Monday
The weather had cleared in the night and a stiff onshore breeze drove the woodsmoke that belched from the city’s chimneys up Manhattan Island, revealing a flawless cobalt sky. The rain had scrubbed the cobbles of the streets in the night, pushing heaps of mud and straw and ordure to the curbs, where it stood, steaming in the morning sun. Down in the estuary, the tide was turning, and the air was full of the roar of water as the Hudson and East Rivers churned.
Justy was grateful for the cool air. He had slept badly, something dark tormenting him in the night. He could not remember the dream, but the feeling of unease stayed with him, like mist covering the ground on a winter morning.
He walked down the Broad Way, stepping into the street here and there to avoid the men employed by householders to sweep up the muck in front of their residences. Some of the men were servants or slaves, dressed in smart livery. Others were freelance street sweepers, young, ragged boys who hooted and called to each other as they swung their shovels.
It was still too early for the wealthier of New York’s denizens to be about, and there were few carriages on the Broad Way, but the wind carried a hum of noise up the streets from the East River waterfront. The markets on Catherine Street and Maiden Lane opened before dawn, and Justy could hear the stall holders calling out, and the carts rumbling on the cobbles of the Bowery, bringing meat and produce from the farms north of the city.
He recognized the tall, lean figure of Gorton approaching him from a hundred yards away. The watchman’s eyes were pink and bloodshot, and garnished with two dark half circles. He was munching on a chonkey, and as he got closer, he wrapped the uneaten half of the pastry in a handkerchief and tucked it into his coat pocket. “Good morning, Marshal. I thought I might catch you coming this way.”
Justy stopped. “Good morning, Jeremiah. A fine day. Although you look as though you’re ready for your bed.”
“I am that. It feels like days since I last saw the straw. But I wanted to catch you before I got my head down. I’ll walk with you and peach you the whole scrap.”
“Go on then.” They began walking.
“When you went to speak to Sister Claire, I went back to my libben to couch a hogshead. But before I got my head down, I asked the mollisher what rents me my room about our Mister Umar. Turns out he’s a bit of a cushion thumper.”
“Is that so? Where does he preach?”
“Up by the creek. Most evenings, she thinks. Not that she’s been to one herself.”
“Perhaps we should go tonight, then.”
They had arrived at Federal Hall. Two carriages had pulled up at the bottom of the steps. The first was familiar, a red-painted covered cabriolet, pulled by a white mare. Behind it was a dark blue four-seater, drawn by two chestnut horses.
Justy stopped. “Thank you, Jeremiah. You should get some rest. What time do these assemblies take place?”
“Six of an evening. Just after it gets dark.”
“Be back here at three, then. We’ll have a bite and then go and hark at this fellow’s patter.”
He watched Gorton’s rangy frame lope back up the hill to the Broad Way. Then he turned and knocked on the door of the little red carriage. “Eliza?”
“Don’t come in.” Eliza’s voice was only slightly muffled by the canvas cover.
“Why? What is it? And what are you doing here at this hour?”
He glanced up at the rear of the cab, where the driver sat. The man looked away quickly, but not until Justy had caught the faint smile on his face.
“I have been up all night, composing a letter.” Eliza’s voice was softer now, and Justy had to press his ear against the canvas to hear. “In the end, however, I have not been able to convey my feelings adequately on paper. Father will be quite distressed when he sees how much of his vellum I have expended in the effort.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Eliza, I—”
“Please do not speak, Justice. It is hard enough for me to say what I have to say, without hearing your voice.” There was a long pause. “I have come to tell you that I do not wish you to call upon me any longer.”
“Eliza, if this is about Riker, I apologize. I allowed myself to be drawn out.”
“Please, Justice. Piers is a cad. Everyone knows it. But I expected more from you.”
“I’m sorry, Eliza.”
There was another long pause. “I am sorry, too. This is the last time we shall see each other. I have brought your … winnings with me.”
Justy glanced behind him at the blue carriage. A jarvie was perched on the high driver’s seat. He was dressed entirely in white: breeches, hose, waistcoat, jacket, shirt, and necktie, in stark contrast with his dark skin. His hair was shaved tight around the back and sides of his head, which was crowned with a high hat made of white silk.
“I am leaving for Greenwich this morning.” Eliza’s faint voice recaptured his attention. “I shall be away for quite some time. I don’t know how long.” She took a breath. “Please spare us both, Mister Flanagan, by not calling upon me again.”
She knocked twice on the roof of the carriage. Justy had to jump back onto the sidewalk to avoid his feet being crushed by the wheels of the cab as it rolled away. He could feel the eyes of a handful of onlookers, early birds who had stopped to watch the show. His face burned.
He watched the little red carriage plunge down the hill towards Water Street. And as the heat of his embarrassment faded from his face, he felt something else. A sneaking sense of relief.
He turned to look at his prize. It was a kind of phaeton carriage, a four-seater sprung drag of an unusual design. Most drags were open to the elements, but this one had a low-slung cab painted a glossy midnight blue. Its door handles, railings, wheel hubs, and coach lights were all made of brass, polished to a high shine. The two chestnut horses, a gelding and a mare, stood quietly in the braces between the shafts, their coats as glossy and groomed as the carriage itself.
The white-uniformed driver straightened up on his seat. “Mister Marshal Flanagan?”
“Yes.”
“Your carriage, sir. With Mister Riker’s compliments.”
The rig rocked and creaked as the jarvie descended from his perch. He went to the horses and began talking softly to them, stroking their noses and feeding them something that he took from the pocket of his white coat. They nuzzled him, fat tongues licking his face.
Justy walked slowly along the sidewalk, unable to take his eyes off the vehicle. The paintwork was so thick and smooth that it looked like lacquer. Two red pennants stirred in the breeze from a pair of six-foot whips angled from the back of the cab. The jarvie gave the horses one last pet, then hurried to open the nearside door.
It was hot inside the cab, but there was none of the customary stink of mold or damp, just the rich scent of warm leather and wood polish. Justy sat on the upholstered bench and ran his hands over the furnishings. The seats were stuffed thick with horsehair, and upholstered in leather. The floor was covered by a scarlet rug. The walls of the cab were padded in royal blue silk. The windows were curtained by lengths of sumptuous blue velvet. It was so quiet in the cab, he could hear his heart beating.
“Is everything all right, sir?” The coachman had put his hat on. His white clothing reflected the sunlight. The effect was blinding.
“Yes. Quite all right. Thank you.”
“Where to, sir?”
Of course. He couldn’t leave the damned thing here outside the hall. He ran his hands over the soft, tufted leather of the seat beside him. By God, it was a beautiful vehicle. And it was his! He leaned back in the seat and chuckled to himself.
The coachman stood patiently, waiting, his eyes on the ground. Watching him and not watching him, at the same time.
Justy gathered his thoughts. Where to? A good question. Where did one keep a carriage and two horses? Was there a stable near his lodging? He had a vague memory of one somewhere on Church Street. But how much would it cost? And what about a driver? It looked as though the white-clad jarvie was willing to help him get the rig to a stable, but what then?
He felt his mood sour. There was no way he could keep the damn thing. It was too expensive, and he didn’t need a carriage, anyway. He would have to sell it.
Damn it.
He sighed. “Do you know Hughson’s Tavern?”