At the station the next morning he settled her in her compartment, then waited on the platform. When the train started off he walked alongside it, and as it pulled away he kissed his hand to her. She kissed hers to him, suddenly bereft. When the train pulled away she sat down again. The seat was red plush, and she didn’t rest her head against it for fear of lice. The train moved through the back streets, past untidy backyards with clotheslines and henhouses. An old man stood chopping kindling. He was bent over, even as he raised the hatchet. She missed her children. Her heart was being torn from her chest. It was wrong to leave them for so long. She felt she should atone somehow.
Jem and Miriam were the only people now who called her “Zay,” though growing up it had been her name.
28.
February 29, 1889. Charleston
WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG Hélène was upstairs making Ethel’s bed. She was leaning over, smoothing the sheet, when she heard the sound and knew at once who it was. She left the bed and hurried down to reach the door before Jane.
He was standing on the porch. It was a shock to see him here. He stared at her. She couldn’t look away.
“Good morning, Marie.” He spoke slowly. “May I come in?”
Hélène didn’t move.
“The captain’s gone to the office, I saw him,” he said. “And she’s away. I’ve come to see you.”
He kept his eyes on hers and made a little gesture with his shoulder, as though he were pushing at her body. His skin was very pale. A small lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. His mustache was dark and springy. “Take me inside, Marie.” His voice was intimate. She stepped back to let him in.
In the front hall he stood still, looking slowly around, as if he had just bought the property. His gaze was avid. He looked at the red hanging lamp above his head, the framed paintings on the wall, the patterned carpet beneath his feet. The curving staircase, leading to somewhere he did not know.
“Please,” Hélène said, and led him into the little study off the dining room. Two tall bookcases faced each other; on the third wall hung a painting, a shawl draped stylishly over one corner. Carved wooden chairs flanked a mahogany table, on which was a bronze sculpture of a struggling man, naked. Beside it was a telephone, with its curling cord and complicated receiver.
McDow looked at everything, the statue, the hanging shawl. All the books.
“Books,” he said scornfully. “Captain Brains. Is that who he is?”
Hélène smiled, baffled.
“Thinks he’s very smart,” McDow said. He nodded several times with satisfaction. “Very smart.”
“Yes,” Hélène agreed, nodding. “He is very smart.”
But he frowned at that.
“I brought you something.” McDow took an envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her. He moved close as she opened it. Inside was a thin sheet of paper covered with lines of handwriting: poetry.
“You see?” He murmured as though this made something clear. “I told you. I want you to marry me.”
“Very beautiful.” She nodded and looked up.
“You see?” He held her eyes with his. She could hear his breathing. He wasn’t yet touching her but she felt his nearness. She felt her body waiting for the touch.
He moved closer. “We’ll fly away, mademoiselle. Would you like that?” He pronounced it “mamedeselle.” He was staring into her eyes, into her mind.
“I don’t know how to fly.” She didn’t move away. Very slowly he reached around and touched her back, the angel wing of her shoulder, with just the tips of his fingers. At the touch she shuddered violently.
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “You have wings, Marie. You have wings. I’ll show you how to use them.”
She smiled, as if this were a game she understood.
“No,” she said, “I don’t know how to use them.”
He waited, and she stepped away from him.
“But I have something for you,” she said. She’d put it in the corner of the bookcase. It had a handsome red cover, with elegant lettering: The Lure of the Lantern. She wasn’t sure what a lantern was, but she’d heard them talking about the book at dinner. Madame said they shouldn’t allow it in the house, a married man and a single woman. The captain said all books should be allowed in the house. Hélène had gone to find it on the shelf to look at it. She couldn’t read English very well.
McDow took it in both hands and turned it over. “Very nice.” He looked up. “A present for me, Marie?”
She nodded.
He leaned toward her and she could smell his thick male scent. Alcohol, always that, and something dark. He moved his mouth close to hers, staring at her. She waited.
