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City of God

Page 17

by Swerling, Beverly


  “Oh no! Don’t say that, Mother Louise. You must not.” Another burden when she was already so unsure what to do about the one she had carried alone since Joyful’s death. “I’m only one person, a woman, I cannot be expected to decide about every—About such things.”

  The nun smiled. “I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean, but you need not carry any burden alone. None of us need do so. Apparently you have been made privy to a great, and if I may say, a highly personal and private, mystery. Your duty now is simply to pray about it and hold yourself open to hear the voice of the Spirit when it speaks. I shall pray with you, dear Mrs. Turner. We shall storm heaven together.”

  “Dr. Klein, a word if I may.”

  Ben was just hurrying down the steps of the synagogue, about to wave goodbye to his father and head over towards Broadway, where he could get an omnibus that would take him up the town to Twenty-second Street. He’d have to walk—even run—the rest of the way, but he was sure he could get to the hospital by quarter past nine. Except that a well-dressed gentleman of some considerable years was blocking his way forward. “I can’t stop now. I’m sorry, sir. I’m already late and—”

  “This is Mr. Samson Simson, Benjy. He is an important man.” Papa’s voice came from just behind Ben’s left shoulder, speaking right into his ear, as if he didn’t wish to be overheard by the other men leaving the service. “Mr. Simson wants to talk to you for a moment.”

  Ben knew exactly who Samson Simson was. Every Jew in New York knew who he was. The Simson family had been here since the city was New Amsterdam, and Samson Simson was New York’s first Jewish attorney. As a young man Samson Simson had been admitted to study law at Columbia under no less a personage than Aaron Burr, who—however far he’d fallen since that dreadful duel and however quietly he lived now with, it was said, a wife who was a former prostitute—had been the third vice president of the United States. Without that first step taken by Mr. Samson Simson, would he, Benjamin Klein, have been allowed to study medicine at the University of the City of New York? Probably not.

  Both his father and Mr. Simson wore grave expressions and both were watching him intently. It was apparent that Papa knew Mr. Simson would be here. That’s why he’d insisted that Ben attend this particular shachris, and probably why he was given the honor of the first aliyah. Papa wanted to soften him up. Though he had no idea why or for what.

  “Mr. Simson has been waiting for some time, Benjy. He wants to talk to you.”

  Samson Simson was an elder of Shearith Israel, one of those wealthy Jews who had been here so much longer than the Kleins and their mostly German neighbors. Mr. Simson had not come to B’nai Jeshurun to pray. He had not attended the morning service at the synagogue of the Ashkenazim. He had waited out here in the cold to see Benjamin Klein. But why? If Samson Simson wanted medical advice, it wouldn’t be from him.

  Jacob Klein’s small smithy and fine goods shop was also on Elm Street, three doors down from B’nai Jeshurun. He had been gently propelling his son and Mr. Simson in that direction since they began speaking. It did not surprise Ben to see his father produce the key to the shop door, open it wide, and step aside for Mr. Simson to precede him. “After you, sir. Come, Benjy.”

  “Papa, Dr. Turner is waiting—”

  The bell on the door jangled as Papa closed it behind them. “It is November, Benjy. Sensible people do not stand in the street and talk in the cold.”

  “But I can’t stay and talk. I told Dr. Turner I—”

  “I promise I will not keep you long, young Dr. Klein,” Mr. Simson said. “And this concerns Dr. Turner as well. In a manner of speaking.”

  “It does?” Ben didn’t bother saying that he was not yet entitled to be called “doctor.” A small moral lapse only. “My Dr. Turner at Bellevue?”

  “Indirectly, yes. Because he is, I believe, a cousin by marriage to the widow of Dr. Joyful Turner.”

  “I don’t—Ah, yes. Mrs. Manon Turner. I’ve heard her and Dr. Turner address each other as cousin.”

  “Exactly. I knew Mrs. Turner’s husband for a time. We had business together a few years before he died in the yellowing fever epidemic of 1816. Their two children died at the same time. A tragedy.”

