“The accusation is absurd!” declared George Urban, Jr., talking with his mouth full. As president of the company which controlled local distribution of Niagara’s power, Urban had attended the meeting on the night of Speyer’s death. Urban was clean-shaven, with small eyes and heavy features. Perhaps because of his striking physical similarity to our former national leader, Urban had been one of Cleveland’s earliest political backers. His family had made a fortune in flour milling, and I liked to imagine him covered in a pall of white flour dust, the dust of his family’s millions. Oddly, and to wide acclaim, Mr. Urban cultivated green roses. The only green roses in the United States, and ugly things they were. Last year I was forced to wear a green-rose corsage at graduation. Urban proudly told the gathered school community that he had made the corsage himself. “Whipping up such nonsense is not only dangerous—it casts aspersions on the entire power project! We should put a stop to it!” Urban proclaimed.
“Hear, hear,” came the boisterous agreement. Despite their desire to scuttle the controversy, however, Speyer had died just ten days before, so in fact the continued coverage was understandable. Nevertheless, I understood Urban’s concern: Every time Speyer was mentioned in the papers, the power station was also mentioned, and usually when the power station was mentioned, Tom was mentioned. Although no accusations had been directed against Tom or any of the leaders of the power project, the constant publicity was both undesirable and awkward: It might begin to interfere with profits.
“Let the coroner do his work, and then we’ll all know what happened,” Urban went on. “Although why we can’t just order the coroner to say it was an accident and be done with the whole thing, I don’t know.”
There was a long pause while everyone looked at Mr. Rumsey, who concentrated on his lobster Newberg, clearly unwilling to respond. The other men began to debate the idea in blunt terms, obviously for Mr. Rumsey’s benefit. Was I shocked that these men had control over the coroner—even though attempting to influence such an official was undoubtedly, if only theoretically, illegal? No, I wasn’t shocked, since they had control over everything else. If challenged, they would explain that they used their power for the overall good of the city. And certainly the city had become extremely prosperous under their protection. My only surprise was that they would discuss this matter in front of me. Either I was so powerless as to be invisible to them, or they considered me an integral part of their group. Either way, I was wary.
The men continued their debate. Still not looking up, Mr. Rumsey patiently finished his food. Finally he put down his fork. He cleared his throat, reducing the room to abrupt silence. “I spoke to Butler over at the News about his inflammatory reporting concerning Karl Speyer’s death,” he said quietly. In addition to the phrase “To know a Rumsey is to know enough,” we might have said, “To hear a Rumsey is to hear enough.” Dexter Rumsey spoke quietly, and he was always heard. “Butler told me, somewhat surprisingly, I must say, that as publisher he has no interest in the truth or falsity of the accusations of murder. Apparently there hasn’t been much else to report on, and his only interest is in selling newspapers. Well, I could hardly interfere with his pursuit of business, now could I?” Mr. Rumsey asked with a wry smile.
And that put an end to any discussion about dictating the coroner’s report.
Unobtrusive waiters changed the plates and disappeared, and talk moved on to the labor unrest and strikes which were disrupting construction at the exposition. I glanced at Mr. Albright, but he nonchalantly concentrated on his filet.
“With all these strikes and riots, the only ones they’re defeating are themselves,” someone offered derisively. “They know they can’t win anything. They should just buckle down and get on with things.”
“Or ‘things’ will get on without them.”
The men laughed. Oh yes, they made brave jokes. But I knew they were worried, and not just about the exposition. Their own businesses were vulnerable. Dynamite was all too easily accessible. Haymarket, Homestead, the Pullman strike—these words were like a litany of disaster in their minds. Less than a decade before, an anarchist had attempted to assassinate Henry Clay Frick in Pittsburgh. Of course we’d had nothing that severe, not here. Not yet. But we could. At any time. In the last twenty years, the population of Buffalo had more than doubled. Three-quarters of the populace was now foreign-born: German, Italian, Irish, Polish, Croatian, Russian, and every nationality in between. Unemployment was at 19 percent. Socialists were stirring up trouble. There was no end to the permutations of anger and hatred, and so our embrace of civic glory became all the grander in counterpoint to the undercurrent of fear.
