Calling on the neighbors seemed far less enticing.
Especially when it was finally time and we stepped out of the house and I looked at the grand, turreted home across the way and at an angle from Phin’s and realized just how many guests there would be. The path to Richter’s front door was crammed with carriages and, even as we watched, another couple – well-dressed and in a carriage that made even Phin’s seem small and plain by comparison – arrived.
I touched a hand to my dress, a wool challis gown in a shade of blue much like my eyes, the fabric printed with sprigs of white flowers and greenery.
‘You look fine.’ As if he were reading my thoughts, my brother wound an arm through mine and whispered in my ear, ‘You always look fine. And even if you didn’t, I hardly think you’d care.’
‘I wouldn’t. I don’t. But …’ It was difficult to explain how such groups of people made me feel. In the museum, whether I was talking to one or one hundred, I was at ease. Yet in such social situations, when I was expected to talk of nothing more interesting than the weather or the latest fashions from Paris, I often felt awkward and tongue-tied. Then again, I reminded myself, I was with my brother and I had nothing to worry about. When he was in a room, it wasn’t often that anyone else had a chance to speak!
Thus encouraged, we crossed the road and entered Richter’s property through two iron gates thrown open in welcome. The front garden was a riot of color thanks to a proliferation of dahlias, and I stopped to admire them and was noticed by a man in brown tweed who sauntered up beside me. It was Sunday and he was certainly not working, but still, there was a permanent layer of dirt under the man’s fingernails and a smile so wide and so proprietary on his face I had no doubt he was Richter’s gardener.
‘What do you think, miss?’ He waved an arm to encompass the flowers in every shade of pink, red, purple and yellow. ‘They are a thing of beauty to behold!’
‘They are, indeed. I have never seen dahlias except in drawings, and I hear they are difficult to cultivate.’
‘Not if you’ve got the gift as I do.’ The wink he gave me was exaggerated and, thus, good-natured. ‘Just you wait, miss. Just you wait until spring. Got my hands on some of them tulips you might have heard about. From across the ocean, all the way from Holland. Planted them just yesterday. Hundreds of them. Oh, yes, next spring Mr Richter’s will be a showplace. I do hope you’ll have a chance to see it.’
As I lived just across the way, I had no doubt of it and told the gardener I looked forward to seeing his flowers.
By this time, Phin and Charity, who had not stopped to discuss flora, were nearing the door and I hurried to catch up. We were greeted and our shawls and bonnets taken by a butler who handed them off and then showed us into a grand parlor painted in a shade of green that matched the sprigs in my gown, decorated as only a man with money could, with plush carpets, fine, heavy mahogany tables and chairs upholstered in fabric darker and even more soothing than the green on the walls. Nearby, our fellow guests – a whole boodle of them – were served egg sandwiches, thin slices of ham and smoked fish from one table, and there was an array of pastries, fruit and bits of candied ginger on another.
‘Champagne?’
I was so absorbed by the scene and the elegant people who surrounded us, as tightly packed and as colorful as the dahlias in the garden, I was hardly paying attention, at least not until I turned and found a tall man dressed all in black except for the brilliantly white shirt beneath his waistcoat and the small ribbon of red and yellow pinned to his jacket. He held a crystal flute in my direction.
‘Sebastian Richter,’ he said, and when I accepted the drink he lifted his own glass by way of salute. We sipped. He smiled. ‘I must be sure you don’t get the wrong idea and think that I usually serve the drinks in my own home. I saw you standing here alone and thought to introduce myself.’
He was a handsome man with strong, even features, broad shoulders, hair the color of ripe corn with a just few threads of silver in it and just the slightest trace of a Germanic accent.
I introduced myself.
‘Oh, I am well aware of who you are.’ His smile was dazzling. ‘It was one of the reasons I appropriated a glass of champagne and brought it over here, so that I might meet you.’
I wasn’t quite sure what to say, so it was just as well I didn’t have to say anything at all. From across the room, my brother spied us talking and made his way over, the crowd parting in front of him like the Red Sea before Moses.
