“Are we complicit, Cousin Manon? Does having anything to do with this place make us part of what happens here?”
She reached up and patted his shoulder. “Oh my, Cousin Nicholas. You have had some sort of troubling encounter I take it.” She looked over at what was supposed to be the infants’ ward, though females of all ages were shoved together wherever there was space. “Was it Frankly Clement or perhaps his equally odious wife who put you in this mood?”
“I’ve never met her, but he’s a barbarian. And by not denouncing him we—
“We help to mitigate his excesses, Cousin Nicholas. At least that’s what I believe. It’s why I continue to come here. Were you looking for me to talk about Frankly Clement?”
“No, not really. I’ve been given three hundred dollars. It would buy blankets, at least enough for the women’s wing. Maybe some sheets as well. Or I could get some covering for those damned cages so if it rains the lunatics aren’t…” He let the words trail away. “God Almighty, it all seems like such a drop of relief in an ocean of misery.”
“Indeed,” Manon agreed. “There is no point in fooling ourselves that whatever we do is anything more.”
“Which then? Blankets or covers for the cages?”
“Or? Come, Cousin Nicholas, I think you have an alternative in mind. Otherwise you would not be speaking to me about it, merely making a judgment based on practicality.”
“You are a wise woman.”
“I’ve been force-fed wisdom, Cousin. Our bad decisions are frequently the most effective teacher.”
The birthday of her twins had come round the week before. They would have been seventeen. If Manon had done what she was advised to do and taken herself and her babies over to Long Island to get away from the pestilence and allowed someone else to nurse Joyful, already down with the disease, perhaps her babies would have lived. If, if, if.
She’d marked her sons’ birthday by a visit to their grave in the yard of the old French Church on Pine Street, put two small nosegays of pansies by the single headstone, just as she always did, and left a third bunch of flowers a short distance away for her beloved Joyful. He had never been a member of the French Church, but Papa had persuaded the rector to allow Joyful to lie near his sons. Now Papa was in the ground as well. Each time she visited the graveyard she looked at the plot waiting for her, and not with sorrow.
“So, Cousin Nicholas, what do you have in mind?”
“A laboratory,” Nick said, the words coming out in a rush now that he’d decided to speak them. “Where we can investigate the causes of illness. Forgive me, Cousin Manon, but we’re only sopping up the blood after it has started to flow. Research can—”
“You’re talking about dissection.”
“Other studies as well, but yes, anatomies are part of my plan.” He saw no point in equivocating.
Manon smiled. “I doubt our poor lunatics are likely to notice if they are beset by sun or rain in their cages. It’s the nature of lunacy, is it not? Fortunate in a way. As for the blankets, if you buy them, Cousin Nicholas, they will soon be ruined or stolen, because there is no proper organizing authority in this place, and as long as Tobias Grant rules, you will not be allowed to establish any. Use the gift to start your laboratory. Not even a villain like Tobias Grant can steal knowledge.”
Chapter Seven
“ALL RIGHT, DOROTHY.” Carolina took a good grip on the bedpost. “I’m going to take the deepest breath possible and you pull the laces as tight as ever you can.”
Carolina didn’t have a lady’s maid. It was up to Dorothy to put her knee in the small of madam’s back and apply all her strength to closing the corset.
“There, I think that’s got it, ma’am. If the dress don’t fit now, it never will.”
“Oh, it will fit, Dorothy. I am determined that it shall.”
The frock was made of bronze-colored silk taffeta—a lovely autumn color the dressmaker had said—with a fashionable off-the-shoulder neck framed by a wide collar, gloriously huge puffed sleeves, and a sweep of skirt worn over four petticoats. No one had seen it, not even Samuel. It was her first new frock since Zachary’s birth four months before. Carolina twirled before the mirror, frankly enchanted by her appearance. “I don’t look old and plump and past my age of charm, do I, Dorothy?”
“Not a bit of it, ma’am. The color’s unusual, but it suits you. If I may say.”
