“You are my guest. If you are leaving, then I will leave with you,” I declared resolutely.
“I disagree. My departure is wisdom but yours would be melodrama.”
I realized how foolish I’d been to invite her. “I’m so sorry to have put you in this position. I never properly considered the … ramifications of—”
“Don’t be sorry. I enjoyed every minute. Literally. I especially enjoyed the invitation. And now I can say I’ve discussed political issues with the president, which makes me more credible in the arena of national debate. Good day to you, Miss Barrett,” she said abruptly, and with that, she strode around the fountain and toward the house, nodding her head in pleasant greeting to the startled Miss Love. Rather than wait for my own fast-approaching Lovian encounter, I turned and walked across the lawns in the general direction of the Rumsey woods, which were the equivalent of a full city block away. Guests clustered all around, and soon I considered myself safely lost in the crowd. I was pondering my next move when I heard a woman call, “Miss Barrett! Oh, Miss Barrett!”
Having no choice, I turned to see Mrs. Rushman disengaging herself from the Freddy Coatsworths and approaching me with suspicious eagerness.
“Miss Barrett!” she repeated. “Have you heard?” She spoke loudly, for the benefit of those near us. “Abigail has been asked to stay on at the Roycrofters after the end of her fellowship. She certainly will become an artist now, in the great tradition of Mrs. Cary and Mrs. Glenny.” She glanced around to see if those esteemed women were anywhere nearby but mercifully they were not. “She says she’ll never marry, but we shall see, we shall see!” Mrs. Rushman leaned close to me. A bit of canapé had fallen on the bosom of her dress. “Every door will open to her now,” she whispered. “She’ll be able to marry anyone now. Oh, look who’s there! I must tell him the news.” Flashing her feather boa around her neck, she hurried off to greet Mr. Albright, who perambulated through the crowd with his long-limbed, sloe-eyed wife Susan on his arm. He appeared absolutely placid as he faced her.
I thought about what Mrs. Rushman had told me. So I had indeed bestowed upon Abigail my own life, except without a real child to watch over. Now she would resist marriage and spend her days searching for the boy she believed to be hers. However, if she also became a professional artist, well, at least I would feel a touch of redemption for the decisions I had made on her behalf.
My encounter with Mrs. Rushman had made the party feel oppressive. With the conviction that Krakauer would remain here until the end (there were too many important people in attendance for him to depart early), I decided to seek refuge for a while in the quiet of the woods.
In their own way, the woods of Rumsey Park were as manicured as the lawns and gardens—every woodland tree planted, every bubbling cascade shaped with the overall effect in mind. I had walked here many times over the years, and I welcomed every opportunity. From the moment I followed the path into the woods, trees sheltered me and silence enveloped me. These woods were famous in the city and laden with romantic mystery. In their midst was a serpentine lake where generations of children had learned to ice-skate and row boats. A spired, Gothic gazebo graced the lakeshore. Near the center of the lake was a small island with a Grecian peristyle just large enough to shelter a boating party from the rain. Today, because of a passing noontime shower, the woods were moist and shimmery, fragrant with the scents of late summer. Simply breathing those scents gradually eased my mind and restored the focus I needed to deal with the difficulties that besieged me.
After the path curved around a stand of birch trees, unexpectedly I came upon Dexter Rumsey relaxing on a bench in a clearing. His eyes were closed and he basked in the sun. This was like him, to wander off from big groups; to leave public panoply to his elder brother, Bronson. Hearing my step, he sat up and opened his eyes, then greeted me with a guilty grin.
“Miss Barrett!” he said with mock surprise. “Haven’t you met the president? Haven’t you attempted to overhear each and every word the president is saying to each and every person who comes to shake his hand?”
“Oh, yes, indeed I have. And a delightful experience it was,” I replied, my voice sounding less jaunty than I would have wished.
