Margaret snuggled Grace close against her neck. “You’ll be her godmother, won’t you, Louisa?”
I felt dizzy. I had lost forever the right to hold Grace that close, as much as I yearned to—and how I yearned to press that round baby body against my heart; to feel that smooth skin against my cheek. I was consumed by the urge to grab her—to run down the stairs with her and out the door, my future and hers be damned. Even if we were in the poorhouse, at least we would be together. We must be together.
No. Focusing all my strength, I steadied myself. Grace’s future was the only one that mattered, and her future had to be here, where she could have everything she needed. Not simply money, but family too: a mother and a father.
Dreamily Margaret repeated, “Yes? You’ll be her godmother?” I nodded my assent. I knew then that I would never tell Margaret the truth. I would never step into the bond of her love for Grace, because if I did, I might hurt Grace … Grace, whom I must now protect whatever the cost. I watched Margaret cuddle her. I loved Grace, and also I loved my friend. My best friend. I would never bring her guilt or anguish by revealing the true parentage of the child she cradled. Now, for the first time, and forever, there would be a secret between us.
I knew that Grace would be sent to Macaulay. I knew that throughout her childhood and youth, I would be in charge of her education: seeing her every day, watching her grow, training her mind, with luck becoming her friend. Closer to her perhaps, as she got older, than a “mother” ever could be. I would be the one she would confide in. Perhaps. Perhaps.
And so our lives would pass. Grace would grow up to be smart, beautiful, confident, and happy. If she wished, she would go to college. With luck, she would return to Buffalo to marry. She would have children of her own. As I grew old, I would be always with her, she always with me. Her children would be my grandchildren. I saw no other future, nor could I imagine one.
And so our lives passed. Margaret adored Grace. Tom was a wonderful father. Grace did well in her studies. She learned to ride. To play the piano. To draw. As I had hoped, I was part of her daily life. The bond between Margaret and Grace grew ever stronger. Although I was outside that special bond, nonetheless Margaret, Tom, and Grace made me feel like a member of their family, which was enough; which had to be enough.
Then one day Margaret died. And now Grace talked of dying too.
CHAPTER XII
Next item: Presentation by Mrs. William Talbert.” In his role as chief officer of the Pan-American Exposition, John G. Milburn tapped his gavel. The sound echoed through the Buffalo Club’s unadorned public meeting room, where Milburn and his fellow commissioners sat behind simple tables on the dais. The day was unusually warm for April; although the windows were thrown open, the curtains hung limp in the quiet air.
The room was sparsely filled and most of the petitioners looked fidgety, coming as they were to discuss problems. We’d waited over an hour through discussions of faulty plastering, misaligned statuary, and leaky flower urns for Mrs. Talbert’s name to be called. Everyone looked a bit sallow, which wasn’t surprising: This was called the Yellow Room for the all-important reason that its walls and curtains were yellow. Large enough for communal meetings, the Yellow Room was hidden away at the back of the building on the ground floor. Women were permitted in this room if business warranted; women were presumed to find the color yellow soothing, although I certainly didn’t. Perhaps I was more manly than I gave myself credit for, I’d thought as I took my seat with Mrs. Talbert when the meeting was first called to order; I much preferred the bracing opulence of the intimate luncheon room upstairs where the Macaulay board gathered.
While we’d waited in the muggy heat, listening to the plasterer enumerate his excuses, my mind had begun to wander … to Tom. I recoiled at the memory of our encounter in the sleigh outside school. Knowledge, of course, is power. By letting me know that he had guessed my secret, Tom had assured my silence about Speyer’s visit more securely than any amount of money could have done. Nonetheless I surmised that I still had room to maneuver, for although Tom had guaranteed that I would not go to the police, I continued to harbor facts that he wanted to suppress. There were still no official conclusions on Speyer’s death; until there were, Tom’s position was precarious, whether he was actually involved with the death or not.
