New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [114]
Your obedient son,
James
Having read the letter to himself, alone in his office, Master kept it with him for several days before sharing its contents with his wife. He wanted to think about it first.
It was one evening almost a week later that he came into the parlor where his dear Mercy and little Abigail were sitting. He had just been perusing the letter again, and now he gazed at them thoughtfully. It would be hard, he considered, for any man to love his wife and daughter more than he did. Yet only now did he realize how greatly he had been looking forward to the return of his son.
It hadn’t occurred to him that James wouldn’t want to come home. You couldn’t blame the boy, of course. He obviously loved London. And even with the Stamp Act repealed, it remained to be seen how matters would shape themselves in New York. James might be better off in London.
So what should he do? Should he consult Mercy? What if she demanded James come home, when the boy so obviously didn’t want to? No, that would do no good. James might return unwillingly, and then be resentful of his mother. Better, it seemed to John Master, to take the decision himself. If Mercy blamed him, well, so be it.
But he could not help wondering, as he looked sadly at his wife and daughter: Would he ever see his son again?
The Loyalist
1770
YOUNG GREY ALBION stood at the door of the room. James Master smiled at him. Besides the fact that Grey was like a younger brother, it always amused him that young Albion’s hair was always a mess.
“You aren’t coming out, James?”
“I must write a letter.”
As Grey departed, James sighed. The letter wasn’t going to be easy. Though he always added a brief note to the regular reports Albion sent his father, he realized with shame that he hadn’t written a proper letter to his parents in over a year. The letter he must now compose had better be long, and he hoped it would give them pleasure. The real reason for writing, however, he would save until the end.
He wasn’t sure they were going to like it.
“My dear parents,” he wrote, then paused. How should he begin?
John Master had never had a quarrel with his wife. Yet on this bright spring day, he was very close to it. How could she think of such a thing? His look signaled reproach, but in fact he was furious.
“I beg you not to go!” he protested.
“Thee cannot mean such a thing, John,” she answered.
“Can’t you see it makes me look a damn fool?”
How could she not understand? Last year, when they’d invited him to be a vestryman at Trinity, he’d been flattered. The appointment carried prestige, but also obligations—one of which, quite certainly, was not to have your wife openly attending a meeting with a mob of Dissenters. Five years ago, it mightn’t have been so bad, but times had changed. Dissenters were trouble.
“Please do not blaspheme, John.”
“You are my wife,” he burst out. “I demand that you obey me.”
She paused, looking down, weighing her words carefully.
“I am sorry, John,” she said quietly, “but there is a higher authority than thee. Do not forbid me to hear the word of God.”
“And you want to take Abigail?”
“I do.”
He shook his head. He knew better than to argue with his wife’s conscience. He had enough on his mind without dealing with that.
“Go then,” he cried in exasperation. “But not with my blessing.” Or my thanks, he added under his breath. And he turned his back on her until she left.
As John Master surveyed his world in the spring of 1770, he was sure of one thing. There had never been a time when the colony had greater need of good men, with good will, and cool heads. Five years ago, when Livingston and De Lancey from the Assembly had spoken of the need for the gentlemen to control the Liberty Boys, they’d been right. But they hadn’t managed to do it.
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