November 14-16, 1777
She had barely finished bidding her good-byes to Mercy and the Van Allens when the door of the shining yellow coach swung open from within and Peter stepped down into the spill of light from hanging lanterns. How she managed to traverse the short distance from the steps at the front door and into his waiting arms seemed miraculous. How, without exertion, she came to be beside him, their bodies close, on the cushioned carriage seat boggled her mind. With her spirits soaring, heart racing and thoughts in a muddle, even the words they exchanged were lost to the exhilaration he inspired.
Amid the swaying and jostling, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of wheels over cobblestones, she reveled in the honeyed taste of his mouth and his hands, skillfully exploring under her cloak. His deep, warm scent intoxicated her senses.
“Let me look at you.” His breath rustled like a summer breeze on her throat, and he settled back in the seat, his eyes sparkling from within the shadows enveloping his face. “I’ve missed you so horribly.”
“As I’ve missed you.”
Even in the dark, the changes in Peter’s appearance were obvious and extraordinary. From head to foot, he seemed a new man, with his fashionable clothes and stylishly queued hair, now quite disheveled. And the coach and two fine horses….
Before she could gather her thoughts to speak again, he leaned close, and crushing her into the corner, trailed kisses from the top of her head to her jaw.
“You look well,” he said. “Positively radiant!”
“Being with you does that to me.”
She nipped gently at his lips grazing her mouth with the touch of a whisper. He kissed her again, deeply, probing. With his hands and his mouth and his closeness, he stirred her near the point beyond bearing. When he came up for air, she moaned, as the cold washed over her.
With tremulous fingers, he traced the line of her mouth. “Not here, my love. I have in mind something less jarring.” He turned his attention past her to the window. “But look. We’re almost there.”
Senses in a whirl, she sat up and, straightening her clothes, followed his gaze.
As they traveled north on Bowery Lane, a full moon had risen, hanging large and low over the East River, illuminating the landscape in a widening swath of pale light. Trees and shrubs, mostly divested of leaves, lined the wide lanes on either side. Houses, imposing in size and resplendent with light in their windows, stood at the ends of long avenues amid gardens and orchards. And with the shift in scenery, so too the feel and sound of the road had changed. For quite some time, the cobblestones of city streets had given way to hard packed earth and gravel.
“Where are we going?”
“I should have you close your eyes until we arrive. I want this to be a surprise.”
“I believe I’ve had enough surprises for one day.”
“Then look there….”
The carriage had taken a left turn onto one of the narrow avenues. A few houses, much smaller and far less grand than the mansions they had passed, stood sparsely placed, dark, and seemingly uninhabited. Save one with a single candle burning in a south facing window.
“Forgive me, darling,” he said with a sheepish smile as the carriage rolled to a stop. “It’s not made of brick, and it has but the one floor. I didn’t have time to have it painted yellow, but that’s a minor concern. After all, you might decide that another color suits us better.”
He handed her down from the vehicle and with her bundle of clothes in one hand, he slipped her arm through his. “Welcome home, Mrs. Marlowe.”
She could not find words to express her astonishment.
“This is not what we discussed, I admit, but it’s the best I could do, given the time and circumstances. I hope it pleases you.”
The modest clapboard house faced south, its pane glass windows with shutters open. The few strategically placed trees would provide ample shade in the summer months. She envisioned a simple garden and drinking tea on the lawn. In the light of the moon, it appeared to be everything she could ever want or hope for.
“Tell me I’m not dreaming.” Tears of joy filled her eyes.
* * *
Peter lit a fire in the grate, but even as he fanned and fed the flames until they roared and crackled, the blaze did little to relieve the small parlor of its chill and musty smell. When he turned to her, clapping ash from his hands, his smile reminded her of that of a little boy who’d been caught in the act of stealing sweets.
“Well then…what do you think?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “Tomorrow I’ll show you around. There’s a mews out back and the view of the river is…. But as you can see, there is much work to be done.” He strode across the sparsely furnished room to where she sat in one of the two wooden chairs on either side of a small side table. His footfalls resounded with a hollow echo. “Are you hungry?”
The rumbling from her stomach was answer enough.
“Wait here.” He rushed off through an arched doorway into the kitchen at the rear of the house.
Alone, she wandered to the window and ran her hand along the dusty sill. The glass panes needed washing; one could barely see through the smoky residue. They would need curtains as well…and upholstered furniture, and rugs. She had a preference for Persian rugs, but even a simple braided rug would do, even if she made it herself. But first the room would receive a proper airing.
