Brookland (68 page)

“Come,” Tem told her as they stood together in the cooling house at the end of that day. The wort had drained to the fermenting-back ten minutes since, and Mr. Fortune gone to work; but the floor was still damp and smelled sweet. “This distillery was ever your heart's desire. Surely it can't be so dull?”

“Not dull at all,” Prue said. “I can't say why I feel so low”

“You have to cheer up,” Tem said. “Soon enough that bridge'll be finished, and what will you have to do ever after but make gin?”

Prue didn't know, but when Tem asked again at dinner that evening, Abiah and Pearl were quick to reach conclusions.

“You'll find yourself with child before long,” Abiah predicted, “and that'll lighten your heart.”

You simply miss Ben
, Pearl wrote, then put her pencil down to take another forkful of potatoes.

“No,” Prue said. “That is, yes, but I wish I could say that was what troubled me. It could be so easily remedied.”

What, then?

“Have a drink,” Tem said, taking down the decanter and raising it to her. Prue shook her head no, and thought, in passing, Tem was servant to the thing. Tem poured her a dram anyway; and since it was before her, Prue drank it. It was redolent of aniseed and warm in her throat.

“I don't know, Pearl,” she said. She could say nothing about the difficulty with the bridge. Pearl was as much its architect as she or Ben, but Prue did not believe news of its ailment should travel any farther than was necessary to heal it. “Orders have been down all year; and the mortgage deprives me of sleep.”

“Those things will take care of themselves,” Abiah said.

You shall be abel to pay it back
, Pearl wrote. Her face was encouraging. In fact, she looked as well as ever she had. She had spent much of the summer
in outdoor leisure, and though the freckles across the bridge of her nose had since faded, all the exercise seemed to have made her limbs sturdier.

“I wish I could trust as easily as you,” Prue said.

It is'n't v. difficult
, Pearl wrote.

Prue had sometimes thought her sister's life a form of servitude, but really, it was Pearl who was free to do as she liked. She did not have to worry over their finances except in the most general way; now she was a grown woman, she could wander at will and be courted by Mr. Severn in whatever his odd, shy manner. “Perhaps someday you'll teach me how,” she said, doing her best to brighten her own expression. “I shan't take any lessons from you, Tem.”

Tem said, “Thank you.”

Ben returned in mid-November. “We shall manage it,” he told Prue, as soon as he stepped off the boat and into her arms. His scent was familiar and sweet, and she could have cried from the sheer pleasure of his proximity. She held him close a long while before pushing him back to examine his face. He looked healthy—not like a man who'd had to make compromises. His time outdoors and upon the water appeared to have fed his spirit.

“You were pleased with the quality of the materials?” Prue asked.

“They won't be quite so fine as before, but they are solid goods. The timber I've ordered will suffice for the courses closest to the arc's center, and I believe our plan of adjusting the levers will work.” He stroked the side of her head. “Believe me, it would be my preference as much as yours to make no such modifications. But we shall have our bridge.”

“I can imagine the rumors,” Prue said.

“We'll quash them. No one will see the deviation, and even if the new wood appears different from the old—and I suspect it may—time's patina will blur that distinction.”

The news did not console Prue, but Ben's presence did. She resolved to spend the winter enjoying Ben's company and solving at last the dilemma of the rectifying. It was a circumscribed sphere of action, but she could make it suffice.

Losee's final crossing was on the last Saturday afternoon of November, and throngs of his neighbors and loyal customers—nearly everyone who lived within walking distance of what was now called the Old
Ferry—gathered on his landing to welcome him home. Though the weather was chilly and damp and night was falling quickly, Joe Loosely had put out torches and three casks of beer, so the mood was festive. Jens Luquer first spied Losee's dull green boat slipping toward them in the dark water, and he began to whistle and clap, along with his brothers and sisters. Mr. Fischer, in a trim, peacock-blue coat, clapped as vigorously as anyone, though Prue saw him, from time to time, turn to see what Tem was doing. Tem didn't meet his eye, but neither did she look cross. One of the men from the
Long-Island Courier
stood at the periphery of the crowd; this, Prue thought, was news. Losee let his boat drift in the current a moment, then worked his left oar to spin himself around. His broad face shone for a moment in the torchlight, his mouth agape with pleasure, before he turned around again and began rowing home with renewed vigor. The crowd cheered when he tossed his rope up, and more loudly still when he hoisted himself onto the wharf “Well, I'll be damned,” he exclaimed as he removed his hat to push the thinning hair back from his brow. He wiped down the sides of his mouth with his fingers, as if his senses might be deceiving him. His flaxen-haired Petra, now grown as high as his shoulder, came out from the crowd bearing a gigantic wreath fashioned of dried Indian corn, which she laid on top of his large head. He stooped to receive it as if it were a military honor, and wobbled under its weight as he stood back up. Everyone laughed—it was an ungainly and odd-looking thing—but as Losee took a slight bow to each direction in it, Prue felt her throat thicken with tears.

