Well researched and chuck full of early eighteenth century colonial people, places and events cleverly woven amid fictional characters-’Threads - An American Tapestry (ISBN 9781438974156) is a third novel for author Gloria Waldron Hukle. The story chronologically follows ’Manhattan: Seeds of the Big Apple’, the l7th century saga set in New Amsterdam that becomes New York City. ( visit www.authorgloriawaldronhukle.com )In the opening scene Margaret Vandenberg, wealthy, strong-minded, intelligent (sole daughter of a Dutch immigrant and Native American) watches the departure of the census taker’s carriage, fearful that the provincial official has made a few dangerous discoveries while visiting her vast ’northern plantation’. Margaret’s main concern--one that she has trouble believing herself-- is that one of her beloved Negro slaves is helping runaways. Later an attack is the catalyst for a horrific discovery from which Margaret and her people struggle to recover.Margaret, despite her wealth and position, is no stranger to prejudice. Well into her thirties, as she prepares to marry for the first time she faces many issues. She vows that she will leave all of this in God’s hands--but can she?***************************************** Greenbush Life News (edited) Published January l7, 2009Gloria Waldron Hukle...Bringing New York History to LifeJulie Rigg wirtes "Hukle brings real historical figures together with fictional characters to tell the stories of the first settlers of Manhattan and the Hudson River Valley Region. The stories revolve around early settlers including the Dutch and reaching beyond delving into the lives of African Americans, American Indians and Colonial European settlers." Historians and genealogists may be interested in this partial list of surnames, New York Colonials who are a part of "Threads An American Tapestry"... Waldron, Bradt, Collins, Vandenberg, Karski, Schuyler, Stuyvesant, Schermerhoorn, Leisler,Vermilye, Jensen, Hitchcock,Meyndert,Wendell, LaCroix, Vandeusen, Vrooman, Lansing,Yates, Penn,Altemouse, Brant, Ryckman, Partridge, Verelst, Kidd.

Threads

An American TapestryBy GLORIA WALDRON HUKLE

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2009 Gloria Waldron Hukle
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4389-7416-3

Chapter One

1723 The New York Colony

Margaret Vandenberg closed the bottom section of the Dutch style front door, snapping the wrought iron latch into place. The top half of the door being left open, a gentle, yet unlikely, July breeze brushed her face as her dark eyes pensively trailed the departing census taker's carriage. The wheels rattled precariously over the long, yellow bricked, tree lined drive that connected Vandenberg manor to the dirt river road that ultimately joined the recently built highway beyond. Although the official's coach was well away, Margaret continued to wave until it was out of sight.

Speaking in Dutch, a soft, feminine voice asked anxiously from behind. "Then is he gone?"

Margaret turned to address her maid, a tall, stocky, dark skinned woman in her mid-thirties wearing a grey linen dress appropriately covered by a muslin apron. The maid's feet were clad in fashionable three inch, wide-heeled, square-toed shoes that were similar to those worn by her mistress. "Yes, Mr. Kent has departed though I fear Brownie gave him a terrible farewell." Margaret smiled before adding, "No doubt Bess's hound continues his brash assault upon the carriage and I suspect he will follow them halfway to the Rye farm before he stops barking."

Stepping forward to the parlor window, Marie glanced out, reassuring herself of the departure. "Good, I will tell you that I have been unable to sleep these past nights. Did you know that Mr. Kent was down by the mill and all over the farm yesterday? He be just standin' round and watchin'-watchin' everybody, and everything they did. I profess I do wonder if Mr. Kent will go to and fro as he pleases like he did here, him just quiet and watchin', at every farm he invades, he uppity and all like he be, with his account ledger in hand."

Having seated herself comfortably in a high backed chair beneath the ornately framed scripture painting of Jesus healing the blind man, Margaret folded her hands casually in her lap. She studied the servant woman who lingered across the room beside the small panes of glass, thinking how much Marie resembled her father Zebulon, the African slave brought back decades ago from the Waldron farm at Harlem.

Margaret began softly, "Marie, please come sit by me and have a seed cake before they grow stale. I gave Mr. Kent my permission to go where he might please, and speak to whomever he had a mind to interview. Good manners demand our hospitality, and we have nothing to hide. It was best to give him liberty."