Suddenly the telephone gave off a noise. It was like an alarm, shrill and high; McDow jumped like a nervous horse. He made a small flat sound as he jerked away, crouching slightly, as if ready to fend something off.
Hélène covered her mouth; a little snort escaped her.
“What is that?” McDow asked, angry.
“Telephone,” she said. She was laughing.
“I know that!” he said, lying. “But why did it ring?”
Hélène raised her shoulders mysteriously. “Someone wish to call the captain.”
“Is he watching me?” McDow asked. He was hissing. “The captain.”
Hélène laughed out loud. “You cannot see through it. Only hear. It’s for talk and hearing.”
McDow straightened. He smoothed his mustache with both index fingers.
The telephone shrilled again, bright and metallic. This time he didn’t move. They both watched it as the sound died into silence.
“Are you sure he’s not here?” He looked at the doorway.
“He is not here. Maybe it is the office calling to find him. He left some time before.” She shrugged.
He nodded. He raised his hand and fingered his mustache, smoothing the short hairs down.
“You see what I brought you,” he said.
“Yes, thank you,” Hélène said, nodding.
She smiled at him.
“I want to marry you,” he said. He was unsettled and angry. His eyes kept darting around the room. He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it hard, twice, staring at her.
29.
March 5, 1889. Charleston
DAWSON WAS ALONE at breakfast, Sarah still in Washington, the children gone to school. The morning mail was stacked beside his plate: a letter from Sarah, several letters for her, one from his brother, Joey. A few others.
He read Sarah’s first. She was enjoying herself. They’d gone to tea with an old friend from Baton Rouge. They’d all started speaking French, and didn’t realize it until the others there looked at them oddly. They’d gone out to Jem’s farm to see his new baby: tiny, with big wild eyes like a lemur. “I miss you terribly,” she wrote. She couldn’t wait to come home.
He thought of her at her dressing table, braiding her hair for the night. Her fingers flicking in and out. He felt a physical urge to make her happy. Right now the world seemed to be sliding out from under his feet.
Joey’s letter would be long, full of church politics and a request for money for one of his projects. One of the worst things about the situation was that Dawson couldn’t offer to help people. He had always done it; this inability sickened him.
He turned over the large official-looking envelope. The return address was Nicholas Musser, St. Louis Globe. The Globe was famous, populist, a bit rabble-rousing, but principled. “My dear Captain Dawson,” the letter began. Musser (who was the owner and publisher) announced that he had long known Dawson’s work. He admired Dawson’s independence and forthrightness, his courage, his vision, his writing style.
“Would you consider coming to St. Louis to work for us?” He reminded Dawson that they fought for progress, would not tolerate injustice or corruption, challenged demagogues. He hoped Dawson would consider his offer; he looked forward to an early reply.
Dawson read the letter again.
>
“I would be honored to call you my colleague,” Musser ended. Dawson wondered on what terms he’d be called colleague. Musser was a Hungarian immigrant who had started with nothing, and made his way into the newspaper business. He was much admired for his success, though people were divided over his principles. Musser was famously tough and smart, but some said he was a muckraker, not a visionary. He owned three newspapers now, a national presence. His headlines screamed. Did Dawson want to call him colleague? He could walk away from all this: Courtenay, Tillman, Huger, the rest.
He thought of St. Louis, deep in the interior. He’d never been there. He imagined wide prairies, dull plains. Clouds of dust. He thought of sailing here in the bay, with Warrington. Tacking back and forth across the bright water.
Would it be cowardly to walk away? Or was it time? Editor in chief of the St. Louis Globe. At least it was a choice, another possibility. He felt his chest loosen.
The last letter carried no return address. The paper was flimsy, the handwriting looping and uneven, with pretentious curlicues.
Dear Captain Dawson,
I would like to inform you that your children’s governess is spending time in assignations with a married man. She has been seen many times on the street and in other houses with this man. It is an insult to your family’s honor that she should act this way. You should stop this happening at once. I am referring to your governess Marie Burdon.
