Drake scowled at the pathetic reflection.

Mercy's eyes grew as round as an owl's. With a little screech, she fled the room.

Drake called out to her to apologize, but it was too late. Pull yourself together, man! No sense frightening little children with your foul mood. He was wiping the shaving supplies clean when Serena burst into the room.

"Good heav-" She froze, staring at him. "I . . . um . . ." She swallowed hard. "I heard Mercy scream."

Drake shrugged. "Must have been my face. I do not think she liked it."

"I cannot see why not." Serena looked down and blushed again, but she didn't run away this time.

"I'm afraid I can." Drake answered back, hoping, wishing she would come into the room and talk to him, chase away these demons that haunted him.

Serena's surprise shone in those wide eyes. "Thou must know."

Drake motioned for her to come into the room. "Know what?"

Serena didn't come any closer, but she did clasp her hands together and say to him, in her musical, lilting voice, "That thou art truly fearfully and wonderfully made."

She left him then. Left him alone. But her words rang about the room-an entreaty, a proclamation, full and alive with hope. Drake smiled and let loose a shaky laugh. Once again, this woman, Serena Winter, a plain Quaker woman, had brought light to his heart.

Maybe . . . in this strange new world, she would prove his salvation.

Chapter Eight.

What dost thou suppose he will think of meeting?"

Serena shushed Mary Ann, grateful her sister had whispered the question in her ear as the family rode in a wagon south along Second Street past Elfreth's Alley where their father's shop was located, toward the meetinghouse on Arch Street.

She glanced at the man in question from beneath her lashes. He was sitting on a rough wooden bench across from them looking big, vastly overdressed and out of place between her two youngest sisters. Just looking at him made her heartbeat double. "I do not know. He must think us odd."

Mary Ann giggled, gaining the attention of those piercing, blue-gray eyes.

Serena inhaled as his gaze locked on hers and his voice, rich with amus.e.m.e.nt, asked, "Is there something I may a.s.sist you with, ladies?" One eyebrow rose as he stared down his nose at them.

Mary Ann giggled unrepentantly, while Serena turned pink. Clearing her throat, she managed. "We were wondering what thou might think of our meetings."

Drake offered a brief smile and indolent shrug. Gad, the man was like a conceited blueblood! He reminded Serena of Lord Tinsley, one of her father's most affluent customers. Except Lord Tinsley never made Serena's blood pool and race, pool and race, in a repet.i.tive cycle that left her dizzy as did this Englishman. How Serena wished she knew his secrets.

"I have never been to a meeting of the Friends, but of course I have heard of them and your founder, the famous George Fox. It should prove interesting."

Serena chanced to see her mother's shoulders shake in what could only be suppressed laughter and restrained her own smile. "I hope thou wilt enter into it with an open mind, sir." Her voice was huskier than she liked with her family listening.

"Of course. A mind of studious and open intent." He mocked her, his white teeth set in a patronizing smile.

Serena shook her head. "Oh, but thou must not study the meeting. Thou must just experience it."

Drake laughed. "A woman's advice, to be sure." He turned toward the front of the wagon and her father's back. "Mr. Winter, do you agree that a man of intelligence and of an a.n.a.lytical bent should lay all mental discernment aside and use emotions to judge such an event?"

Drake waited, a pleasant expression on his face, as the rest of the family held their breath in the wake of his challenge.

Serena's father considered for a long moment and then said simply, "If it is possible. Sometimes the heart feels what the mind cannot comprehend."

The family smiled, Serena's heart bursting with joy.

Drake frowned. "Ah, the heart. And what if the heart is cold . . . stone even." His voice was level and dead.

Serena's father turned and stared at Drake. "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see G.o.d." He paused again, letting it sink into all of them. "And how might a hard heart become pure? Hearts can be broken and softened, with trials . . . and love." Her father turned to look at them, his gaze resting briefly, thoughtfully, on Serena's upturned face, and then he turned back, lightly slapping the reigns.

Serena looked down into her lap, cheeks burning. She couldn't look at him, not after what her father just implied. Why had he done it? Her parents would hardly sanction a union between her and the dark stranger now living with them.

When they reached the wide, windswept yard of the meetinghouse, Serena stood from her wagon seat, gathering her coat around her, eyes still glued to the gray floorboards of the wagon. She was about to climb over the edge and jump down as she always did when a long-fingered hand reached into her line of sight. Looking up into his eyes, she couldn't help the answering smile while she put her hand in his elegantly gloved one as he helped her down. He then offered his arm and she took it, though she knew it was wrong, that it would give rise to all sorts of questions from the Friends.