Obediently Marie sat down. The expression across her face was as if she had just bitten into a sour apple. "I can not understand your calm demeanor, Peg. That man even went so far as to be bothering Titus. What information can be gotten from your stableman? Yet, now you sit enjoyin' caraway cakes as though nothin' were amiss, and you seem not at all put out by the fuss of the goin's-on that have been put upon your household."

"Put out?"

"Yes, he insulted your generosity," Marie said fidgeting in her chair. "You were good enough to give him leave to go where he would, but still, did you not feel distressed when Mr. Kent questioned many of your people without you being present? What right does a census taker have to wander alone where he would?"

"Perhaps Mr. Kent has an eye for good horseflesh. Whatever he was doing, my person was not put out at all, and nay, I was not offended, as I mean to go by the law," Margaret answered indifferently.

Marie raised an eyebrow. "I would think that you might think Mr. Kent took too many liberties."

Margaret smiled pleasantly while passing the plate of bite size cookies, but her reply was resolute. "You are loyal and that has always pleased me. I confess that I too was surprised that the man stayed another two days, but now we have come by it all none the worse." Leaning forward, Margaret lowered her voice. "I, of course, produced all proper documentation on your behalf, though your freedom is common knowledge in this part of our country, and Mr. Kent was well aware of your position here before his arrival."

Marie shot her mistress a look of surprise. "Do you think I worry over my freedom? I do not. Since I was three years of age, you have been my beloved mistress. With or without my papers, you will always be the same. I do not worry myself over your good care, Peg. My concern is only over that little man's probing of private affairs, and I never knew you to take so kindly to being lorded over."

Margaret laughed and then patted Marie's hand. "Indeed, and though you be free, I shall always protect you. All is in order with the little man. In truth, I found much of my discourse with Mr. Kent most pleasant and did not feel put out at all. When we spoke of you he had naught to say but that which was complimentary of your good care of my house. He spoke most highly of your good cookery. You seem so worried, but believe me, you have nothing to fear."

Marie abruptly rose from her chair, folding her arms defensively. "Oh, say no more of this to me; he is a small, uppity man and I did not like him. He is not the sort to be trusted."

"You think worse of him than you should. The gentleman seemed to especially enjoy the trout that you and your mother prepared for mid-day meal. And I too was pleased to see that you had little Sally making herself useful with the serving."

Marie offered a tenuous smile. "Master Vandenberg, the Almighty bless him, was always happy with the fish, and I thank you for the compliment, though you will not turn my head about Mr. Kent."

"So I see." Margaret replied drolly.

Marie sighed. "I am glad to hear that you took note of Sally. She is a good girl and very careful."

"Yes, you train her well, and to be sure, your poor mother needs her help in the kitchen. Sally is eight now, is she not?"

"Yes."

"She is old enough then to work around the meal table."

"Oh, yes. She is plenty old enough."

Margaret nodded approvingly, "Now, I bid you do not worry over the census taker any longer. All was in order, and there was no further question posed to me with regard to your freedom, if that be what troubles you. I know you protest that it does not, but should this be a part of what troubles you, trust me and be at ease. I will speak no further about it. I am weary enough with all else that is at hand."

Marie, still looking doleful, nodded her reluctant acceptance.

"Come now let us forget about Mr. Kent who I doubt we will ever see again. I have happier news. As you were in and out of the room, perchance did you hear the census taker's talk of Tenbroeck the silversmith living at Albany? You will recall he is the craftsman who fashioned my new silver forks and the round handled spoons. Remember? I brought them back from Albany last spring after my visit with my cousin, Catharina, and her family."

"Yes, of course, I remember, Mistress Peg. It was a sad time for me. I stayed to home to tend my father who was so sick we all thought the Lord would take him."

Margaret softened. "Mr. Kent tells us that Coenradt and Gertie Tenbroeck have a new infant son, and it sounds as though he is a quite large and a most robust babe. It seems prior to his arrival here, Mr. Kent was about his doleful business upriver by Coeyman's trading post, and the infant's grandmother could not keep from boasting upon the size of the latest addition to the brood. Goodness, she must have more than a dozen grandchildren by now, but you know she will go on and on as if her newest grandchild were her only one."