Someone said, “If these strikes continue—well, unlike some places, we don’t have an endless supply of coloreds to bring in to work the line.”
“And we won’t have any if the unionists keep lynching them,” someone else jested. The man I’d seen beaten at the gallery over two weeks ago hadn’t died of his injuries, according to the News (which devoted three sentences to the incident), but he would never fully recover and most likely never work again. Because of Speyer’s death, the park had been filled with police that day, but none would come to help a Negro. Nor, sadly, did I.
“Well, the Italians are breeding like rabbits—we can draw from them.”
How did my graduates manage to live with such men? My chastity was much the better fate. At this moment I wouldn’t begrudge a socialist mob storming the club.
What would I do if I weren’t here, I asked myself, allowing my mind to drift: Become Annie Oakley, shootin’ ’em up through the Wild West? Or the keeper of a real saloon, in Wyoming or Montana? Become a relief worker at a New York City settlement house? Or a settlement house doctor? Alas the necessary training to become a doctor was so onerous that only very wealthy spinsters could achieve this ambition; I would need a sponsor. Maybe Mr. Urban would be my patron, if I promised to wear a green rose each day in his honor. Or, I could become Nellie Bly, circling the world in seventy-two days to beat Jules Verne’s fictional record and then writing a book about it.
The muted rattle of silverware and the rustle of linen interrupted my thoughts; the waiters had arrived to clear the table and serve the brandy. The men passed around cigars. The room began to fill with the floating blue pall of cigar smoke, which my luncheon companions seemed to find so comforting. Perhaps I should take out a cigarette and begin smoking myself—an act that would horrify these men if it came from a wife or daughter (although I knew that their wives and daughters smoked in secret—secretly from them, that is).
But I would never take out a cigarette. I enjoyed some of the advantages of a man, but I knew only too well the proprieties I needed to observe to maintain my position. The cigarette I would save for the long sojourn I enjoyed at the Twentieth Century Club on the third Friday of every month after my long sojourn here. I was already luxuriating in the expectation of it. The Twentieth Century Club had been founded by Macaulay graduates and was now ensconced in a lovely Italian Renaissance–style building just a few blocks from this bastion of manhood. Each time I approached, simply gazing at the second-floor covered veranda soothed my spirits. When I entered the columned, skylit main court after facing the stresses of masculinity, one of my former young ladies could be counted on to exclaim something along the lines of, “Oh my God, Miss Barrett has come to us reeking of cigar smoke! Quick, bring her a drink!”
Yes, my graduates—at least within the confines of their bright and airy clubhouse—were a joy to behold. Widely traveled, they never stopped educating themselves, and yet they wore their learning lightly. They organized reading groups, lectures, philosophical debates; they hired professors from the university to give courses in history and geography. They performed scenes from Shakespeare. When I met my girls at the club, I knew my work had not been in vain.
Just when my thoughts had reached this point of yearning for my own kind, Mr. Rumsey refocused my attention by offering his congratulations, and the others followe
d suit.
“Yes, yes, Miss Barrett, we are very pleased,” offered John N. Scatcherd, a round-faced, boyish-looking man who controlled a conglomerate centered on lumber, railroads, and banking. “We hope you will be very pleased too.”
Well, this must be some surprise indeed, for them to put on such a show about it. Round and round they went, congratulating me about my good fortune. I did not appreciate it.
“How seldom in this life do any of us have the privilege of bringing a colleague truly extraordinary news.” That fawning remark, delivered with a Georgia-born lilt, came from Dexter Rumsey’s son-in-law, Mr. Ansley Wilcox. At forty-five, Wilcox had the distinction of having married not one but two of Dexter Rumsey’s daughters. Not at the same time, of course. Among other useful endeavors, Wilcox directed the citywide Charity Organization Society, and I hated him, for he had instituted in Buffalo the cruel distinction between the “deserving” and “undeserving” poor, denying innocent children charity because their parents were inebriate or “immoral.”
