Smoke and Mirrors

by Casey Daniels

  ‘Who?’ I asked her.

  ‘Elizabetha Dorothy Jemima Arbower.’ As if she was proud of remembering all the syllables of so complicated a name, Lulu bobbed her head. ‘Pretty golden hair. Like sunshine. They thought I was sleeping.’ She gave me a slow, exaggerated wink that might have been comical had I not known that the laudanum muddled her senses and weakened her ability to control her movements.

  ‘Almost closed, almost closed.’ She squeezed her eyes nearly shut and looked at me through the tiniest of slits. ‘They thought I was asleep. And they came into the room and …’ The familiar and terrifying flash of madness flared in her blue eyes and I did not dare wait to see if the laudanum would control it. If I fled, I would get no further answers from Lulu. And I wanted to hear more.

  I pressed her hand in mine.

  As if she did not recognize the touch of another human being, she froze, her words and her breath suspended while she slid a look down to where our hands were together on the bed. When she looked back to me, Lulu’s eyes filled with tears.

  ‘They told her it was time to wake up, but it wasn’t. It was time …’ Whatever thoughts played through Lulu’s head, they were obviously dark enough to eclipse even the effects of the laudanum. Her spine collapsed. Her shoulders dropped. Her voice was so low I wondered I heard it at all. ‘Time for sweetness and sleep.’

  ‘Sweetness?’ The word brought to mind the handkerchief. I held it out to her and, instantly, Lulu grabbed for it. Even then, I did not let go but held on so tight to the fabric she could not steal the handkerchief away. I looked her in the eye. ‘It was honey, wasn’t it? Did they give Elizabetha Dorothy Jemima Arbower laudanum and honey? Is that why she fell asleep?’

  ‘Took her in the night. Far, far away.’

  ‘And you found the handkerchief when she was gone and you kept it as a memory of your friend?’

  Lulu did not answer and I could not so cruelly tease her any longer. I let go of the handkerchief and she gathered it up in her palm, closed her fingers over it and nestled it against her cheek. She did not so much lie back down as melt into the blankets.

  ‘Beer and the green door.’ Her eyes drifted shut. ‘Far, far away. Goodbye. Adios.’

  The weight of my encounter with Lulu sat heavy upon my shoulders. By this, I do not mean the after-effects of her attack. By the time I collected Mercer and left St John’s, I had sloughed off the tremors of fear that had started up a rough rhythm inside me when Lulu had come at me and the wound in my side bled but a little. Though my throat ached, I knew it was nothing that time, hot tea and perhaps a glass or two of sherry could not fix.

  It was the impact of my conversation with her that saddened me. Her desperation. Her isolation. Whatever it was that made Lulu attack me – whether it was my appearance, which made her think I was someone else, as Frederick had suggested, or simply the sickness inside her brain – I was sorry for the woman. Sorry and intrigued by all she had told me.

  Who was the mysterious Elizabetha Dorothy Jemima Arbower? And where had she been taken?

  Goodbye. Adios.

  Where had Elizabetha gone? And why was Lulu terrified to think she might be next to leave?

  The questions played over and over again in my mind as we traveled back to the museum. They were especially troublesome because I knew I would find no answers. My solution to the ensuing frustration was simple: it was still early in the day and there was much work to be done there at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street. That work would help rid my mind of the miasma that had settled in it at St John’s.

  Once I arrived, I hoped to slip up the stairs and to my office unnoticed, but I might have known my plan would be thwarted. Yes, I know circumstances do not always play into my expectations, for the world does not work according to the wishes of mortals.

  Unless that mortal is P.T. Barnum.

  Somehow, he knew I had arrived and had already rushed out of his office, kissed my cheek and handed off my cloak to an attendant when he stepped back and gave me a searching look.

  ‘Good heavens, Evie! What’s happened to you?’

  I touched a hand to my hair and only then realized it was half undone, around my shoulders on the right and caught up in neat fashion on my left.

  ‘It’s windy out,’ I told him.

