The men were drifting away, most of them heading back to Jaycock’s. Digmus rose hastily from beside Jan, and hurried to tend to business, slapping dust from his breeches as he skipped along. Justin had led the fishermen to the river’s edge where they screened his washing. Lancey stayed where she was.
She was waiting for Jan to rise. Her relief when he did betrayed the fact she’d been numb with fear. Jan moved painfully, but he pushed aside helping hands. He held a handkerchief to his face, and swayed, but he walked without assistance. Defeat showed in the slumped shoulders, the hanging head.
At least, Lancey thought, there was no permanent damage. Suddenly furious, she hoped Jan had learned a lesson. She intended to berate him at the first opportunity, to settle forever his ridiculous dreams. After that she would never speak to him again!
Conscious of a few curious glances from the last of the spectators, Lancey turned to leave. As she picked her way down the slope, she wondered if they recognized her. It was nothing new for men to fight over a girl, but it always made a nice morsel of scandal. Her presence might well make the morsel a mouthful. The men would tell their women; they, in turn, would be catty, envious, or shocked, but ready to believe the worst. Well, let them!
Justin’s victory did not impress her. She had expected it. By fighting he had helped Jan place her in the false position of prize for the winner.
“Like stags over a doe,” said Lancey, aloud.
She had almost reached the fishing village when a shout from behind named her. Turning, she saw it was Pardon Cash. The big fisherman was alone, jogging along the river path. He called out as he approached.
“Lancey, you got any liniment up to the house?”
“Who’s hurt?” asked Lancey, as if she didn’t know.
“Justin’s got a sprained thumb.” Pardon gazed down at the girl, grinned crookedly. “And assorted bruises. ‘Twas a real pert scrap, wasn’t it?”
“So you saw me.”
“Aye. Couldn’t miss that dress against the bluff. That’s a mighty nice outfit, Lancey, but the wrong color for hide-and-seek.”
“Pardon, why did they fight?”
“Because Jan’s a thick Dutchman with no more sense than a mule. He prodded Justin into it. Finally threw a mug of ale in Justin’s face. But I guess you know the real reason.”
“You mean me.”
“You wasn’t mentioned. They was both careful about that”
“Well! Small thanks for small favors.”
“Now, back water, Lancey. It ain’t a secret how Jan feels about you. Nobody’s gonna blame you. After Jan tossed that ale Justin had no choice. He couldn’t take that in front of folks.”
“I suppose not,” Lancey said, grudgingly, “but why did he let it come to that?”
“He couldn’t help it. Digmus had word that mostly Clinton men were elected to the convention. We were all talking about that practically scuttling any chance of the Constitution passing in this state. Jan started to argue with Justin—”
“Jan? He takes his politics from Captain Benjamin. He’s against passing the same as Justin is!”
“Not this morning,” Pardon said. “Alexander Hamilton was less pro than Jan this morning. He took exception to everything Justin said.”
“But, the Constitution of all things!” Lancey started to laugh. “Nobody’s going to believe they came to blows over that!”
“Any excuse suited Jan. He was set on fighting. In the end, I guess he got his fill of it.”
“If you ask me,” Lancey said, “they both played the fool. And so did the rest of you cheering them on.” She tossed her head, and walked on. When Pardon Cash fell into step beside her, she refused to look at him.
CHAPTER 12
THE LITTLE SAILBOAT SEEMED NO BIGGER THAN A TOY AS IT tacked across the river. Lancey watched it idly, noted that the skiff carried a single spritsail. She was standing in the doorway of her home, lazily somnolent after the mid-day meal. She could hear the children playing on the other side of the house, and her father and stepmother talking behind her. Hester and Hendrick were still discussing the fight.
Lancey hadn’t changed from her new gown. The sun was too high and bright for good fishing and she enjoyed the feeling of looking her best. She felt, too, vaguely disappointed that the afternoon afforded no further opportunity to display herself.
So light that it seemed to skim across the water, the sailboat angled upstream. Lancey straightened, frowning.
“Pa,” she called, “there’s a skiff making for here.”