‘Nice of you to ask us to stop by!’ Phin pumped Richter’s hand. ‘We are neighbors but hardly neighborly, eh? Never seems to be time for that sort of thing for the working man.’
‘Which is why we must make the time to get to know each other.’ Richter was talking to Phin but he was looking at me. ‘I hope you’ll excuse the early hour. I know it is not usual to have a social gathering before candle-lighting. I’ve heard this sort of thing is something new they’re doing in England – they call it a tea party.’
‘Darned civilized.’ Phin grinned from ear to ear. ‘Though I have to say, the champagne helps.’
‘And your good wife looks to be talking to my cousin, Sonya.’ Richter glanced over Phin’s shoulder to where the two ladies had their heads together. ‘I must go and introduce myself and save Mrs Barnum. Sonya has been known to talk the ears off a rabbit! You’ll excuse me.’ He nodded to Phin and bowed ever so slightly to me.
Watching him go, Phin leaned nearer. ‘I swan, there’s a fine figure of a man. Seems the congenial sort.’
‘Indeed.’ I sipped my champagne.
‘Handsome, too.’
‘That much is undeniable.’
‘And charming.’
My brother is anything but subtle. Knowing he was right about our host, I laughed, but my amusement stilled when I realized I felt exactly the same. Our host was handsome. He was charming. The tiny bit of warmth that curled inside me felt unfamiliar, like a friend I hadn’t seen in too long a time and, uncomfortable, I sloughed it off.
By this time, Phin had caught the eye of someone he knew and he called a greeting and raced away to chat with the man. Left on my own, I accepted an egg sandwich from a girl offering them from a tray and drifted to the fringes of the crowd to eat it, far more content watching than interacting. From my spot near the doorway, I could see into the dining room, and the painting above the sideboard caught my eye. I closed in on it, the better to take in the broad brush strokes and colors that were so vivid and true, and it seemed as if the scene was happening right before my eyes. The painting showed a horse fair, and every sinew of every animal vibrated with life, as did the bulging muscles in the arms of the horse traders, the tilted heads of the buyers and the amazing, animated looks on the faces of the men who watched the goings-on.
‘So what do you think?’
I didn’t need to glance to my side to know that Richter had again joined me.
My words escaped on the end of an awestruck sigh. ‘I can nearly taste the grit of the dirt from the horses’ hooves between my teeth.’
His laughter was low and smooth. ‘Ah, an art lover! I knew the moment I saw you that I had found a kindred spirit. The painting, it is not too vulgar for you?’
‘You mean because it shows real people doing real things rather than the cavorting gods and goddesses that are so common in so many paintings?’ I bent nearer for a closer look at the flashing hooves of a coal-black stallion. ‘I have never felt drawn to such classical works but this is different. This is—’
‘Intriguing?’
I stepped back and looked his way. ‘It is astonishing.’
His smile never wavered. ‘The artist is William Kobieta Walker. Perhaps you have heard of him, for he is all the talk of the town. He is a relative newcomer to New York, or so I’m told, but is fast gaining a reputation and a following. I’ll have you know I am quite the rebel to hang a painting so modern and so unusual.’
‘Then here’s to being rebellious.’ It was m
y turn to raise my glass to him. ‘You have excellent taste, Mr Richter, and I—’
‘Papa! Papa!’
Before I could finish complimenting Richter, the front door flew open and two children raced into the house and hurtled in our direction. Their red-faced nurse followed behind, breathing hard, one hand pressed to her bosom, but Richter waved her off and handed me his champagne glass so that he might get to his knees, the better to be prepared when the children slammed into him. He put an arm around each of them.
‘Did you have a pleasant day at the park?’ he asked a little girl of five or so with the face of a cherub. ‘And did you float the new boat Papa made for you in the pond?’ he asked a boy of perhaps seven who had the same golden hair as Richter’s, the same eyes, as blue as sapphires, and the same patrician nose.
The children assured him they’d had a wonderful day. He instructed them to go upstairs with Nurse and change so that they might come down and greet his guests and they were gone in a swirl of cloaks and laughter.