He returned in a short while with a basket and a blanket, which he spread on the bare floor in front of the fireplace. He removed his coat, laying it out on the blanket, then he settled down and crossed his legs Indian style. “Come, Mrs. Marlowe.” He patted the coat. “Sit by me and we shall feast on cold chicken and bread.” He rummaged through the basket. “And apples!” He plucked a piece of fruit from the basket and took a healthy bite. “Mr. Schoonhoven has done well! There’s even a jug of cider.” He laid out the repast on a calico napkin.
She moved into the warmth and light of the fire. “Who is Mr. Schoonhoeven?”
“He came with the house.” Peter laughed softly. “A jack of all trades is Johannes Schoonhoeven. He was the fellow that drove the coach for us. He lives above the mews. He’ll be by in the morning to light the kitchen fire, and then he’ll go about his business unless I need him. Of course we’ll have to hire a woman for your needs.”
“Is this house really ours?” She lowered herself onto his coat and sat with her legs tucked under.
“It is for the time being.”
She sensed evasion in his tone as he munched on the apple. “What does that mean?”
“Actually, it’s not ours. It’s rented.”
“For how long?”
He shifted his position to face her fully. “For as long as is necessary.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’ve rented it…with an option to purchase it…or until something better comes along.”
He extended the half-eaten apple, which she took but merely turned it in her hand as she gathered her thoughts. “Then, your business with the shipping merchant was concluded successfully?”
“Not only that. I’m to be taken on as a partner. That is, as soon as I become acquainted with all facets of the trade. Mr. Reade…that is his name. Charles Reade. Mr. Reade is a generous fellow. He’s given me an advance on my wages and a key to the house.”
“That is indeed generous.” She wondered if Mr. Reade was aware of Peter’s former allegiances.
He studied her face in the fire’s glow and his smile turned reassuring. “The house was unoccupied. Mr. Reade’s former tenant…one Captain Jamieson, an officer in Washington’s army, escaped to New Jersey last year after the British sent the lot of them running. It’s called Winne Street, if anyone should ask where you reside. Winne Street between Bayard and St. Nicholas.”
Digesting his tale, she bit into the apple.
“And that is all, my love. It’s all as I’ve said.”
Although she wanted more than anything to believe him, something deep inside warned that nothing was at it seemed. She pushed the thought from her mind and forced a smile. “Why should I not believe you?”
He shrugged. “I know what you’re thinking. You know the life I led.” He leaned close. “But I told you, Anne. More than once. I am finished with that.”
“Yes, my darling.” She pecked him on the lips. It was vital that she change the subject. “Now you must tell me. Where is Rene? I thought he traveled with you.”
Peter twisted a leg joint from the chicken and offered it to her. She held up her hand and took another bite from the apple.
“Who knows with LeClair? I suppose he is pursuing his own interests.” Peter hungrily attacked the chicken leg. “He’s like a shadow. He watches over me. He’ll appear out of nowhere and then one won’t see hide nor hair of him for a week. You wouldn’t think a man as big as LeClair could find it so easy to appear and disappear at will.” He tossed the bone onto the cloth and used a corner of it to wipe off his hand.
“I had hoped to see him.”
“Perhaps you will.”
“If not for Rene, we wouldn’t be together.”
His eyes met hers in the glow of fire and moonlight. “You have no idea how much I want you. Right now, this moment.”
She smiled coyly. “What stops you?”
“It’s been such a short time since you…I don’t want to hurt you.”
Seven weeks had passed since she lost the baby and nearly her own life. “My sweet husband!” She caressed his face with her fingertips. “The only way you will ever hurt me is if you stop loving me.”
He took her face in his hands. “The hills shall fly, my little turtle dove,” he quoted from the song Martha Hendrick had sung on their wedding night. “The roaring billows burn, before my heart shall suffer me to fail, or I a traitor turn, my dear. Or I a traitor turn.” And he kissed her fully, passionately on the mouth.
* * *
Anne could not recollect if she had slept. The fire had gone out; she could not recall when. It might have been hours ago. The sky through the east-facing bedroom window remained dark, with no sign of dawn. Perhaps she had dozed, unlike Peter, who slumbered soundly, his hand on her breast, his sleepy breath on her neck, the warmth of him against her back.
Their love making had been long and sweet, and he was especially gentle, as if afraid of doing harm to her already barren womb.
