“You will not need a shawl; it is quite warm,” he said as she reached to take it off the rack by the door.
Cassandra placed a bonnet on her head and they stepped outside. He led her downtown and to the western part of Greenwich Village, through winding, narrow streets and past brick townhomes dating from the Colonial era.
Cassandra found herself fascinated with Mr. Evan’s knowledge of architecture, literature, art, and music, but especially politics, a subject she was not as familiar with in regard to the time period.
“I feel the country is having an identity crisis,” he was saying as they made their way toward the Hudson River, “that the push for abolition from the North is going to split our nation in two.”
“That would be a terrible thing.”
“And I cannot help but wonder where Kansas is going to stand. Will it come out as a slave or a free state? Already blood has been shed in that struggle.”
“I pray they will side with the North.”
“Yes, but it does not look as though they will. Then, of course, there is the new, western frontier. If we cannot decide whether the entire nation is free or not, which side will the west be on?”
“I hope nation-wide abolition can be adopted without a schism in our republic and without more blood being spilled.”
“I doubt that will be the case. War is a terrible thing, but I do not see the nation resolving the matter peace-ably. One would think, after fighting so hard for independence, and the subsequent battles we have had for territory, we could find our way to being truly united. But what did the Revolutionary War really achieve for us as a nation beside autonomy from Britain? Seventy years after the Constitution was adapted, Democracy seems to be working, yes, but as we see, it is not democracy for all, only for white men of means. Capitalism, the economic system we worship, has taken the nation by the throat and there must be some laws and limits imposed if it is going to work for everyone. I tell you, Mrs. Reilly, I fear for the poor, especially the new immigrants and the Negro population—both of them in the same economic boat. In this city, we see the results of this injustice in the Five Points, where conditions are reaching the tipping point.”
“Oh, yes, I have heard how terrible it is.”
“But there are reasons the people act this way. It is a reaction to the oppression put upon them. Yet oddly, though violence often erupts there, there is also a certain amount of, ahem, love between the races, if I may speak frankly.”
Cassandra opened her mouth to comment, but he continued. “But Five Points is an anomaly. Achieving any kind of love between the races is a hard fought battle everywhere else in the nation. And the battle has only begun.”
They arrived at the river and stood silently on the dock. New Jersey was a verdant sweep of hills and trees across the water. They watched as steamers and tug boats came in to port, while others lumbered up the river or out into the harbor. Eventually they turned and walked back through the city past several small shops, until one caught Mr. Evans’ eye.
“My favorite bookseller! Let us stop in and see what is new.”
Cassandra was thrilled to have the chance of looking around inside. A small, bespectacled man looked up as they walked in and nodded at Evans with recognition, then went back to arranging books on a table.
Cassandra scanned the shelves, looking for Austen in the alphabetical arrangement, while Evans perused a display of new books. One dusty copy of Pride and Prejudice was there. She was mildly surprised, knowing Jane Austen was not widely read yet in the states. She pulled down the leather bound book, embossed with gold lettering, and gently opened it. The fine leaves were untouched, slick and smooth. She held it to her face and inhaled deeply. The smell was of wood and ink. Evans came and stood behind her.
She turned to him. “You said you have read Persuasion.”
“I have read all six of her novels.”
“Where did you find them?”
“I traveled to England when I was a young man, around the time Miss Austen’s books were being generally circulated. A friend there introduced me to her work, and I could not read them fast enough. I adore her sharp satire.”
“What year were you there?”
“1820.”
Cassandra trembled internally for a moment. “And what cities did you visit?”
“I was mostly in London.”
She could have passed the teenaged Evans in the street and not known it.
“Are you going to buy it?” he asked.
She considered doing so. It would be a wonderful treasure—the best souvenir so far of her trip. But then she placed it back on the shelf. “No; I would rather leave it here for someone else to enjoy. I have already read it.”
“Is she popular in Boston?”
“No more so than in New York, but I make a point of investigating new or little known authors. I am an avid reader.”
“As am I,” he said.
