night.
"Seems to me yon whore is gettin' no worse'n she deserves," she muttered, loud enough for the man sitting beside her to hear. "A-lyin' in sin with a man not her husband..."
Ty looked away from the gruesome scene being enacted in the street and met Delia's accusing eyes. "I know what you're implying, Delia, and you're wrong. The woman in question—"
"Priscilla," Delia put in, just so there'd be no mistake.
"Priscilla," Ty admitted through gritted teeth, "is a widow. She's also kind, decent, honest to a fault, and one of the finest people I know. And why shouldn't she take a lover now and then if she so chooses?"
Delia sniffed. "There's many a God-fearin' folk in Boston who would argue with ye about that. An' what's more, ye ought t' marry her, Tyler Savitch, if ye're going t' do... do what ye've been doin' with her."
"If I proposed marriage to Priscilla, she would turn me down flat for she values her freedom as much as I do mine." He glared at her. "Jesus, why am I justifying myself to the likes of you? The entire matter is none of your damn business!"
Delia said nothing, although her breast rose in indignation at the hypocrisy of his words. Priscilla was a lady, rich and prominent, and therefore above society's censure no matter what her behavior, whereas a poor girl like herself couldn't work in a grog shop without being labeled a whore.
Ty had turned away, but he was not done with her, for a moment later his head snapped around and he growled at hersome more. "And here's another thing. If that woman"—and he pointed out the carriage window—" sinned, as you call it, then there was a man helping her to do it. So why isn't he out there tied to that cart and taking his licks right along with her?"
Delia stared at him in surprise. That was one form of hypocrisy that had never occurred to her before. Yet for him, a man, it had.
She was still ruminating over this strange facet of Ty's character when the coach turned down Beacon Street and drew up before a manor house set well back on a tree-shaded lot. Only four houses stood on this side of the street, which ran into the base of Beacon Hill, where flags on the signal tower snapped in the wind, a wind that brought with it the cloyingly sweet smell of molasses from the rum-making distilleries on nearby Mill Pond.
The footman opened the carriage door and helped Delia to descend into the street. She looked up in wonder at the enormous mansion built of granite and trimmed with brown sandstone. It was three stories tall with a blue slate mansard roof and row upon row of large sashed windows. The front door was decorated with a frieze and flanked by columns and in the middle of it was a brass lion's head knocker with a ball in its mouth.
"Oh, Ty, I've never clapped sight of a house so grand!" Delia exclaimed. She looked at him with shimmering eyes. "Can I go inside with ye? Please. I promise I'll act like a proper lady, truly I will."
He smiled down at her. Then he actually took her arm and linked it through his, just as if she were a real lady, and Delia's chest swelled with pride.
But he spoiled it all by saying, "I don't want you acting like a lady, Delia, even if you are capable of such an impossible feat. I want you to be yourself."
Before Ty could knock, the door was opened by another servant—a woman large enough to stand eye-level with Ty's six feet. Her stiff apron crackled as she moved, and she had a gigantic turban balanced precariously on her pumpkin-sized head. She, too, wore a silver slave collar, engraved with the name of her owner. Her cheerful grin was so infectious, Delia couldn't help smiling back at her.
"Mornin', mistress," she said, nodding at Delia, whose wide-open eyes were taking in the long wainscoted hall and the sweeping stairway with its elaborately carved balusters and newel posts. "And mornin' t' you, Massah Tyler," she said as she took Delia's cloak and grist sack, treating them with the same reverence as if the cloak had been
"Seems to me yon whore is gettin' no worse'n she deserves," she muttered, loud enough for the man sitting beside her to hear. "A-lyin' in sin with a man not her husband..."
Ty looked away from the gruesome scene being enacted in the street and met Delia's accusing eyes. "I know what you're implying, Delia, and you're wrong. The woman in question—"
"Priscilla," Delia put in, just so there'd be no mistake.
"Priscilla," Ty admitted through gritted teeth, "is a widow. She's also kind, decent, honest to a fault, and one of the finest people I know. And why shouldn't she take a lover now and then if she so chooses?"
Delia sniffed. "There's many a God-fearin' folk in Boston who would argue with ye about that. An' what's more, ye ought t' marry her, Tyler Savitch, if ye're going t' do... do what ye've been doin' with her."
"If I proposed marriage to Priscilla, she would turn me down flat for she values her freedom as much as I do mine." He glared at her. "Jesus, why am I justifying myself to the likes of you? The entire matter is none of your damn business!"
Delia said nothing, although her breast rose in indignation at the hypocrisy of his words. Priscilla was a lady, rich and prominent, and therefore above society's censure no matter what her behavior, whereas a poor girl like herself couldn't work in a grog shop without being labeled a whore.
Ty had turned away, but he was not done with her, for a moment later his head snapped around and he growled at hersome more. "And here's another thing. If that woman"—and he pointed out the carriage window—" sinned, as you call it, then there was a man helping her to do it. So why isn't he out there tied to that cart and taking his licks right along with her?"
Delia stared at him in surprise. That was one form of hypocrisy that had never occurred to her before. Yet for him, a man, it had.
She was still ruminating over this strange facet of Ty's character when the coach turned down Beacon Street and drew up before a manor house set well back on a tree-shaded lot. Only four houses stood on this side of the street, which ran into the base of Beacon Hill, where flags on the signal tower snapped in the wind, a wind that brought with it the cloyingly sweet smell of molasses from the rum-making distilleries on nearby Mill Pond.
The footman opened the carriage door and helped Delia to descend into the street. She looked up in wonder at the enormous mansion built of granite and trimmed with brown sandstone. It was three stories tall with a blue slate mansard roof and row upon row of large sashed windows. The front door was decorated with a frieze and flanked by columns and in the middle of it was a brass lion's head knocker with a ball in its mouth.
"Oh, Ty, I've never clapped sight of a house so grand!" Delia exclaimed. She looked at him with shimmering eyes. "Can I go inside with ye? Please. I promise I'll act like a proper lady, truly I will."
He smiled down at her. Then he actually took her arm and linked it through his, just as if she were a real lady, and Delia's chest swelled with pride.
But he spoiled it all by saying, "I don't want you acting like a lady, Delia, even if you are capable of such an impossible feat. I want you to be yourself."
Before Ty could knock, the door was opened by another servant—a woman large enough to stand eye-level with Ty's six feet. Her stiff apron crackled as she moved, and she had a gigantic turban balanced precariously on her pumpkin-sized head. She, too, wore a silver slave collar, engraved with the name of her owner. Her cheerful grin was so infectious, Delia couldn't help smiling back at her.
"Mornin', mistress," she said, nodding at Delia, whose wide-open eyes were taking in the long wainscoted hall and the sweeping stairway with its elaborately carved balusters and newel posts. "And mornin' t' you, Massah Tyler," she said as she took Delia's cloak and grist sack, treating them with the same reverence as if the cloak had been
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