“May I have your attention, please?” Joe called from atop one of the pilings, then banged a spoon on a tankard.

Ben wrapped his arm around Prue's waist and saluted Joe with his free hand. Joe raised the spoon in greeting to him, then hit the tankard again. The sound was low and quiet compared to the general din, but it had its desired effect until someone cried “Loseeee!” and another cheer went up.

“Indeed,” Joe said, and the cheering quieted. “My good friends. Most of you are too young to remember, but for all the years my father ran the Ferry Tavern, Losee's father, Lo van Nostrand, ran the ferry. Those two were inseparable. They loved their pints, horse racing, and cockfights, and they loved working so close to each other. If they look down on us from Heaven, I think they must be pleased to see us still working in the
trades in which they trained us. More importantly, I imagine they're happy to see us such good friends.”

“God bless old Henry,” Mr. Joralemon said, and Joe paused, a pained smile passing across his face.

“Thank you,” he went on. “My father teased Lo constantly. He called him ‘Ole Charon' and the water he daily traversed the ‘Squalid Styx.' ” Prue's nape tingled when she heard this. “But he knew his friend to have a generous heart. It is no easy lot in life, to be a ferryman. On days a farmer might count his stores or sharpen his blades, the boat keeper still goes out to ply the gray waters. On days mothers keep their children indoors, he puts on an extra muffler and heads out to the wet.

“My father left me a business I can enjoy until my dotage. When I'm half deaf with age, a man'll still be able to give me the sign he wants his dram; or if I'm blind, he'll shout his order. Lo van Nostrand left his son a lifetime of toil, which he has performed for more than three decades now, with sometimes not even a rest upon the Sabbath. It's a miracle he's kept at it, so uncomplaining and in such good health. Another man would have collapsed under the strain or given up long ago.”

Prue thought of Losee's son, Piers, who'd been much older than Petra—nearly as old as Ben—and had died of diphtheria in early childhood. Prue had never really known him, but knew how much his death had pained Losee and his wife, now so long dead herself. Perhaps if Piers had lived, or if Petra were sufficiently grown to marry off to some strong fellow, Losee would not have had to sell his business, but would have lived out his days in the house in which he'd been born. It wasn't meant to be, Prue told herself It wasn't meant to be, or it would have been.

Joe went on, “I've never lived a day of my life without Losee as a neighbor; and frankly, I find it difficult to imagine. I know we shall always be friends, but yet I shall miss him. I am glad, however, that he's got a few years of the easy life ahead of him; and if I may say so without offending our Winship and Schermerhorn neighbors, I'm glad for Petra to grow up away from the smoke of the manufactories.”

“No offense taken,” Pieter Schermerhorn said.

Even in the torchlight, Prue could see such abject love in the way Ezra Fischer watched Tem, she wondered Tem was not moved by it. Though in part she puzzled over what he saw in Tem, she chiefly wished
to know why her sister would so adamantly reject the honest suit of so successful and besotted a man.

“Let us raise a toast to him, then,” Joe said. Those who held cups raised them; many of the rest removed their hats. “To Losee van Nostrand, Brookland's great ferryman: long life, good health, and rest from labor.”

Some said, “Cheers,” and others, “Amen,” and the cups were passed hand to hand. Prue took her draught before handing it on to Pearl, who drank deeply in honor of the occasion. A passing freighter rang its bell, and a few of the children pushed to the edge to watch its dim form glide past on the dark water.

