City of Dreams (84 page)

Roisin looked at the pockmarked woman. “Lay down right there on the floor. And spread your legs.”

“How bad’s it gonna hurt?” the woman asked, though she did as Roisin said without hesitation.

“This part won’t hurt at all. Tomorrow when you come back it will hurt a lot. But afterward you won’t be breeding.”

“Thanks be to the Virgin and all the holy saints,” the woman whispered, looking fearfully not at Roisin but at the old hag in the corner.

“Martha’s my friend,” Roisin said. “You’ve nothing to fear from her.” She pushed up the woman’s homespun skirt and her none-too-clean petticoats. Her privates smelled like fish too long ashore and her belly was distended, but when Roisin put her hand on it she felt nothing that could be a heartbeat. Hunger, most likely, not a babe grown enough to show. A diet of nothing but oysters and weak ale like all New York’s poor, no wonder the creature’s stomach stuck out beyond her bony hips and her dried-up, used-up twat.

Her own stomach was still completely flat. But soon her babe would quicken.

Roisin reached for the piece of the orange sea plant she’d previously cut off, twisted into a tight coil, and bound with hemp.

“Sweet God Almighty!” Martha Kincaid exclaimed, bending forward to see better. “What are you shoving into her twat?”

“What I need to,” Roisin said sharply. “It must be left in until this hour tomorrow. Do you hear me, Mary Flanagan?”

“Aye, I do.”

“In Jesus’ name, girl,” Martha demanded, “how’s she supposed to piss? She can’t hold her water til this time tomorrow, whatever you say.”

“She can piss with no bother at all,” Roisin said. “You hear that, Mary? You can piss fine with this pessary inside you. Shit as well, for that matter. Only be certain the pessary doesn’t come out. If it does, use your fingers to put it back. Shove it in as far as it will go. Like this.” She prodded the bit of orange stuff in farther. The woman grunted in discomfort.

She’d scream her head off tomorrow. Most of them did that. But they didn’t bleed to death afterward. The pessary made of the gift from the sea would open the way to the womb. After that it would be easy to scrape out what was growing inside. Roisin had watched her mother do it many a time. It hurt something fierce. The women all shrieked as if they were being killed, but it didn’t take long and nothing came out except a blob of mucus and blood. Surely to God, that could be no babe ensouled.

V

The library of James De Lancey’s country seat was a spacious square room with long windows open to the freshness of the summer morning. The hour was early and nothing stirred on Bouwery Lane. The cool green canopy of shade in his front garden was irresistible.

De Lancey picked up the letter that had been delivered the night before, and the goblet of mulled wine that was his customary morning drink, and stepped outside. Stinking heat later. Nothing could prevent that in New York in July. But these few perfect moments were his to savor.

The orange lilies were coming to flower. A fine sight. He noticed beetle-browed Philip Thomas bringing them a bucket of water and nodded. “Good morning, Philip.”

“Morning, Your Excellency.”

“The lilies are doing well.”

“Yes, Your Excellency. Very well indeed.”

“Give them as much water as they need, Philip. No slacking. I brought the bulbs from home last year, you remember. I’m anxious for them to do well.”

“Aye, Your Excellency, I remember. No slacking on the water. Certainly not.” Born here, the man was, but when he said “home” he meant England. Damned fools all the rich was, the governor no different from the rest. Money and power addled their brains.

De Lancey wandered off, sipping his wine and holding his unopened letter. The bees were busy at a stand of lavender, and he watched their industry for some moments. Clever creatures, bees. Each one knew its job and did it. Made for a peaceful life.

His job was to read the God-cursed letter.

He’d already procrastinated longer than he should. The quarterly report from his allies in Parliament had been delivered late the previous day. It would be bad news, of course. It was always bad news. But it was the only thing that kept him one step ahead of the mad schemes the fools in London thought up to plague the colonies. Particularly now with His Gracious Majesty George III on the throne at the green age of twenty-two. God keep this province safe from the goose-traps made by greedy advisers to inexperienced boy kings.

De Lancey drank the last of the wine, then turned and went inside. He sat down at his desk and prepared to break the circle of red wax that sealed the letter.

“Grandpapa, you told me you’d read to me this morning. You said if I got up early you would.”

De Lancey smiled indulgently at his youngest grandchild. She was still in her nightdress, her pudgy face flushed with sleep, one hand trailing a doll. “So I did. Very well, come and choose a book. But only for a few minutes, remember,” he added trying to sound stern. “Then I must work.”

He got up from the desk and went to the shelf where he kept the books that were suitable for the young. “Now, will it be—” A sudden pain. De Lancey clutched at his chest.

“Grandpapa! What is it? Grandpapa!”

The little girl dropped her doll and pressed both hands to her mouth. She watched in wide-eyed terror as her grandfather staggered a few steps and fell with a thud. For long moments she stared at the crumpled heap on the floor; then she turned and ran screaming from the library.

Summoned by the child’s scream Philip Thomas rushed into the room through the long windows. She’d left the hall door open behind her and he could still hear her shouts, and the answering stir from the sleeping house. “Governor? It’s me, sir, Philip.”

Christ Almighty. Nothing to be done for the thing on the floor. His Excellency the Lieutenant Governor of New York was as dead as any man could be, rich or poor.

Footsteps raced toward the library. The entire household was coming. In seconds they’d all be there, setting up a wailing and a weeping, slaves and indentures and servants as well as kin. As if the frigging governor be their own blood. Not him. He’d never mistook the side of his johnnycake as had the syrup.