If Wilcox was holding forth, the time had come for intervention.
“Forgive me, gentlemen, but—”
“You see, I’ve won, haven’t I!” John D. Larkin broke in, his glee propelling him up from his chair. Mr. Larkin was our mail-order soap millionaire: “Factory to family” was his motto. No one would have dreamed that his lovely soaps had their genesis as the byproducts of the city’s horrific stockyards and packing plants. With his thick but smoothly cut graying hair and beautifully trimmed gray beard, Mr. Larkin shone with cleanliness and ever gave off a pleasant scent. “I knew if we teased her long enough she would begin with ‘Forgive me, gentlemen’! You each owe me five dollars and I expect it promptly,” he declared, slapping his hand on the table before resuming his seat.
The necessity of repressing my anger made me blush. I could only hope that they wouldn’t notice. But naturally Mr. Rumsey did notice.
“Forgive us, Miss Barrett,” he said, breaking into the merriment, which he had never joined, and silencing it. “We did not intend to discomfit you. But you see, our news is extraordinary.”
“Go ahead and tell her, Rumsey,” said Mr. Albright.
“Hear, hear.”
“Yes. Well.” Mr. Rumsey fingered the red legal folder on the table beside his place setting. A gray satin ribbon held the folder shut. “This week we have received word of a substantial—a more than substantial—donation to the Macaulay School. An endowment which will transform the building and the opportunities within it. This endowment is given entirely in cash, and I have begun investigation into proper investments.”
He paused.
All these men had funded the school generously over the years. More than generously. For them to speak of substance, for them to be impressed, for them to feel such astonishment at a figure that they made a game out of revealing it—well, it made me nervous. I felt the bite of suspicion and doubt.
Mr. Rumsey untied the satin ribbon, then glanced through the papers within the folder. John G. Milburn, the school’s attorney, rose from his place and went to stand behind Mr. Rumsey, helping him to find the appropriate documents.
“These here, Mr. Rumsey,” Milburn said in his cultivated British accent. Born in the north of England, Milburn, at fifty, was a commanding figure—handsome, debonair, and charming. In addition to serving as legal counsel to most of the men in this room, as well as to their various companies, Milburn at the moment was amassing glory as the president of the Pan-American Exposition. Local rumor was that President McKinley had him under consideration for the position of Attorney General, although I would be surprised if he actually received the nomination: McKinley was a Republican, Milburn a Democrat. “You might begin with this one,” he advised.
“Thank you, Milburn.”
Mr. Rumsey read through papers he must surely have read before, but that was typical of him: to proceed slowly. I was lucky to have him as president of the board. He had a scientific and philosophical bent; his support for new and serious courses of study was steadfast. At last, in stentorian tones, he read aloud:
“The Macaulay School is hereby awarded an endowment of one million dollars, the yearly income from which is to be used solely at the discretion of Miss Louisa Barrett, headmistress, with an immediate release of fifty thousand dollars in principal, for work to begin.”
I was stunned.
“This endowment is made in honor of the late Margaret Winspear Sinclair, class of 1886, by her husband, Thomas Sinclair.”
Mr. Rumsey stopped and looked at me, waiting for my response. In the silence I heard only one thing: Don’t threaten me, Speyer.
I said nothing. Mr. Rumsey looked slightly surprised, then went on. “In view of this gift, we think it only proper to offer Sinclair a place on the board. An unusual step, I know, given that Sinclair is somewhat—new to the city.”
That word new was freighted with implication. Mr. Rumsey turned to Mr. Albright, who, as Tom’s sponsor, might be expected to speak up for him. But Mr. Albright merely gazed at his coffee. He himself was somewhat new to the city, having arrived only in 1883. But his newness was different from Tom’s.
“Nonetheless we deem it appropriate to offer Sinclair a place,” Mr. Rumsey continued. “With your permission, of course, Miss Barrett.” Again he paused. “Miss Barrett?” He leaned forward, eyeing me carefully. “Do you approve?”
