“Mistress Quist,” said Mrs. van Zandt, “of Poughkeepsie.” Her voice was soft and polite, with the assurance that comes from long authority.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lancey said.
“Quist.” The name was repeated musingly. “You are visiting perhaps?”
“No, ma’am. I live there.”
“That’s right, Mother,” Dirck said. He spoke with easy confidence. “And since I have been a guest at the Quist table, I thought it time to repay the courtesy.”
“Of course. You are welcome, my dear.” Mrs. van Zandt’s gaze shifted to her son. “I cannot recall when you last brought a fresh young face to one of our afternoons, Dirck.”
Dirck blinked, then grinned. He said: “That is a complaint, Mistress Lancey. Mother thinks she sees too little of me these days.”
A smile was Lancey’s only reply. She could not blame Dirck’s mother for being curious about a stranger, yet she sensed hostility behind the politeness. If asked about my family, she thought, I shall tell the truth.
“At least,” said Mrs. van Zandt, “you have not been idle, Dirck. We were very pleased with Master Kent’s account of your progress.” She turned back to Lancey. “We have great hopes for Dirck, Mistress Quist.”
Beekman van Zandt cleared his throat. He said, “Master Kent thinks there’ll be even more demand for lawyers under the Constitution.”
“If it’s adopted,” Lancey said.
Mrs. van Zandt’s smile stiffened; young Beekman raised his eyebrows. The father stared for an instant before he spoke.
“It must be, Mistress. For once, George Clinton and his cronies will have to yield to the sentiments of others. Now that six of the states have ratified—including our neighbors of Massachusetts and Connecticut—we must do the same.”
“Governor Clinton’s faction,” said Lancey, “seems to have the majority of the delegates.” She knew it was imprudent, even unladylike, to argue the topic in such company. The landed gentry were anti-Clinton, shared Hamilton’s views favoring a strong government.
“In numbers, mayhap,” said Beekman van Zandt. “Not in influence. The older river families, the real, solid backbone of the state, will have a strong voice in the convention. You shall see that it will prevail.”
“After all,” agreed his wife, “position and culture should count for something.” Her steady gaze seemed in contrast to her mild tone. “Don’t you agree, Mistress Quist?”
Dirck said, “It may be more difficult, Mother, to get the Clintonians to agree.”
He was, Lancey thought, trying to save her from a direct answer. His pleasant remark failed to fool his mother. The girl saw that lady’s brow pucker for a frowning instant. Then, blandly, Mrs. van Zandt changed subject and tactics.
“True, Dirck. A while ago Master Kent was saying much the same thing to Eunice Wynbridge.”
“Oh,” Dirck said, “is Eunice here?”
“For some time.”
Lancey, amused, believed the mention of the name deliberate, and Dirck’s casual question overdone. There was an undercurrent of rebuke in Mrs. van Zandt’s quiet speech. This was emphasized by the manner in which her husband plucked at the ornate fob dangling from his waistcoat, produced a heavy gold watch.
“For an hour,” he said, squinting at the timepiece, “and fourteen minutes.”
“By Hasius,” Dirck said, and chuckled.
To Lancey’s amazement all the van Zandts grinned. An instant before there had been disapproval under the polite formality; this vanished as if thawed by Dirck’s exclamation. Glancing at each in turn she realized they shared some hidden family joke. It made them more natural and more likeable.
“By who?” she asked.
Beekman van Zandt guffawed, held out his watch. “Hasius of Haarlem,” he said, “who made this for my father.”
“As boys,” said the younger Beekman, “both Dirck and I were ruled by Hasius.”
“Ruled, indeed,” Mrs. van Zandt said, sounding younger and less distant. “A more unruly pair never existed.” She gazed fondly at her three men, turned to Lancey. “My husband swears by that watch, Mistress Quist, and my sons at it.”
“Never loses a minute,” cried the father.
“When found and wound,” said Dirck.
“Or unless,” his brother said, beaming, “set back by the goblins in the night.”
“Goblins named Dirck and Beekman.” Mrs. van Zandt shook her head. “They paid dear for that stolen hour later.”
