Time of Fog and Fire

by Rhys Bowen

“John Wilkie will know where I am. In case of dire emergency, you can contact him.”

  “So what sort of clothes should I be packing for you?” I asked. “Will it be your winter long johns or your summer blazer?”

  He laughed then and slipped his arms around my waist. “I’m not going to fall for your subtle attempts to get a confession out of me, Molly Sullivan. I’ll pack my own bag when I’m ready to leave.”

  I sighed and went back to my potatoes.

  The next few days passed too quickly. Daniel received telegrams and presumably sent replies. I made sure all his clothing was clean. He packed what seemed to be a ridiculously small bag. At least this cheered me up a little. He could not be expecting a long absence if he was taking so little clothing. When I’d gone to Paris I’d taken a trunk. So maybe I was worrying too much over nothing. It might be no more than a brief consultation with the president and then he’d be home.

  Daniel himself seemed in the best of humor when he said good-bye to us on a brisk March morning. Wind whipped at his scarf as he paused halfway down Patchin Place and turned back to wave and blow Liam a kiss. Then he was gone. I blinked back stupid tears. I was being unnecessarily emotional. He wasn’t being sent abroad to be a spy. He was doing a simple job for the president. No more dangerous than his normal work in New York.

  The door across Patchin Place opened and my neighbor Gus Walcott came out.

  “He’s off then?” she said as Daniel’s back disappeared around the corner onto busy Greenwich Avenue.

  I nodded.

  “Cheer up. He’ll be back before you know it.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “And they do say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’m going to the French bakery to pick up croissants. Come over in half an hour and have coffee with us. We’ll plan some exciting things to do while Daniel is away.”

  I tried to seem more cheerful when I was ushered into their warm kitchen later that morning. The good smells of brewing coffee and warm breads filled the air. Gus’s companion, Sid Goldfarb, was standing at the stove, stirring a bubbling pot, looking like a rather glamorous witch in her emerald green velvet jacket and black silk trousers. I suppose I should explain that Sid and Gus were nicknames for two women officially called Augusta and Elena. They had enough private money to live a Bohemian lifestyle, completely ignoring the rules of polite society. They were always trying new things, painting, writing, traveling, and enjoying themselves. They were also passionate suffragists. While I supported their cause I had to tread carefully as Daniel did not approve of women making spectacles of themselves (nor of women getting the vote, I suspect). And since he was well respected in New York society, I couldn’t do anything that might jeopardize his position. However it occurred to me as I put Liam down to toddle around that I’d have more freedom to be involved while he was gone.

  Sid and Gus must have been thinking along the same lines because Sid looked up from the pot she was stirring. “So the cat’s away and the mice are going to have tremendous fun playing, eh, Molly?” she said with a mischievous smile. “We were just talking about you last night and how it’s up to us to keep you entertained. We have art galleries you have to visit and we’ll invite all our disreputable artist friends your husband so disapproves of. Also we’re planning a spring suffragist campaign and we’d love you to be part of it. We’re even talking of marching in the Easter Parade again with our banners.”

  “Is that a good idea?” I asked as Gus put a cup of coffee in front of me. “It wasn’t too successful last time, was it? And Daniel was furious that he had to rescue me from a jail cell.”

  “That was several years ago now,” Gus said. “I think more women are coming around to our way of thinking. And we can’t give up because of a few petty setbacks.” She took a croissant from the basket on the table and handed it to Liam, who promptly sat down on the rug and began to suck on one corner.

  “At least you’ll come to our meetings, won’t you?” Sid asked. She put down the spoon and came to sit beside me at the table.

  “Of course I will.”

  “We have to keep you occupied so that you won’t pine,” she said. “It’s worked for us. You see how busy we’ve kept ourselves since the children went to live with their grandfather.”

  “You still miss them?” I said. Sid and Gus had taken in two street orphans who had now been happily reunited with their family. (Thanks to a spot of my detective work, I should add.)

