City of Light (40 page)

Carriage lanterns guided my way up Lincoln Parkway. On my left was the Sinclair estate, stone wall and tall hedges concealing tennis court, formal garden, bathing pool; I saw them all in my mind. When I came to the house itself, the windows revealed the soft glow of candlelight instead of the usual starkness of electricity. I paused, staring. On the second floor there were candles in the library, and I imagined Tom at his desk in the corner, reviewing files about water. But more important to me was the bright candlelight that came from the third floor, Grace’s floor. Perhaps she was finishing an evening snack of applesauce, graham crackers, and cocoa. Or maybe she was bathing, and the housekeeper held up the warm, thick towels that awaited her. Her lacy nightgown was smoothly—lovingly—laid out upon the bed. She was safe.

Secure in this certainty, I crossed Forest Avenue and continued on my way, walking more by instinct than sight, using candlelit homes as my landmarks, enjoying the sprinkle of raindrops that fell from the wet leaves onto my face. Gradually I became aware of the leisurely clip-clop of a hansom on the asphalt roadway beside me; the hansom was beside me but slightly behind, its lantern propped high to give off a wide circle of light. No surprise in that. What surprised me was the hansom’s slow pace. I slowed my own walk, to let the carriage overtake me. But the driver matched my pace. I glanced over, but there was nothing to see: an open carriage, no passengers, a driver with his cap pulled down to shield his face from the weather. No doubt he saw me as a likely fare and was waiting for me to signal him. There was nothing threatening about him, and yet I was abruptly, irrationally overcome by fear. The slow clip-clop, clip-clop echoed through the mist-laden silence of the deserted streets.

At Soldier’s Place I crossed onto Bidwell Parkway, and the carriage turned too. When I walked faster, the driver quickened his pace. I held down the urge to run, but I walked so fast that I virtually was running.

Finally I arrived at my door, breathless. I fumbled for the key, felt for the keyhole, turned the lock. Once the door was open and I’d put one foot across the threshold, I stopped, escape at hand, to see what the driver would do. He drove on, unhurriedly, into the darkened night.

At first my heart raced wildly in freedom and relief, but slowly I realized that I was completely alone. At this hour, even Katarzyna had gone home to her family. Through my own wish, my own desperation to keep a secret, I had cut myself off from companionship and affection. There was no one in the house to welcome my return, to wonder where I’d been, to listen eagerly to the tale. Through my own devices, no one was here to notice whether I returned home or not.

Everything had turned out exactly as I had planned. Exactly as I had hoped and arranged. Yet now I wondered if I had planned correctly, ten years ago, in the crisis of the moment, still a girl—or so I seemed to myself now. But then I had thought myself a woman. I was still hopeful, still optimistic—then. Four or five years, at most, would I spend at the Macaulay School. Then I would go to Europe to study geology. I would go on expeditions in the West as I had done with my father. Perhaps I would even fall in love, have a family…. Certainly the Macaulay School would never turn into my life. Never would I be so alone that I’d be afraid of a hansom cab beside me in the dark.

Leaving the door ajar, I took several steps toward the street and looked down Lincoln Parkway to the Sinclair house. Glimpsed through the trees, the upper windows radiated a nimbus of candlelight. And I thought, this is the sum total of what I have willed: to be able to study that house from a distance, and know all was well.

CHAPTER XXV

A
boy
, read the note that Elbert Hubbard sent me at the end of July,
unusually large and healthy, considering the “sin that went into its making.”
I could hear Elbert’s parodying voice.
The wet nurse and her husband, a farmer, would be pleased to have him, if there are no other plans. They can be trusted to maintain privacy, and I know they would offer him affection, having recently lost their own, and only, infant
.

But there were other plans. All was arranged according to Abigail’s instructions. Dr. Perlmutter had found a childless family in town. Even now a young woman, possibly a Macaulay graduate, was wearing padding and was well into her “confinement,” having declared to family and friends that she’d kept the pregnancy secret for so long because of her years of bad luck and miscarriages. Nonetheless Dr. Perlmutter had strongly cautioned this unnamed young woman and her husband against relying on the adoption: The infant might prove to be ill, or dark-skinned; the mother might change her mind or make unreasonable demands. From his professional position, Dr. Perlmutter had frankly reviewed the possibilities.

With this in mind, I resolved to present Elbert’s idea to Abigail. The more I thought about it, the more appealing his idea became. If the nurse and her husband took the baby, Abigail would always know where the child was and how he fared. Perhaps she could even visit him now and again (the child remaining ignorant of her true identity, of course). On the other hand, if the baby was adopted by an unknown family in town, Abigail would be left always wondering, always speculating—ever searching for the child who was her child.

Abigail herself would have to decide. Some might balk at entrusting such a decision to a girl not yet eighteen, but I could only do what I would want done myself, were I in her position. The idea that Abigail would keep the child was out of the question; her life would be ruined. She was no Alice Moore (Elbert’s paramour), able to make her own way in the world, with family to assist her by caring for the child. Abigail was virtually a child herself. If she kept the infant, she would become an outcast.

