“The men are dressed so formally,” Evie observed, remembering the man who’d helped her find a cab.
“It is how a gentleman always dressed, even during the day. Of course today is Sunday, so they have on their best.”
In the park, pink and white blossoms peeked out along the branches of the trees. Tulips in red and yellow bloomed by the side of walkways, beckoned forth by the warmth. Winding though the manicured lawns were paths for promenading, and there was a large plaza in the center of it all. Lovers sat at proper distances on benches. Some children played games in open spaces, while others were hurried forward by parents eager to be on their way.
Cassandra reached up and plucked a dying bloom from an overhead branch. Waving her hand over the scene in the park she commented, “It looks like a painting by Seurat.”
“I was thinking Manet,” Evie replied.
“It also makes me think of Henry James’ Washington Square.”
“I have not read it.”
They walked on silently.
Evie extracted her arm from Cassandra’s. “It smells better than it did last night; this area is paradise compared to the Five Points.”
“A well-off neighborhood gets cleaned up during the night by the street sweepers. By the end of the day, it will probably be pretty rank again.” Cassandra watched a horse deposit its offering on the street.
“Why don’t we find a place to eat,” said Evie, “I am hungry now.”
Cassandra looked at her pocket watch. “It is one-thirty. I suppose I could eat lunch.”
They turned west on Fourth Street, then north on Sixth Avenue and in a couple of blocks spotted a café with floor to ceiling windows running along the front, filled with well-dressed patrons. They entered and were stopped by the maître-d’.
“A table for two, please,” said Cassandra.
As he led them to a table in the center of the room, they were met with stares from the customers and the staff.
“Is this to your liking?” the man asked.
Evie looked around, pleased by the scrubbed wood floors and crisp white tablecloths. She spied a table by the windows. “No. Can we have that one instead?”
Cassandra raised her eyebrow, but Evie ignored it.
“I am sorry, that one is reserved.”
Evie removed a dollar from her hand bag.
“Will this un-reserve it?”
“Evie!” Cassandra hissed.
The maître-d’ took the money. “I suppose I can move the previous reservation elsewhere.”
“Thank you.” Evie smiled at Cassandra triumphantly.
Once they were seated, Cassandra began, “Evie, that was rude! I was embarrassed.”
“Nonsense. One must be assertive in this world.”
“In our world, maybe,” Cassandra whispered. “Here, we must be more demure.”
“Fine, I will not do it again.” Evie buried her face in the extensive menu.
The restaurant offered a prix fixe luncheon of several courses for three dollars a person, from which they each chose soups, appetizers, entrees, salads, side dishes, desserts, and wines. Once the elaborate meal was finished, it was nearly four.
Evie was feeling tipsy.
“Can we please walk over to the church, just to see if anyone is around?” she asked after they’d paid the bill.
“Very well, yes. I could use the exercise.”
But the twenty-minute walk across town brought nothing but a locked churchyard. Evie stood and gazed at the structure.
“It is beautiful, now as much as it will be.”
Cassandra agreed.
“How could I have confused the Bowery with Second Avenue?”
“They are actually quite close to one another. The street called Bowery is what Third Avenue turns into just a few blocks south.”
“I want to come back in the morning.”
“Of course. I thought that was the plan.”
Again, Evie thought, your plan. But she did not say it.
Once back at the hotel, she was glad that Cassandra didn’t seem in the mood to chat. When she met her in the sitting area of their suite, Cassandra had already arranged herself on a sofa with her journal, pen and ink, her reading book nearby, humming some song. Evie returned to Persuasion but found she couldn’t concentrate on the story, and Cassandra’s droning, though barely audible, was irritating. Her stomach was full of butterflies in anticipation of the morning. After a half an hour of her mind wandering to fantasies of what she hoped to learn at the church, she told Cassandra she was tired and went to her room.