  “Terrible. But Dr. Nicholas Turner says that if we pay enough attention to science we can someday find out the cause of the worst diseases that plague us and learn to cure them. Yellowing fever, cholera, even the deadly croup. The other day he showed us—” Ben broke off. He had been about to describe the diseased bronchial tubes and trachea of a little girl who died of the croup. All the students knew they were not supposed to discuss the anatomies. “Dr. Turner is a wonderful man of science,” Ben finished, not quite looking Mr. Simson in the eye. “Wonderful. A man worthy of great respect.”

  “I’m sure, Dr.—May I call you Ben?”

  “Yes, please, sir. Of course. But I really have to go. I promised Dr. Turner.”

  In the corner of the shop, where it could be seen by anyone who came through the door, was a tall clock, the workings of which had come from Switzerland, while the face and case were trimmed with intricate and very beautiful silver fretwork done by Jacob Klein. Papa’s clock kept excellent time, and now the silver hands pointed to twenty minutes before nine. If he left this very minute he couldn’t possibly be at the hospital before nine thirty. Dr. Turner would choose one of the other assistants to talk to about whatever it was he had wanted to discuss with Ben. “Papa, I—”

  “I apologize for making you late, young man,” Simson said before Ben’s father could speak. “And I appreciate your concern about punctuality. It is an admirable trait. My carriage is waiting just around the corner, and my driver will take you directly to Bellevue as soon as we are done here. Will that make it easier?”

  “Yes, of course. That’s very kind. But what do you want with me?”

  “What I want, Ben, is simply that you watch the Widow Turner as closely as you are able. And report to me anything she does that is in the least suspicious.”

  Ben knew he was staring and that his mouth was open. After a few seconds he found his voice. “Suspicious in what way? She helps the women patients. At least she tries to. What can I possibly report to you?”

  Simson carried a walking stick with a beautiful gold fox head. The old man planted the stick on the polished wooden floor of Papa’s smithy, put both his hands on the head of the cane, and leaned towards Ben. “I believe, indeed I know, that Manon Vionne, the lady who was then Joyful Turner’s fiancée and became his wife, is aware of certain elements of my dealings with her deceased husband. It is a matter of grave urgency, Ben. And it involves as well Mr. Jacob Astor.”

  “Old Mr. Astor?”

  “Yes. The man himself. We were allies at the time of which I speak. Our interests have since diverged, but some old business remains unfinished. The Widow Turner is central to that business. I tried to speak with her directly recently and I was…I believe the word is rebuffed. Further, I had the impression that she is not as stable as she once was. If she begins acting in any way—I suppose the word is odd—I wish to know about it at once.”

  “But I don’t know her. I only see her at the hospital sometimes. How will I know if she is acting odd, as you put it?”

  “I am not sure, young man. But when I came to your father’s shop a few days ago to commission a kiddush cup for a nephew who is about to be married, I learned in passing that the son of the admired smith, Jacob Klein”—with a formal nod in Papa’s direction—“was studying medicine and was at present an assistant at Bellevue. Considering how much time the Widow Turner is known to spend there, it seemed to me a fortunate opportunity. We Jews are a very small group here in New York, Ben. We are privileged to be in this place, here in these United States. I have long thought so. We must be ever alert to our responsibilities to our nation as well as to our people.”

  She was wearing a green velvet frock with a silky sheen and full sleeves ruffled below the elbow. They emphasized that expressi
ve way Carolina Devrey had of using her hands. The mannerism was one of many that absolutely charmed Nick. It’s why he had found a dozen different excuses to call since the day more than a year ago when he’d come to ask her to help him guard his future by witnessing his notes about Tobias Grant and the situation at the hospital.

  She had always seemed pleased to see him.

  That welcoming look in her eyes and the warmth of her smile were what encouraged him to return. He had not, however, visited her in the two months since he’d delivered Mei-hua’s baby. Sam Devrey’s daughter. He didn’t know how he could face Carolina when he possessed such guilty knowledge.

  This Wednesday evening, unable to stay away, he’d found yet another reason and given in to his impulse.

