“Lawrence,” May repeated hoarsely. “That was the name of my biological father, the captain of the HMS Resolute.”
“I know,” Hugh said. “I’m not exactly sure what this means for us, but it’s too much of a coincidence for it not to be connected. I think you must have a relative out there — an uncle or cousin or something. Someone influential who might be able to help. I think you should meet me in Cambridge. Can you take the Prouty tomorrow?”
“Yes, just tell me where to find you.”
“I’ll meet you at the dock.”
“Thank you,” May said with a long sigh. “I can’t believe you did all this for Lucy. For me.”
There was a pause, and for a moment, May thought they’d lost the connection. But then his voice came though, firm and clear. “I’d do anything for you, May.”
“STICK OUT YOUR little tongue and let me cut it out in payment.” That had been the sea witch’s demand to the little mermaid in exchange for brewing a potion that would make the prince fall in love with her. Ettie shivered as she read the sentence in the tale of “The Little Mermaid.” She hated reading it, but she had been inexorably drawn to it since Lucy’s arrest. The fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen had been her favorite as a young child. When she read it some years before — before she had ever met Hannah, May, or Lucy — it had seemed romantic and beautiful. But now, after having known the three mer girls, Ettie realized Andersen had it all wrong about the undersea world. She knew about what that world was like. The three girls had described it to her. Andersen’s portrayal made it seem like an overly decorated birthday cake. And she loathed the part about “souls.” In particular, she detested the stupid old grandma mermaid who blabbered on about how mer folk didn’t have an immortal soul like the humans on earth.
But now it was the horror of Andersen’s “Little Mermaid” tale that drew her. Hannah, May, and Lucy might be mer, but they were flesh-and-blood girls as well. They were Ettie’s closest friends. She felt closer to them than she would ever feel to her sisters, Clarice and Lila. Lila, whose mind was said to be “deranged.” Such euphemisms. Her mind was deranged into pure meanness. Then there was Clarice, who was sweet but rather vapid, and in her sudden burst of what promised to be great beauty had become willingly a little doll for her mother to dress up. That was the ultimate irony, of course. Her own sisters were as different from her as could possibly be, but it was Hannah, May, and Lucy who felt like true kin. She did not just envy them for their wild natures that let them roam the sea unfettered by any human strictures but was in awe of their lively minds. Each was profoundly smart in ways that resonated with Ettie. Hannah played the harp more beautifully than any symphony harpist she had ever heard. There was an ethereal quality to the music that indeed seemed informed by her ties to the sea. May had a sharp mind. She had learned quickly from Hugh to do mathematical derivatives that were a part of the study of calculus. She knew slopes and tangents while Ettie’s math education had stumbled shortly after she had figured out that Miss Ardmore, her governess, knew nothing about square roots. And Lucy herself was a wonderful artist. In Ettie’s mind she was vastly superior to Stannish Whitman Wheeler. With her watercolors, Lucy often painted nonfiguratively — abstract pictures that stirred deep feelings. Looking at one of Lucy’s paintings she could feel the turmoil of the sea or the utter tranquillity of a moonlit night.
Ettie had become consumed with the tale since Lucy’s verdict, as if she was in some way preparing herself for Lucy’s death. But it was not just Lucy she was worried about. Hannah was also going through a kind of living death. Stannish Whitman Wheeler might as well have cut out Hannah’s tongue. It suddenly struck her that girls had to give up a lot, be they mer or human. “Sickening!” Ettie muttered, and slammed the book shut. Tomorrow she would visit Uncle Barkley and Uncle Godfrey. She had to get help for Lucy. Her execution was barely a month off. But today she planned to go to Cambridge and meet with May for the first time since summer.
Ettie had become increasingly skillful at sneaking out of the house on Louisburg Square. Today she left unseen by the back way and walked to Bowdoin Square to take the electric trolley to Cambridge. She and May had arranged to meet at a park bench by the river.
Ettie ran up to May and embraced her. “Look at you, Ettie,” May exclaimed. “You are shooting up. I swear you have grown two inches since I last saw you.”
“Not fast enough,” Ettie replied, and May laughed. “Is this where you slip into the water at night when you swim?”