  “Of course we do. But we are to see them soon. Their grandfather wrote to us last week. It seems their family owns a cabin in the Adirondacks and we are to take the children up to the snow as the old man is not up to that kind of travel yet.”

  “Oh, that should be marvelous fun,” I said. “I’m glad for you.”

  “I’ve been meaning to improve my skiing technique for ages,” Sid said. “I tried it once in college but never quite got the hang of it. My German instructor kept telling me to ‘bend zee knees.’ I bent them but I still couldn’t control where those darned skis were taking me.”

  Gus exchanged a glance with me. “I think I’m going to prefer the hot cocoa by a roaring fire with mountain views through a window,” she said. “I may even take my paints and capture the scenery.”

  “You’ll want to play in the snow with the children, I know you will,” Sid said. “Think what fun we’ll have sledding and making snowmen. And even…” She leaped up again as the pot on the stove began to bubble furiously.

  “What are you cooking? It smells interesting,” I said.

  “It’s a mulligatawny soup from that Indian cookbook you gave us. We’re getting quite proficient at Indian cookery, aren’t we, Gus? We’re planning an Indian banquet soon. We’ll dress up in saris and put dots on our foreheads and invite someone to play the sitar.”

  “Sid was talking about seeing if we could borrow an elephant from the Bronx Zoo to transport our guests along Patchin Place,” Gus said.

  “I don’t see what’s so odd about that,” Sid retorted as Gus and I started to laugh.

  “And how would you bring the elephant from the zoo? Certainly not aboard the tram or the subway.”

  “Details. Mere details.” Sid waved a dismissive hand. “We are determined that our next big adventure will be to go to India, Molly. You know how much we’ve been longing to. But of course we won’t go anywhere until Daniel is safely back and you can do without us.”

  “You lead such exciting lives,” I said. “Mine seems so humdrum compared to yours.”

  “It wasn’t humdrum when you ran that detective agency, was it?”

  “No. It certainly wasn’t.”

  “A little too exciting at times, I’d say,” Gus added as she scooped Liam up from the floor before he disappeared into the pantry. “We feared for your safety, Molly. We’re glad you’ve given up such adventures.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Sid looked up from her coffee. “Do you still miss it? The excitement? The satisfaction of solving a case?”

  “As if she’s really given it up,” Gus said. “Who used her detective skills to find out the truth about the children last Christmas? Or solved the mystery of that poor girl’s dreams?”

  “I suppose I have had to put my skills to the test occasionally,” I admitted. “And I confess that I’m rather annoyed that Daniel will tell me nothing of this latest assignment. I don’t know where he’s going or what he will be doing.”

  “It must be something rather hush-hush,” Sid said. “I bet he’s going to be a spy. How exciting for him. I’d love to be a spy, wouldn’t you, Gus?”

  “He’s not going to be a spy,” I said rapidly. “He promised me he wasn’t going abroad.”

  “Perhaps he can’t tell you,” Sid said, giving Gus a knowing look.

  I wished she hadn’t said that. Now I’d have more to worry about—Daniel secretly in Russia or Japan or Germany.… I couldn’t bear to think about it.

  So I was relieved to get a postcard from Daniel a few days later with a picture o
f the White House in Washington. On the back he had written, All going well here. Sending a kiss to my wife and son.

  He was in Washington, only a few miles away. And if he had time to buy and write a postcard then he couldn’t be in any imminent danger, I told myself. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said he was handling a simple case of fraud. I resolved to enjoy my time while he was away. Sid and Gus were true to their word. They took me to an exhibition at the Tenth Street Studio—a huge warehouse-like place where poor local artists could rent a studio to work for a very small rent. The rent, unfortunately, did not include heating. The exhibition was under the central dome and even though the setting was quite grand, it still felt chilly and inhospitable. I was glad that I had my fur muff with me and even more glad when I was offered a glass of mulled wine, cradling my hands around it and feeling the warmth flowing back into my fingers.

