Joyful spotted Manon at almost the precise moment she saw him. They hurried toward each other and met beside a small bandstand, painted white, gleaming in the late morning sun. Later that day there would probably be a concert. Pretty ladies in the latest fashions would stand beside elegant gentlemen in stovepipes and gray cutaways, and there would be talk and smiles and a bit of flirting, and enthusiastic clapping when the band played stirring patriotic tunes. Now there was only the pair of them.
He had to make a physical effort not to take her in his arms. Joyful touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, mistress. What an unexpected pleasure to see you.”
Manon clutched her shawl close and nodded her head in a prim greeting. “Good morning to you, sir.” Joyful was looking over her shoulder now, toward the man who had been so interested in the exploits of Lafayette. She saw the direction of his glance and murmured, “I don’t know him. I don’t believe he knows us. Joyful, that mark on your cheek, what happened?”
“It’s nothing. As for that fellow over by the statue, I suspect he knows us all too well.” The stranger had turned and was looking at them. Joyful offered her his arm and Manon took it. He led her down the walkway, and after a few steps chanced a quick look over his shoulder. The man was looking straight at them, but when Joyful turned, he spun around, pretending interest in a display of flowers. Joyful pulled Manon off the path and around to the rear of the bandstand. He drew her close, exulting in the scent of roses that always seemed to surround her. The shawl that covered her hair slipped to her shoulders, and he pressed his cheek to the golden braid coiled round the top of her head. “Manon. My sweet Manon.”
The embrace lasted only a moment, both of them conscious of how much they must accomplish and how little they had. Manon pulled away, tipping her face back so she could look at him. A few ringlets had escaped from her coiffure. He curled one around his finger. She lifted his hand to her lips, kissing his palm, feeling again that tingle that whenever they touched started at her toes and worked itself up to the back of her neck. “You got my note,” she said when she let his hand go. “I was so afraid you might not.”
“I did. Your messenger was a powder monkey aboard Perry’s ship. I’m the one took the poor little blighter’s arm off. He works at Devrey’s Pharmacy these days, and you can trust him with messages anytime. I was at the dovecote yesterday.”
“I’m sorry, I thought I could get away, but I could not. Papa has taken to watching me like a falcon circling its prey.” She must tell him about Blakeman, about what he’d said to Papa, but other things first, the things that were important to Joyful. There was so little time. “Joyful, Papa had another caller the night before last. A Mr. Mordecai Frank. He’s a Hebrew and a goldsmith. Like Papa, he sometimes deals in jewels. I’m sure Papa invited him to talk about cutting the Great Mogul. But when I went to bring them some refreshment, another man was also there. He was introduced as Mr. Simson, a lawyer. I believe him to also be a Hebrew.”
“Samson Simson. He was just leaving the Jews’ synagogue when I was waiting by the dovecote.”
“That’s an astonishing coincidence!”
“Perhaps. But his presence with Frank at your father’s may indicate that they were talking about something other than Blakeman’s jewel. Some matter of property possibly.”
“No. It was the Great Mogul. The Tavernier was on the counter, and when I came in, the three of them were bent over it like schoolboys at their lessons.”
“Very well.” He’d think later about what roles Mordecai Frank and Samson Simson might play; for now there were more pressing concerns. “There’s something I should have told you. It’s about Bastard Devrey. I—” He heard the crunch of boots on gravel and whipped off his hat, craning his neck to see over the railing of the bandstand. He pressed the stuffed glove on Manon’s shoulder, pushing her into a crouch.
The man who had been by Lafayette’s statue was headed toward them, peering anxiously in all directions. Not Patrick Burney as Joyful had thought at first, but probably an Irish laborer. Me and another fellow lives down here. S’posed to keep an eye on you, and on her when we can. Since the man had been at Bowling Green before Joyful arrived, he had to have followed Manon here. Joyful’s mouth filled with the metallic taste of rage.
Manon sensed his mood and looked up at him anxiously.
“Ssh. Stay down.” He mouthed rather than whispered the words.
