City of Light

by Lauren Belfer

  “What do you mean?”

  “That he was there, with them. That he—”

  Tom laughed gently. “He was there, but he was with me.”

  Had I heard him properly? I pushed up against his chest, to look at his face.

  “When I discovered their plan, I decided to guide them. Or rather, I let Peter do the guiding. I took a tip from union-busting tactics and infiltrated their meetings.” His voice was cold now, and professional.

  So this was why Tom had shown no reaction when Peter was revealed to us by the lantern light. Should I have condemned him for using Peter, or complimented him? At that moment the complexities of his decisions were beyond my comprehension, and I dealt on a simpler level: “Did Peter escape? Did any of them escape?”

  “Peter at least. I hope. There’s a path along the river. Once they’re off the property, they’re separating, so they can’t be linked to one another. I’ve got a boat waiting upriver for Peter, if he can manage to get to it. He’s a good lad.” Tom shifted to nestle me closer.

  “What makes you think this will discredit them and not simply bring them more attention?” I spoke against the soft underside of his jaw.

  “People are sick of violence. And a power station’s got more intrinsic glory in people’s eyes than, say, an aluminum factory.” His strong fingers massaged the back of my head. “No one will support them now. I wish all my critics were so easily thwarted.”

  “Which critics?” I asked, beginning to sit up until his arms tightened around me.

  “None you need to bother yourself about.”

  “But—”

  He caressed my cheek with the back of his hand. “Now, now, enough of this talk,” he said, pressing me against him once more.

  As the carriage swayed, we drifted into languor. We took the River Road, along the Erie Canal and the Niagara River. The pear orchards of the Tonawandas surrounded us, the fruit ripening, its weight pulling down the branches. A hundred thousand pears: The air was heavy with their scent. I opened my eyes and gazed out the window: moonlight on water; pear trees as far as I could see; and nothing else, no one else.

  Closing my eyes again, slipping from Tom’s shoulder to his chest as I rested, I dreamed a memory, of being on a moonlit summer journey with my father in the West. We traveled on horseback, at night because it was cool. I wore a jacket and trousers. We followed an ancient Indian route. The moonlight and the starlight were bright enough to read a map. The sky was huge around us. An exultant sense of my own singularity filled me. Safe within my father’s love, I felt myself joined to a universe of infinite possibility.

  From far away I heard Tom’s voice. “Tell me you’re Grace’s mother.”

  Abruptly I was alert, my memory-dream cut short: “Her godmother,” I insisted, afraid even now to have this truth set out between us, afraid that the truth would push him away.

  “Her mother. Aren’t you? You gave her to us, after all; told us about her, arranged for everything. She looks just like you…. Tell me. I have a right to know.” Then, as if he already knew the answer, and would never judge me harshly, “Won’t you kiss me, Louisa?”

  “Yes.” I lifted my face to his. “Yes,” I said again, and I didn’t know which question I was answering, but all at once there was only one answer, to every question, because I was finally tired of fighting, tired of keeping secrets, tired of being always careful, always wary. I wanted someone else to fight for me. I might never fully understand him, but at least on this I could trust him. I could sigh against his chest and offer him every worry I’d suffered, knowing he would keep me safe; knowing he would never use my secrets against me.

  “I sensed it,” he whispered. “These last months. So in a way we’re married already, aren’t we? Having a child together.”

  How easy my life suddenly seemed; easier than I ever would have credited.

  “Who is Grace’s father?”

  “You are.” This I could never tell him, my humiliation too deep.

  “Don’t tease.”

  “I’m not teasing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You must. I have a right to know that too.”

  I pushed against him with my elbows in order to see his face, but a shadow thrown by the moon concealed him.

  “The man is no one from here, no one you know. A gentleman, I suppose we can call him. But no one you need to concern yourself about.” He squeezed my shoulders and I sensed his discontent. “You’ll just have to trust me on that,” I added.

  “All right,” he agreed with a grudging laugh, embracing me once more.

