Remember the Morning (12 page)
Read Remember the Morning Online
Authors: Thomas Fleming
Subsiding, Malcolm stared past her at the white water cascading over rocks and shallows. For a moment Clara pitied him again. She saw how miserable he had been since boyhood, raised by a woman who did not love him, with his father absent most of the time pursuing profits in New York City. That vision somehow made it easier for her to lean toward him and say: “I had a dream last night. We were in the forest together. Your lips were on my mouth.”
He gazed at her with eyes full of pain. “I've had the same dream, five nights running.”
“Perhaps it's time for us both to fulfill our heart's desire.”
For a moment Clara wondered if she were committing an evil act, lying to this love-starved boy/man, using the ancient wisdom of
ondinnonk
to deceive him. She told herself it was only half a lie. She pitied him as much as she needed him for protection against his stepmother. Her false face love would be a gift that could only do him good. It might even bring him happiness.
ondinnonk
to deceive him. She told herself it was only half a lie. She pitied him as much as she needed him for protection against his stepmother. Her false face love would be a gift that could only do him good. It might even bring him happiness.
The day was Indian summer at its most glorious. That term, with its subtext of terror and beauty, was unknown to Clara.
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She only knew sunlight streamed from a cloudless sky. Trees were thick with chattering birds as Malcolm led her north toward the forest, first at a canter, then at a gallop, until the road became little more than a footpath. They dismounted and Malcolm led the horses along the banks of a gurgling creek until they reached a small circular lake surrounded by step granite cliffs. It glistened in the sunlight like a promise of happiness.
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She only knew sunlight streamed from a cloudless sky. Trees were thick with chattering birds as Malcolm led her north toward the forest, first at a canter, then at a gallop, until the road became little more than a footpath. They dismounted and Malcolm led the horses along the banks of a gurgling creek until they reached a small circular lake surrounded by step granite cliffs. It glistened in the sunlight like a promise of happiness.
Calmly, carelessly, Clara stripped off her clothes and walked to the edge of the cliff and dove into the shining water. It was shockingly cold, but she did not make a sound. Malcolm dove too and swam toward her.
They met in the center and his hands explored her body while her dark hair streamed around them, like the strands of a magical net.
They met in the center and his hands explored her body while her dark hair streamed around them, like the strands of a magical net.
For a moment Clara felt like a being with the ability to cast spells, command evil spirits. She was swept by a terrible, nameless foreboding. Wrong, whispered her grandmother's voice. She was using good medicine for a false purpose. There was only one way to redeem the evil before it became a curse. She had to cast aside her false face and let her heart speak, no matter what the color of this boy/man's skin.
It was impossible. The vow she had made when she said farewell to Catalyntie barred that path, like an armed warrior with his war paint gleaming on his maddened face. Her heart still shriveled and slunk like a wounded wolf into a dark icy cave. All Clara could do, as Malcolm's tongue explored her mouth and his hands glided down her body, was summon a promise to try to love him someday, somehow. She could only hope, she could only pray to her Seneca gods to protect her as Malcolm carried her out of the lake's shallows onto a grassy shore opposite the cliffs.
The first time was swift and almost angry, like the coupling of animals in the spring. But the second time was slower, richer, closer to a dream of happinessâand the third time was almost happiness itself. Lifted into sweet bewilderment, Clara looked down on their joined bodies and asked if such a transformation was possible without the blessing of some powerful spirit. Finally the question dissolved into mystery, the indescribable dimensions of love.
Yes, Clara thought, yes. False love could be transformed into true love. The false face could be banished, her heart could speak to this man without a double tongue. Not now perhaps, but surely in a year's time. Perhaps even in a month. Or a day. The Evil Brother could not challenge this unique
orenda
they were creating around and within themselves with their lips and hands and thighs.
orenda
they were creating around and within themselves with their lips and hands and thighs.
Let us leave them there, sheathed in the happiness of flesh and sun and shining water, immune for a little while to the future that was stalking toward them in the forest with the inexorable stride of a hunter on the track of his prey.
A
T THE VAN VORST HOUSE ON Broad Street, all was bustle and confusion. My cousin Esther called frantically for a curling iron. Her sister Anna wailed about a wrinkle in her gown. Aunt Gertrude flew up and down the stairs like a witch on a broomstick, screeching orders to the servants. We were on our way to the King's Birthday Ball at the governor's mansion in Fort George. I sat in my room, fingering a note from Robert Foster Nicolls.
