City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

  Oh yes, I thought; let us make something more of Niagara than water falling over a cliff. Let us allow Niagara to transform the nation. God grant that one day we may walk across the riverbed in peace, without the surging water to entrap and haunt us.

  “Yes, I know I wax philosophical. But most people truly do know me”—nodding toward Bates, Milburn treated us to his most charming smile—“as a practical man. So I shall continue in a practical vein: Like Mr. Bates, I believe that we have the power to create the future. Will we permit the vast, God-given natural resource that is Niagara to go to waste? Never. Never! Let us remember that Buffalo’s future and the future of Niagara are one and the same. When the work at Niagara is complete, we will become the greatest city in America. Let us embrace our future—and let us permit our future to embrace us.”

  The audience’s uproarious approval effectively brought the meeting to a close. When I looked around, I saw Susannah Riley staring at John Milburn with a fixed expression of hatred in her eyes.

  CHAPTER XVI

  I warned Francesca to tell Susannah to stop. Or at least to be less public. I could not be put in the position of defending her. “If the board comes to me with complaints,” I said, “I’ll have no choice but to let her go.”

  We were walking along the second-floor balcony of the Market Arcade in the late afternoon, the Saturday after the lecture. We passed tiny shops filled with specialties, from the rarest cigars to the finest lace. Sunlight filtered through the skylight. The arcade led from elegant, refined Main Street to the rather different Washington Street, with its outdoor Chippewa Market. The Chippewa Market was a pastureland of carts and stalls frequented by women wearing babushkas and shawls who haggled over the price of live chickens. Shawls spanned cultures, however, and shawls had brought us to the Market Arcade today. Francesca was looking for a cashmere shawl, and she was in a self-indulgent, cashmere-shawl frame of mind.

  “I have no control over Susannah,” she said with sardonic pride. “As the poets say, I can only love her.”

  I caught myself on the verge of harrumphing but quickly stopped myself so as not to slip into the demeanor of Miss Maria Love. Reasonably I said, “If you love her, then you must try to protect her.”

  “I can’t protect her. She makes her own decisions. I’ve offered her everything, I assure you, to get her into my grasp. I’ve even offered her a trip to Angkor Wat.”

  “Angkor Wat! I thought that was my special reward. You’re certainly feckless in your affections.”

  “No, just determined to get there. To Angkor Wat, I mean. But Susannah won’t even consider it. She can’t leave the city while the ‘battle for Niagara’ is going on; while she’s saving her little bit of the world.” Francesca shrugged mischievously. “I’ll just have to wait for her to lose all her teaching positions and all her painting commissions because of her ‘radical’ ideas, and then in poverty she’ll come begging to me to rescue her. You know how I love to rescue people. I even rescued you, don’t forget, bringing you here from Wellesley when you had not a place in the world or a penny to call your own.”

  “Yes, indeed you did,” I acknowledged.

  “So I shall certainly not urge Susannah to caution; I shall urge her to greater excess, to hasten the day of my victory!”

  A group of ladies, wives of professional men we knew, approached us on the narrow balcony. Their skirts brushed together in a rustle of silk. Among them was Dr. Perlmutter’s youthful wife, beautifully attired in red plaid. Francesca took my arm and giggled intimately against my ear. The ladies passed us single-file with knowing glances.

  When they were out of earshot, Francesca whispered, “How was that? More flirtatious than was even necessary, eh?”

  “Oh, I’m most grateful.” And I was, even though part of me felt wretched that for so many years I’d required this subterfuge.

  “Now, on to other matters,” she said. “Miss Love and Mr. Wilcox have bestowed a favor upon me.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Good! I’ve surprised you. I feared you might have heard a rumor of it.”

  “Of what?”

  “I’ve been appointed president of the Infant Asylum.”

  “The Infant Asylum?” There was an Orphan Asylum on Virginia Street, but I’d never heard of an Infant Asylum.