WHAT WAS THE girl's father implying? Was he offering him his daughter? He had nothing to give her. The irony stabbed at Drake. It was the first time he could ever remember wishing to shower a woman with everything the earth had to offer, and he had nothing. He'd showered many women with the desires of their hearts, but it had always meant little to him. Just a means to an end, and a happiness from them that would last a moment-a moment he'd known would come and took full advantage of.

As he and Serena walked toward the door to the church, he breathed in the crisp winter day and imagined Serena in a d.u.c.h.ess's finery. A satin ball gown in green, to match her eyes. Jewels hanging from her ears and around her neck, dipping into the ivory hollow of her throat. White silken gloves that reached just above her elbows where the tender flesh of her upper arm would be bare until the slender lace of a sleeve began. With her hair artfully arranged and just a touch of pink on her lips . . . she would be devastating. And she had no idea, no idea the power she could wield. He pictured her dancing, close in his arms, whirling to the violins in one of the many grand ballrooms of his world.

Glancing at the top of her head, neatly covered by an unadorned mop cap, he smiled, internally shaking his head at himself. Even had he the riches, she would likely scorn such trappings as sinful. He sighed. Perhaps they were. They hadn't done him much good.

The entry to the meetinghouse was barren, leading to a large square room. There were rows of wooden pews on all sides facing the center. Everything was brown, none of the splendid color of the Church of England. None of the stained gla.s.s, the holy relics, the statues, the altars with their gleaming gold and silver utensils and velvet cloth. No solemn, rich priest to stand before them like a demiG.o.d. Here there were only beams of dusty sunlight streaming from plain rectangular windows. A dull, weathered floor echoed with a hollow sound as they walked, arm in arm, to their place.

Like their home and work, these Quakers were austere in their worship.

"Thou wilt sit on the men's side, with father," Serena whispered before unclasping his arm and moving away. He watched her graceful, flowing stride as she left him, and felt the warm place where her hand had rested on his forearm growing quickly cold. Josiah Winter clapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow.

The seats were less than comfortable, but Drake supposed that kept them awake, at any rate. He watched as the congregation filtered in. Like solemn brown sparrows alighting on an equally brown branch, they blended in with their surroundings. Men and boys to one side, women and girls to the other. He waited, while they settled themselves, for the service to begin.

It finally dawned on him as they closed their eyes, some bowing heads showing tanned necks, that no one was going to speak. Drake closed his eyes. The minutes ticked by. Tick . . tick . . . tick . . . He could almost hear a clock in his mind. He forced himself to relax, took a long, silent breath as his shoulders gradually loosened. His breathing lengthened, his heart slowed, and he suddenly realized that it was peaceful here. It was like a thickness had settled in the air and then rested on him. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with its still calm. His mind cleared of all else. His astonishment was only eclipsed by the inability to feel anything more than this sense of overwhelming peace. The minutes ticked quickly now.

Into the quiet a voice spoke. So in tune with the serenity was the voice that Drake didn't know if it was human or in his mind, but he listened as though it held great import.

"To everything there is a time. A time to mourn and a time to laugh. A time to sing and a time to cry. A time to give thanks and a time to know thanksgiving. To each life a season for all things to be revealed. Give thanks and know the peace of thanksgiving in all things."

Drake waited with bated breath for more. He wanted answers. He wanted ease from this constant confused pain that gripped him. Maybe here, among these people, he would find something he sought. But there was no more. The person sat down, leaving Drake to meditate on what the speaker had said. The Ecclesiastic feel to the words was familiar; mayhap he'd heard it at a funeral, some long-ago acquaintance that barely registered on the important business of his life. But the end, about thanksgiving . . . he didn't know that. Did it bring peace to be thankful in all seasons? Was that the message?

Drake wasn't sure, but the remainder of the hour went surprisingly quick. At some hidden signal they all stood and shook hands with each other. Drake nodded to several men as Josiah introduced him. Looking around, he now recognized a few others from onboard the ship. They, too, must have been rescued by these Quakers.

At Josiah's urging, Drake followed the men into another, smaller room. There, laid out before them, was a long table loaded with covered dishes. Mary Ann pa.s.sed by him and dimpled prettily. "Now, 'tis time to eat."

As she sailed by to help her mother, he joined the line that formed, answering those questions he could from the men around him, but all the while looking . . . feeling . . . for Serena.