The man hadn’t seen them duck behind the bandstand. He was obviously still looking for them as got closer. Joyful bent and spoke directly into her ear. “Stay here. Don’t move.” He crept silently to the edge of the structure, positioning himself so he could see but not be seen. Only s’posed to let F.X. know what you do. Not do ye any harm. Gallagher’s instructions according to Burney, but from Gornt Blakeman more likely. He’d show the bloody bastard a bit about harm.
The Irishman stood on the path, looking around with a bewildered expression. After a time, he shrugged and started to walk away. Joyful sprung out of his crouch and hurled himself at the man’s back. The pair of them fell to the ground, rolling across the gravel walkway and onto the grass. Joyful was the taller by at least half a foot, and the better fed. He finished on top and half rose so he was kneeling on the stranger’s chest, his right hand at the man’s throat. “Who sent you? Why were you spying on us?” The reply was burbled nonsense. The pressure on the man’s windpipe made sensible speech impossible. Joyful eased his grip, but only slightly. “Who sent you?”
“Don’t know…” More pressure on the windpipe. The man choked and wheezed, then, when he was again allowed to speak, “Got me instructions from one o’ F.X.’s leather-aprons. Can’t tell you nothing else. It’s the truth, on me mother’s soul.”
Joyful took his hand away and got to his feet. “Stand up. Come, there’s nothing wrong with you a glass of ale won’t fix.”
The man stood, staggering a bit, grasping his throat and wheezing. “Sure and you’re him…” Stertorous breaths between the words. “Dr. Turner…what saved little Brigid Clare Burney’s life.”
“I’m the man you’ve been told to spy upon.”
“No, it’s the lady I’m after watching. Five coppers a day,” the man mumbled, not meeting Joyful’s gaze. “It’s three wee ones I’ve got, and another on the way.”
“What’s your name?”
“Desmond Mulligan. Mully, they calls me.”
“Very well, Mully,” Joyful reached into his pocket and came up with a shilling. “Here’s the equivalent of twelve coppers. Call it two days’ pay. So you’re now earning eleven pennies a day, and six of them are from me. I’m outbidding F. X. Gallagher and whoever’s behind him. That means you’re loyal to me, not F.X., correct?”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph”—Mulligan blessed himself with a hurried sign of the cross—“it’s a better wage than I’ve seen since this poxed war started. But F.X. is a nasty piece o’ work. I can’t be seen—”
“Mr. Gallagher doesn’t have to know a thing about our arrangement. All I ask is that you keep your ears and your eyes wide open and report back to me.”
Mulligan still hadn’t taken the shilling, but neither had he taken his eyes off it. “How am I supposed to do that, Dr. Turner? Worth me arms and legs if F.X. was to—”
“I’ve seen what the butcher and his boys do with their cleavers, Mully. But could be you’ll be sent to follow me sometime. Or you could find an excuse to switch assignments with Burney. That could happen, couldn’t it?” Mulligan nodded agreement. “Excellent. So once and a while it may happen that you and I are in the same place at the same time. In the meantime, all you need do is keep your wits about you, so you’ve something to tell me if the occasion presents itself. When it does, you’ll collect whatever’s owed you at the rate of sixpence a day. Take the shilling as two days’ wages in advance. Do we have a bargain?”
Mulligan nodded and snatched the coin, then turned and ran off. Joyful watched until he’d gone through the gate leading to Broadway. Ma
non came out from behind the bandstand to join him. They were totally alone, and she brushed a bit of grass from his coat, then touched the mottled blue-green bruise. “Is that how you got this? Fighting with men of that sort?” And when he simply smiled and shook his head: “Why did you give him money, Joyful?”
“Only a shilling. To insure he’s on our side, not against us.”
Manon was rapidly calculating all the implications. “You knew from the first he was here to spy on us. But how could he have known we’d be in Battery Park?”
He had no intention of telling her she was the one who had led Mulligan to their meeting place. “He was following me and guessed where I was headed.”
“Not on his own account, surely. Joyful, who is behind this?”
