Chapter 50

"Good God. They are talking of trying the queen of France as an enemy of the state."

Nathaniel produced a questioning sound around his spoonful of porridge.

Elizabeth never looked up from Mr. Schuyler's copy of the Gentlemen's Periodical. "The Jacobins. They will end up putting her to the guillotine as they did the king. Is there no end to this insanity?" She pushed her bowl away to make more room for the newspaper, her eyes flying greedily over the small print.

The housekeeper hovered, clucking nervously.

"Boots, eat your food," Nathaniel said. "Mrs. Vanderhyden here will fuss herself into an apoplexy if she thinks she's sent you off without a decent meal. Imagine how she'd explain herself to Mrs. Schuyler."

Elizabeth cast a distracted but apologetic look toward the housekeeper, and then reluctantly put down the paper to pick up her spoon.

"You said you were looking forward to the news," Nathaniel reminded her. "Guess you didn't think so much would be afoot,"

She swallowed hastily. "Well, yes. The yellow fever epidemic in Philadelphia is truly horrifying, Nathaniel. So many have died. And then there is this Monsieur Genet from the revolutionary government—if half of this is true, he is a revolution unto himself. He is determined to pull this country into the European war, and on France's side." Elizabeth looked out the window to Catherine Schuyler's manicured garden. It seemed so peaceful here, but she was beginning to believe that peace could never be anything more than a deceptive lull in an ongoing storm. "The revolution seemed such a hopeful thing in the beginning. I can hardly imagine what it's turned into."

"I can," Nathaniel said. "Listen, Boots. I don't want to say it ain't important, what's going on in the world. But we've got a few things here to work through today." With his chin he gestured to the unopened letter on the table.

When they had come to the Schuylers' Albany estate the evening before, they had found two letters. Elizabeth had read the one from Mrs. Schuyler straightaway: it was all apologies for the family's absence, instructions on how to best enjoy herself in Albany, and a three—times—repeated invitation for them to stop at Saratoga on their way home. The second letter was from her aunt Merriweather; it was still unopened.

"I will read it later today, when our business is concluded," she said. "It will be easier then."

Nathaniel touched her knee under the table.

"We'll manage this, Boots. We've managed worse."

Elizabeth shook her head while she drank the last of her tea. "I will believe that when we have put the breach—of—promise suit behind us."

* * *

They left the neat grounds of the Schuyler estate and walked through fields that bordered the Hudson, thick with growing wheat and rye, corn and beans, separated by rows of gnarled apple trees standing sentry.Behind it all, boats moved along the Hudson so that their sails seemed to skim the sea of grain. The sky was wider here without the mountains and in it the clouds skittered along as if to keep up with the sailboats.

Albany in the late summer was almost as unpleasant a place as London, Elizabeth thought as they made their way along Ferrington Street into the center of the city. They had come on business that could not wait, and she would be happy to leave as soon as they possibly could. The roads were crowded with housemaids swinging baskets on red—chapped arms; peddlers hawking sticky peaches, sugar—sweet melons, wilted kale; young women in watered silks with feathered parasols tilted against the sun; river Indians dressed in fringed buckskin and top hats; slaves hauling bales of rags and herding goats. It was not so dirty and crowded as New—York had been, that was true. There was a pleasing tidiness to the brick houses with their steeply tiled roofs and bright curtains, but still the humid air reeked of sewage, burning refuse, pig slurry, and horse dung. Elizabeth swallowed hard and put her handkerchief to her nose and mouth, wondering to herself that she had forgotten what cities were like in such a short time. Three months in the wilderness had changed her, stolen her patience for the realities of a crowded life.

To her further surprise, Nathaniel seemed at ease. Men leaned over half doors to call out a welcome, dropped their tools to come into the street and talk to him, wiping dirty hands on leather aprons. Nathaniel touched the small of her back as he introduced her. "My bride," he said so many times she lost count. "My bride, Elizabeth." It caused her both a great deal of pleasure and acute embarrassment. She had never minded being called a spinster: there was something solid and rational about the word, and she had made it her own. But never had she imagined herself as a bride; she still could not, although it pleased her endlessly that Nathaniel saw her thus.

She rediscovered what she had first learned from the Schuylers at Saratoga: Nathaniel's reputation spread far over the territory and was larger than she could comprehend. Before they reached the main market square they had had four invitations to come and stay and countless invitations to dinner. Elizabeth collected shy looks from bachelor farmers, appreciative appraisals from merchants and calculating glances from their wives and daughters, some of them directed openly to her waist. What she carried there was not visible to the world at large, not when she was fully dressed—but they saw what they wanted to and nodded to each other knowingly.

Total strangers seemed to know things about her.

"Don't look so surprised, Boots," Nathaniel had said after an old trapper by the name of Johanson had inquired after her time in the bush. "This always was a town with an appetite for gossip, and we gave them enough to talk about in the spring."