He beckoned them inside and sat down with an abacus. “Six hundred score less ninety-three, at sixteen pence per score …” It was a complicated sum, but Mack was used to being paid by the weight of coal he produced, and he could do mental arithmetic when his wages depended on it.

The captain had a key on a chain attached to his belt. He used it to open a chest that stood in the corner. Mack stared as he took out a smaller box, put it on the table, and opened it. “If we call the odd seven sacks a half score, I owe you thirty-nine pounds fourteen shillings exactly.” And he counted out the money.

The captain gave him a linen bag to carry it in and included plenty of pennies so that he could share it out exactly among the men. Mack felt a tremendous sense of triumph as he held the money in his hands. Each man had earned almost two pounds and ten shillings—more in two days than they got for two weeks with Lennox. But more important, they had proved they could stand up for their rights and win justice.

He sat cross-legged on the deck of the ship to pay the men out. The first in line, Amos Tipe, said: “Thank you, Mack, and God bless you, boy.”

“Don’t thank me, you earned it,” Mack protested.

Despite his protest the next man thanked him in the same way, as if he were a prince dispensing favors.

“It’s not just the money,” Mack said as a third man, Slash Harley, stepped forward. “We’ve won our dignity, too.”

“You can have the dignity, Mack,” said Slash. “Just give me the money.” The others laughed.

Mack felt a little angry with them as he continued to count out the coins. Why could they not see that this was more than a matter of today’s wages? When they were so stupid about their own interests he felt they deserved to be abused by undertakers.

However, nothing could mar his victory. As they were all rowed to shore the men began lustily to sing a very obscene song called “The Mayor of Bayswater,” and Mack joined in at the top of his voice.

He and Dermot walked to Spitalfields. The morning fog was lifting. Mack had a tune on his lips and a spring in his step. When he entered his room a pleasant surprise was waiting for him. Sitting on a three-legged stool, smelling of sandalwood and swinging a shapely leg, was Peg’s red-haired friend Cora, in a chestnut-colored coat and a jaunty hat.

She had picked up his cloak, which normally lay on the straw mattress that was his bed, and she was stroking the fur. “Where did you get this?” she said.

“It was a gift from a fine lady,” he said with a grin. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” she said. “If you wash your face you can walk out with me—that is, if you don’t have to go to tea with any fine ladies.”

He must have appeared doubtful, for she added: “Don’t look so startled. You probably think I’m a whore, but I’m not, except in desperation.”

He took his sliver of soap and went down to the standpipe in the yard. Cora followed him and watched as he stripped to the waist and washed the coal dust from his skin and hair. He borrowed a clean shirt from Dermot, put on his coat and hat, and took Cora’s arm.

They walked west, through the heart of the city. In London, Mack had learned, people walked the streets for recreation the way they walked the hills in Scotland. He enjoyed having Cora on his arm. He liked the way her hips swayed so that she touched him every now and again. Because of her striking coloring and her dashing clothes she attracted a lot of attention, and Mack got envious looks from other men.

They went into a tavern and ordered oysters, bread and the strong beer called porter. Cora ate with gusto, swallowing the oysters whole and washing them down with drafts of dark ale.

When they went out again the weather had changed. It was still cool, but there was a little weak sunshine. They strolled into the rich residential district called Mayfair.

In his first twenty-two years Mack had seen only two palatial homes, Jamisson Castle and High Glen House. In this neighborhood there were two such houses on every street, and another fifty only a little less magnificent. London’s wealth never ceased to astonish him.

Outside one of the very grandest a series of carriages was drawing up and depositing guests as if for a party. On the pavement either side was a small crowd of passersby and servants from neighboring houses, and people were looking out from their doors and windows. The house was a blaze of light, although it was midafter noon, and the entrance was decorated with flowers. “It must be a wedding,” Cora said.

As they watched another carriage drew up and a familiar figure stepped out. Mack gave a start as he recognized Jay Jamisson. Jay handed his bride down from the carriage, and the bystanders cheered and clapped.

“She’s pretty,” Cora said.

Lizzie smiled and looked around, acknowledging the applause. Her eyes met Mack’s, and for a moment she froze. He smiled and waved. She averted her eyes quickly and hurried inside.

It had taken only a fraction of a second, but the sharp-eyed Cora had not missed it. “Do you know her?”

“She’s the one gave me the fur,” Mack said.

“I hope her husband doesn’t know she gives presents to coal heavers.”

“She’s throwing herself away on Jay Jamisson—he’s a handsome weakling.”

“I suppose you think she’d be better off marrying you,” Cora said sarcastically.

“She would, too,” Mack said seriously. “Shall we go to the theater?”

Late that evening Lizzie and Jay sat up in bed in the bridal chamber, wearing their nightclothes, surrounded by giggling relations and friends, all more or less drunk. The older generation had long since left the room, but custom insisted that wedding guests should hang on, tormenting the couple, who were assumed to be in a desperate hurry to consummate their marriage.

The day had passed in a whirl. Lizzie had hardly thought about Jay’s betrayal, his apology, her pardon, and their future in Virginia. There had been no time to ask herself whether she had made the right decision.

Chip Marlborough came in carrying a jug of posset. Pinned to his hat was one of Lizzie’s garters. He proceeded to fill everyone’s glasses. “A toast!” he said.

“A final toast!” said Jay, but they all laughed and jeered.

Lizzie sipped her drink, a mixture of wine, milk and egg yolk with sugar and cinnamon. She was exhausted. It had been a long day, from the morning’s terrible quarrel and its surprisingly happy ending, through the church service, the wedding dinner, music and dancing, and now the final comic ritual.

Katie Drome, a Jamisson relation, sat on the end of the bed with one of Jay’s white silk stockings in her hand and threw it backward over her head. If it hit Jay, the superstition said, then she would soon be married. She threw wildly but Jay good-humoredly reached out and caught the stocking and placed it on his head as if it had landed there, and everyone clapped.

A drunken man called Peter McKay sat on the bed beside Lizzie. “Virginia,” he said. “Hamish Drome went to Virginia, you know, after he was cheated out of his inheritance by Robert’s mother.”

Lizzie was startled. The family legend was that Robert’s mother, Olive, had nursed a bachelor cousin while he was dying, and he had changed his will in her favor out of gratitude.

Jay heard the remark. “Cheated?” he said.

“Olive forged that will, of course,” McKay said. “But Hamish could never prove it, so he had to accept it. Went to Virginia and was never heard of again.”

Jay laughed. “Ha! The saintly Olive—a forger!”

“Hush!” said McKay. “Sir George will kill us all if he hears!”

Lizzie was intrigued, but she had had enough of Jay’s relations for one day. “Get these people out!” she hissed.

All the demands of custom had now been satisfied but one. “Right,” said Jay. “If you won’t go willingly …” He threw the blankets off his side of the bed and got out. As he advanced on the crowd he lifted his nightshirt to show his knees. All the girls screamed as if terrified—it was their role to pretend that the sight of a man in his nightshirt was more than a maiden could bear—and they rushed out of the room in a mob, chased by the men.