  “It’s a newly created subdivision of the Orphan Asylum. I suppose they had so many undeserving newborns left on the doorstep that they had to set up an organization solely for them. Miss Love wants the babies to have a building of their own, but that’s in the future. Right now they’re housed on a single floor of the Orphan Asylum, within squalling distance of the ‘diseased and infectious’ older children, as Miss Love describes them. Doesn’t she have a lovely gift for language? Anyway, the job will primarily involve begging my friends for donations. But there’ll be oversight too, and some administrative work. Would you like to know the charming way she informed me of my appointment?” Francesca squeezed my arm, obviously relishing the tale. “She didn’t politely ask if I might be interested. Oh no, not her. She invited me to tea at 184 and she said, ‘Frances,’ she always calls me Frances, ‘we both know you’ll never have children of your own, so you might as well look after these God-forsaken creatures.’” Francesca did an inspired imitation of Miss Love’s regal tones. “‘I wouldn’t dare send a young wife over there, with all that corruption and degradation, but you can handle it.’ Of course! Corruption and degradation—just my métier.”

  “Couldn’t you refuse her?”

  “My dear Louisa.” She put her arm around me. “Refuse Miss Love? I’d never work as an architect again.”

  I had known that the obedience rule applied to me; that it applied also to a woman of Francesca’s position was consoling.

  “I went over there yesterday. To see it. The Infant Asylum.” She turned, leaning against the balustrade, looking all at once unsure of herself. “Louisa, it was like—it was like some kind of hell. The filth. The smell. The crying. And it seemed—well, I was too afraid to ask anyone, any of the matrons, I mean, but it seemed like all the babies were dying. That they were put there specifically so that they’d have a place to die. The matrons use the sheets for shrouds. That’s one of their biggest expenses, I found out when I looked at the account books: the sheets they use for shrouds.” Her eyes glinted as they teared. “Well, I was wondering … I mean”—she struggled to keep her composure—“seeing as you’ll never have children of your own, and you’ll never be a young wife, so we needn’t worry about corrupting and degrading you—I was wondering if you’d go there with me sometime and take a look at everything and give me advice. I can’t do it alone, it’s too much for me to do alone.” For once her irony had deserted her.

  “Yes, of course, Francesca. Of course.” I leaned to hug her, touching my cheek to hers.

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, as I made my way up the Rushmans’ curving drive, I felt especially saddened by Francesca’s description of the Infant Asylum. I had a five o’clock appointment to meet Abigail’s parents to tell them my plan. The Rushmans lived in one of our newer mansions, the trees around it thin-limbed. The house was on North Street, our second most fashionable street after Delaware Avenue. However, the Rushmans’ abode was near the intersection with Richmond, perilously close to less elite thoroughfares. Perhaps for the Rushmans, being able to say “North Street” made up for any middle-class views from the windows.

  The man of the house was visiting one of his stores, Mrs. Rushman explained as she received me alone in the library. I didn’t know where Abigail was. In this room, where I had placed the beginning of Abigail’s difficulties, the Persian rugs were thick and silent, the sofas deep-burgundy velvet, inviting and pliant. The leather-bound books in the floor-to-ceiling cases looked never-touched; undoubtedly they had been purchased in bulk and placed upon the shelves by height.

  Motioning me to a straight-backed chair while she herself sank into one of the sofas, Mrs
. Rushman asked bluntly, “What is it that you propose to do?” Her voice carried a hint of dismissal, as if she were addressing a social inferior. I steadied myself with the thought of her daughter; I was doing this for Abigail, not for the woman before me.

  Equally blunt, I said, “I’ve determined that Abigail and her grandmother shall go to East Aurora after Abigail’s graduation and stay with the Roycrofters for the duration of her confinement. We shall announce that she has won a prestigious artistic fellowship, which you and your husband shall fund—anonymously, of course. She will spend the summer learning how to watercolor and practicing the art of illuminating manuscripts. She will be under the special protection of Mr. Elbert Hubbard and his most reputable wife, Bertha. Mr. Hubbard understands the circumstances and is willing to be of assistance. Despite his reputation for flamboyance, I assure you that he is trustworthy in this regard. I will take on the responsibility to speak with Dr. Perlmutter to make arrangements for the birth and adoption of the baby.”

