City of God

by Swerling, Beverly

Aristotle Paxos had presented himself to Carolina two months before, introduced by August Belmont, who claimed that the man had come from Athens by way of London, with a personal recommendation from someone Belmont claimed to trust totally in such matters. Paxos was almost as tall as Nick, dressed entirely in black, with a silver beard, and with a huge silver cross hanging round his neck. I am a Greek, madam, born of the union of Poseidon and a naiad. The blood of Odysseus runs in my veins! I was born to possess your witch from hell. I shall make her my bride and she will yield to me and we will make your fortune. She could picture him now standing at the helm, bellowing orders, not just to the crew, to the wind itself. “Perhaps,” she said. “Nothing to do now but wait and see.”

  “Yes.” Nick agreed. “No other choice.”

  In late July, a ship docked that had seen Hell Witch riding the Brazil current past the coast of Argentina and heading towards the stretch of ocean known as the Roaring Forties.

  “They saw her four weeks ago, Nick.” Carolina’s voice trembled with excitement. “That means she reached Argentina only twenty days into her voyage.” She had tacked a map on the wall of the back parlor on Fourteenth Street. She called it her office and from there administered all the things to do with Zachary’s trust. “Where do you imagine she is now? Where shall I put the pin?”

  Nick came and stood behind her. “Here,” he said, and guided her hand to a position just west of the Cape of Good Hope. Though by now, if she had survived that peril, Hell Witch must be well around it. “Let’s not tempt fate.”

  In late August they heard from a seaman who whispered a rumor that the next morning was heard first at the Astor House bar, where the shippers customarily gathered for breakfast, then repeated all over the waterfront. The tar said he’d been on watch in a fierce storm south of the Java straits and seen a ship on the horizon sailing in the opposite direction under more canvas than any sane captain would unfurl in such weather. Heeled over so far she was it seemed she must be riding on the wind. A bloody miracle she wasn’t swamped. But she wasn’t. Not while I watched. That was remarkable enough, but not all the tar had to tell. He claimed that four days after he’d seen the vessel that could only have been Hell Witch, his ship had passed the Houqua. She had left port two weeks before Hell Witch; now she was sailing in her wake.

  This time it was Nick who moved the pin, positioning it just west of the Sunda Strait between Sumatra and Java. Seventy-eight days into her voyage, Carolina’s ship was—at least she might be—an estimated two weeks from making landfall at Hong Kong.

  The best tea was said to be the early spring crop from the lowlands; it was known as Heaven Pool tea. But in late summer came the tea called Dragon Fountain, Long Jin, grown in the mountains, where the plants leafed out much later after the last snows melted. “The first harvest of Long Jin tea from Hangchow,” Carolina said. “If that’s where Hell Witch is”—she pointed to the pin near Java—“it’s possible, Nick. It is, isn’t it?”

  He stared at the map. “It would seem so. If the talk isn’t only that.”

  But talk there was. Even Aunt Lucy, now a frail old woman, brought rumors to her niece. “I’m told your ship has taken but sixty days to arrive at Hong Kong, Carolina. Apparently that’s very fast.”

  “If it were true it would be not simply fast but miraculous, Aunt Lucy. Hell Witch may have made the voyage in something more like ninety days, and that’s remarkable time. If it’s true. We can’t know for sure until she comes back, of course.”

  “Ninety days? I shall be sure to correct the next person who tells me sixty.”

  “Please do.”

  “But that’s not all I hear.”

  Carolina was stitching a bit of picot tatting to one of Ceci’s chemises and went on with her work. Lucy would pass on gossip as long as there was a breath in her body. No encouragement was required.

  “I’m told your cousin by marriage, Dr. Nicholas Turner, works miracles on Crosby Street. Absolute miracles. My friend Sally Whitaker’s daughter had a plague of boils on her backside and he rid her of them after three treatments. Apparently it’s this new Croton water that does it.”

  “Not because it’s Croton water, Aunt. Because it’s fresh water that runs.” Sally Whitaker’s daughter, as Carolina remembered her, was a slut, however much she was presumed to be a lady. “If one can be persuaded to bathe more frequently because of it, any sort of running water will be an aid to good health.”