“No, of course not. Everyone would see me here. I go down a bit.” She pointed east. “There’s a bridge that is good. Offers cover.”
“I would have come sooner, but it’s hard getting away. I had to have fittings, you know.”
“Fittings?”
“Yes, fancy dresses for the voyage. You see, I grew two inches very suddenly. So none of the clothes Mama had planned for me fit and a seamstress was called in to do a rush on five new dresses. And that doesn’t even cover every night of the crossing.”
“You dress up fancy every night you are at sea?”
“Yes.”
“Seems odd.”
“Seems stupid to me,” Ettie growled. “But what do you have to tell me? Catch me up.”
“Well,” May began slowly. “I think the most important thing is that I have discovered a motive for the murder of Percy Wilgrew.”
“And therefore the murderer?”
“Indeed. The motive was shame. The murderer is Lucy’s own mother, Marjorie Snow.”
“I knew it!” Ettie slapped her knee. “I just knew it.”
May went on to tell her about the note and her certainty that Marjorie Snow had written it to place the blame for the duke’s murder on Lucy. It made very good sense to Ettie. Now she had to take this information to her uncles. She sat there silently on the bench beside May and watched as two girls walked by in drab dresses. They were each poring over open books as they walked and occasionally bent their heads toward each other, pausing and talking.
“Are those Radcliffe students?” Ettie asked. Excitement bubbled in her voice. It was as if she were on a safari and had just spotted a rare and fantastic animal.
“I imagine so. See their book satchels?” May replied.
“I would give up everything to be them. To walk by this river with a book in hand and think about all sorts of questions … and … and …”
“And what, Ettie?” May asked, tipping her head toward the girl.
“And I don’t know … learn to do derivatives. Leap into calculus,” she said with a sigh. May smiled softly. Hannah had always said that Ettie was special. Would that there were more like Ettie in this world.
As everyone was consumed with packing up for their usual but somewhat delayed departure for Europe, it had not been difficult at all to slip out.
Ettie did not need to take the electric trolley to visit the uncles. She could walk. She merely cut right down Beacon Hill to Beacon Street, then across the Public Gardens, and came out at the base of Commonwealth Avenue. Her destination: number 45, where her uncles God and Bark resided. Among the redbrick homes, the elegant townhouse looked more Paris than Boston, with its gray limestone facade and small wrought iron balconies. As Ettie skipped up the steps, she prayed that her uncles were home. They belonged to numerous artistic and scholarly societies and were always off to one meeting or another. She lifted the brass pineapple doorknocker and slammed it down three times. Their butler, Florin, was quite deaf. She only wished she could say the same for Mr. Marston, the Hawleys’ butler. She had been sorely tempted to sneak into his office and use his telephone, one of the three in the house, while he was in the wine cellar. But the man had preternaturally sharp hearing, and that, together with what seemed to be the proverbial eyes in the back of his head, presented many obstacles. But she had gotten out of the house even though she would have liked to call the uncles to make sure they were in.
Within another minute she heard the sound of the lock
turning.
“C’est moi, Monsieur Florin.”
“Mais bien sûr, ma petite! Et à quoi devons-nous le plaisir de votre visite?”
“Moi! You owe it just to me.” A jangle of appalling French and English spilled from Ettie. “And now let’s arrêter the French … this is sort of an emergency and we must fermer our bouches. Are my uncles in? Not un mot to anyone, s’il vous plaît.”
“Certainment. I mean, certainly they are in and shall be delighted to see you.”
She followed Monsieur Florin to the library. There were her uncles, bending over one of the latest engravings they had their art agent purchase from a dealer in London. They both looked up at once and gave off mild shrieks of delight.
“Henrietta! Darling girl!” Uncle Bark exclaimed.
