjamin is among the first.”

  “Passenger.” Jan bit off the word, scowling. “Gilbert Livingston. Can’t get away till later today. Cap’n wouldn’t wait for anybody else but—well, lawyer Livingston.”

  “Of course.” Lancey accepted the name as a complete explanation. No ship’s captain on the river would willingly offend a Livingston, especially one that practiced law in Poughkeepsie.

  They went on in silence, except for the murmur of the drizzle, the gurgle of the sullen river beside them, the squelching of their own shoes. As they neared the fishing settlement Jan tried to slow their pace. Lancey, aware of his purpose, maintained the same, steady stride.

  “Lancey.”

  “Well?”

  “Can’t we talk?”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “It’s just—well, I’ve been thinking—” Jan waited for prompting, any sign of encouragement. Lancey gazed straight ahead. Reddening, he blurted his next sentence. “Cap’n Benjamin, he said he might make me mate, pay me more.”

  “That’s fine, Jan.”

  “You think so?” Eagerness made Jan’s voice hoarse. “Would it make a—a difference to you?”

  “To me?” Lancey asked with elaborate carelessness. “Now, why ever should it make any difference to me? I hope you get to be a captain, Jan.”

  “It ain’t unlikely!”

  “I’m sure it isn’t.” She didn’t want to be coy, or tease. For all his doltishness Jan Elmendorf deserved better than cat and mouse play. Because she was sorry for him, she was deliberately cruel. “But it will never make a particle of difference to me.”

  Jan grunted, shook his head as if she’d slapped him. He paled, then flushed again. He said, “That’s just talk, and it ain’t stopping me either.”

  “Jan Elmendorf, what do I have to say that—” Vexation had Lancey shouting. Hearing herself she paused, biting her lip.

  “There ain’t nothing you can say,” Jan said, doggedly. “I’ll wait. There’s no hurry.”

  Furious, Lancey broke into a trot. Jan’s face, the stubborn chin, the grim set mouth, had made her want to hit him. To smash, and go on pummeling until she drove some sense into his thick head. Since they had reached the houses, just beyond Kimmee’s and opposite Pardon Cash’s, she ran ahead before she exploded.

  He would probably, Lancey thought, take a blow as a sign of interest! She was not interested in Jan Elmendorf! Not as suitor, swain, or husband! Not even as an escort! His refusal to accept that as fact drove her to rage.

  “It isn’t pity,” she said, muttering aloud, “and it isn’t hate! It’s just that he will not listen!”

  She turned into the Quist yard so fast that she slipped in the mud, nearly fell. As she recovered balance, she stiffened, staring at the shed.

  There, snug under the roof, was a blanket-wrapped horse! Coarse dark wool covered most of the animal, but Lancey knew that arched, sleek, reddish-tan neck, the jet-black mane. The long muzzle swung toward her, blew smoke vapor as the mare nickered.

  “Meda!”

  The coaly bay’s ears twitched at the sound of her name. She whinnied, sounding so forlorn that Lancey hurried to stroke her nose.

  Meda appreciated the attention, seemed even to appreciate the cooing noises that Lancey made. The girl was startled by Jan Elmendorf’s loud astonishment.

  “Whose horse?”

  “Why,” Lancey said, “I think that a man named—”

  “Look,” Jan said, pointing, “Hendrick even moved his boat to make room for him.”

  “Her,” Lancey said, glancing to where the boat lay, bottom up, not far from the pier.

  “What?”

  “Her. She’s a mare and her name is Meda.” Lancey had a strange feeling that the conversation had happened before. She had an impulse to giggle, and, at the same time, a desire to flee. Meda’s presence meant that Dirck van Zandt was near. He could only be—the boat’s position showed it!—inside talking to her family.

  Lancey crossed the yard with three swift strides. How dare van Zandt come here when she was absent? What was he telling her father, Hester?

  “Lancey,” Jan said, “what is this—”

  She flung the door open, and stood staring.

  “So there I was,” Dirck van Zandt was saying, “left stranded in as pretty a fix—” He stopped, turned toward Lancey, and smiled.

  Oh, no, she thought, he couldn’t possibly be making a story out of what happened at the inn! The whole room, and its occupants, seemed suddenly hostile.

  Dirck van Zandt, in Hendrick’s favorite chair, was drinking the gin Hendrick hoarded for occasions. He was wearing a snuff colored suit with a buff waistcoat, his legs, booted, were comfortably crossed, and he was smoking.

  As if he owned the house, Lancey thought crossly. Hendrick held a glass and pipe, too. Even Hester and Ten Bush were drinking. The two little girls, on the floor at van Zandt’s feet, were gazing at him with a rapt attention that mirrored their elders.

  “Here’s Lancey now,” Hester said.

  Dirck rose, and bowed. The blue eyes danced as he smiled across the room. Lancey flushed; she wanted to slap him.