  “So one hears,” Aunt Lucy agreed. “They say these new mansions going up on Fifth Avenue are all being fitted with special rooms for bathing. And now I suppose there will be more.”

  “More mansions or more water?”

  “More mansions, of course.”

  “Why should that be?” Carolina was as skilled a needlewoman as she needed to be. She did not need to concentrate so on the task of stitching the store-bought edging in place. Still she did not lift her hand from her task. Aunt Lucy was working up to saying something about Nick. Carolina was sure of it.

  “My dear, you must get out more. According to Hannah Markus—I don’t think you know her. Hannah’s daughter Bella married Dr. Turner’s partner, Dr. Klein. Jews you know, but the very nicest sort.” She stopped to examine a bit of her needlework, then went on. “Anyway, Hannah Markus says there’s talk of doing away with the parade ground at Twenty-third Street and making another park. Madison Square I believe they mean to call it, though I can’t think why we must name anything for that dreadful president who got us into that dreadful Mexican war, and—”

  “Whatever else, Aunt, the Mexican war brought us a fair amount of territory.”

  “California is nice enough, I’m told,” Lucy agreed with a sniff. “But Utah and New Mexico are desert and nothing else. Anyway, it’s all too far away to do us any good.”

  “Perhaps. What were you saying about your friend Mrs. Markus?”

  Lucy licked the end of a length of black sewing cotton and threaded a needle while she spoke. “Oh yes, Hannah Markus. She says all the best people shall be flocking to live on Fifth Avenue once the parade ground’s gone. Do you imagine Dr. Turner might build himself a Fifth Avenue mansion? I fancy he can afford it, given how every society matron in New York insists he’s the only doctor to see. Perhaps he may even take a wife, Carolina. Hannah Markus was saying he’s considered quite a catch, that he’s been seen around town with this one or that and—What is it, dear?” That last in response to a loud exclamation by Carolina.

  “I pricked my finger. Nothing to worry about.” Nick hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing young ladies, but he must, of course. Stupid of her to be surprised about that.

  “Do be careful, Carolina. You don’t want to get bloodstains on your work. Of course some people intimate all manner of things. Not enough to do with their time it seems to me. And I tell them so. After all, Dr. Turner is your cousin.”

  “Aunt Lucy, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh don’t be so obtuse, dear child. Everyone in town knows he dotes on you. These others, they’re just a concealment. And given how the mothers pursue him, what else can he do? But when I’m asked, I remind people that he’s your cousin.”

  “Yes, Aunt Lucy, he is.”

  “Though only by marriage. So if you were to marry him—”

  “Aunt Lucy! What are you talking about? I am already married.”

  “Perhaps,” her aunt said. “Perhaps, however, you are a widow.”

  “What? Wherever did you get such a notion?”

  “My friend Jessie Farmer mentioned it to me last month.”

  “And what gave her that idea?”

  “Jessie said she heard it from Isabel Downing.”

  “Aunt Lucy, such wicked gossip! How do they come to be spreading such a tale? I’m not a widow. Samuel is—”

  “Samuel Devrey has not been seen in this town since anyone can remember. And you’ve been wearing mourning for nearly a year.”

  “I’m in mourning for Papa, Aunt Lu
cy.”

  “Oh yes, of course. But you’ve been in black nearly eight months. Not all daughters remain so obviously bereaved for such a length of time. Whereas widows…There, that’s another one done.” Lucy finished crocheting a black edge around another of her niece’s white handkerchiefs. “That should see you through another few months. Then perhaps you will no longer need them. It will be a year in November, Carolina. You might properly come out of mourning then.”

  “Mourning for Samuel, you mean.”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m simply reporting what I have heard.”

  “Aunt Lucy, where would your friends get such an idea?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, with a shrug of her bent and exceedingly thin shoulders. “I suppose I might have whispered a word or two to some of them soon after that ship of yours set sail. Put down your sewing, dear child, and listen to me.”

  Carolina needed no encouragement. She hadn’t taken a stitch since Aunt Lucy had mentioned Nick.

  “You are a widow, Carolina, in everything except name, and you have been so for at least the eight years since Ceci was born, longer if I’m any judge. Though I don’t doubt she’s Sam Devrey’s daughter.”