  Perhaps we slept in the carriage; we reached town sooner than I expected, and once inside the house, my fatigue lifted. Tom paced the second-floor library while I stood at the window waiting for the dawn. Grace was with Ruth Rumsey for the night, so I couldn’t go upstairs to watch her sleep.

  “Why don’t you lie down?” Tom finally said. Preoccupied, he checked his watch. Without explanation he went to the desk, unlocked the bottom drawer, and took out a small red portfolio. He counted the money inside. I sensed he had counted the money many times. While he glanced at his watch once more, we heard a faint knocking upon the door downstairs.

  “Excuse me, won’t you? I don’t mean to be rude, but I would prefer you to stay upstairs.”

  “Of course.”

  Nonetheless I went to the staircase. To the place where I had waited with Grace during Karl Speyer’s visit months before. I peered over the banister to see Tom leading Peter Fronczyk into the downstairs parlor. Peter wore a neat tweed suit and carried a new carpetbag. Except for his still-wayward hair, he looked all at once grown-up. He spoke excitedly to Tom, clearly relating the night’s events, and he appeared utterly happy, his expression open, eager, and newly confident. Tom regarded him indulgently, with a slight smile, as he closed the parlor door behind them.

  I felt my moral compass suspended, overwhelmed by all the explanations the night had brought me, waiting for the peace of reflection.

  Tom and Peter spoke for many minutes in the study. I grew restless. When finally they came out, Peter was putting the red portfolio into the inner pocket of his jacket. At the door, Tom gripped Peter’s shoulders. “Good luck,” Tom said. Neither of them seemed saddened by the parting; their plan was still playing itself out and they were still united.

  “Thanks,” Peter replied buoyantly, and then he was gone.

  Tom walked into the drawing room, and after a moment I went downstairs to join him. He was standing at the floor-to-ceiling French windows, staring into the garden, where amorphous shapes were being transformed by the dawn into irises and lilies.

  “I’ll miss him,” Tom said. “He reminds me of myself—needless to say. Stronger than me, though, I think. I’m not sure I could have done what he did tonight.”

  “Where will he go?”

  “He’ll disappear into the West, I suppose; at least that’s what I advised him. He doesn’t have much choice right now. The police will be searching out tonight’s perpetrators, and I don’t want Peter even temporarily caught in the net.”

  “Is that fair? To make Peter a criminal in order to discredit Daniel Henry Bates?” I surprised myself with my quick, flaring anger. “He had a future here. A family.”

  Tom gazed at me calmly. No doubt this was the way Margaret had spoken to him during the disagreements that had loomed so large in Grace’s mind: a man and woman in actual conversation, without simpering or manipulation.

  “I made Peter Fronczyk a hero. In my mind as well as his own,” Tom said matter-of-factly. “And I paid him well. He’ll be able to get an education now. Become an engineer, which is what he wanted. With enough left over to help his family. And he’ll stay in touch; I won’t forget him.”

  “Exactly how have you made him a hero? A hero to your profits?”

  He gave me a long, forbearing smile. “I’ll forgive you that, Louisa, because you were speaking out of forgetfulness
.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Come now. You know my dream. My goal.” He spoke lightly, as if joking. “I told you that evening you came to see to me about Grace, back in March. Don’t you remember?”

  “I remember visiting,” I said. I didn’t say, what I remember best is that it was the evening Karl Speyer died.

  “I bared my soul to you and you don’t even remember?” he teased. But then he turned away from me, touching the curtain with his fingertips as he stared out the window. “How many of us have the opportunity to step beyond ourselves? To do something for the common good? Not many, I think. I would like to make an attempt, at least. Don’t you remember”—he looked at me again—“my telling you that I wanted to be able to generate so much electricity that I could start giving it away? To make it a force for good in the world? To change the world? Don’t you remember that?”

  “Yes,” I said hesitantly, trying to think back. Was this the explanation, then? The explanation that had eluded me all these months? The reason for the veiled warnings from Maria Love and John Albright, for Mr. Rumsey’s inscrutable tactics? “But I thought you were talking about something in the distant future. A utopia. A dream. Not something you could achieve in the here and now.”

