31 Bond Street (11 page)

Again, he seemed intoxicated, devouring. She felt herself falling into a dark hole that was lined with the smooth pelt of fur and the slippery satin sheets. As they tumbled around, her eyes would flicker open, registering her surroundings: the anthracite sputtering in the fireplace, the wallpaper with a regal pattern veining up to the high ceiling where plaster ornament knotted into hard clumps in the corner; the musk scent in his whiskers. He whispered as he moved, his voice guttural and sharp. When he was finished, he fell asleep quickly. She arranged herself comfortably inside the sheets. She tossed about, but he never stirred, and then she too fell into a deep slumber.

The room was still dark when she opened her eyes in the morning, with a trace of grey light dawning through the window slats. He had shaken her shoulder and he was sitting up on one elbow, watching her. Their clothes were strewn across the floor from the night before, as if dropped from a whirlwind.

“Leave, now, before the servants wake,” he said. There were no niceties attached to his tone. She sat, alert now, sensing that he was concerned about the looming business of his day. She reached for
her nightgown and pulled it over her head as her skin rippled with goose pricks from the chill of the cold morning air.

“There is a bell that rings in your room from this pull,” Dr. Burdell said, reaching for a brocade strip that hung sinuously along the canopy frame, attached to wires that were behind the velvet curtain. “It rings a tiny bell next to your bed. Never come to my room at night, unless I ring for you.”

December 1856

T
he month of November passed. Housekeeping, preparing the menus, and tending to Augusta and Helen took up most of Emma’s day. 31 Bond Street was a little less dull for the efforts of her management, with new polish on all the silver, and the brass fixtures unclogged so that the crystal globes and lamps shone brighter. Each improvement only exposed another layer that needed attention. Emma had Samuel roll up the rugs and put new wax on top of the parquet. She hoped that by the time the holiday season approached, the house would be suitable for entertaining. Because moving the sullen Alice from room to room was a slow progression, the shimmering house that Emma envisioned was always a project away.

Soon enough, December was upon them, which meant the streets were filled with sleighs, fur mufflers, and horses covered in monogrammed blankets. Dr. Burdell conducted his day as if he were on a separate clock. In the morning, patients rang the doorbell, and John led them upstairs, where the office door would close for a half an hour, then John would retrieve buckets of bloody towels and dump
them in the attic on the pile of washing. In the afternoon, after the dental appointments, Dr. Burdell would dash off to a bank, or out in his carriage, taking care of other business. He ate his breakfast on a tray alone in his bedroom, and his lunch and supper at the men’s dining room at the Metropolitan Hotel on Broadway. Some days she never encountered him at all. Other times, she saw him at night, when he would pull the bell, and he would use few words as he bid her to join him in his bed.

One afternoon, Emma was on the stair as Dr. Burdell passed, in a mad dash for the front door. He stopped, suddenly, and said, “Emma, Thursday, next, I have an engagement. I would like you to join me at the opera. A business associate shall join us. His name is Ambrose Wicken.”

“Thursday, the opera? How delightful!”

“Please have Augusta come. The curtain is at nine.” Emma was elated at the prospect of an evening on the town.

“Thursday is Verdi I believe. We’d be delighted to meet Mr. Wicken.”

“I’ll send word to his hotel and arrange the carriage,” Dr. Burdell said as he hurried out the door.

On the morning of the opera, Mr. Wicken appeared at the house in the early afternoon to present his calling card and properly introduce himself to Emma. He had the most exquisite manners—he formally asked her permission to be Augusta’s escort for the evening. He was a dashing figure in his late twenties, a Southerner, with corn-colored hair. She told him that her daughter was eighteen, and she would be delighted to have her accompany him. Emma had always pictured that the man Augusta would marry would be an outsider—a risk taker, an adventurer, a man without a New York pedigree, someone who would sweep her away and marry her for love. Ambrose Wicken was such a man, and his timing was perfect.

That evening, Emma and Augusta began the ritual of dress
ing in Emma’s bedroom after an early supper. Emma sat on the stool before her vanity, deciding which necklace to wear with her dress. She pulled a leather case from her drawer and lifted her ruby necklace from its velvet pouch, fastening the cold jewels along her throat. Augusta pulled the strings of her mother’s corset, tightening the laces of the whalebone stays, arching the rib cage upward.