He had been so reassuring. “There will be other children. We’ll start now! We’ll have dozens of children. And I’ll see to it that every one of them lives to drive my poor Anne mad with their attentions.”
He believes that.
She had not the heart to tell him. How she wished she could tear the knowledge of Grace’s prescience from her memory.
In the first gray light of dawn, she studied the shadowy lines of her palms.
“’Tis a strong hand,” Mercy had said, translating her sister’s grunts and gestures. “The lines are fine and well-marked. You will find what you seek! Oh, that is good! The main lines are deep. They speak of strong emotions. They also imply inner turmoil. Here…the Mount of Mercury is well defined. It tells of perseverance…and stubbornness.”
Anne had laughed out loud, but it was forced and uncomfortable. Too much of her soul was there to be read like a book.
Grace held her hand to the candle light, her head bent close, her broad face expressionless as she traced the lines one-by-one with a leathery fingertip.
“Here….” Mercy pointed to a mark that engaged her sister’s attention. “There’s a cross on the Mount of Saturn.”
“What does that mean?” Anne tried to peek at her own palm.
Grace went through a series of hand gestures.
Mercy laid a plump hand on Anne’s shoulder. “What’s that? You’re going too fast, Grace. She wants you to show her the other hand.”
Grace pored over both hands. The wavering candle flame flickered its heat over her fingers, yet her palms were clammy cold. She shuddered as the silence lengthened. Mercy’s hand tightened on her shoulder. With a somber countenance, Grace indicated to Mercy the white scars intersecting the lines called ‘the head’ and ‘the heart.’
“Those are from the time when Arthur….” Anne explained, her mouth dry. “They’re from his sword.”
Grace made no response. Her face grew grim.
“What is it?” A cold shudder ran down her spine. “What do you see?”
Grace signaled to her sister, then bent lower, studying the faint lines on Anne’s wrists before launching into a guttural babble and fluttering her hands. Mercy turned her gaze to the floor. Her face remained hidden in shadow while Grace renewed her investigation with the meticulousness of someone searching for a pin on the floor.
“Mercy…?” Anne’s voice rasped against her throat.
Mercy leaned close to her sister. “Are you certain, dear?”
Grace nodded slowly, her eyes closed tight behind the magnifying lenses of her spectacles.
“Well…?” Anne could barely force the word. Tense with apprehension, she focused on Grace’s angular face in the pulsing light. She turned to Mercy.
“You’ll not….” Mercy stifled a gasp. She tapped her sister’s hand. “Oh, Grace, you can’t be so certain! Look again. Is it possible you’ve misread it?” Grace sat still. “Oh, dear! Oh, my dove! How can I speak when my heart is breaking for you?”
Anne tried to smile though she shuddered inside. “It can’t be so terribly bad, can it?”
“There are some things that are best left to silence.”
“I’m not afraid. I need to know!”
Mercy sighed. “She says you’ll not…you’ll not…she says you will never bear children.”
Grace’s eyes were opened wide. Her thick-lipped mouth gaped, then quickly clamped shut. A short burst of breath whistled through her lips before she closed her eyes again.
Lying in bed in the rented house on Winne Street between Bayard’s Lane and St. Nicholas, as the morning glow brightened in the east-facing window, Anne rolled her hands into fists.
“Even at such a cost,” she whispered to herself those same words that had given her strength and purpose. “Even at such a cost, it is well worth the happiness we will find in the end.”
She regarded her husband as he slept, and kissed his forehead. “We will find it together, Peter. It’s in my hands.”
He stirred. From the depths of his dreams, he murmured softly, smiling, and wrapped his arm more securely around her.
She closed her eyes, allowing the deep, sweet smell of him to envelop her. “But of course it’s all nonsense. We will have children. Dozens of children….”
The heaviness of sleep deprived her of thought.
* * *
“Awake, my love. The day awaits us.”
She blinked open her eyes and yawned and stretched. Already dressed, Peter sat on the edge of the bed observing her with an amused grin. Sunlight streamed into the room, burning her eyes with its brightness.
“We must find curtains.” She turned her head away from the light, pulling up the blankets.
“I’ll add that to my list.”
“What is the time?” She tossed off the blankets and, shivering in bare feet and shift, gathered her clothes from the floor.