  “Lancey,” Hendrick said, “why didn’t you tell us?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “About your rescue of Dirck here.”

  Dirck, she thought, head swimming. He certainly didn’t waste time. There was no deference on her father’s face,
or Hester’s, or Ten Bush’s. They were all smiling and friendly. She searched for, but could find no trace of smug superiority in Dirck van Zandt’s smile.

  “I’d have come sooner,” he said, and thought it truth as he saw Lancey’s flushed, rain wet face. She was lovelier than he recalled. “I owe you my thanks. But I have been busy. Today, because Master Kent helps his partner prepare for a trip, I was free.”

  “Who is he?”

  Jan Elmendorf’s suspicious growl reached every ear. Hendrick jumped up to answer.

  “Jan, Jan, come in, come in. Have a seat, a sip. Hester, fetch a mug for Jan. This is Dirck van Zandt who studies law under Master Kent. You know, Livingston and Kent. Jan Elmendorf, Dirck.”

  “How do you do?” Dirck made another bow. He was busily weighing the relationship between Jan and Lancey. A hulking fellow, Dirck decided, but lacking in fire. No rival.

  Jan nodded, deposited the flour on the table. He glowered from Dirck to Lancey, but took the offered drink.

  “Your health,” Jan said to Dirck, making it sound like a threat.

  “Yours, sir,” said Dirck, and drank. “Thanks to Mistress Lancey I still have it.”

  “Lancey?” Jan’s fingers whitened on his cup.

  “Dirck broke through crossing the ice,” Hester said. She rolled her eyes at Lancey, enjoying herself. “And Lancey pulled him out. Got his mare out, too.”

  “And never,” Dirck said, quietly, “stayed for proper, thanks.” Lancey let her breath out, just realizing that she’d been holding it. He’d told them of the rescue, then, and no more. She said, “I wanted no thanks.”

  “Lancey!”

  “Now, Pa,” she said, smiling, “I’m sure that Master van Zandt understands. It was not a deed that calls for thanks. Who lets a body drown, or a fine mare? Besides—” She turned the smile on Dirck van Zandt—“you had plans for the evening, I believe.”

  “No,” said Dirck, “it seems I was mistaken about that.” Her impudence delighted him; he had to struggle against laughter. She would be no easy conquest, but she was worth trouble. She actually enjoyed fencing with him in front of her family. “I can only regret that you received the wrong impression.”

  “I am sure you do,” said Lancey. And you can go right on regretting it, she added silently.

  “Perhaps, then, you will accept this token of my esteem and gratitude.” Dirck reached under his coat, drew out a package.

  He ripped the wrappings away with one swift gesture, flipped the fan open, and laid it on the table between them.

  The speed of his movements foiled Lancey’s protest. She stared down at the gift.

  It was delicately, beautifully made, with struts of slender ivory, and a painted pastoral scene on the silken sector. The shepherdess wore blue and gold; there was the green of hillock, the white of lamb and cloud. All the colors were vivid. Even in the unlit room, they seemed to catch the warm glow from the fireplace.

  Dirck, watching the girl, reached to turn the fan. The other side held a garden fountain, its silver stream bathed in the pink of sunset, flowers about the base. It was like a piece clipped from a rainbow.

  “That’s nice!” said Hester.

  Lancey, lips parted, could only nod. She knew the others were crowding to see—Ten Bush, Hendrick, the children, Jan. She heard the youngsters exclaim in awe, heard Jan’s relieved murmur.

  “Ain’t a looking glass.”

  No, Lancey thought, it’s far more lovely, but was it given with like intention? She couldn’t think straight. She had never owned anything so brightly feminine, so craftily designed to catch the eye.

  She picked up the fan, closed it, opened it, turned her wrist in a series of slow arcs. The colors flashed and dimmed. Holding it level and steady, she looked at Dirck van Zandt. Lancey’s forehead was slightly puckered, as if she pondered a problem.

  Motionless, waiting for the girl to speak, Dirck read her gaze as quizzical. She was silently asking if he expected a return for his gift. Jove, he thought, but this is a suspicious wench. Strangely, her acceptance seemed a matter of a far greater importance than the fan itself.

  “You will honor me,” he said, formally, “by accepting it, Mistress.” Then, inspired, he added, “Although in this case, I am but Meda’s agent.”

  Oh, thanks, Lancey cried without speaking. Because she wanted the fan, she was joyously grateful that this man had found the words to ease her choice. As the mare’s gift the fan was a reward for rescue, nothing more.

  “Thank you,” Lancey said, “and my thanks to Meda.” She spoke very softly, but her eyes were glowing and her face radiant.

  Dirck van Zandt felt as if his neck-cloth had loosened. He was proud of his judgment. The girl would have been insulted by an offer of money, would have shied away from anything too personal. The fan was perfect, valuable and impractical, but not too expensive. He was glad he’d ridden Meda all the way home to Rhinebeck to beg it from his mother’s collection.

