Brookland (48 page)

Ben walked along in silence a moment, which Prue knew did not bode well. “I don't think I understand,” he said. “We discussed this long ago, and determined it was the wisest course of action.”

“I know, Ben,” she said. Her eyes were hot, but she would pitch herself into traffic before she allowed herself to cry. “I still believe it to be so. Yet it is also the idea dearest to my own heart. Can you imagine how it feels to watch another assume credit for it?”

“Your dearest friend,” he said, without recrimination. “Your future husband.”

She felt nearly as bad for having wounded him as for the wound she herself was nursing, but she could not retract her words. She simply said, “I wish I could have spoken,” and remained silent the rest of the way back to Mrs. Finley's. Pearl walked slightly apart from them. Prue wanted to write the morning's news to Tem, so Ben and Pearl agreed to go walking, and to meet her later.

She did write to Tem, but this took only a moment. When she'd finished her letter, she sat at the tidy desk thinking through the events of the day, though the bustle of the household downstairs kept interrupting her thoughts. She wanted to reconcile herself to the present state of affairs; had Mr. Stryker invited her to present her case, the assembly's reception would have been even more equivocal. She knew this should have been some consolation, but couldn't accept it. She decided to write
a second letter, which she would send by express boat down to Beacon. A shipment of Winship gin was due to that town that very week, and she wished to divert it to Albany; the small amount of liquor they had brought with them would never do to bribe a hundred assemblymen and sixty-odd senators. She also wrote again to Tem to tell her she'd appropriated the gin, and to ask her to send more to their customers.

When she went downstairs a few hours later, the sun had moved considerably westward in the sky. Prue had not eaten her breakfast and the presentation had lasted through midday, and she was now famished. She heard the rhythmic whirr of eggs being beaten in the kitchen, and the rasp of a knife along the skin of some fruit or vegetable; and she considered asking for some bread and jam, or whatever might have been left over from dinner. But when Mrs. Finley called out, “Miss Winship, is that you?” Prue did not think she could abide her eager questioning or the sullen stare of whichever daughter sat with her. She made her way out the door without stopping to talk.

She walked straight to the docks, which resembled the bustling wharves at home, but she could not grow accustomed to their pond-scum smell. She knew the natives of the place had called their river
Muhheakantuck
, or the river that flowed two ways, as it was half salt water traveled up from New York Bay, and half fresh water from the far north; yet still it seemed uncanny to see little transport smacks and hag boats going about their business and not smell the sea. Prue could not help imagining a bridge of her own design spanning the North River here; and in the next instant felt the pang of knowing that even were it possible, it would never be known as hers.

Well, hang it
, she thought.
If two people are said to become one before God and the law, perhaps they have only one set of ideas between them
. Her own parents had done things otherwise, but she and Ben might manage.

Some questioning found her a schooner bound for Beacon en route to New York, and she entrusted her letter to its captain along with a shilling and the widest smile she could muster. Along the river, hawkers with buckets and clam knives sold what looked a fine meal; but much as Prue would have liked to slurp shellfish from her hands, it was easier done in work britches than a dress. Elisha Green's establishment was not far off, and she made her way along the busy wharves as far as possible to reach it. The moment she arrived, she saw Ben and Pearl through the
open door. Pearl still looked sullen, but waved her hand as if it was possible Prue might not have seen them. The tavern was full, though who knew how so many Albanians had leisure to drink tea and ale on a weekday afternoon. “Hello, Prue,” Ben said, standing and turning to face her as she entered the smoky room. He didn't seem to want to risk his earlier enthusiasm.

Prue kissed his cheek, then Pearl's. She hoped this would stand for an apology. She sat down beside her sister and put her elbows on the sticky table.

“We have some news,” Ben said, and Pearl began riffling through her knitting bag. “Not altogether good, I fear.”

The proprietor's daughter came to take Prue's order. She was a girl no older than twelve, the spit and image of her father, and crowned with a mop of woolly blond hair that took up more space than she. She told off her menu by heart. Prue's ears must have been ringing, because the child sounded far away. Prue cared only for the news, but she managed to order some smoked sturgeon and a pint of beer. Though she almost couldn't bear to look at Ben, Prue was keenly aware of what was going on outdoors. A milkman drove past with his empty buckets clanging in the back of his wagon, and a child slipped in the road and began to howl. His brother dragged him up to the curb and wiped off his knees. The stage flew by, its driver shouting to clear sluggish pedestrians from his path.

“Hoy, Prue,” Ben said. She only then realized her mind had wandered off. “Willemsen sent word to Mrs. Finley's. Pearl has the letter.”

Pearl at last extracted the paper. Prue went to break the letter's seal but saw it was, of course, already broken; for who was the bridge architect but Ben? She reminded herself it must have cost them both some effort to hold their peace and allow her to read it for herself.

Mr. Willemsen reported that the gentlemen of the assembly were deeply divided in their initial discussion about the prospects for the bridge. New York County's representative, as well as many others from downstate, wished to approve the $14,000 appropriation; many of the upstate members were vehemently opposed. The senators had, further, been sufficiently riled by the proposal to wish to debate it themselves; and they had voted to make their own suggestion, regardless of the assembly's, to Governor Jay. Willemsen could not conjecture how long it
might take to reach a decision on the matter, but he thought there might be some use in Ben remaining in Albany until that time, in case his skills of persuasion might be put to use.

When the girl arrived with Prue's fish, Ben ordered a second pitcher of beer. “You'll have to return to the distillery, will you not?” he asked.

