by Sara Donati
She glanced up and then away again, waiting. And waiting. Finally she raised her face and saw that he was enjoying her discomfort. Very rude indeed.
“Here’s what I want to say. I’m not married. Never have been. Not even close. But that’s between you and me.” And he touched her face with two fingers, a caress so sweet and swift that she would wonder if she had imagined it. Then he was gone, down the stairs and away.
She regretted not asking him when he would be back again.
* * *
• • •
AT FOUR ELISE found Detective Sergeant Maroney in the lobby, and a cab waiting for them at the curb. He was barely able to sit still, as restless as a four-year-old. He tapped a foot, shifted in his seat, took off his hat and put it back on, stuck his head out the window, took a cigar from a pocket and put it away again, and the whole time he talked in a matter-of-fact tone that belied his restlessness.
“We have to do this today,” he said. “I would have liked another day to look into things, but we can’t keep Nora Smithson in custody for much longer without bringing down the newspapers on our heads.”
After what had happened in the judge’s chambers it was a relief to know that Nora Smithson would not be present for the search at the Shepherd’s Fold.
“Is it just you and Jack, then?”
He looked surprised at this suggestion. On his fingers he counted off all the people who would be part of the search: six uniformed police, two roundsmen, Mr. Gerry of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children and one of his inspectors, and five detectives, including himself and Jack.
“So many? But why?”
“People tend to go out windows when coppers come in the door,” Oscar said. “So we need eyes everywhere. After the search itself—room by room—we’ll interview all the adults, but not together. They won’t have a chance to talk to each other beforehand, either. Keep your eyes open, because it will move fast, once it starts.”
It did move fast, but first Elise came face to face with Reverend Crowley’s mother, who looked her up and down, curled a lip to reveal a yellow eyetooth, and then hissed at her, “Papist whore.”
For Elise personally that was the worst of it. Otherwise she went where the detectives or police officers asked her to go: out into the courtyard, where three girls dripping with sweat were busy with washboards and piles of sheets and clouts, back into the immaculate kitchen where two more girls labored under the supervision of a dour cook, filling bowls with a thin stew that was mostly potato with a few shreds of an unidentifiable meat and turnip greens.
In the cellar two rows of cots were made as neatly as any in a convent, but with blankets as thin as paper and without pillows. Clothing hung on hooks, but not one thing here indicated that children might call this place home. It was as barren and cheerless as a cave.
On the second floor she heard Mr. Gerry talking in the long dormitory she hadn’t been allowed to see on her first visit. By his solicitous, gentle tone she supposed he was talking to children, but she heard nothing in reply. Frightened children did not talk, in her experience. Certainly he must know that too.
Elise had hoped to find Grace in the nursery, but there was no sign of her. Instead two middle-aged women were occupied with preparing a feeding, one of them scouring out bottles in a steaming basin of water and the other wiping rubber nipples. The babies were all asleep, and the smell of paregoric was in the air.
The nurse-maids seemed to know what they were doing; they were sure-handed and efficient and thorough, but so mechanical, as if their minds were off somewhere else. She reminded herself that anyone would be intimidated by a house full of police officers, and that they were probably worried for their jobs. Even the most severe of the sisters at the Foundling knew the importance of the human voice; infants responded to nothing else so well. When they were awake.
* * *
• • •
LATER THE SILENT nurse-maids were what she thought of first when Anna and Sophie asked her about the search. They were sitting in Sophie’s parlor after a supper with Rosa and Lia. The girls had been taken off to baths and bed, or Elise would not have raised the subject.
“It felt like a prison more than a nursery,” she told them.
“Who was it, Sophie, do you remember, who isolated newborns from all language as an experiment?” Anna asked.
“Frederick II,” Sophie said. “He was sure they’d speak Hebrew if they heard no language at all. They were fed, but otherwise no one was allowed to interact with them.”
“And did they speak Hebrew?” Elise asked.
“They died,” Anna said. “You’re right, newborns and young infants must have human interaction. I don’t know that we could get a court of law to agree with us and allow us to take the infants out of that place.”
“They would deny it, anyway,” Sophie said. “Did you ask the girl about this?”
“Grace wasn’t there,” Elise said.
Anna said, “Grace? The maid you saw on Sixth Avenue?”
Elise nodded. “I really wanted to talk to her, because she seemed so ill at ease.”
“And why wasn’t she there?” Sophie wanted to know. “Did they tell you?”
“I asked,” Elise said. “One of the other maids told me that Grace was let go but no one knew why, exactly. That’s what struck me as odd, because she grew up there. I doubt she has anywhere else to go.”
Anna frowned. “They wouldn’t tell you more, I take it.”
“Mrs. Crowley just smiled when I asked. You know how sometimes a person smiles but it’s just the opposite? As if she found me pathetic, or loathsome. Jack was there too and he asked again if she knew where we could find Grace. And she said Grace was no concern of hers, but that he could have a look around Chatham Square after dark. Is that really a possibility, that she might be prostituting herself so soon?”