  There was a long pause. I heard a clock ticking. With each tick Mrs. Rushman’s broad features became more pointed and tight. “The money is not an issue, but East Aurora is totally unsuitable,” she said, her lips a thin line. “You’ve chosen badly, if I may say so, Miss Barrett.” There it was again, the not-so-subtle condemnation of my role. Did she assume this attitude to hide her shame and responsibility for what she had allowed to happen to Abigail? I could only hope so.

  “Why is East Aurora unsuitable?”

  “Abigail is not an artist.”

  “She will learn to be. I imagine she’ll enjoy it. And East Aurora is lovely in the summer. Restful, I assure you,” I said, with what I hoped sounded like a warning.

  “There has never been an artist in our family. It is completely unacceptable. You must find something else.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Well, that is disappointing, Mrs. Rushman,” I said slowly. “I’m sorry you feel that way, because art is so fashionable for women these days.” I paused to let the notion sink in. “Witness Alice Glenny—Mrs. John Clark Glenny—called upon to paint the murals for the New York State Building at the exposition. And Evelyn Rumsey Cary—Mrs. Dr. Charles Cary—designing the official poster for the exposition. And what a beautiful poster it is! It would be impossible to find two women more … ladylike than Mrs. Glenny and Mrs. Cary. Two women more … welcomed at the Rumsey estate—and I’m speaking here of the Bronson Rumsey estate. Of course for Mrs. Cary, née Rumsey, the estate is her family home.” I sighed. “Both ladies have mentioned to me that they may one day offer Macaulay girls the opportunity to assist in their studios. What a chance for Abigail, gone to waste.”

  This was a lie, but the two gracious ladies in question, both of whom frequented the Twentieth Century Club, would intuitively cover for me if faced by an assault from the likes of Mrs. Rushman.

  “Really.” She bit her lower lip, mulling over the matter in this new and appealing light. “It’s true that Abigail has always leaned toward the artistic. Maybe I’ve been wrong to discourage her. She’s very talented, you know,” Mrs. Rushman assured me. “Mrs. Cary would be the first to recognize her talent, I’m sure. Yes.” She clapped her hands with childlike glee. “I’ll announce the award of Abigail’s prestigious artistic fellowship at dinner this evening. You can let me know how much money to send you whenever it’s convenient. Tonight we’re dining at the Freddy Coatsworths—Francesca Coatsworth’s second cousin,” she added with proud confidentiality. “Possibly you know the Freddy Coatsworths.” Her tone indicated that she was quite certain I did not. “Your paths most likely never cross, however, as they have only sons, not daughters.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Rushman,” I said modestly, “in my position, I’m lucky enough to be on familiar terms with all the important families in town, daughters or no.”

  When I returned home, a large pile of mail awaited me. I flipped through it at my desk, pulling out two items for immediate attention: a large envelope from Tom and a note from Franklin Fiske.

  When I opened Tom’s envelope, however, I discovered that his message was nothing more than a note too, attached to a larger sheet of paper. After a moment’s confusion I realized that the large sheet was a mock-up for an inside page of tomorrow’s Express. The note, in Tom’s precise handwriting, read simply, Dexter Rumsey sent this to me. I hope it sets your mind at ease.

  The article, marked as, filled less than a third of the space across the top of the page. Determination in Park Tragedy, the headline read. The article reported that the coroner, in an official report to be released on Monday, had unequivocally concluded that Karl Speyer’s death was accidental. The article went on to review the circumstances surrounding his death on March 5 and the stringent investigation conducted by the police. There was some discussion of the medical difference between death by drowning and death by exposure, which I skipped after a few words because the details made me queasy. The article concluded with a quote from Tom, in his capacity as director of the power project, to the effect that we might all rest more peacefully now, knowing this tragic matter was finally resolved.

  I reread Tom’s note: Mr. Rumsey had sent this to him. He hoped it would set my mind at ease.