He found her ladling something from a steaming pot into a bowl. She looked up, her eyes finding his, and then smiled at him, the connection like a thing of old, like something they'd been born to. Drake felt himself melt in the warmth that was such a part of her.

"Drake . . . let me introduce a friend of mine. A botanist, Mr. Bartram."

Drake dragged his eyes from Serena's with difficulty. With a slight bow he directed his gaze at the man. "Mr. Bartram, a pleasure."

Mr. Bartram had a clear gaze that searched his. "I understand thou art recently from London?"

Drake nodded. "Northumberland, actually. But most recently, London."

"Ah. Northumberland. Beautiful land. Yes, well, I am looking for an apprentice for my studies in botany and was wondering if thou wouldst be interested in such a trade? I have a homestead just west of here with acres of forestland waiting to be explored. I find I do not have enough time to do all the work myself." He smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

Drake struggled with an appropriate response while the man continued.

"Forgive me, I presume much. Thou hast just recovered from what must have been a horrendous journey and an illness, I am told. But please, in our effort to help thee and thy fellow shipmates, is there a trade at which thou art skilled?"

A skill? Well, he had tripled his father's estate in business ventures, making him one of the wealthiest men in the world. But what could he tell this man? "I seem to have a head for numbers. I'm afraid, aside from some general knowledge in farming horticulture-" and the ownership and management of tens of thousands of acres of farmland, he added silently-"I know little about plants."

Drake hoped it would suffice. The mere suggestion of spending his days tromping through thick forests, identifying and cutting plants, sent genuine despair through him. He needed to take some hand in the cards fate had dealt him, so he continued doggedly while the line moved forward and men began filling their plates. "I was hoping for something in business."

Mr. Bartram nodded to Josiah. "Mayhap he can help thee then, Josiah." He grinned and confided to Drake, "'Tis an artist, your host. He complains often enough about the paperwork and calculations accompanying such a thriving business as his."

Drake looked at the gentle man beside him. He could work for this man. He could live in his house.

He could spend his free time with a woman named Serena.

As if he read Drake's mind, Josiah's brow knotted and he looked deep into the younger man's eyes.

The need to reach for a plate broke the uncomfortable moment. Attempting lightness, Drake asked, "What say you, Mr. Winter? Have you need of an apprentice?"

Josiah nodded. "Indeed, I have need of help in many areas. A man is rarely able to do everything with ease. Dost thou think thou couldst work with thy hands, also? I need someone to do the more simplistic work of a silversmith."

Drake thought of the shiny metal. He had only been intent to acc.u.mulate it, never to create with it. His attempts at drawing were mediocre at best and he abandoned the arts long ago for the more manly pursuits of hunting, swordplay, horseflesh, and gaming.

He had just reached Serena, with her steaming dipper of soup. He looked up into her eyes as he answered. "Truthfully, I have never attempted anything like it, sir." Still staring into her eyes he finished softly, "But I find I would like to try."

Serena knew Drake wasn't aware how high-handed he sounded, but Josiah and the botanist exchanged amused glances. It was obvious to all that Drake was used to giving orders, not taking them.

Serena handed him his bowl of stew and smiled up at him. "What wouldst thou like to try?"

The immediate response that rose to his lips made him suddenly clear his throat. Stopping the words from escaping, he said instead in clear resolve, "Silversmithing. Your father and I are discussing an apprenticeship in his shop."

Serena blinked several times and looked at her father, "That's . . . that is wonderful."

"It is settled then," her father said, focusing on Drake. "Thou wilt come with me to my shop, starting tomorrow morning."

Drake turned, looking down at the floor, a feeling of unreality filling him. He blew out a breath, quieting the chuckle that wanted to escape.

He was a shop boy now.

Chapter Nine.

Drake was awakened early, fed a fortifying breakfast, and then handed a simple, white linen shirt with crossties instead of b.u.t.tons at the neck and dark leather breeches to wear. He wore his own boots and tied his hair, which had grown long enough to touch his shoulders, back from his face with a strip of leather. Mrs. Winter's eyes twinkled merrily as she waved them out the door, wishing them a good day.

Serena watched from an upstairs window, a wistful smile playing across her face.

Dawn hovered over the city as Drake and Josiah Winter walked along the brick-paved streets, their breath creating little puffs of vapor in the still crispness. Josiah walked with a purposeful stride and a quiet air that Drake was loath to disturb. Instead, in the light of the fading stars, he looked over what, when compared with London, was really an infant town.