Anna closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, it is a possibility. If they put her out with nothing but the clothes on her back, and she has no friends or family.”
They were silent for a moment. Then Elise forced herself to ask for a favor. “Could I ask the detective sergeants to keep an eye out for her? She might really have information to share.”
“Even if she knows nothing, we can at least ask,” Anna said. “They’ll need a description.”
Sophie was looking at her, her brows drawn together. “Do not take it on yourself to go wandering around Chatham Square, Elise. It’s not safe.”
“I wouldn’t,” Elise said, truthfully. And thought: I wouldn’t, alone. But soon enough she would be on the outdoor-poor rotation, which would take her to the worst the city had to offer. And she would keep her eyes open.
She said, “She’s very young. Undernourished and so slender that she could be mistaken for a boy if she wore trousers. She’s blond, and very pale. Her freckles stand out on her face and look like a rash, until you get close enough to see them properly.”
“You paid attention,” Anna said.
“Yes, well. She struck me as someone in trouble. Someone in need of care, but she started when I smiled at her. As if she wasn’t normally allowed even that much.”
She told them the rest of what she could remember about her time at the Shepherd’s Fold, dwelling on Reverend Crowley’s extreme reaction to the police.
“He protested, and loudly, but the search didn’t turn up anything, from what I understand. And it doesn’t matter, in the end.”
It had been a chaotic scene, as she had been warned. Uniformed police in a ring around the building to make sure no one slipped away, and detectives inside working their way through, from basement to attic, room by room.
“One odd thing,” Elise added, more slowly. “Detective Larkin asked me to come up into the attic with him to see what I thought.”
“And?” Sophie asked. “Was there something odd about it?”
“Not odd, exactly. The attic was divided into two. One side was storage, but on the other side there was a proper chamber. Curtains on the window, and a good carpet on the floor. A proper bed, a washstand and a table. It was actually very nice.”
Elise glanced down at Sophie’s parlor floor, the gleaming golden parquetry with its pattern of diamonds and lozenges and the thick rug with floral crescents and medallions, elaborately knotted fringe all around.
“In relative terms,” she corrected herself. “But no one was living there, that I could tell. Something about it bothered me, but I couldn’t tell you what.”
“And the paregoric?”
Elise made a face. “Oh yes, in plain sight. No excuses given. They don’t make apologies for it.”
“Really no sign of underfed or mistreated children?” Anna asked.
“They were at their evening meal when we got there,” Elise said. “The children are very lean, all of them. The cook was quite portly and the Crowleys themselves haven’t missed many meals, but I saw the food being served and while I wouldn’t call the portions generous, they were sufficient, I think. Unless—”
Anna raised a brow, and Elise decided that she should share her impressions, even if they were based on something as inconsequential as a vague instinct.
“Unless they knew about the search beforehand and set things straight. Is that a possibility?”
“Certainly,” Anna said. “Information is worth money. One of the police might have said something that found its way back to Crowley. I’ll ask Jack about that.”
Sophie pulled a pillow into her lap and began to stroke the embroidery. It was the kind of habit Elise would have expected from Anna when she was out of sorts or nervous. But then Sophie had been through a great deal lately.
Anna said, “It is disappointing that they didn’t find anything that they could use against Crowley. Did they find out why Nora Smithson visits so often?”
“That is a question you’ll have to put to Jack or Oscar,” Elise said. “They were still in the office with both Mr. Crowley and his mother when I left.”
Elise had intended to raise another subject, but now that the time had come she didn’t know where to start. To tell them about Dr. Martindale and the discussion on the staircase would mean casting doubt on Dr. Lambert’s character, and he was a colleague they liked and trusted. They had worked with him on the multipara cases. All she had to offer was a statement made by someone she hardly knew, and who might have animosities toward Dr. Lambert that remained hidden to her. But if she did not ask now, she would have to find Anna and Sophie alone again, and that was more difficult every day. Tonino’s care and looking after the girls took up much of Sophie’s time.
So she took her courage in hand and started.
“Do you remember I told you about the Bellegarde baby and the cocaine wine?”
They both raised their heads to look at her.
“He’s doing well,” Elise added quickly. “But I wondered if you know Dr. Martindale, who took over the treatment. Gus Martindale.”
Anna gave her a lopsided smile. “Everybody knows Gus. It’s hard to avoid him.”
“It’s hard to avoid talk about him,” Sophie amended, but her tone was light, almost amused.
“He’s an excellent clinician, as you saw for yourself,” Anna said. “Really good with children. Less so with parents. Why do you ask?”
Elise might have said, because he touched me. Or because he touched me and I liked it. Or even, because he touched me and now he’s going away and I wish he weren’t. She knew, somehow, that she could say any of those things to these two women and they would not judge her harshly.
