For several minutes there was much high-spirited banter. Dr. Cary took upon himself the chore of lighting the rest of the lamps, while teasing Francesca about her Bohemian ways. All at once the room was bright, the darkness nothing more than a kind of curtain filling the tall windows. Francesca had grown up with the Carys, both of whom were supremely self-confident and supremely fun-loving. Fresh-faced and thick-haired, growing into portliness, Charles Cary was a medical doctor. His wife (Dexter Rumsey’s niece) was an artist of some repute and dressed the part, in flowing gowns. Tonight she wore magenta velvet.
And then there was Louise Blanchard Bethune. Francesca had done her apprenticeship at Mrs. Bethune’s firm, Bethune, Bethune, and Fuchs (Louise Bethune was in partnership with her husband). Mrs. Bethune had accomplished what women like me were always told was impossible: She enjoyed an apparently happy marriage, she was successfully raising a son, who had a bent toward medicine, and she was a well-known architect. She didn’t pursue small domestic commissions, those which would be considered more appropriate for a wife and mother. No, she had designed factories, and a women’s prison. Through all of this she’d managed to remain a slight, feminine figure, friendly and helpful to other women. She’d suffered none of the dire consequences that traditionalists promised women who broke with their “proper” roles (such as insanity), so naturally I was more than a little jealous of her. Alone beside the unlit fireplace, I watched Mrs. Bethune befriend Susannah Riley—or more accurately, Miss Riley befriend Mrs. Bethune, standing close to her and praising—as I could clearly overhear, even at a distance—certain small details of one of her designs.
Soon, however, my attention was captured by Franklin Fiske, who was undertaking an intent peregrination around the room as if he were a thief looking for something to steal. He examined the Macaulay plans, Francesca’s drawing materials, the bookshelves, the furniture. No one objected or even noticed. Of course he was an appealing figure, with an open, eager face: the type who’s always forgiven his indiscretions. He was dressed more formally than when I’d last seen him beside a snow mound, and I realized how attractive he was: tall and well-built, with sharply angled cheekbones, the late-day shadow of a beard upon his smoothly shaven face, his dark hair curling in disarray. “Byronic” was the word that slipped into my mind; he looked like a tousled, world-weary Lord Byron. I laughed out loud at the exaggeration just as Fiske was turning his attention to me.
“Miss Barrett, how lovely to see you. What makes you so happy this evening?”
“Weren’t you ever taught that it’s impolite to ask personal questions of virtual strangers?” I asked jokingly.
“No,” he assured me seriously. “I was never taught that.” He gave me a sudden grin. “Well, I must say, you were quite right last month when you said that people here in Buffalo are very friendly among those they know. Thanks to Cousin Susan, all doors open to me.” He motioned broadly to embrace the room—and to welcome Evelyn Rumsey Cary as she approached us. Evelyn had a full face, and she always wore an exquisite pearl choker to conceal her somewhat thickening neck.
“Louisa, I’m so pleased you already know Mr. Fiske. Apparently he’s exceedingly creative,” she noted, “although he hasn’t actually shown us any of the photographs he claims to be taking.”
Quickly Franklin said, “So, Miss Barrett, how are you proceeding with your study of the efficiency of the police department?”
At that I blushed. Such were the rewards of blatant lying.
Evelyn was surprised and fascinated. “Louisa, I didn’t know you were—”
“Oh, it’s only a minor study,” I said, cloaking myself with modesty. “When I get the time—”
Luckily we were interrupted by Francesca’s butler passing around the sherry. The group came together in an informal circle.
“How awful for you, Louisa, to go to the power station and see an accident,” said Dr. Cary. I glowered at Francesca, who was standing opposite me. She shrugged.
“Thank you for your concern,” I replied.
Franklin offered, “I was out at Niagara last week.” Silently I blessed him for changing the subject, if only slightly. “Instead of spending numbing hours gazing at the mighty cataract, I visited all the electrified factories that are springing up near the power station. I took photographs too, for your information, Mrs. Cary.” He actually chucked her under the chin. He certainly fit into this world with ease, as if he were born to it—which he was, I reminded myself. “Well, what I saw was amazing. Companies are coming from all over the country to use the power of Niagara, and their profits are astronomical.”
