March 15, 1786 Wednesday

Walking toward her father’s house, Catherine noticed the plume of smoke from the chimney hanging low, spreading out. That meant more weather on the way.

She passed her mother’s garden on which Isabelle had lavished so much attention. Each season was represented by colors selected to demonstrate what Isabelle thought of that season. A few brave snowdrops pushed up through the snow on the ground. Her mother’s spring color scheme always started with white, then moved into the yellows, pinks, and purples of croci, from there to jonquils and daffodils. As she passed the rows of snowdrops, Catherine thought how organized her mother’s mind was in terms of space, color, harmony, and height. Her father, on the other hand, could remember columns of figures from years back. His mind, very good, was organized in a different fashion. The two complemented each other.

Catherine looked up to her parents’ marriage. She and John proved a strong team, radiantly in love. Rachel and Charles surprised each other by their newfound passion for architecture. Rachel had inherited her mother’s sense of proportion, color, aesthetics; Catherine truly was her father’s daughter, a fact recognized by men. Women may have been seen as helpmates to their fathers and husbands, but it was a slow-witted man who did not realize Catherine possessed her father’s business brilliance. She could see far beyond the nose on her face.

The aroma of maple syrup greeted her as she stepped into the kitchen through the back door. Serena, putting away the cleaned dishes, smiled at Catherine.

“Missus, there’s plenty batter left over. Would you like some pancakes?”

“No, thank you, Serena. I made a big breakfast today as John will be at the back bridges shoring up a damaged foot. Well, I call it a foot. And do you know my husband can cook? He made his special eggs while I brewed coffee, wonderful coffee from those beans Father bought from that Jamaican trader. I’m nattering on. Where’s Father?”

“Usual.”

“Where’s Bettina?”

“Down in the root cellar, looking for those peaches we put up this summer. She’s determined to make peach cobbler. She says if she does, winter will finally release his icy grip.”

“Serena, if you look outside, I think we’re due for another handshake.”

Serena walked to the paned-glass windows. “Oh, dear. March is cruel.”

“Is,” Catherine agreed. “Mother’s snowdrops are peeking up and it looks like more snow coming. It has to end sooner or later.”

“Later.” Serena shrugged.

Catherine smiled, hung up her coat, walked down the polished hall to her father’s office.

“My dear.” He pushed his spectacles up on his nose. “The day will come when I will be buried under papers, an avalanche of papers. People will ask you, ‘How did Ewing die?’ and you will tell them, ‘He suffocated under papers, poor soul.’ ”

“Oh, throw them on the floor.”

“Tempting.” He held up one offending document. “Massachusetts has printed more money, devaluing what they owe me and everyone else. You know, I ask myself why do business in my country? It’s becoming impossible to make a profit. Indeed, it is the reverse. There is no order.”

“Well, we will just have to do business with England and France.”

“Yes.” He paused, took his spectacles off. “But how can a nation survive if commerce, trade is not promoted? I want to do business with my countrymen. For one thing, sending tobacco, hemp, anything across the Atlantic is expensive and risky. You never know.”

“There’s a reason people say, ‘When my ship comes in.’ ”

“There is.” He rummaged around and handed her a letter executed in a strong hand. “From Baron de Stael.”

Years ago when Ewing visited that Continent, a journey expected of educated young men, he met the baron, a few years younger than himself. The two got along and corresponded over the years. Ewing thought the fellow possessed some sense.

Catherine read, paraphrasing, “Calonnet can’t control the treasury deficit.” She named the French minister of finance, a man of self-importance. “Payments to the Army are delayed, our highways are falling to bits. We must have reform. I give the comptroller general credit, he knows it but I fear for our future. Finance is the base of all stability.”

She looked at her father. “The French appear not to be better off than we are.”