The simple truth was, she didn’t want to tell them about Gus Martindale’s touch; she wasn’t sure what to think about it herself. Or more to the point, she wasn’t sure what to think about the fact that she had liked it.
But they were looking at her, waiting for her to explain.
She cleared her throat. “He said something to me that struck me as odd, I suppose I’d have to call it. I’m not even sure I should repeat it, but I’m at a loss.”
Anna glanced at Sophie, who crossed her hands in front of herself. “Go on, Elise. We’ll help if we can.”
She said, “He said I should avoid being alone in a room with Dr. Lambert.”
Sophie went very still, and with that Elise understood that Gus Martindale had had good reason to warn her away from Dr. Lambert. There were things about him she didn’t know and hadn’t imagined. Suddenly she wished that she hadn’t raised the subject, because she liked the meetings of the forensics study group and did not want to be told to give them up.
Anna said, “We’ve been wondering if we should raise the subject.”
“You were wondering,” Sophie said, quite sharply. “I thought we should.”
Anna inclined her head. “Yes, that’s fair. Do you want to tell her, Sophie, or should I?”
Sophie said, “Let’s go into my study.”
* * *
• • •
THAT EVENING ANNA came home to find Jack waiting for her in the garden, stretched out on a bench, his hands folded behind his head. In the last of the day’s light his skin looked almost golden against the white of his shirt collar, and she could see each of his eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks. His hair, rumpled, fell over his brow and robbed him of at least ten years. This man who had transformed her life, who had been hidden from her for so long. It occurred to her that the decision to have his child might have originated in her curiosity about him as a boy.
She considered how to wake him, if she should tickle or pinch or sit down on his abdomen.
He said, “You still have this idea you can sneak up on me.”
In one quick move he had her by the wrist and had spun her around, sitting up to land her on his lap.
“Umph.” She blew out a breath. “Did you get caught in the rain? You’re wet.”
“Not very.” He bumped his hips up and made her squeak. “How about you?”
“Jack!” Anna looked around herself and found only one set of eyes: Skidder, who sat on the porch waiting to be let into the kitchen. She struggled to get up, but Jack was too quick and he knew her too well.
“Come, let me convince you.” He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to her neck.
This time he let her go when she tried to get up. To reward him and because she wanted to, she leaned over and kissed him, exactly the way he liked best. Softly.
He pulled away and cupped her cheek. “You ate at Sophie’s, didn’t you?”
Before she could answer he had picked her up and was crossing the lawn with her in his arms. “As you’ve eaten,” he said, “we can make it an early night. Let’s start with a bath.”
Mrs. Cabot opened the door, her expression studiously blank, and Jack strode inside. “Good evening,” Anna called over Jack’s shoulder. “Good night.”
* * *
• • •
THE TUB TOOK up half the room. It was big enough for both of them at once, and deep enough that even Jack could submerge himself to the neck without twisting his legs into pretzels. In the first summer of their marriage they had spent every minute they could spare in the tub to escape the heat. Then one weekend in August they had gone to the shore and marinated in salt water until they were as good as pickled. Anna hoped they would be able to do that again very soon, as water put Jack in a playful mood.
This evening was warm but pleasantly so. Still Jack wanted his bath and he wanted it with her. Anna suspected there was something on his mind other than sex.
“I hear the search didn’t go well,” she said, leaning back to rest against his chest.
“They were tipped off.” His tone was matter-of-fact. Leaks in the police department were a fact of life.
“So what now?”
He was working a bar of soap over her breasts. ““Can we talk about it later? I’ve got other things on my mind.”
“That’s quite obvious.” Anna laughed and twisted away as he made an effort to get to her very ticklish underarms.
“You do remember that you can’t win a battle of strength against me?”
“True,” she said. “But I know where all your most sensitive bits are, and I have very strong fingers.”
He surrendered; she capitulated. It was a good while before they extracted themselves from the bath.
* * *
• • •
IN BED, STRETCHED out on his belly, Jack turned his head toward her and brushed a strand of damp hair from her face. The bath had done its work, and she was relaxed, every muscle at ease. Contentment would not last long; her mind was too nimble and curiosity was bred in the bone. When she was like this they had some of their best conversations.
“I’ve been reading.”
She smiled, her eyes closed. “What have you been reading? French novels?”
In answer he reached under his pillow and pulled out a book. He waited for curiosity to do its work.
She opened her eyes, took in the title, and laughed.
“Oh, no, not William Acton. Where did you find that?”
“In your bookshelves. It just caught my eye—”
“Really? The functions and disorders of the reproductive organs in youth, in adult age, and in advanced life caught your eye?”
“Morbid curiosity,” Jack said. “And now I’ve got questions.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Just two questions and I’ll save the more interesting one for last.”
He spent a long moment fingering a wayward curl that straggled over her shoulder. “Why is this Acton so obsessed with masturbation?”