‘You must forgive Frida and Otto,’ he said. He smiled when he got to his feet and took his glass. ‘They are full of energy. Full of life. I know I should better discipline them but I don’t have the heart.’
I couldn’t help but smile, too, when I found myself staring after the children. ‘You and your wife must be very proud.’
‘My wife …’
The moment Richter spoke the words, the way he said them and imbued them with so much reverence, I knew I’d made a mistake. I whirled again to face him and felt my heart thump against my ribs.
He saw the mortification in my eyes and didn’t hold my blunder against me but offered a soft smile. ‘Marta has been gone these few years now. She went home to our Lord when our Frida was born. So you see …’ He sloughed off his sadness. ‘You see why I indulge them so. My children, they are my world.’
‘And they are beautiful.’ I finished my champagne, and when a young man with a tray came along he took my glass. ‘They look so much like you.’
‘They may have my looks but let us hope they have their mother’s good sense! It will serve them well in the world. Let us hope they have her good heart, too. She was a sweet, benevolent woman.’
‘Ah, you must be talking about Marta!’ The woman who joined us and wrapped an arm through Richter’s was the same woman I’d seen talking to Charity earlier – his cousin, Sonya. She was a small woman with dark hair and eyes that were a shade of gray that reminded me of marble. She wore a ribbon just like Richter’s pinned to her crimson gown. ‘Has he started lecturing you about Marta’s charities yet?’
Sonya was offering a tease and Richter knew it. Still, he did not look sorry when Phin approached.
‘Speaking of charities …’ Richter didn’t apologize for seizing the opportunity when he saw it and I thought it refreshing. In the time I’d been in New York and Phin’s financial star had risen, I’d witnessed so many who wanted his assistance pretend it didn’t matter to them at the same time they nearly drooled for his attention. ‘Mr Barnum, I thought perhaps I might mention that the new St Paul’s Evangelical Lutheran Church is readying to lay the cornerstone for a church and school. I thought perhaps you might—’
With one hand out, Phin stopped him. ‘It is Sunday, sir, and I never talk money on Sunday.’ He allowed Richter to have exactly three seconds of disappointment before Phin broke into a grin. ‘But send someone around to the museum tomorrow, why don’t you.’ Still smiling, Phin backed away when another acquaintance approached. ‘I’ll be sure he doesn’t come back to you empty-handed!’
Richter’s eyes lit up. ‘It is just as I have always heard. Your brother is an amazing man.’
‘And this new church, is this one of your late wife’s good causes?’ I asked him.
‘The church. The school.’
‘And don’t forget Succor,’ Sonya added, touching a hand to the red and yellow ribbon. ‘The Society for the Relief and Succor of Needy Women. You may have noticed Sebastian and I wear its symbol as a reminder of all we have accomplished in Marta’s name and all that still needs to be done. Succor was the one thing dear Marta loved nearly as much as she did her husband and her children, a place where women who are in trouble …’ She endowed the word with an odd little accent that twisted through my stomach and clutched further when she added, ‘Well, I am sure a woman such as you knows exactly what I’m talking about, Miss Barnum. From what we have heard, you are out in the world, working! My goodness, I can hardly comprehend such a thing, but I can understand that, under the circumstances, you surely have heard of such women and perhaps even seen them, too, as you travel to and from your brother’s museum. Women who are alone. And desperate. Women who have no hope in this world.’
I had more experience with such than she could imagine.
I swallowed the sudden ball of emotion in my throat and hid my discomfort beneath an interest I hardly needed to feign. ‘Your late wife,’ I asked Richter, ‘she was involved in a charity that benefitted such women?’
‘She was, indeed,’ he said. ‘Though she was not just involved. I hope you do not think me too boastful when I tell you that Marta was the force behind Succor and the rest of us were caught up in her fervor and her mission.’