  “Cousin Nick! I’m delighted to see you. It’s been ages. That’s fine, Dorothy, you may leave us.” When the maid had gone, she closed the double doors of the front parlor against the December chill that pervaded the front hall. “It’s far too late for tea, I’m afraid.”

  “After eight, I know. I apologize for the hour. I couldn’t get away any earlier.”

  “You are welcome at any time. I’ve been waiting for Samuel. I expect he’ll be home any minute now. You must join us for a late supper. Meanwhile I insist we celebrate with a glass of my raspberry brandy. I steeped the fruit myself last summer.”

  “I should like that.” He watched while she poured brandy into a pair of snifters. It seemed to him that everything she did was marked with a special grace. “I’ve been meaning to stop by for ages, but it’s been so busy at the hospital that—”

  “I understand. Your good health, Cousin Nick.”

  “And yours, Cousin Carolina.” They each had a long sip of raspberry brandy and settled in two chairs on either side of the lively coal fire. “I’ve brought you something.” He produced a small parcel wrapped in green paper and tied with a red ribbon. “Because it’s so close to Christmas.”

  “How very kind. I’m afraid I don’t have anything for—”

  “Oh, it’s not for you. I wouldn’t presume.” Nick felt himself flush like a bumbling schoolboy. No woman had so unnerved him since he was fourteen. “What I’m trying so awkwardly to say is that it’s a present for young Zachary. How is he?”

  “Wonderful. Nineteen months and blooming. Asleep now, of course. You must come of an afternoon so you can see him.” She was opening the package while she spoke. “A book. How charming.”

  “I know Zac can’t read yet, of course. But I’m well known to the bookseller and he tells me this is newly translated from the Danish and just available here.”

  “Hans Christian Andersen. Fairy Tales Told for Children,” she read, turning the small paper-bound volume this way and that to study it more carefully. “It looks quite delightful. I’m sure Zac will love it. I’ve been reading him a few verses of A Visit from St. Nicholas every night before he goes to bed for a week now. I think he’s getting the idea that something wonderful’s afoot.” Twice when Samuel was home before Zachary’s bedtime she’d tried to interest him in joining in the ritual. He always claimed to be too tired or too busy.

  “No child could fail to notice that.” Nick nodded towards the tall fir tree standing between the pair of windows fronting on the street. It was hung with ornaments of every sort, and small candles were fixed to the tips of many of the branches. “I thought you’d have a Christmas tree. I’m told they’re becoming immensely popular.”

  “Is that why you thought I’d have one? Because I’m a slave to the latest fashion?”

  “Not in the least. Because I always associate you with whatever is pretty and gay.”

  She couldn’t answer for a moment. Pretty and gay. When she was a girl, before she married, those had frequently been words applied to her. Had she changed so dramatically in three years? In her own eyes perhaps. Certainly in Samuel’s. “You flatter me, Cousin Nick, and I adore it. We have not yet lit the candles on the tree. Closer to the holiday perhaps.”

  “Do be careful. If the branches are very dry—”

  “Yes, I know.” She nodded towards the New York Herald, folded beside her chair. “I was reading about yesterday’s blaze just before you came. The paper says thirteen buildings and two shops were destroyed. The city must have more watchtowers and watchmen.”

  “The wooden towers are useless. They burn along with everything else and only contribute to a false sense of security. What the city must have is a decent supply of water. Does the Herald tell you they nearly pumped the fire cisterns dry last night? Or that a number of the firemen were brought to Bellevue overcome with exhaustion and hardly able to breathe for all the smoke they’d inhaled?”

  “The paper mentioned the cisterns. But I read nothing about the poor firemen. Were you able to help them?”

  Nick shrugged. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid. Rest’s what they need. And a better supply of water so it need not take so long to put the fires out.”

  “Papa says the same. He was going on at Samuel about it only the other week. Because Sam’s on the council. Papa says there’s an inexhaustible supply of fresh water in the Croton River up in Westchester County. If the council would simply vote the funds to build a decent aqueduct, Papa and a number of the other businessmen in the city would undertake to—”

  “To enrich themselves by having a long and speculative go at building something that’s an engineering nightmare and will cost a fortune. Don’t worry, we’ve already approved a commission to study the matter, which is about all the council ever does. Good evening, Cousin Nicholas. I’m surprised to find you here.”

