New York

  “There’s always my father’s farm to go to,” he told her. Further north, he’d already bought two thousand acres up in Dutchess County, which he was clearing. “Westchester and Dutchess counties will be the breadbaskets of the North,” he said. “And I’ll grow grain on every yard of land I own.” And if she sighed, the Quaker in her knew he was right.

  But from time to time she’d continued to wonder, what else could she do for her husband, within the city’s bounds? They had their house, their furniture, their portraits: what more remained?

  Why, a tomb. A mausoleum. If you couldn’t build a house in which to live a few years, you could, for far less expense, build a tomb in which to rest for all eternity. The mausoleum would honor her husband; she could be buried beside him; and their descendants after them. It was a project. You could employ an architect. You could show people the designs. For a month, now, she had been engaged on the business, but in secret. She meant to surprise her husband with it on New Year’s Day.

  And so when, at three o’clock that afternoon, her husband came home earlier than expected and discovered her with the architect and the plans, she was much put out.

  John Master gazed at the plan for his tomb. It was fit for a Roman emperor. He knew very well that some of the old landed families of the region—especially if they were Presbyterian—laughed at the pretensions of the New York merchants, and he didn’t entirely blame them. But as he gazed affectionately at his wife, he only remarked: “Why, Mercy, I’m little more than forty and you want to bury me already.” Then, since his loving wife’s only failing was that she did not always see a joke, and the preposterous magnificence of the tomb struck him once more, he sat down on a Chippendale chair and burst out laughing.

  But soon he got up and kissed his wife and told her he was grateful. And he smiled to himself at the discovery of her plan. For as it happened, he also had been preparing a surprise, for her. But of his secret, he thought with satisfaction, she still knew nothing at all.

  “Did James get back from Charlie White’s, by the way?” he asked; and was told he hadn’t. “Good,” he said. That probably meant the meeting was going well.

  At noon that day, Charlie White and his son were ready in front of their yard. The street on which they lived lay on the west side of Broadway, not far from Montayne’s Tavern, and about half a mile north of Trinity Church, which owned the land. If the streets in the fashionable quarters of the city were neatly cobbled and the houses made of brick, the streets up near the Common where Charlie lived were dirt, and the ramshackle houses made of unpainted clapboard. But the area was cheerful enough.

  In the yard behind them stood Charlie’s cart, with its number painted on it in red. Charlie had three boys and two girls. The oldest boy was a sailor, the next was a fireman, who rode proudly on one of the new fire engines sent over from London. Young Sam helped his father. Sam wasn’t sure what he felt about James Master coming to visit.

  “What am I supposed to do—take him with me selling oysters in the street?” he asked. Oysters, the poor man’s food. Sam often earned some extra money selling oysters.

  “Just be yourself,” replied his father. There was no need to say more. If rich young James Master should become Sam’s friend … Well, you never knew what a friendship like that might lead to.

  The fact was, Charlie White had become quite excited about this visit. After all these years, his childhood friendship with the Masters was to be renewed. Was it back to the old days?

  Last night, he’d told his family stories about the times he and John Master used to spend together. He’d had a few drinks during the evening. He may have boasted a little. His children had always known there had once been a friendship, but it had never seemed to amount to much, and their father seldom spoke of it. Hearing him that evening, therefore, they’d been a bit surprised, and quite impressed.

  His wife was less impressed. Mrs. White was a plump, comfortable woman. She loved Charlie, but after years of marriage, she knew his weaknesses. His carting business had never been as good as her father’s had been. He didn’t always concentrate on the work in hand. She was afraid that he was going to be disappointed with this encounter, and she certainly didn’t want their children getting any foolish ideas. Years of marriage to Charlie had left her skeptical.

  “So you had a few drinks with John Master, and invited his son round.”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” said Charlie. “It was his.”

  “When he was drunk.”

  “I’ve seen him drunk. He wasn’t drunk.”

  “You think rich young Master’s going to show up?”

  “I know he is. His father told me.”

  “Well, maybe he will, and maybe he won’t,” said his wife. “But I’ll tell you one thing, Charlie. John Master wants something. I don’t know what he wants, but when he’s got it, he’ll forget about you again, just like he did before.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Charlie. “He’s my friend.”

  His children were all looking at him. His wife said nothing.

  “You’ll see,” Charlie said.

  So now Charlie and Sam waited. The street was busy. Once in a while, a respectable person came by, but no sign of young James Master. A quarter of an hour passed. Sam glanced at his father.

  “He’ll come,” said Charlie.

  Another quarter-hour passed.

  At one o’clock, Charlie said to his son: “You can go in now, Sam.”

  But he himself remained, for a long time, staring up the street.

  At six o’clock that evening, James Master walked toward his home, and hoped his father was not there. He was still working out what he was going to say.

  He’d meant to go to Charlie White’s house. In a way, when you came to think of it, he’d almost done so. At least he’d set out for the place in good time. But something had held him back. He hadn’t really wanted to meet Sam White. Not that he looked down on poor people. It wasn’t that. But if only his father wouldn’t make all these arrangements for him.