Hendrick and Hester joined her. All three stepped out into the yard for a clearer view. There was no doubt that the skiff, with the prevailing wind from the south, was heading for the Quist pier.
“Who is it?” asked Hester.
Hendrick shook his head. “Nice, trim little craft, but I don’t recall her. Some feller out for a Sunday sail.”
They saw the canvas spill breeze as the sprit, the diagonal strut that held it open, was removed. The sail rattled down to reveal the helmsman. He shipped his rudder, stood up to scull the skiff closer to the shore.
“Why,” said Hester, “it’s Dirck van Zandt!”
Aware of mounting excitement Lancey forced herself to walk sedately down to the pier with the others. She was very pleased that Dirck, for once, would find her attired in finery instead of barefoot and grimy. The russet velvet, she thought, was her armor against his usual light attitude. At last he would be forced to consider the wench a lady.
“Ahoy, the skiff,” cried Lancey, “and where did you get that cockle shell?”
Dirck van Zandt paused in his sculling to wave. The boat was only a few yards from the pier, drifting lightly. His answer sounded gay, and proud.
“She’s mine. Owned her since I was fifteen. Haven’t had a chance to use her much these past years, but our boatman kept her in shape.”
“Boatman,” murmured Hester. “La, di, da.”
“Hush,” said Hendrick. He raised his voice. “Come alongside and tie up, Dirck. You’re welcome.”
“Thanks, Hendrick.” Dirck was staring at Lancey. He worked his oar to bring the boat closer, then managed a bow. “My compliments, Mistress Lancey. You honor the day.”
Lancey dipped in a curtsy. For all that they both mocked the elaborate etiquette of a formal occasion, the girl warmed with pleasure. He was, she thought, rather elegantly dressed himself, in nankeen suiting that was almost as white as the sail. Dirck had discarded his jacket, and his shirt was open at the throat. He was bareheaded, but the hat lying on a thwart was a wide brimmed straw instead of a tricorne.
“Where’s Meda?” asked Lancey. The fact that he wore brown stockings and soft leather shoes instead of boots prompted the question.
“She’s a little big for the Argo.”
“The which?” Hester said.
“My skiff.” Dirck seemed a trifle embarrassed. “I was only fifteen, and well—I named her that.”
Hendrick knelt on the pier, fended the skiff from the piling, held it steady. He said, “She is a neat-made boat, Dirck, though she wouldn’t hold many fish.”
“It’s a perfect day for sailing,” Dirck said. “Even against the wind I came down from Rhinebeck in record time. I thought maybe Mistress Lancey might like a ride.”
“Why,” said Lancey, eyes dancing, “if Pa doesn’t need me——”
“No, Lancey. Not till dark anyway. We will make a night drift then, maybe.”
“I’ll get your cloak,” said Hester, already hurrying away. “It’s always chill on the river.”
For the first time in her life Lancey let a man hand her down into a boat. Somehow, the gesture befitted her velvet gown. Dirck’s grip was firm and steady. He even made sure that there was a cushion for her to sit on. Aware that the plush would show every crease, Lancey carefully arranged her skirt, raising it in back to sit on her petticoats. This artfully displayed her shoe buckles, but not too much ankle.
Hester tossed down the cloak; Hendrick
shoved off the skiff. Dirck sculled them out into the river, raised the sail. It caught the wind at once. The tiny Argo seemed to shake herself like a frisky puppy, and dart forward. They sailed north, upriver.
For the first few minutes the pure pleasure of sailing kept them silent. Dirck watched sail and steering. Lancey, enjoying the wind in her hair, the warmth of the sun, gazed at the shore, the water tumbling past, the tide, the helmsman. When their glances locked they laughed in sheer exuberance.
“This is nice!” Lancey said, enthusiasm taking all primness from the speech.
“Better than rowing.”
“Much better. I’ve sailed before of course, but not too often. Our own boat’s pretty clumsy with a mast up.”
“There’s a line if you’d care to troll.”
“Troll? For what?”
“Well, the shad might have started to run. A few venturesome bucks anyway.”
“You can’t hook shad! It’s a net fish!”
“Is that so?”
