City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

  Feeling like a schoolgirl, I inched away from her. “I’m sorry, Miss Love.”

  “Of course you are,” she said sardonically. She gazed dully out the carriage window as we circled the exposition. “I wasn’t always the wrinkled old lady you see now. I was young once too. Once I was the belle of the ball, not just pretending to be. Not just trying to steal the attention from the girls.”

  Were there tears in her eyes?

  “Once I led the dances; once I gave the winner’s cup for the sleigh races in the park. Once I even thought I would marry; I dreamed of being carried off by a shining knight—what girl doesn’t?” she added derisively. She turned to me. “I will confess to you, Louisa, because you’ll understand: I’ve known temptation. I’ve felt passion. I’ve punished myself for years, for minutes of indiscretion.”

  I studied her wrinkled skin, her ever-bright, flashing eyes. I’d never heard even a rumored hint of what she was telling me.

  “I’m your friend, Louisa,” she said with sudden, gentle reassurance. “For all these years I’ve protected you. Dexter and I, we’ve protected you. We’ve watched you develop and mature. And you’ve fulfilled our expectations. More than fulfilled our expectations. We’ve congratulated ourselves for choosing you. This community takes care of its own—have no fears on that score. You serve us well, you become one of us. Only this afternoon, Dexter said to me, you are one of us. You undertook a great sacrifice for us.”

  Cautiously I said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Of course not.” She patted my leg as if I were a child. “That’s as it should be. That’s why I’m giving you this warning, heedless as you are.” She paused, staring vacantly out the window. “They are planning a comeuppance for Thomas Sinclair. One that he deserves.” She didn’t look at me.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She gave me a shrewd, evaluating glance. “Let us say they are displeased with his ambitions for the power station.”

  “His ambitions? Whatever do you mean?” Surely, I thought, the directors must be pleased by his plans to “waste” no water.

  She smiled thinly. “I don’t want you caught in the whirlpool, shall we say, when it comes. Who knows how things will turn out in the end? I fear they’ve met their match in Thomas Sinclair.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “Men,” she said, spitting out the words. “Who else? Thinking they control the world.”

  “What men?”

  “Dear, dear Louisa. Disingenuousness does not become you.”

  So John Albright had once told me. Why did everyone assume I knew their secrets?

  “You should extricate yourself from any … entanglements, as quickly as possible.” She studied me for a moment. When she continued, she was completely matter-of-fact, without a hint of emotion, but she didn’t meet my eyes. Like Patty Milburn, she gazed slightly over my shoulder. “And if you don’t, or can’t, rest assured that I shall look after Grace for you.”

  I couldn’t breathe; there was a terrible pressure against my chest. All I could say was, “Pardon?”

  “You need have no fear on that score. I will treat her as my own.”

  She couldn’t know the truth.

  “Grace will live at 184 and enjoy every advantage—as she should, given her true parentage. Her elevated heritage.” Her face took on a look of smug complacency that terrified me. It was impossible that she should know the truth. And yet seemingly she did.

  I called to Beck, “Please stop. I wish to get out.” I couldn’t listen to any more of this. “Please. Stop.” He began to slow the horses.

  Miss Love looked startled and displeased, caught off-guard. “Where are you going?”

  “It’s hot. I’ll walk home.”

  “You can’t do that. Beck, continue,” she called.

  “Beck, please. I am unwell.”

  At this—the threat of a passenger being sick in his brougham—Beck did stop, promptly pulling over at the curb. With Maria Love’s useless protests surrounding me, I got out and hurried away. Away from her warnings, and her knowledge.

  In the warm, humid evening air, strands of damp hair clung to my cheeks. I was trembling. Struggling to steady my hands, to control my breathing, I looked around. Slowly the scene came into focus: I was near the exposition’s Lincoln Parkway gate. People were bustling around me, alive with expectation. I followed them, separate from them and yet united with them, passing into the scene as if entering a painting. Accompanied by the brash American optimism of a John Philip Sousa march from the bandstand, I walked down to the park lake.