“I haven’t a clue, but Mr. Schoonhoeven has made a fire in the kitchen. He’s also cooked some porridge, but I advise against eating it.” He strode to her and helped her into her stays. “Mr. Schoonhoeven is a man of many talents, but culinary skills don’t number among them. Did you taste the chicken last night? It was burned to a crisp.”
The mention of food made her stomach grumble. “I think I shall have some anyway.”
“Perish the thought, Mrs. Marlowe. I have other plans.”
She started to slip on the jacket.
“I think you should put on the blue skirt with the white striped bodice you wore on our wedding day.” He had already started rifling through her bundle on the floor by the window.
“I’m amazed you noticed what I wore.” In spite of its age, the skirt and jacket were the finest things she owned. Next to him in his newly tailored coat, waistcoat and breeches, and the bright whiteness of his shirt, surely she would appear dowdy and old fashioned.
“I notice everything about you.” He draped the garments over his arm.
With no mirror to be found, she put her trust in Peter’s judgment that she was presentable. She imagined he would agree even if she were dressed in sackcloth with her hair in a tangle.
She saw it in the way he looked at her.
* * *
The long wooden shed that was the Oswego Market bustled with activity. Savory aromas of warm meat pies mingled with dried herbs and spices, chocolate and coffee beans. Vendors hawked wares from carts and stalls—anything and everything from carpentry tools to sewing notions. As Anne and Peter browsed the variety of goods, squeezing past a knot of women haggling over the price of a bolt of Irish linen or a group of his majesty’s soldiers admiring a brace of pistols, they shared a quantity of sugared almonds from a sheet of paper twisted into a cone. Anne had protested when, despite the exorbitant price of the comfits, Peter bought more than either of them could possibly eat. Bolts of calicos, silks, and brocades caught her attention. Perhaps she could make curtains from this one or that.
Peter smiled a vacant smile and nodded absently, as if his mind were elsewhere. She sensed he cared nothing for the coarse but inexpensive gray woolen fabric she found at a weaver’s stall. It would make a warm cloak for her, she had said, but instead of agreeing with her, he took her by the elbow and led her out to street. Doubling his steps, he guided her down the Broad Way toward Wall Street.
“Where are you taking me in such a hurry?”
“Have patience and you will soon find out.” Peter flashed her a smile that said he wasn’t about to tell her.
As the weather had turned mild with the progression of the day, the streets bustled with activity. Carriages passed, swaying and rattling over cobblestone streets. Men in red coats wended their way on horseback and on foot, marching in formation to and from the fort. Well-dressed pedestrians, some aimlessly sauntering by in twos and threes, others with some place important to go, jostled past focused on the street ahead.
“I suspect you have more surprises in store.”
Before he could answer, a group of fashionably attired young men passed from the opposite direction. One paused.
“Marlowe…?”
Peter stopped and turned. His hand tensed and relaxed, then he released her elbow altogether. “Mr. Axtel! How auspicious we should meet again.” He extended his hand.
“I was about to say the same.” He grasped Peter’s hand and gave it a vigorous shake. “Have you reconsidered our invitation?”
Anne looked from one to the other as the two men smiled and held each other’s gaze. Each appeared at ease under the other’s scrutiny, but something akin to tension prickled on the air.
“I thought I made myself clear.” Peter slipped her arm through his. “I am not a fighting man.”
“’Tis a pity. The parade is to be held on Monday. It promises to be an impressive display. We had hoped you would have a change of heart and join us.” Mr. Axtel’s eyes wandered to her face and down to her feet and up again. “I assume this lovely lady is—”
“Do forgive me, Axtel. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Lady Anne. Darling, this gentleman is John Axtel, recently appointed lieutenant in the governor’s new militia.”
Axtel removed his cocked hat and bowed stiffly in deference to her rank. “Lady Anne…your husband has told me of your plight. I wish I had happy tidings for you.”
She nodded politely. “You are most kind, sir.”
Peter laid his other hand over her arm, as if to lead her away as quickly as possible. “I regret that our schedule does not allow us more time, Axtel. Perhaps we can arrange to meet under more favorable circumstances. Tuesday would be agreeable, if you mean to discuss business.”
“I will consult my calendar.”
“You’ll find me at the Merchants Coffee House between one and four o’clock.”
“I will consider it. A pleasure, my lady.” Axtel bowed again as Peter hustled her away.
Walking briskly, silently arm-in-arm, she struggled to keep up. When at last he moderated his pace, Peter had grown reticent, his face expressionless, his eyes a closed window to his thoughts.
