City of Light (51 page)

She studied me suspiciously, her brow knit. Had I reached her? Reached some area of sanity that must still lurk within her?

I continued. “So not only have you murdered your allies, but with this bombing your cause has been hopelessly discredited. You’ve achieved exactly the opposite of what you wanted. You haven’t been a heroine at all.”

The hatred grew slowly in her eyes. “You would say that. You’ve never stopped being jealous of Francesca and me.”

“Whether I’m jealous or not makes no difference,” I replied. “You’ve betrayed your own ideals. Your own goals. You’ve achieved nothing.”

“At this moment our cause may seem ‘discredited,’ but in the end people will understand what we did and why. Our little group may be imprisoned, but others will take our place. In the end our cause will triumph.”

“Perhaps. But
you’ve
committed murder. For nothing.” I could tell by the fixed expression on her face that I still hadn’t reached her. “Do I have to tell the authorities in order to make you understand the evil you’ve done?”

Abruptly she stood, fierce as a warrior. In a chilling whisper she said, “I had an assistant in what I did. A full assistant.” I had to lean toward her, to hear her. “You would be surprised, should you ever discover who my assistant was. I knew every secret about the power station there was to know, because of my assistant.” Her words were a sinister, threatening legacy. “I’ll say this to you only once, Miss Barrett: If you report me to the authorities, I’ll tell them who my assistant was and quick as can be”—she snapped her fingers in my face—“you’ll have destroyed someone you love.”

She was truly insane. Abruptly I turned and left her, calling my good-bye to the startled Francesca. As I strode down the women’s ward, breakfast over, the patients sitting in loosely grouped chairs and staring straight ahead, I believed Susannah’s threat was nothing but her madness speaking, and I dismissed it from my mind.

CHAPTER XXXIV

I
passed through the asylum’s gates and into the bustle of Elmwood Avenue. The city was coming alive, rejoicing in the arrival of President and Mrs. McKinley. The curbs looked as if they’d been scrubbed. Red, white, and blue streamers decorated every streetlamp. But the hoopla felt far removed from me. I blamed myself for the evil Susannah had done. I was the one who’d hired her when she’d first come to Buffalo, granting her the imprimatur of the school, which in turn opened the doors of society.

And yet, how could I have suspected? Her insanity was so intertwined with logic and reality; her outward demeanor was not simply normal but inviting—when she chose to make it so. Of course I knew she’d become passionate about Niagara, but even that day in my office when she presented the drawings to me, I’d picked up no hint of her inward disturbance. The terrible tragedy of the engineers, the disquiet I’d felt for months around Tom, the false leads which Franklin had pursued … She had touched each of us in a singular way. And she’d touched the girls she’d taught and tutored, to what ill effect I’d only discover over time. As much as my heart ached for the engineers and their families, I felt especially anguished over the ways Susannah had affected Grace: infiltrating her life because of her father, murdering Fitzhugh while Grace was only steps away. How easily Grace might have seen this murder. I could imagine her impetuously following Susannah down the path and stumbling upon the sight of her gently, like a touch of love, urging Fitzhugh toward the rapids. How easily Susannah could have done exactly the same to Grace, or even to me, seducing us into forgetfulness and death. I grieved at the thought of how little safety any of us can ever have. What can we rely on—truly rely on—that won’t turn into water flowing through our hands? Nothing. Not even God will bestir himself to protect us from the threats all around to which we are blind.

I turned onto Forest Avenue, within sight of the Sinclair estate. Although tired from my overnight journey and from my time with Susannah, I needed to see Grace. I hadn’t seen her since Sunday morning at church. I needed the simple reassurance of her presence, offering me a place and a purpose in life. And I wanted to tell her about Susannah’s arrest. Tom wouldn’t necessarily be attuned to his daughter’s attachment to a teacher, even Susannah. Someone would have to tell Grace and much better it be me than a gossiping schoolmate.

Mrs. Sheehan’s niece Blanchette, the shy, dark-haired maid who answered the door, told me that Tom had already left for work but she believed Grace was still on the terrace breakfasting with the housekeeper. That’s where I found them, on the shaded second-floor terrace, where once we’d sat with Maddie and Peter listening to the sounds of the night.

“Aunt Louisa!” Grace exclaimed. “I’m so glad you came! You’re here in time for the
spécialité du jour:
French toast! I had the idea to make it with cinnamon and nutmeg. Cook and I did it together and now it’s the best I’ve ever had!”

“Good morning, Miss Barrett.” Mrs. Sheehan sighed with the frazzled fatigue of a person who, however good-natured, has no tolerance for youthful exuberance in the morning. “Shall I bring you a pot of coffee?”