  Now, nearing seven-thirty, the sun was low in the sky, lending everything in its path a luminous precision. The water bore the reflections of trees and rowboats, of playful birds and Spanish turrets. Well-dressed children with their stockings off threw cake crumbs to eager ducks along the shore. The boaters cavorted, splashing on the lake where Karl Speyer had drowned … how many months ago now? I had to pause, and carefully count to make up for the lack of sleep that set my mind adrift. I was floating; all my days, floating like a mist on the water. Five months, it was. Karl Speyer, the engineer-hero; no evidence, no hint of him remained here.

  As I stood unmoored with my thoughts, the sky gradually turned ominous; dark clouds scudded across the horizon, sheeting the sky with an eerily greenish gray. The air itself pressed against me, as if I were breathing clouds. All at once the wind whipped up, lightning cut the sky, and with the thunder came the rain, torrential as a waterfall rippling in waves across the surface of the lake. The rain drenched me and I shivered. Then just as fast as it had arrived the wind died away and the rain became a gentle, soothing wash. In the boats on the water, men and women, young and old, lifted their faces and let the rain run down their cheeks, cooling them after the day’s heat. I too turned my face to the rain, the precious rain that washed away at last the remembered stench of the harbor and the haunted faces along the waterfront.

  The boaters, in a precarious position during a lightning storm, seemed not to understand what was happening—as if they, like me, had entered a dreamscape. After several minutes of suspended animation, they began to realize their predicament and to row fiercely toward the shore, some laughing, others anxiously counting the strokes that would lead them to the safety of the boathouse. I too awoke to the fact that I was beside a tree in a lightning storm, and I took shelter beneath the boathouse’s second-floor balcony. On the broad, formal staircase leading to the lake, the water level slowly rose, first one step, then two, then three.

  And so the lazy storm rested upon us for about an hour. I stayed where I was, watching the night fall. Gradually I perceived that something was different. What was it? I looked around in confusion, and then I knew: The darkness was absolute. The electricity was off. The goddess atop the Electric Tower had no power, the Pan-Am’s gaudy rooftops were invisible. We were taken back to the days before our hope.

  The rain stopped. A warm mist, the consistency of floating dew-drops, hung in the air. People began to emerge from their makeshift shelters to feel their way home in the darkness. Several exposition workers appeared with emergency lanterns to light their way.

  “A lightning bolt at the power station,” someone asserted with great authority.

  “Happens all the time,” someone else affirmed with equal confidence.

  I waited for the crowd to depart, wanting time alone. I was still in my “costume,” I realized with a start: my schoolmarm’s silk dress soaked, the skirts clinging, outlining my legs and articulating my body, a camouflage no longer.

  The water smelled fragrant as I walked to the lake. What Maria Love had said in the carriage … could she know the truth? But no one knew apart from Tom, who’d guessed only because he saw Grace every day. Certainly some people knew smidgeons of the truth: Gilder, with his slick arrogance, who’d taken me to Cleveland; my acquaintance at the settlement house in New York, who’d found a doctor for me; Dr. Perlmutter, who’d brought the infant Grace to Buffal
o at my instigation. Each of them knew a thread of truth (even Tom guessed at only one thread) but no one could weave the threads together into a complete picture; no one except me. I had to believe this—I couldn’t survive otherwise. I searched my mind: There had to be a rational explanation for every one of Miss Love’s pronouncements. Rest assured that I shall look after Grace for you: I was Grace’s godmother, therefore I had a sacred duty toward her, especially after Margaret’s death; Miss Love was referring to my position as godmother. Grace’s elevated heritage: Through Margaret, Grace was a Winspear, undoubtedly quite elevated enough for Miss Love, especially when compared to Tom’s background. And what of Miss Love’s words about a comeuppance for Tom? Well, Miss Love had always spoken disparagingly of Tom and would be quick to exaggerate anything that might threaten his position. Most likely Tom was already aware of the dangers she alluded to, which were probably embedded in Albright’s message, as well—the message Tom had laughed off. With every inhalation of the sweet, vaporous air, I felt my confidence growing, my equanimity returning, until finally I had convinced myself: Maria Love knew nothing about Tom or Grace. I could return home; I could resume my life.