Augusta sat on the edge of the bed and rolled pearl-colored stockings up her legs. Emma lifted a velvet gown off the bed and balanced it over Augusta’s head. When her daughter emerged from the piles of fabric, Emma readjusted her daughter’s curls and spread the fabric around her hoops. She fastened the tiny buttons at Augusta’s back, her fingers working like spiders up the length of Augusta’s spine.

“Keep your back straight and smile at Mr. Wicken when you curtsy. He seems like a distinguished and dashing prospect for you.”

“Mother, you see possibility in every man that walks along the street.”

“You are eighteen and there is no time to waste.” They heard the doorbell ring and Alice’s raspy voice as she greeted the visitor. The moon glowed, reflecting against the marble of the mantel. Alice came upstairs and tapped on the bedroom door. “Mrs. Cunningham, the man is waiting and the carriage is outside,” she hissed. “He says the curtain goes up at nine.”

“Please serve him a sherry, Alice, and ask him to sit,” said Emma. Alice plodded back down the stairs. Emma turned to Augusta, who was rustling before her, anxious and radiantly pale, in her tea-colored gown. Emma stepped into her own dress, a ruby velvet that matched her necklace, and then patted the knot in her hair. She appraised Augusta. “Let me twist some more,” she said, grabbing one of Augusta’s coiled curls. Augusta stood, resigned to the anxious fingers in her hair.

Emma grabbed a fur. “We are done!” she said triumphantly, as if they had performed a difficult musical score. The two women descended the staircase. In the parlor, in evening dress, Ambrose Wicken was more handsome than he had appeared in daytime. Augusta stepped toward him, and then faltered, her tiny heel catching in the pile of the carpet.

“Ladies!” exclaimed Mr. Wicken, taking Augusta’s hand, lingering, and then bending to kiss it. “I have the singular pleasure of escorting you to the opera.” He spoke in a southern cadence that sounded exotic in the overfurnished parlor. “Dr. Burdell has left word at my hotel that he will be late. He has been detained on a business matter and will meet us at the opera house. So, my two arms shall be graced with an abundance of beauty.”

“Mr. Wicken, it is our honor, isn’t it Augusta?” When Augusta did not reply, Emma curtsied, aware of the effect of her low cut dress.

“Madame, you could not be more than a year older than your lovely daughter,” said Wicken. “How radiant you two appear side by side.”

“Oh, sir,” said Emma smiling, dismissing the compliment. She had heard it often and was aware enough of its truth. A more matronly woman would stumble and blush at the comment, only reinforcing the insincerity of the remark.

“We should be off,” Mr. Wicken said, bowing, “before the curtain rises.”

When they arrived at the opera, the orchestra was tuning. They were led to a box in the loggia, where a card reserved seats in the name of Dr. Burdell. From her seat, Emma pulled out her opera glasses and scanned the scene. The aisles below were a circulation of taffetas and magnificent diamonds, swirling beneath an enormous gas chandelier, which slowly dimmed. A brass-buttoned porter appeared from behind the velvet curtain of their box, and Mr. Wicken
ordered Champagne. “There is nothing like a fine wine to lubricate the ear,” he whispered intently to Augusta, but she responded with an awkward “Yes, thank you, sir,” and fixed her eyes out into the audience with an uncomfortable stare.

The curtain rose and the performers came onto the stage, launching into a throaty score that resonated up to the highest tiers. Mr. Wicken whispered intermittently into Emma’s ear about the tenor or the libretto, reflecting a fine knowledge of Italian opera. Dr. Burdell’s chair remained empty. He had missed the curtain. Emma fanned herself furiously. She could not imagine what had detained him, when he had a box full of guests and she had dressed in her finest gown.

At intermission, Dr. Burdell still had not arrived. Emma fidgeted anxiously. All the opera glasses in the theatre came out at once and seemed to be pointing around the opera house with their opaque circles. She was proud of her appearance in the gilt box, with the handsome man between them, but was self-conscious about the empty chair. Emma made conversation with Mr. Wicken. “Dr. Burdell so enjoys Verdi, I am surprised he missed the first act,” she said. “I do apologize. It is unlike him to be late.”

