by P. B. Ryan
Chapter 11
“We’re here, Nell,” Will said softly.
Nell opened her eyes to find herself nestled against Will in the buggy, which he’d pulled up to the front of his parents’ house. “I fell asleep again?”
“You’ve had a trying day.”
“I thought you two would never get home.” It was Viola’s voice, coming from the front porch, where she and her husband were sipping the glasses of sherry they enjoyed every evening before dinner, she reading a book and her husband a newspaper.
Nell groaned softly as she realized Mr. Hewitt had seen her sleeping against Will’s shoulder.
“We had to make an unplanned stop,” said Will as he jumped down from the buggy and came around to Nell’s side.
As he was handing her down, his mother asked him to join them for supper, as she did every afternoon—despite the fact that Will declined the invitation every time, so as not to have to share a dining table with Mr. Hewitt.
Will circled the buggy in silence. As he was climbing up into the driver’s seat, he said, “Thank you, Mother. I believe I’d enjoy that.”
He drove off to the carriage house with Nell, Viola, and Mr. Hewitt all staring after him. Viola met Nell’s gaze with a look of surprised pleasure as her dour husband turned a page of his newspaper.
“Where is Gracie?” Nell asked as she climbed the porch steps.
“Eileen is getting her into her bathing dress for a little late afternoon dip with the Palmer twins from down the road—Patty and... Polly?”
“Pammy,” Nell corrected.
Viola said, “My dear, I wonder if you wouldn’t be so kind as to take a look at the sketch I did this afternoon and tell me what you think of it. It’s on my worktable in the greenhouse.” She always called it “the greenhouse,” although it hadn’t been used for that purpose in many years.
“Of course,” Nell said. “I’ll do it as soon as I’ve washed off the dust of the road and dressed for dinner.”
“You might want to look at the sketch first,” said Viola with a meaningful glance at her husband, sitting with his head bent over the paper, his spectacles low on his nose. “I think you’ll find it speaks to you.”
* * *
On Viola’s worktable, amid the chaos of jars and brushes and paints, sat a large, thick envelope addressed to Mrs. August Hewitt, with no return address. Nell reached inside the envelope, which had already been slit open, and withdrew a sheaf of papers pinned to a letter engraved Silas Archibald Mead, Attorney at Law. A smaller envelope slipped out and landed facedown on the floor. She bent to pick it up, freezing when she saw the address imprinted on the back: Massachusetts State Prison.
Duncan.
Mrs. Cornelia Sweeney was written on the front in Duncan’s painstaking if untutored handwriting. Just her name, no address.
She turned her attention first to Mr. Mead’s letter, which was written on thick, ivory laid paper.
Boston, August 19th, 1870
Miss Cornelia Sweeney, Waquoit, Massachusetts
Dear Miss Sweeney,—I beg to inform you that your petition for divorce from Mr. Duncan Sweeney has been granted by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts as of today’s date. Enclosed please find the pertinent documents. Please be advised that I am in receipt of remuneration in full from Mrs. Hewitt for my legal services, which will explain the absence herewith of a request for payment.
After some initial reluctance on the part of Mr. Sweeney, of which you are already aware, he wrote to me earlier this week, advising me that he would not contest the divorce after all. I can only surmise that this change of heart was prompted by the letter you wrote to him, which I left with him when we spoke August 8th. I must admit that Mr. Sweeney’s comportment during that meeting gave me little hope that he could be persuaded to cooperate. His having done so enabled the petition to proceed a good deal more speedily and efficaciously than otherwise would have been possible. Included with this correspondence is the enclosed letter, which he asked that I forward to you.
Also of considerable benefit, even more so than Mrs. Hewitt’s acquaintanceships in high places, was your having been the instrument of Charles Skinner’s expulsion from the Boston Police Department, which noble deed appears to have endeared you in no small measure to many an influential gentlemen of this city. Would that I enjoyed such approbation myself. I daresay it would facilitate my professional endeavors to a very great degree.
As to Mr. Skinner, I enclose as well an article from the August 17th edition of the Boston Advertiser, which I trust you will find of considerable interest.
Should you require future services of a legal nature, I would consider it an honor to serve in that capacity. Until then I remain,
Your obedient and faithful servant,
S. A. Mead
Nell lifted the letter to find a newspaper clipping pinned beneath it.
HOMICIDE IN A NORTH END DEN.
A FORMER CONSTABLE GOES ON A RAMPAGE
IN A HOUSE OF ILL-FAME—HE IS STABBED
TO DEATH BY ONE OF HIS VICTIMS.
About 11 o’clock last night CHARLES SKINNER, a former Constable of the Boston Police Department assigned to Division Eight in the North End, entered the bar-room of 103 Clark Street, a shabby frame building that is one of the lowest and most wretched brothels in that disreputable locality. There SKINNER, who was well known as a ruffian and a drunkard, made the acquaintance of Maggie O’Shea, a prostitute, whom he accompanied to a curtained alcove on the second floor. Scarcely had Miss O’SHEA drawn the curtain than Skinner, who was in his usual state of inebriation, began abusing her in a most vicious manner. Upon hearing the assault, three females of similar stripe, MOIRA KELLY, BRIDGET DONOVAN, and KATHLEEN BRENNAN, flocked to her aid. SKINNER drew a large dirk-knife and ran a Muck in the confined space, threatening to kill them and wounding Miss BRENNAN and Miss O’SHEA. Being fearful of her life, one of the women struck Skinner in the neck with a pocket knife, whereupon he fell to the floor, and in five minutes was dead.