  I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes to think. The coroner’s conclusion had a certain logic, but was it true? Moreover, did Tom believe it to be true, or did he know it to be false? Step by step I parsed the matter out. First, Mr. Rumsey had offered the Express the opportunity to print the story before the official findings were released. The Express was our most prestigious newspaper (Mark Twain had once been its editor), and it had notably abstained from the sensational speculations about Speyer that had filled most of the other papers. The Express could in fact be called Mr. Rumsey’s favorite newspaper. Undoubtedly Mr. Rumsey had dictated the placement of the story, where it would be noticed but not create a fuss.

  I wasn’t surprised that Mr. Rumsey had given the Express the opportunity to print the story first. What did surprise me, however, was that Mr. Rumsey had given Tom the opportunity to read the story first. The coroner’s report said Speyer’s death was accidental, the least controversial of all possibilities. What had Mr. Rumsey hoped to gain by withholding it for so long? All at once I felt chilled, as a comprehension of his purpose crept upon me. He must have withheld the report as a kind of warning to Tom. As a way to say in effect, if you attempt to cross us, we have the power to destroy you—by truth or falsity, what does it matter? At this moment you are safe; we have issued a report that frees you, but next time we might make a different decision. I have my finger in the dike, but I can’t hold the waters back much longer. I was slowly beginning to grasp the meaning of Albright’s seeming nonsense.

  And yet … if Mr. Rumsey felt the need to make this oblique warning, he must have believed that Tom was a threat to him—to all of them. Suddenly I perceived Tom as an independent center of power, able to withstand and even manipulate the others. This explained why he so easily turned down a position on the board: He truly did not feel the need to lunch with Mr. Rumsey each month. Mr. Rumsey had nothing to offer him. Now I saw why people like Maria Love distrusted him. He had no need or desire to be part of their group, and that was frightening to them. Even Krakauer and Albright were frightened: Why else would they attempt to approach him through me? They were all frightened—why, I still couldn’t say. In a full-scale dispute between the two sides, who would win? What would be the leverage that would determine the final outcome?

  I would have to watch, and wait, to understand. And then I realized that the report, even if it were true, bore no relation to truth whatsoever. It represented only what Mr. Rumsey, in his wisdom, had decided the city should believe.

  Bitterly shrugging at these intrigues, I pushed the newspaper page aside and turned to Fiske’s note:

  My dear Miss Barrett,

  I have a confession to make: I have never visited the Falls of Niagara. I’m thinking I’d better see them before certain friends of ours turn them
into a barren cliff.

  Will you honor me with your insights—uncompromising and unfrivolous—on an excursion to the Mighty Cataract?

  Fiske

  Well, that was certainly a change of pace. A man was asking me to join him on a pleasure excursion? Unheard of! I reread the note searching for ulterior motives but found none. Nor did I find even a hint of coded seduction. I found only friendship … and the friendship was welcome to me. After my dispiriting analysis of the Express article, Fiske had provided what felt like a jolt of freedom—an opening for me to step out, if only for a day, from the strictures which bound me.

  I hadn’t been to see the Falls (as distinct from the power station) since my visit with my father years ago. This was actually quite an accomplishment, if not an oddity: to live so long in Buffalo and never visit the Falls. Margaret had taken Grace to the Falls often for picnics, traveling home with Tom when he finished work. She had frequently urged me to join them, and teased me when I refused, but if truth be told, I was afraid to go—afraid to face again my father’s admonitions and my father’s tears. His irrational fears had become mine, and I even felt flashes of reluctance that Grace should visit the Falls so often. Alas, I couldn’t stop her, for the decision had been Margaret’s to make.

  Today, impulsively, almost as a harmless protest against Mr. Rumsey’s control, I decided to put my fear aside. As I wrote my acceptance, suggesting to Fiske that we visit the Falls on the upcoming Friday (school met for only a half-day on Fridays), I congratulated myself for having no impediments of propriety in my way. A supposedly middle-aged intimate of Francesca Coatsworth need not worry about society’s view of an excursion to Niagara with a cousin of Mrs. Dexter Rumsey. Yes, I had the independence of a man, as Fiske himself had once pointed out, and I resolved to make the most of it. Furthermore, Fiske had trusted me with the secret reason for his presence here, and that alone meant I could trust him in return.