“Yes, please,” I said as Grace prepared a plate of French toast and bacon for me from the buffet set up beside the dining table. Vases of roses, apricot-colored and white, decorated both tables. With apparent relief, Mrs. Sheehan went inside. “So, Grace, what have you been doing?” I asked.

Then came a litany of riding and Rowan, swimming and tennis, Ruth Rumsey did this and Winifred Coatsworth did that, and though these activities were trivial I savored every nuance. All at once my fears for Grace seemed exaggerated. What could happen to her in this protected haven? No wonder Tom didn’t take Krakauer’s threats seriously. How could he, coming out in the morning to have his coffee, surrounded by cut flowers, Grace bounding down from the third floor when she woke? Here on the estate all was well. Gratitude swept through me; despite the pain I’d endured from the decrepit old man in Tyringham, I was grateful that Grace had been born and that I was her mother. Parenthood transforms one’s view of life, I thought, rearranging priorities and enforcing a vested interest in the future.

Mrs. Sheehan arrived with the pot of coffee, interrupting Grace’s chatter. After I’d poured a cup, Grace asked, “What have you been doing, Aunt Louisa?”

I inhaled deeply. “Well, Grace, I have some rather unsettling news. Something rather … unfortunate has happened.”

“To you?” she asked, startled.

“No, my darling,” I reassured her. “To Miss Riley.”

Grace looked confused. “Miss Riley? How could anything happen to Miss Riley?”

“Did your father tell you about the incident last week at the power station?” I didn’t know how much Tom had shared with her, so I chose my words carefully.

She nodded. “He said some people tried to break one of the generators, but everything was okay and no one got hurt.”

“That’s right. Last evening those people, the ones who tried to break the generator, they were arrested. Miss Riley was among them.”

“That doesn’t sound like Miss Riley,” she said, perplexed.

“No, it doesn’t. But apparently—”

“Where is Miss Riley now?” she interrupted, her voice rising.

“Well, my dear, the men in charge of these things didn’t want to keep her at the jail downtown, because conditions there are so … unpleasant. So they’ve given her a set of rooms at the state hospital.”

Grace studied me, trying to figure this out. “If she’s in the hospital instead of the jail, then I guess she didn’t really do anything wrong?” Grace asked hopefully.

“Well …” I began, trying to formulate a response she could understand, one which would reveal some of the truth but not too much.

“How long will she have to stay there?” she demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“But she’s supposed to give me a drawing lesson this afternoon. Will she be here in time for my lesson? I did all the assignments—how is she going to see them?” Petulance filled her voice, and I sighed at her childishness—before realizing how important her childishness was. Indeed it was vital. She reacted as a child would react, with selfishness and self-involvement, seeing only her own side of the situation. Perhaps Susannah hadn’t affected her as deeply as I’d feared.

“Don’t worry, Grace, everything will work out. One of my best friends is taking special care of Miss Riley, so I know she’ll be fine. Then we’ll see what happens about your lessons.”

Grace was still young enough to have a limited sense of time, and I hoped she could be put off by this idea of wait-and-see. Susannah couldn’t hurt her now, so why give her more details than she could handle? Wait, I always advised parents and teachers, until the child herself has thought to ask a question about sensitive issues, and then answer only that specific question. Don’t feel called upon to explain the meaning of the universe. Grace was worried about her lessons. She was missing her tutor. I was thankful that these were the only concerns I would have to deal with on this clear, sharp morning, because frankly I didn’t have the strength to deal with anything more.

Unexpectedly Grace brightened. “While she’s in the hospital, I can keep practicing. She wants me to work on drawings of people doing things. You could pose for me, Aunt Louisa. Pretending to play the piano. Let’s do it now!”

So after I finished breakfast, we went downstairs to the music room. I was willing actually to play the piano, but Grace said no, the movement of my hands would muddle her. I must simply rest my fingers upon the keys as if I were playing and let her create the image. In this way we passed a peaceful half hour, the only sound the scratchy noise of Grace’s pencil on the drawing paper. When Grace was ready to fill in the background, she gave me permission to rise from the piano bench. She herself sat on a low stool in front of the credenza; behind her, on top of the credenza, I noticed a bag from Huyler’s.

“Did you and Mrs. Sheehan go to the chocolate store?” I asked, suddenly desiring the marshmallow bar I never did get to eat. “I was there the other day.”

“No, we didn’t go,” Grace said, preoccupied with erasing an unwanted smudge. “Yesterday afternoon a man came to visit, and he brought the chocolates. He walked into the garden when I was reading a book.”