The Police were summoned and took possession of the premises, but were unable to identify which woman wielded the blade, as all four denied having done so, just as they denied having witnessed the fatal stabbing. Inasmuch as the killing is deemed to have been a matter of self-defense, it is unlikely that any arrests will be forthcoming.
By all accounts, the deceased was in the habit of frequenting such establishments for the sole purpose of creating a disturbance and terrorizing the female inmates. His death has been greeted with jubilation in the North End.
“He who lives by the sword shall die by the sword,” Nell murmured as she set the sheaf of papers aside and opened the envelope from Duncan, using a pointed palette knife.
Aug. 15th 1870, Charlestown State Prison
My Darling Wife,
Now don’t be getting het up on account of me calling you that, it is the last time I will have the chance. Which I reckon is my own falt, who else’s can it be? It sure is not yours. Father Daly says I brung it on myself and he is right. He is a Catholic preist Father Daly, not a Piscopal one like Father Beals may he burn in hell. It is about time they got a Catholic chaplan here even if he just got out of the seminery. He is not young though maybe 35, he was a prize-fighter before he took his vows and looks it.
Last week after that Mead was here I read your letter over and over, most of all the part where you say you forgive me which I never thought you would. You said it was a wait weight off your shoulders, well it is a weight off mine to. I couldn’t think what to do so I gave the letter to Father Daly in confesion which I hope you don’t mind, he can’t tattel about what he learns in confesion and he wouldn’t, he is a good man. He asked me how did I make you lose the baby and I told him, and I swear I thought he would punch me preist or no preist. He said it must of been hard for you to forgive me and I said I reckoned it was. He said did I think it was right to let you be ruined after you shown such grace and I said no but the church don’t allow divorce. And he said it is
an offence on you’re part not on mine because you are the one doing the divorce and I am the one it is being done to, and God will understand I didn’t want it. I said if it is wrong don’t God want me to fight it. He read you’re letter again and he was quiet for a spell and then he said let it go. He said it is no sin so long as I don’t marry again because that would be adultery. I told him you are the only wife I will ever want and I wish I could keep you but he said some times you got to take you’re lumps.
Nell I hope he is a good husband to you that doctor, not like I was. I didn’t mean to do what I done, but when I get angrey there is no telling what I will do and I reckon you had you’re fill of that.
God bless you and make you happy,
Duncan Sweeney
Nell heard a girlish squeal and looked through the rear wall of the greenhouse to see Gracie, in her white swim dress, darting across the lawn with Eileen close on her heels; on the beach in the distance sat her little towheaded playmates, waving to her.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” called Will, striding toward her from the carriage house.
She hesitated, looking back and forth between her beloved “Uncle Will” and her favorite playmates.
Will took Gracie’s hand and told Eileen, in a voice barely audible to Nell to go on ahead, that he would bring Gracie down to the beach in a couple of minutes. Eileen continued on with Gracie straining in her direction as she tugged against Will’s grip. She said something to Will, pointing toward the beach with a plaintive expression, as if every second spent away from her friends were torment.
Will knelt on one knee, his back mostly turned to Nell, his hands on Gracie shoulders. Nell moved closer to the open back door of the greenhouse in a shameless attempt to eavesdrop, but he was talking to softly for her to hear.
Gracie nodded in a preoccupied way as Will spoke to her. She cast an impatient glance toward the beach, whereupon he gently cupped her face and turned it back toward him. She dutifully met his gaze and listened to what he was saying, her expression of forbearance gradually giving way to one of rapt attention.
She stared at him, her mouth opening. He stroked her braids.
Her eyes grew huge and shimmery; her chin wobbled.
She flung her little arms around his neck as he gathered her up, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Tears trickled down her cheeks, her mouth contorting in that way it always did when she cried, the way that broke Nell’s heart.
Presently Will kissed her cheek and said something to her that made her laugh. He untied his cravat and wiped her tears with it, and then he spoke to her for a few more seconds, she nodding intently.
Glancing over his shoulder, Gracie noticed Nell watching from the greenhouse doorway. She broke away from her father, who turned to look at her, his eyes gleaming wetly, as she raced excitedly across the lawn toward Nell. “Miseeny! Miseeny! Guess what?”
* * *
Late that night, Nell, in her shift and wrapper, sprinted across the back lawn to the boathouse and climbed the stone steps. Lamplight glowed in the sitting room window, so she knew Will hadn’t gone to bed yet, though she also knew there was a good chance he was sitting at the end of the dock, like last time.
“Please be Nell,” he called from inside.
She found him sitting shirtless at the desk with his right arm in a wash basin, reading one of his medical journals. He set it down, smiling, as she approached. “It is you.”