I pondered, not for the first time, whether I’d lost all sense of proportion. Perhaps Tom’s explanation of his motives regarding Speyer was truthful. Perhaps I should simply be grateful that he’d kept my name out of the newspapers, and listen to the intuitive voice inside me that said he was no murderer. Maybe he’d shared his supposition about Grace and me simply to bring us together—to bring him and me together, that is, and my suspicions were merely another proof of my panicked determination to push away any man who approached me with affection. Maybe he’d believed my lame explanation about the resemblance between Grace and me, and I was the one, knowing the truth, who couldn’t let the matter go….
“Mrs. Talbert, welcome,” Mr. Milburn said, capturing my attention. The porter ushered Mrs. Talbert to the table and chair strategically placed before the dais. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” Milburn continued, his demeanor warm, his tone unctuous. With his bold, handsome features, Milburn looked like a statue of a Roman emperor; from his elevated position as president of the Pan-Am, he gazed upon his subjects with benevolent pride.
Mrs. Talbert took her position with her head high and her shoulders straight, her face grave and reflective, as if she were a minister coming to the lectern in church. Her dress was somber yet rich. She placed her notes upon the table but she did not sit, nor did she glance at her papers. The dozen or so businessmen arrayed on the dais wouldn’t have known that she was nervous. Only I knew, because she had told me so during the ride over in her carriage. She had offered (graciously, for it was out of her way) to pick me up. I could only pray that she was right to come here instead of approaching Miss Love or Mr. Rumsey privately. Either way, time was running out for her: The exposition would open officially on May 20, and although some of the exhibitions would not be complete by the twentieth, plans needed to be well along by now, certainly.
“Thank you, Mr. Milburn and gentlemen of the committee.” Her deep, sonorous voice carried throughout the room. She paused, looking at the men one by one, garnering their attention. “I bring to you today a question of business. Yes, business.” She nodded and looked around, as if to confirm with everyone that business was the most important question that could ever be contemplated.
“In this mighty city we are now engaged, one and all, from every race, from every background, in an exalted endeavor: the creation of the greatest exposition in the history of our nation. There is hard work involved, there is sacrifice. But we shall achieve our goal.” She glanced at the commissioners mischievously, as if sharing their secrets. “How much more glorious our efforts will be if the deity sees fit to reward our sacrifices.” Suddenly she smiled. She knew that for the honor of serving as commissioners, all these men had invested heavily in the exposition; the honor of serving of course would be rendered even more wonderful if their investments returned solid profits.
“To this end, with the needs of the city as a whole foremost in my mind, I have arranged for the National Association of Colored Women to hold its biennial convention in Buffalo in July and conduct its work amid the splendors of our exposition city. The most eminent among the Negro race will participate in this convention. We expect several hundred attendees and their families. Large revenues will flow into the city from the generous leaders of my race.” She paused, possibly waiting for a hint of gratitude; instead the men were impassive.
“But”—her voice rose—“what will these leaders see when they tour our great exposition? Will they see monuments to the achievements of our race? Will they see recognition of our goals for the future? Will they be compelled to visit the exposition again and again—paying their fees each day—to absorb all that can be learned from su
ch an educational presentation?” She glanced around in reproach. “No,” she said with dramatic force. “They will see the ‘original’ Uncle Tom’s Cabin. They will see ‘old plantation life’; ‘happy darkies’ singing and dancing; they will be offered miniature cotton bales as ‘souvenirs.’” She gazed at the commissioners with a look of profound indignation.
“At the Paris Exposition of 1900, there was a comprehensive exhibition of our achievements as a race, and that exhibition received highest honors. It was prepared by my esteemed friend and colleague Mr. W.E.B. Du Bois. I am certain Mr. Du Bois could be persuaded not simply to recreate but to improve upon that presentation here—if he were given a place for it. Are we to be outdone by Paris? Are we to let a European city take precedence over an American city?” Disdain filled her voice. “Never! Our city must be at the forefront! Furthermore, what is the example we wish to give the world as we face the twentieth century? How do we want Buffalo to be seen in the eyes of the world? As bigoted and backward, or tolerant and forward-looking? Gentlemen, on behalf of my race I say to you, let us embrace the future together. Let us give a bold signal to the world that Buffalo has arrived!”
