Golden Hill by Francis Spufford Read Free Book Online Page A

say, all the little planets circle closer, jostling for company. Treading on each other’s heels. Good day.’
IV
    At six o’clock that evening, in a clean shirt from his trunk, and with the green coat freshly brushed and pressed – Mrs Lee having consented to include the care of his wardrobe in a rent on the gable-end room of eleven shillings a week (New-York), at which rate his debts would exceed his resources in a fortnight – he presented himself at the town-door of Mr Lovell’s house on Golden Hill. He was wearing his hair clubbed at the nape and tied with a dark red ribbon. In his hand he held a copy of The Adventures of David Simple , by Mrs Fielding.
    The door was opened to his knock by the maid Zephyra, who rather than letting him immediately in stood stock-still in the door-way, fixing on him the same mute gaze of assessment she had bestowed the night before. Chin lifted, black pupils surveying him with no indication of what they found, the light going in and no intelligence of her conclusions coming back out; this stillness lasting only a fraction of an instant, yet already contrasting strangely with the bustle of the hall beyond, where already-arrived guests, strangers to Smith, a family group by the look of them, were chattering and hanging up scarves and hats upon a pegboard. Then she stood back against the wall, and he stepped over the bar of silence she had laid across the threshold. He had seen the hall of the Lovells’ house last night in shadow. Now it was cheerfully lit with candles in wall-sconces, and the young wood of the panelling shone ruddy yellow.
    ‘Good evening,’ said Smith. There was a replying murmur, and heads inclined in nods, but the mother of the group, a short stout busty body with coiffed hair, instead of replying called outthrough the open door on the opposite side to the counting-house, ‘Gregory, hij is hier!’ and Lovell appeared, in an embroidered waistcoat.
    ‘There you are,’ he said, frowning as he advanced, as if, despite inviting Smith to dinner, he had successfully reduced him to a problem in the time intervening, and were now surprised to find he had remained, also, a tangible man. ‘Well, come in. Come in!’ – this last with a sudden joviality that made the pouching lines beside his mouth jerk.
    Smith was ushered into a biggish dining-room, where a fire was burning in the grate, the coals hissing slightly, and in a corner beside it a seated African dressed in livery was tuning up a violin. The guests who followed him pressed curiously behind and the faces of those already seated at table turned all Smith’s way as well.
    ‘Friends?’ said Lovell. ‘This is Mr Smith, my unexpected counterparty. Mr Smith, may I introduce the Van Loons, these many years our good partners in business, and good neighbours. Mijnheer Van Loon, Piet’ – indicating a red-faced patriarch with a square visage swagged north and south with white hair, like a king on a playing card; ‘Mistress Van Loon, Geertje’ – the rounded and coiffed woman, taking her place at the end of the table opposite to Lowell at its head; ‘Hendrick, George, Anne, Elizabeth’ – the younger Van Loons, ranking downward in age, all paler and slenderer than their parents, but taking from them respectively a squarish jaw and a short upper lip showing prominent top teeth; ‘Captain Prettyman of Mystic, who sails for us both on the Indies run, and who happens to be in port’ – a lean weather-beaten bald-head, rising far enough to duck into a half-bow; ‘Flora and Tabitha, who you know’ – the first smiling at himfrom a nest of Van Loons at the far end, the latter watching him, chin on fist, from the seat next to the one into which Lovell waved him. Hendrick nodded a greeting, with an air, however, less of sympathy than of anticipation, like one who seats himself in the theatre and ruffles out the tails of his coat as he settles himself for the show. ‘Now, take your ease, Mr Smith,’ said