  Carriage lanterns guided my way up Lincoln Parkway. On my left was the Sinclair estate, stone wall and tall hedges concealing tennis court, formal garden, bathing pool; I saw them all in my mind. When I came to the house itself, the windows revealed the soft glow of candlelight instead of the usual starkness of electricity. I paused, staring. On the second floor there were candles in the library, and I imagined Tom at his desk in the corner, reviewing files about water. But more important to me was the bright candlelight that came from the third floor, Grace’s floor. Perhaps she was finishing an evening snack of applesauce, graham crackers, and cocoa. Or maybe she was bathing, and the housekeeper held up the warm, thick towels that awaited her. Her lacy nightgown was smoothly—lovingly—laid out upon the bed. She was safe.

  Secure in this certainty, I crossed Forest Avenue and continued on my way, walking more by instinct than sight, using candlelit homes as my landmarks, enjoying the sprinkle of raindrops that fell from the wet leaves onto my face. Gradually I became aware of the leisurely clip-clop of a hansom on the asphalt roadway beside me; the hansom was beside me but slightly behind, its lantern propped high to give off a wide circle of light. No surprise in that. What surprised me was the hansom’s slow pace. I slowed my own walk, to let the carriage overtake me. But the driver matched my pace. I glanced over, but there was nothing to see: an open carriage, no passengers, a driver with his cap pulled down to shield his face from the weather. No doubt he saw me as a likely fare and was waiting for me to signal him. There was nothing threatening about him, and yet I was abruptly, irrationally overcome by fear. The slow clip-clop, clip-clop echoed through the mist-laden silence of the deserted streets.

  At Soldier’s Place I crossed onto Bidwell Parkway, and the carriage turned too. When I walked faster, the driver quickened his pace. I held down the urge to run, but I walked so fast that I virtually was running.

  Finally I arrived at my door, breathless. I fumbled for the key, felt for the keyhole, turned the lock. Once the door was open and I’d put one foot across the threshold, I stopped, escape at hand, to see what the driver would do. He drove on, unhurriedly, into the darkened night.

  At first my heart raced wildly in freedom and relief, but slowly I realized that I was completely alone. At this hour, even Katarzyna had gone home to her family. Through my own wish, my own desperation to keep a secret, I had cut myself off from companionship and affection. There was no one in the house to welcome my return, to wonder where I’d been, to listen eagerly to the tale. Through my own devices, no one was here to notice whether I returned home or not.

  Everything had turned out exactly as I had planned. Exactly as I had hoped and arranged. Yet now I wondered if I had planned correctly, ten years ago, in the crisis of the moment, still a girl—or so I seemed to myself now. But then I had thought myself a woman. I was still hopeful, still optimistic—then. Four or five years, at most, would I spend at the Macaulay School. Then I would go to Europe to study geology. I would go on expeditions in the West as I had done with my father. Perhaps I would even fall in love, have a family…. Certainly the Macaulay School would never turn into my life. Never would I be so alone that I’d be afraid of a hansom cab beside me in the dark.

  Leaving the door ajar, I took several steps toward the street and looked down Lincoln Parkway to the Sinclair house. Glimpsed through the trees, the upper windows radiated a nimbus of candlelight. And I thought, this is the sum total of what I have willed: to be able to study that house from a distance, and know all was well.

  CHAPTER XXV

  A boy, read the note that Elbert Hubbard sent me at the end of July, unusually large and healthy, considering the “sin that went into its making.” I could hear Elbert’s parodying voice. The wet nurse and her husband, a farmer, would be pleased to have him, if there are no other plans. They can be trusted to maintain privacy, and I know they would offer him affection, having recently lost their own, and only, infant.