T THE VAN VORST HOUSE ON Broad Street, all was bustle and confusion. My cousin Esther called frantically for a curling iron. Her sister Anna wailed about a wrinkle in her gown. Aunt Gertrude flew up and down the stairs like a witch on a broomstick, screeching orders to the servants. We were on our way to the King's Birthday Ball at the governor's mansion in Fort George. I sat in my room, fingering a note from Robert Foster Nicolls.
The note contained only a single word:
Tonight
? Beside that tantalizing proposal lay two playing cards, the queen and king of hearts.
Tonight
? Beside that tantalizing proposal lay two playing cards, the queen and king of hearts.
Tonight would undoubtedly be an ideal time to begin the secret exploration of our matching hearts. The city was in a frenzy of merrymaking. The male half of the population was already drunk. They had begun celebrating at noon, when a parade of red-coated soldiers from the fort, followed by a troop of young gentlemen on horseback, followed by members of the governor's council and then by Uncle Johannes and other members of the provincial legislature, paraded through the streets to City Hall. Militia, their muskets at the ready, lined the route while from every window cheers poured down. The males devoted the rest of the afternoon to what Robert Nicolls called “patriotic eating” at various taverns, offering innumerable toasts to the fat old king, the governor, First Minister Walpole, and other notables.
At six, as the sun declined beyond Hudson's River, the city came aglow with a thousand candles in house windows. In the Van Vorst coach, we clattered over to the Broadway and down that cobblestoned road to the turnstile that gave us entry to the lawns and finally the gates of Fort George.
Over our vast hooped ball gowns we females all wore ample silk aprons in a variety of vivid colorsâthe garment was part of full dress at the English court. Around our shoulders flowed a purple or blue cardinal
16
with an enormous hood, which made a woman look like a ship in full sail. Uncle Johannes was no less splendid in a royal blue coat, a yellow
waistcoat, and green silk breeches. On his bewigged head sat a gold-trimmed cocked hat.
16
with an enormous hood, which made a woman look like a ship in full sail. Uncle Johannes was no less splendid in a royal blue coat, a yellow
waistcoat, and green silk breeches. On his bewigged head sat a gold-trimmed cocked hat.
Above us on the darkened ramparts, one of the governor's African slaves sawed English airs on his fiddle. As we entered, the melancholy tune he began playing sent words flowing through my mind. I was suddenly at a supper party at the Cuylers and Robert Nicolls was singing them, picking the melody on a lute in his lap.
Oh mistress mine, where art thou roaming?
Oh stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Oh stay and hear; your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low:
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
It was an old song from a Shakespeare play. But it spoke powerfully to our present concerns. I thought of all the poems Robert had sent me. He had introduced me to the literature, the language of loveâa topic that Harman Bogardus eschewed.
Tonight?
The word all but sang in my mind.
Tonight?
The word all but sang in my mind.
A moment later, Robert greeted us at the door to the governor's mansion. We passed from the late October chill to the warmth and cheer of a wainscoted salon, with two huge fireplaces blazing at either end. “The Van Vorsts en masse!” Robert said. “A mass shot through with beauty. What gifts you bring to our revels, madam.”
He kissed Aunt Gertrude's hand, making her visibly palpitate. He paid the same attention to Anna and Esther and finally to me, and offered Aunt Gertrude his arm. We proceeded down the room, Aunt Gertrude nodding and smiling to the elite of New York, glorying in the attention of our local prince. Uncle Johannes smoothly detached himself to shake the hand of the most powerful member of the governor's council, a frowning swarthy man named Oliver Delancey.
“You received my note?” Robert murmured, as we ended our promenade beside the rear fireplace, where a half dozen musicians were playing country dances on oboes and trumpets.
“Yes,” I said.
“What saith the queen of hearts?” he asked, with a foxy smile.
“The queen's heart says yes, her head says no. Aunt Gertrude is watching.”
“There are ways to circumvent that obstacle,” Robert said.
