Marike's World - Hardcover

Catherine M. Rae is the author of eight previous novels, most recently Sunlight on a Broken Column and The Hidden Cove. She lives in Guilford, Connecticut.

Chapter One

I can never look back on the terrible fire of 1776, the one that destroyed hundreds of houses as well as Trinity Church, as a blessing, but in a way it was one for me. It saved me not only from the wrath of my parents but also from the ignominy of public disgrace. Of course there were those few (there are always some who suspect something other than what they are told) who treated me cautiously, as if I were not wholly trustworthy, which I guess I am not when you come right down to it.
During the two years that preceded the fire New York was in a state of unrest, so much so that the grown-ups, even those not engaged in city affairs, were on edge and short-tempered. My brothers, Jan and Pieter, and I found it best to follow parental orders promptly and to keep out of the way as much as possible. This was not always easy to do, since the duties assigned to us often involved our father and mother. The boys were working with Papa, helping to build the rows of small houses that were spreading out to the north of us, and after I was taken out of the Dame’s School up on Prince Street (where I learned to read and to write a fair hand, and which I was loath to leave) most of my day was taken up with domestic chores: churning the butter, making the cheese, scrubbing the tiles in the kitchen, and cleaning, cleaning, cleaning. Even the road in front of our house on Beaver Street had to be swept, and every Friday I was out there with a broom, whisking the dirt and trash into piles, which would be taken away later by the men who came around with their carts. If the mistress of a Dutch household had a passion for anything it was for cleanliness; she cleaned everything she owned, and Mama was no exception. She kept at it and kept me at it until we were both exhausted, or until it was time to sit down and pick up the mending or our knitting.
By the time I was twelve I could turn out a pair of woolen stockings almost as good as the ones my mother’s flashing needles produced, and a year later I was able to adorn them with the bright-colored clocks the boys liked. If we weren’t knitting, we were mending, or patching trousers, skirts, petticoats, or shirts, whatever needed repair. None of us had extensive wardrobes; what clothes we had we kept until they were thoroughly worn out, at which point they would be carefully cut into squares for dustings (flannel petticoats were good for these) or into strips to be made into rag rugs. We wasted nothing. It never occurred to me to complain about having so few clothes; I simply wore the same woolen skirts over two (or three on bitter-cold days) petticoats in winter and in summer high-necked gingham or calico dresses, sometimes with a fichu that covered the bodice and was crossed at the waist.
Occasionally I would see the governor’s lady and some of her friends driving out in their carriages and marvel at the beauty of their silks and satins, but did I envy them? No. They had what they had and we had what we had; it was as simple as that. Envy would have complicated things.
I was happiest, I think, on the days I went to Mistress Shelby’s house on Anne Street to deliver some knitting or mending Mama had done for the old lady. It was there, in the cluttered front room of Mistress Shelby’s tiny house that I learned to appreciate the beauty of the English language.
Mistress Shelby spoke slowly and precisely, pronouncing each word carefully, and one day when she caught me imitating her she smiled and asked if I would like to improve my vocabulary.
“I will make you a list of words, my dear,” she said, taking up a quill pen and beginning to write. “I will explain their meanings, and you must get them by heart. Then the next time you come we will discuss them and use them in sentences. Will you do that for me?”
I loved doing it, and for the next three years, until poor Mistress Shelby died of some fever or other, I seized every opportunity to hurry over to Anne Street, carrying something Mama had baked or sewed, sure of a delightful hour with my elderly friend.
A boring life, I imagine I hear you say, and you would be right; for the most part it was deadly dull. There were, however, some compensations: an occasional party, outing, or wedding to attend, or even something as simple as helping with the picking of ripe fruit, which would provide an opportunity for a young girl like me, Marike Dykeman, to be with people her own age.
One late summer day in particular stands out in my memory: it was when I was seventeen years old and people were beginning to comment on how pretty I was becoming when Jan, Pieter, and I went over to the Wiltwyck farm to help bring in the pear crop. Mama was pleased to let us go because she knew Vrouw Wiltwyck would send us home with our string bags filled with enough fruit to make a good supply of pear brandy, and Papa approved of anything that produced tangible results. If they knew about the horseplay and flirtations that went on under the pear trees, and I am reasonably sure they did, they said nothing beyond warning us to behave ourselves and to be home before sunset. Then Mama handed over the food I had helped pack and sent us off.
We had rather a long walk to the orchard, a couple of miles, I think. Because of all the building going on in lower New York farmers were forced to move to the north, and according to Papa the time would come when there wouldn’t be a single farm or orchard left in Manhattan. He was right, of course, but I hated the way he said things like that, as if he were God Himself making an announcement.
Yes indeed, he was right. The Wiltwyck orchard is long gone, replaced by rows of tidy brick and brownstone houses, but I have no trouble picturing it as it was that warm, sunny day, the day I met Philip Bogardus. I could not help but notice him, a tall, slender young man dressed in a light blue shirt and a pair of dark britches that seemed to emphasize the shapeliness of his long legs. When I realized that he had glanced over in my direction more than once I wondered whether he would speak to me, but he said nothing until a wasp stung me and I uttered a sharp little cry.
“What is it?” he asked, hurrying over to where I stood staring at the swelling on my wrist. “Oh, a sting. You’ll need some mud to put on it.”
He picked up a stick and scraped a bit of dirt from the base of the tree.
“This is too dry,” he said, holding it out to me, “but if you smear it on your wrist it will help take the sting out until I come back with some water. Wait here.”
He disappeared in the direction of the barn and returned a few minutes later carrying a wet handkerchief from which he squeezed a few drops of water onto my wrist.
“Oh, it feels better,” I said gratefully, “so much better. But now your handkerchief is all wet.”
“No matter,” he said with a laugh. “I’ll just put it around my neck to keep me cool. That’s why I brought it with me.”
After that it seemed only natural that he should help me with the pears that were too high up in the tree for me to reach, and even more natural for us to sit together in the shade and share our food when the gong sounded at midday. I had brought the usual bread and cheese, along with a slice of cold venison and two of Mama’s olykoeks, or oilcakes, delicious little confections flavored with chopped apple, citron, and raisins. I gave him one of the cakes and in return he handed me a square of gingerbread he said their cook had made.
“You have a better cook than we do, Marike,” he said, savoring the last crumbs of the oilcake. “Is she a slave? Ours tries hard, but she doesn’t do too well.”
I was surprised that a boy who came from a household that kept a slave—only a...