“Gornt Blakeman. Because I’m now the owner of Devrey Shipping—”
“But that’s wonderful!” Her eyes sparkled with delight, then narrowed.
“What?” Joyful demanded.
“Friday night. Quite late, I think it was nearly ten, Gornt Blakeman arrived and brazened his way into Papa’s shop. I heard the ruckus and came downstairs and listened at the door. Mr. Blakeman asked Papa for my hand.”
Joyful bit back the curse that rose to his lips. “And what did your father say?”
“That he would not promise me without my consent. So far he’s said nothing to me of the proposal.”
He relaxed a little, but only for a moment. Whatever else he might be, Gornt Blakeman was a very wealthy man. “If he does mention it, will you consent?”
She laughed softly. “Must you ask?”
For answer he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her again, restraining himself, not wanting to frighten her with the depth of his hunger. Manon brought up both hands and put them either side of his face, pressing closer still, and parting her lips. He could taste all of her, all the sweetness. He lifted her slightly off the ground, feeling her body slide against his, the softness of her belly and her thighs, feeling his control slip away. She dropped her hands to his shoulders and pulled back. “Joyful,” she whispered, “Joyful.”
He set her down and let her go. “I’m sorry.”
She put a finger over his lips. “Don’t be. I’m not. I wondered why Mr. Blakeman was suddenly so convinced he must have me. I think Papa did as well. Now I know. It was to harm you.”
“Any man alive would want you. But I’m part of Blakeman’s reason, no doubt about that.”
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “Now that you’re the owner of Devrey’s, you can tell Papa we wish to be married. Gornt Blakeman will have to find some other woman to supply him with sons. I think it’s really a brood mare he wants. He asked Papa if I came from good stock. I do, you know. Mama had three sons. I shall give you at least that many, and…Joyful, what is it?” And when he did not respond: “You will ask for me now, won’t you? You’ve said right along you must have something to offer, but if you own Devrey’s Shipping—” She broke off, staring at him, waiting for the words that did not come.
Somewhere nearby a clock chimed the hour. “Half eleven,” Joyful said. “Your father will be worried.”
“Furious, more like.” She spoke quietly. All these weeks and months she had been so sure. Had she made herself a fool? Mistook dalliance for devotion? “You’re right, I must go. But first, please answer my question. Do you mean to ask Papa for me?”
“Dear God, Manon. Of course I do. It’s only that right now—” It wasn’t simply how much remained to be worked out. Blakeman and Astor, and a company with more liabilities than assets, and—God help him—everything at the Dancing Knave. He must at least speak to Delight before formally committing himself to…He saw the disappointment in Manon’s eyes, saw the tears she was too proud to shed. Damn them all, and hang the time. “Can you stay long enough for me to explain?”
Her heart began a fierce thumping made up of one part exultation and one part doubt. “I will stay. I must.”
It took him a few minutes to run through the nature of his arrangements with his cousin. “All I’ve really done so far,” he finished, “is make myself responsible for Bastard’s mountain of debt. But I have a plan, Manon. I’ve met with John Jacob Astor as well.”
Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “With Astor? What did you discuss?”
He shook his head. “Not now. You must go.”
She stood on tiptoe to kiss him one last time. “This week,” she said just before she turned to go, “I will be at the Fly Market every day at noon. Come when you can.”
She’d thought to go round the back to the kitchen entrance, but her father was waiting by the open front door. “So,” he said.
“I am sorry, Papa. I was delayed. I will begin the dinner immediately.”
She tried to push past. Vionne put out a hand and stopped her. “First, tell me where you have been.” Manon said nothing. “Look at you. Your hair is loose. Your dress is stained with grass. You are like…like…” Good God, she should be married, no longer his responsibility. “See what you look like,” he repeated. Angry with her, and with himself because he’d never made her behave.
“Like what, Papa?”
“Like a harlot.” The word burned his mouth, but Vionne could think of no other.
“I will pretend I did not hear that.” Manon tried again to move past him.