“My, my, what a drop of sunshine on this rather overcast day.” Godfrey sighed with delight. Barkley Appleton was tall and thin, with a grayish pallor to match the exterior of the house he lived in. His hair was sparse. His brother was actually taller but was heavy. His waistcoat seemed to strain across his vast belly. His jowls jiggled a bit when he spoke. He was of a ruddy complexion and had extravagant sideburns trimmed in the muttonchop style that curled down the sides of his face in frothy cascades. He, too, was nearly bald but went to great pains to conceal his vivid pink pate by combing what hair he had into elaborate swags across the top of his head. His hair was nearly white, and the swags reminded Ettie of cresting waves in a tumultuous sea.
“Now, what brings you here?” Uncle Bark asked.
Ettie heaved a sigh. Her shoulders sank. “I am as overcast as this day.”
“What you — gloomy?”
“Profoundly gloomy!” And then, without warning, her eyes began leaking tears.
The story spilled out in chunks. “And finally …” She paused and took a deep breath. She felt as if she had been running a marathon. She was utterly exhausted, but she had to tell them about the note. She only hoped they wouldn’t ask how she knew this because she did not want to have to tell them about May. “You see, there was this note that placed the blame on Lucy and it is” — she hesitated — “it is questionable.”
“What is questionable?” Uncle Bark asked.
“I guess you would say the handwriting, the authenticity. It is possible that the note writer was trying to put the blame on Lucy.”
“To escape the blame for himself.”
“Or herself,” Ettie offered. Both uncles’ eyebrows shot up.
“Interesting. Could be grounds for a mistrial if the evidence is faulty,” Uncle God said, and scratched his chin. “The murder — yes, we read about it after we left Bar Harbor, but what exactly is your connection with this Lucy Snow?” Uncle God asked.
“I mean, isn’t she quite a bit older than you, dear?” Uncle Bark said as he folded his thin frame into an overstuffed chair and Uncle God sat down on a rather spindly one. Ettie always found this rather disconcerting — that her two uncles chose chairs so opposite and unaccommodating to their body types. Uncle Barkley had a peculiar way of arranging his lanky form in this overlarge, overstuffed chair. He would pin his elbows to his sides, and with his long, thin hands tented so just his fingertips touched he would begin to cross his legs once or twice until he found a comfortable position. He seemed to Ettie like a grasshopper folding and refolding its appendages to find the most accommodating posture.
“Well, yes, but you know church.” As soon as the words were out, Ettie wanted to grab them back. Uncle God and Uncle Bark exchanged suspicious glances. They both knew how Ettie hated church and had caused a major fracas one Sunday when she announced that she didn’t believe in God — the one in heaven, not the uncle on Commonwealth Avenue. Her having made a friendship through church was very unlikely. But they were the least censorious of uncles, and after this fracas Godfrey had come to her and said, “Dear niece, I, too, despite sharing a major syllable of my name with” — he had rolled his eyes heavenward — “have had my doubts at times. Little crises of faith. But the important thing is to try to adhere to the rules, just as in society.”
“You mean the Ten Commandments.”
“Yes,” Bark had chimed in. “The Big Ten. Do that, and you’ll be fine in life.”
“But one doesn’t have to go to church to do that, does one?”
“No, one doesn’t. But ‘honor thy father and mother,’ I think,” Bark had said.
Uncle Godfrey now put his thumbs in his waistcoat just below his watch chain and heaved himself up from the spindly chair, which seemed to creak with relief. He walked toward Ettie and put his hand lightly on her head.
“Ettie, is there something else you’re not telling us?”
The library seemed to spin. The shelves, with their beautifully bound leather volumes, danced a slow jig. The paintings, the porcelains, started to ricochet. There is so much, she thought. But where to begin? She knew as soon as she had asked herself the question that she couldn’t begin. Not ever. They would think she was spinning fairy tales. “Read too many fairy tales?” they might ask. They would think she was crazy. It was so convenient for men to think women, young women, were insane. It ran in the family, after all. Her sister Lila was genuinely crazy. That was for sure. But her uncles weren’t like other men. They respected women. Most of all, they respected her. They believed that Ettie should be educated. She had heard them telling her father that she was beyond the intellectual limitations of her governess, Miss Ardmore. They felt that in another few years she would be what they called “Radcliffe material.” But even with all that, she could not tell them what she knew, what she was hiding.