  “Here, Hester,” Lancey said, handing the fan to her stepmother, “look at it closely.” Her tone was one of proud possession.

  “Real silk.” Hester stroked the fabric gingerly. “Soft as down. Of course it’s built more for flirting than fanning.”

  Dirck, laughing, said, “And it won’t exactly replace those red skates.”

  For a moment the remark didn’t penetrate Lancey’s consciousness. Then, she gasped, mouth opening in swift dismay. She’d forgotten all about Rachel Anthony’s skates! Now, thanks to van Zandt’s rattling tongue, there’d be questions to face, explanations to invent!

  “Oh, you heard,” said Hendrick.

  “Heard?” Dirck was politely puzzled.

  Ten Bush, taking his sister’s expression for bewilderment, explained. “Theophilus Anthony stopped by, Lancey. To tell Pa how Conrad was making out. Seems Rachel lost her skates.”

  “Stolen, she says.” Hester sniffed. “More likely mislaid. That girl will misplace her groom on her wedding night.”

  “Now, Hester.” A quick glance at his guest reassured Hendrick. He wasn’t sure how gentry would take Hester’s frankness, but Dirck van Zandt was grinning.

  A hateful grin, decided Lancey, but it will not fluster me! She spoke with cool indifference, face bland. “Of course they’re not the only red skates on the river.”

  “I imagine not,” Dirck said.

  “They were well made,” said Ten Bush. “I’d hate to lose a pair like them.”

  “I suppose anybody would,” Dirck said. “Don’t you think so, Mistress Lancey?”

  He was deliberately baiting her, and the girl knew it. She was annoyed that he’d leaped to the conclusion, however just, that she had stolen the skates. Borrowing was not the same as thievery. And anyway, whose fault was it that she could not return the skates?

  “Why,” Lancey said, “there’ll be no need for skates until the ice freezes next winter. By that time I’m sure Rachel Anthony will have recovered her loss.”

  “Course she will,” said Hester, and turned to her husband. “Hendrick, that noggin of Dirck’s looks empty.”

  As her father moved to pour, Lancey watched Dirck van Zandt. He settled himself in Hendrick’s chair as if to stay for hours. His pipe had gone out, but he deftly raked a coal from the fire, and puffed it back to life.

  “Dirck was telling a story,” said Rhoda, the older of Hester’s daughters.

  “That’s right,” Hendrick said.

  Hester, nodding, said, “About being stuck on an ice floe once when he was small.”

  Jan Elmendorf grunted. He said, “Stupid act.”

  “Yes,” said Dirck, easily, “my only excuse is that I was too young to know better. The cake was no bigger than this table, and with my dog it was crowded.” He turned toward Lancey, leaning forward as if to confide. “There was no one handy to rescue me either.”

  Lancey’s smile was fixed; the muscles around her mouth felt stiff. He has charmed the whole family, she thought, and even Jan is listening. Now, he knows
me for a thief, but he will save that for some future date. If he thinks it will benefit him, he is very much mistaken.

  She was sure she had never disliked anyone quite so heartily.

  CHAPTER 6

  AS LONG AS SHE COULD REMEMBER LANCEY QUIST HAD NOTED the noises from the river before she fell asleep. With the bank a scant eight yards away, the slap of the gentlest wavelet was audible in her bed under the slant of the high-peaked roof.

  Storm and squall roiling the water had importance as weather omens, but the quieter, milder sounds of a calm night were even more welcome. Sometimes, as she tossed on her pallet, they penetrated Lancey’s consciousness like the sudden clamor of her own heartbeats; sometimes they lulled her through drowsiness to sleep.

  Tonight, as she stared wakefully into the darkness above her, the girl was only dimly aware of the river’s restlessness. Her thoughts muted its splashings to a half-heard counterpoint. Like the creak of the pallet’s taut ropes when she squirmed, or the sigh of her featherbed mattress, the Hudson’s familiar murmurs were accepted as normal, and dismissed.

  The drizzle had stopped before Dirck van Zandt rode off on his mare. During the late afternoon the wind, buffeting along the valley, had scoured the gray clouds from the sky. By dusk, it, too, had ceased rattling against the Quist home, and the evening star had shone with the white brightness of a diamond.

  Lancey, in the curtained cubbyhole that was her section of the loft, wasn’t speculating about the morrow. Her concern was with the events of the day, with her family’s puzzling reaction to Dirck van Zandt’s visit.

  Partly, she thought, it was his old Dutch name, and the gift of the fan. The girl conceded that none but herself, not even grumpy, jealous Jan Elmendorf, suspected the visitor had come for any reason but to pay a debt.

  She turned her head, peering through the black void around her bed, toward the shelf where she had placed the ivory fan. It was a lovely thing, and its possession thrilled her. At least van Zandt had given it graciously, without claim. She had to admit that he had read her unspoken question aright, and answered it instantly.