Signed, A Friend
Dawson read it again, then set it down, apart from the others. He actually didn’t want it touching them, certainly not Sarah’s. Who had written it? The man’s wife? A self-righteous sister? A busybody neighbor? He wondered if it was true.
He rang for more coffee. Jane came in holding the coffeepot with both hands. Her boots creaked with each step. Her long apron was pinned to her dress, her white cap covered her thick red hair. She leaned over to fill his cup, her mouth tight in concentration. She’d know something about this, though Dawson wouldn’t ask her. He wouldn’t gossip with servants.
He asked if she knew where Hélène was. Her boiled blue eyes flicked up at him.
She’s not yet back from taking the children, she said. Was there anything more? He shook his head and she left, creaking.
Miss Isabel Ashby Smith’s school started at nine. It was fifteen minutes away on foot. By ten o’clock, when Dawson left for the office, Hélène had not yet returned.
30.
March 6, Ash Wednesday, 1889. Charleston
IT WAS DARK when Dawson got up, the windows still black. He shaved by the light of the gas lamp, leaning close to the mirror. With one hand he held his cheek taut, with the other he drew the razor against the snowy mounds of cream. He could hear his own breathing. The house was silent.
This was a day of reflection and penitence. Here at the top of the house, in the darkness, he was aware of the presence of God inside himself, like a soft humming mist, not quite visible but real, immanent. Or some presence, something he couldn’t quite grasp or understand, whatever it was that his prayers and thoughts referred to. Part of the strength was the mystery. This early silent rising separated him from the world, reminded him of his solitary self and God.
The world outside was slowly turning toward the light; he heard the first soft twitterings as the birds entered the day. Birds, with their hollow bones and downy chests, the rapid tapping of their tiny hearts. Their unfathomable lives; the miracle of flight. Lofting through the oceans of the air, breasting the warm currents. In the scale of things, he was a small tapping heart.
He went downstairs, moving quietly through the dark house. When he stepped onto the front porch the sky was beginning to turn light. It was a pale ash, not quite day, but somewhere beyond darkness. The air was cool and bracing against his naked cheek. He walked down the front steps, past the blurred shadows of the garden. The street was empty and silent. Dawson walked through the misty air, beneath the dark masses of the trees. At the corner he turned down Rutledge. His heels sounded against the damp brick, the brass tip of his walking stick clicked with every other stride.
He would try Siegling again. He would try the bank in New York again. Maybe Riordan would know of a different one. With a loan he’d hire more reporters.
Contemplation and penance, humility. This was what his Church asked of him. He felt the familiar tension between the world and the Church, what he was asked and what he could offer. For a moment he felt something yield, some soft barrier inside himself give way, as sometimes happened: his grasp on the world, his own presence giving way to something larger, and in that moment he felt himself dissolve. He felt the soft dark presence of the Holy Spirit, like an intimate request to the soul. For a beat he felt its nearness, then almost at once it was gone. What he wanted was to lay himself bare, open himself to the examination of his heart, but already it was over. He was walking down a public street, his stick ringing against the bricks, the stitch in his gut tightening slightly at each step. He’d nicked the edge of his chin, shaving in the dim light; he wondered if he was bleeding.
Before him stretched the low horizon, the tree-fringed streets. When he’d first arrived the city had reminded him of London: the soft old brick, fluted white pillars, neoclassical arches and pediments. An eighteenth-century city, though softer and quieter than London. He thought of St. Louis, frowning, Teutonic, full of ponderous stone buildings. He could walk away from this, Courtenay, Tillman. Bayard Swinton, the cashier who’d leaked news to the World before he quit and joined it.
He wondered what sort of offer Musser would make. He wouldn’t take a beginner’s salary, didn’t like the idea of working for someone else. But Nicholas Musser was distinguished and principled. It would be a great thing to walk away into partnership with Nicholas Musser. The offer made him feel powerful.