Nonetheless he laughed appreciatively as he rose from the bench. “Walk with me, will you?” he asked, taking my arm. “My brother is much more suited to these events than I am. I think he actually enjoys them! But what’s an older brother for, if not to give me the chance to roam the woods? I need a calming interlude after the excitement of the past few days. I haven’t been able to take my yacht out all week. There’s a kind of fever at work in the city, have you noticed? Did you hear that some silly boys from the Nichols School risked their lives to hang a banner welcoming the president around the third floor of their school building? When they found out that McKinley’s travel route would take him down a different block, they lobbied Milburn to change the route so McKinley would see the banner! What foolishness. Macaulay girls would never do something like that, I’m sure. Well, I’m grateful presidents don’t condescend to bless us with their presence very often.”
Late afternoon was turning to early evening and birds were coming out to feed: goldfinches making their way south; red-winged blackbirds, their shoulder patches flashing crimson and yellow against black.
Mrs. Talbert’s escape was fresh in my mind, and I’d been wondering what to do with the information Francesca had given me at Abino Bay about Milburn. I decided to appeal to Mr. Rumsey in the only way I was allowed: quietly, and with subterfuge.
“Mr. Rumsey, do you remember the incident in the summer involving my young student, Millicent Talbert?” How blasé I made my voice sound.
“Oh yes,” he replied, matching my tone as he gazed amiably at a red-headed woodpecker tapping its way up a tree trunk. “Unfortunate, indeed. I never could discover who was responsible, in spite of my best efforts.”
“Well, I have no proof, but I believe I’ve learned something rather … surprising about it.”
“Have you, now?”
“Yes,” I replied. Then I told him the story Francesca had told me on the beach.
“Well,” he said when I finished. “How very interesting.” He spoke as if the matter neither startled nor concerned him. But of course Dexter Rumsey fought his battles beneath the surface, so his seeming indifference disturbed me not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. It assured me of his full attention.
We walked in silence for several turns of the path, following the course of a meandering stream and its picturesque waterfalls. The wind rippled the surface of the water.
“Did you know that we’ve been having some financial problems with the Pan-American?” he confided. “No, of course you didn’t,” he said before I could answer, thus telling me that he preferred not to learn whatever gossip I might have heard. “I like to keep my ladies away from these tawdry details of business,” he added. “But I’ll trust you with the truth, Louisa. The fact is, debts have been incurred, plumbers aren’t being paid, suppliers of every stripe are lurking in wait for whatever pennies turn up. The bonds issued to the investors will never be repaid. And who’s to take the blame for this financial debacle—that’s what I’ve been asking myself. It wasn’t my idea to have an exposition here; certainly not—too much trouble altogether, for no particular reward.” He contemplated a troop of nearly grown ducklings trailing their mother. “Well, well.” All at once he smiled broadly. “What a perfect afternoon for a walk.”
Thus were our battles fought and won.
“Thank goodness for the arrests in the power station bombing,” Mr. Rumsey said, clearly intending to change the subject. “That’s a blessing at least.”
“I saw Susannah Riley today.” I told him this because I wanted to hear what he would say—to learn the official explanation, as it were, for her deeds. “She told me some rather unsettling things.”
“The woman is obviously insane. Poor creature. If I were you I wouldn’t listen to a wo
rd she says. Imagine, a woman being involved with dynamite!”
In spite of the seriousness of the matter, I smiled at him. “You don’t believe women capable of—”
“Now, now, don’t start in on me, my dear.” With mock terror he pulled away. “No lady of my acquaintance has ever used dynamite. As a matter of fact, I view it as a compliment, to consider a dynamite-toting woman insane rather than criminal. Don’t you?”
I regarded him skeptically. We were such skilled actors. Where had we trained, to develop such skills? A silly question: Every instant of our lives constituted our training.
