For be assured a sensible woman can never be happy with a fool.
—GEORGE WASHINGTON
The chain hanging from Mary’s arm tugged a bit, leaving an indented mark upon her skin. She paid no mind to that, for she adored what it held. Connected to the silver links was a small psalmbook covered in blue velvet and smelling of dried flowers. Lady Joanna had carried it with her to services every Sunday. Few possessions did Mary treasure as much as this one. Today she let it dangle as she set herself upon the dark wood kneeling board inside St. John’s Church. Although the years had passed, the memories, the moments she had shared with her mother, she kept close to her heart. Mary closed her eyes to remember her mother’s lyrical voice. “Every daughter is her own kind of flower,” Mama used to say. “What kind of flower am I?” she remembered asking her.
The reverend’s prayer broke her thoughts: “‘For before the harvest, as soon as the bud blossoms/And the flower becomes a ripening grape,/Then He will cut off the sprigs with pruning knives/And remove and cut away the spreading branches/They will be left together for mountain birds of prey,/And for the beasts of the earth;/And the birds of prey will spend the summer feeding on them,/And all the beasts of the earth will spend harvest time on them.’”
Light came through the stained-glass windows, bathing the altar in a prismatic glow. Mary beheld the lofty space. The Philipse siblings built this church. Each of them offered ideas for its interior. Frederick asked that vast semicircle arches be designed at the entrance between the large wooden Ionic columns to welcome visitors. Mary suggested the chamber organ with tall pipes and huge bellows; she loved the heavenly sounds that came from it. Susannah was quite specific that carvings of angels must be holding painted flowers to help introduce the altar’s grandeur.
Of course, there was the family’s other house of worship, which sat twelve miles north of the manor, at the place where the Pocantico River flowed into the Hudson. “The oldest ecclesiastical edifice in all of the New York Colony” is how Papa used to describe it. As a girl, Mary would clutch his hand tightly as he provided tours to guests. In 1697, her great-grandfather laid the pulpit with his own hands. The first Frederick’s initials were engraved into it. And Mary always admired the shape of the little chapel with its gambrel roof that spread out at the bottom. The words Si Deus Pro Nobis, Quis Contra Nos? could be found etched inside a bell in the belfry. It meant “If God be for us, who can be against us?” Papa showed this to her to help her find strength.
Mary adored the small church. As she grew older, though, her deep devotion could not help her overcome the hollowness she felt each Lord’s Day, for next to the chapel was the ground where they buried her mother, her father, and her sister Margaret. It was her brother who made the decision to build a new church, a grander one, that would allow Mary to worship free of heartache bathed in silent tears.
As she knelt this day, she opened to the back of the book, placed her hand on the pressed forget-me-not painted pale blue, and privately prayed:
Lord, I am shattered and I am frayed,
I pray what’s dead inside me can breathe again,
I pray to know when my struggle will cease,
I pray to know when my spirit can rise from the ashes,
Use me, Lord, to be a beacon in the darkness,
Let me, Lord, be the light.
Mary leaned forward to gaze across the aisle past Susannah and Beverley. George was there. Even kneeling, he could almost look Frederick, standing, in the eye.
“Polly, Polly.” Susannah tugged at her sleeve. “We must go. The service has concluded.”
Ariose singers raised their voices in song from under the cupola. Mary closed the psalmbook and adjusted the clasp, careful to keep the delicate flowers secure.
Following Susannah and Beverley, Mary, dressed in a deep red woolen cape, made her way down the long aisle and out the front door and onto the stone path. With one hand, Mary placed the hood over her head as she stood by her sister, who was complimenting ladies on the majestic costumes they had worn to the ball. She hardly heard the words, for she felt George’s eyes fixed on her. She clutched her hands inside a red feathered muff as she turned toward him. George stood at a distance, with a backdrop of the church’s elegant stone facade, appearing like nobility. She peeked around, thinking he must be staring at someone else. A state of uncertainty about his intentions remained, for they had not even bid each other good night.
Susannah disturbed her moment. “I have a word to tell you. Something that I have not heard from my true, since he forbade me to utter a breath about the conversation.”
“Regarding the colonel?”
“Yes, my dear Polly, about your George.”
Your George. Susannah’s reference ushered in that same tingle that she had experienced the night before. Just as her sister was to reveal information that Mary desperately wanted to hear, a man startled her.
“Such a radiant day is before us, Miss Polly.” Sheriff Delancey’s belly strained against the buttons of his tight vest.
“Mr. Delancey, a good day to you.” She hoped the conversation would be short.
His chin rose a bit higher as he spoke, looking down his nose to address her. “If I may, in correction, I carry the rank of captain.” He grabbed hold of one of the many medals he was wearing—there were far too many around his neck. “Upon my return from private studies abroad at Eton, then in Cambridge at my father’s alma mater, as you know, Corpus Christi College, I was admitted to the esteemed Lincoln’s Inn.” He showed her another medal. “Following my studies of law there, the army saw fit to have me named to the prestigious position of captain.” He lifted a different medal. “And, of course, the assignment of sheriff of our town was inevitable.”
Mary wondered when this conversation would end.
He continued after a brief pause. “And I’m sure you are well apprised that my father has granted a charter for the creation of a fine institution. King’s College is the name.”
“I’ve read the news.” She was thrilled to hear of the new institution being formed; however, she needed to turn away from him or else be fixated by his one raised eyebrow. She wondered if it was permanently lifted, or was it voluntary, like a pretentious move of some sort? Did he think it made him appear more refined?
“King’s College, established to enlarge the mind, improve the understanding, polish the whole man, and qualify him to support the brightest characters in all the elevated stations of life. The first of such kind in all of New York. King George the Second has looked favorably upon our colony.”
The eyebrow kept her focus.
“Do you know what is now positioned next to the educational building?”
It seemed he might go on forever.
“The finest racetrack in the entire of America.” He answered his own question.
Racetrack. Yes, she had heard this.
“It is my understanding you have a fondness for horses.”
“I ride a lovely horse, a fairly spirited one named Willoughby.”
“A stable full of them are in my possession. They are English Thoroughbreds that I purchased, the first imported into our colony. You must get a glimpse of them, if your spirit will allow you to be among the crowds of New York City. I will have an invitation sent over to you for the inaugural Subscription Plate taking place on my track, the first horse race in the colony. I acquired a sporting taste for racing while overseas. I get such amusement from watching them run. They are fine specimens.”
“Specimens?” She suddenly became miffed—both by his reference to horses and to her spirit. The Delanceys. She was sure they knew everything about her and her past.
“The finest anywhere in our New York.”
Mary could take no more of his puffery or his brow. She excused herself, moved away from him, and found Susannah, who was in deep conversation with Beverley. Mary lifted her face upward; a white snowflake landed gently on the tip of her nose, like a kiss from the sky.
Susannah tapped her on the shoulder. “He’s asked Beverley for an extended stay.”
“He?”
“Your George will be staying another night at the manor and will then ride with us to New York for days more, and, Polly, he just asked Frederick to be granted a proposal to wait upon you. I hope you are not disagreeable to it, since I’ve already confirmed your agreement to such an interview. What type of tea should be served?”
Mary had not gotten past the word proposal. It would be the first such interview she had granted in quite some time. “I am fond of ambrosia.” She could hardly even breathe.
“The food of the gods. Ambrosia and equal parts nectar. That will do. And Polly, I suggested the interview be held this afternoon.”