Humility and penance. Meditation. He struggled to envelop himself again in the soft gray mist, but day was spreading itself through the streets. Walking toward him was an oyster-woman, a wide basket balanced on her head. “Yashta,” she called, the syllables drawn out, “yashta.” Her long faded skirt brushed against her bare feet, her lean brown toes. She looked at him. One eye was milky, gone.
Hélène had walked along here with the children, on their way to school, coming home alone. Where had she been seen?
By the time he reached Queen Street morning was coming on, and the air had turned bright and ordinary. The pro-cathedral stood behind the ruins. The old cathedral had burned down in the war, a huge square tower flanked by tall Gothic spires. For thirty years the congregation had used the pro-cathedral, and then Bishop Northrop had asked Dawson if he’d help rebuild. Dawson, who loved being asked for help, had told the bishop to start the construction: he’d promised to rouse support through the paper. The reconstruction had begun, and a haphazard skyline of scaffolding had gone up. Dawson had published an appeal and the money started coming in.
On the steps stood a group of men. Dawson nodded but didn’t speak. He didn’t like to talk before the service, holding himself intact from earthly contact, so the Holy Spirit could enter him. But by now that was unlikely. The mystery that had seemed so close as he’d walked down the silent street had dissolved.
There was J. T. Curley, who owned a big hardware shop downtown. He used to advertise regularly in the paper, but he’d stopped. Dawson didn’t want to know if he’d moved to the World. He nodded to Curley as he passed. He thought of Siegling, his cold gray eyes.
Humility. Contemplation and penance.
Dawson pushed through the door. There must be other possibilities, banks, businessmen. New York investors; he’d find them. This had happened when he and Riordan bought the Courier. He’d manage. Inside he was met by a hushed ecclesiastical silence, the faint dry tingle of incense. The room was bare except for the old altar, an ornate Gothic spire saved from the fire. Dawson made his way up to his pew, near the front. Sometimes he brought the children here. Warrington was indifferent, but Ethel liked the ritual, the chants, the beads, the robes
. Opulence and ceremony. Before they’d married, Sarah had promised the bishop she’d raise the children in the Church, but she hadn’t. Dawson had hoped that school in Europe would make the children into Catholics, but it had not. Now Sarah usually took the children to the Episcopal service at St. Michael’s; sometimes they came with him as well. He thought of the youngest, little Philip Hicky, who’d only lived six months: he might have been a Catholic. The lost child, the dark mist of his presence.
The room hushed. Bishop Northrop, in his deep purple robe, came swaying slowly up the aisle. The censer swung its steady rhythm, spreading pungent clouds. At the altar the bishop turned and made the sign of the cross. He began the chant; the congregation answered in sibilant half whispers. The swinging globe, the rich robes, the obedient response were all comforting. The Church was larger than he, powerful, ancient, unknowable. It stretched like an airy cathedral through time and space, soaring, lofty, full of shadows and mystery, demanding the interior leap into the space of faith.
Dawson kneeled. He held on to the smooth mahogany pew and set his forehead against his hands. The bishop’s voice rose and fell like plainsong. He thought of the early church on Torcello, the figures high on the wall, Christ Pantocrator. Dawson sat up, then kneeled again. It would be cowardly to leave. Chanting, murmuring, crossing himself in unison with the bishop, the congregation, he felt confidence rising. He moved into the aisle for the Eucharist. The man in front of him, J. T. Townsend, face like a big platter, was on the city council. That nonsense over waterfront ordinances, and Townsend had taken sides against Dawson. He would put it from his mind. He would not judge; Townsend was a man like himself. Townsend struggled, like everyone else. Humility and penance.
The line of congregants moved slowly, approaching the rail. When Dawson reached the bishop, he met Dawson’s eyes, formal and impersonal. In daily life the bishop was a friend, but now, here, he was distant and remote, changed by his office. He was tall, pale, with bleached skin, a long bony nose. He raised his hand with its darkened thumb and Dawson bowed his head. The bishop touched his forehead. “Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris,” the bishop murmured. Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return. Dawson closed his eyes as he received the mark, trying to dissolve himself into the spirit.
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