Travel Journal, Cassandra Reilly: May 8, 1853—I’m not pleased by Evie’s impetuousness this morning. She’s showing more and more how much of a mind of her own she has, and though normally that’s something I consider a good quality in a person, in this kind of risky experiment we are undertaking, it could backfire, and already has. She ended up in Five Points this morning after taking a cab to the wrong All Angels. She doesn’t even know the city well enough to know Second Avenue from the Bowery, and yet, in the future, she’s lived here for several years working as an artist. Maybe it’s because she’s driven everywhere by her chauffer and doesn’t have to pay attention. No, now I’m just being unkind. It’s easy to get confused when you’re dealing with a city that looks nothing like you’re used to.
But still, she seems to want to thwart me—as if she doesn’t trust me to be the guide, which, frankly, is how I got dragged along on this venture. Am I just the babysitter to a rich, spoiled girl? I’ll get to bed early tonight and hopefully tomorrow will prove more satisfactory to us both.
Chapter Six
The woman had told us to look for a sign with two words on it, and she wrote it down so we could match the letters to the sign that said SPRING GROVE. She said go to the third farmhouse and watch the window by the back door. When a yellow quilt was put out on the sill to air, that was the sign that runaways could approach.
Well, we got to Spring Grove and found the farm and waited all one day and one night, nearly starved by this time, till we saw a lady open the window and put out the yellow quilt. Still, we were fearful, but we needed food and rest so we went to the door and knocked, our hearts pounding. The woman answered, real matter of fact, and took us out to the hay loft of the barn, and left us with plenty of food and some warm blankets.
—From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly
*****
The next morning Evie chose her outfit with special care: a print skirt and top of light-blue flowers, with darker flowers that increased in size toward the borders. The neck was a high white collar, and the bodice buttoned down the front to the waist with small, delicate, pearl buttons. It was form-fitting and came snuggly down to the waist, forming a V in the front. The sleeves were long, and bell-shaped at the wrist, set off at the edges with white, cotton lace. The skirt was very full and two tiered, becoming wider at the bottom, and held out by a crinoline petticoat. Gazing at herself in the bedroom mirror, she thought she looked like what princesses looked like in fairy tales, before they knew they were princesses. She stepped out into the sitting room to find Cassandra waiting for her, wearing an ensemble of soft gray and dark red, wool plaid, a white ruffled blouse exposed through the deep v-neck of the bodice.
“You look so elegant,” the younger woman said.
“Thank you,” Cassandra replied with a slight smile. “You look beautiful.”
Evie giggled nervously. “Why don’t we have breakfast in the hotel dining room, so we can practice interacting with people?”
They sallied down to the first floor and toward the back of the building to find a sunny dining room that opened onto a garden. There were few other guests breakfasting on the Monday morning. Each of them looked up and watched the women walk through the room to the table where the host directed them.
They ordered a meal of eggs, bacon, toast, jam and coffee, but did not have luck conversing with anyone other than the waiter. The oth
er guests in the dining room, a businessman who peeked at them occasionally from behind his newspaper, a man and woman with two fussy children, and a large gentleman eating his breakfast rapidly and staring at them openly, did not seem likely candidates for conversation. By the time they finished their breakfast, it was close to eleven.
“Do you think this is a good hour for someone to be at the church?” asked Evie as she dabbed at her lips with the napkin.
“Yes, why not?” Cassandra replied. “Let’s give it a try.” She signed the bill and left a few coins for a tip.
“I am nervous,” said Evie.
“Me too, a little.”
They gathered their things, nodded politely to their small audience, walked out of the hotel, and turned toward the square. From there, they headed north on Fifth Avenue, then turned east on Tenth Street and continued through the quiet neighborhood of stately brownstones until they reached the point where Stuyvesant Place, the only true east/west positioned street in the city, met up with Tenth. Just beyond that intersection was the church.
Evie stopped. She took Cassandra’s arm and held her back.
“Wait! Let me look at it for a minute.” She tried to control her breathing. “It is amazing!”