  “Good evening to you, Cousin Samuel. I came to bring a present for young Zachary, and your charming wife was kind enough to offer me refreshment. Now I must be going.”

  “The moment I arrive? Indeed you must not. What will that cause me to think?”

  It was meant to be humor, Carolina knew, but the two men were circling each other…they were like a pair of strange dogs unsure whether to bark or wag their tail. She’d never kept Nick’s visits a secret from Samuel. That had been Aunt Lucy’s advice years ago: never give a husband any cause to suspect you are deceiving him. Her husband seemed entirely indifferent to the possibility, but now…how funny! Samuel, who apparently had so little interest in her, was jealous. He must be. What else could explain the way he was looking at Nick? And at her.

  “I shall sample your raspberry brandy, Carolina,” Sam said. “So I may drink Cousin Nicholas’s—”

  “’Scuse me, but you’ve got to come.” Dorothy had thrown open both parlor doors and was almost shouting. “All of you, you’ve got to come and see this.”

  “See what?” Sam demanded.

  “The sky, sir. It’s turned bright red. Armageddon, like the preacher’s been warning us about. I think it must be.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  BITTER COLD AND a shuddering wind getting up, but men and women alike stood silent and stunned outside their front doors on Fourteenth Street, heads thrown back, staring at the sky to the south, streaked with fiery red and splotched with great billows of black smoke. Soon the eerie silence was broken by the sound of distant bells. Nick thought he could distinguish the full-throated clanging of the great bell in the cupola atop City Hall. That was the designated fire bell, since the wooden watchtowers had proved themselves nothing but more tinder for the flames.

  The clamor came rapidly closer as nearby church belfries took up the alarm, indicating the need for the more northerly of the city’s engine companies to rally down the town. “Jesus God Almighty,” Nick heard one of the men murmur. “Must be a big one. So soon again.”

  “I’ll be needed at the hospital,” Nick said. “I’d best be going.” But he made no move to go back inside and claim his greatcoat and hat and gloves.

  As usual the servants knew more than their masters and knew it more quickly. Two stable boys pelted up Fifth Avenue, riding one behind the other on a single lathered horse and shouting at the top of their lungs wor
ds that the wind snatched away and blew into nonsense. Barnabas, just come from the mews behind number three, ran to grab the horse’s bridle and slow her enough so he could hear their news, then brought it back to his employer. “Started at Morse’s warehouse on Pearl and Exchange. There’s a dozen buildings as is already burning. Number One Company was there right at the first, but they couldn’t hold it. Spreading fast it is. Perishing fast.”

  Sam grabbed the stable boy’s shoulder. “They can’t hold it?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Devrey. According to them two”—tossing his head to indicate the pair who had brought the news—“it’s moving up the town.”

  Of course, because that was the direction of the wind. Cherry Street was in the fire’s path. Sam turned without a word and ran to the stable. Moments later they heard the sound of hooves on the packed snow, and Sam raced by them and down Fifth Avenue, leaning forward over the mare’s head, whipping her flank to summon every bit of speed.

  “He has no coat,” Carolina said. “He’ll freeze.”

  She sounded, Nick thought, like a small child. “He’ll be fine.” He tried to put his arm around her. “And you have no wraps either. Come inside, Cousin Carolina, you must—”

  She turned away. “Barnabas, get the buggy ready. Quickly!” She had clearly made a decision.

  “It’s ready now, ma’am, sort of. Mr. Devrey drove it home, and I ain’t yet unhitched the—”

  “Bring it round. Hurry.”

  She turned and started for the house and Nick followed her. “Carolina, where are you going?”

  “I’m going after my husband. Please excuse me.”

  She’d dreamed of following Samuel, seeing where he went all those hours when other men were home with their families and he was not with her. She’d never dared to do it. But now she had the best opportunity she would ever have, and God forgive her for sparing no worry for the victims of the fire, she would not let it go by. “The buggy, Barnabas!” she called out, reminding him of his task, but the boy had already disappeared in the direction of the stable.

 

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