“They won’t take bait.”
“Is that so?”
“What are you grinning about?” Lancey was nettled.
“I’ve hooked shad, and boated them, and eaten them. They’re a good game fish, and they’ll give you a battle.”
Lancey stared, open mouthed. “I never heard of such a thing!”
“I’m not lying, Lancey. I know it’s against the rules, but I did it. Using a piece of red flannel for bait, too. I’m not saying they’ll all take it, but some will. I was pretty surprised by the first one. That was the year the British came up the river.”
“I remember. Did you see them?”
“Too much of them. I saw them sack Kingston.”
“You saw them?”
Dirck nodded, face grave. “That’s right. We had word they were coming of course. Could even hear the cannon below us. My father was taking the family inland, but young Dirck had other ideas. With a farm lad a year or so older—old enough to have more sense—we put a couple of fowling pieces in the Argo, and sailed across.”
Lancey could picture the expedition. Two lads in a tiny boat, out to beard the British fleet. She said, softly, “The brevet cornet.”
“Yes, even then.” Dirck gave her a rueful smile. “I was a fierce, fire-eating rebel at fifteen, Lancey ‘Course we were just underfoot at Kingston. We wanted to join the army and fight the invaders. There wasn’t any army, and everybody was packing to get out. You never saw such panic.”
“Cowards?”
“No, they were just being sensible. They didn’t have any force that could stand up to Vaughan’s regulars, and you can’t meet bayonets with rocks. But at the time I was pretty disgusted. My friend and I hid on a wooded hill. We could look down on most of the town, and we swore we’d get us at least one redcoat.”
“You might have been killed.”
“Not us.” Dirck showed his teeth in a grin. “Because when the redcoats came neither one of us so much as stirred. We could see the smoke from the ships they burned, and the empty town below us. Just the houses, some with their doors standing open, and a broken-down wagon by the side of the road. It looked like the loneliest place on earth.”
“Until the British entered.”
“Until then. One minute there was nobody, the next there was this red wave. They came in at a trot, with a fan of bayonets out in front. Then, of course, they got their torches going, and the rest was an inferno. Flames leaping from windows, thick black smoke, the noise of burning, and roofs falling in.”
Dirck stopped talking, to glance at the shoreline. He gauged the skiff’s speed, nodded his head.
“We’re making fine time, Lancey.”
“Are we going somewhere?”
“Rhinebeck. My home. My mother’s having a party.”
Lancey stared at him, found her mouth open, shut it. “But—but, Dirck—I wasn’t invited to——”
“You are now,” Dirck said.
The van Zandt house topped a knoll that sloped gently to the river. Like other east-bank manor houses it faced the water, and had its own landing, but it lacked the size and pretensions of the great patroon estates.
Lancey Quist, on trips upriver, had seen the place too often to be overly impressed. She knew that it was pleasantly situated, a few miles south of Rhinebeck, but this was Livingston territory where even distant cousins found higher eminences on which to build more stately mansions. Dirck’s home was merely a rather tall, Dutch style, two storied structure with a row of flat-roofed dormers squinting above the eave. It was built of local bluestone, and though it was trim and neat the land that stretched before it was meadow, not lawn or formal gardens. Except for the tiny boathouse the outbuildings were hidden behind the crest of the hill.
No, Lancey’s nervousness came from the people in view, strolling the grounds or gathered into groups. God and Nicholas, she thought as Dirck maneuvered the skiff toward the landing, there must be a score of women and even more men. She managed to keep her voice calm.
“Dirck, are you truly certain it’s all right?”
“Of course,” Dirck said, smiling. “I’d not have asked you otherwise. It’s no great occasion, Lancey. Merely our turn to hold a gathering of friends and neighbors.”
The girl frowned, not sure of his motives. She was fairly certain the invitation had been impulsive, inspired by her appearance, but she didn’t blame him for that. Certainly, in any other clothes, she’d have refused it. Did he plan this meeting as a test, measuring the fisherman’s daughter against the yardstick of his own family?
Dirck noticed the frown, guessed at her thoughts. He felt a flash of impatience at her qualms. Couldn’t the girl realize that his gesture was a compliment?