“How’s your arm?” she asked, noting the items laid out next to the basin—gauze, shears, Epsom salts, silver nitrate solution, and a clean, folded towel.
“Hideous to look at, but with no sign of infection. Greaves is a bloody genius. I’m going to suggest he write an article about silver nitrate for the New England Journal of Medicine.”
On the desk under the lamp was the letter Will had been in the middle of writing to President Grant when Nell and Cyril came looking for him Monday. He’d finished it, but had not yet mailed it, although it seemed to her he’d had plenty of opportunity, what with their trips into Falmouth these past couple of days.
She picked it up, skimmed it, and ripped it into pieces, which she dropped into his wastebasket.
“It took me days to compose that bloody thing,” he said in a laconic, perhaps slightly amused tone.
Sitting on the edge of the desk, she said, “Your father is right, you know.” August Hewitt had been stunned when Nell announced at supper that Will had been chosen to receive the Medal of Honor, and incredulous when she added that he was turning it down.
“He’s not my father,” Will said.
“He’s still right.”
It is a slap in the face of the president to refuse such an honor. For pity’s sake, William. Have you no sense of propriety at all?
Sliding a baleful glance at Nell for having brought the subject up, Will said, It’s undeserved.
Of course it’s deserved, Mr. Hewitt had said as he cut into his beefsteak. The requirements are extremely exacting—I read about it in Harper’s. One must have risked his life performing an act of the most extraordinary gallantry. At least two eyewitnesses are required. There is no margin for error. Why you balk at accepting it is beyond me.
To Nell’s knowledge, these were the first words August Hewitt had spoken to Will since his arrival at Falconwood. Viola had captured Nell’s gaze across the dining table with a look of quiet astonishment.
“The only reason you feel unworthy of that award,” Nell said, “is that you’re mired in your old notion of yourself as flawed and undeserving. Frankly, I’m beginning to find that refrain fairly tedious.”
“I’ve never known you to be quite such a pitiless shrew,” he said as he lifted his dripping arm from the basin. “I find it captivating.” As ghastly as the wound still looked, especially discolored as it was from the silver, it no longer showed any signs of redness or suppuration.
Pushing aside the basin, Nell scooted over on the desk, draped the towel across her lap, and motioned for him to lay his arm there.
“I do so love being tended to,” he said as she carefully patted him with the towel.
Reaching for the scissors and gauze, she said, “You should have put yourself under the care of a physician the moment you got off that mail packet in Boston. What were you thinking, getting on a train and coming down here in that condition?”
“I had meant to remain in Boston and ask Foster to treat it. I was fairly confident I could trust him not to reach for the bonesaw before he’d exhausted all other options.”
“But...?” said Nell as she packed the wound with gauze soaked in silver nitrate.
Will looked away with an uncharacteristically sheepish expression. “But my first evening in Boston, over drinks with Martin, he told me about you and Greaves.”
“What did he tell you?”
“About seeing the two of you on the front porch the night before he came back to Boston. He overheard Greaves tell you that he would move to Boston to make you happy. And then he saw him kiss you.”
“On the cheek. Did he tell you that?”
“He did. At that point, I was beyond mollification. What was I to suppose, except that he meant to make you his mistress? After all, you were both married, as far as I knew.” He glanced at her and then away.
Bandaging the arm, Nell said, without looking at him, “I, um... I came here to tell you something that perhaps I should have told you earlier, but...”
“About filing for divorce from Duncan?”
Her head shot up.
“Greaves told me—this afternoon, before we left Packer’s Mortuary.”
“That’s what you two were talking about?”
“Well, he was doing all the talking. He said something to the effect that I must not be quite the pig sconce he’d taken me for, since I’d finally declared myself to you—and that it was obvious you cared for me more than you would ever be able to care for him. And he told me that if my intentions were truly serious, this would be the time to
do something about them, since you had a Boston lawyer working on terminating your marriage.”
“Is that... all he told you?” she asked, thinking about the baby.
“Isn’t that enough?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Why... why didn’t you tell me you knew about the divorce petition?”
“For the same reason you didn’t tell me you’d filed it.” He smiled as her cheeks warmed. “You were hesitant to encourage the attentions of an incorrigible reprobate such as I. Good sense is nothing to be ashamed of, Cornelia. I’ve always respected your pragmatism.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Leaning down, she took her face in his hands and kissed him, hard. He dragged her onto his lap and deepened the kiss, holding her so tightly that she could feel the pounding of his heart through her own chest.
“I love you,” she told him as they drew apart, “deeply and madly and completely without reason. You must know that, especially after...” Her face grew even hotter, recalling their lovemaking the night before he left for France. “Surely you know I wouldn’t have...”
“Of course,” he said, enfolding her in his arms. “But I also knew you were uneasy at the notion of throwing in your lot with me, as well you might be. I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position by bringing up the divorce before you’d sorted things out. My intent was to convince you that I could be more than a vagabond cardsharp with a taste for the poppy, so as to encourage you to tell me about the divorce petition. But you’ve gone ahead and let the cat out of the bag ahead of schedule—proving you’re not quite so clever after all.”
