Martha makes no immediate reply, though her eyes continue to search his face. “And my remuneration? May I name what I wish?”
“You’ll have my undying gratitude.”
“We bankers drive harder bargains than that, Thomas. Surely you’re aware of the formidable reputation of the Beales.” Then she suddenly wearies of the game. “Yes. I’ll be glad to help in any fashion I can. Whether you’re a ‘suitable’ companion for me or not.”
In answer, Kelman stands and walks to a window, then pulls back the lace undercurtain and stares into the haze-heated street beyond. “I wish this weather would break,” he states in a hollow voice. “Man and beast alike are suffering. If this isn’t God’s judgment, what is it?”
MR. ERASMUS UNGER’S BANK
TRUE TO HER WORD, MARTHA makes a formal call on the Crowther household the following morning. As she approaches the marble steps that lead from the brick walk and street, she’s struck by the stillness of the house. In other circumstances, these early hours would be bustling with energy: the stone risers scoured with a paste of turpentine, pipe clay, and bullock’s gall; the brasses polished with fresh lime; the wrought-iron railings treated with Brunswick black. But it’s not the lack of servants and enterprise that arrests her; rather, it’s the building’s air of sorrow. Longing seems to emanate from it as though the stone and brick, the wood and mortar were yearning for Dora’s return.
Martha must summon all of her fortitude in order to proceed. She feels not only like an interloper in this private space but like a spy—which is precisely what she is. She steels her heart for the encounter, ascends the steps, and knocks upon the door. Query Miss Lydia first, she hears Thomas cautioning, but the phrase is no sooner in her brain than the portal swings open and she’s swept inside.
“Madam will receive you in the withdrawing room,” she’s informed a mere minute or two after having handed the footman her carte de visite. It’s as if the lady of the house had been waiting for this call.
“MISS BEALE, HOW GOOD OF you to call.” Georgine Crowther, so habitually aloof, nearly rushes through the room’s double doors in order to greet her guest. “You’re so kind, so kind …”
The words trail away as she clasps Martha’s hands and draws her toward a settee, then all but forces her to sit. “You’re friendly with my Theodora?” There’s disbelief as well as pleasure in this question. Martha, older, wiser, and heir to Lemuel Beale’s fortune, is the sort of companion the mother would greatly desire for her daughter.
Martha avoids the question, responding instead with a tender “Mrs. Crowther, please accept my sympathies. Your distress is shared by all residents of this city.”
Georgine’s staunch shoulders sag. Her mouth contorts, her eyes pinch, but she makes no immediate reply. Instead, she continues to hold Martha’s gloved fingers in her own lace-mittened ones while tears spill down her cheeks. “It’s been three days, Miss Beale. Three days … We were assured we would hear some word of our darling one’s circumstances before now.”
Martha doesn’t speak, although she squeezes Georgine’s fingers. Beneath the lace, the older lady’s flesh feels spongy and infirm.
“My only child to survive past infancy … My dearest, dearest daughter. Oh, how difficult I believed those earlier losses were: three little babies snatched away one after another. How I wept and grieved and railed at fate. But I knew nothing. Nothing!” Georgine falls silent; her breathing slows until it all but vanishes. “Forgive me. I’m forgetting myself. I should ask if you’ll take some libation.”
“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Crowther. I don’t wish to cause an imposition.”
“In truth, I think the staff would welcome a task. My husband and his aunt and I have been disinclined to take much sustenance since Dora—” Again Georgine stops speaking. “But perhaps you have another engagement and cannot remain.” There’s both appeal and diffidence in the statement, and Martha can’t help but mark how greatly her hostess has changed. The woman is merely an outward manifestation of herself, as if her numerous whalebone corset stays and petticoat wires were keeping her together.
“I would like very much to stay, Mrs. Crowther, if I may be of comfort to you.”