  He pressed his lips together. ‘It is not.’

  ‘Then raining.’

  ‘No, and even if it were, that would not account for your dishevelment. Can you …’ Though Phin is not usually either interested or worried about things like a woman’s hair, he wiggled his fingers, indicating that I should do my best to get mine under control. ‘There is someone waiting in my office to see you,’ he said when I did not move fast enough to pin up my hair. ‘Perhaps you should go upstairs for a minute and get yourself in order, then come back down.’

  Even though his office door was closed, I looked at it over his shoulder. ‘Who?’

  ‘Don’t you like surprises?’ His eyes twinkled.

  ‘No, I do not. Who?’

  ‘Go on, Evie!’ He put a hand to my shoulder and nudged me toward the stairs. ‘Hurry. I promise you will not be disappointed.’

  I was not convinced, but as I apparently had no choice, I went upstairs as instructed and did as much as I could to make myself presentable. It was not so easy considering I had not realized the sleeve of my green gown had been torn in my confrontation with Lulu. After I was done pinning up my hair and splashing my face with water, I nudged up my collar so as to conceal the red marks of Lulu’s fingers on my neck and tossed a shawl over my shoulders, the better to hide the damage to my dress. As presentable as I was likely to be after so eventful a morning, I was outside Phin’s office in less than ten minutes.

  I knocked at the door, and I couldn’t have been more surprised when it was opened for me by none other than Sebastian Richter.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Barnum.’ As always, he looked elegant, and his manner was charming when he bowed slightly at the waist. He stepped back to allow me into the office. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘Have you?’ Phin was seated behind his desk and, since he made no response to my searching look, I turned my attention back to our visitor. ‘How may I help you?’

  ‘Your brother has already done that,’ Richter informed me with a smile. ‘As for why we requested your presence—’

  ‘Ah! Is it that time already?’ Before Richter could finish whatever he was about to say, Phin popped out of his chair and scampered around me and to the door. ‘I must meet with the sculptor who is delivering a new bust for an exhibit. Shakespeare! What do you think? That ought to impress our visitors, eh?’ As if picturing the display, he put out both hands, thumbs and forefingers squared. ‘We’ll put ol’ Will right there beside Lafayette and Franklin. Or should he be between Socrates and Cicero?’ Thus working through the problem, Phin left the office and closed the door behind him.

  ‘Ah, finally!’

  The exclamation from Richter brought me spinning from the door to face him. His response was a smile.

  ‘You and my brother have obviously shared a secret,’ I said. ‘Am I to be told what’s going on?’

  ‘You are, indeed, my dear Miss Barnum, for it involves you directly.’

  I am hardly purblind. Nor am I some prim young miss who is apt to play coy. Ignoring the fast-paced tattoo that started behind my ribs, I raised my chin. ‘I do believe you have something to ask me, sir?’

  ‘I do, Miss Barnum … Evie!’ Richter closed in on me, took my hand and folded his fingers over mine, and his voice was as soft and as affectionate as his touch. ‘I have come here today to ask your brother’s permission and he has given it wholeheartedly. I suppose I might have waited to speak to you some moonlit evening or in some spot like a garden that might be more conducive to the mood, but to tell the truth, I cannot wait. I am too excited by the prospect of all I hope. I would ask you—’

  ‘What?’

  Was my voice that breathless?

&
nbsp; It was difficult to tell while my blood whooshed in my ears.

  Richter’s hand tightened over mine. ‘I would be honored, Evie, if you would be my wife.’

  There is a time in every girl’s life when she dreams of such a moment, and in years gone by I was no different from all the other starry-eyed misses. In those dreams, I saw exactly how I would respond to the handsome man who stood before me, a smile tickling his lips and his heart on his sleeve.

  I would stammer, but not too much.

  I would blush if I was able.

  I would smile in response to his loving expression and dip my head so as to enjoy the feelings that flashed through me just a little longer, savoring the warmth, treasuring the moment and committing it ever to memory.

