by Kate Belli
“No, certainly not,” murmured Eliza. “One can’t imagine the old man taking in a stray newsboy or the like out of the kindness of his heart.”
“Do you recall how terrifying old man Van Joost was when we were children?” Callie interjected. “Eliza, you must consider yourself lucky that your family was not included in the annual Van Joost Christmas party, really. We children were made to stay in the main party with the adults, highly unusual and mind-numbingly dull.”
Genevieve was surprised. “You remember those parties? You were so small then.”
“I’m only four years younger than you. And yes, my fear of that house is among my earliest memories. My grandmother was such a crony of old man Van Joost’s.”
“I’d forgotten your grandmother had been close to him. Did she ever speculate as to why Mr. McCaffrey was made the heir?” Eliza asked.
“No.” Callie shook her head. “She was just as bewildered as everyone else.”
“I can’t imagine attending such an awful party—and at Christmastime, no less!” exclaimed Eliza, reaching behind her to pluck a twig from a nearby shrub, shaking off the remaining snow before twirling it between her fingers. “Of course, my father would have expired of joy to receive an invitation.”
A new thought occurred to Genevieve. “I don’t ever recall seeing Daniel there.”
“Nor do I,” agreed Callie, shaking her head slowly. “I was a bit younger of course, but even then I’m sure I would have noticed someone as good-looking as Daniel McCaffrey.”
Genevieve rolled her eyes at Callie. “Let us put aside the question of the man’s handsomeness for now. Mr. Cotswold’s housekeeper said Mr. McCaffrey spent part of his youth at school abroad. Why would Jacob Van Joost take an interest in a young boy from Five Points and pay for his education?”
Nobody had an answer for this. The tree branches clacked again in the breeze, and the friends almost unconsciously scooched closer together on the bench.
Eliza finally broke the silence. “I am glad of your new assignment, Genevieve. About Mr. Cotswold.”
“Yes, a welcome change from writing about the size of bustles, I’m sure,” Callie agreed.
“I’ve been a bit shaken by Mr. Cotswold’s passing,” Eliza confided. “He was one of the first to welcome my father into society. It made a tremendous difference to us.”
“He was a nice man,” Callie conceded. “But old as dirt. Even Grandmama is fairly sanguine about his death, and she’d known him forever.”
“Your grandmother knew everyone,” remarked Genevieve.
“They were all thick as thieves back in the sixties and early seventies,” Callie said. “Jacob Van Joost, Reggie Cotswold, John Jacob Astor, my grandfather … they were in charge of this town.” She smiled a bit sadly. “How times change.”
Eliza and Genevieve fell uncomfortably silent, aware that Callie and her grandmother had fallen on hard times of late.
“Let us talk of the living rather than the dead,” Callie declared in a firm voice. “You’ve now had a dance and a private supper with Daniel McCaffrey. Maybe you should allow him to court you,” she said playfully.
Genevieve felt an unexpected blush begin to creep up her neck as she drew herself back in surprise. “Court me? I think my path as a spinster is set, thank you very much.”
“That’s not true,” Eliza protested.
“It’s been six years, darling,” Callie said gently. “Ted Beekman is a pompous ass who didn’t deserve you anyway. Perhaps you should take yourself off the shelf?”
“I’m not keeping myself on a shelf; it’s simply where I’ve landed,” Genevieve answered irritably. “And it’s fine. Mr. McCaffrey has no interest in courting me, I’m sure.”
“He knows you want to write a story,” Callie remarked, turning her face toward the weak sunshine. “He took you to dinner and let you interview him, for goodness’ sakes. It seems like he’s plenty interested. And you like him, don’t you?”
Do I like Daniel McCaffrey? It had not occurred to Genevieve to wonder whether she liked the man. Suddenly the whole topic annoyed her. “Don’t we have something else to talk about?”
Eliza’s mild look indicated that she knew Genevieve was holding something back, which annoyed Genevieve further.
“What do you want to talk about, then?” Callie asked, also wisely holding her tongue.
