English aggression had been growing. Out on the long island, the English who controlled the far end had always left the territory nearer Manhattan to the Dutch. In the last year, however, Governor Winthrop of Connecticut had been demanding taxes from some of the Dutch settlements too; and not all had dared to refuse.

An even bigger scare had come more recently.

If King Charles II of England was an amusing rogue, his younger brother James, the Duke of York, was another matter. Not many people liked James. They thought him proud, inflexible and ambitious. So it had come as a shock when news arrived: “The king has given the American colonies to his brother, from Massachusetts almost down to Maryland.” That territory included the Dutch New Netherland. And the Duke of York was sending a fleet to America, to make good his claim.

Stuyvesant had been beside himself. He’d started strengthening defenses, posted lookouts. The West India Company, though they sent no troops or money, had ordered him to defend the colony. And the gallant governor was determined, at least, to hold New Amsterdam itself.

But then another message came from Holland. The British government had promised the Dutch—with absolute and categorical assurances—that they had no designs on their colony. The fleet was going to Boston. Soon after that came comforting news. The fleet had arrived at Boston, and was staying there. The crisis was over. Stuyvesant was already on his way upriver to deal with some problems with the Mohawk Indians up there.

So when Margaretha used this threat of the English to tell him not to go upriver, van Dyck saw her ploy for what it was: an attempt to control him. And which he did not intend to allow.

“And my business?” he asked.

“It can wait.”

“I think not.” He paused while she eyed him. “You and the children will be in no danger,” he continued.

“So you say.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Does this mean you refuse to remain here?”

“Even the Muscovy Duke thinks it’s safe now,” he remarked easily. The people of New Amsterdam, who often resented Stuyvesant’s dictatorial ways, would call him that behind his back.

“There’s no need to refer to the governor by that stupid name,” she said angrily.

“As you like.” He shrugged. “Peg Leg then.”

The fact was that few of the merchants, including his wife’s rich friends, had much love for Stuyvesant, or even the West India Company, come to that. Some of them, van Dyck reckoned, couldn’t care less what nation claimed the colony, so long as their trade wasn’t disturbed. It amused him, faintly, that his wife’s friends shared his own view rather than hers.

“He’s worth ten of any of you,” she cried furiously.

“My God,” he laughed, “I believe you’re in love with him.”

He had gone too far. She exploded.