A waiter passed with a tray of mulled wine. Robert seized a glass and from beneath his shirt sleeve procured a small packet of powder, which
he slipped into the drink. “You must try this canary,
17
madam,” he said, handing the glass to Aunt Gertrude, whose back was turned to us as she gazed out at some dancers who had begun a minuet. “It's Portugal's best.”
he slipped into the drink. “You must try this canary,
17
madam,” he said, handing the glass to Aunt Gertrude, whose back was turned to us as she gazed out at some dancers who had begun a minuet. “It's Portugal's best.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nicolls,” Aunt Gertrude said, and sipped it greedily.
Robert led me out on the dance floor. “Have you poisoned her?” I asked, almost ready to believe the worst. Robert's pleas had been rising to something like a crescendo lately.
“No, no. She'll soon grow so drowsy she'll ask to be taken home.”
Gazing down on us as we danced were huge portraits of rotund George II in his royal robes beside his equally fleshy wife, Queen Caroline. There was, of course, no portrait of the king's mistress, Henrietta Howard, the Countess of Suffolk. But Robert Nicolls had told me about George's notorious infidelity in salacious detail. He added similar drolleries about First Minister Walpole and virtually every other member of the cabinet. The message was clear: If great folks paid no attention to the sixth commandment on Moses's slab, why should lesser mortals?
As we bowed and postured to the stately measures of the minuet, Robert murmured, “Do you know how much I love you?”
“I have some ideaâif your heart resembles mine,” I said.
By now, I was profoundly attracted to this man. The calculation that had entered into my early thoughts of him had long since vanished. His polished manners, his ready wit, his status as the governor's son, made him seem infinitely superior to every other young man in New York. He had been pursuing me with a passion worthy of the knights of earlier centuries, who willingly enslaved themselves to their lady's love. He sworeâand gossip seemed to confirm itâthat he had reformed his character to prove himself deserving of my affection. He no longer roamed the midnight streets with friends like Malcolm Stapleton in search of Cyprians. He devoted himself to searching old books for poems that praised my beautyâand sent them to me in his handwriting. I found myself compared to Philip Sidney's Stella, Christopher Marlowe's Hero, Henry Constable's Diana.
“I thoughtâtonightâif your answer is still noâI might leave this country forever. I'm not sure I can survive in the same city with you so closeâand yet beyond my reach.”
Desire warred with prudence in my heart. “I feel the same melancholy,” I said. “But there is a wayâa simple way for you to resolve the matter.”
“There's an even simpler way for you to resolve it.”
As he passed me down the line of dancers in the later stage of the
minuet, I suddenly found myself facing Malcolm Stapleton. I was as startled as if he had been an apparition from the dead. “Has patriotism lured you from the wilds of New Jersey?” I asked.
minuet, I suddenly found myself facing Malcolm Stapleton. I was as startled as if he had been an apparition from the dead. “Has patriotism lured you from the wilds of New Jersey?” I asked.
“In a way,” he said.
“How is my friend Clara?”
“I think she's happy. As happy as she can hope to be in her present condition.”
“Tell her I haven't forgotten my promise. She won't be a slave a single day after I pass the age of twenty-one.”
“And you, Miss Van Vorst. Are you happy?”
Suddenly I wanted to cry out the truth: No. How could I be happy when I dreamed night after night of pressing my lips to Robert Foster Nicolls's supple mouth? I remembered the morning I had met this huge young manâand the way I had desired him. How had I been tricked out of that simple wish into this game of erotic hide-and-seek?
Instead of the truth, I gave him a polite answer. “I'm much happier than I expected to be. Please give Clara my love.”
More dances, country gavottes, which set the pulses pounding, then a feast of wild boar, wild turkey, enlivened by glasses of Negus.
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Robert talked wryly of his friend Stapleton. “I think he's more than a little fond of your friend Clara,” he said. “I wouldn't be surprised if she reciprocates. Would you approve of such a match?”
18
Robert talked wryly of his friend Stapleton. “I think he's more than a little fond of your friend Clara,” he said. “I wouldn't be surprised if she reciprocates. Would you approve of such a match?”
“It's none of my business, don't you think?” I said.
“I suppose so. Shall we go up on the ramparts for the fireworks?”
I flung on my cardinal, a good thing because the night had grown quite cold. No one else followed us into the dangerous air.