The whole family was laughing now, and it gave them a unity more striking than similar features. Lancey recognized that real affection bound them together, and felt herself an outsider. The sun told fishermen the time, but the van Zandts had Roman numerals and golden hands that cost a score of pounds.
“It’s a lovely watch,” she said, without envy.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Beekman van Zandt, tucking it away.
Mrs. van Zandt tapped Dirck’s arm. “You had better take Mistress Quist about. I’m sure she’ll enjoy meeting our guests.” The humor invoked by Hasius was still in her voice, but she didn’t neglect her purpose. “Oh, and please remind Eunice that I’ve something for her to take home.”
Eunice again, thought Lancey as she dipped in a farewell curtsy. The woman might just as well hang a sign on Dirck: keep off, spoken for. Grimly, the girl looked forward to meeting Mistress Eunice Wynbridge. Dirck was nothing more than a pleasant companion, but no girl liked to be challenged!
“I knew they’d like you,” whispered Dirck after they turned away.
Men, Lancey said silently, are certainly stone, blind and tone deaf. Didn’t he even listen? She had no chance to reply because Tappen Platt and Schuyler Davis, who had been hovering, joined them immediately.
They made the ordeal of introductions less trying. Lancey found herself smiling politely, making small talk, among groups of people whose names she didn’t catch. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, the men’s vari-colored waistcoats much more colorful than the women’s clothes. Wealth was displayed by the cloth and cut of suitings and dresses, by the crispness of lawn neckpiece and lace-trimmed bodice. If some of the male calves were covered by stockings finer than her own, nobody could see hers.
No gown outshone the russet velvet. Her lack of jewelry could be deliberate and her cloak was certainly suitable for sailing.
Satisfied about such details Lancey found only half her brain necessary to exchange pleasantries, accept compliments, answer queries. Some of the older women were prying, some of the younger cool. With polite diffidence she ignored any attitude latent with trouble.
It was, she decided, a lot easier than dealing with outspoken riverfront folk. These people were hobbled by convention, bridled by formality. She had three escorts, all quick-tongued and popular, and their presence gave her freedom to inspect her surroundings.
The van Zandts, Lancey noted, clung to the old Dutch tradition of hospitality, food before frolic and drink with both. A long trestle table had been set up outdoors, to enjoy the fine April weather, at the side of the house under a great wineglass elm. There were benches drawn up to the cloth covered board, and these were kept filled by ever-changing rows of hungry guests.
Many of the older folk had apparently already eaten, but there was still enough food for a feast. Two buxom serving girls shuttled between table and kitchen, refilling bowls and pitchers, carrying away dirty but empty dishes.
The fare was both ample and varied, hot and cold. There was a ham, a roast of beef, a huge hoof kaas or head cheese; all showed the inroads of carvers but were still substantial. There were plates of zult and worst, the latter links of sausage surrounding the forearm-size zult like a nestling litter. Cabbage hot with pod-peas steamed as en poetyes; cold and shredded it was kool slaa. Bread was present in great round loaves, or in the small rolls called roltetje.
In the center of the table was a giant bowl of claret punch for the ladies; the men had pitchers of beer. Anything stronger, like Holland g
in or rum, was quaffed by gentlemen indoors on the invitation of the host.
“Hungry, Mistress Lancey?” asked Dirck as they neared the bustle beneath the elm.
She glanced at him, saw the twinkle that remembered her trencherwork at the Brick Gables. Lancey colored faintly at the memory. This was no place to be thinking of that evening at the inn! She was still nervously aware that she was under scrutiny, but too honest to be delicate.
“Yes,” she said, “I am. The sailing gave me an appetite.”
Tappen Platt uttered a chortle of joy, hurried to find them places. A stout matron sitting alone at the end of the near bench giggled at his whisper, slid sideways to make room.
As Lancey sat down, between Dirck and Schuyler Davis, a male voice spoke.
“Mistress Quist, I believe. Good afternoon.”
The man across the table met her startled gaze with judicial calm. He was young, wide shouldered, with a keen, intelligent face. She knew him at once, and the smiling young wife at his shoulder.
“Master Kent,” said Lancey, bowing. “Mistress.”
“You know my mentor?” asked Dirck, delighted.