  “Well, cliché that it is, the future does have a way of catching up with us. The technology pushes us along. Makes the impossible possible. That’s how I’ll present it to the president next week.”

  “The president?” I asked with surprise.

  “Certainly. Why not go right to the top?” Tom joked. “He’d make a noble convert to the cause. Especially because he’s reputed to be at the mercy of the ever-so-magnanimous businessmen who put him where he is. That kind of dependency can’t do much for a president’s self-esteem. I’ll give him a chance to shock us all with his courage and fortitude. I know, I know: It’s doubtful he’ll play along. But it’s possible.” Tom gave me a shrugging but still hopeful look. More soberly he continued. “After Margaret died I realized I had to make this happen sooner rather than later. She had some sympathy for Niagara. Not for the preservationists and their inanities, but for the Falls. We had so many arguments about how far development should go. Grace overheard those arguments, I’m sorry to say, and I know they upset her.”

  All they ever fought about was electricity. Grace’s sorrowful words were embedded in my mind.

  “At any rate, Margaret thought my hope was absurd. Nothing but a pipe dream. But if she’d known it was real, she would have approved. She would have seen how worthwhile it is. Margaret of all people would have known that water falling over a cliff can’t be compared to giving people electricity to operate their wells. Or giving children light to read by, to educate themselves. She would have understood that all that water shouldn’t go to waste. But you see, Louisa,” he explained in frustration, “to make this work, there has to be enough output for both profits and charity. I have to placate the powerful; let them see where their own benefit lies—give them a taste of what it means to be paternalistic. And to do that, I have to clear the air a bit: put a stop to these ‘preservationists,’ so that the investors can evaluate the issues clearly.

  “I’ll admit to you that I’ve had doubts about this bombing. I hope I’ve done the right thing. Of course I could have stopped their little plot at any point after they hatched it, particularly once Peter was involved. It was their idea, but I was the one who had to decide whether to let it happen. I believe it was for the best, but I can only wait now to see how it plays out.”

  A voice from behind us said, “I must say in my opinion it was very clever. Very clever indeed.”

  CHAPTER XXX

  We spun around. Frederick Krakauer stood at the door of the drawing room looking pleased with himself, his fingers propped in the armholes of his pinstriped vest.

  I blushed that he should find me here.

  Angrily Tom asked, “How did you get in?”

  Krakauer waved his hand at the ease of his entry. Amiably he walked into the room as if he’d been invited. “It’s a little trick I often use with big houses like this.”

  He looked at us hopefully, as if we could guess what it was.

  “Don’t you know?” He waited. “No? It’s the kitchen door. Yes, the kitchen door!” he exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “This happens all the time: The servants go to bed and forget to lock the kitchen door. Or even if they do lock it, someone wakes up early, passes through the kitchen to get some breakfast, then goes outside leaving the door closed but unlocked behind him. The groom was the culprit in this case, and I’m grateful to him.”

  We stared at Krakauer, shocked. Complacently he glanced from me to Tom and back again. Finally recovering from my surprise, I said, “But Mr. Krakauer, this is completely unacceptable! How—”

  Tom placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “I don’t mean to misunderstand you, Krakauer, but you feel free to trespass whenever you choose?”

  “Not whenever I choose, but in cases of necessity.”

  “And what is your necessity here?” I could hear the wariness slipping through the surface confidence of Tom’s voice.

  “The explosion at the power station, naturally. I needed to locate you, Mr. Sinclair. To assure myself that you were all right. To protect the interests of the investors—I do nothing without the investors in the forefront of my mind. When I heard the news of the explosion, well, I hurried to your home. Strictly to make sure you were all right. We can’t be too careful in this day and age, what with unionists painting graffiti in the best parts of town and little colored girls nearly getting themselves pushed into grain bins.” He gazed at me knowingly. “You see, Miss Barrett—and what a pleasure it is to see you this morning—I may not manage to be everywhere at once, but eventually everything worth knowing comes my way, as if I’d actually been there to see it.” He nodded slowly, taking a moment to appreciate his own ubiquity.