The day after I received Elbert’s note, having few duties at school on a beautiful summer’s morning, I took the train to the village of East Aurora. The narrow gauge railway of the Western New York and Pennsylvania line carried me into the lush, rolling countryside to the southeast of Buffalo. This was horse country for Buffalo’s Hamlin, Jewett, and Knox families. The Jewett farm was renowned for its covered, heated racetrack. A love of horse training and racing had originally led Elbert to East Aurora. The village was less than twenty miles from the city, yet it seemed strangely obscure and hidden, reachable only by a convoluted journey through vaporous meadows.

From the tiny station, I walked the short distance to Elbert’s home. The quiet was immense; the only sound was birdsong. Over the years, Elbert had purchased house after house, taking over the village block by block to establish his Roycroft community of artisans. He wanted to create the atmosphere of an era before factories, before machines, and he had. Sheep grazed around the chapel, rhododendron bloomed deep purple, and the scents of burning wood and fresh-baked gingerbread filled the air. The Roycroft community glorified individual craftsmanship as opposed to modern mass production, and designers came from around the country to work in the print shop, the bindery, the metal and furniture shops. Many of the craftsmen executing the designs were local people, men and women escaping farm labor for a life of artistry. Elbert brought an intellectual life to East Aurora as well, with lectures and activities on every subject within the reach of his imagination. All this was financed by Elbert’s commercial genius: by his ability to use advertising and direct marketing to convince the general public that handmade books and furniture were essential accoutrements of upwardly mobile life.

Elbert’s home was a reflection of his beliefs, and I felt every tension melt away from me as I went through the door, entering a realm in which each object, no matter how minor or utilitarian, had been transformed into a thing of beauty. He greeted me with a brotherly hug. “We’ve told everyone that our young apprentice is laid up with ‘fever,’” he explained, leading me to the stairs. “A very serious fever indeed, requiring a doctor and a constant attendant—although we advertise a full recovery. Meanwhile, the grandmother has been very helpful in the kitchen. She’s there now in fact, whipping up a strudel concoction with early peaches. The young lady herself has shown an aptitude for watercoloring, under Bertha’s direction. We’ve managed to keep her from prying eyes, I’m glad to report, and the infant has cooperated by not crying too much. So far.”

Elbert’s employees were fiercely protective of him; if a baby cried and Elbert didn’t hear it, they didn’t either.

We reached the third-floor landing, and I was grateful to see that Elbert had given Abigail and her grandmother the entire top floor. To the left, there was a comfortable parlor where a plump young woman sat knitting in a rocking chair. A calico kerchief covered her head, and a few strands of pale hair curled around her face. This must be the wet nurse.

“Mrs. Houghton, good morning,” Elbert said in his most charming manner. He did not introduce me, however: If anything went wrong, my name wouldn’t be brought into the situation. “I can’t help but notice that the infant thrives.”

Standing, pressing her knitting against her waist, she curtseyed and blushed. “Thank you, Mr. Hubbard.” There was a hint of a Scottish accent in her voice.

“A fine job you’re doing. We’re most appreciative.”

“Thank you, sir.” She curtseyed again.

“Good day to you, then.”

“And good day to you, sir.”

Elbert turned and walked to the door on the far side of the landing. I had resolved to keep my attitude completely businesslike, and now I steeled myself to the task at hand. Before opening the door, Elbert whispered, “You should know that
Mère
Rushman has graced us with her presence. That fine woman told me in confidence that the infant should be dropped off at a church door somewhere far away, so that five or ten years hence his features will not be recognized in town and cause Maria Love to ponder a resemblance—a resemblance to whom, Mrs. Rushman did not reveal.”

When Elbert opened the door, the first thing I noticed were the leaf shadows that danced upon the walls. The stained glass in the transoms showed a scene of white lilies against green fields. The chairs, the table, the bookcase, the bed and cradle beside it—all were handmade of solid, plain-finished oak. A peacock with a sweeping tail, in tooled leather, decorated the back of a hand mirror. I might have stepped into medieval England.

“I’m so pleased you’re feeling better,” Elbert said sympathetically, patting Abigail’s arm as she lay in bed propped up by pillows. Embroidered blue herons walked up the hem of the pillowcases. Abigail held a Roycroft book, her thumb marking her place. The binding was a brown leather tooled into the image of an angel.
The Last Ride
, by Robert Browning. “As soon as you’re out of this nagging ‘fever’ we’re going to put you to work illustrating a manuscript—your apprenticeship is over!”

She smiled at him dreamily, under his spell like everyone else. Her long hair was spread around her, reddish-blonde. “Miss Barrett, there are some of my watercolors on the table, just practices, but …”

I went to look. The paintings were lovely: flowering vines, gentle reeds, frolicking birds meant to decorate the margins of a typeset page. She’d also done dozens of initials, capital letters turned into miniature works of art.

“They’re lovely, Abigail. Truly. I’m proud of you.” She gave me the same dreamy smile she’d given Elbert.

I turned to the cradle. The sleeping baby looked strong and plump for a newborn. He had some fuzzy blonde hair—nearly white—as though he were Scandinavian.