“One can have the greatest army and navy in the world. One can conquer other countries, but if you can’t administer them, if you can’t promote trade among nations, encourage your own people, you will fail. I leave the French to themselves. They excel at crisis, then escaping from same, but I don’t know as we can do that. We are too new. I wonder will we be strangled in our cradle by our own stubbornness? And you are right. We must concentrate our efforts on England. If there’s one thing an Englishman understands it’s money.” He put the paper back in the pile.

“You’d think we’d all figure that out.”

“Catherine, never underestimate human greed or the need to control. Yes, you would think that every state would realize we can’t compete against one another. We don’t. Is it possible violence will erupt? Have we defeated the British to war against one another?” He flopped back in his chair. “I’m being gloomy. Sorry.”

“It’s a gloomy day.” She leaned over his desk to tidy his papers. “Father, if we stick to tobacco, timber, and apples we should sail through these troubled waters.”

“If we trade across the ocean. I don’t see how I can do business with other states now and expect fair recompense.”

“Maureen Selisse seems to be doing all right.”

A silence followed this, he stacked his papers together. “She does, doesn’t she?”

“The foundry helps.”

“Yes, but the foundry can’t be making enough money to cover her lavish expenditures. A copy of our carriage is just one of them.”

“Her jewelry is fabulous, she has bedecked Jeffrey in the finest clothing possible, she has sold some horses, then turned around and brought all that furniture from France. I quite like it. Usually I don’t.”

“Hmm, the black with the ormolu. It is beautiful but one desk would buy a three-hundred-acre farm in the shadow of the mountains. I wonder how much Francisco really left her and even more, how long can it hold out?”

“Sheba, according to Bettina and our girls, has been bragging about how Maureen will send her down to Martinique and from there to Paris. She declares she’s on a business mission for Maureen.”

“That’s absurd. No one would send a slave, a woman no less, to conduct business.”

“Perhaps not, Father, but think of the ships that sail into those ports. Filled with wine, furniture, fabrics, expensive everything, and some of these places are duty free. The jewelry alone would produce punishing fees if brought into, say, Charleston.”

“Yes, it would. Francisco must have taught her how to outrun the taxman.”

“Her father was rich and she married rich,” Catherine mentioned. “She’s shrewd.”

“Shrewd or not, no one can spend money like that without sooner or later facing the bills.”

“Maybe she trades. I don’t know, but I would like to know and I would like to know the source of Sheba’s power.”

“Ah, yes.” He exhaled, then changed the subject. “They never found the slave who ran away, Mignon. Poor little thing. I expect she froze to death.”

“I don’t know, but Maureen and Sheba are certainly vengeful when it comes to their people. Broadsheets put up throughout the state, advertisement for reward in Philadelphia’s paper. For someone who accused a woman of stealing jewelry I haven’t noticed the vacancy of one bauble with the exception of her pearl necklace. I can’t imagine that little bird stealing pearls.”

He smiled. “What is it about other people’s money that’s fascinating? For instance, I have heard that our former governor, Mr. Jefferson, spends money like water. Patrick Henry appears to have more sense, but the man is littering the state with his illegitimate offspring.”

Catherine laughed. “Let us give him credit for energy.”

“No discretion. Ah, well, foolish men.” He threw up his hands. “One should try to conform to one’s wedding vows. It was never a problem for me but then no woman could compare to your mother.”

“I think some men are just restless. I don’t know.”

“I expect sooner or later Jeffrey Holloway will become restless.” He said this without censure. “Then again, he’d better be careful. He is as owned as one of her slaves.”

“Do you think love is a form of slavery, Father?”

“Of course not.” He answered swiftly. “Untrammeled passions are, but true love is freedom.”

“I think so, too.”

“Back to business. You have a good hand, help me write letters to our agent in each state. Perhaps they have a sense of what is going to happen regarding currencies, tariffs. Forewarned is forearmed.”

“Indeed it is, Father. But Caesar didn’t listen.”

He paused a moment. “The Ides of March. A damned unlucky day.”