“I do wonder how he could put such beauty on display without arriving to claim his prize,” said Mr. Wicken, with a disapproving tone. “I have the good fortune to be doing business with him and I have learned that he is a man with many keen interests. I suppose at times they are in conflict.” He poured Champagne from the bucket, filling Augusta’s fluted glass.

Emma attempted to divert his attentions to Augusta. Leaning toward Wicken, she said softly, “I am glad that tonight my daughter has a companion of such refined manners. My concern is that her virtue and her dowry be placed in the hands of the worthiest of gentlemen.”

“She is but a half-opened bloom to your rose. Seeing you together shows where her fine cultivation will lead,” he said in a low tone. He turned, now addressing Augusta, who was seated on his other side. “I imagine Miss Augusta has many interests, besides a passion for Champagne.” Augusta looked up and nodded, lifting her glass to her lips.

“I do enjoy music,” she said, coolly.

“She plays the piano magnificently,” interjected Emma. “Why, just yesterday I heard the loveliest Bach sonata coming from the parlor. I thought I was at the Academy of Music.”

“Musical gifts, to add to her beauty?” exclaimed Wicken.

“But she is too modest,” said Emma. “She is artistic. She writes poetry and verse. I can only imagine how a trip to Europe would enhance her poetic sensibilities.” Augusta turned scarlet and darted a look of displeasure at her mother.

“Please,” she faltered, “I would rather read the poets than attempt to match them.” The conversation trailed off, with no further assistance from Augusta. Mr. Wicken became distracted, glancing down at the audience, eying the crowd. Emma fluttered her fan, groping for pleasantries.

Emma leaned closer to him and raised her fan to whisper, “Augusta may seem sophisticated, but she is just shy, and very pure at heart.” His glance now shifted to Augusta, whose neckline was bare of jewelry, the dusty color of her dress emphasizing the milky whiteness of her skin. Emma, still whispering, said, “Mr. Wicken, I shall be having a party at the end of January. I do hope you will attend.”

Wicken narrowed his eyes, and glanced downward at Emma’s chest. Emma was not sure if he was eying her rubies or her décolletage. “Why thank you, I’d be delighted,” then he added, “for the singular pleasure of seeing Miss Augusta again.” Emma exhaled as the curtain rose. A gain was made. She pictured Wicken on horse
back, galloping under a row of mossy oaks, with Augusta on the back of the saddle, headed to a pillared plantation house. Augusta was looking at her lap, picking on the button of her glove.

The opera finished, without Dr. Burdell. After the performance, his carriage was in the pile at the curb, waiting, with Samuel dressed in britches on the perch. Emma contemplated asking Samuel why Dr. Burdell had never appeared, or if he knew where he might be, but she resisted the impropriety of engaging a servant in conversation in the presence of Mr. Wicken. As the carriage headed up Broadway, Mr. Wicken suggested they stop for a sherry at the Majestic Hotel. Emma declined, insisting instead that the carriage return her home, and that he and Augusta should continue for a drink. She saw the look of panic on Augusta’s face at the suggestion but was relieved when the carriage pulled away, leaving Emma at the door of 31 Bond Street, with Augusta’s soft voice trailing away in conversation.

Emma let herself into the house. The servants had dimmed the gas sconces along the hall. Upstairs, there was no light under Dr. Burdell’s door. In her room, she took off her dress and left it in a puddle on the floor. What a waste of a dress and a corset, she thought, without a man to place his hand firmly along its cinched waist and guide the elaborate construction of jewels and fabric through the crowd. Why had Dr. Burdell arranged for Mr. Wicken to escort them to the opera, without coming himself? As for Mr. Wicken and Augusta, however, it was a perfect match.