  Also I have to confess that I was not impressed with the latest trends in art. I had found the paintings of the Impressionist school to be beautiful and serene. These post-Impressionists, Cubists, Fauvists, or whatever they liked to call themselves, were not producing pictures I should care to hang on my walls—all distorted figures, garish colors, and nightmare designs. Still, I suppose they represented the new century we lived in with its mechanical progress, political upheaval, and new scientific ideas. I was naturally polite when Sid and Gus enthused over various canvases and compared them to Gus’s own work (which I found equally unappealing, although of course I had never said so).

  I did meet one young man whose work I liked. His name was Feininger and he painted elongated figures in pleasing colors, rather like stained glass windows. I was just chatting with him when Gus came up to me in great excitement and dragged me away.

  “You’ll never guess who we’ve just met, Molly. Mr. Samuel Clemens.” When she saw my puzzled face she went on, “You know, Mark Twain himself. He’s taken a house here again and we’re invited to a soiree on Saturday. Do come over and meet him.”

  Of course. Mark Twain. I flushed at my own ignorance. I had actually heard him speak once before when he was visiting Greenwich Village so I was not unprepared for the shock of white hair and impressive white mustache. He shook my hand when we were introduced.

  “This is what I need around me now,” he said, looking at the audience who had gathered around him. “A bevy of beautiful women. Young and beautiful women. Ever since my dear wife and daughter died the world has seemed extremely bleak and forlorn.” He squeezed my hand. “You’ll come to my little gathering, won’t you, my dear Mrs. Sullivan?”

  “Of course. I’ll be glad to,” I said.

  “How about that,” I said as we walked back down Fifth Avenue, our arms linked, striding out over the lingering fragments of snow. “Not only does my husband receive a summons from the president, but I am invited to hobnob with Mark Twain. If only Sister Mary Patrick could see me now. Or my mother. They both told me that I’d come to a bad end if I didn’t reform my ways.”

  We were still laughing as we turned into Patchin Place. I believe it was the last time I laughed for a long while.

  Three

  On Saturday night we dressed in our finery to attend Mr. Twain’s gathering. I had been given some rather lovely silk gowns by a generous young society lady after our house had burned down. I had had little occasion to wear them during the normal course of my life, but was pleased to find them in my wardrobe now. I chose the dark blue with a matching lace fichu and affixed a blue flower to my hair. I was feeling quite glamorous when I bade good-bye to Bridie.

  “You’ll be all right here alone for a little while, won’t you?” I asked. “I don’t plan to stay out late and I’m only a block away on Fifth Avenue if you really need me.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I am almost twelve years old, you know. And Liam’s already asleep.”

  I hugged her. “You’re such a big help to me. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She beamed at me, but then her face became wistful. “I don’t really remember my real mother very much. You’re more like my mother now. I only hope…” She broke off.

  “And you’re my big daughter,” I said quickly, knowing that she worried as much about having to go back to live with her father in squalor as she did about finding he had died. “Between myself and Daniel’s mother we’re going to make sure you have every chance in life, and you’ll always have a home.”

  She nodded then, her eyes very bright. I have to confess I did have misgivings as I closed the door. I had left her alone with Liam before, but during the daytime and on occasions when Sid and Gus were just across the alleyway. But I told myself not to be silly. I had checked Liam and the house. All was well. I should go out and enjoy myself without worrying.

  However, I have to confess that I was relieved when I tapped on Sid and Gus’s front door only to learn that Gus had a headache and did not feel like going to a noisy party.

  “Then we don’t have to go,” I said immediately.

  “That’s what I told her,” Sid said. “But she insists that you and I go and enjoy ourselves.”

  “Then I’ll just pop back and tell Bridie that Miss Walcott is home, should she need her,” I said. I did so then Sid and I set off. The parlor at Mr. Twain’s house on Fifth Avenue was already full of noisy company by the time we arrived. More women than men, I noticed, and most of them stylishly dressed.

