The dinner was excellent. The food plentiful, the wine good. Kate was placed on the merchant’s right, between him and John. The conversation was general and cordial, but she could tell that everyone was being cautious, anxious not to offend the other party. Mrs. Master remarked that she knew the lawyer they were staying with. And her husband said that he hoped his cousin would find some good legal minds among the members of the New York Bar.

“There are fine minds in New York outside the legal profession,” Eliot responded politely. “The fame of Governor Hunter’s circle still resounds in Boston, I assure you.”

Governor Hunter, who had come after the eccentric Lord Cornbury, had gathered a notable circle of friends, mostly Scots like himself, into a sort of intellectual club. Two decades later, this circle was still reverently spoken of by men of culture in other cities. Kate had often heard her father refer to them. She glanced at the boy on her right. He was looking blank. Beyond him, his mother’s stare was vague.

“Ah, Hunter,” said their host firmly. “I wish we were always so lucky with our governors.”

Hoping to draw young John into the conversation, Kate remarked to him that she noticed more Negroes in New York than Boston. Yes, he answered quietly, about one in five of the city’s population were slaves.

“My father does not approve of slavery,” she said brightly, and received a warning look from Eliot. But their host intervened in his easy manner.

“You may have noticed that the servants in this house are not Negro slaves, Miss Kate, but Irish servants working out their indentures—to pay for their voyage mostly. However, it’s true that I’m in the slave trade. Some of the best Boston families, like the Waldos and Faneuils, are in it too. A Boston merchant I know said his three main lines are Irish butter, Italian wine and slaves.”

“My daughter meant no discourtesy, cousin,” Eliot said quickly, “and few people in Boston agree with me.” Clearly he was determined that the dinner should pass off easily. “Though I do confess,” he could not help adding, “that as an Englishman, I can’t ignore the fact that a senior British judge has ruled that slavery should not be legal in England.”

Dirk Master looked at his Boston cousin thoughtfully. He’d been quite curious to meet him. He himself was the only Master in the male line in New York. His van Dyck cousins had been women who’d married and moved out of the city. So he’d few relations to call his own. This Boston lawyer was certainly a very different kind of man, but he didn’t dislike him. That, at least, was a start. His daughter seemed pleasant enough, too. He leaned back in his chair, and considered his words.