  “She is.”

  “Yes. She looks too much like a Devrey for it to be otherwise. Nonetheless, no one has seen or heard from Samuel in—how long?”

  “Aunt Lucy, Samuel is not dead. He does not live here with me, but—”

  “Where does he live, Carolina? Is it anywhere the likes of my friends Mrs. Whitaker or Mrs. Farmer or Mrs. Downing or even Mrs. Markus the Jewess are likely to see him?”

  Carolina shook her head.

  “Anywhere your younger friends might see him?”

  Carolina shook her head again.

  “I thought not. So if you could manage to somehow shut the mouth of that wretched Celinda Devrey, you could—”

  “Aunt Lucy, you are talking madness. But even if you were not, my mother-in-law is—”

  “Interested only in money,” Lucy said firmly. “You have a bit of that now, dear child. And if the rumors about your ship prove true, you could, as the old saying has it, stop Celinda Devrey’s mouth with shillings, my dear. As many shillings as it takes.”

  Carolina refused to continue the conversation, and she never told Nick what had passed between her and her aunt. But nothing could make her forget Lucy’s words. Particularly since she had little else to think about.

  For three months they heard nothing more about Hell Witch or Houqua.

  Until on Monday, November 18, shortly after two in the afternoon, word came from the Sandy Hook semaphore that Hell Witch was less than ten miles from New York harbor and would make landfall before dark.

  In all of sailing history there had never been such a voyage.

  “Seventy-eight days and fourteen hours sailing time, Hong Kong to New York,” Captain Paxos said. “As Jesus Christ will be my judge, that’s the truth.”

  Carolina required no such oath; she already had the proof. Hell Witch’s cargo of eleven hundred tons of perfect and fresh Long Jin tea had been sold at auction that afternoon for one hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars. After the expenses of the journey were calculated, including handsome bonuses for Paxos and his crew, that meant August Belmont’s share was thirty-six thousand. Adding that to what Carolina paid him previously, Belmont had now recouped what he’d loaned Sam Devrey, including the interest, and could look forward to fabulous profits on every journey Hell Witch made.

  Then there was the share belonging to Celinda Devrey. Carolina would be paying her every time Hell Witch returned to port—and indeed any other ship in which she had a whole or a partial interest. Celinda had added that proviso after Carolina thought they had reached an agreement. “Five thousand cash money, my dear, yes, but I think I should look forward to that on more than just Hell Witch. I believe you shall not stop with that one vessel, Carolina. Your father made you more man than woman, that’s why my son could never…an equal sum on the docking of every ship you own.”

  “For how long, Mrs. Devrey?”

  “Why, until I die, Carolina. That is, after all, the reason I am giving you this undertaking of silence. To provide for my old age. So let us say that whether your profit be on the whole cargo or a part thereof, I shall be paid the same. Five thousand each and every time. I’m sure you wish to be that generous to your mother-in-law.”

  For her part Carolina was sure Celinda knew what hardly anyone else did—Samuel’s actual whereabouts. Barnabas, the stable boy, had always kept Samuel’s mother informed of the household’s comings and goings; if Celinda wished to make trouble she could produce proof of her claims. So Carolina agreed, five thousand each time she sold a cargo. Which wasn’t to say that she had made up her mind to follow the rest of Lucy’s advice, only that Celinda Devrey was now part of the calculation of her earnings. Something on the negative side of the ledger.

  Then there was Danny Parker. The shipwright’s twenty-five percent share of the profit would apply to Hell Witch’s first three cargos. On this maiden voyage it came to twenty-two thousand. It was all relative, of course, but in his own terms Danny Parker must feel himself a man as rich as August Belmont.

  Carolina had asked the shipwright to join them for this celebration dinner at Delmonico’s, but while he thanked her kindly, he refused. She did not insist, knowing he might feel uncomfortable in such a place. Particularly since it was August Belmont who sat at the head of the table, playing host. More appropriate him than me, Nick. Besides, I want to keep him sweet. I think I may have more business to transact with the gentleman.