“You and I are mutually incorrigible, aren’t we?” he asked. “But granted, it’s my age talking too. Seventy-four. Very respectable, I must say, and deserving of respect—although I don’t always get it, regardless of my well-earned reputation.” With a self-deprecating shrug he shook his head. “I can’t help but sense a new world growing up around me, filled with forces beyond my control. Nature lovers, unionists, socialists—even here, in Buffalo! Yes, there are socialists here,” he assured me. “I used to feel that my friends and I could guide our city’s future in exactly the way we wanted, and for the betterment of all, but now everything’s slipping through our fingers. Even at the power station, we have to make requests, instead of knowing that our views will be accepted by right. It’s not a situation I’m accustomed to. Although I suppose I’ll have to become accustomed to it.” He sighed.
As he spoke, fears filled my mind once more. Perhaps Grace wasn’t safe even with the strictures I had placed upon her. Maybe Krakauer had left the party early after all. Maybe even now, while I walked in the woods … I breathed deeply as I struggled to steady myself, and had no retort ready for Mr. Rumsey when he finished speaking. He glanced at me with concern.
“What is it, my dear? You aren’t your usual self today.” He rubbed my shoulder sympathetically, like a father to a child. “Too much excitement?”
“No, I—” Suddenly there was no question of battles to be fought and won, secrets to be kept, strategies to be plotted and fulfilled—there was only feeling, despair, spilling over, out of my control, tears filling my eyes and rendering me helpless. “I need your help, Mr. Rumsey,” I said as I wept. “Miss Love once told me—”
With soft humor he interrupted. “If Miss Love said it, then I’m sure it must be true.”
“She told me you would help me, if I ever—”
“Yes,” he interrupted again. He held my shoulders. He let me rest my forehead against his chest.
“I’m frightened.”
“About what?” So patient he was. So gentle.
“About Grace Sinclair.”
“Ah yes. I see her fairly frequently, you know. She’s a close friend of my daughter Ruth. Well, I’m sure you know that. Grace has seemed more cheerful, the last few times I’ve seen her. Her mother’s death was an awful blow. As it would be to any child.”
“Mr. Rumsey, she’s of special concern to me because—”
I was about to tell him about Krakauer’s threats, but he touched my lips to silence me. “There is no need to look back, my dear. To reopen wounds best left forgotten.”
“Pardon?”
“That may seem harsh now, but when you’ve had time to think about it, you’ll understand.”
What could he possibly mean? “But I haven’t told you everything, Mr. Rumsey. Grace—there’ve been threats. Against her. Mr. Krakauer said he would hurt her, and me, if Mr. Sinclair didn’t do—I mean, if Mr. Sinclair did do, certain things at the power station. Mr. Krakauer said …” But I couldn’t go on. I raised my head to look at Mr. Rumsey. He was staring at the trees with a quizzical expression on his face.
Finally he said, “I know of no threats to Grace, or to you. And I know everything, or so I am told.”
“But you don’t know about this,” I insisted. “Mr. Krakauer actually went to Grace’s home, trespassed onto the property and spoke to her. And he seems to know things about Grace that …” I choked on my tears. Mr. Rumsey rubbed my back reassuringly.
When I’d regained control, I continued. “I’ve been so upset, Mr. Rumsey. I haven’t known what to do or where to turn. I even went to see President Cleveland to ask him—” I gasped that I had said Cleveland’s name aloud.
Offhandedly Mr. Rumsey asked, “Did he remember you?”
And at that moment, like a mist slowly lifting to reveal the world in exquisite clarity and precision, all became self-evident. I saw everything afresh, with true meanings revealed. Maria Love’s talk of protection … the suspicious lack of suspicion, all these years … the Macaulay board’s acquiescence to my every desire … they had known … they had even arranged …
We stared at one another, Dexter Rumsey and I. I felt tears pooling in my eyes; one rolled down my cheek and Mr. Rumsey brushed it away. He smiled sadly.
“Don’t judge us harshly, my dear. We needed to do what was best. For the city. Not for ourselves.”
“For the city?” I repeated numbly.
“Yes. To show him we were trying to make amends. We trusted he’d be reelected in ’92. We wanted to have him on our side. On the city’s side. Issues arise … a sympathetic ear in the White House can sometimes be helpful. Do you understand?”
I shook my head no, though comprehension unfurled before me.