“Yes.” It was more of an exhalation, a breath on the still air of the library, than an actual word. “Yes, there is something I cannot tell you. But it has nothing to do with this crime.”
“But Ettie dear.”
“It has to do with — with … her nature. That is all I can tell you. We all have things that are perhaps part of our essence that we want to keep private. That we might not want others to know.” The two men exchanged glances. Their faces softened. “I cannot betray this confidence,” Ettie said firmly.
Uncle Bark stepped forward now. “You are a courageous girl, Ettie. And we shall respect this confidence that you must keep.” She knew that they understood.
“Thank you, thank you both, and please believe me, Lucy did not murder the duke.” She paused and inhaled sharply. “I am sure. Believe me, Uncle Bark, Uncle God. She did not do it.” She stopped again. They were looking at her with such deep love and concern. “And no one cares about Lucy except … me.”
And that was the only lie that Henrietta Hawley told. The rest was all true.
“Well, first off, she needs a decent lawyer,” God said. “I’ll ring up Sam Ogletree in the morning.”
“His partner is better. The Jewish one,” Bark said.
Ettie felt a thrill of excitement. Her uncles were actually taking her seriously. Well, of course they always had — more than anyone else in her family — but what she was asking was huge.
“Eli Berg! Of course! We’d better catch him before he goes to the Supreme Court. The first Jew on the Supreme Court, as it’s rumored.”
“Now, what’s this theory of yours?” God said, looking at Ettie.
Ettie paused before she answered. She didn’t want to seem too impulsive. “It’s not a theory. She didn’t do it.”
“Dear girl, Mr. Berg is going to need more than your word that she didn’t do it. Is there anything else?” Godfrey asked. He looked at her almost imploringly. They both did. They wanted to help her as best they could.
“Well … I know for a fact that she thought the duke —”
“You mean the murder victim. The Duke of Crompton.”
“Yes, she thought he was a real creep.” As soon as the word creep was out she knew she shouldn’t have said it. It was not simply impulsive but sounded childish.
The uncles looked at each other, then cast their eyes on Ettie with a with
ering gaze.
“Dear child,” Uncle Bark began. “I’m not sure what you mean by creep. I trust you are referring to the murder victim. But the victim being a creep, no matter how creepy he was, is not grounds for acquittal.”
“Yes, welcome to the rule of law!” Uncle God said.
“All right. I understand,” Ettie replied.
“She’s a quick study!” God offered. “So do you have any idea who might be suspect?”
“Her mother.”
The two uncles looked at each other. Uncle Bark stepped forward. “Well now, that is something, my dear. Might you share your reasoning?”
“Of course.” Ettie sighed. This was what she loved about her uncles. They thought she was capable of reasoning. And so she began to tell her reasons. Her train of thought was very similar to that of May’s. And she wondered why she had not thought of this sooner. She was curious as to whether there had ever been a woman lawyer. Did Harvard Law School admit women? She supposed she would first have to go to Radcliffe. Boring! She was an impatient child and liked to get to the point quickly, and education for young women often seemed like a meaningless obstacle course.
THE LAST OF the autumn leaves were tumbling to the ground as May walked the streets of Cambridge. She could never have imagined such a perfect little city — or was it a town? — in her life. Of course, she had heard Hannah talk about Boston, on the other side of the Charles River less than a mile away, with its grand houses and avenues and then the tiny winding streets of Beacon Hill, where she had worked in the Hawleys’ home on the fashionable Louisburg Square. But there was nothing really fashionable about Cambridge. There were no broad boulevards. The streets seemed to her just the right size, a few narrower ones running off Harvard Square. There were many trees. She had not expected this in a city, and yet it seemed more like a village to her. In the center of it all was Harvard College, with big, lovely redbrick buildings that stood in Harvard Yard like proud sentries of knowledge. There were at least a dozen different libraries, and Hugh had found her lodging in the area of the Norton Woods section of Cambridge. It was a short walk from the library and the Museum of Comparative Zoology and just a bit longer to the observatory, where she was supposedly helping Hugh on his thesis. She had not spent too much time there so far. However, she had been introduced to Williamina Fleming, who ran what was known as the “female abacus.”
The Crossing Page 6