I felt certain that these companies were searching out local investors to aid with start-up costs: My board members were getting richer and richer, and Mr. Milburn was gaining more and more clients.
“The factories are working twenty-four hours a day, using totally new processes: electrochemical, electrolytic, electrothermal. They’re making aluminum, graphite, silicon carbide—I don’t even understand what these things are, but there’s a huge demand for them. They couldn’t even be produced without electricity, and lots of it. Just look at silicon carbide.”
Evelyn groaned.
“No, bear with me, Ev.” Ev: Most likely fewer than a handful of people felt entitled to call her that. “Silicon carbide is produced by a new company called Carborundum. As best as I can understand, it’s an abrasive that’s used for grinding wheels. And grinding wheels, I’m happy to inform you, are the sine qua non of modern industry. Silicon carbide is created in the most incredible way: The people out there make up a mixture of sand and sawdust and this and that—their own secret recipe—and then with electricity they heat up their furnace to seven thousand degrees Fahrenheit—” He paused, looking puzzled. “Or maybe it was four thousand degrees Fahrenheit—either way they make it hot, and with this tremendous heat their secret mixture is miraculously transformed into a little pile of crystals. These crystals constitute the fabulously profitable silicon carbide.”
Dr. Cary nodded eagerly as he followed Franklin’s explanation.
“There’s also a company called National Electrolytic, involved in the production of something called ‘chlorate of potash.’ I spent fifteen minutes with the director of that company—while setting up my camera, of course”—he acknowledged Evelyn with a raised brow—“and I still have no idea what ‘chlorate of potash’ is or does.”
I warmed to Fiske for his enthusiasm, for his openness to experience. That he combined them with irony and self-deprecating humor made him even more appealing.
“But whatever chlorate of potash is or does, it’s beyond doubt miraculous. The entire industrial strip at Niagara—miraculous. I stepped into the future, and it was wonderful. A new world for a new century. Do I sound trite, do I sound clichéd?”
“Not at all, Fiske,” Charles Cary answered. “I’m hoping there’ll be medical breakthroughs to come of it.”
Ever soft-spoken, Louise Bethune said, “I just received a commission out there for a new factory, an extension of the Pittsburgh Reduction Company. For aluminum.”
“Congratulations,” Francesca said, reaching to squeeze her friend’s hand.
“The new, artistic factory,” Fiske mused. “Incredible potential—for my photographs, I mean.”
“Wait.” Susannah Riley’s faltering voice broke into the conversation. “Think. That’s the problem—everyone goes full ahead and no one ever stops to think. Those factories need electricity twenty-four hours a day, just as you said, Mr. Fiske.” Her voice grew stronger. “They steal the waters of Niagara Falls to make—what? Grinding wheels? ‘Chlorate of potash’? Is that really the future we want, a future that turns the sublimity of Niagara into grinding wheels?”
“I don’t see why not,” I said. An urge to strike her down filled me. “It’s just a small bit of water that they’re taking to make electricity. There’s still plenty left for people to look at. And why shouldn’t the water do something useful? The Falls has too much wa
ter for its own good, anyway. You must know that, Susannah, spending so much time out there painting. The constant rock slides. The erosion. And anyway”—I was enraged now, and I couldn’t say why—“who are we to say that aluminum and silicon carbide and whatever else Mr. Fiske mentioned don’t help humanity more than water falling over a cliff?”
“But Miss Barrett.” All at once Susannah was close to tears, yet still she stood up for herself. “They’ll never stop. You know that. They’ll keep going until Niagara is bare rock, from the rapids to the gorge.”
She covered her face, weeping. Francesca wrapped her arms around Susannah and took her off to a corner, whispering, “There, there … you shouldn’t take these things so personally, we’re just talking, just making conversation.”
The others gathered around me in an awkward silence. I felt thoroughly embarrassed.
“You’re right, Louisa, you know,” Dr. Cary finally said. “Too bad she became upset, but you are right. Take some comfort in that.”