“What is?”
“Just that, I mean, I just cannot get over how you can walk down these streets where almost everything has changed over the past nearly three hundred years, and then you come upon a building like this that literally has not been altered one single bit in all that time. Possibly the paint on the molding is a different color, but that is all. It just…suddenly makes you feel like you are home.”
Cassandra smiled, nodded and moved on to cross the street. She stepped up to the tall front gates and pushed them open. Evie followed and noticed that the front doors were ajar. Taking a deep breath, she darted up the steps past Cassandra and looked inside. The dimly lit interior was indeed more changed in the future than the exterior would be. The two women walked all the way through the vestibule and into the sanctuary, taking in the quiet space. Around the rear three-quarters of the second-level perimeter was a balcony. Stained-glass windows, mostly depicting saints, lined the walls of both levels, and dark wood pews stretched up toward the simple altar, behind which hung a great cross. The floor of the sanctuary was brick-colored tile, and there were candle holders at the ends of each pew and situated around the altar. On the dais, where the altar stood, were carved wooden chairs for the clergy, and against the back wall under the cross, a large pipe-organ dominated.
Evie looked around for the painting. It was not where she expected it to be, on the west wall, between the windows that depicted Peter Stuyvesant and St. Mark. She had returned over and over to see it, week after week for the past five or so years since she’d first seen it hanging there in what seemed like a place of honor. It was seared into her memory: a portrayal of a wide river, darkly churning, figures standing on the far bank, dark-skinned and humbly clad, one wearing a straw hat, all blurred by fog rising from the water. Their faces were indistinguishable, but the attitudes of their bodies exuded fear. On the near bank, a black man stood, wearing coveralls, only visible from behind, holding a rope attached to a broad raft. The painting was set into a homemade frame that was much like those she made for her own work, with nothing more than a simple plaque beneath it: CALEB STONE, 1853.
She heard a noise and noticed two women far at the front of the church, polishing the backs of the pews with rags. They were deep in conversation as they worked and did not see the visitors until Cassandra managed a small cough to get their attention. They started with surprise, then immediately moved apart. One of them set down her rag and quickly walked toward the guests.
“Hello?” she called out when she was about halfway down the aisle.
“Good morning,” they both replied.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked.
Evie quickly studied the woman’s face, expecting Cassandra to speak first. When she didn’t, Evie offered, “My name is Evelyn Bay.”
“And I am Cassandra Reilly.” Evie heard a quaver in her voice.
“Really? My name is Cassandra as well! Miss Cassandra Johnston. So nice to meet you.” She put out her hand to Evie, who took it, grinning widely. Cassandra received the offered shake next, but Evie noticed her hand was trembling.
From what Evie knew of Benedict Johnston, his daughter did not resemble him. The woman was tall, thin, and angular, with a prominent nose and large teeth. Her hair was a faded brown and her eyes were wide and vivid blue, unlike how Cassandra had described Benedict’s: a penetrating bluish green. She did not know what her ancestor’s smile had been like, but perhaps his daughter had inherited it, because it was warm and welcoming, and Evie liked her right away.
“What brings you to All Angels?” Cassandra Johnston asked. “Would you like a tour? It is a very historical place. Peter Stuyvesant, the first governor of New York, is buried here. Did you see his monument over in the East Yard?”
“Oh, yes!” replied Evie.
“And that is his image there in that window,” she continued. She indicated a stern figure depicted in stained glass.
“Actually,” Evie blurted out, “we are interested in the work you do here.”
“Our work?” Miss Johnston asked.
“In the cause of abolition,” said Evie.
By this time, the other lady who had been working in the sanctuary had made her way down the aisle. She was African-American, also tall and slim, with dark-brown skin, high cheekbones, a broad, pleasant mouth, keen black eyes, and hair braided close to her head.
“Are you abolitionists?” Miss Johnston asked.