“Someone else’s romantic possibilities. Don’t you have a latest conquest?”
“I’m quite tired of men,” Callie replied tartly, waving her hand through the air.
Genevieve felt her mouth drop open in shock. Men were Callie’s favorite subject.
“Callie, are you well?” Eliza asked tentatively.
Callie’s eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “I’m just tired of playing games,” she said.
Genevieve, worried, pulled a handkerchief out of her flower-sprigged velvet reticule and leaned over to press it into Callie’s unoccupied hand. Callie was always so joyful; something must be seriously wrong for her to behave in such a manner. Though Genevieve feared she knew what was coming, she asked, “What is it, darling?”
Callie heaved a mighty sigh. “Well, girls, it looks as though I am to be married.” Her eyes filled with tears again and she quickly blotted them with the handkerchief. “Grandmama and I talked last night. We are quite without funds, and we simply can’t afford another season.” She gave her friends a stricken look, her red-rimmed eyes lost and sad. “In all honesty, we can’t afford fuel for next winter.” Callie bowed her head and began to cry in earnest.
That bad? Genevieve and Eliza shared a quick, shocked look over Callie’s head. It was worse than either of them had realized. Genevieve jumped up and moved to the other side of the bench. Between Callie’s sobs she made out the words “husband” and “freeze.” She and Eliza surrounded Callie with their loving arms.
“Nonsense, sweetness, we’d never let you freeze!” Eliza insisted, stroking Callie’s midnight-black hair soothingly.
“Of course not,” agreed Genevieve. Privately she was fuming. Callie and her grandmother were two women, alone in the world. Who had mismanaged their fortune so completely? “You and your grandmother can live with us.”
Callie looked up again and managed a watery smile, controlling herself. “I know I could, but Grandmama would never agree to such a thing. I can do this for her; I must do this for her. I get proposals all the time; I’ll just … accept one.”
Genevieve’s heart panged at the thought of her friend in a tepid, loveless marriage.
“Men absolutely adore you; you’ll have no trouble finding someone suitable,” Eliza said stoutly. “Genevieve and I will help, won’t we?”
“Of course!” Genevieve exclaimed, putting her reservations aside for the sake of her friend. She hugged Callie from her other side, accidentally knocking her pretty feathered hat askew. “We’ll make sure he’s kind, handsome, and swimming in money.”
Callie straightened her hat and gently pulled free of her friends’ arms, suddenly looking much older than her twenty-two years. “We shall see,” she replied. She then brightened and lightly smacked her hand to her cheek. “I forgot the exciting part!”
Genevieve was heartened by the sudden shift. “There’s an exciting part?”
“Well, a small bright spot. At any party of my choosing this season, Grandmama is going to allow me to wear the Maple diamonds!” Callie beamed at her friends.
Eliza gasped. “The ones smuggled from France during the revolution?”
“The very same. They haven’t been worn since my parents married, though apparently Queen Victoria desperately tried to buy them from Papa.”
Even Genevieve, who cared little for jewels, was stunned. Callie’s grandmother kept the precious heirlooms in a vault at the bank at all times. “Gracious,” she breathed. “Where shall you wear them?”
“Maybe the Porters’ costume ball,” mused Callie. “Speaking of, I was being fitted for my costume last week, and who do you th
ink I saw at Mrs. Brown’s? Esmie Bradley.”
“Really?” Eliza looked thoughtful. “Perhaps she wriggled out from under her mother’s thumb long enough to order a decent dress. They certainly have the money.”
“That is my hope as well,” Callie replied. “She’s a pretty girl, under all those ruffles.” She stood up and stretched her arms, looking around at the deepening shadows gathering in the barren park. “Come on, let’s have some cake. It’s starting to get dark.”
Relieved that her friend seemed to be feeling better, Genevieve stood, and the three linked arms. Together they began to stroll down one of the winding paths that crisscrossed through the park.
“I’ve an idea about Mr. McCaffrey,” ventured Eliza, peering around Callie.
Callie perked up. “Oh yes, let’s talk about Mr. McCaffrey again!” she exclaimed.