They locked eyes for a moment, then she moved away. “I am getting hungry for those oysters.”
“Yes, then, let us go.”
“Mr. Frasier, good afternoon.” He bowed to the shopkeeper.
“Good day,” Cassandra said.
The man merely nodded again and resumed his work.
Another few minutes walking brought Mr. Evans and Cassandra to the open-air restaurant. Patrons sat at wooden tables and benches arranged on a sawdust-covered floor. Large bins of ice filled with oysters and clams of every variety surrounded the perimeter of the space, and at the back, great ovens and kettles hung over fire pits roasting, frying, and steaming. They found a vacant table and Mr. Evans called for two pints of ale, which were hurried over by a young boy, no more than twelve with a dirty face, worn clothing, and sharp eyes.
Her companion ordered a dozen raw oysters for both himself and Cassandra, half a dozen fried, and a bucket of steamed clams for each.
“Is it too much for you, Mrs. Reilly?” he asked with hint of dare in his voice.
“Not at all.”
The raw oysters arrived in short time, with a bottle of hot sauce, a basket of saltine crackers and two lemon halves. Cassandra took up her lemon, squeezed it over the wet, silvery flesh, sprinkled them with hot sauce, and then slurped each one down in turn. She savored their slick, slimy texture and salty ocean essence as they gave their live bodies to her in limpid sacrifice. She closed her eyes, feeling as if she could taste the whole of the sea in her mouth, tinged with citrus, spiced with hot pepper. The flavor was gone in a flash and lived all over again with each subsequent victim.
He watched her with amusement. “Another dozen, Mrs. Reilly?”
“Oh, I could easily eat another dozen or two, but want to save my appetite for what is to come.”
She ate a saltine and swigged some ale, and in a moment the fried delicacies were before her, then quickly devoured as she popped them in and chewed them up. She delicately dabbed at her lips with a napkin while she waited for Mr. Evans to finish. Soon a tin bucket of steaming Little Necks was placed before each of them. He ordered another ale from the boy, and, not to be outdone, Cassandra downed hers and called for another as well. Wanting to savor the clams, she took her time, plucking them up one by one with tongs, spearing the meat inside with a tiny fork, and chewing each thoroughly, in ecstasy over their delicate headiness. She ate every one of the three dozen or more in the bucket interspersed with saltines and ale, then ate the half a dozen that Mr. Evans left unfinished.
“I declare you the winner!” he said as she finished the last one. “A victory for woman-kind!”
“Thank you. I accept the honor!”
Mr. Evans paid the bill, and as she rose to go, she felt the effects of the alcohol. They swerved through the tables and out onto the street.
“Let us sing Ida Mae!” he exclaimed loudly.
“Ida Mae? What is that?”
“Come now, you must know it. It is what everyone is humming these days.”
“Perhaps not in Boston.”
&nb
sp; “Perhaps not in your sheltered little circle,” he said, smiling down at her.
“What do you know of me and my circle? My friends and I are quite progressive, though perhaps we do not spend much time in taverns singing bar songs.”
“Bar songs! It is a ballad of love! Here, let me teach it to you.” He sang it, and she rapidly caught on to the lyrics and the melody. They walked arm and arm toward Fifteenth Street and by the time they were nearly at the Johnston house, Cassandra realized, from the looks they received from people on the street, that they were singing very loudly, and that she was quite closely pressed up against him. When they reached the door he let her go with some reluctance. The sun was sinking low in the sky. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips, his eyes closed. When he lifted his head he retained her hand, looking at her, his expression serious.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Reilly.” His mischievous smile returned.
“Goodnight,” she said taking back her hand with an admonishing, sidelong look. Before going inside, she stopped and watched him saunter down the steps and out through the gate. He tipped his hat to her; she nodded, then went in and shut the door.