“You see, we knew he’d be looking for someone. That was his nature, always, to want someone. I myself find it hard to understand a man so ruled by pleasure that he would risk everything for fleeting satisfaction. However,” he sighed, “we must deal with the world as we find it, not as we wish it would be.”
“Yes,” I said, stunned.
“Why not guide him, we thought. In the right direction, that is. To someone we could trust. For his own protection. So he wouldn’t embarrass himself—and us—as he did with Mrs. Halpin. What a sorry mess that was, with journalists swarming everywhere when the story broke. And the lewdness of it all, with that woman drinking and being bundled off to an asylum. Really, I didn’t see how any of us would get through the newspaper frenzy with our self-respect intact. But somehow he managed to get himself elected in spite of it all, and then he had the gall to blame the city for his problems.” Mr. Rumsey shook his head in distaste. “But he was still president, you see. We needed him. We wrote off his first term, when he was so angry with us, but we hoped to do better in the second term. When we finally convinced him to visit Buffalo in May of ’91, we made our plan. You seemed perfect in every way. The logical choice. I asked Miss Love to invite you to her reception. I pointed you out to him. I said he might enjoy your conversation. That was all. But he understood me. He knew what I meant. And he was pleased. Oh yes. More than pleased.” Rumsey chuckled bleakly at the recollection. “But I knew he would be. How could he not be pleased with you? So tall and beautiful and well-educated. So amusing, with that dry, ironic wit I’ve always found so appealing. Not unlike his wife, in certain ways.” Mr. Rumsey caressed my cheek with the back of his fingers, the way he might comfort a child who’d fallen on the terrace steps. “We knew you were trustworthy. Not another Mrs. Halpin. No, no. You were suitable in every way. And you seemed to understand the necessity too.”
“I understood nothing,” I said, somehow summoning up the strength to speak. “I was innocent.”
For a moment he pondered this. “Ah,” he finally said. “So you went to the sacrifice unknowing. There’s something reminiscent of Greek tragedy about that, isn’t there? Every time I reread those plays I find more truth in them,” he mused wistfully. “At any rate, none of us has ever forgotten what you did. We’ve always shown our gratitude. Haven’t we?”
What could I say? For years I’d blamed myself. I’d struggled to reconcile myself to what had happened, to find a way to maintain control over my life, and now he’d told me that I hadn’t been in control at all.
With sincere concern he pressed, “Haven’t you been happy with how we’ve treated you all these years? Is there anything we could
have done that we didn’t do? Anything we could have given you?”
“Who is ‘we’?” I managed to ask.
“A few of us—what does it matter? Milburn, Wilcox—they were the ones most closely involved in controlling the mess when the Halpin story broke in ’84. There were a few others too. Never mind who. Not Larkin, of course—he’s much too upright!” Mr. Rumsey smiled fraternally at his friend’s exotic trait. “Maria naturally, but she only guessed, she wasn’t part of our decision-making. She saw you drive off with Gilder that night and came to me irate, insisting you must be removed from your post forthwith for your indiscretion with Gilder, she thought!” Jovially he laughed at the memory before turning serious once more. “And you’ve never suffered from it, Louisa, have you? We’ve tried to see to it that you’ve never suffered. Please reassure me on that. Assuage my heart. Even I—the all-knowing one—doubt myself when I turn off the light at night.”
I could see from his face that he did doubt. That he did care. How strange, that he could simultaneously use me as a pawn and fret over my well-being.
“But I bore a child.”
“Yes. Although I am the only one who knows that absolutely for certain. Again Maria has guessed, putting two and two together with the dates and so on. And Grace looks so much like you—not at all like poor Margaret Winspear. How terribly sad, her dying so young. I know you two were close friends.” He patted me sympathetically. “Anyway, I must admit that several of the original group have guessed. But I am the only one who knows for certain, and I shall never betray you.”
Did I hear an unspoken “if”? Did I hear his own threat, as strong as Krakauer’s, to destroy me if I didn’t do as he wished? “Exactly how do you know?” I asked.
City of Light Page 51