Mr. Fischer stepped up to Joe, who gave him the tankard. When he touched the spoon upon it, people turned eagerly toward him. No doubt, Prue thought, they wondered what kind of man he was. He seemed mysterious not only because of his faith, but because it was rumored he'd lived all his days in Ulm before immigrating to New York only a decade previously, and yet his command of English was past compare. Furthermore, since Matty Winship had passed on, Brooklyn had lacked a gentleman who cared for his appearance; so Prue felt certain the sheen of Fischer's coat in the flickering torchlight held its fascination for others besides herself.

“Mr. van Nostrand,” he said, his voice clear, “you have been a noble competitor, and have given me good reason to understand the loyalty your neighbors feel to you and to your business. Now I hope to be able to earn that loyalty myself, and in doing so I shall always use you for my example. Let me say to you, your fair daughter, and all this assembled company, that I shall do my best to provide your friends and neighbors safe and timely passage; and that if I can do so in even the palest imitation of your good spirits, I will count myself a success.”

The cups went up once more, and Losee said, “Thank you, Mr. Fischer.”

“Do you see?” Abiah said quietly to Tem. “You're a fool to spurn him. He's a perfect gentleman.”

Tem swatted at her, but then laughed.

Ben and Prue took a number of compliments on their bridge—from that vantage, it was a ghostly structure in the distance, already so vast it
made Winship Gin, the Schermerhorn ropewalk, and the houses of Clover Hill resemble so many outbuildings. She saw Will Severn listening in at the edge of their conversations, but in his shy fashion, he averted his gaze whenever Prue chanced to catch his eye.

It was a chilly evening, and Prue thought to be out in gloves must be a hardship for Pearl, as they dulled her voice as a mouthful of cotton would an ordinary person's. They therefore said their good-byes while there was still quite a gathering upon the landing, and made their way down the open stairs to the Shore Road. In addition to the torches, the waxing moon shone on the water. They had not ventured far before Prue heard a voice behind her call out, “Mrs. Horsfield?”

Prue instinctively looked to see if Patience was nearby, then turned to find Will Severn a few paces behind them, his hat in his hand and his shock of gray hair bearing its impression. Tem and Abiah kept walking.

“May I have a word with you?” he asked.

Ben swung Prue's hand lightly. “Go on,” Prue said, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “We won't be a minute.” To Pearl she said, “You as well,” and Pearl hissed as she took Ben's arm.

Severn stood with his battered brown hat against his chest.

“You don't really want to stand in the road, do you?” Prue asked him.

“No.”

“Come with me to the countinghouse—the stove heats up in an instant. Or have you been out upon the bridge yet? It's a fine view at night, though it'll be windy there.”

“I would be delighted, if it's not too much to ask.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Prue said.

They kept silent as they walked downriver toward the gate, which was tied shut with a sturdy knot. It took a moment to work it open with her cold fingers, and then Prue swung the gate back on its hinges. It moaned as she pulled it.

As they ascended the ramp, Will Severn's face shone bright as the evening. Prue enjoyed his expression of delight. “I had no idea,” he said, “how beautiful it would be to stand upon it.”

Indeed, the lights of the gathering on the landing, and those of the visible houses of the ferry district and Olympia, twinkled like fireflies. The river smelled fresh and clear.

“What a wonder,” he went on. “Truly, a miracle.”

“Your praise means much to me,” Prue said. “Thank you.” They continued in silence up as far as possible on the Brooklyn arm. The water glittered like coal beneath them, and Prue wondered if she knew why he wished to speak with her. “If you aren't afraid of heights, we can go closer to the edge,” she offered.

He looked taken aback by the suggestion. “I admit to you I've never been higher than my own belfry.”

“Then let us stay as we are,” Prue said.

The upward slope of the ascending arm felt slight underfoot, but they were now standing high above the water. Though Prue was anxious to hear what she thought would be the good news for which he'd drawn her aside, this was almost secondary to the simple, visceral thrill of standing upon one arm of the bridge she'd dreamed of, and looking out at its dim sister, jutting toward them from Manhattan. The wind had picked up, and whipped against Prue's limbs.