“How did you become acquainted with Mr. Axtel?” It was an innocent question, but her instincts told her not to pursue the matter.
The sound of her voice brought a sparkle to his eyes. “What did you say?”
“Mr. Axtel seems a proper gentleman.”
“Yes…he is a proper gentleman, one with connections in high places.” He shot her his most charming smile. “I must cultivate the fellowship of such men with connections…if I am to earn my place as a respectable man in this town.” He squeezed her arm, and led her down Wall Street as gray clouds passed over the face of the midday sun. “But we’re nearly there…and ahead of schedule.”
A bell jangled cheerfully as Peter opened the door to the shop and ushered her inside.
Moore and Kekr considered theirs to be a fine shop at the corner Wall and Broad Streets. A broadside in the window proclaimed a variety of commodities to be had at a fair price, including “an assortment of yard wide Irish linens, choice Irish mess pork in barrels, men’s and women’s shoes, French lint for surgeons, a few quarter chests of Green Tea, leather Portmanteaus, Needles and Fish hooks….” The list continued. They also employed a Widow Phillips, seamstress and dressmaker.
“Wait here.” Peter disappeared through an archway into a back room, leaving her to wander among bolts of cloth, finished aprons and hanging lanterns, boxes of buttons and jars of sugar candy. But what caught her attention was a cloak of scarlet wool draped over a dressmaker’s form where it caught the afternoon sun as it emerged from its cover of clouds and streamed through the window panes. She ran her hands over the fine English wool, admiring its flowing folds and satin lining.
“Do you like it?”
Peter’s voice took her by surprise and she turned with a gasp. A stout matronly woman stood behind him and behind her, a young shop girl with an armful of half-finished gowns and petticoats.
“Don’t be shy, darling. I think it suits you. But that can wait for now. Go with this good woman. Mrs. Phillips was recommended by some of the most fashionable ladies in New York.”
Anne eyed the assortment of garments hanging from the girl’s arms.
“What have you done?”
“I took the liberty of engaging Mrs. Phillips’s services shortly after I arrived. I reckoned there would be plenty of time. Now, all that remains is the final fitting. I’ve been assured all will be finished by Tuesday afternoon.”
As Mrs. Phillips led her, overwhelmed and speechless, into a small room at the back of the shop, she wondered how Peter could afford to be so extravagant.
* * *
By nightfall, when they returned to their little rented house on Winne Street, too much food and wine had dulled her senses; too much laughter had drained her energies. Sitting in the sagging, squealing bed with her head on her husband’s shoulder, Anne studied the cards laid out across her lap. Peter gently chided as she laid the ace of clubs over the queen of spades. Even their foolish game of patience strained her faculties, as she found it more and more difficult to concentrate. Weariness settled like a fog over her senses. She could barely keep her eyes open.
Peter snatched up the ace and replaced it with the knave of spades from the neglected stack of cards in her lap.
The firelight danced on his head, and she remembered how, earlier in the day, the sunlight glinted on the traces of summer in his hair. The air had been brisk and cool in the warm sunlight when they left the shop to find Mr. Schoonhoeven waiting for them with the carriage. The remainder of the afternoon was spent walking hand-in-hand through Ranelagh Gardens, where they drank tea and ate sandwiches and watched the elite of New York as if on display.
The day passed all too quickly, filled with congenial talk and pleasant recollection, and not an untoward thought to disrupt the rhythms of their laughter. Now, as she hovered between sleep and a wakefulness she was loath to relinquish, she fingered the filigreed glass bubble on the chain around her neck, and she smiled. Yes, all will be well.
Peter kissed her tenderly and pulled the blanket to her shoulders.
She yawned. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, then popped open. “Oh, Peter! With all that’s happened, it completely slipped my mind. I am to see Mr. Gaine on Monday. About my father’s advertisement. You will come with me, won’t you?”
He said nothing but smiled and kissed her cheek. Soon he was asleep, and she sank back into the pillows. The firelight cast dark, twisting shadows along the length of the ceiling.
* * *
Sunday passed quietly, with no other mention of Mr. Gaine or her father. And as Rene LeClair stopped by, her thoughts could not have been further from her impending visit. The three spent the evening seated on the parlor floor, talking and laughing. They ate warm bread and cold beef and cheese and fruit and drank wine from the basket prepared by Mr. Schoonhoeven. The men smoked and conversed well into the night, long after she had excused herself.
The night was never-ending, as she tossed and turned, anticipating the news she craved.