Vionne took a step to the right so he was still confronting her. “Manon, for heaven’s own sake. I am your father. I want only the best for you. But you leave the holy house of God to…To do I know not what. Tell me where you have been.”
“I cannot. If you do not let me go to the kitchen, your dinner will be much delayed.”
“I have asked the Widow Tremont to cook for us. She is in the kitchen even now. And from today she will do all the marketing.”
Adele Tremont, mantua-maker to the city’s most elegant women, had no need of additional employment. She was here because she’d set her cap for Maurice Vionne from the moment his wife died. “I see. And I, Papa? What am I to do?”
“You are to go to your room, Manon. You are to remain there and to think of the shame you are bringing on me and on the memory of your dead mother. And of how unlikely it is that, if he manages to get here from Virginia, the widowed nephew of Monsieur DeFane, or anyone else for that matter, will be interested in soiled goods.”
Pearl Street, 3 P.M.
Because it was the Sabbath and not a workday, the dinner hour of the town was promptly at three. The enticing smell of a chicken roasting before the fire drifted down the stairs of Barnaby Carter’s premises and tickled the noses of each of the five men gathered in the semidark at the rear of the cavernous warehouse.
The carriages normally on display had been returned to their customary places as soon as the Thursday sale ended. The men were seated in the shadowy interior of a large coach of the sort built to make the run between New York and Boston. Indeed, the man speaking had the sound of Massachusetts in his speech. “In Boston, gentleman, we are in a deplorable situation. Our commerce is dead, our revenue gone, our ships are rotting at the wharves. We are bankrupts, and it’s plain the so-called federal government has not the wherewithal to protect our coast. Once we have effected the arrangements we propose, it is imperative that we never allow our treasury to become so depleted. Every citizen of our new nation must contribute—”
“Surely, sir, you are not suggesting that we should tax our citizens. That is exactly what…”
Gornt Blakeman, sitting with one hand pressed to his chin, did his best to look attentive as he listened to New Hampshire’s objections to any sort of taxation. In fact, the entire, apparently endless argument, bored him. Not a ha’penny’s worth of brains among them all: Boston, Concord, or the pair from Hartford. Too bad the Rhode Island fellow hadn’t managed to join them today. He was far and away the most sensible of the New Englanders. Damn! Lucretia Carter must be a fine cook. That chicken smelled blissful. No wonder Barnaby looked so discontent at hav
ing to stand guard by the door of his warehouse while his dinner cooled in the rooms above.
Concord was still pressing his point. “It should be possible simply to apply a tariff to imported goods and—”
“Some tax on general income is bound to be required.” The elder of the two men from Connecticut had a booming voice. The younger shushed him even as he nodded agreement with the point raised.
Blakeman felt the sensation of pins and needles in his left buttock and shifted his position as far as the cramped conditions allowed. They had been sitting here the best part of an hour. Bloody waste of time. The discussion of how a central authority was to raise revenue was pointless as well as premature. The real issue was whether a few strong and capable men would seize the initiative and act on it, or try to cajole an entire legislature into seeing things their way. In New York, at least, the answer was clear. Blakeman cleared his throat. The others turned to him. “We must have power before we can determine how to exercise it, gentleman.”
“Ah, Mr. Blakeman”—Boston again—“I thought the cat had stolen your tongue.”
“I simply choose not to contribute to a discussion I believe to be taking place before its time. If we do not—”
“What of your pirates, eh?” The booming voice of the elder of the two Hartford men, his deafness excuse for interrupting as well as shouting. “Got ’em wrapped up as you promised? Going to ‘stand and deliver,’ as they used to say?”
“I believe, sir, that was ‘highwaymen.’ But I assure you, I am in close touch with the Baratarians.” According to Delight, that fool Tintin couldn’t stay away from the Dancing Knave, and he could practically see her salivate each time he mentioned his plans for putting her in charge of every whore in the city. He’d do it too. Control, that was the thing. Not this madness called democracy.
“The Baratarians,” Boston said. “Does that mean Lafitte has agreed to attack United States shipping once our scheme is in effect? I ask, Mr. Blakeman, because he has never done so before.”
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