“Abigail,” I said gently, pulling a chair beside the bed, “Mr. Hubbard tells me the nurse would be happy to take your baby. She seems like a lovely woman. Perhaps we should consider—”

“Isn’t there a family in town?” She sat up, all at once beset by anger and worry. “I thought there was a family in town.”

“Yes, there is. But perhaps—”

“I want the family in town. I told that to Mother—I told that to
you
, Miss Barrett,” she added, her voice sounding strangled, as if I had betrayed her.

“You told me you wanted him to go to any family that could love him.” I maintained my gentle tone. “If he’s with the nurse and her husband—”

“I thought you knew what I meant! I don’t want him to grow up to be a farmworker! I want him to grow up in the city and have a chance to become a lawyer or a doctor or the president of the United States.”

The innocence of her hopes made me shiver.

“I want his new mother to be a graduate of the Macaulay School! I want him to go to the Nichols School and to college—an Ivy League college—I want him to become a millionaire!”

“Mmm,” Elbert sighed. His impatience with just such sentiments had caused him to give up his position in business and come here to establish a community of artisans. Of course he’d already made his fortune by then, so the degrees of hypocrisy in his reasoning were difficult to sort out. “We must look to the person, my dear, not to the financial backing, nor to the academic degrees, which in the end don’t mean much—begging the forgiveness of our highly educated Miss Barrett.” He nodded at me graciously.

Abigail was not deterred. “I don’t care what you think. That’s what I want for him, and I won’t let anybody tell me no!” She hit her fist against the quilt, her face scrunching up like a three-year-old’s on the verge of a tantrum.

Well, Dr. Perlmutter had found a fine family in town. The baby was healthy, his skin pale, so the fine family would presumably have no objections. “And if he’s in town,” Abigail continued, turning wistful, “there’s a chance that I would see him now and then, isn’t there?” She gazed at me with wide-eyed wonderment. “I mean, I wouldn’t know him at first, but how many babies could there be, that were his exact age? After a while, I would figure out who he was, don’t you think? And even if I didn’t, after a while I could persuade Dr. Perlmutter to tell me, if I promised never, ever to tell him—” She glanced at the cradle. “Then I could always make sure he was all right, without ever letting him know who I was. But if anything happened, I would be there to look after him. To back him up, if he ever needed anything. I’ll get a job, if I have to. I’ll think of something I can do. Then I’ll have enough money to help him, if he ever needs anything. I’ll always be there for him.” With a contented smile, she leaned back against the pillows, which puffed up around her.

She was utterly confident, as only the young can be. The absolute assurance in her face made me look away, tears smarting my eyes.

That evening, using the ruse of illness, I called on Dr. Perlmutter in his spacious examining rooms and told him about my visit to Abigail.

“You see the good we’re doing here, Louisa?” he said with satisfaction, sticking his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. Although we were no more than acquaintances, he always called me “Louisa,” no doubt assuming that the right to do so came with the Hippocratic oath. He was a large man, with florid cheeks and a big belly imprisoned by a tight vest. His office and examining rooms, on the ground floor of his comfortable home on Franklin Street, reflected a complacent ease. Someone who didn’t know any better might look at him and his rooms and conclude from their serene, self-assured equanimity that he’d never lost a woman in childbirth, when in fact he had: Margaret, and so many of my graduates, dead from giving birth, regardless of which doctor attended them. Not the doctors’ fault, of course, but my anger at the losses had nowhere else to go.

“Arranging adoptions always pleases me. Everyone benefits,” he continued. “Now then, the family is eager to proceed. We should make the transfer soon. The grandmothers-to-be are already wondering why their grandchild is running late and what I intend to do about it!”

Having no emotional involvement, he could afford to be flippant.

“How often do you do this, Doctor?”

“Not frequently, Louisa, but not infrequently. How’s that for an answer that tells you nothing!” He laughed pleasurably.

The good doctor and I made a plan: In one week, on August 6, I would go out to East Aurora again in a hired brougham driven by a hired man whom the doctor had reason to trust. I would bring the baby (soothed by a dash of brandy) to Dr. Perlmutter’s home, where he would examine the infant. “Merely cursory,” he confided. “With such good parentage—a Macaulay girl, after all, and a gentleman of society, as you say—I don’t foresee any problems.” Apparently the doctor, like so many do-gooders, viewed poverty as a genetic vice.

At any rate, after nightfall, with the baby asleep and ingeniously hidden under the voluminous coat Dr. Perlmutter was renowned for wearing in both summer and winter, the doctor would enter his ostentatious carriage—christened the “delivery coach” and designed especially to garner attention—and take the baby to the waiting parents. He would spend a good amount of time in the bedroom so the servants wouldn’t talk, give the infant a hearty slap on the bottom at the appropriate moment to induce crying, and call in the nervous, waiting husband to witness the miracle: a son. Perlmutter would complete his night’s endeavors with a hearty meal in the kitchen, and just after dawn, looking weary but pleased, he would depart the family home. If any neighbors happened to wander by, they would have it straight from the doctor that both mother and child were doing well, the mother a bit tired but blissfully happy, thank you very much.