"I will need a new cover story," she told him curtly as he fell in alongside. "I will henceforth be your wife."
My cousin will suffice."
"A kissing cousin?"
Jake's scowl had little effect on her. She walked merrily with a breezy pace, the change of clothes having somehow increased her speed. He shook his head, thinking that he recognized both the signs and cause of a peculiar case of love sickness.
"Young Timothy is a handsome lad," he suggested after they had gone a few more yards.
"He is a little runt."
"A runt?"
"He is a full inch shorter than me."
"He'll grow in time."
"I could whip him with one hand tied behind my back."
"I'm glad to see that wearing a dress has not softened your spirits," said Jake.
"Do you like it?" she asked, swirling.
"It's very nice. As is the scarf."
"Grace helped outfit me. She is a remarkable woman."
"Indeed," said Jake. "I would think anyone who ended with her as a mother-in-law would be very lucky."
Alison gave him an odd look, as if she did not quite catch his meaning.
"Young Timothy will inherit his father's land," hinted Jake. "As well as his uncle's business. I would think he will be wealthy one day."
"Once a pipkin, always a pipkin," said Alison, turning up her nose and increasing her pace after calling her would-be lover an insignificant pot.
Jake had heard girls make light of beaus before; they liked to pretend they were sure of themselves. In such cases, it was useless to argue with them, as they would only pretend more firmly.
"You're walking quite fast," he told her.
"I can stop and wait for you, if I'm too quick."
"No, no, this is fine. At least I won't have to carry you all the way back to New York."
"I don't think I would give you the pleasure," she said, turning her nose up and increasing her pace.
Chapter Thirty-one
While Jake embarked on his trip to see Bebeef, Claus van Clynne undertook his own mission, starting with a pursuit entirely characteristic of the Dutchman — a twelve-hour nap. The Dutchman's eyes did not open until long after the local birds had gone about their business of catching the early worms. Indeed, there were few worms of any variety, early or late, to be found when van Clynne stretched his arms with a cranky growl and began rubbing his eyes vigorously. He soon discovered himself alone in the hideout. Daltoons had launched a full search for Alison upon finding her missing.
"Just as well," said the Dutchman to himself. "I am most efficient when unhampered by assistants. Or children. A spot of breakfast and I shall be back in order. Assuming I find anything worthy of the name in this town. Really, the quality of food has gone considerably downhill since the demise of the governor."
He being Stuyvesant, of course.
Van Clynne's hunger could not be satisfied at the Sons' hideout, which offered a cruel version of porridge in the kitchen downstairs. The squire did not complain about this; he considered that the few legitimately sick inmates in the small corner ward were aligned with the British side, and ought therefore to be tortured. Instead, he wiped a bit of water around his beard, borrowed a pistol from the armory, and went off to find himself a true breakfast.
Specifically, he wanted sausage. Now, one would think that, in a city with pigs constantly running underfoot, sausage would be an easy commodity. Not so. For there is a specific art to making sausage — a Dutch art, as van Clynne would have gladly explained had anyone asked.
In the event, he explained anyway, speaking loudly as he walked through the streets to a certain inn on Pearl Street owned by Samuel Fraunces. Though not strictly Dutch, Fraunces was a man steeped in the arts of hospitality, and his studies had led him to a formula for sausage construction that fairly rivaled that espoused by van Clynne's own mother. The fact that Fraunces was even now a firm and known member of the Whig party tended also to enhance the flavor.
His tavern was allowed to operate despite its owner's politics for a number of reasons, beginning with the quality of its ale. This morning the place was fairly empty, and van Clynne found himself greeted by the owner as he came through the portal to the main room.
"The sentries at King's Bridge are obviously sleeping," declared Fraunces in his faint West Indies accent. "They are allowing everyone into the city."
"As it happens, Samuel, I did not come via King's Bridge," said van Clynne. "I arrived by boat, with a personal escort."
Two young men sat near the corner window playing a card game; except for them, the room was empty.
"Your politics have not changed?" van Clynne asked the keeper in a soft voice.
"My politics are my own business."
"In that case, you may note that my feelings are as they have always been," declared van Clynne, pulling out a chair.
"I am sure Congress is glad of that," answered the keeper sarcastically. "And the king."
"Are you in the habit of talking all day, or will you ask your guest what he wishes to be served?"
"I see no guest before me, only a Dutchman who owes me ten pounds."
"Bah, ten pounds — a trifle." Van Clynne slipped off his shoe. "A double helping of sausages, if you please. Some fresh eggs, and if you can find any decent coffee in that cramped cellar of a kitchen, I will take that as well."
"You will take nothing until you settle what you owe me. I will have my sailor friends here kick you out." Fraunces gestured at the two young card players, neither one of whom made any sign to have heard. They were engaged in the arcane rite of cribbage. The Americans could have reinvaded New York and they would not have cared a whit, nor a Nobs.
But as the keeper set his fists on his hips, a smelly but genuine two-pound note drawn against Murdock amp; Company in Glasgow appeared in the Dutchman's fist. Fraunces grabbed the paper as it fluttered to the table, then retreated back to the kitchen, humming a song to himself. Coffee was issued, bread was found; within fifteen minutes a girl appeared carrying two plates of fine sausage and a large covered dish of eggs.
Fraunces nearly fainted when she returned to the back with another two-pound note.
A third appeared when the proprietor came to clear the dishes. By now he realized something serious must be afoot.
"I cannot take this money from you, Claus. Cannot, indeed."
Van Clynne looked up in amazement. "The Scottish bank is good for it, I assure you. And you will notice the elaborate engraving, protecting against counterfeits."
"Either you are very ill, or expect some great favor in return."
"Do I look sick?"
"Exactly the case. Exactly." Fraunces started to back away.
Van Clynne took the bill he had proffered and folded it neatly in his fist, where by some sleight of hand he managed to make it produce a twin. This had the effect of arresting Fraunces's retreat.
When a third note materialized in his hand, the keeper found his feet moving forward involuntarily. He knew the inevitable outcome but was powerless to stop himself from snatching for the bills, which naturally disappeared as soon as his fingers were extended.
"I am looking for Miss Melanie Pinkerton," said van Clynne, pushing away his empty plates. "I believe you know the family."
Fraunces frowned heavily. "What would you want with her? She's too young for you."
"I merely wish to speak to her." The squire opened his hand, thumbing the bills as if counting them. "She is no longer seeing General Howe, I trust."
"Baff — the swine claims to have thrown her over. He came within an inch of ruining the girl. For that alone he should be hanged."