  “Now then, what should I observe on my way to you early this morning but a young man approaching the house ahead of me. I recognized this young man! Yes, he was a former union agitator rumored to have thrown his loyalties to the preservationists. No doubt he carried a gun! A knife! Maybe he’d come to perform a cowardly deed against you, Mr. Sinclair, like that madman who attacked poor Mr. Frick in Pittsburgh.”

  In 1892, steel magnate Henry Clay Frick had been shot and wounded in his office by an anarchist. Krakauer’s contrived arguments were taking on a watertight logic.

  “Needless to say, and for your own protection, I had to investigate. Particularly after I saw this same young man about ten minutes later sneaking away from the house, patting his breast pocket. Well, I’m glad to find you hale and hearty, Mr. Sinclair. And you too, Miss Barrett.” He beamed.

  Businesslike and precise, Tom stepped forward. “Yes, as you see, Miss Barrett and I are quite fine, so you’d best be moving along. I’m sure there are other places where your services are required this morning.”

  “Most likely, Mr. Sinclair, most likely. However, we do have a bit of business to discuss, and this is as good a time as any.” He slumped into a wide upholstered chair. “I would enjoy some breakfast, Miss Barrett. Or at least a cup of coffee.” He rubbed his eyes. “I am not accustomed to these extra-early hours, I can tell you that.”

  “Miss Barrett has nothing to do with the running of this house, Krakauer. I would be happy to oblige your need for coffee, but unfortunately the cook has yet to begin her day.”

  Tom and Krakauer gave each other a long look. What balance of power was being worked out through this discussion of a cup of coffee? Krakauer finally looked away. He took out a pipe, filled and lit it, and began smoking. The tobacco smelled sickeningly sweet. With my stomach empty, I felt queasy.

  “You’ve handled things very well, sir, if I may say so. Bombing your own power station—discrediting the opposition in one fell swoop. I salute you!” Amazingly he did. “I don’t think even Mr. Morgan has ever thought of such a thing—although I’m sure he�
�s done things that I have no knowledge of. He’s deep, he is. Deep. If I worked for him for a hundred years, I wouldn’t know everything that’s on his mind. And the use of young Peter Fronczyk—again, brilliant. But getting back to the business at hand. Forgive me for saying so but Mr. Morgan has long harbored a suspicion in this regard. A suspicion about loyalties. Well, loyalties is the wrong word.” He waved it away. “Goals. That’s the word. The nation needs electricity to power the march of industry. But certain people, it seems, have their hearts set on giving the electricity away, so that—what did you say?—kids can read at night?” He studied Tom with condescending disbelief. “Throughout the ages kids have found candlelight highly sufficient for reading. Or oil lamps. Or kerosene lamps. Even gas—well, no need to go into all that now, I’m sure you see my point.”

  Tom said nothing.

  “You’re a sentimentalist, Mr. Sinclair, if I’ve ever met one. An idealist. Like that bright-eyed young man I just saw fleeing into the dawn, idealism written all over him. But the way to improve the lives of the poor is not to give them free electricity but to give them jobs, Mr. Sinclair. Jobs. Isn’t that self-evident? Thousands are employed at the power station, thousands at the industries of Niagara, thousands at the steelworks at Stony Point. Those with ability will rise in the ranks—much as you have done, Mr. Sinclair. And the others—those who can’t rise—well, they too are essential in their places. As they always have been!” He flourished his pipe through the air.

  “Frankly, Mr. Sinclair, I would have thought the trip from where you were born to where you are now would have hardened you to this reality.” He drew on his pipe, musing on his own words. “Well, well, we can only take what we find.” He sighed. “Pardon any unintended rudeness on my part, but it seems obvious, at least to me, that the investors did not provide millions of dollars to construct the greatest hydroelectric power complex in the history of the world, to have even a portion of the electricity given away in some kind of socialist plot.” He tilted his head, as if to beg forgiveness for his blunt speech. “Now, surely that is understandable. Logical, even,” he said with a great show of sympathy toward Tom.