Marie, her earlier fears seeming to dissipate, smiled and replied, "A grandmother will always sing the praises of a newborn. Mama did with every one of hers. I will be sure to pray for the Tenbroeck babe's continued good health."

"Indeed, I am pleased to hear that you will do so. Then be off with you. Put on your old wooden shoes and go out to the ridge and pick me a large bunch of wild flowers. And mix them with the ferns as you do. They are so pretty that way. I will have them in the house should the Reverend Thomas Barclay stop to call on his way to visit his son as he said he might in his last letter." Margaret sighed adding pensively, "To be sure, a large bouquet would chase away his melancholia."

Marie turned to leave the room as Margaret added, "And do endeavor to find Mr. Lapett, as we are far behind in this other business we are about."

"I will see him," Marie replied offhandedly. "I recall the painter saying that he would have a long stroll after the morning meal."

"A stroll indeed!" Margaret expelled exasperatedly. "Well enough. If you come upon him, send him forth."

Picking up two empty beer glasses from the table, Marie hesitated by the door. "I will do as you say, Mistress Peg, and try not to feel ill will toward Mr. Kent." She added with a twinkle in her eye, "I will also include in my prayers that the Lord keep him in good health, but keep him far away from here."

Alone, Margaret again glanced at the clock and sighed, speaking softly to herself as she often had these past weeks. Dear God, where is Benjamin? Why did I allow myself this foolishness, and now the world will know of my vanity having had such a loudmouth as Kent underfoot. Surely, I will be the talk at his next host's supper table. Oh, I am a foolish woman. Reaching for a pearl-backed looking glass left behind after Marie had touched up her austere braided coiffure, she brought the mirror closer to her face and began examining the dark circles surrounding tiny pillowed sacks under each eye. Oh Peggy, you truly are too old to be put upon canvas. She pinched her cheeks as severely as could be endured, wincing while at the same time succumbing to the realization that self inflicting this sort of pain was a useless pursuit. No pink would be coaxed from these cheeks without the direct intervention of heaven's angels, but what could be expected? The blush of youth was long gone. She had fallen passionately in love when most women her age awaited the blessing of grandchildren, not the tantalizing caress of a zealous suitor. What a dismal subject I will make for the artist this afternoon. Wistfully, Margaret looked around the room. Perhaps the light will not be of his taste, and he will not avail himself today.

Not a woman easily discouraged, an idea brewed within, soon boiling over like a pot set too long over fire. There must be something that can be done that might enhance her countenance, though certainly Lapett's strokes would be forgiving. She would send Sally to the hut of the Tuscaroran Indian, saying that the tenant farmer should bring hither his mother, Mamma Shasa, up to the house at first light tomorrow, making sure she had along her herbal pouch. Spotted Bird's mother would prepare her a good strong tonic from her herb garden as a remedy. She must not, would not, look this way when David returned to her from Albany, or he would think her a corpse in the making rather than a bride awaiting. Mamma Shasa had never failed her. Surely, this was the closest she would come to any sort of Godly miracle.

Putting aside her mirror, Margaret struggled to regain her decorum in time for Lapett's arrival, recalling the words her native Lenape grandmother had often whispered to her in the past ... a simple Indian prayer that spoke to her Christian heart.

Give praise for this day. Honor the great Creator who gives to you all things: life, strength, and joy. Hear the bluebird call at dawn: Each day another gift

Margaret thought, If only I could hear the bluebird's call during these trying times. Of course, my grandmother's struggles were not mine, and so perhaps her bluebird has become shy.

Marie appeared at the door. "I am sorry to startle you, but the artist bids me tell you he will come forthwith. He was down yonder by the mill watchin' the men-folk."

"He stands by the mill? I pray he comes before the light is overshadowed, yet I fear the day may already be a loss."

"Would you have a tankard for offering to Lapett?"

"I would have two when you see him come in. And Marie, please try to remember to speak the English even when we are alone. It is good practice."