“Yes!” replied Evie. She saw Cassandra throw a furrowed glance her way.
“Oh, my goodness, then welcome! This is Miss Lillian Ketchum.”
“Very nice to meet you,” Miss Ketchum said. “Where do you hail from?” she inquired in a low, refined Southern drawl.
“We are from Boston,” said Cassandra.
“Oh, the movement is making great strides there, is it not?” observed Miss Ketchum brightly. “Do you work with a society?”
“Not really,” replied Evie. “We have not been as involved as we would like to have been. But we are going to be in New York for a while, and we heard about what you do here, so we thought we could be useful while we are here.”
“I shall have to ask grandfather about that,” Miss Johnston said, looking from one woman to the other.
Cassandra opened her mouth to speak, but Evie cut her off. “Yes, your grandfather, Jeremiah Williams! We have heard so much about him.”
“His reputation does precede him,” Miss Johnston remarked to Miss Ketchum with a grin. “But come. While you are here, let us show you around. We can always use a break, can we not?”
“True,” the other woman replied. “Shall we start with the upstairs?”
Evie’s heart was beating so hard with anticipation of finding the painting, she was afraid the others might hear it. Miss Ketchum took them through a vesting area in the back of the sanctuary up a flight of solid wooden stairs. A door at the top led them out onto the balcony. It too was fitted up with pews, and in an alcove at the back, which was the front wall of the church building, a round window set with stained glass allowed a soft, pink light to filter into the space.
Cassandra had hung back, examining the space. “Oh, the rose window is lovely!”
“Isn’t it?” replied Miss Johnston. “The builders of this church positioned the structure so that at noon on the winter solstice, the light coming into that window beams exactly onto the center of the sanctuary floor. Rather pagan, no?” She had a glimmer in her eye.
“Now, Cass,” Miss Ketchum said with a giggle.
The party continued to appreciate the view from the balcony as they were led toward the front of the sanctuary.
Miss Johnston made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “This upper level was designated for slaves until about forty years ago when Gra
ndfather was appointed rector of this church. That was well before the abolition of slavery in New York, but Grandfather forbade such segregation. He petitioned all slave-owning members of the church to emancipate their captives and was so vehement that they either left the church or complied. This was before I was born, of course, but I am so proud to relate the history.”
“He was a true pioneer in the movement,” added Miss Ketchum.
“I can well appreciate your pride in him!” said Evie.
“He has made a great difference in many lives,” Miss Ketchum said with a catch in her throat as she led her party through a door at the front of the balcony and down another flight of steps into a spacious hall. She seemed to want to say something more, but hesitated.
Miss Johnston stepped forward. “This is the parish hall, where we meet for meals, to socialize, and to organize the work of the movement. Through there is the kitchen, and out this way is the west churchyard. I think you will find it most interesting.”
The two guests followed, Evie with a sinking feeling of disappointment that the painting was nowhere to be seen. The churchyard was shaded with tall, ancient-looking trees, and the gravestones were laid flat into the ground, giving the effect more of a garden than a cemetery. Ivy grew over small hillocks that had been landscaped throughout the yard, so that one had to wind around them to look at the names on the markers. Benches were scattered here and there for visitors to enjoy the cool green. It occurred to Evie that little had changed in the churchyard over the centuries, other than the addition of more markers.
“Where do you suppose Caleb has got to?” Miss Johnston said to her friend, looking around.
Evie felt her heart stop beating.
“He was out here just a little while ago. Maybe he is in the kitchen. I know that Samuel was in there cleaning earlier; maybe Caleb went to help him.”
“Shall we go look? I would love our visitors to meet them. Lillian’s brother,” she explained to her guests, “and Caleb Stone, a great friend of ours who helps out around the church.”
“We would be most happy to meet them, but we really do not want to intrude on your day,” said Cassandra; she leaned toward a nearby rosebush and snipped off a spent flower with her fingertips.
The Time Heiress Page 7