S
he had tossed and turned all night, listening for Dr. Burdell to return. When she passed down the stairs early in the morning his door was inscrutably locked, with no signs of light under the crack. She finished a small breakfast and headed out to Broadway, where the wintry streets were bustling with people wrapped in scarves and mufflers, in all colors of cashmere. She wandered past the finest shops and stopped inside to place orders for pastries and liquors and fine champagnes for her party next month. Augusta’s birthday was approaching. She would order engraved invitations to send around to her old acquaintances, to Doctor Burdell’s patients, and to the neighbors on Bond Street—people she had never met, prominent families that she hoped would appear with their unmarried cousins and single sons. She would make it a fine affair, and besides being for Augusta, it would serve another purpose as well: it was time she and Dr. Burdell presented themselves as a couple. It would be the perfect time to announce their engagement.

It was early afternoon when she returned to the house and let herself into the front door using her key. She untied her hat and removed the hatpin, pausing before the mirror in the hall. In the
still of the afternoon, the patients were finished, so there was no sign of the errand boy, usually stationed at the front door. She pulled off her gloves and adjusted her hair in the pier mirror. Distracted, she walked into the front parlor and picked up some sewing left by Augusta on a chair. The large sliding doors separating the two parlors were pulled shut. She went back out to the hall to enter the back parlor, wanting to look over the furniture arrangement to make plans for her party, and she pulled open the door to see Dr. Burdell seated, intently talking with an elderly gentleman.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said startled. “I did not mean to intrude.”

A cast came over Dr. Burdell’s eyes, and his lip curled in disapproval. “Emma, this is Commodore Vanderkirk,” he said reluctantly. The man stumbled to his feet. He had a florid face with flushed cheeks and was swaddled in expensive clothing. His midriff spilled forward, knocking him off ballast, as if he were not comfortable standing fully upright.

“So enchanted to meet your lovely wife. You’re a lucky man,” said the Commodore. The shadow across Dr. Burdell’s eyes deepened. She expected Dr. Burdell to correct his guest’s error at assuming she was his wife and introduce her properly, but he did not.

Emma took the lead. “Please, sit down, sir. I am so sorry for the interruption. I feared that Augusta left her piano music in here. My daughters are so absentminded.” The man sank heavily into the stuffed armchair, like an overfed child. He twisted a large gold ring on his fat finger.

“No intrusion, my dear. I love the sight of a woman in the afternoon. It is a dull day of business that is not graced by the sight of the female sex.” He grinned appreciatively at Emma.

Emma laughed. “I hope my daughters do not fly by, for then you will have a great distraction.”

“Oh my, a bevy of lovelies. Unfortunately, my own have flown the coop,” he said ruefully. On a low table, spread before the seated men, were long maps that she recognized to be of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Emma saw her name scrawled across one tract, a vast empty terrain. “Come look,” offered the Commodore. “I’d keep a woman alongside me during all my business dealings if I could—just like at craps—they bring you luck.” Dr. Burdell sat on the edge of a wooden chair, leaning forward, glowering. Emma was pleased at the attention. She attempted a charming banter that always worked favorably with men.

“I profess that I wouldn’t be much of an asset if you are discussing business. I don’t understand much about land or shipping,” said Emma. “I only know that I can see the clipper ships backed up all the way to the Narrows, waiting to find berths.”

“Shipping is no mystery,” the Commodore replied, amused. “But I am done with clipper ships. Soon there will only be iron ships pulling up to iron piers that will unload cargo onto railways that will carry it straight across the continent. There won’t be a piece of wood or sailcloth in sight.”

“Well, then, the world will be quite unrecognizable,” Emma said, rolling her eyes to the heavens. As she suspected, the gesture amused him. He laughed heartily, which made his gouty flesh jiggle like jelly.

“It is already unrecognizable, my dear. You are just living under an illusion that the world is a familiar place. Familiarity is just smoke and mirrors.”

“Emma,” interrupted Dr. Burdell, sternly. “Shouldn’t you see to supper?” It was clear that he wanted her gone.

“Ah, domesticity calling,” chuckled the Commodore. “Such a shame.”

“Excuse me, but I have a meal to oversee.” Emma laughed and
curtsied. Before she retreated she said, “Oh, sir, I would like to invite you to a party we are having, on January thirtieth. Just a small affair,” she ventured.

“How kind, to offer an invitation! But my wife has me running all over town to engagements, so that all I do is dress and eat. Pitiful existence, I tell you. I shall have to ask you to address all such propositions to my social secretary—my wife.”