As Marie left, Margaret reflected upon the census taker's visit and the various conversations that had transpired between them since Mr. Kent's arrival. His examination of everyone he had interviewed had seemingly gone well enough, praises to God, yet his observations in general of the status of the populace, as well as those of his counterparts fanned all across the province, was beginning to reveal disturbing, unexpected news. Mr. Kent perceived that once the census was completed the summation of the slaves living within the New York colony would number more than six thousand, the vast majority, of course, being Negroes living in and around New York City. This head count meant that fifteen percent of those living in the colony were slaves. Margaret had noticed that Mr. Kent had seemed especially concerned when he had spoken of the current counts in comparison to those of the last census taken twenty years before. In l703, the slaves then living within both the city and the province had numbered only two thousand four hundred, Mr. Kent had noted. This new census was showing a marked increase that he believed was cause for sounding the alarm. He had sighed loudly before pointing out that with the brisk slave market, weekly auctions in the city, and the traders profiting one hundred percent on each slave sold, soon slaves would outnumber all free men in the colony. Expressing fears of another slave insurrection such as had occurred a decade before, Mr. Kent had concluded the discourse with a sobering supplication to the Almighty Father asking for preservation of all property owners.

Although concerned by his unsettling report, Margaret thought the paunchy little man an exaggerator who enjoyed the sound of his own voice. She had smiled to herself thinking of the official's unsettled demeanor when the following evening she had asked him to consider the words of the revered John Calvin, who once wrote, "Faith is not a distant view, but a warm embrace of Christ."

Her young sister-in-law, Bess, had been seated beside Mr. Kent at the table, and despite her blush, Margaret had pressed further, suggesting if Christianity, as Calvin proclaimed, were embraced in the same manner as the Lord Jesus had instructed, to be sure no quarter would be given to those who laid claim to salvation yet bred treachery by a lack of tolerance for all of God's created beings. Mr. Lapett had shifted uncomfortably in his chair, prompting her to go still further, flatly stating that she had inherited the responsibility of her Negroes from her departed father, but would purchase no more. All could rest easy in their beds knowing that she had not, nor would she be, adding to slave tallies. The census taker, suddenly at a loss for words, had given no reply, and all had retired early that evening.

Margaret thought again of her mother, who had grown into her maidenhood without benefit of Christian instruction, yet believing that human beings, trees, berries-everything in the world-came from the hands of the Creator. Among the Indians there was no slavery. Captives were either adopted into a tribe with full rights or killed, death being considered a blessing. Bondage was not an alternative. Though a terrible thought, Margaret had long believed that death upon the slave ship was far more merciful than life under a bad owner.

She began pacing the parlor as she continued to review the visit and the official's close interrogation of nearly every person on her plantation. Had her outspoken nature given him cause for any further investigation? Had someone spoken to him of Lizbeth? What was he thinking as he journeyed to his next stop? The assured front she had put forth for Marie's sake began to dissipate. Worry though, did her countenance no good. She forced her thoughts to return to Lapett who had been staying with them for several weeks while he painted what would be her bridal portrait.

Normally she looked forward to Benjamin's visits. Lapett's wife and girls had always been a delight to her heart, but today, even where her dear friend was concerned, additional fortitude was required. In the middle of dire concerns, she considered this particular pre-nuptial endeavor nothing more than foolish vanity and his presence had begun to add to her tension.

Never a practiced coquette like some of her New York acquaintances, several of whom were members of Peter Schuyler's powerful inner circle, Margaret disliked adhering to society's recommendations for ladies of her position. The insistence on a bridal portrait was only one of many such requirements. Yet, despite her household worries and as preposterous as the ordeal of posing seemed, she had vowed that the woman drawn by Mr. Lapett would be one who inspired nothing less than complete admiration and respect. It was the persona expected by all, and she meant to accommodate that expectation with the truest spirit of love for David's sake. John need not worry: her soon-to-be new husband would never regret his proposal of marriage. Whatever the cost, she would do her best to see that her portrait would grandly dispel any lingering question of status.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Threadsby GLORIA WALDRON HUKLE Copyright © 2009 by Gloria Waldron Hukle. Excerpted by permission.
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