The next day Charlie owned a house in Maiden Lane. And Abigail saw to it that the house was well furnished, and had better china and glass in it than Charlie ever dreamed of.

If Abigail had silently grieved for Grey Albion for many months, the pain gradually began to subside. She had to reflect that many had lost fathers and husbands. It was a tiny incident that caused her to realize that her own wound was healing. It was occasioned that summer by another visit from James. He came, this time, with a friend.

“Allow me to present my comrade-in-arms from the French Army, the Count de Chablis.”

The young Frenchman was a delightful person. He was as beautifully turned out as a new pin, and he seemed delighted with New York, and indeed, by all the world around him. His English was not good, but understandable. And by the end of the day, she had to confess, she was entirely charmed.

“Your friend is so agreeable, it’s hard to imagine him fighting,” she remarked to James, when they were alone.

“It’s just his aristocratic manner,” he replied. “Lafayette is rather the same. Chablis is actually brave as a lion.”

They stayed two days and, by the end of that time, she found herself rather regretting that the count was soon to leave for France.

It was during that visit also, however, that she learned to appreciate the business shrewdness of her father. For after dinner on the first day, after the count had retired and they were sitting in the parlor together, James produced a piece of paper and handed it to her father. “I thought you might be interested in this,” he said.

It was a letter from Washington, to the Patriot governor of New York.

I understand, my dear sir, that you have confiscated the estates of the Tory, John Master, of New York. I should be vastly obliged if you would convey those lands to Colonel James Master, who would otherwise have inherited them, and who has, from first to last, during these long years, done our cause the greatest service.

His father smiled. “You’re made a colonel now, I see. My congratulations.”

“Thank you, Father. I’m afraid Washington’s letter didn’t do me much good, though. The farms have already been sold and I shall have a devil of a job getting them back.”

“In that case,” said his father, “I have something to show you.” And rising from the table, he returned a couple of minutes later with a pile of papers, which he handed to his son. James looked at them with surprise.

“This is Patriot money, Father.”

“Promissory notes from your Congress, to be exact. To be redeemed at par—if Congress ever has the ability to pay, that is. Down the years, as you well know, your Congress’s notes have been increasingly discounted. I started buying them soon after Yorktown—only paid pence for them. I believe you’ll find, however, that Congress will now accept them, at full value, as payment for confiscated Loyalist land.”