Two men engaging in earnest, slightly drunken conversation approached from the opposite direction. The elder, a portly merchant in his late forties, was wearing an old-fashioned narrow-brimmed hat, a beaver-collared, beaver-lined long cloak, and heavy gauntlets. His companion, of slight build, was bundled in a greatcoat of expensive wool, and his hat was braided in the latest English style. Both wore wigs, and swords dangled from their right sides. Neither seemed aware of Jeremy's presence on the path, and he, swallowing hard, stepped aside into the icy mud of the road itself to let them pass. Raging inwardly, he remained motionless until they had gone by, then resumed his walk, deflated and bitter. Experience had taught him that the lower classes invariably made way for gentlemen, who expected such behavior from mere tradesmen and artisans and who expressed their gratitude by giving every indication that those beneath them were nonexistent. Jeremy had learned a sense of humility through the years, but what galled him most was the sight of the men's swords. He who could best any man in all New York Colony in a duel could not carry a sword without bringing down on his head the ridicule of his fellows at the foundry and the extreme displeasure of his betters, who would be convinced that he was trying to ape them and usurp a place in society not rightfully his.
Still smarting, he swung into the Broad Street, and, as always happened here, his spirits lifted. Travelers insisted that neither Boston nor Charles Towne boasted an avenue more impressive than New York's finest. No one could doubt that these great homes of gray field stone and oak housed the aristocracy: each plot of ground fronted the street for an expanse of at least one hundred feet, and the majority of the dwellings were set back from the road, with a screen of trees separating them from the stares of the casual passer-by.
Odors of cooking from the well-staffed, larder-filled kitchens were unmistakable on the frosty night air, and the Yuletime delicacies of England and Holland were cheerfully mingled with the good things that the New World offered. There were the spicy scents of brandied plum puddings and savory meat pies, roast wild turkey and broiled venison, leg of mutton steeped in wine and partridge barbecued in bear fat, steaming caldrons of clams and lobsters and oysters, bubbling vats of buffalo-and-beefsteak stew. There was the tangy zest of candied apples and of luscious pears heated and sprinkled with cinnamon, of grapes mashed with sweet wine and cooked into a soft jelly, of sausages stuffed with chopped nuts and raisins, of Dutch cheeses carefully preserved in spice and vinegar-soaked cloth.
The sounds of the revelers were clearly heard through the thick beams and sturdy stones of the walls, the luxurious, hard-to-procure panes of window glass. In spite of himself, Jeremy stopped to listen to one group in the parlor of Cornelius Kirk, who owned lumber mills, shipyards, and a fleet of fishing vessels, and the familiar tune and the words took him back to his childhood, made him hungry for the status and rights that had once been his:
"Bless us, let the welkin ring,
Bless our hearth, our home, our King, Bless our blessed England's might.
Bless the Lord, ye sons of Light."
Digging his hands deep into his pockets, he trudged another eighth of a mile, then turned in at the stone gate of a white two-story house. Carefully skirting around the main building, his boots squeaked on the hard-packed snow as he made for the row of servants' buildings in the rear. He stopped before a low-slung door, removed his stocking cap, and rapped chapped knuckles on the door.
"Who is it?"
"Jeremy Stone." He tried to conceal the irritation in his voice; the minx knew full well who was there, for she had encouraged his call.
"A moment, please."
There were sounds of footsteps and bustling, and Jeremy shivered beneath his thin, inadequate winter garb. He tried to peer in the window, but there was no glass here, merely heavily oiled paper. At last the door swung open, and Peggy Stanley, nursemaid to the children of Sir James Alden, stood revealed in the frame. Her curly dark brown hair hung loosely to her bare shoulders, and as the cold air struck her, she ran slim white hands quickly down her sleeveless low-cut blouse, high laced belt, and voluminous silk figured skirt.
"Come in, Jeremy, or this air will be my death!" she cried, her deep-set brown eyes sparkling and the color rising beneath the smooth, fair skin of her cheeks.
Jeremy shut the door behind him, and with a courtly bow that seemed incongruous in the tiny room he moved to a small fire of pine logs that crackled in a little hearth. The warmth of the blaze made him ache for a brief moment, but he carefully remained directly in front of the fireplace as he turned his back to it. "You look well this evening. Mistress Peggy," he said gravely, "uncommon well. I've often heard it said that there is no prettier maid in all New York, and seeing you tonight convinces me beyond all doubt that no truer statement has ever been made." The girl's lush, ripe beauty would help him forget his problems for an evening.
Peggy smiled at the compliment and seated herself with slightly exaggerated grace in one of the two plain chairs the room afforded. "I hope you haven't made extensive plans for this evening, Jeremy," she said lightly, almost too lightly.
"On the contrary." He tried to hold her glance. "I had thought we might go to one of the King Street ordinaries for a bite of food and a pint of ale. But if the weather is too cold for you," he continued boldly, "we could spend the evening right here."
"I'm sorry, Jeremy. Truly I am." There was no sign of sorrow on her face, only uneasiness, and the fingers of her left hand played nervously with the fabric of her skirt as she looked first at the floor, then at the fire.
Jeremy was acutely aware that she had not asked him to sit, but he pretended to notice nothing, tossed his cap onto the neatly folded quilted comforter at the foot of her small bed, then moved to a position directly in front of her. "I'm sorry too, my dear. If I had the funds, there is nothing I'd enjoy more than to take you to the ladies' hall at Jakob van der Voort's, for you deserve no less than the best this drab town can offer. Unfortunately, my purse is slim."
The girl stood, so close to him that a lock of her hair brushed against his shoulder. She pursed her red lips and seemed to consider before speaking, but her elaborate manner was a sign to Jeremy that what she was going to say had been carefully planned and rehearsed. "You don't understand, Jeremy." Her voice was soft, faintly sweet. "I can't spend the evening in your company."
"Oh?" He stiffened, grew tense.
"Sir James has asked me to come to the mansion this evening to discuss the future of the children. Poor man, it isn't easy for him, with a brood of three and Lady Alden dead of the pox."
Jeremy's hands slid around her supple waist, and he tried to draw her to him, but she resisted. J'To the devil with Sir James!" he exclaimed. "You work for him from dawn until the children are abed. Surely you have the right to a little time for your own pleasures."
"Sir James is my employer, and I have no choice but to obey his requests," she replied demurely, still struggling to free herself.
His heart pounding, Jeremy attempted without success to take hold of the lace of her high belt. "Suppose you told Sir James you were engaged for the evening. Suppose you said to him "
"I wouldn't!" She broke loose, retreated two paces, and stamped a foot. "I had no wish to hurt your feelings, Jeremy, for you seem better-mannered than most of the—the louts who pay court to a children's nannie. But you give me no choice. I know you came here tonight hoping to bed me. But you'll do no such thing tonight—or any other time!" Peggy tossed her curls back defiantly.