“Oh, comfort!” is the harsh rejoinder. “Why should I be permitted such ease of mind? Indeed, I’m beginning to despise the word! The only relief I have is imagining Mrs. Taitt during her struggle with the burglar who invaded her home. If I’d encountered the thieving creature who took my child, I would have laid heavy blows upon his head. More than heavy blows; I would have become a veritable demon.”
“Then you heard an intruder?” Martha asks.
“No. I did not.” The tone is so dejected that the words are scarcely audible. “My chambers and my husband’s chambers are in this newer section of the house. I heard nothing.”
That bleak testimony delivered, Georgine forces herself to her feet and then tramps slowly toward the bell pull in order to summon a footman and send for tea and biscuits. Meanwhile Martha considers her response. Emotion calls for a soothing demeanor, even a prayer for Dora’s return; the awareness that she’s acting on Kelman’s behalf decrees a more premeditated approach.
“So no one in the household was aware of what had transpired until morning? How extremely difficult that knowledge must be to bear.”
“My husband’s aunt claims to have heard various sounds, but she’s elderly and has an overvivid imagination.” Georgine sits again, or rather nearly collapses into the settee. “If Miss Lydia guessed that a stranger, or even an acquaintance, had entered our home, I fail to understand why she raised no alarm.” There’s venom in this declaration, but more is to come:
“We had an official representative of the mayor here, Miss Beale. A Mr. Kelman, who gave too much credence to Miss Lydia’s ill-advised remarks. I cannot imagine what he hoped to gain by interviewing her, unless it was to add to gossip already in circulation.”
Martha can’t help but draw a protesting breath. It’s hard indeed to hear Thomas spoken of in such a critical vein. But Georgine mistakes the response for assent and continues in the same severe manner:
“Such gentlemen are quite abominable, if the term gentleman can be employed in such instances. Policing the city is a trade that apparently attracts those of questionable repute.”
“Those men keep us safe, Mrs. Crowther,” Martha counters in a sterner tone than she intended, then adds a conciliatory “We do wrong to malign them, I think.”
Georgine will have none of the suggestion however. “Then why was my Dora stolen from her own home?”
Martha has no answer. She knows she can’t acknowledge her admiration for Thomas without jeopardizing the work he entrusted to her. Instead, she must proceed as the innocent visitor, although her jaw tenses and her teeth clench into a disingenuous smile. “I’d hoped to extend my personal condolences to Mr. Crowther and to his aunt.”
Georgine’s response is a sigh. “I’ll be certain to convey your thoughts, Miss Beale. And I thank you. From the depths of my soul, I thank you. My husband is not at home, or he would also extend his gratitude. As for Miss Crowther, she’s indisposed. In fact, she has hardly left her rooms since Theodora vanished.” This last statement is so full of wrath it seems as though Miss Lydia had never done one good deed in all her days.
“Ah …” is all Martha can think to respond. Then tea and cakes arrive, providing her a brief respite from her mission while the libation is poured by Georgine, then handed ceremoniously to a footman, who conveys it to the Crowthers’ guest.
“Do you know what I find especially terrible, Miss Beale?” Georgine asks after placing a slice of Savoy cake on a plate and giving it to the footman to place within her guest’s reach. “The thief who robbed me of Theodora also stole various objects from her chambers. Among them was a gift Mr. Crowther and I purchased for Dora’s betrothed: a daguerreotype—” The mother releases a small sob, and then another and another, while Martha watches in helpless silence. “Who would steal s
omething that’s only important to those who love her, Miss Beale? And why take the portrait when they have carried off the original!”
As Georgine gives vent to her grief, and the footman becomes suitably mute and stationary, the doors to the room open and Harrison Crowther enters. The effects of the past three days are as prominent on him as they are on his wife. His skin is gray; his flesh seems to have withered, and his spine is bowed as though bearing a mighty weight. “Oh, my dear.” He moves toward Georgine, but she turns her head away. “The loss of that object was purely coincidental—”
“And should that upset me less, sir?”
“But Mr. Kelman’s theory is—”
“Mr. Kelman! Mr. Kelman! That’s your continual litany. What does he care! A picture of Dora, or Dora herself. They’re one and the same to him!”