Emma again gave a slight curtsy. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Commodore Vanderkirk.”

The Commodore attempted to raise his posterior out of the chair but decided against the effort. “Enchanted, my dear. You are most enchanting.”

Emma left and closed the heavy parlor doors behind her. Then she paused, and leaned gently against the door, and turned her head so that her ear was close to the thick wood. In the deep pile of the carpet in the hall, her footfall made no sound; she could hear the Commodore’s voice clearly—he spoke with a robust baritone. Dr. Burdell mumbled, and his part of the conversation did not carry.

“I want this land to build factories for steel and iron, where I can connect to the railroad,” she heard the Commodore say. “I cannot find that on the Manhattan side of the river. I’ll buy the land in a simple sale. But I do not want to give you a share of any business, if that’s what you are angling for.” Harvey mumbled something and the Commodore continued, “I will give you a fair price. A premium.” Emma dipped her head closer. Dr. Burdell spoke, again too softly to hear.

“You say you have Southern buyers?” boomed the Commodore. “Balderdash. Why would you want to go into business with them? It’s Northern companies that run the South. We distill their rum, process their sugar, roll their tobacco. If the spindles and looms in Massachusetts were to go silent, the Cotton Zone would dry up overnight. The only thing the North doesn’t own are the depleted
cotton fields and the slaves, but we make more money insuring them.”

“The Southern contingent has made me a very lucrative offer with ongoing profits as a part of the deal.” Dr. Burdell made this point with a raised voice.

“Your Southern friends are looking for a Northern port because they are stuck with New Orleans. Let it sink!” the Commodore said, howling with laughter. “I could run the whole Southern economy from this armchair.”

Dr. Burdell mumbled again.

“When you met with me last night at Delmonico’s,” said the Commodore, “I was intrigued by your proposition. But I know the men you speak of, and I understood you to propose that you join my venture, but I am only interested in the land.” So he had been at Delmonico’s, Emma thought, explaining his absence from the opera, detained by business, as Mr. Wicken had suggested.

Emma jumped away from the door when she heard the Commodore say, his voice perilously close to the other side, “I’m done now, I want an answer by next week, or we’re off.” As Emma backed away from the door, she spotted Alice, the chambermaid, on the staircase. It was clear that Alice had been watching her.

Emma hurried to the stair, and as she approached the girl, she grabbed her by the arm. “Don’t you say anything,” she whispered.

The servant girl looked at her askance. “You let go of my arm or I’ll tell the master you been listening,” she hissed.

“Do I smell whiskey on your breath? He won’t abide that now, will he?” Emma replied. Alice scurried away and disappeared, descending to the kitchen stair, and Emma swiftly climbed toward the second floor but stopped at the turn on the stairwell, and waited, hidden on the landing. The door of the parlor opened, and she heard Dr. Burdell come into the hallway and lift the Commodore’s coat from the peg near the vestibule.

“That northernmost tract is worth fifty thousand dollars to me. It has the high ridge in the center of the marsh and the freshwater stream. That is the plot I want,” boomed the Commodore.

“The Southern party is offering me a deal of ongoing business profits from an active port and depot,” repeated Dr. Burdell, with a stubborn resistance.

“I shall not offer you any profits, but I’ll double my offer for the land, here and now. Make it one hundred thousand dollars.”

“I shall let you know,” said Harvey dryly.

“Just understand, a clean deal is the only deal I make. You hand me the deed, I pay you the money.” The Commodore was squeezing himself into his coat. “You have until this time next week, and no longer.” Emma heard the front door open and shut behind the Commodore, without a word of farewell. The northernmost tract with Bound Creek weaving through the salt marsh—that was her own plot. Isn’t this what Dr. Burdell had been waiting for? One hundred thousand dollars was an enormous sum. She felt elation rising in her breast and wanted to rush downstairs and dance with Harvey. It didn’t matter what other deal was pending, he should embrace this offer—they would be rich, plenty rich. As she turned the bend in the staircase and headed down to the hall she heard the front door close again and realized that Dr. Burdell had put on his coat and had gone.