“If you want to see him again, for your research, you should consider attending the Bradleys’ ball this weekend.” Eliza looked at Genevieve uncertainly. “You were invited, weren’t you?”
“Of course,” Genevieve said, a bit thunderstruck at the idea. Though her father had bested Mrs. Bradley in court, the Stewarts were part of the upper tier of New York society, which the Bradleys wished to join. They wouldn’t dream of snubbing any old Knickerbocker family and consistently invited all of the Astor 400 to their functions.
The Stewart clan always declined.
“What makes you think he’ll be there? He doesn’t attend that many functions, from what I understand.”
“Rupert Milton’s engagement to Esmie Bradley will be announced, of course,” Callie answered promptly. “He and Mr. McCaffrey are great friends; I can’t imagine he wouldn’t be there. It’s a brilliant idea, Eliza.”
“How do you know the engagement will be announced, if it hasn’t happened yet?”
“Everyone knows. How do you not know?”
“I’ve been a trifle preoccupied,” Genevieve answered. She didn’t quite snap, but came close, and let out a small, vexed breath when she caught her friends exchanging a meaningful glance.
Why was she so irritable on the topic of Daniel McCaffrey? Eliza was right: if she wanted to get more information, the best way to do it was to interact with the man.
“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “It is a good plan, Eliza. Now I just have to break the news to my parents that I’ll be attending a function at the Bradley household.” The three friends had reached the point where they would part ways, Genevieve north to her family townhome, Eliza and Callie west toward Eliza’s. She bid her friends adieu, giving Callie a particularly long hug.
“Thank you,” Callie whispered into her ear. “I’ll be fine. Go on, best not delay letting them know.”
Genevieve chose the most direct path home toward the Square’s north side, but as she had parted from her friends on the southern edge, she still had to traverse the park’s length, and the path wended its way through several areas not well lit. The tree branches continued their unpleasant song as the wind increased again, and she shivered and shoved her hands deeper into her white fur muff.
The unexpected sound of loud, boisterous singing made her start, and she spotted two men down the path far to her left, supporting each other and stumbling slightly. She accelerated her pace. The park was mostly safe, but vagabonds still sometimes frequented its paths.
Halfway there, a distinct tickling sensation at the back of her neck caused her to pause. Dusk had given way to a darker-hued sky, and the lamps scattered throughout the park provided little illumination against the deep pockets of gloom created by the shrubbery and towering, ancient trees. When she risked a peek over her shoulder, her heart stopped, then immediately resumed at triple its regular tempo.
A man was there. As on Fifth Avenue, he was far enough away that any details beyond his general form were obscured, but again he was immobile, facing her direction.
There was no one else in the park.
A breath that was part moan involuntarily escaped her, and Genevieve turned north, letting her muff dangle and picking up her skirts to facilitate a faster stride. Fear rippled through her, tingling her back, where she could almost feel the unknown man’s gaze resting.
Blessedly, the distance was short. Though it felt like miles, she reached the front steps of her home in under two minutes, and flung herself through the heavy front door gratefully.
Leaning back against the door, Genevieve allowed her breath and heart to resume their regular pace before removing her jacket with trembling hands. She had no idea if her imagination was getting the better of her or if both incidents had represented actual danger.
Perhaps you’re going mad, a sly internal voice insinuated. Perhaps you’re not up to the task of finding Robin Hood.
She firmly pushed the thought away. That was the naysayer’s voice, Clive’s voice, and she refused to let it take root.
A moment in the water closet with a damp cloth pressed to her temples helped calm her shaking. She took a deep breath and ventured forth to find her parents.