  “How good of you to come.” Mr. Twain took my hands in his. “Another radiant beauty to light up my small and dreary life.”

  “As if anything about your life could ever be small, Mr. Twain,” the man beside him said. “You’ve been a giant in American society since you were a boy.”

  “I hope you’re not going to write such exaggerated twaddle now that I’ve given you permission to write my biography, Albert,” he said. He turned to us. “This is Mr. Albert Paine, who has been pestering me about writing my autobiography. Or failing that, to let him be my biographer. Clearly he thinks I don’t have much time left on this earth, but I’ve always sworn that I plan to go out with Halley’s Comet so I’ve a few more years yet. I came in with it and I’ll go out with it.”

  “It would be a grand notion if we could all arrange the day of our deaths in advance,” Mr. Paine said. “So much tidier.”

  More newcomers arrived and Sid and I were swept into the crowd. Sid seemed to know some of them. I felt rather shy as I found myself chatting with writers, artists, and members of the Four Hundred. I was glad I had been to Paris the year before as the conversation seemed to revert back to that city and to London.

  “I wouldn’t dream of having my clothes made anywhere else these days, would you?” a woman was saying. She was dressed in the height of fashion in a mauve dress with the new bolero waist and generous lace trim all over, a jaunty mauve turban on her head, plus a little too-obvious coloring on her lips and cheeks.

  I caught the eye of an older woman standing behind her, soberly dressed, and we exchanged a grin. At least there are others here who think like me, I decided and was glad when she came across to speak to me.

  “I’m feeling a little like a fish out of water here, I have to confess,” she said to me. “I don’t know why I came but my dear friend Irma Reimer told me it was time I came back into society more and dragged me from the house. Do you know Irma Reimer? She is very thick with the Vanderbilts and the Astors.”

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I don’t move much in society these days. I’ve a young baby.”

  “How fortunate you are,” she said. “Mr. Endicott and I were not blessed with children. It has been a thorn in the side for both of us.” She extended her hand. “I’m Rose Endicott.”

  “Molly Sullivan.” We shook hands. “Are you a widow now?” I asked, noting her dark gray dress and that her friend had told her it was high time she came back into society.

  “Oh, no,” she replied. “But my husband is away so much. He is in the import and export business. His company has an office in London a
nd one in Havana. He is sometimes gone for months at a time.”

  “Oh, that must be hard for you,” I said. “Can he not take you with him when he travels?”

  She looked away from me then. “I’m afraid I have a delicate constitution. I do not travel well. I get seasick and Wilbur gets impatient with me. So it is easier this way, although I find the loneliness hard to bear.”

  “My husband is also away at the moment,” I said. “I hate to be parted from him, so I understand your feelings.”

  She took my hand. “Do you? I’m so glad I met you this evening. May I be so bold as to invite you to visit me while your husband is away? I don’t live too far from here. Just on Eighth Avenue.”

  “I live close by too,” I said. “On Patchin Place, just off Greenwich Avenue. And I’d be delighted to come and visit.”

  “You’ll bring your child?”

  “I’m afraid he’s eighteen months old and into everything at the moment,” I said.

  “Oh, but it always cheers me to have a lively youngster about the place. Do say you’ll bring him—for tea, maybe?”

  “Very well,” I said.

  Sid came over to join us then. “This is my dear friend Molly Sullivan I was telling you about,” she said and I noticed she had a young man beside her. He was less fashionably dressed than most of the company and looked rather skinny and undernourished. More like the students who frequented Washington Square near my home, in fact. “Molly, this is Richard Graves, who edits a magazine I sometimes write articles for. His magazine is a great champion of the suffrage movement. He is doing a piece on women in a man’s world and I told him that you had run a successful detective agency.”

  “I don’t know about successful,” I said. “I managed to solve cases without getting myself killed.”

  We laughed.

  “I’d be most interested in interviewing you, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mr. Graves said. “I am anxious to show the world that real women are not little wallflowers and violets who must be cosseted, but can handle almost any job as well as a man.”