AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(16)
“But you do not, alas.” Sutcliff smiled amicably and popped another shelled walnut into his mouth. “Betting man that I am, I would wager that Cromwell feels my mission overrides yours.”
Odd’s fish, the man was a most contemptable cur. No loyalties. Playing side against side. Even his long mane of hair bore witness to the savage he was.
How galling that Sutcliff had free run of the colonies, while he himself was, for all intents and purposes, restricted by Maritime Law to plying the waters offshore in a show of colors to the Dutch settlements. His few excursions ashore had been fruitless but fortunately had not aroused protest from any of the various colonies, yet.
With scant patience, William grunted and brushed away the crushed walnut hulls that littered his desk. “I am devoutly hoping, of course, you won’t finalize the land purchase. Because nothing could give me greater pleasure than returning to Whitehall with your mission failed.”
Sutcliff laughed. “But you won’t experience that pleasure. Because we both have a vested interest. If I fail, you fail.”
“Drivel, Sutcliff. Foolish drivel.” But that was Sutcliff to the teeth. The adventurer had nothing to lose. While, he himself, so much more the accomplished man, stood to lose everything – his estates, his authority, his wealth – were his personal undertaking discovered by Whitehall Palace. But never had he failed to bend circumstances to his will.
“I plan to pay my compliments to New Sweden’s governor.” That was better than sitting here idle, frittering away valuable time, when he could be searching for Evangeline.
An idea occurred to him. “You have seen the Lady Evangeline Bradshaw, right?”
“A comely lady.”
And a lady not for the likes of this ruffian. “Then, while traipsing yonder hinterland, inquire around in the Finnish settlements about her.”
“My regrets, but my guide and I will be making fast tracks.”
Sutcliff’s utter indifference frustrated him. “I’ll give you a hundred guineas if you find her.”
“One hundred guilders. Dutch gold guilders.”
“You must be mad. I don’t have that kind of money here aboard ship. And certainly not gold guilders.”
“Do you want me to find her, or don’t you?”
“How can I trust you?”
“You insult my integrity, my good man. I have many vile vices but a flimflammer I am not.” Sutcliff crunched another walnut shell. “A voucher against your estate mortgage will suffice.”
William grew cold with rage but said businesslike, “All right, a voucher on the goldsmiths Morris and Clayton will assure that.” He took a quill from the inkhorn and began to write, swearing with each scratching stroke he would one day write Sutcliff’s death warrant, as well.
§§ CHAPTER FIVE §§
For a moment, the Swedish fort’s puppet show reminded Evangeline of Charing Cross’s Punch and Judy puppet show – and other fond memories. Of the ballad mongers on London Bridge, of symphonies at the King’s Theatre, of women in farthingales and men in silks and steel at Whitehall.
But Cromwell’s regime frowned upon pointless enjoyment. He had shut many inns, and had closed the theatres. Most sports had been banned.
Boys caught playing stoole ball on a Sunday could be whipped. Women caught doing unnecessary work on the Holy Day could be put in the stocks. Puritan leaders and soldiers had roamed the streets of towns and scrubbed off any make-up found on unsuspecting women. And too colorful dresses were absolutely prohibited.
Celebrants of St. Knut’s crowded the fort’s streets in a mad mirth of dicing, carding, masking, and drinking, but the main stream flowed eventually across the South River to Tinicum Island that both commanded the entrance to the South River and dominated the fur trade. Like a leaf in a river, she was carried along with the crowd.
On the island, the latest governor, Johan Risingh, temporarily occupied the stately residence, Printz Hall with its extensive library. A massive two-story manor, the governor’s residence was half fortress, half palace. Loopholes for infantry and embrasures for cannon punctured its upper story. It had cobblestone walls three-feet thick. On its grounds could be found a Lutheran church, a powder house, a dairy barn, a park that included formal gardens, and even a log sauna.
From one of Printzhoff’s many rooms, a feminine voice trilled a carol that sounded to Evangeline much like a constipated hen. Dancing after the Italian manner was already in progress to the accompaniment of virginals and a host of musicians in the Banqueting Hall, graced by lavish draperies and glass windows imported from Sweden.
Once divested of her heavy woolen cloak, she felt overdressed in her brown moire dress, bereft of starched white collar and cuffs. But when she had fled England, that type of wardrobe with the dangerously low necklines had been fashionable and all she had to pack with her.
Worse, now, her stays pushed her breasts upward to the danger point of breathlessness. Or was her breathlessness attributed to the press of the crowd? With three fireplaces, the Banqueting Room was overheated. She sought a place along its walls, far from the concentration of its revelers.
Yet before long she caught people taking note of her, which invariably happened – and it had nothing to do with her fair looks or even the prominent small pox mark, a veritable target between her eyes that had elicited much ridicule when she was a child.