They were waiting for her; she felt the hush fall on the house, when she stepped onto the stair. She had never been more frightened in her life, more acutely aware of herself and her shortcomings, more self—conscious. Poised there at the head of the stair with so many strangers watching and waiting, she sought out Nathaniel and found him, as she knew she would, smiling at her. And it was then that she discovered that it was possible to be terribly frightened and extraordinarily, inconceivably happy, all in the same breath.

Later she remembered very little about the ceremony. The Reverend Lyddeker had a distracted smile, a Dutch accent, and sprinkles of tobacco on his shirtfront; Mrs. Schuyler stood nearby with her daughters Cornelia and Catherine to either side of her, with the late afternoon sunshine setting on their blond heads like halos. The room smelled of fresh—washed curtains and pipe smoke and the grove of spruce that stood outside the open windows. And there was Nathaniel, smiling down at her. When he had her hand in his and felt her tremble, he leaned over and brushed her ear with his mouth.

"Come now, Boots," he said softly while they waited for the witnesses to come to order. "If you can stand up to Moses Southern, you can stand up to this. It won't be long."

There were only two real surprises: her own calm, now that it had come this far, and the ring that Nathaniel put on her finger. She hadn't thought about a ring, because she hadn't expected one. It was a simple gold band; she had no idea where he had got it or how, but she was very glad of its cold and unfamiliar grip. It was something to concentrate on when the final words were spoken and she found herself no longer a spinster, but Nathaniel Bonner's wife, and being soundly kissed by him in a room full of approving strangers.

* * *

The long board had been set with linen and china and crystal, dominated at its oval center by four silver waiters with brilliantly polished domes, slightly misty with heat, these surrounded by another ring of open dishes. There were pickled oysters, cold venison, brook trout stuffed with walnuts and cornmeal and fried in butter, a massive ham studded with peppercorns, puree of squash, snowy mounds of rice, stewed corn, green beans in a rich cream sauce. On the sideboard, jostling for room with a legion of ale and wine bottles there was a massive tipsy pudding, a bowl of fruit fool, plates of shortbread and of ginger cake. Around this feast the wedding party crowded, shoulder to shoulder, the room filled with ten different conversations in English and Dutch and Kahnyen'keháka, the smells of roasted meat, pipe tobacco, fragrant beeswax candles, and the great bouquets of spring wild—flowers which flanked the cold hearth. It had taken more than an hour of introductions and congratulations and toasts to the couple and their hosts to get settled here, and Elizabeth was pleased to finally sit quietly. It was a loud and familiar company, and a jovial one.

Under the table Nathaniel's hand was lying pleasurably heavy and sedate on Elizabeth's leg. She leaned against him comfortably, very aware of the right to do this now. She was not in the least hungry in spite of the wealth of delicacies that Mrs. Schuyler had seen piled on her plate. From her spot she could look out over the lawns toward the river and the wilderness beyond it, cast now in the early evening shadow. She might be out on the river right now, she knew, if it weren't for the generosity and kindness of these people, their willingness to put down their work in order to make a wedding party for her. So deep was she in this daydream of what might have been that she started when a hand settled on her shoulder.

"You know what you got here, I hope," said Sally Gerlach to Elizabeth as she filled her wineglass. From underneath an enormous mobcap the house—keeper's owlish gray eyes blinked solemnly. "I don't know as anybody here will tell you the truth about him, but I will. The truth is what a bride needs, you realize. She can do without lace on her drawers, but the truth—" She laughed, and with her the rest of the table laughed, too, the Schuylers and their children and grandchildren, Anton Meerschaum, the minister, other men whom Elizabeth had been introduced to but whose names she could not remember, and Runs-from-Bears, who sat to Elizabeth's left and ate with great delicacy from surprisingly small servings of squash and venison.

"Now," Sally said. "Who'll tell this girlie about her man and young John Bradstreet."

"It's a tale that's been told too many times already," Nathaniel protested.

"What story is this?" Elizabeth asked.

"That's a curious one you've got there," said the Reverend Lyddeker with a very unclergylike wink. "She'll keep you busy."

"That she will, Dominie," Nathaniel said, squeezing Elizabeth's knee. She shifted a little. As if he had read her thoughts, he leaned over and spoke into her ear, his warm breath stirring her hair.

"I understand you're unsettled," he said softly. "But try not to wiggle too much, Boots. We've outraged these good people enough for one day."

She pinched him then as hard as she could. Nathaniel hiccuped and caught her hand. He pressed it down against the hard plane of his thigh, laying his own hand flat over it with fingers intertwined.

"Now tell me the story," she said.

"Aha, and demanding too," noted the dominie, peering at her over his wineglass.

"John is the Schuylers' oldest son," Runs-from-Bears supplied kindly overhearing this last comment.

"And by God he would be under the ground these almost sixteen years if it weren't for your Nathaniel," piped up Anton Meerschaum. He thumped the table for emphasis so that the china clattered, and Mrs. Schuyler sent him a look that would have made him cower, if he hadn't turned his whole attention to the oysters in front of him.