Read Online The Orphanmaster by Jean Zimmerman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jean Zimmerman
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actually means ‘cheese.’ The eldest son of the director’s sister.A shipbuilder-merchant. Something of a prig, and tied to the director general’s purse strings, but he’s on his way to becoming a very rich man.”
Drummond gazed down through the window. “She can do better than that,” he said.
The high-booted English peacock came down the stairs from the second floor, strode directly across the taproom and stood before Blandine and Visser.
He performed a courtly bow. “Edward Drummond,” he said. “I’m told you deal in grain.”
Blandine felt her face grow hot, and hated herself for it.
Visser saved her. “Why, yes,” he said in his thickly accented English. “I trade in a little wheat, flax and barley. A Briton, are you not?”
“English,” Drummond said, not taking his eyes from Blandine’s downcast face.
“A grain merchant?”
“Yes.”
“Aet Visser,” the orphanmaster said, and held out his hand to Drummond.
Several loud bangs sounded against the street wall of the tavern.
“The
schout
,” someone called.
“Time, gentlemen,” a voice said from the outside.
Raeger emerged from upstairs and hurried across to the taproom entrance. “Yes, yes, yes,” he said, disappearing into the street to consult with the sheriff.
The clientele drained down their last dregs and began filing out. From the backroom casino, the Mane, curses from the gamblers.
When Drummond turned back to the chimney-corner table, he saw that the woman Blandine had slipped around him and joined the crowd in leaving.
Drummond was about to follow, but Visser grabbed his arm.
“We should talk, sir,” the orphanmaster said. “You and I should talk wheat and corn.”
7
T he next morning, Tuesday, a half foot of wet snow covered the ground. Kees Bayard visited Blandine before her departure for the trading market upriver at Beverwyck. He was preoccupied.
“Will you go around the island by Hell Gate or up the North River?”
“The North” is what Blandine should have said. But seeing Kees pace, glancing out the window of her rooms to the early morning foot traffic on Pearl Street, she felt an urge to tease him.
“We sail east across the wine-dark sea, the better to stop over at Holland.”
“Yes, that’s the proper way,” he murmured, still distracted. Kees was anxious to get on with his business. He was always anxious to get on with his business.
They were in the ground-floor
groot kamer
, the great room of her dwelling-house, directly opposite the Red Lion. The taproom across the street presented a blank, shuttered face to the morning, the death-sleep of the drunkard.
“Your kit is stowed?” Kees asked, evidently not noticing her trunk, still half spilling out its contents.
Cornelus Bayard. “Kees.” Ever since Blandine had been a little girl, Kees shone like a star in the tiny firmament of the colony. She loved him before she even knew what romantic love was, when she still wore her leading strings, under the close watch of her mother. All the maidens in the colony, and some married women, too, set their caps for Kees Bayard. And now here he was with her, in her rooms, wishing her a safe journey.
“Sea dragons will gobble up the
Rose
to the last timber,” she said.
Kees stared out her window. “Devilish weather,” he said. Then he turned to her. “I’m sorry, what?”
She laughed and patted him lightly on the cheek. It didn’t bother her that his mind was often elsewhere. That “elsewhere” included his three flute ships plying the waters between the new world and the old, bringingtimber and furs to the Netherlands, returning to the colony with lengths of linen, panes of window glass and kegs of gunpowder.
One thing she loved about Kees was that though others might question her passion for trading, he understood and encouraged her. They were going to be rich together. He had a fourth merchant ship already in negotiations for purchase. The day Blandine married Kees, guilders would
Drummond gazed down through the window. “She can do better than that,” he said.
The high-booted English peacock came down the stairs from the second floor, strode directly across the taproom and stood before Blandine and Visser.
He performed a courtly bow. “Edward Drummond,” he said. “I’m told you deal in grain.”
Blandine felt her face grow hot, and hated herself for it.
Visser saved her. “Why, yes,” he said in his thickly accented English. “I trade in a little wheat, flax and barley. A Briton, are you not?”
“English,” Drummond said, not taking his eyes from Blandine’s downcast face.
“A grain merchant?”
“Yes.”
“Aet Visser,” the orphanmaster said, and held out his hand to Drummond.
Several loud bangs sounded against the street wall of the tavern.
“The
schout
,” someone called.
“Time, gentlemen,” a voice said from the outside.
Raeger emerged from upstairs and hurried across to the taproom entrance. “Yes, yes, yes,” he said, disappearing into the street to consult with the sheriff.
The clientele drained down their last dregs and began filing out. From the backroom casino, the Mane, curses from the gamblers.
When Drummond turned back to the chimney-corner table, he saw that the woman Blandine had slipped around him and joined the crowd in leaving.
Drummond was about to follow, but Visser grabbed his arm.
“We should talk, sir,” the orphanmaster said. “You and I should talk wheat and corn.”
7
T he next morning, Tuesday, a half foot of wet snow covered the ground. Kees Bayard visited Blandine before her departure for the trading market upriver at Beverwyck. He was preoccupied.
“Will you go around the island by Hell Gate or up the North River?”
“The North” is what Blandine should have said. But seeing Kees pace, glancing out the window of her rooms to the early morning foot traffic on Pearl Street, she felt an urge to tease him.
“We sail east across the wine-dark sea, the better to stop over at Holland.”
“Yes, that’s the proper way,” he murmured, still distracted. Kees was anxious to get on with his business. He was always anxious to get on with his business.
They were in the ground-floor
groot kamer
, the great room of her dwelling-house, directly opposite the Red Lion. The taproom across the street presented a blank, shuttered face to the morning, the death-sleep of the drunkard.
“Your kit is stowed?” Kees asked, evidently not noticing her trunk, still half spilling out its contents.
Cornelus Bayard. “Kees.” Ever since Blandine had been a little girl, Kees shone like a star in the tiny firmament of the colony. She loved him before she even knew what romantic love was, when she still wore her leading strings, under the close watch of her mother. All the maidens in the colony, and some married women, too, set their caps for Kees Bayard. And now here he was with her, in her rooms, wishing her a safe journey.
“Sea dragons will gobble up the
Rose
to the last timber,” she said.
Kees stared out her window. “Devilish weather,” he said. Then he turned to her. “I’m sorry, what?”
She laughed and patted him lightly on the cheek. It didn’t bother her that his mind was often elsewhere. That “elsewhere” included his three flute ships plying the waters between the new world and the old, bringingtimber and furs to the Netherlands, returning to the colony with lengths of linen, panes of window glass and kegs of gunpowder.
One thing she loved about Kees was that though others might question her passion for trading, he understood and encouraged her. They were going to be rich together. He had a fourth merchant ship already in negotiations for purchase. The day Blandine married Kees, guilders would
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