Veder ran from the room to fetch the girl. Van Clynne settled in the chair — a wingback whose high pillows kept his head well-cradled — and contemplated his next move. His present position was every bit as dangerous as the one he had just left on the road. More so, as he had already and quite honestly declared his intention to decide to intend to wed a comely lass in lower Westchester. Sweet Jane was busy preparing her wedding trousseau, which undoubtedly included several fierce weapons to enforce her claims.
Miss Pinkerton was not without her own charms. Standing a few inches below five feet, she had sharply curled red hair which flowed in grand tresses around her head, a veritable sculpture that set off her nicely rounded cheeks and helped impart a rosy glow to her face. Her yellow dress stood over a strongly curved corset, which plucked up the tops of her snowy white breasts like two large, European mountains.
During a previous mission to New York, van Clynne and Jake had foiled General Howe's proposed hunting expedition in that territory, and Melanie recognized the squire immediately. She greeted him with a warm and protracted kiss on the cheek just above his beard, her body pressing forward in a crush of silk and other things.
Momentarily flustered, van Clynne called for a cup of beer.
"We've no beer in this house," Veder reminded him. "But you are welcome to share my squeezings."
Made from corn, the liquid had an oily taste and was nearly one hundred percent pure alcohol. Van Clynne demurred.
"How is your friend Jake?" Melanie asked.
"Oh well, very well," he coughed. "And you? How is life on the farm?"
She shrugged noncommittally. "The corn grows."
Van Clynne, now back in control of himself, nodded as if this was the most interesting thing anyone had ever said to him. He shot a glance at Veder, hoping that he might hint at a strategic absence, which would allow him to get to the real reason he had come.
Unfortunately, custom strictly dictated a chaperone at this stage of the pre-pre-courtship ritual, and Veder was not about to blow his chances by committing an etiquette faux pas. Van Clynne frowned, then turned back to Melanie.
"So, do you hunt?" he asked the girl. The purposely awkward question had been prescribed by a codicil to the Hague Resolutions of 1643, directing the order of initial engagement conversations.
She shook her head.
"I suppose you spend your time mending," he suggested.
"Mending?"
"Socks and things."
"Why would I do that?"
"Melanie, dear, I'm sure you're getting tired," said Veder, pushing forward. The officially allotted time for a first meeting had nearly expired.
"I believe I will have those squeezings now," said van Clynne.
"Oh yes, the squeezings." Veder looked at van Clynne's face and concluded that he had completely fallen under his daughter's spell. He was obviously trying to move things along faster than anticipated, and the corn farmer was all for it. "Melanie, talk to Claus about the weather and I, I will just run into the next room."
"While you were with General Howe," van Clynne asked in a soft, hurried voice as soon as her father left, "who was his wig-maker?"
"His wig-maker?"
"Quickly, child, before your father returns. Did he mention a barber?"
"I believe it was George on Stone Street. Or was it Stone on George Street? One of those, definitely."
Van Clynne had no time to quiz her further, as her father announced his pending return with a merry song he hummed to himself. The tune sounded suspiciously like a wedding march.
"So, dear, you understand my intentions?" Van Clynne made his voice so faint she could not hear the last word, though her hopeful heart supplied it.
"Did you say, 'intentions'?"
Now his voice grew loud enough for even the corn outside to hear. "You will not have me?"
"But Claus — "
Van Clynne lifted himself from the chair as Veder, his tune banished from his mouth, ran forward.
"Claus, Melanie — "
"Claus, what did you mean? Intentions?"
"It is nothing, nothing. My poor heart cannot take the strain."
"Wait!" Veder appeared considerably more heartbroken than van Clynne. "Claus, you've rushed things. This is merely the first meeting. Your emotions have gotten the better of you. Slow down, my friend. All will work out, given time."
But the squire continued to the door. "Children cannot be expected to follow the Dutch order of things," he lamented, "if they are improperly raised."
"Are you insinuating that my Melanie was not raised properly!"
"Insinuating is not the word I would use, sir," said van Clynne, opening the door.
"Out and good riddance! Out!"
Van Clynne turned in the threshold, the very picture of brave but downtrodden dignity. "I am leaving, sir; there is no need to insult me further. My heart already has been quite riven. I despair. Who knows what I will do next? I may walk along the river. I may, perchance, enlist in the British army."
Veder, his emotions twisting in several directions at once, settled to the floor and began sucking on the bottle of squeezings as soon as van Clynne departed, his brief dream of riches flown out the door with the squire's russet coat. Melanie remained in a state of severe confusion and finally salved her bruised intellect by pressing a few of her curls that had fallen out of place as a result of the interview.
Claus van Clynne possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of Dutch families in the province of New York — or New Amsterdam, as he occasionally referred to it. He was not equally informed about occupants whose genealogical roots had taken hold in other soils, however, and so he was not sure which, Stone or George, might be the proper wig-maker.
As George Street lay closer, however, he decided to visit Mr. Stone first, via a road less convenient but completely removed from the one he had taken north. He also left his stolen horse behind, reasoning that it might be recognized from its fine equipment. These contingencies greatly increased the time it took him to carry out his mission, but van Clynne had always held that it was better to arrive at a place late and intact, rather than late in the most permanent sense.
The day had already progressed quite far without his having stopped for dinner; he felt obliged to hail a baker he knew in the northern precincts and see about some mince pie the man was always trying to sell. This transaction took considerable negotiation, not least of all because the baker warned that soldiers were proceeding through the city looking for the prisoners who had escaped from jail yesterday. He relayed their description of the ringleader: "a portly Dutch gentleman in old-style russet dress, with a scraggly beard, large Quaker-style beaver hat, talkative disposition, and a severe willingness to complain and argue at every turn."
"Fortunately, they've got the description all wrong," sniffed van Clynne. "The Quakers know nothing about proper hats."
Nonetheless, he took the hint and proceeded even more circumspectly. In sum, when the Dutchman finally arrived on George Street, it was late afternoon. There proved to be no wig shop there, or at least none he could find. Concerned about the hour, lie walked quickly toward the southern tip of the island, aiming for Stone Street and Mr. George.
The fact that Stone Street lay exactly opposite one of the gates of the British fort, and was customarily filled with soldiers and British officers of every description, did give him some concern. Not fear — he was Dutch, after all — but further complications this close to achieving his goal would be bothersome. So he stopped at a small shop along the way and procured a large black cape that fit very nicely over his coat. In an alley nearby he confiscated a large and empty wooden box, complete with a snug-fitting cover. He hoisted it to his shoulder and held it close to the side of his face, pushing his hat far down on his head to help obscure his profile.