New York - The Novel

and he had been wanting to take his son about in London. What he had not foreseen was that it would be James who took him.
    Every day or two they’d set off from their lodgings near the Strand to explore the wonders of London. A short walk to the east lay the lovely site of the old Knights Templar, where the lawyers had their quarters now. Beyond that, the busy printers and newspapermen of Fleet Street worked under the shadow of St. Paul’s on the city’s ancient hill. They went to the Tower. And Albion took them both, together with Grey, to the Royal Exchange and the port.
    Or turning west along the Strand, they’d saunter down Whitehallto Westminster, or enter the Mall on their way to the royal palace of St. James, and stroll up to Piccadilly. At least once a week, James would come eagerly to his father with a suggestion of some kind. Should his father like to go to Tyburn, where they’d hanged a highwayman last week? Or the pleasure gardens at Ranelagh, or take a boat downriver to Greenwich, or up to Chelsea?
    It touched John so much that his son wanted to share these things, and although he didn’t tell the boy so, these were some of the happiest days of his life.

    Strangely enough, it was Mercy who became uncomfortable.
    Arthur Albion had invited the Masters to dine with a number of merchants, lawyers and clergymen. He knew men of learning, writers and artists too, but he’d correctly judged that John Master was not anxious to discuss the merits of Pope the poet, or even Fielding the novelist, or meet the formidable Dr. Johnson, who was preparing his great dictionary nearby in his house off the Strand. He had introduced them to several Members of Parliament, though, and before the month of September was out, they had attended dinners or small receptions in a number of handsome houses. But there was one other class of person whom his visitors had yet to encounter. This was to change in the first week of October.
    “My dear,” John announced to Mercy one day, “we are invited to Burlington House.”
    Mercy had seen the great houses of London from the outside. She passed the huge facade of Northumberland House on the Strand every day; and there were at least a dozen other great establishments that had been pointed out to her. She knew that these great enclaves, closed off behind their gateways and walls, belonged to the highest noblemen in England. But since some of these buildings extended a hundred yards or more along the street, she had assumed that they contained all kinds of places of business, or possibly government offices, around their internal courtyards.
    As they all went together in his carriage to the evening reception, Albion explained what they were about to see.
    “It’s not really a private party,” he said with a smile. “I should think the nearest thing in New York would be a governor’s reception. There will be a great crowd of people there; we may, or may not, have the honor ofmeeting our host. But you’ll have the chance of seeing the greatest people in England.”
    Burlington House stood on Piccadilly, not far from Fortnum & Mason. Mercy and Mrs. Albion had used the same dressmaker and hairdresser; and a quick inspection had assured her that John was perfectly turned out in a similar manner to Albion. But as they entered the huge courtyard, glanced at the massive colonnades and saw the great sweep of steps to the doorway ahead of them, she couldn’t help feeling a trace of nervousness. The front facade of the Palladian mansion resembled nothing so much as a Roman palazzo. Flanking the impressive doorway were rows of liveried footmen. She heard her husband ask a very reasonable question.
    “What’s this huge place used for—its daily business, I mean?”
    “You do not understand, my friend.” Albion smiled. “This is a private residence.”
    And then, for the first time, Mercy felt afraid.
    She had never seen anything like it before. The great rooms and halls with their coffered ceilings were so large and so high that the biggest mansion in New York could have fitted into any one of them. Even the scale of a church like Trinity looked puny by comparison. America had nothing like this, imagined nothing like this, and would not have known what to do with it. How modest, how insignificant, how provincial even New York’s greatest mansions must look to the men who lived in such palaces. All over Europe, an entire class was accustomed to live in this way—a class of whose