Krakauer.

“He said he was a friend of Papa’s,” she continued. “But Papa wasn’t home. The man just walked into the garden instead of knocking on the front door. At first I didn’t know what to do.” She looked up from her work, and I sensed the matter had been troubling her. “I know I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but I’m not supposed to be rude, either. So I was just polite. I said, “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?” ‘She imitated herself with a tad of pride for thinking of this grown-up greeting. “Anyway, I could hear Mr. Duffy’s shears on the roses, so I knew I wasn’t alone outside.” Mr. Duffy was the assistant gardener. “Then I remembered seeing this man at a party at Ruth Rumsey’s cousin’s house, so even though we hadn’t really met, that made talking to him all right. He said I could call him Uncle Frederick.”

“What happened then?” I forced myself to sound calm.

“He wondered what I was reading; it was just my
McGuffey
, but I showed him and he said his daughters had the same one. Then he gave me the bag from Huyler’s. It had three caramel-marshmallow bars—I love those! He said his daughters love them too, which was why he thought of bringing them to me.”

That odious man. He’d purchased four when I was with him and eaten one in my presence. Had he planned even then to bring the others to Grace? He was only a messenger, he’d said, and this was his message: He could reach Grace at any time, even within the confines of her house and garden, even in the middle of the day, the staff working all around her. He was the messenger, and his message was that no one was safe.

“Then Mr. Sheehan came out and told him to go, because Papa wasn’t home, and so he went.”

“Does your father know he came to visit?” I heard the tension slipping into my voice.

“I don’t know. Papa came home after I went to bed last night and left before I got up this morning. I don’t know if Mr. Sheehan told him. I have to let Papa know, though, because the man wanted me to tell him something.”

“What was that?” I dreaded her response.

“He said to give Papa his very best regards. He was particular about it. He said, ‘Give your father my
very
best regards.’” I could almost hear Krakauer’s unctuous condescension, almost see his ruthless smirk.

“You must never speak to him again.”

“He seemed nice,” Grace insisted.

“Believe me, Grace, he’s not nice at all.”

While she ran off to the kitchen for a postbreakfast snack, I went to the parlor to try to telephone Tom at the power station. The assistant who answered said Tom was inspecting the new tailrace and was unreachable until early evening, so I left my name and hung up. I would have to decide what to do on my own. Debating with myself and finding no solution, I glanced around. Margaret had designed the parlor as Tom’s room, for business meetings and telephoning; it had leather chairs, an unadorned fireplace, prints of various castles in Ireland, a lingering scent of cigarettes despite the open windows. I sat at the telephone table, an intricate piece of furniture with cubbyholes and shelves for pencils, pens, and ink, notepaper as well as engraved stationery for home and office. Into this room Tom had brought poor Karl Speyer several months ago to fight over water. Into this room Tom had also brought Peter Fronczyk, only several days ago although it seemed like months, and given him the funds to begin a new life, to buy himself safety.

Safety. Grace. I rose, set on doing what little I could to protect her. I found Mrs. Sheehan in the kitchen discussing the day’s menu with the cook while Grace ate oatmeal cookies. I gave instructions that Grace must stay on the estate and the staff must guard against trespassers. If Grace went into the garden, someone must be with her at all times. Particularly she must not be permitted to speak to Mr. Krakauer, should he turn up again. Mrs. Sheehan nodded in agreement, perhaps not understanding my concern but too well-trained to challenge it. In addition, Mrs. Sheehan must tell Mr. Sinclair about Krakauer’s visit as soon as he returned home tonight or if by chance he telephoned.

Grace was upset. My edict prevented her from going to the country club for her usual Wednesday riding lesson. I found myself impatient with her, an unfamiliar emotion between us. I instructed her to practice the piano for a full hour this morning, and then she could have a marshmallow bar. She nodded her head in compliance.

And that’s how I left her at midmorning, practicing the piano, the sound of Czerny
Études
reaching me as I hurried down the drive. Of course the most reliable protection would have been for me to stay with her all day; no one else would have my vigilance. But I’d been away from school for several days, and I needed to check in with Miss Atkins and Mrs. Schreier. In addition, the formal welcoming reception for the McKinleys was scheduled for late this afternoon at Rumsey Park. I would have to attend; not attending would be a public admission that something was terribly wrong. Besides, I had invited Mary Talbert as my guest and she would be calling for me in her carriage at four o’clock. If I wasn’t so beset by worry for Grace, I would have been looking forward to seeing her.