  But that was before I met James Crockett.

  The thought intruded and the warmth inside me turned to ice and, little by little, I felt my smile fade. ‘There is much you don’t know about me,’ I told Richter.

  ‘I know you are intelligent, kind, and that you would love my children as if they were your own. I would hope …’ He stepped nearer and bent his head just enough so that our lips might touch if either of us moved another inch. ‘I would hope you would come to love me, too.’

  I could not equivocate, not at such a moment. ‘I would,’ I confessed, ‘for I already hold you in great esteem.’

  A smile flashed through his eyes, sending out sapphire sparks that heated me through. ‘Then we are on equal footing, for each time I’ve seen you, my admiration has grown.’

  ‘But …’ I swallowed down my misgivings. ‘If you knew—’

  He put a finger to my lips. ‘Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But it does.’

  ‘Then that is decided.’ He backed away and for one terrible moment I thought my hesitation had sealed my fate. I could not give him my answer and he could not wait. If I had any hope of happiness with Sebastian Richter, my vacillation had shattered it.

  ‘You will think about it,’ he said instead, and I released the breath I was holding. ‘And then you will give me your answer.’

  Relief swept through me and that alone told me that though my head might not be clear on the subject, my heart knew what it wanted.

  ‘You don’t mind waiting?’ I asked.

  He had already reached for his hat and his silver-tipped walking stick, and he paused with them in his hands. ‘I had hoped we might seal our agreement with a kiss. I do mind waiting for that.’

  So did I, and there seemed only one way to tell him. Before he could move another inch toward the door, I closed in on Sebastian Richter and kissed him.

  His arm went around me, his mouth closed over mine and again my heart reminded me that I knew what I wanted – I only had to speak the words.

  And yet I could not.

  By the time he released me from his grasp and I’d gathered my senses enough to step back, I was breathing hard. Sebastian didn’t hold it against me; his breaths were ragged, too.

  ‘I will let you know,’ I told him. ‘Very soon.’

  He clapped his hat on his head. ‘Very soon. For in all honesty, Evie …’ he slipped a hand over my chin and caressed my cheek, ‘… I cannot wait much longer.’

  SEVENTEEN

  I would like to say that after Sebastian left I returned to my museum duties and accomplished a great deal.

  But I have never been a very good liar.

  Once Richter was gone, I first had to deal with my brother, who did not understand why I hadn’t accepted the marriage proposal on the spot.

  ‘He needs to know.’ Thinking we would celebrate, Phin had come back to his office wearing a smile, and I faced him across his desk and watched his expression melt little by little. ‘He needs the truth about me, Phin.’

  His shoulders fell and the look Phin gave me was not so much a scowl as it was a reflection of his honest concern. ‘And if he rejects you?’

  Ah, if he rejected me …

  Even hours later, the words swirled through my head, one moment daring me to remain firm, be brave, and speak the truth, and the next taunting me with the scene that would play out if I told Sebastian the terrible truth and he walked away from me because of it.

  I am ashamed to admit that though it would wound me and destroy what I hoped would be a happy, loving – and passionate – relationship with Sebastian, I had an even bigger worry about telling him of all that had happened back in Bethel.

  If Richter rejected me, I would never have the opportunity to be a mother to his children.

  And if he put the word about that Miss Evangeline Barnum was a wanton woman with a sordid past and a bastard child and no man would have me because of it? Then I might never have the chance to have another child of my own.

  That day and all the next morning I wrestled with the decision, and by noon, when I should have been tallying the morning’s receipts, I had made up my mind. Yes, I was nervous. The next hours would determine my future. Yes, I questioned my own judgement and the words I knew I had to speak. Still, I called for Mercer and asked him to take me to Sebastian Richter’s brewery.

  To Mercer’s eternal credit, he did not question my request nor did he comment on the fact that I was edgy and preoccupied the entire journey, even when we were hindered by a logjam of buggy and cart traffic and he turned from his high seat at the front of the carriage and tried to make conversation through the open window.