After a moment’s pause, she sat down. I felt the urge to applaud but stifled it as the gentlemen on the dais maintained their impassivity. No one said a word. Milburn examined his notes. The silence continued. Finally Milburn looked up from his papers. “Thank you, Mrs. Talbert, for your strong presentation. We shall take your request under consideration.”
She studied him, her head tilted, a querying smile on her lips.
“Thank you, Mrs. Talbert,” he repeated with a touch of impatience.
She tapped her fingers on the table.
Milburn gave a small bow, his dismissal clear. “Thank you. Now then, the next item on our agenda.” He shuffled the papers. “The plumbing difficulty at the Alt Nurnberg restaurant on the Midway.”
A trembly high-pitched voice responded. “Yes, Mr. Milburn.” The plumbing contractor, his plaid suit hanging on his thin frame, rose awkwardly and hurried from the back of the room.
Mary Talbert had no choice but to relinquish her seat at the table.
She strode far ahead of me down the front path beneath the spreading elms, as if we hadn’t come here together. Her carriage waited outside the gate. When he saw her, the driver, an elderly, fastidious Negro, got down and opened the door. Motioning him back to his position, she turned to me at last, standing beside the carriage and waiting for me to catch up. She breathed deeply, her chest rising.
“Mrs. Talbert,” I said, before she could speak, “each time I complete a parley here with our esteemed male friends, I treat myself to a drink at the Twentieth Century Club among the comforts of our female compatriots. Would you like to join me? It’s just up the street—it might have been constructed for this special purpose!” I made myself sound cheerful. I knew she had been humiliated, but what choice did we have now except to make the best of it? Although there’d never been a Negro guest at the Twentieth Century Club, my position was such that no one would challenge me if I brought her. Her visit would be at least a small effort in the right direction.
She stared at me, her expression intense and focused. Under her pressing gaze, I suddenly felt that I’d been transformed into her enemy.
“Why didn’t you second my opinion?” she asked quietly. Too quietly, as if she were holding herself steady with a vise.
“There was no point to it. Nothing would have been gained. I would have been speaking out of turn.”
“Out of turn. How many battles have been lost by people reluctant to speak ‘out of turn.’ To me, ‘out of turn’ is a self-serving and self-fulfilling prophecy. A fear of coming out on the losing side.”
I chose to ignore her accusation. “Sometimes a public argument is not the best way to accomplish goals. Surely you know that. Sometimes—”
“This is a game to you, isn’t it, Miss Barrett? A game of wheedling and dealing and going off to your club when you’ve met with a setback. If you had stood up for me the newspapers would have noticed. A point would have been made—and gained—even if the result were the same. You have the most extraordinary pulpit in the city, and you throw it away.”
“My position is not a pulpit, Mrs. Talbert. And I hold my position at the sufferance of those men in there. If I lose my position, I have nothing.”
“You underestimate yourself—purposefully, to abnegate your responsibilities. To rationalize your lack of action.”
I waited until I could control my voice. “I will forgive you the ferocity of your words, Mrs. Talbert, because I know the justice of your goals. And I know that you could hardly express your anger toward the gentlemen in there, so perhaps it’s easier to express it toward me.”
Staring at me fixedly she did not reply.
“Before you condemn me, however, I would remind you that you have no position to lose. You live to fight another day from the resources of your husband’s home. You travel from battle to battle in your private carriage, your driver at your command. As you would urge me to battle, so I would urge you to mercy.”
“Yes, mercy,” she said with irony. “Justice tempered by mercy—one of the laudable goals of our nation.” She laughed bitterly. Then she said, “Well, I must get a report of this meeting into the newspapers. I must organize a letter-writing campaign. I must consider alternatives. I have no doubt that I shall be defeated, but even in losing battles there is victory if more allies are brought to the cause.”