  For he knew what this was, of course. It was another of his father’s plans for improving him. He thinks I need friends like Sam White, so I’ll understand the world and grow up like he did, he thought.

  And then, if only his father hadn’t kept reminding him about it, and giving him directions. You couldn’t tell him, of course, but it seemed to James, right now, that it was really his father’s fault more than his own that he hadn’t turned up.

  Perhaps it was just fate. He’d been on his way when he’d met a friend, which had caused a necessary delay. And after that, he’d still almost gone; but he realized that the delay with his friend had been so long, that it was too late to go now, anyway.

  So maybe the best thing to do was say that he couldn’t find the place and that he’d go back the next day. And he’d pretty much decided that was what he’d do, when he met his father just a minute sooner than he expected, in front of the house.

  “Well, James, did it go well?” His father was smiling expectantly. “Charlie’s quite a character, eh? And what’s Sam like? A chip off the old block?”

  “Well …” James looked at his father’s eager countenance. “No. He’s pretty quiet, I guess.”

  “But he was friendly, I hope. And you were too?”

  “Yes … Yes, I was.” He was getting in so deep now, where he hadn’t meant to. Should he break down and confess? His father would probably take a strap to him, but he didn’t mind that. It was the sense of disappointment the whole thing would create. He just wished he could get his father off his back.

  “So you’ll meet again?” his father said hopefully.

  “I reckon so. Don’t worry, Father, we’ll see each other if we want to.”

  “Oh.”

  “You should just leave it between us, Father.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Don’t worry, my boy. I won’t interfere.” And with that, his father let him escape into the house.

  Had he got away with i
t? He wasn’t sure. He knew his father didn’t see Charlie White too often, but they were sure to see each other, all the same. The best thing, he reckoned, would be to go round to Charlie White’s house the very next day, say he got the date wrong, and spend time with Sam. That would cover his tracks, pretty much, and make everything all right. And he very nearly did. But he put it off until so far into the afternoon that unfortunately, he realized, it was too late again. Same thing the next day. The third day, he was starting to put the whole thing behind him, when in the middle of the street, a cart with a red number painted on it stopped and the driver, a thickset man with a few days’ stubble, and a heavy leather coat, leaned down and asked him: “Would you be James Master?”

  “I might. Who’s asking?”

  “Name’s Charlie White. I had an idea you were coming round to my place the other day.”

  It was his chance. He could say he was just going round. Make his excuse. Make everything right. The work of a moment. Why didn’t he take it? Because some inner resistance to the whole thing, or maybe a stupid panic at being caught, suddenly intervened. He hardly knew what it was, or why it happened. Yet he heard himself say: “Not that I know of, Mr. White. Can I do something for you?” And it was said so politely, with a voice and expression of such perfect innocence, that Charlie White was taken in.

  “Nothing, young gentleman. My mistake. I must’ve gotten the wrong person.” And he whipped up his horse and drove his cart away.

  So his wife had been right, Charlie thought. After all his hopes had been raised, after he’d thought his so-called friend had felt some affection for him, Master hadn’t even told the boy at all. Just left him to look like a fool in front of Sam, and humiliated him in front of his family. He’d already had to endure his wife’s studied silence on the subject. He’d seen his children looking at him with a mixture of pity and mockery. Maybe John had forgotten, or changed his mind. Whatever the cause, it showed one thing. At the end of the day, a poor man’s feelings were of no account. There was no friendship, no respect, nothing but a rich man’s contempt. There was no other explanation. And from that day, though he never knew it, John Master had a secret enemy.

  John Master didn’t see Charlie White in the next couple of weeks. He once again asked James if he and Sam were meeting, but James had mumbled something evasive, so he’d let the matter drop. But he still might have looked in to see Charlie, if a small incident hadn’t occurred.

  His son James at the age of thirteen might be somewhat diffident, but his daughter Susan, who was three years older, and possessed his own striking blond good looks, was already a confident and popular young woman who was attracting the interest of the men of New York. Susan had a cheerful, easy-going character, but she already knew exactly what she wanted—which was to marry a man with a good-sized estate in Westchester or Dutchess county. And given her looks and fortune, there was no reason why she shouldn’t.

  So when the two young New Yorkers, both Yale men, came to dine at the house, Master had assumed that, with his daughter’s favor in prospect, they’d be equally anxious to get into his own good graces.

  If only the conversation had not turned to the subject of universities.

  If Massachusetts possessed Harvard College, and Connecticut had followed with Yale, New Yorkers came to think that they, too, should have a place of higher learning. So King’s College had been set up. It was only a small establishment, in the poor section of town where Charlie White lived—though it had pleasant gardens down to the Hudson River. Since Trinity Church had given the land for the college, the Trinity vestry reckoned it should be an Anglican foundation, and the English governor had agreed. But this had brought howls of rage from the other churches, especially the Presbyterians.