“Oh, you may. You may.” All that width above and below made her waist appear positively tiny, just as the dressmaker promised. If anything, she looked slimmer than she had before the birth of her son.
“Will you wear your pearls, ma’am? Look right lovely with it they will.”
The long strand of matched pearls had belonged to her mother. Papa had given them to her on her wedding day. “Not now, Dorothy. A twenty-inch strand of pearls is too dressy for an afternoon do.” But she would put them on as soon as she returned, and she wouldn’t take off the frock until Samuel arrived home, whatever hour that turned out to be. Then perhaps he…Carolina glanced at the bed then looked quickly away. Surely now that she was past her confinement, a nocturnal visit would be in order.
“Shall I tell Barnabas to bring the buggy round, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you, Dorothy. Right away. I’ll just pop up to the nursery and say goodbye to little Zachary and Nurse.” She would be away three or four hours, the longest she’d been separated from her son since his birth. She knew it was silly, but she was already feeling pangs of loneliness and misgiving. That wouldn’t do. Nurse was entirely capable and trustworthy. Besides, it was in a good cause. She wasn’t leaving Zac for frivolous nonsense, Carolina reminded herself. This was for charity.
There were those who denounced assistance to what they called the undeserving poor. Prosperous and portly men, former New Englanders, who joined those Presbyterian congregations where New Order Evangelicals dominated. Indiscriminate charity, they said, encourages ignorance, idleness, intemperance, extravagance, imprudent marriages, and defective child-rearing practices. Giving aid to women with children incites them to become pregnant yet again in the hope of getting still more aid, they said. Not to mention that such burdens drive up taxes.
In a city as bustling and unruly as New York, where the needs of the have-nots seemed both endless and impossible ever to be fully met, the idea that it might be possible without guilt to relieve oneself of the burden of care proved particularly attractive. In recent years a great many genteel ladies had stopped their participation in such things as the Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with Small Children. Charity, the respectable ladies said in agreement with their husbands, should consist solely of exhortations to sobriety, cleanliness, frugality, and doing for oneself in place of hand-outs. Otherwise there was Bellevue.
A small but influential minority—mostly but not entirely female—did not share that view. Manon Turner had sought them out. If she were a man she’d have convened this meeting of some thirty like-minded people in one of the city’s many new and very pleasant hotels, but that was not an option for a woman. What Manon’s invitations called an afternoon Tea and Reception was held in the spacious downstairs parlor of her house on Wall Street. There, before allowing even a sip of the promised tea, she spent twenty minutes telling her guests of her proposed Society for Aid to Poor Families. Mostly it was a recitation of the reality of conditions at Bellevue. Then she introduced Nick. “No long speech is needed, Cousin Nicholas,” she’d promised when she inveigled him into attending. “Just tell them I’m not lying about how things are. And say that if we can keep the poor from needing to abandon what homes they have, however humble, we will be wise as well as merciful.”
“And will you tell them why things are as they are at Bellevue?”
“Certainly not. I shall say only that the conditions are a result of overcrowding.”
“But—”
“If Tobias Grant ever believes I am his enemy, I shall be enjoined from ever coming near Bellevue. And he will see to
it that my society never gets to be more than the notion of a slightly addled old woman.”
“You’re not old.”
Old enough. Forty-two her next birthday. “Though I confess I don’t feel so. Nor am I addled. But if Dr. Grant did not have powerful allies, he wouldn’t be allowed to do what he does. We must choose our battles, Cousin Nicholas.”
She was right, so now he was at the gathering on Wall Street, doing exactly what Manon had asked him to do. “In closing I can only say that I attest to everything Mrs. Turner has told you. And I commend her and all of you for your foresighted wisdom, as well as your great kindness and charity. The Society for Aid to Poor Families will make an enormous difference to our city and to Bellevue, I’m sure.”
There was polite applause; Manon expected no more. It wasn’t fashionable to show public enthusiasm unless you were in a theater or a music hall. As for all the ladies busy studying Nicholas from behind their fans—particularly the half-dozen or so with unmarried daughters—she’d expected that as well.