“There’s nothing to worry about, Lancey.”
“Then we needn’t worry.”
“I want you to meet my mother and father, my brother. As I’ve met Hendrick and Hester. That’s all.”
“Thank you,” Lancey said, knowing it was not all. He was a man, and he met people with an easy masculine friendliness made confident by his background. A girl, suddenly thrust among strange women, faced a different problem. However friendly the company she would be judged with a female thoroughness that was ready to turn hostile.
The mechanics of landing gave her a short respite. Conscious of the watchers on the slope Lancey stayed on her cushion as they drew alongside the van Zandt pier. She did lean to fend the boat from the pilings, and hold it close while Dirck tied fast, but these were the natural actions of any boat-wise girl.
“Well,” Dirck said, “here we are.” He shrugged into his coat, offered his hand.
Taking it, Lancey stepped from the skiff with practiced ease. It was, she decided, a good beginning, but a little like leaving safety for danger. She knew how to handle herself on the river, the walk up the slope would be much more trying.
Two young men hurried down the gravel path to greet them. With a start Lancey realized that she knew both by name and sight. The way these two raced their horses through Poughkeepsie was a scandal among more sedate householders.
“Dirck,” cried the shorter man, a grin crinkling his florid, pug-nosed face, “where in thunder have you been?”
“We can see why,” the other said.
“Mistress Lancey,” said Dirck, “may I present Tappen Platt and Schuyler Davis? Gentlemen, Mistress Lancey Quist.”
“Honored,” said tall Schuyler Davis.
“Enchanted,” Tappen Platt said. His bow was the more elegant leg, the flourish of his hat was exuberant. “A pleasure as welcome as ‘tis unexpected.”
Lancey dipped a curtsy, smiling. Neither man showed recognition of her name, nor anything but gay interest. Their manner gave her confidence; it was added assurance that she looked her best. She was glad they had greeted her first, aware she might need all her poise under the scrutiny still to come.
“Gentlemen,” she said, with a sideways glance at Dirck van Zandt, “you must blame Master van Zandt for the unex
pectedness.”
“Oh, we do,” said Tappen Plait. “We do!”
Schuyler Davis had a grave air, stressed by slow speech and an impassive expression. He said, “A deliberate prevaricator who left word he had gone fishing.”
“A legal quibble only,” Dirck said, “since I did not say for what.” He was pleased by his friends’ reception of Lancey. They were a madcap pair, but they had breeding and taste.
“Now there’s a speech,” said Lancey, “with more law than politeness. To liken a lady to a fish——” She spoke with exaggerated disapproval, in a mincing tone mocked by her dancing eyes.
“Barbarous,” agreed Schuyler Davis.
“Unforgivable,” Tappen Platt said.
Dirck chuckled, bowed low. “Peccavi, Mistress. These two always get me into scrapes. Let us seek other, more circumspect company.”
The banter continued as they climbed the path. Lancey’s laughter and retorts covered a mounting uneasiness. She saw heads turn as they approached, heard the chatter diminish to whispers. The men gazed with open interest; the women were more polite, shot guarded glances, and pretended indifference. Lancey, watchful and worried, decided it was pleasant to have three escorts to thaw the stiffness from her arrival, but it could arouse jealousy.
Even before Dirck led her toward his family, the, girl separated them from the others. Beekman van Zandt was a big man who wore his hair powdered in the old-fashioned mode, but his face was an inflated version of Dirck’s. His elder son, heir, and namesake, was as tall but not quite as corpulent as the father. Between her men, the ruffles of her mob-cap no higher than their biceps, stood the mother, plump and sleek as a well-fed pigeon.
As Dirck made the introductions Lancey realized that it was the woman, no taller than herself, who ruled this household. The two big men bowed, murmuring their compliments, but even as they bent both pair of eyes slid, in unison, toward the face under the mob-cap.
It was, Lancey thought, a pleasant face, its prettiness blurred by the softness of rounded cheeks and double chin. The mouth was thin, but red and smiling. Only the deep blue eyes showed shrewdness; they had the hard glaze of delft.
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