“Georgine, you’re suggesting the man has no heart—”
“Suggesting, sir! Is it a suggestion that our daughter’s gone? Is my brain creating illusions? Have I also invented the fact that Percy has failed to appear, despite repeated appeals to his household—?”
“You know the reason, Georgine—”
“I know what you and this Thomas Kelman continue to tell me. That Percy went on a journey and neglected to disclose his destination. But why would he go a-visiting and fail to inform Dora, or us, or even his servants of his—?”
“It’s an honest mistake. And VanLennep never could have conceived what would transpire when he—”
“But he departed the very morning we discovered Theodora was—!”
“I’ve explained that peculiar happenstance, Georgine. Repeatedly.”
Seated, she draws her spine to its full height and glares at her husband. “Then you must also explain that your aunt is mistaken, Mr. Crowther, and that she in no wise heard Dora calling out Percy’s name. You and I both know our daughter would never have—”
“Georgine! Have done!”
“I will not, sir. Either Percy VanLennep was in this house, or my daughter fell victim to a stranger’s hands. Which is it, sir? Which is it?” Georgine is almost shouting now; her body surges upward, interposing itself between her husband and her guest. “I’m told by our physician, Miss Beale, that my thoughts are becoming dangerously morbid, that it’s unhealthy for me to surrender to what he and my husband refer to as ‘despairing’—”
“Georgine, this is not a matter a guest would—”
“But why shouldn’t I despair, Miss Beale? The greatest treasure in my life has been ripped from my arms. And we have not received one word as to how she fares, or how we can restore her to our home!” Then Georgine Crowther covers her face with her hands and half stumbles and half rushes from the room.
Martha remains frozen in place, as does the unlucky footman, while Harrison also stays planted in one spot, although his sagging body appears to wilt further. “Please forgive us, Miss Beale. My wife is not herself.”
“Your apologies are unnecessary, sir. These are dreadful times. I came to express my condolences, but I fear I’ve made matters worse.”
“It’s not you, Miss Beale. When my wife is not lucid, she blames me for this catastrophe.”
Martha can’t think of an appropriate expression of surprise or solace and so keeps silent until Crowther decides to continue. “Unfortunate and misguided as her opinions may be, I’m powerless to alter them. The problem is my position at Mr. Erasmus Unger’s bank, you see.” He pauses to draw a worried breath. “I’m a new member of the board there, although Georgine was against my accepting the honor as the gentleman has certain moral precepts she finds offensive. However, Unger is a brilliant financier, and his institution has weathered the monetary storm that continues to shake our nation.” Again Harrison Crowther pauses, this time as though struck by an idea he hadn’t previously considered. “What do you know of the practice of making astute investments, Miss Beale? I don’t refer to your father’s specific activities but to the method itself.”
Martha considers her reply. Rather, she considers the response Kelman would make. “As a director of Mr. Unger’s institution, you would know more than I.”
The answer seems to satisfy Dora’s father. “Unger’s approach is simple and can best be described as a two-pronged technique. One involves large investments such as many thousands of acres of anthracite coal lands in Schuylkill County, two railways to carry the commodity to market, a shipbuilding concern, a substantial merchant fleet, and so forth. The second comprises small loans to minor borrowers: coopers, cord winders, shopmen, and the like. Naturally, the rates are high and the borrowers are needy men. The slightest slip in the exchange rate of paper currencies can—”
Martha waits for the speech to advance, but instead, Harrison Crowther stares at the mantelpiece and groans. “I must bid you good day, Miss Beale. I should attend to my poor wife. On behalf of us both, I thank you for your charitable concern.”
A CHANCE ENCOUNTER
WHILE MARTHA VISITS THE CROWTHER household, Ella embarks on her own mission. She escapes from school. The act doesn’t require scaling a wall or dropping from an upper-story window, but it does take planning and a certain watchful slyness that she learned when she was a child of the streets.