“By sight only.”
“Yes,” James Kent said, “paths cross in Poughkeepsie. Though I did not know Mistress Quist had noticed me, I could not fail to notice her.”
Fishmongering, Lancey thought, and her stomach fluttered as she waited for the lawyer’s next speech.
“James notices everything,” said Mrs. Kent, with a laugh, “and especially pretty girls.”
Kent smiled at his wife. “The evidence bears you out, Elizabeth. We are wed. Q.E.D.” He raised a forkful of cole slaw, glanced across the table. “You must bring Mistress Quist to visit us sometime, Dirck.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Lancey glowed with gratitude as the tension within her loosened. She had passed the lawyer’s little cottage a hundred times in the three years since the Kents had married. If he knew her name, he knew all about her, and probably his wife did, too. Yet he found nothing unseemly in her presence at the van Zandts’.
No more was said that did not concern the serious business of eating. The three men vied with each other in piling Lancey’s plate until she begged for mercy. She attacked the meal with zest, but found the punch rather sweet and insipid. It had been doctored beyond any semblance to the last claret she had tasted, but she sipped it warily.
The Kents left before Lancey was half finished. She bowed her farewells, returned to her plate. Her mouth was full of sausage when the men beside her suddenly rose to their feet. Startled, she raised her head.
Edging into position across the table was the tall, chestnut-haired girl she’d seen chatting with Dirck on the steps of the English church.
This time Dirck was making the introduction for which Lancey had waited, the one she wished to hear.
“Mistress Eunice Wynbridge. Mistress Lancey Quist.” She would catch me, thought Lancey savagely, with mouth full and jaw bulging! Almost choking, she tried to swallow and smile at the same time. The other girl’s brown eyes showed cool appraisal, but she inclined her head. When she spoke her voice was low but lilting.
“Lancey. What an interesting name!”
“It’s a family name,” Lancey said.
“Oh, like yours, Tappen. And yours, Schuyler. Our parents lacked imagination, Dirck.” She sat down, her cameo loveliness smiling in chiseled perfection, without warmth. “Eunice has meaning but no connections.”
“What’s it mean?” asked Tappen Platt. “Happy victory,” Eunice said, Well it might, thought Lancey. It only took her three sentences to link herself with Dirck and me with Tappen and Schuyler. The tall girl was wearing yellow brocade this time, spanking new. Lancey admitted it was a becoming shade that gave the pale skin above the square bodice a warm tint of ivory.
Schuyler Davis said: “My compliments, Eunice. You look the personification of it today.”
“Why, thank you, Schuyler. I thought you’d been too busy to notice.” The musical speech continued without pause. “When did you launch the Argo, Dirck?”
“This morning.”
“It’s a pert little craft,” Lancey said, determined to join the conversation. This Eunice, knowing the three men longer, could easily steer the talk as she wished. “We fairly flew upriver.”
“You seem partial to boating, Mistress Quist.”
“Nearly everyone along the river is, Mistress Wynbridge.”
“You must sail on one of my sloops some day.”
“That would be pleasant.” Lancey noted the plural, but refused to express surprise. The men’s acceptance of the statement proved the girl really did own ships.
“Eunice’s father,” Dirck said, “started the Blue-Hull Line out of Newburgh Bay.” He was aware that the girls were fencing, didn’t want Lancey patronized.
Schuyler Davis said, “Quite the heiress, our Eunice.”
“Acreage,” said Tappen Platt, “as well as sloops. Cows, horses, hens, and what not. All handled for her by lawyers and guardians.” He was teasing; his head turned as he glanced from Eunice to Dirck.
“Now, Tappen, you exaggerate.” Eunice sounded more pleased than protesting. “The war ruined Papa’s affairs as well as his health. Things are only now recovering from those wretched years.”
Lancey finished eating, but the food had lost its savor. She was less impressed by Eunice’s wealth than by the way Tappen and Schuyler referred to it. Both men were gently mocking; their raillery left the girl unruffled. She was, Lancey decided, so sure of herself that she accepted the pair merely as Dirck’s friends.
“By the way,” Dirck said, “Mother mentioned that she has something for you, Eunice.”
