March 29, 1786 Wednesday

Piglet felt a tiny hexagonal snowflake on his nose. The snow had fallen off and on since last night, sometimes heavy other times almost a fine mist. The dog trotted along a cleared path to the mares’ stable, the accumulation reaching six inches.

He gratefully ducked into the stables, and hearing voices in the tack room, headed there. Charles, Jeddie, and Ralston sat around the small fireplace. The boys cleaned tack while Charles sat across from them, his drawings rolled up, placed on a low wooden table.

“Piglet.” Charles smiled.

“You left me. I was fast asleep under the kitchen table.” The dog sat next to his human.

“Do you think he’ll do it? A duel?” Charles returned to Jeddie.

The young man nodded. “Hot temper.”

“Why die for a drunken insult?” Charles took off his gloves, unrolled his drawings, changed the subject. “Here. If we build a carriage house at a right angle to the carriage barn, we’ll create a windbreak. Back home stables and kennels are often built around a square area, so three buildings open onto this area, the new building at a right angle.” He scribbled at the edge of one of the papers. “Everything is closer, less time going between buildings and the buildings offer some protection from the weather. We’ve created a short courtyard. Two buildings at a right angle would be more proportionate but the cost will be a problem. Obviously, you can always use more stables.”

Jeddie excitedly looked over the plans. “Cobblestone?”

“In the yard. Or brick. Easier to clean, stops the mud, the endless mess of mud. With good workers, we can cut them, not so round. And see here,” he pointed to the rear of the addition, “manure, straw can be taken out this way. Haul it to the midden pile and when my wife wants some for her garden, well, easy to do.”

“Has Miss Catherine seen this?” Jeddie asked.

“She has. She wanted me to extend the roof a bit to provide more shade in the summer, keep the snow from sliding off the roof in front of the back stall doors.”

“You’ve got those little clams.” Ralston pointed to the fanciful snow holders on the roof.

“Do, but they can’t hold back the heavy snows like we’ve been having.” Charles looked out the window. “This one’s not heavy but fine. It’s almost April.”

“Momma says we’ve had snowstorms in April.” Jeddie offered the maternal observation.

“Jeddie’s momma wants him to get married.” Ralston smirked.

“Does she, now?” Charles smiled.

Jeddie, embarrassed, nodded. “Says a good wife will help me.”

“True enough. Prospects?”

Jeddie blushed now. “Momma has some.”

Both Charles and Ralston laughed, then Charles said, “Estimable girls, I’m sure, but I’d trust to lightning if I were you.”

“Sir?” The slender fellow raised his eyebrows.

“Love can be like a lightning strike. You never know when it will hit you.” Charles rolled up the papers. “No need to worry about it now. If it happens, you’ll know.”

“Sir, what if Yancy Grant really does challenge Jeffrey Holloway to a duel?” Ralston inquired.

“Hard to tell. I have no idea if Jeffrey knows how to use firearms. Given the circumstances, I would think it would be Jeffrey Holloway that challenges Yancy. Yancy accused him of some nefarious things.”

“What’s nefarious?” Jeddie wondered.

“Bad, dark deeds. Man was a damned fool. Drunk.” Charles shrugged.

“I never saw a duel,” Ralston said.

“And you won’t see this one either if it comes to pass. Duels are fought between the two men, weapons chosen by the man who is challenged so it could be a pistol or a sword. Each man is accompanied by a second, a friend who takes his coat, speaks to the other second, sets out the rules. Also a physician is in attendance, but spectators, no.” Charles emphasized no.

“Do people ever get scared and run away?” Jeddie couldn’t imagine standing there waiting to be shot or fighting by sword.

“No. Your honor is at stake, which is why duels are fought in the first place, or so the offended party believes.”

—

Jeffrey Holloway considered his honor. His wife sat in the morning room with him, breakfast on the table. Sheba hovered in the room, pretending to serve Maureen.

“Henry!” Maureen called.

“Yes, Ma’am.” An elderly men appeared, wearing house clothes.

“I am freezing. Do something!”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He bowed to his mistress, stepped outside the room.

Within minutes two young slaves carried hardwoods and more kindling to the fireplace. The surround was white marble. Her late husband, Francisco, declared a wooden surround not up to his standards. Once he visited upstate New York, beheld the tile that the Dutch used, he had to have that. His personal fireplace in his office was deep blue and white tile.

“I must challenge Yancy Grant. His conduct shocked me. Clearly he is given to both drink and fantasy.”

“Do you know how to shoot?” Maureen sensibly asked.

“Not well. I can shoot, though. Father made me take fencing lessons—why, I don’t know.”

“But you won’t be the one to select the weapons,” Maureen clearly replied.

Sheba made sure she had heard the accusations Yancy leveled at her mistress’s husband. Sheba also pressed that Maureen would be a laughingstock, she didn’t say it that way, but that her mistress couldn’t afford two philandering husbands. Her honor was at stake, too.

Sheba felt she was sitting in the catbird seat. Of course, Yancy would pick pistols and dispatch Jeffrey, who was holding too much sway over Maureen. Sooner or later, Sheba and Jeffrey would collide, so best to be rid of him now. Powerful though she was she remained a slave. The key to all this was Maureen.

“I thought I might ask John Schuyler to assist me in sharpening my skill,” Jeffrey softly answered. “I can’t let this go unanswered.”

“What shall you do?” Maureen, disturbed by the low talk of Yancy Grant, nonetheless did not wish to lose her handsome younger husband.

“I will write a letter asking for satisfaction,” he firmly spoke.

“And who shall be your second?”

“John Schuyler.” He looked at his wife.

“He’s certainly seen enough bloodshed,” she remarked.

“Yes.”

“I do hope what’s shed is not yours. I can’t understand why Yancy would accuse you of keeping low company.” Her voice carried an edge.

“Maureen, I told you, yes, I was at Georgina’s. I met with the banker, Udall, at his suggestion. I found out more about the tavern once I was there. Had I known, I would have asked for another place to meet.”

Sheba, now standing behind Jeffrey, so she faced her mistress, raised her eyebrows just enough to indicate doubt, men are dogs, that sort of thing.

“I should like to see this place.” Maureen startled them both.

“My dear. You can’t possibly mean that.” Jeffrey put his cup down so hard he nearly broke the good breakfast china.

“Yes, I would like to see it, perhaps even go inside.” Her face hardened. “I can buy them all and consign them to hell if I choose. I can buy the house and burn it with them in it!”

“Sweetheart.”

“If you have betrayed me, Jeffrey, there will be another duel if you survive the first one.”

Sheba was in heaven.

“I have not betrayed you. I love you. You wound me, you wound me to think me so crude.” He was truly hurt.

“My experience, well, yes, my experience has taught me men will do what they wish.”

“I am not Francisco.” He nearly shouted, as he slammed down his hand, rose from the table, and strode out.

Maureen sat there, surprised, a hint of realizing she shouldn’t have said that bubbling up.

“They’re all alike.” Sheba’s voice carried menace as well as false sympathy.

“You shut up.” Maureen stood up, stepped closer to her, and slapped her hard, so hard it could be heard in the hall, then turned and blew out of the room.

Henry, outside the door, wished the plague on both their houses.