‘Which is exactly why I’ve just been discussing Succor with Mrs Barnum,’ Sonya said, glancing over her shoulder to where my sister-in-law was chatting with a white-haired woman dressed ever-so-fashionably in a gray dress of peau de soie with tight-fitting sleeves and a bell-shaped skirt who, like others in the room, wore the Succor ribbon. ‘She most specifically asked me to mention Succor to you and to point out the plight of such poor, unfortunate women, so many of them left alone and with no family to turn to. Mrs Barnum insisted that, as she is, you would be interested in joining in our cause.
‘We are meeting tomorrow,’ Sonya continued. ‘At the office of Succor that my cousin Sebastian’ – she gave Richter’s arm a warm squeeze – ‘has been so generous as to lend us. He allows us to use offices in a building he owns. We are always in need of women of character who are willing to lend a hand to those less fortunate. Will you join us?’
‘Has my sister-in-law agreed to attend?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes.’ Sonya’s exhilaration was palpable. ‘She told me you would surely come with her, and we are most grateful.’
‘I will,’ I said.
‘Then may I …’ Sonya produced another of the little ribbons, pinned it to my dress and stepped back to beam me a smile. ‘If you will be so kind to wear the ribbon when you are out, it will remind people of our good works.’
‘Yes, of course.’ By that time Sonya had already seen a woman she knew across the room and excused herself.
‘You really don’t have to go,’ Sebastian Richter told me. ‘Sonya can be—’
‘It’s fine. Really. I am not sure what I can do to help but I can surely try.’
‘A woman of your intelligence …’ Richter did not finish the statement and, for that, I was grateful. The gleam in his eye wasn’t off-putting but rather entrancing.
And I am not a woman who is comfortable being entranced.
With that in mind, I excused myself and would have walked away if Richter hadn’t stopped me.
‘I thought perhaps …’ For a man of such reputation and such stature, he suddenly looked ill at ease. ‘That is, if Mrs Barnum would allow it, I noticed how much you seemed to enjoy the company of my children. I know your brother and his wife have children of their own, and I thought that we might take them – all of them – to the park some afternoon. That is, if you think you might enjoy the outing.’
I couldn’t help but think of what his cousin had mentioned earlier. ‘And it wouldn’t bother you to be seen in public with a woman who is employed at the American Museum?’
Richter’s unease was gone in an instant.
‘Your work at the museum, Miss Barnum …’ His smile warmed me through to the bone. ‘I hope you won’t think it too forward of me, but the fac
t that you are intelligent and capable enough to work is one of the things I find so fascinating about you.’
I had in the past been told I was fair enough of face and figure, and though some men I had met did not think it an asset in a woman, I had been also told that I talked like a book and was as smart as a steel trap.
As far as I could remember, I do not think that anyone – man, woman or child, able-bodied or oddity – had ever called me fascinating.
I do confess, the thought bolstered my spirits and made it difficult for me to sleep that night. I stayed up to the small hours and, most naturally, thinking about being deemed fascinating made me think of Sebastian Richter.
It is no wonder that when the sun rose the next morning I was hardly at my best, and it was just as well that when I arrived in the breakfast room there was no one about. When I was seated, Cook brought me a cup of coffee and offered boiled eggs, sausages and fried potatoes, but I had no time to decide if I wanted more than the bread and butter that had been left on the table when Phin bumped through the door.
His face was a thundercloud.
‘You’ll excuse us, Mrs O’Donnell,’ was all he said.
She left the coffee pot on the table and exited the room and I sat up, a sudden dread filling my veins with ice.
‘What is it?’ I was out of my chair in an instant. ‘The children? They aren’t—’
‘They are fine. Every single one of them.’ Phin plunked into a chair and poured coffee for himself, and I sat back down. ‘That is not what I need to talk to you about. It is … it is Madeline Emerson.’
‘Andrew’s sister?’ Thinking of poor Madeline receiving the news of Andrew’s untimely end made my heart squeeze, and when I made to take a drink of my own coffee, my hands shook. I set cup on saucer with a clink. ‘I’ve written to her,’ I told my brother. ‘The night …’ He knew exactly which night I was talking about – I did not need to elaborate. ‘I sent the letter to Bethel with—’
Smoke and Mirrors Page 8