  Belmont had chosen to have their gathering at one of the restaurant’s second-floor private dining rooms. The walls were covered in flocked red wallpaper above ivory-colored paneling, the cherubs flying across the plaster ceiling were picked out in gilt, and the chandelier was three tiers of crystal teardrops, each reflecting a dizzying number of pinpoints of gaslight. The chairs were gilt and red velvet, and the table was draped in dazzlingly white linen. A line of silver and gold epergnes of various heights marched the table’s length, each displaying an arrangement of exotic fruits and exquisite flowers. In the midst of all this splendor a procession of waiters came and went, presenting a succession of remarkable dishes. There was a whole fish glazed in shimmering aspic flecked with black truffles, vegetables Carolina had heard of but never tasted—artichokes and endive—napped in remarkably silky sauces that hinted of lemon and orange, a fillet of beef crisped almost black on the outside and pink within, served with yet another astonishing sauce. And with each course a new infinitely more delicious wine.

  It was an evening and a setting far too glorious for the somber black of mourning.

  Carolina, flushed with laughter and triumph, wore emerald green velvet, an off-the-shoulder gown with short puffed sleeves and a bodice so tight she could barely inhale—at least that was what she blamed for her breathlessness—and a skirt so full she had to support it with four petticoats.

  “You are too beautiful to be real,” Nick had said when he called for her. “I am with a fairy princess.”

  “You are with a thirty-one-year-old mother of two who will probably soon run to fat and wrinkles. But you are very kind to say you think I’m beautiful.”

  “Not kind. Truthful.” And he had put his hands either side of her face and kissed her full on the mouth, with tenderness at first, and then something else.

  Carolina had eased herself away, as she always did, and reached for the cloak that matched her gown, green velvet lined with the skin of a Chinese leopard. The outfit was a wild indulgence she had allowed herself some months earlier, just after her talk with Aunt Lucy about being a widow when one was not. She had put it away in hopes she would wear it for just such a celebratory occasion as this. “We must go,” she said. “It won’t do to keep our host waiting.”

  Now, after she had lost count of how many bottles of wine and how many dishes of food had been carried into and out o
f their private dining room, Mr. August Belmont was as delirious with pleasure and excitement as everyone else. He had spent most of the meal listening to Aristotle Paxos’s explanations of where on the journey the wind softened, freezing them in place, and where it howled like a banshee come to send them straight to the bottom. He’d heard of the agony of trying to find any breeze in the doldrums, and of how after Hell Witch crossed the equator she met waves that plunged the bowsprit completely under but survived to encounter the northeast trades that sent them racing home with every man aboard knowing they would set a record for the ages.

  “Enough my good friend,” Belmont finally told the guest of honor. “I am seasick from simply hearing about it. We must have more champagne.” A quick signal to the waiter hovering by the door and the glasses were once more charged with the Bollinger ’36 recommended by Lorenzo Delmonico himself. As remarkable as the feat you are honoring, Mr. Belmont. And like madame, if I may say so, a rosy pink.

  “To Hell Witch,” Belmont said, standing and bowing first to Paxos, then lifting his glass in Carolina’s direction. “And to the remarkable and exquisite lady who made this evening possible.”

  “He is quite smitten with you,” Nicholas said later. It was close to midnight, and they were in the front hall of Carolina’s house. It had occurred to him that he might have whisked her away to a discreet and distant spot, but where? Nick had no doubt that some men could have pulled off just such a romantic escapade, but he had never been such a man. He was skilled in science, not romance and seduction. Now his love and his longing would go unspoken one more time.

  “August Belmont is not smitten with me,” Carolina said. “And if he were, it would make no difference. I am not smitten with him.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I thought he might…”

  “Might what?”

  “Might take you from me,” Nick said softly, not quite meeting her glance. “At least as much of yourself as you permit me to possess,” he added.

  “Never,” she whispered.

  You are a widow in everything except name, and you have been so for at least the eight years since Ceci was born, longer if I’m any judge. So Aunt Lucy said, and she did not know as Carolina did how much the man who had tricked her into marriage despised her. While the man who loved her was here, standing with her in the dark and silent hall, close enough for her to feel his body warmth. But Nick was not Samuel. Nick would not take what she was unwilling to give, only what she freely offered.