Nicholas sat down, and Manon took his place. “Thank you all for coming. Please be sure to see our secretary, Miss Adelaide Bellingham, before you leave.” She nodded in the direction of a middle-aged woman sitting at a table near the door. Bit of a lump of dough Addie was. Wearing sturdy brown kersey and laced-up shoes, in contrast to the birds of plumage who filled the parlor. Perhaps, Manon thought, she’d made a mistake by including her. Never mind, Addie was ready to inscribe the names and subscriptions of the society’s new members, a necessary task. “First do please have some refreshments,” Manon said. “I look forward to a private word with each of you before you go. And thank you again for joining us, Dr. Turner.”
Nick nodded an acknowledgment and stood up. Off the leash at last. He’d spied the ravishing golden-haired creature the moment she arrived and now he headed straight for her. Any number of women interrupted his progress, each pressing a visiting card upon him, some mentioning a charming daughter who hadn’t managed to be here. He promised to call on them all. “How very kind of you. I shall look forward to it,” he kept repeating, mindful to be seen putting the card carefully in his breast pocket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
By the time he got to the young woman with the golden curls, she was nearly finished with a small glass of punch. “Isn’t it extraordinary to think Devrey Shipping actually began in these very rooms, Dr. Turner?”
“Did it? I didn’t know that.” Damn. Silk gloves. No way to tell if she wore a wedding band. Manon would know, of course.
“Yes, it did. Willem van Der Vries built this house in 1700. His counting rooms were here on the ground floor, and he and his family lived upstairs. A very Dutch way of doing business. Though earlier, as soon as we became New York rather than New Amsterdam, old Willem had changed his name to Devrey.”
“You are a historian, I see. I am mightily impressed.” Her smile was enchanting, and the unusual color of her frock brought out gold flecks in her brown eyes.
“Oh, not really a historian, Dr. Turner. But I do know…” She stopped speaking when Manon joined them.
“I see you’ve met Cousin Carolina, Cousin Nicholas. I meant to introduce you, but obviously I’m too late.”
“Cousin Carolina? I didn’t know.” He’d suspected as soon as she mentioned Devrey Shipping.
“Indeed,” the golden princess said and held out her hand. “I’m Carolina Devrey. Samuel’s wife.”
He managed to take her hand and bow over it, he even mumbled something appropriate, but his heart was pounding as if he’d run a mile at high speed. Hard to say which he felt more, disappointment or astonishment. Sam Devrey had a wife like this, yet he was maintaining that extraordinary second household on Cherry Street. Damn, he’d been hanging onto Carolina Devrey’s hand far too long. Nick let go.
Carolina looked at him with almost as much intensity as he had looked at her. Manon broke the silence. “I heard you telling Cousin Nicholas about the old Devrey counting rooms. They shall soon be resurrected.”
“Surely not,” Carolina protested. “Devrey’s are to have wonderful new quarters on Canal Street. My husband has told me all about them.”
“Yes, of course. I only meant that since this is one of the last private homes on Wall Street, I’ve decided to sell. My attorney tells me we’ve a decent offer from a firm that deals in the importing of tea. I’ve no doubt that in good New York fashion they will tear down this old brick pile and put up a brand-new counting house in its place.”
“But where shall you live?” Carolina asked.
“Oh, I’ll find somewhere. A widow on her own doesn’t need a large establishment. Perhaps I’ll take rooms in some lodging house and share them with Addie over there.”
Carolina glanced in the direction of the woman by the door. “But Cousin Manon. She’s not—”
“Not our sort?” Manon laughed. “You’re right, of course.” She’d found Adelaide Bellingham among the able-bodied poor in Bellevue nearly a year before. An orphan and never married, she had lost her job as a seamstress when she broke her leg in a fall. All downhill from there. Until Manon took her in, and since Addie could read and write as well as sew, managed to keep her busy. “She’s a good sort, nonetheless,” she added. “What do you think, Cousin Nicholas? Shall I share lodgings with Miss Bellingham?” And what would they say, it crossed her mind to wonder, if she mentioned the one remarkable thing tucked away in the baggage she would be bringing with her to whatever ordinary rooms she managed to find once this romantic old pile of bricks was sold? No time for that now. Cousin Nicholas was still staring at Carolina as if she were Venus rising from the waves. Best make sure he was clear about the situation. “How is your new son, Cousin Carolina?”