The front drawing room was, like all the rooms in the Stewart house, an odd, ramshackle mix of elegance and clutter. A bit more of the residual tension from her walk home slipped away; she loved her slightly messy, eccentric house, and felt more comfortable here than anyplace on earth. The deep-blue wallpaper and dark, heavy furniture ought to have been oppressive but gave the room a cozy feel. Hung around the walls were delicate watercolor landscapes, portraits in oil paint, and framed photographs of family. Some of the paintings were by friends such as Eliza, or the Stewart children at various ages; some had been painted by local artists Genevieve’s parents admired; and there were a few inherited works by old masters interspersed throughout. Tall windows overlooked the Stewarts’ front garden and the wide expanse of park, keeping the room bathed in sunlight most of the day, though she was glad to see they were now shuttered against the early night. The opposite wall was lined with ceiling-high bookshelves, each crammed with volumes in no particular order.
“Hello, dear,” said Anna, her mother, around a mouthful of chocolate biscuit. “Come sit and have some tea.” Anna Stewart, tall and full of bustling energy, pushed a pile of pamphlets to one side to make room for Genevieve at the tea table.
“What are those?” Genevieve asked, settling herself onto the comfortable settee but refusing a biscuit. She was still too unsettled to eat.
“Leaflets about our rally next week,” Anna said. “We’re surrounding the mayor’s house and demanding women be given the right to vote in the next mayoral election. It’s very exciting; twelve ladies will dress as Lady Liberty and stand in formation blocking traffic at the front of the main gate.” Anna stood up suddenly, scattering several pamphlets to the floor and holding her half-eaten biscuit aloft. She grabbed a nearby book and mimicked the new statue’s pose. “Pretend the biscuit is a torch. Can’t you see it, my dear? The artistic and political impact we’ll make? All twelve of us?”
Genevieve decided she did need a biscuit and chose one, considering her mother’s stance. “Will the torches have flames?”
Anna beamed at her briefly, then resumed her somber, statuelike face. “Of course,” she replied, trying not to move her lips.
“I think you’ll probably get arrested again,” Genevieve said. Anna, along with several other well-known women, had been arrested two years prior while protesting women’s exclusion from the statue’s dedication.
Anna Stewart, in fact, was often being hauled away by the police during political protests over one cause or another. The arrest at the statue’s dedication was not even the one that had ended Genevieve’s engagement. That had been a protest over universal access to birth control outside City Hall. Genevieve had often wondered whether Ted—or really, Ted’s family—had been so scandalized not because of the jailing but rather because Anna had been speaking publicly about the delicate issue of birth control.
Anna broke her stance and beamed again. “Oh, that would be quite fitting, wouldn’t
it?” She collected the fallen pamphlets and organized them into a small pile, then sat back and finished her biscuit with a contented air.
“Where is Charles?” Genevieve asked. Her brother kept his own separate bachelor residence a few blocks away but typically managed to appear whenever food was served. She glanced at the windows uneasily. Charles was, like all the Stewarts, tall and athletic; having him in the room would make her feel more at ease.
Genevieve’s father answered from behind a stack of books at the corner desk. “I believe he had a meeting of the Architectural League this afternoon,” floated Wilbur’s deep, burly voice.
“What are you buried in back there, Papa?” asked Genevieve, straining her neck to catch a glimpse of her father around the precarious pile. “Come out before we finish the biscuits.”
“Nellie brought me a plate back here, thank you very much. I knew I couldn’t trust you ladies to leave me any.” Wilbur’s kindly, bearded face suddenly appeared above the small tower. “But I shall emerge nonetheless, to give you a kiss hello.” Wilbur came out from behind his cluttered desk and leaned over to kiss Genevieve’s cheek before settling into a deep leather armchair to her right.
“Here, darling,” he said, handing Genevieve several pieces of folded paper. “I was buried in a letter from your brother.”
“Gavin wrote?” Gavin was an archaeologist currently undertaking fieldwork in Egypt. In their correspondence, he frequently assured her that life in a tent was much less glamorous than she believed, primarily consisting of sand and bugs. While Genevieve knew this intellectually, she couldn’t picture her brother’s life without imagining him in scenes inspired by 1001 Arabian Nights: Gavin drinking tea on a lavish silk cushion, Gavin being attended to by a gorgeous woman in wide, billowing pants, Gavin wearing a fez. Normally she would grab at the letter, but today she felt too drained. And she wanted was to get this business about the ball sorted.