“I wish you luck.”
For some reason she softened. “Why don’t you challenge those men? Dare them to dismiss you. You may be surprised to find them reluctant to turn you away. You may finally discover your value to the community.”
“I would like to help you, Mrs. Talbert. Truly I would.”
“Then you must.”
“I cannot.”
“Your job is so precious you will not risk it? What is the worst that could happen to you? If you were dismissed here, you would find other cities eager to snap you up for the very independence you had shown. Our nation is wide with opportunity—for whites like you, I mean. There are many cities that would be pleased to welcome a woman of your experience. We in Buffalo may think ourselves the center of the world, but we are not.”
“It’s not arrogant provincialism that keeps me here. I’m committed to my girls; they too would lose if I lost. I’m sure you understand that education remains a tenuous privilege for them, whatever their class or race.”
“There are schools for girls in many cities, and at Macaulay someone would be found to replace you.”
“Nonetheless, I cannot go to another city. This is the city where I must remain.”
She continued to gaze at me intently, and I fought the urge to look away. “So. Something personal holds you back,” she said dismissively “Woe to us all when we let the personal hold sway over the fight for justice.”
With that bit of self-righteousness, she departed. I stood at the gates of the Buffalo Club and watched her carriage drive along Delaware Avenue toward downtown until it merged with all the others and I could find it no more.
Something personal. Yes.
Later that afternoon I stood at the balustrade on the second floor of the Macaulay School and watched the girls coming and going from their classes. They were a gently chattering stream of bows and ribbons, high-buttoned shoes, leather-bound notebooks, and sharpened pencils. Soon I would see her, the one I waited for, my heart skipping a beat at the flash of her smile. But at school I would make no special signal; I would show no one that I nurtured special feelings for her. Here she was one of many, and it was enough. Enough that I should come upon her by chance in the library, working with a partner, their notes for a research project (on the lives of polar bears, perhaps) scattered across a table. Enough, that on the way to the dining hall I might see her in a corridor sharing a joke with her friends. That when I observed a basketball game, she might be among the players, plea
ted uniform skirts flying with every jump. Or that when I looked out at the flagstoned central courtyard, I might see her reading on the marble bench beside the fountain, purple rhododendron flowering behind her. She was everywhere, filling the school I had made for her.
My school. My refuge. Away from Mary Talbert and crusades I could not join. Away from Thomas Sinclair and his steady, observant eyes. Away from Franklin Fiske and his theories and accusations.
Here I was safe, and here I could make her safe. My daughter.
CHAPTER XIII
Miss Barrett, we have a problem,” declared the mother of Abigail Rushman. Well, I appreciated people coming to the point, particularly in view of how rare that was in the circles I frequented. Still, it was nonetheless surprising.
Mr. and Mrs. Rushman were unlike their daughter. Ostentatious and flamboyant, they had entered my office with a flourish. Mrs. Rushman prolonged the flourish with an extended unwrapping of fur boas, worn even though the weather was now past the point of such trappings. But fur boas impressed no one if they were in the closet. It was the day after my visit to the Buffalo Club with Mary Talbert, and I wasn’t in the mood for fools.
The Rushmans were new to Buffalo. They owned a group of five-and ten-cent dry goods stores, called F. E. Rushman, which had proliferated throughout Ohio and western New York. There were rumors, which I’d heard via Francesca, that Rushman was the Anglicization of a long and unpronounceable German name. But Mr. and Mrs. Rushman didn’t appear to be immigrants themselves. They were stalwart supporters of the socially prominent Westminster Presbyterian Church—although again, rumor purported that once upon a time, in an unidentified portion of the Midwest, they’d attended (let us gasp together!) a Lutheran church.
Mrs. Rushman sat down opposite my desk, and her husband stood beside her.
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