Prue looked blankly at her sturgeon. A moment since, it had interested her—as it was fished from fresh waters, it was a rarity in Brooklyn—but now she wondered if she could eat it. “I promised Tem I'd return in a fortnight at most. I don't know how she will fare without me.”

Pearl placed one hand on top of her sister's. Ben said, “As I thought.”

“But I cannot leave you here, either. It is my bridge, Ben. I am willing to share the credit with you, but not to turn it over to you entire.”

“It is your decision,” he said.

Prue did not like the wary look in his eyes. She took a long pull from her beer and tried to settle down to eat.

She did not think she could go back to Brooklyn before the bridge's fate should be decided. If that meant residing in Albany another month, then so be it. The first bite of fish reminded Prue she was ravenous with hunger; she resolved to eat quickly, and to write to Tem and Isaiah as soon as she finished.

The days wore on, and the two houses of the legislature continued to squabble; Prue read both sides of the argument in the Albany papers. Both the assembly and the senate called Ben back on various occasions the next week; and in the evenings, he took Prue and Pearl to the quarters of one assemblyman and the next, where Prue understood she was to make polite conversation with the womenfolk. On one occasion the young representative from Saratoga asked about her contribution to the plan, and listened with interest as she recounted a straitened version thereof. The shipment that had been meant for Beacon arrived early in the week. Prue asked Elisha Green to introduce her to a glassblower, that she might portion the gin out for the various representatives. This occupied at least some of her time. Pearl used up her embroidery silk and, growing restless in the house, set out to wander the city in search of more. Prue fretted about her sister's welfare, out in the streets thus unattended, but knew she could not stop her going. Late in the week a letter from Tem arrived, full of ill-spelled vituperation; another, from Isaiah,
told Prue the second shipment had gone off to Beacon and that all else was well.

After two weeks of heated debate—during which Prue came to pity Mrs. Finley's daughters, though she remained grateful for their good cooking—Mr. Willemsen at last wrote to report that the assemblymen had taken a vote, and had come out fifty-seven to fifty-one in favor of funding the model at one twenty-fifth the scale of the eventual bridge. This was a small majority, but sufficient to send their recommendation to Governor Jay. Mr. Willemsen cordially invited Ben, Prue, and Pearl to sup at his quarters that evening.

The letter reached them at Mrs. Finley's, just after the tea dishes had been cleared. Ben began whooping as soon as he read the document, which caused the mousy Finley daughters to retreat to the kitchen. Prue had to read the letter twice to understand its import, and even then was not certain if she should feel disappointment or delight. Ben took her in his arms and kissed her, then pulled back and shook her gently when she did not break into peals of laughter. “Come now, woman,” he said, beaming at her. “Fifty-seven to fifty-one. I'd say that's nearly unanimous.”

Pearl whistled her disagreement.

“Both of you, dark-minded as your mother,” Ben said. He was still smiling, but Prue did not find this amusing. “We shall have our small bridge; and if all goes as well as I wager it will, we'll bridge the East River next.
Oh
, I can just picture Hezekiah Pierrepont's scowl as the ballots were tallied.”

I think it fine News
, Pearl wrote on her book,
though less ecciting than if the Legislature had simply writ' you a Gigantic Draught
.

“I know you're right, Ben,” Prue said, though she considered Willemsen's letter only a halfhearted vote of confidence.

“Write Tem immediately,” Ben said. “She'll be eager to know”

Prue did write her, and continued to wonder how she fared at the distillery. She supposed she would have heard had anything gone amiss; then again, letters took days to go up or down the Hudson, and anything might have happened since last Tem had written. Prue had to trust her sister could manage.

In the meanwhile, Garret Willemsen had laid in a prodigious store of Madeira wine, “intending no offense,” he said, “to our local geniuses of
grain alcohol,” and they made their way through bottle after bottle that evening. Prue was not certain they had cause to celebrate in any earnest. Even if Governor Jay approved the plan, it would be a long time in the building, especially with the state overseeing it. Prue reminded herself, however, of the justice of Ben's assessment: It had indeed always been her habit to take the darkest possible view. Perhaps on this occasion, she might persuade herself of the rectitude of what was actually transpiring. She might praise God for what was instead of begging Him, with uncertain result, for something yet to come.

W
hen the wine was finished and the next day's headache had passed, they boarded another boat to begin their journey home. As Prue watched the lovely mountains roll by, her spirits continued to improve. Their journey had been only a qualified success, and there was no saying what Governor Jay would decide, but overall, they had done well. Pearl sketched the scenery most of the way home, to show Tem and Mr. Severn what she had seen. And when they stopped at Poughkeepsie, Ben and Prue took a short walk out one of the country lanes to discuss standing up in church together.

“You agree with me,” he said, swiping idly at the tall brown corn with his stick, “that now our bridge is seen to, we are free to seek your friend's blessing.”

“I think we'd best get everyone's,” Prue said. “We've traveled all over Creation together, and I've no doubt Mrs. Livingston will make a feast of it otherwise.”

“And you're done feeling jealous that I'm the bridge architect?”

“I suppose so. Yes.” She didn't know she ever would be, but it seemed wise to assent.

“Then we'll have a wedding straightaway, and you'll come live in my house.”

A herd of belted cows was out grazing and napping in the field sloping off to the left, in which white sweet peas ran rampant. “I don't think I can,” she said.

“Why not? What is it now?”

“I need to be near the distillery.”

Ben continued to swipe good-naturedly at the corn. “Very well, then,” he said. “I shall come live in your house.”