It was more than odd. It was murder.
34
April 16, 1787
Monday
Jeffrey lost no time in developing a workplace in one of the old outbuildings at Big Rawly. Maureen, inflamed by his excitement, was already having a new building twice the size of this one constructed. Any piece of equipment Jeffrey wanted, she bought. The wheelwright, a very focused slave, also worked in the space so it was convivial, as the two men appreciated a high degree of skills. They had much in common as people. Slavery was the confusing wedge.
“Most impressive,” Yancy complimented Jeffrey on the frame for a large coach, one that could handle almost all types of weather.
“My lady is determined that this venture will succeed. I am hopeful as you can see. And I’ve already received two more orders. One for a phaeton and one for a children’s cart.”
“Quite a difference in scale.” Yancy appreciated the particulars.
“So it is and you, more than anyone, can imagine what will become of my handiwork if the children’s cart is hitched to a naughty pony.”
Yancy smiled and Jeffrey, remembering his bad knee, offered, “Please sit down.” Then he turned to one of his apprentices, a very light-skinned young man of perhaps seventeen, who looked suspiciously like the late Francisco. “Pompey, run to the kitchen, will you, and bring back libations and something to entice Mr. Gates to eat?”
The younger man, considered an easy target, shocked Yancy when he shot the older man’s knee in a duel. It was shoot or be shot, so Jeffrey shot.
“No need.”
Jeffrey smiled. “Well, I’m famished. Perhaps you’ll join me. One never knows what they’re up to in the kitchen.”
“I am here”—Yancy cleared his throat—“to seek your help. Given our past that may seem most forward of me, but I would not ask if I didn’t have something to offer in return.” Sensing Jeffrey’s interest, he continued. “My lad, Ollie, has broken his leg. One of those accidents. He hit the ground hard and on the wrong foot, so to speak, and now his leg is broken. As the races will be on us in a month, I would like to rent your William.”
“He is good, isn’t he?”
“Working with DoRe would improve anyone and William has talent, plus he’s lean and light. How old is he, by the way?”
“Twenty, I think.”
“I would pay a dollar a day for his services, but even better, should Black Knight win his race, I will split the winnings with you and Mrs. Holloway, as well as reward William, of course.”
“Very generous.” Jeffrey considered how to present his position. “As you know, these are my wife’s people. She has known them far longer than I.” He paused, clearing his throat. “She evidences a keen interest in their skills.” He now held up his hand. “Yes, I know as her husband her possessions are mine but to keep harmony, I defer to her. As I said, she has lived with many of them for close to twenty years.”
“Very wise.” Yancy nodded.
“What I will do is present your offer to her, suggest it is much to our benefit. Of course, we will arrive at the races in the coach I built from Ewing’s model.”
“You will be besieged with orders. So many people east of here have not had the pleasure of viewing your creations. Tell me, how do you determine the colors?”
“The coach-in-four, the frame there, Mr. and Mrs. Volpe adamantly want a maroon body with gold pinstriping, black wheels with black spokes and a thin maroon and gold pinstripe on each spoke. As to the interior, we could live in it once done. Mrs. Volpe craves comforts.”
Yancy laughed. “The ladies do seem to incline that way. But it does sound arresting.”
“It does. My secret fear is one day someone will want a white coach.”
“Whatever for?”
“That’s exactly why. No one else will have one.”
Two ladies in bonnets and aprons carried trays of food while Pompey rolled down a food cart obviously built by Jeffrey. Tea, afternoon sherry, and a sparkling decanter of something a bit stronger was secured to the top of the cart by indentations cut down to fit the various pots. Jeffrey had thought of everything. On the bottom shelf rested heavier food items. The two cook’s assistants carried the sweets.
“My word, this is a feast,” Yancy exclaimed.
“I really am hungry. Your visit has given me the opportunity to indulge.”
The two men ate, chatted, somehow the better for their duel. It was done. Over. Yancy considered Jeffrey socially beneath him, but Jeffrey’s marriage to Maureen turned that upside down. As for Jeffrey, he craved male company. Maureen kept him on a short tether.
They talked about the expansion of Pestalozzi’s Mill, the number of people coming this far west now that their energies could be directed toward a free future.
“Have you seen Catherine Schuyler?” Jeffrey inquired.
“No. I heard she suffered a loss. She’s young and strong. But these things cast heavy sorrows.”
“Indeed.”
Yancy nodded as he cut a large chicken breast into smaller pieces.
“My lady will visit her. She said she wanted to give Catherine time and she also said fevers can accompany such a loss. Just carry away the woman.”
“Yes. Yes. Fortunately, that time seems to be past.”
“That’s what Maureen—I mean Mrs. Holloway—says, too. And if she agrees to your offer she will go to Catherine.” Jeffrey took a deep breath. “We will be racing against her Reynaldo.”
“I promise you, Jeffrey, this will be the best horse race in our new nation. My Black Knight against the Garths’ Reynaldo.”
“I believe you are right.”
“All the talk at the mill today was about this convention in Philadelphia. To start early May, so they say. The last time I remember this much talk was before the war. It’s a good thing, I think.”
“I hope so but unlike you, I am not political. Even when we fell afoul of each other, I always kept in mind the great risk you took during the war. You are a man of exceptional courage.”