It was surrounded by rough wilderness, but there was a neat pattern to the growing city. Philadelphia, Drake knew, was the brainchild of William Penn, also a Quaker. Penn had been pointed out to him many years ago in London when Drake was only a student at Eton. The man's sense of purpose was admirable, and Drake could now only respect Penn's city. The man's careful planning was obvious in the neatly arranged blocks that stretched out from the Delaware River. The waterfront made the town a thriving seaport. Drake remembered the typical squat buildings from his arrival: wood yards for fuel, shipyards for the boat builders and mast makers, and numerous sheds and storage warehouses. Further inland, the citizens had contributed a certain creative flair to the neatly quaint houses that lined the streets, mostly of brick or stone facade. There were the usual taverns, shops and churches, several churches. The meetinghouse they attended yesterday was situated on the southwest corner of Second and Market Streets, but it was one of many houses of worship.

They turned onto Elfreth's Alley, where the artisans must practice their trades. As in London, signs swung out from brackets over the walkways. While some were painted wooden signs, many were a replica of what the establishment offered. The barber had a pair of shears, the farrier a horseshoe, the shoemaker a wooden boot. Drake smiled to see that Josiah's shop had a silver plate hanging from its bracket. "Is the plate real silver? I would think you would fear it stolen."

Josiah smiled back at him. "As did Serena. 'Tis wooden, with a special silver paint she made. It has fooled and tempted a few, as I have replaced it four times."

They laughed together as they went into the dark shop. Josiah set about lighting a hurricane lamp and directed Drake in starting a fire in the forge.

Then Josiah showed him some of his work. There were spoons, ladles, snuffboxes, teapots, coffeepots, sugar bowls, and cream pitchers. Also, standing salts, caudle cups-for serving caudle, a spicy hot wine that Drake had yet to try-and in a special, velvet-lined box were all sorts of fancy silver b.u.t.tons, buckles, and some jewelry.

Lastly, Josiah explained the silver trays with the customer's "cypher" on it. "When a man has acc.u.mulated enough silver coin to keep him awake at night, he has it turned into plate." Josiah turned it around so that Drake could see the inscription. "If it were stolen with his cypher on it, then the owner could easily identify it, should they catch the thief."

Drake chuckled. "For want of a bank, it would appear a sound method. And profitable for you." A thoughtful pause. "Have you considered branching off into banking?"

Josiah looked genuinely appalled. "I do well to keep my own accounts in order, young man." He shuddered, "'Tis a horror for me to think of keeping those belonging to others." He removed some tools from the cabinet. "But with such an idea, I can see thou truly dost have a head for numbers."

Josiah motioned him over to the long wooden worktable. "Let me show thee the tools."

Drake watched in appreciation of a man's skill as Josiah took his latest customer's silver coins and melted them in a crucible until it became a shimmering pool of molten metal, any dross burning off in the fire. Mesmerized, Drake watched Josiah pour the ma.s.s into an iron mold which, when hardened, would become an ingot of solid silver.

While the silver hardened in the mold, Josiah showed Drake the other molds. There were b.u.t.ton and buckle molds, a lead block with a hollow in it for making spoons, molds for handles and feet and ornaments that could later be soldered on. Larger pieces, like the one he was making now, would be cast in sand using wax.

"Now we hammer it out," Josiah stated with satisfaction.

The silver had hardened into a small block. Josiah hefted a heavy sledge and began to beat on the ingot. Wham! Whack! The table shook with the force of the blows. It wasn't long before Josiah's forehead was dripping with sweat. He grinned at Drake as he pa.s.sed the sledge over to him. "Want to give it a try?"

It was harder than it looked. Drake's first few blows had the block scooting all over the table. Patiently Josiah moved it back and showed him how to hold it and where to aim the blows. After a few minutes Drake could scarce catch his breath. Would he embarra.s.s himself by giving up? Thankfully he managed to hammer out enough that Josiah took over.

"I want it a certain thickness," he explained. At noon, they stopped to eat their cold dinner, packed carefully into tin buckets by Mrs. Winter. The rest of the afternoon Drake watched, admiring Josiah's skill as the ingot of solid silver became a tea tray. It was rough, but the form was that of an artist. Drake knew enough about art to see the perfection in its proportions and shape.

"Tomorrow we will applique the fancy work."

Drake grinned at the man's enthusiasm. "I have the feeling you would like to stay the night and finish the project."