  Most of the rich city merchants like Master belonged to the Anglican Church. The Trinity crowd, some called them. And it was true that the Trinity crowd dominated the Assembly and most of the best appointments. So this attempt to control the new seat of learning as well was seen by all the other congregations as a monstrous abuse. Presbyterians said it was a conspiracy. Even poor folk, who might have small interest in the university, hurled insults at the privileged Anglicans. Tempers had run high. Master considered the whole thing was blown out of all proportion. And a compromise had been reached. But the business exposed much bad feeling in the city, and the rumblings could still be heard.

  The young Yale men had been Presbyterians. The discussion had become quite heated. And the young men had dared to insult him and call him a lackey of the governor—in his own house! He’d thrown them out after that, and Mercy and Susan had supported him. But for days afterward, John Master had felt irritable and ill at ease.

  And because Charlie White, who mightn’t have cared about the university himself, belonged to the class that had abused the Anglicans, John Master had experienced an unconscious aversion to seeing the carter and his family just then. It was quite unfair, and he was scarcely aware of it. But he hadn’t gone over to Charlie’s house, even by the year’s end.

  It was New Year’s Day when John Master announced his surprise. He led up to it gradually.

  “You know, Mercy,” he said, “the unpleasantness of those two Yale men and all the bad feeling over the university has been making me think, I wouldn’t mind getting away from the city for a while.”

  “We could stay in the country, John,” she suggested. “Or we could go to some of my relations in Philadelphia, if you like.”

  “There’s another problem though, which prevents my going away to either of those places,” he continued. “I’m concerned about all the business we have going through Albion’s, when I don’t really know them.”

  Five years ago, when his father’s old London agent had retired, he’d recommended that the Masters transfer the agency to the firm of Albion. The arrangement had worked well so far, but the relationship had been conducted entirely by letter; and with the London shipments increasing every year, John considered it was time he got to know the Albions personally, and assess them against the other trading houses.

  “What do you mean to do then?” she asked.

  “I thought,” and now his handsome face broke into a grin, “that I’d better go to London. And I wondered whether perhaps you’d like to come.”

  London

  1759

  OH TO BE in England. And here she was. On the very Thames itself, at the heart of Britain’s empire.

  Ships, towers, domes and church steeples lay crowded under the glittering sky. On the waterfront, the old gray Tower of London spoke for antiquity. On the ridge above, the great dome of Protestant St. Paul’s looked so stately, majestic and dependable. With joy and excitement Mercy prepared to set foot, at last, on dry land.

  And for all its faults—the sooty fogs from five centuries of coalfires, an underclass addicted to cheap gin, the vast discrepancies between rich and poor—London was a glorious place. It was by far the largest city in Europe. The crooked, rat-infested alleys of the medieval city had mostly disappeared in the Great Fire of the previous century—though magnificent gothic halls and churches still remained—to be replaced by the splendid streets and squares of Georgian houses that spread in a huge sweep from the city to Westminster. To think that it was all, for months, to be hers. Why she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Except for young James, that was.

  The arrangements John Master had made before leaving New York had been simple. He had a clerk he trusted to take care of his regular business at the warehouse. The rum distillery foreman was likewise a good man. The land in Dutchess County was under the tight control of an agent, who also collected the numerous property rents in the city. As for the family house, that was no trouble at all. Hudson would look after that. But nonetheless, he needed someone to oversee the whole, and also to keep track of the various interest payments due from a number of reputable businesses in the city. For since, unlike London, New York still had no banks, Master and other merchants of his kind made most
of the loans necessary to the business of the place.

  So his father Dirk had agreed to come back to the city, and live in the house while John was away. John wasn’t sure that his father particularly wanted to do it, but he’d agreed with good grace, and there was certainly no one better fitted for the task.

  It had also solved one other problem.

  Mercy had been disappointed when her daughter Susan had not wanted to accompany them to London, but she had understood it. It was not that Susan was lacking in affection for her parents or interest in the world. But everything she already wanted was in the New York colony—her friends, the man, whomever he might be, that she would one day marry. The ocean crossing to London was not a small undertaking and it might be a year before they were back. To a girl of Susan’s age that seemed a long time, a year of her life given up for no future purpose, and that could have been better spent in America. To argue with her was pointless. They could force her to go, but at the end of the day, for what purpose? She wasn’t going to change her mind. And the presence of her grandfather in the house meant that she could be safely left there under his care.

  But James was another matter. When he’d confessed to his mother that he had no desire to go to London either, she’d told him frankly: “Your father is quite decided that you should come, James.” And seeing her son look vexed: “It would break his heart if you didn’t, you know.”

  She wasn’t surprised. Boys of that age were often moody. It made it worse that he was the only son and that his father’s hopes were centered on him. It was only natural that John was forever making plans for the boy, and just as natural that James should feel oppressed. But she really couldn’t see what was to be done. “Your father loves you, and means only for your good,” she would remind her son. And in her opinion, her husband was right. James should certainly come to London; and she told him so herself.