As Cassandra wrote in her journal before bed, reliving on paper her afternoon with Mr. Evans, Nick’s words sprang to mind: I want you to promise that you’ll keep me in your heart and in your mind. That you won’t get distracted from our relationship by…whatever, the lure of the times, the people that you meet—
She shook her head to clear the words away, and her stomach churned. She had not had an appetite for supper, but just before bedtime had taken some toast and chamomile tea. She now took an anti-bacterial with the remainder of the tea, and it worked immediately. She snuffed her candles, opened the bedroom windows to let in the breeze, tied back the drapes of the bed, and climbed in between the crisp sheets. A scent of honeysuckle drifted through the open windows, and she easily fell into a deep sleep. Sometime later she woke. She wasn’t sure what had roused her and wondered what time it was. A clock bell in the distance told her that it was just now midnight. She closed her eyes and had just begun to slumber again when a voice outside the house woke her. She listened for a moment. Then all was quiet—probably someone passing on the street. Sleep came over her in earnest, and she was unconscious for awhile. A thump startled her awake. She lay listening, breathing, alert. Nothing. Then another thumping and a scuttling. She sat up on her elbows, straining to figure out what the noise could be. There was a scraping sound that she thought was coming from above. She listened, her heart beating faster. Another scrape and a bump, then silence. She decided it must be a raccoon or squirrel that had gotten into the attic so she flopped back down onto her pillow. She tried to stay alert, but as no more sounds disturbed her, she drifted back into sleep, not wakening again until well into morning.
Chapter Ten
One more night walking brought us to the next river—wider than the last. But Sam felt stronger after eating the fish, and some nuts, greens, and berries we found. We crossed the river the same way, me first on Sam’s back, carrying his clothes. The water was deeper and came to his chin. It was choppy and sometimes splashed up into his face or washed over his head. I felt so bad to be his burden, but he pressed on. He went back again to get Lill. I watched as they came slowly, holding my breath every time the water splashed over Sam’s head. Lill had her mouth clamped shut so as not to scream and was clinging to Sam for dear life. Suddenly he slipped and went down and Lill slid off his back. Her skirts pulled her down fast and while he came quickly back up, she was rapidly floating downstream, sinking all the while. Sam threw himself into the current, grabbing at the water to move faster toward his sister. I knew that if she could get close to the bank, her being a tall girl, she could stand. There was nothing I could do. I just stood there helpless, praying to God not to let my friends die then and there. Sam caught hold of Lill’s skirt, then caught her arm and pulled her head up out of the water. She was coughing and gasping. He lurched toward the shore and when they got to shallow water, she stood and they walked on out of the river. She flopped down on the sand, coughing up water. We saw a boat coming down the river, so we grabbed her up between us and hauled her behind some bushes where we all laid low as the boat passed. When we saw it was some rough-looking white men with guns, we clamped a hand over Lill’s mouth so they would not hear her coughing.
We fell asleep, wet and exhausted, there under the bushes, Sam and I pressed close to Lill to try to warm her through her soaked clothes. At nightfall, I caught us a few fish and we made a low, smoky fire. This river was pretty well traveled, so we cooked and ate back away from the bank in a stand of trees and bushes. We walked through the night, and before morning, came to a piece of water that made the rivers look like tiny streams. We knew this must be the Chesapeake. Boats sailed on it like mighty birds with great white wings, catching the wind and soaring with tremendous speed across the water. It was an amazing thing to behold—I had never seen anything like it.
Elijah had told us if we could find a boat to take us up the Chesapeake, we could get to Philadelphia a lot faster than by walking around it. But this was a problem. How would we find a boat? We had no money to pay our passage, and would surely be recognized as runaways.
From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly
*****
When Cassandra went down for breakfast around nine, Miss Johnston, Miss Ketchum and Samuel were sitting at the table looking bleary. Samuel was silently shoveling food into his mouth, Miss Johnston was giving her eggs an uninterested appraisal, and Miss Ketchum was nodding over the morning paper. Evie had not yet appeared.
“Good morning,” Cassandra said brightly.
Miss Ketchum snapped awake, Miss Johnston forced a smile onto her face and applied herself to her food, while Samuel looked up as if he had just realized there were other people in the room. He reached over to take a section of the paper from his sister.
