Read Online Remember the Morning by Thomas Fleming - Free Book Online Page B

power who ruled the world had decreed long ago who would die and who would live to grow old.
    Almost as astonishing were the bitter disappointments Grandfather had known in his long life. “There was another Catalyntie, for whom you’re named, Pettikin,” he told me. “She was my first wife. We were married less than a year when I took her with me on a voyage to Holland. In the English Channel we were struck by a great storm. A wave rolled over the entire ship, flinging her on her beam ends. My darling wife was swept from our cabin into the sea.”
    His voice grew so choked, his breathing so labored, we were alarmed. “I found another good woman to love. But nothing can replace the love that awakens the heart. Hold fast to that love if you can, dear girls. Though life often seems determined to fling difficulties in your path.”
    Dark thoughts, deep thoughts. But we were too young to value them. As we mastered the customs and language of New York, we grew more and more impatient to join the world that was swirling past our windows each day. On a sunny Sunday afternoon in October, while Grandfather was taking a nap, we each put on one of our expensive gowns and strolled down Broad Street arm in arm, as we had often walked along the shore of Lake Ontario.
    On the green lawn known as the Bowling Green, beside the looming walls of Fort George at the tip of Manhattan Island, we gazed in astonishment at the swarms of people promenading in brightly colored silks and satins, the men flourishing canes, the women parasols. Was everyone in New York as rich as Cornelius Van Vorst?
    Suddenly a sharp voice cried, “This won’t do!”
    It was my aunt, Gertrude Van Vorst. She was dressed in the highest style, a silk kerchief over her lace-edged cap, a taffeta cloak with wide ruching at the waist, elbow sleeves with deep cuffs—and an enormous
hoop. With her was her glowering husband, Johannes, and the man everyone had called “Judge” at the peace council. He flourished a gold-headed cane and gazed at us as if we were poisonous snakes.
    â€œThis won’t be tolerated in New York,” Aunt Gertrude shrilled, pointing to Clara. “That Negar should walk ten steps behind you, her head meekly bowed, as befits a servant! You must never allow so much as a finger to touch her in public. Where did she get this dress? It must have cost twenty or thirty pounds! Do you want us all to have our throats cut some dark night? I shall speak to your grandfather about this, straightaway!”
    â€œAunt,” I said in somewhat halting English. “I’m sure Grandfather will tell you what I tell you now. It’s none of your business.”
    â€œIt’s the business of every white person in New York, as you will soon discover,” Uncle Johannes said. “Don’t you agree, Judge Horsmanden?”
    â€œI certainly do,” said Horsmanden. “In my opinion, the Common Council should pass a law to be enforced under a penalty of thirty lashes for each offense, forbidding such displays. Nothing but firm unwavering authority can control these people.”
    He glared at Clara as he said this. A dozen other women—and several men—were staring at us with the same angry disapproval on their faces. Flustered, I withdrew my arm from Clara’s—and saw for the first time—but not, alas, for the last—pain and reproach gather in my Seneca sister’s brown eyes.
    The Van Vorsts and Judge Horsmanden proceeded on their way. In the crowd of hostile spectators I saw a familiar face: the blond giant who had rescued Clara from Bold Antelope. Malcolm Stapleton—I had made a point of learning his full name—sauntered over to us, accompanied by his hunchbacked friend, Adam Duycinck.
    â€œIs what my aunt and uncle tell me true?” I asked. “I can’t treat Clara as my friend in public?”
    â€œIt might be better to walk a few paces apart,”