  I am afraid my blank stare and disordered responses to his pleasant questions were not what he expected, and the poor man finally gave up and concentrated on driving.

  By the time we arrived in that area of the Bowery known as Kleindeutschland or Little Germany, the scent of hops and malt filled the air. My heart clattered every bit as loudly as the beer wagons that drove away from the brewery, their wooden wheels clumping out a rough tempo against the paving stones, one after another, packed with fat barrels filled with beer. I couldn’t help but watch all the activity in awestruck wonder. Workers scurried about. Horses whinnied. And all those carts and all the barrels of beer on them were headed to satisfy a thirst the likes of which this country had not seen before.

  Richter’s brewery was as much a wonder of industry as my brother’s museum was of imagination, a red-brick building that took up an entire city block. The building itself was as solid and as firm as Sebastian’s character, its flat roof corniced all around with blocks of stone like dragon’s teeth so the brewery looked like a castle from a Germanic tale. I have enough of a head for business to know this was more than just a tribute to Sebastian’s homeland. It was a reminder to all that he’d come to these shores with little and made a name – and a fortune – for himself. It was notice to all who arrived as strangers, as Sebastian had, that they, too, could build lives and futures that made the voyage over thousands of miles of water worthwhile. And it was an advertisement of sorts every bit as bold as my brother’s blatant promotions – we are immigrants together. I could just about hear the words spoken in Sebastian’s tantalizing accent. You must buy my beer!

  I could hardly fault him for this.

  The city of New York and, indeed, the country itself was changing. Over the last years, the population of immigrants – most of them from the Germanic-speaking states of Europe and from Ireland – had exploded. Those people had brought with them their traditions, and for those from places like Wurttemberg, Baden, and Bavaria, one of their most honored customs was that of making – and drinking – beer. With the introduction of railroads and the marvelous canal systems being built throughout the country, breweries such as Sebastian’s were more easily able to deliver that beer, and people from here on the eastern seaboard to the faraway states of Ohio, Illinois, Missouri, and beyond had acquired a taste for it.

  When I closed in on the building, I saw that there were cherubs carved into the stone around the door and a brewer’s star I knew was called a bierstern, on the roof. According to what I’d heard about it, the six points of the star represented those thing
s necessary for the making of beer: water, hops, grain, malt, yeast, and the brewer himself.

  Inside in the wide lobby with gleaming floors and workers who bustled back and forth, barrels were etched into the wooden stair posts, and the place buzzed with diligence and excitement.

  At a front desk elaborately carved with hops and sheaves of wheat, I asked after the owner of the establishment and was looked at so askance by the man there, I was tempted to tell him I was practically Sebastian Richter’s wife and he’d best be careful for, in no time at all, I would have power over his employment. I am happy to report that (at least at that moment) I was not feeling either small-minded nor mean. Instead, I told the man I was sure Mr Richter would want to see me and waited when he walked away (not too quickly). He was back in ten minutes and accompanied by another, older man, with a sour expression and small, dark eyes.

  ‘You’re asking after Mr Richter.’

  ‘Yes.’ My answer was as smooth as my smile. ‘I am eager to speak to him. I am Evangeline Barnum.’

  I cannot say which worked the magic, knowing who I was or just hearing the fabled Barnum name. I only know the older man’s face shot through with color.

  ‘Miss Barnum! Of course.’ He sent a look to the other man who was back behind the front desk. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Miss Barnum was here, Mr Switzer? She certainly must not be kept waiting.’

  Grateful, I sailed to his side. ‘You can take me to Mr Richter?’

  ‘I can. That is …’ He wrung hands that were small and fine for a man’s. ‘He is not here at the moment. He’s gone to pay a call at the ministry that was so much a part of his late wife’s life.’

  I touched a hand to the ribbon pinned to my cloak. ‘Succor?’

  He was relieved he needn’t explain. ‘Mr Richter always goes to the office there at this time on Thursday,’ he explained. ‘He will be back in an hour or two.’

  And I could not wait that long.