Why would Thomas Sinclair give such a gift? Why would he part with so much, when half as much, a quarter as much, would make a profound impact on the school?
“Miss Barrett?” Mr. Rumsey sounded concerned.
I glanced at Albright. How much did he know about this? His face remained impassive.
“Miss Barrett?”
“Yes, yes, of course I approve,” I said angrily.
The men nodded knowingly at one another. They would expect anger. Anger would be considered part of my obstinate character. Well, I was angry, because I had no choice in the matter. This was a gift I couldn’t refuse or even question.
And yet, no matter why the money was given—possibly it was simply a memorial to Margaret—it would bring the school improvements I had dreamed about for years. These dreams filled me, smothering questions of why and wherefore, and my dreams became words: “The things we will do … a chemistry laboratory, a theater, a new art studio, scholarships—”
“Not too many scholarships, Miss Barrett,” someone said at the other end of the table. I ignored his identity and the affable laughter which greeted his remark.
“A swimming pool, a running track, a new gymnasium designed for basketball—my girls love basketball.”
I realized I was blushing badly now. The gentlemen around me were smiling—with kindness. They weren’t smug, they weren’t complacent; they were my friends, my supporters. They’d always shown me sympathy. Anything I’d wanted, they’d given me. Ten years ago, I’d asked them for a sabbatical leave—to visit Europe, I told them—and they’d agreed without demur and given me a grant to cover expenses. When I returned, the position of headmistress awaited me. I was the orphaned, nearly penniless daughter of a college professor, but they accepted me as an equal among them. They gave me a place at their table. They championed the cause of women’s education. They even allowed Millicent Talbert to attend the school. And I had repaid their trust.
Yes, they were generous, sensitive, and kind. They embraced the future. They were among the beneficent lords of the nation, the most wonderful men I had ever met. Each was a father to me. The father I had lost.
I covered my face, unable to hold back my tears.
“Well, gentlemen, here’s something we shall have to keep among ourselves,” Mr. Rumsey said gently. “Old Tom Sinclair has made our Miss Barrett cry.”
CHAPTER V
The generators gleamed black in the sunlight that poured through the long, arched windows of Thomas Sinclair’s cathedral of power. One week after I’d learned about the endowment, I stood with my eighteen senior girls and our g
uide on the wrought-iron observation bridge that spanned Powerhouse 1. The ten generators—alternators, to be precise, our guide explained—were aligned in a row beneath us. They were mammoth, their outer edges spinning so fast as to be invisible. With their unceasing whir, they might have been alive. When I first saw them, I caught my breath—we all did, gasping as we edged single file onto the bridge. Men walked among these leviathans. Men stood at the switchboards, checked the gauges, adjusted the levers, calmly controlling and directing the machines that rose around them. Bands of color from the stained-glass transoms colored the men’s faces blue and red.
The powerhouse was pristine and glowing, its white enameled brick walls polished clean. There was no hint of factory grit. The hum of the generators filled the room like a drape of velvet, soft and pliant. The windows were so wide and tall as to create the illusion of no walls at all. High at the far end of the room, like a rose window in a church, was a stained-glass rendering of the symbol of the power project: the American and Horseshoe Falls surrounded by forest, as in the days of the Indians, and shot through with a lightning bolt.
Tom was right, there was a sacredness here, a deep urging toward awe that the builders of Chartres and Bourges must have felt. A person could worship here, turning himself over to a greater power; finding comfort and fortitude in its strength. Architect Stanford White had fulfilled Tom’s conception, sparing no expense to create a masterpiece.
Outside, the Niagara River passed, dense and purposeful, its ice floes a shock of white against the water’s brilliant green. Because of its roiling, the river contained so much oxygen that its color seemed uncanny. The Falls were only a mile away. The power station had been built right at the edge of the reservation, the land reclaimed from commerce in 1885 to create the first state park in the nation. Outside the river was fierce and turbulent; but here, amid the generators, the power of nature had been subdued by the power of man.
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