“Thank you,” I said, deeply ashamed that I had attacked someone younger and more inexperienced than I.
“She’s highly artistic, that’s the trouble,” Cary continued. “Too emotional for her own good. Too wrapped up in her own concerns—that’s the artistic temperament.”
“Aren’t I ‘artistic’?” Evelyn asked, taking mock offense.
“Yes, but you’re older, my darling. You handle it better. And you have me to keep you steady.”
Evelyn laughed joyfully, and her laughter restored our equilibrium.
Two more servants came upstairs. From the dumbwaiter they took china and silver, then platters laden with sliced meats and finely prepared vegetables; I caught the scents of mint, orange, and Indian chutneys: Francesca’s repasts were more exotic than those of the Buffalo Club. The servants arranged the dinner on a buffet table at the end of the room. This, I thought, is my moment to depart. I couldn’t tolerate the notion of sitting down to dine with Susannah after the scene I’d created. I told the company that I’d stopped by simply to see the plans, and now I needed to move on to a previous engagement. There was little notice; Francesca had stationed Susannah on the couch, and the others were admiring the buffet. Charles Cary made a point of saying that he and Evelyn would see me on Monday evening at my “saloon,” as he so kindly put it.
The stairwell was infused with the enveloping, misty gold of flickering gaslight. Halfway down, I suddenly heard a step behind me. I stopped and turned, unreasonably frightened.
“Miss Barrett—I hope your departure has nothing to do with me,” Fiske said, hurrying to my side.
“With you? Why should it?”
“Well, historically I’ve noticed that people tend to flee the room once I’ve arrived.”
I smiled. “How unfortunate for you.”
“Indeed, it is a sorry fate. But seriously, I feared I might have embarrassed you with that question about the police.”
“That was the least of my embarrassments tonight.”
“I didn’t intend to embarrass you. I only wondered how your study—”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Fiske.”
“But I can think of nothing but it,” he insisted.
“My study of the police interests you so?”
“No, no—that I might have embarrassed you so much that you felt the need to leave.”
“You certainly seem to have an elevated view of your own importance.”
“I knew it! You’re leaving because of me, just the way you left the park because of me. When I would like nothing better than for you to stay and permit me to bask in your lovely presence.” There was just enough humor in his voice to allow him to get away with this rigmarole. Even so, I sensed that to some extent, at least, he was serious; he reminded me of Francesca, veiling with irony everything of importance.
Of course he was attractive, he was suitable. We stared at one another. Could I risk even one step toward him? Immediately I felt wounded, cut by the insecurity that overwhelmed me whenever a man approached me as if I were a desirable woman.
Although I made myself sound amused, sadness filled me as I forced him away. “Go upstairs, Mr. Fiske, before you miss your dinner.” Hastily I turned and continued down the stairs, feeling his gaze upon my back.
The next day, Saturday, I took a walk at noontime among the budding trees. Bidwell Parkway to Soldier’s Place to Lincoln Parkway. I exchanged greetings with students and parents, friends and acquaintances. A clear, icy scent tinged with last autumn’s fallen leaves filled the air. Sparrows flitted to collect whatever they could find in the softening soil. And there they were, in the distance, coming toward me: two figures on horseback, one big, one small. I stopped where I was, to watch them. They made their way slowly along the bridle path.
The little one … for nine years I had walked this path, hoping to see her. Watching her grow: from infant carriage to sled; from wobbling steps to running; from pony to horse. I never let her realize that she was the reason I walked here. Nor did she suspect. Many people walked along the parkway, and all of them knew one another.
“Aunt Louisa!” she called, catching sight of me. She galloped toward me, cheeks ruddy, hair flying. Bells jangled on the horse’s harness. She reined him in beside me, her movements precise, well-taught. “This is Rowan.” She was proud of herself. Excited. Catching her breath. Straightening his mane. “Papa got him for me. For my very own.” For several years Grace had taken riding lessons at the country club, north of Delaware Park. “This is the first day I’ve ridden him outside the training ring. I named him Rowan because he’s a roan—isn’t that funny?”