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We quickly crossed the inner ground of the fort and mounted the battlements. The moon had risen, flooding the river and the far shore with golden light. Below us, a woman began to sing an old song:
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We quickly crossed the inner ground of the fort and mounted the battlements. The moon had risen, flooding the river and the far shore with golden light. Below us, a woman began to sing an old song:
Never love unless you can
Bear with all the faults of man
.
Bear with all the faults of man
.
A dozen red rockets with blazing tails soared into the sky and exploded into a million fragments of green and yellow and blue light. Others whirled into fiery girandoles,
20
or exploded into brilliant flowers and stars. On the ramparts, the artillery regiment added the throaty roar of their guns to the tumult.
20
or exploded into brilliant flowers and stars. On the ramparts, the artillery regiment added the throaty roar of their guns to the tumult.
The whole chaotic wondrous sight seemed to expressâand simultaneously releaseâthe turmoil in my wild heart. Below us we could hear cries of wonder and admiration as the dancers in the salon threw open the windows to enjoy the spectacle. Could Clara, across the river in New Jersey, see the bursts of blazing incandescence? Did they signify a violent desire for Malcolm Stapleton in her heart? I had no chance to ponder such questions.
Out of sight of the people at the windows, Robert's hand sought my breast, his lips pressed my mouth. “I have a carriage waiting,” he whispered.
Within minutes we were rumbling up Broadway's cobblestones past the still-illuminated windows of the houses fronting it into the darkened fields beyond City Hall. We kissed and kissed and kissed. The journey was one perpetual embrace. I lost all sense of distance and time. Eventually we stopped and I could hear the coachman trying to soothe his snorting half-blown horses.
Someone carrying a lantern opened the door and addressed Robert. “The room is ready, my lord. I hope it meets your expectations.”
“It had better, if you hope to be paid,” Robert said. “Avert your eyes from this lady's face.”
The man, who was as huge as Malcolm Stapleton, turned his head away. Robert bundled the hood of the cardinal around my face until all but my eyes was concealed. We followed the man down a winding path to a country inn. Revelers were toasting the king in the taproom. He led us around to the back of the building, where an open stairway mounted to the second floor. Soon we were in a warm room with a fine fire flickering in the grate. Beside the bed were tumblers of mulled wine and a bottle of brandy.
Through a side window, we could glimpse the fireworks still exploding over the river. Beyond them the fields and woods of New Jersey lay dark and still. Robert handed me the mulled wine, which I hardly needed. I downed it in one reckless swallow.
Wait
, whispered the voice of She-Is-Alert, of the analytic, restless head.
You have one last chance to extract a promise from him
.
, whispered the voice of She-Is-Alert, of the analytic, restless head.
You have one last chance to extract a promise from him
.
But the Moon Woman answered:
Never will you know a love like this unless you seize it
.
Never will you know a love like this unless you seize it
.
“Do you love me as much as I love you?” I asked. My voice sounded forlorn in my ears.
“I hope so,” he said. “I know this much. There's no other woman like you.”
“Tell me why that's so.”
“The way you walk, talk, dance, hold your headâit's as if affectation was impossible for you. Sincerity is as natural to you as rain and snow and sunlight is to the earth.”
I saw he had constructed a mythical Catalyntie from his notions of Indian ways and my refusal to apologize for my lost virginity. But I believed every word of it because I loved him. At least, I believed enough of it to let me think I could correct it later and still retain his love. For his sake I would be sincere, I would try to be as natural, as simple, as a rain shower.
“I want to love you as a mistress and as a wife,” I said. “As full of ardor as the most wanton Cyprian in New York and as devoted as one who has sworn her vows before a sacred altar.”
“I hope we can and will do first one and then the other,” he said.
He finished his wine and began to undress me. As he discarded the corset with a satisfying
clunk
and reached my chemise, he reached over and pinched out the candle. “No,” I said. “Light it again. I want to see you. I want to see everything.”
clunk
and reached my chemise, he reached over and pinched out the candle. “No,” I said. “Light it again. I want to see you. I want to see everything.”
It was my first discovery that white New Yorkers made love in the dark, apparently convinced it was sinful or at least shameful to see each other naked. At first Robert was reluctant to light the candle again and remove his clothes. Was it because his expensive costume was a kind of protection, a reassurance of his rank?
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