  But there were other plans. All was arranged according to Abigail’s instructions. Dr. Perlmutter had found a childless family in town. Even now a young woman, possibly a Macaulay graduate, was wearing padding and was well into her “confinement,” having declared to family and friends that she’d kept the pregnancy secret for so long because of her years of bad luck and miscarriages. Nonetheless Dr. Perlmutter had strongly cautioned this unnamed young woman and her husband against relying on the adoption: The infant might prove to be ill, or dark-skinned; the mother might change her mind or make unreasonable demands. From his professional position, Dr. Perlmutter had frankly reviewed the possibilities.

  With this in mind, I resolved to present Elbert’s idea to Abigail. The more I thought about it, the more appealing his idea became. If the nurse and her husband took the baby, Abigail would always know where the child was and how he fared. Perhaps she could even visit him now and again (the child remaining ignorant of her true identity, of course). On the other hand, if the baby was adopted by an unknown family in town, Abigail would be left always wondering, always speculating—ever searching for the child who was her child.

  Abigail herself would have to decide. Some might balk at entrusting such a decision to a girl not yet eighteen, but I could only do what I would want done myself, were I in her position. The idea that Abigail would keep the child was out of the question; her life would be ruined. She was no Alice Moore (Elbert’s paramour), able to make her own way in the world, with family to assist her by caring for the child. Abigail was virtually a child herself. If she kept the infant, she would become an outcast.

  The day after I received Elbert’s note, having few duties at school on a beautiful summer’s morning, I took the train to the village of East Aurora. The narrow gauge railway of the Western New York and Pennsylvania line carried me into the lush, rolling countryside to the southeast of Buffalo. This was horse country for Buffalo’s Hamlin, Jewett, and Knox families. The Jewett farm was renowned for its covered, heated racetrack. A love of horse training and racing had originally led Elbert to East Aurora. The village was less than twenty miles from the city, yet it seemed strangely obscure and hidden, reachable only by a convoluted journey through vaporous meadows.

  From the tiny station, I walked the short distance to Elbert’s home. The quiet was immense; the only sound was birdsong. Over the years, Elbert had purchased house after house, taking over the village block by block to establish his Roycroft community of artisans. He wanted to create the atmosphere of an era before factories, before machines, and he had. Sheep grazed around the chapel, rhododendron bloomed deep purple, and the scents of burning wood and fresh-baked gingerbread filled the air. The Roycroft community glorified individual craftsmanship as opposed to modern mass production, and designers came from around the country to work in the print shop, the bindery, the metal and furniture shops. Many of the c
raftsmen executing the designs were local people, men and women escaping farm labor for a life of artistry. Elbert brought an intellectual life to East Aurora as well, with lectures and activities on every subject within the reach of his imagination. All this was financed by Elbert’s commercial genius: by his ability to use advertising and direct marketing to convince the general public that handmade books and furniture were essential accoutrements of upwardly mobile life.

  Elbert’s home was a reflection of his beliefs, and I felt every tension melt away from me as I went through the door, entering a realm in which each object, no matter how minor or utilitarian, had been transformed into a thing of beauty. He greeted me with a brotherly hug. “We’ve told everyone that our young apprentice is laid up with ‘fever,’” he explained, leading me to the stairs. “A very serious fever indeed, requiring a doctor and a constant attendant—although we advertise a full recovery. Meanwhile, the grandmother has been very helpful in the kitchen. She’s there now in fact, whipping up a strudel concoction with early peaches. The young lady herself has shown an aptitude for watercoloring, under Bertha’s direction. We’ve managed to keep her from prying eyes, I’m glad to report, and the infant has cooperated by not crying too much. So far.”

  Elbert’s employees were fiercely protective of him; if a baby cried and Elbert didn’t hear it, they didn’t either.

  We reached the third-floor landing, and I was grateful to see that Elbert had given Abigail and her grandmother the entire top floor. To the left, there was a comfortable parlor where a plump young woman sat knitting in a rocking chair. A calico kerchief covered her head, and a few strands of pale hair curled around her face. This must be the wet nurse.

  “Mrs. Houghton, good morning,” Elbert said in his most charming manner. He did not introduce me, however: If anything went wrong, my name wouldn’t be brought into the situation. “I can’t help but notice that the infant thrives.”