“How did you sleep, my dear?” inquired Miss Johnston before swallowing a bite of toast.
“Pretty well.”
“Did you hear the raccoons in the attic?” interrupted Miss Ketchum.
“Oh, is that what that was?” Cassandra replied. “Yes, I did hear something.”
“Samuel,” his sister said, “we must do something about those pesky creatures.”
“What?” Samuel asked without interest, still gazing at the paper.
“The raccoons!”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I will take care of it after breakfast.”
Miss Johnston reached to pick up the silver coffee pitcher and knocked over the sugar bowl in the process.
“Oh, bother!” she exclaimed, and set to brushing the sugar off the table into her hand.
“But how do you get into the attic?” Cassandra asked, realizing she’d never seen a stairway or trapdoor.
Just then, Evie entered the room, dressed for the day.
“Oh, Miss Bay!” exclaimed Miss Ketchum. “You are up. Will you have some breakfast? Anna Mae!” she called in the direction of the kitchen. “Miss Bay is up.”
“Just a minute!” the cooked snapped.
“It seems we all slept late,” remarked Cassandra, “I just woke up a little while ago myself.”
“Did we?” said Evie, reaching for the coffee.
“My dear, would you pour me some?” asked Miss Johnston, dumping her palm full of sugar back into the bowl. “I was just remarking to Mrs. Reilly that there were raccoons in the attic last night. I believe they kept me awake. Did you experience the same problem?”
“Yes, definitely,” Evie replied. “Though I thought maybe they were squirrels.”
“Too big for squirrels,” Samuel grumped.
Anna Mae emerged from the kitchen without her usual alacrity. She dropped one plate of fried eggs, grits, bacon, and biscuits in front of Evie and one in front of Cassandra and returned to the kitchen with a distracted look on her face.
Evie dove into her breakfast. Miss Johnston and M
iss Ketchum began to plan their day as was their habit around the breakfast table. Cassandra ate her food, listening with interest.
Samuel finally rose. “Very well then, let’s see about those raccoons.”
When Cassandra finished eating, she excused herself and went to the piano in the parlor. After a while, Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum came and sat, doing their needlework as they listened to the music, but Evie did not come and join them.
At almost the exact same time that he had appeared the day before, Mr. Evans walked into the room dressed in a tuxedo with tails, top hat in hand, and tiptoed over to a chair. As Cassandra’s eyes followed him to his seat, she noticed the two women had dozed off. When she finished her piece, he applauded loudly and startled the ladies awake. Cassandra looked around at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, Mr. Evans,” said Miss Johnston, “I did not know you had come in!”
“Forgive me for intruding on your repose, ladies.”
Miss Ketchum straightened up in the chair and smoothed her hair.
“I have tickets to a matinee performance at the opera,” he said to them, “and I was hoping to find someone to go with me. A friend gave them to me because he was going out of town. Unfortunately, I have only two; is anyone game?”
Miss Ketchum and Miss Johnston leapt to their feet.
“We promised we would help Samuel decide on the placement of some rosebushes today, and look how we have let the morning slip away!” Miss Ketchum said to her friend. “We are being slothful! So much to do, yet we allowed ourselves to succumb to Mrs. Reilly’s heavenly music. We must not indulge ourselves any longer today with entertainment. Mr. Evans, I think Mrs. Reilly is the perfect candidate for the opera. Do you not agree, Cass?”
“Oh certainly,” replied Miss Johnston. “You must go, Mrs. Reilly.”
“Perhaps Evie would like to go,” said Cassandra, beginning to feel like a date was being arranged.
“Oh, I doubt it,” said Miss Ketchum, hurriedly. “I think she was still feeling ill this morning.”
Cassandra considered this for a moment. On the one hand, she was starting to feel uneasy about spending so much time alone with Mr. Evans. On the other, her curiosity to see an opera performed during that era was irresistible.
The Time Heiress Page 13