“Lying there on the Turkey carpet he was, mistress. Both eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling, though he couldn’t see a thing. I promise you that. Dead as sure as I be breathing.”

“Yes, Philip, I’ve no doubt you’re right,” Squaw said. “And you just happened to be the first to discover him?”

“No, mistress. Didn’t happen like that. Watering the lilies, I was. So’s I heard the little girl scream and went in and there he be.” Thomas reached into his pocket and brought out the letter. “There was this as well. Gets letters like this regular, the governor does. From London. I be telling you that afore.”

“Yes, Philip, you have told me. Many times.”

“Right, well, I never had no chance to bring you one afore now. Saw my way clear this time, so I did it. Grabbed the letter off the desk and came straight here. Out the front gate I was, afore any of ’em had even gotten to the library to find him lying there. On the Turkey carpet. Eyes all open and staring.”

“Thank you, Philip. I understand. But are you quite sure this letter won’t be missed?”

Thomas drew his bushy eyebrows together and vigorously shook his head. “Certain, Mistress. Ain’t nobody in the house what’s to do with His Excellency’s gov’mint, only the family. The letter came last night, near midnight. I let in the redcoat what brought it me own self. Brought him straight to the governor, I did. Nobody else knew nothing about it.”

She was glad of the veil. He couldn’t see any hint of excitement she might fail to hide. “Well, I’m pleased to have it, Philip. You did well to bring it here. Though I’ve little interest in politics, of course.” Her voice was absolutely neutral. “But there might be something useful. And you were quick-witted, there’s no denying that.” She opened the drawer of her writing table and withdrew an iron shilling. “Something extra for your trouble.”

Philip Thomas left looking mightily pleased.

Dear God in heaven, so was she. It almost didn’t matter what was in the letter, though there was sure to be something. A personal letter from London addressed to simply J.D.L. and brought to his country residence at midnight. It was bound to discuss mischief of one sort or another. But even without that, this was a great good morning.

She got up from the desk, pressed the letter to her heart, and unable to contain her excitement any longer, spun around in a few quick turns that belled out the taffeta skirts of her somber dress. James De Lancey was dead! Dead! Dead! The best possible news she could have.

The excitement left her as suddenly as it had come. She was deflated, the anguish she’d lived with for the nine months of Morgan’s absence settling like a blanket around her bent shoulders. Oh, Morgan, Morgan, how long will it take for you to realize everything I did was for you. Morgan’s forgiveness, that would be the best news.

Maybe not. Maybe the best would be …

She glanced up at the ornate plaster ceiling, conscious of the attic room above her head where Solomon brooded on his demons. Every few months she went up there in the dead of night, when no one was awake. Praying that this time would be different.

It was always the same.

She’d listen at his door first. Then, when she heard nothing, she’d open it. Every single time Solomon instantly knew she was there. He’d sit up in his bed, and lift his one arm and point at her with the remaining two fingers. “Devil’s strumpet!” he’d hiss. “Whore! Stinking cunt fishwife!”

How could he hate her so much? Once, he’d loved her as much as he hated her now.

The best news would be if Solomon and Morgan both forgave her for doing what she’d had to do. If they loved her again.

No use asking for what you could not have: another of the lessons life had taught her. But this was a fine morning nonetheless.

She went to the table that had the decanter of canary wine and poured herself a glass. Slowly, turning away from the window and facing the wall, she folded back her veil so she could sip the drink. I hope you rot in hell, James De Lancey, but I bless you for dying while Cadwallader Colden lives. Colden’s the senior member of the Common Council and he will take your place as lieutenant governor. And, God willing, London will be as reluctant to send us a new royal governor as they have been these many years past, so Colden will stay in the post until he, too, drops dead.

Not long, perhaps. He was seventy-some, after all. But, pray God, long enough. Colden’s connection to Caleb has never been more than easy money for him. Now he can be made to turn against my dear, dear cousin. The Devrey link will be an embarrassment to the new governor. He’ll not want to show favoritism, for one thing, or be made to acknowledge the land deals he made in the Devrey interest while Will was alive. For another, Bede Devrey is one of the strongest voices among the men of business who oppose London’s excesses. It won’t do for His Majesty’s Governor to be tied to such people. James De Lancey was too powerful for me to oppose him head-on. But Cadwallader Colden, oh yes, yes, yes! A pot waiting to be stirred. Even without whatever choice bits this blessed letter provides.

Half an hour later she’d finished reading.

Plans to meddle with the system of trial by jury. Plans to increase the fines for trading with the enemy in the West Indies. Plans to prohibit the issuing of paper money anywhere in the colonies. Plans, God help them all, to impose a direct tax. It would no longer be enough merely to import the colonials’ raw materials at a price infinitely more favorable to England than to America, or to sell the colonists every manufactured thing required for daily life at exorbitant prices and forbid them to make what they needed here or buy it elsewhere.

The King is advised to levy a Duty on all Paper and Paper Products. A Stamp will be required to be affixed to such prior to every Sale. Monies paid to purchase the Stamps will go directly to the Royal Treasury for Maintenance of the Troops
.

Squaw DaSilva paled beneath her veil. London dipping directly into the pockets of the colonials. Here was mischief beyond anything she had ever contemplated. If George III followed such advice, God help England as well as America. The king would be kindling a fire that would incinerate them both.

Book Six