“Oh, yes.” The grave brown eyes regarded Lancey. “It’s that quilt I much admired. She’s too kind, but she insisted. Her handiwork is exquisite, Mistress Quist.”
The implication was plain and intended. Quiltmaking was a prized art, and skillful mothers gave such gifts only to intimates, daughters real or potential. Even the men looked startled. Dirck’s smile slowly melted into thin-lipped tightness.
“I am sure it is,” Lancey said. Her handiwork and yours, she thought. Warned beforehand of her coming, Mrs. van Zandt and Eunice had taken this means of announcing their alliance. No wonder the older woman hadn’t been very curious about her background. Whoever Lancey Quist might be, the van Zandts had already decided their younger son’s future.
Politeness had the men tongue-tied. Dirck, mentally swearing, couldn’t think of anything to say. His friends waited for him to speak first. Eunice let the silence stretch to uncomfortable seconds before she broke it.
“Dirck, would you carve me a slice of that ham, please?” That, Lancey thought, is gaffing a dead fish. She wanted to laugh in spite of her anger at the unnecessary intrigue. These highborn ladies were afraid of shadows! She had no real interest in Dirck van Zandt. He was gay, rich, different; after an accidental meeting he had cultivated her.
“Schuyler’s the better carver.” Dirck was easily casual, but Schuyler Davis rose at once.
Why, bless their hearts, Lancey thought, but men do know how to stick together. She gave Eunice Wynbridge a quick, mischievous smile. Just for a lark she decided to support Dirck, and give Mistress Happy Victory a lesson.
“You mustn’t think Dirck discourteous, Mistress Wynbridge.” Placing a possessive hand on Dirck’s wrist, Lancey tilted her head for a look at the sun. “I’m afraid the hour prevents us from lingering.”
“But it’s early,” protested Tappen Platt.
“After four,” Lancey said, “and it’s a long sail back to Poughkeepsie against the wind.”
“I had to plead with Lancey to come.” Following her lead, Dirck dropped the more formal title from her name. He didn’t know what the girl planned, but Eunice had provoked this.
“Then, of course, we mustn’t detain you,” Eunice said.
“We simply must get back by night tide,” Lancey said. “You see
I promised my father I’d help him make a night drift.”
“Night drift?”
The question was Tappen Platt’s. Neither Schuyler Davis nor Eunice Wynbridge glanced at the ham slice he forked onto her plate. Both watched Lancey.
As she rose, Lancey let her cloak slide from her shoulders. It gave her a chance to show the russet velvet in full glory, and Dirck the chance for a gesture.
Grave-faced, Dirck seized the opportunity, swept up the cloak as it tumbled past the bench.
“Allow me,” he said, replacing the garment with careful solicitude. He managed to keep laughter from his voice, but didn’t dare look at Eunice Wynbridge.
“Thank you, Dirck.” Lancey tossed the remark with a twist of her head. Then, she turned to Tappen Platt. “If it stays mild tonight, after such a nice, warm day, the shad may be running.”
“Shad?” Bewilderment made Tappen plaintive.
“That’s a fish,” Dirck said, solemnly.
“I know it, but——”
“My father’s a fisherman,” said Lancey. It seemed strange to state the truth deliberately after avoiding it all afternoon.
“The best on the river,” Dirck said.
“A—fisherman?” In the pause between the two words disbelief replaced astonishment in Eunice’s face. The sound of her own voice brought a pink tint to the pale cheeks.
“Mistress Wynbridge thinks we jest, Dirck. You must tell her sometime how I fished you from the river, mare and all.” Lancey turned toward the other girl, flipped her palms in a gesture. “I couldn’t very well throw him back, could I?”
“Not Meda anyway,” Dirck said.
Schuyler Davis started to laugh.
Eunice glared at him, at the couple across the table. She wasn’t convinced, but the small, dark-haired girl had shaken her. Dirck van Zandt wouldn’t bring a riverfront trollop to meet his mother. But he might bring a fisherman’s daughter who could dress like Lancey Quist.
“Quist.” Tappen Platt snapped his fingers. “Hendrick and Ten Bush. Knew I’d heard the name.”
Shad Run Page 17
