New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [90]
Why, a tomb. A mausoleum. If you couldn’t build a house in which to live a few years, you could, for far less expense, build a tomb in which to rest for all eternity. The mausoleum would honor her husband; she could be buried beside him; and their descendants after them. It was a project. You could employ an architect. You could show people the designs. For a month, now, she had been engaged on the business, but in secret. She meant to surprise her husband with it on New Year’s Day.
And so when, at three o’clock that afternoon, her husband came home earlier than expected and discovered her with the architect and the plans, she was much put out.
John Master gazed at the plan for his tomb. It was fit for a Roman emperor. He knew very well that some of the old landed families of the region—especially if they were Presbyterian—laughed at the pretensions of the New York merchants, and he didn’t entirely blame them. But as he gazed affectionately at his wife, he only remarked: “Why, Mercy, I’m little more than forty and you want to bury me already.” Then, since his loving wife’s only failing was that she did not always see a joke, and the preposterous magnificence of the tomb struck him once more, he sat down on a Chippendale chair and burst out laughing.
But soon he got up and kissed his wife and told her he was grateful. And he smiled to himself at the discovery of her plan. For as it happened, he also had been preparing a surprise, for her. But of his secret, he thought with satisfaction, she still knew nothing at all.
“Did James get back from Charlie White’s, by the way?” he asked; and was told he hadn’t. “Good,” he said. That probably meant the meeting was going well.
At noon that day, Charlie White and his son were ready in front of their yard. The street on which they lived lay on the west side of Broadway, not far from Montayne’s Tavern, and about half a mile north of Trinity Church, which owned the land. If the streets in the fashionable quarters of the city were neatly cobbled and the houses made of brick, the streets up near the Common where Charlie lived were dirt, and the ramshackle houses made of unpainted clapboard. But the area was cheerful enough.
In the yard behind them stood Charlie’s cart, with its number painted on it in red. Charlie had three boys and two girls. The oldest boy was a sailor, the next was a fireman, who rode proudly on one of the new fire engines sent over from London. Young Sam helped his father. Sam wasn’t sure what he felt about James Master coming to visit.
“What am I supposed to do—take him with me selling oysters in the street?” he asked. Oysters, the poor man’s food. Sam often earned some extra money selling oysters.
“Just be yourself,” replied his father. There was no need to say more. If rich young James Master should become Sam’s friend … Well, you never knew what a friendship like that might lead to.
The fact was, Charlie White had become quite excited about this visit. After all these years, his childhood friendship with the Masters was to be renewed. Was it back to the old days?
Last night, he’d told his family stories about the times he and John Master used to spend together. He’d had a few drinks during the evening. He may have boasted a little. His children had always known there had once been a friendship, but it had never seemed to amount to much, and their father seldom spoke of it. Hearing him that evening, therefore, they’d been a bit surprised, and quite impressed.
His wife was less impressed. Mrs. White was a plump, comfortable woman. She loved Charlie, but after years of marriage, she knew his weaknesses. His carting business had never been as good as her father’s had been. He didn’t always concentrate on the work in hand. She was afraid that he was going to be disappointed with this encounter, and she certainly didn’t want their children getting any foolish ideas. Years of marriage to Charlie had left her skeptical.
“So you had a few drinks