Yes. Funny. What a frail vessel Grace was for the weight of my affection.
“Isn’t he cute? Oh look, there’s Winnie—I need to show her Rowan!”
And with that, she was off.
Her father approached me. For a moment I couldn’t look at him, beset as I was by worries about Speyer, Tom’s lie, and the endowment.
“Good morning, Louisa.”
All at once I realized that I mustn’t let him suspect my uneasiness; I must behave with absolute normality. “Good morning, Tom,” I replied evenly.
He stopped where she had been, touching his hat in greeting. His eyes looked very blue against the sky. He wore a camel-colored riding jacket, well-cut. He seemed shy, his demeanor completely different from the last time I’d seen him, when he’d been a commanding, powerful figure. Now he appeared awkward. Or perhaps I was the one feeling shy and awkward as I contemplated my conflicting emotions toward him—curiosity, attraction, fear. What was he capable of? How could I know?
I pressed down on the horse’s nose, on its white blaze. The horse pushed up against my hand in its version of a greeting, then nuzzled my neck, its hair tickling my cheek. I wanted to hug it tight, to hide my face against its withers.
“Grace seems content today,” he said. I followed his gaze. Up the street, too far away for us to hear their conversation, Grace had dismounted and was showing her classmate Winifred Coatsworth (one of Francesca’s many relations) the wonders of Rowan. I might have entered a child’s picture book, one designed to show how small things seemed when they were far away and how big they became when they were close.
“She isn’t … edgy today, the way she sometimes gets.” He dismounted and stood beside me.
“What do you mean, ‘edgy’?”
“Oh … I don’t know exactly. Sensitive. Noticing every little thing.”
Up ahead, Grace wrapped her arms around Rowan’s neck and kissed him.
“The horse is good. Keeps her busy. Maybe that’s the whole trouble: She needs something to keep her busy. She takes care of him. Worries about him instead of thinking about … well, instead of missing Margaret.”
I was silent; I didn’t want to say, you and I have more than enough to keep us busy, but we still miss Margaret.
“How are you, Louisa?”
“Well, thank you.” I looked past him and upward, at the branch
es dotted with green like a gossamer net. “How is Rolf?”
“Recuperating. Thank you.” In my mind once more I saw Tom’s tenderness as he knelt on the dirty floor beside the injured man. “It’s kind of you to ask.”
We began to walk side by side toward Grace, Tom holding the horse’s reins loosely in his hand.
“Lovely day. You can sense the life beginning to stir within the earth,” he said, sounding very Irish.
“Yes.”
Everything had slowed; again I had that image of us caught like illustrations in a book. Now we were in a tale of King Arthur, I with my flowing cloak, the wind blowing loose my hair, the pictures sumptuous.
“She has Margaret’s smile.”
“Yes.”
“You and Grace have the same hair color.”
This pleased me. “Hardly,” I replied, brushing back the tendrils around my face. Pushing a few under my hat. Was it a betrayal of Margaret, for her husband to pay me a compliment and for me to feel pleasure in it? Had he actually paid me a compliment, or simply made an observation? My love for Grace made it feel like a compliment. “My hair has darkened since I was her age.”
“It’s just that she spends more time in the sun.”
“Even so.”
“By the way, I’ve turned down a position on the Macaulay board.”
“Why?” I asked, surprised. At the very least, a position on the board guaranteed entrée to the city’s decision makers. Was Tom really so determinedly independent, so cavalier, that he didn’t desire this advantage?
“Unlike many of my colleagues, I feel no need to lunch with Mr. Rumsey once a month.” Quickly, with a dash of humor, he added, “Will you feel comfortable managing all that money without me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good.” He was entirely matter-of-fact. If he were trying to bribe me, wouldn’t this be the moment to say something? To confirm my continued … cooperation, as it were? We walked in silence. A palpable silence which I breathed in deeply, willing it to fill me like a reassurance that my suspicions were groundless. I looked around. Everything glowed; everything was itself, only more so—the trees taller, the houses bigger, the sky brighter, the parkways longer and wider.
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