Once her decision was made (the day prior), the notion wouldn’t leave her alone. Returning home with Miss Pettiman on the afternoon before the bold deed, Ella plotted; at supper with Cai, she schemed in silence; in her bed that night, she revisited each room of the schoolhouse, counting the minutes she and the other pupils were left alone, and measuring how long it would take to descend the stairs from her second-floor classroom, cross the foyer, and skip out the front door.
In the end, though, her plans miscarry. Teachers walk back and forth with alarming irregularity; her schoolmates profess a need to spend every moment in her company; and the minutes relentlessly tick past. Then she recalls the privy in the building’s rear garden and how well it lies concealed by the ground’s sheltering trees; and success is assured.
Ella complains about a pain in her stomach, apologizes for disrupting the class, and rushes downstairs and outside as though speed were essential. From there, she snakes through the meandering shrubbery and fruit trees until she reaches the door to the alley. One quick glance at the upper windows confirms that none of the teachers have grown suspicious. In the next second, Ella unlatches the garden gate and steps into the midst of a busy city thoroughfare.
BUT THEN WHAT? STANDING ALONE at the corner of Eighth and Locust streets, she realizes her scheme has a vital flaw. For it isn’t freedom and a chancy escapade she seeks, but its opposite. Despite every luxury Martha Beale’s household offers, what Ella wants is her long-vanished mother.
However, she has no notion how to begin this quest. Her recollection of the woman who allowed her daughter to be sold is dim, as it is of the place—or places—in which they dwelled. There was a sister and a tiny brother who fell into the fire until half his face was scorched; there was constant hunger and sorrow, as well as blows and oaths from a man who must have been her father. None of those fractured memories are useful, though. Ella looks at the school’s wall but finds no aid in its stolid bricks. She watches the passersby; no one gives more than a cursory glance to a hatless child in a pinafore—unless it’s to frown in disapproval.
She begins to walk. For a moment, she worries about the punishment that will be meted out for this act of disobedience, for she has every intention of returning home in time for the evening meal; and her spirits flag and her footsteps drag. She considers creeping back to the schoolyard gate, but then bravado and a depthless ache take hold, and she sets her mouth and soldiers forward.
The city she encounters is no longer the pleasant town she’s come to know while in Martha’s care. All at once, beggars seem to be everywhere; starving dogs cringe near each kitchen door; the dray horses pulling the workmen’s wagons are scrawny and ill kept, and their masters no better. They and their apprentice boys regard her with cunning eyes that reveal envy,
contempt, and hopelessness. Ella tries to return their stares but finds she’s lost the habit of confrontation, so averts her gaze.
Unwittingly, her feet travel south and east into the seamier areas of the city she once trod. Then her progress is arrested, for she finds herself on Lombard Street and so close to the fancy house from which she fled that she jerks backward as though slapped.
“Never seen an enterprise like this before, I’ll warrant,” a nearby voice sneers.
“What?” is Ella’s uncertain reply while she eyes the door and the three stone steps, recalling every second of her flight into the icy cobbles of the road.
“A fancy house. For fancy ladies. Them that sell theirselves for profit. It’s an easy life if you’re pretty.” The tone has a swagger, although wistfulness pokes holes in the edges.
Ella turns to find a raggedy boy. “I’m known hereabouts,” he boasts. “I do odd jobs for the ladies at Dutch Kat’s up the street a ways. It’s a finer establishment than this miserable shop here, and some of those lovely creatures like to favor me with their wares in gratitude.” He winks as he speaks, and his ears, which are curiously pointed and which Ella hadn’t observed before, wiggle as if they belong to an animal rather than a human.
“I doubt that” is her trenchant reply. Then she returns to studying the terrible place that was once her home.
Ella’s disregard obviously wounds the boy. “Why?”
“You are both dirty and a child.”
“A child, am I? That I am not, Miss Priss! Besides, you don’t even know what a fancy lady is!”
Ella casts a dismissive glance at her unwelcome companion. “I do, in fact. Now leave me alone.”
“Then what are they?”
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 8