“Zachary’s quite wonderful. You must call round and meet him, Cousin Manon. Come for tea. Just you and I.” Both women smiled at the acknowledgment that it was best if Manon came when Samuel was not at home. “You can tell me more about your plans for the new society. Now I must go.”
“Don’t forget to leave your name with Miss Bellingham,” Manon cautioned.
Carolina promised she would and that she was delighted to have met Nicholas, who must also come and visit the Devrey household sometime soon. “Don’t let that old Turner and Devrey feud keep you away,” she said. “I have no idea what it was about, and I’m sure my husband doesn’t either.” Nick made the correct sort of response, and, in a flurry of her fashionably wide skirts, Carolina was gone.
“You’re not to leave until everyone else has, Cousin Nicholas,” Manon instructed him. “I want you to accompany me on a brief visit. And stop looking like a deserted puppy dog. I agree that Carolina’s lovely, but never fear, there’s a goodly supply of lovely young New York ladies. And only one happens to be married to Sam Devrey.”
No, Nick thought, that was precisely the problem. There were two.
“Well,” Manon demanded, after a brisk twenty-minute walk had brought them to Prince Street, “what do you think?”
“I’d absolutely no idea the place was here. It’s remarkable.” Nick removed his tall hat so he could tip his head back and examine the double-width, three-story red-brick building. A small sign announced the place as St. Patrick’s Orphan Asylum. According to Manon, it had been built by something called the Roman Catholic Diocese of New York. “Preachers who do more than harangue the poor about reforming their profligate ways,” Nick said. “What a novel idea.”
“Not preachers,” Manon said. “Women. The Sisters of Charity. They live here together and look after the children themselves.”
“Good heavens. What do their husbands think?”
“They have no husbands. They take vows of poverty and chastity, and promise to be obedient to the bishop rather than a husband.”
“And to the pope in Rome,” Nick said with a sigh. He abhorred the prejudice that weighed like a boot on the necks of the immigrant poor, but they did seem to bring some of it on themselves with their odd notions about religi
on. “That doesn’t seem a very American idea. And does this bishop treat them all as his wives?”
“You have been listening to spiteful talk, Cousin Nicholas. One might even call it bigotry.”
“Now look here—”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you. These women obey the pope and the bishop in spiritual matters. Nothing else. Now come inside and meet Mother Louise. Then tell me if you think it likely the Sisters of Charity are the sort of women you imply they may be.”
“Yes, I will if you wish, but…Cousin Manon, are you a Catholic?”
“Heavens no! I merely admire what these women have accomplished with good will and determination.”
Like black crows they were, wearing black bonnets with a floppy ruffle and black dresses with a short cape and a high neck and long sleeves. Nick was confronted with a pair of them sitting primly on straight-backed chairs. The younger said nothing, only fingered the string of wooden beads hanging at her waist. The talkative one, whom Manon had introduced as Mother Louise, had a long, sharp nose, exactly like a crow’s beak. And apparently she read minds. “You are thinking how odd we look, Dr. Turner, and how unfashionable. Mother Seton was in Italy when her husband died, and she adopted the style of dress of widows there. And we after her.”
“No, really, I wasn’t thinking anything of the sort.”
Her chuckle was rich and warm. “It doesn’t matter, we’re quite accustomed to being oddities. We’re the first in this city, you see. In Mother Seton’s day there were a few nuns representing various congregations in other states and many in Europe, but in New York, in 1804, there were none. If that were not the case she might have joined a congregation, rather than starting a new one.”
City of God Page 10
