It’s not Kelman who awaits her, however. Instead, she finds Nathan Weil, his hat resting on a nearby chair as if he were too busy to hand it to an under-clerk or servant. He steps forward as she approaches, and again she’s struck by his dissimilarity to Thomas. It’s the difference between midday and the long shadows of dusk.
“I hope you’ll forgive my unexpected visit, Miss Beale,” he says with the easy and intimate smile she remembers—and which causes her unexpected embarrassment.
“Of course. You’re welcome to call at any time, Mr. Weil.” Aware of her dearth of sophisticated banter, she makes an attempt at wit. “I hope you received my payment for the great debt I owed you.”
“Indeed I did. And I thank you. Ice cream is a hideously expensive commodity, is it not? If we must borrow from near strangers in order to pay for it, then I wonder how Parkinson’s Palace remains in existence.”
“Perhaps that’s because we’re a city of strangers, and our interchanges in the gastronomic or financial marketplaces are our sole efforts at camaraderie.”
Weil laughs. “Well said, Miss Beale, although I doubt those who frequent the bank of which my brother is chief director experience a bond of friendship and conviviality with those mortgaged to them.”
Recalling the furious words of Findal Stokes senior, Martha considers questioning Weil about his brother’s and his fellow directors’ practices, but her visitor changes the subject before she can act on the impulse.
“I brought you a small token. A gift of gratitude for permitting me to rescue you and Mrs. Taitt.” With that, he produces the same volume of Tennyson Martha read two nights past.
“How very kind, Mr. Weil, but I—”
“Don’t admire Mr. Tennyson’s works—”
“No … No, I do. Indeed, I do. But I already purchased the same collection. And noted your name as publisher.”
Weil’s reply is another congenial laugh. “You’re thrifty, then, Miss Beale. An admirable quality and rare among the ladies of this city. Books are not bricks to be stacked into an immovable wall. Tell me, which of the poet’s offerings do you most admire?”
Without thinking, she answers a rapid “Dora,” then frowns. “No, that’s not true. I found it terribly sad and, naturally, given the tragedy surrounding Theodora Crowther’s disappearance—”
“Indeed, Tennyson’s young heroine was cruelly and publicly spurned in love by her cousin William,” he replies; then, beginning to quote from the poem, his voice takes on a more impassioned timbre.
“‘… but the youth, because
He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.’”
When Martha makes no reply, Weil continues in the same serious vein. “I’m no callous ‘William’ to reject such a gentle, loving lady, Miss Beale, and I’m no ‘William’ with his ‘harsh’ and spiteful ‘ways’ who abandons home and future because he refuses the bride his father chooses for him. If I were to select a poem for your consideration it would be The Miller’s Daughter, whose speaker is obviously besotted by emotion.
“ ‘I loved the brimming wave that swam
Thro’ quiet meadows round the mill,
The sleepy pool above the dam,
The pool beneath it never still—’”
Weil interrupts his own recitation. “Let me go further and state my case in the simplest and most direct of language. I’m asking if I might become a suitor to you, Miss Beale, and seek your hand in matrimony—”
She can only stare in astonishment, but he accepts the response with an indulgent smile. “Naturally, I would have sought the approval of your father before speaking so openly, but as you are now your own mistress, it is to you directly that I apply. I also recognize that I’m premature in my quest, as your year of mourning won’t be fully realized until January—”
“Oh, but, sir, I have—” Martha begins, but Weil overrides her.
“I know what you’re going to say, Miss Beale. That you and I have no true knowledge of each other. However, I hope and intend to rectify that situation. I’m not asking any consideration other than an equal standing among the numerous gentlemen who must be in the same position as I am, for I’m certain your suitors must be legion—”
“No, Mr. Weil, that’s not what I intended to tell you. As for suitors, I have already—”
“Don’t tell me you’ve pledged your heart to another, for I won’t believe you, Miss Beale. If you were betrothed, the entire city would know of your choice, and I wouldn’t be standing before you making a fool of myself. If you have other qualms, let me hear them. Perhaps you object because I’m of the Jewish faith, but I’ll argue that William Penn created his colony on the precept of religious freedom and that marriage twixt Gentile and Jew isn’t uncommon. Nor is it discouraged. Look at Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Levy, or Abraham Moss and his wife: both happy and devoted couples. Like those fine gentlemen, I’m by no means poor, or without education or connections. If I seem hasty in my appeal, let me assure you that I’m determined rather than reckless. I’m not a person who allows indecision and diffidence to rule my life. Rather, I’m a man of conviction.”
Finally, Weil draws breath and Martha has space to speak. “Mr. Weil, although I’m deeply gratified by your attention, you must understand that I—”
“ ‘And I would be the necklace,’” he interrupts again, returning to The Miller’s Daughter.
“‘And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,
With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.’
“Say yes to my petition, my dear Miss Beale, and make me a happy man.”
It’s at this juncture that Kelman prepares to rap upon the door, so he hears the request that concludes the stanza as well as the sultry vibrancy in the speaker’s voice.
His hand drops to his side while he recalls every second of his previous encounter with Martha, how she felt in his arms, how her lips tasted, how her breath grazed his cheek, the promise in her eyes and the wonder of their public display. His fingers curl; he lifts his hand again, deciding he’ll announce himself and question Nathan Weil’s right to state his claim.
Instead, Kelman’s former distress returns. Martha isn’t meant for common folk like him. A father who was illegitimate, a mother who wouldn’t have had even the basic skills to serve in a household like the Beales’—or the Taitts’ or the Crowthers’. What could he, Thomas, give to a woman as well-born as Martha?
His mouth tightens in a proud, defiant line. This publisher with his poetry and facile speech will make a far more fitting husband, he assures himself as he hears Martha respond in a tone so low and urgent that he can recognize the ardor of her appeal if not the words. Haven’t I already explained that I’m not good enough for her? Our embrace and the other private ones must be forgotten. For her benefit, as well as mine. That was my original intent, wasn’t it? That she should marry among her own kind? Wasn’t that what I desired for her all along? Safety, stability, an appropriate position amongst her peers. Isn’t that what I choose for her now?
Avoiding further opportunity to overhear Martha’s continuing conversation, Kelman draws himself erect and leaves the building before he can be discovered lurking there. Then, alone, he makes his way to the Crowthers’ home.
SECRET SINS
THE FUNERAL OF THEODORA CROWTHER draws so many mourners that the number of carriages and horses lining Pine and Third and Fourth streets nearly obstructs the entrances to St. Peter’s churchyard. Men and women descend from their coaches only to enter a crush of bodies attempting to vacate the roads and sidewalks and pass inside the narrow gates. Horses neigh and whinny in protest at the jostling crowd; wheels turn backward and forward; and coachmen curse under their breath, extending whips and trying to extricate their vehicles from the throng without injuring the delicate paintwork on the carriage bodies or the animals themselves.
&nb
sp; Inside the memorial garden’s grounds, the amount of people moving toward the church proper is no less dense. In fact, it looks as though a large black tide had washed up from the Delaware. The ladies’ gowns and mantillas flow like ebony-hued waves over the brick walkways; the customary funerary veils flutter around as if they were inky, seaborne clouds blown in to obscure whatever color the landscape might produce. The Ilsleys and Rittenhouses are among the somber, parading figures, as are the Shippens, the Cadwaladers and Levys, the Yarnalls, the Misses Etting, the Logans, Wolfes, Fischers, and Josephsons. Some knew Theodora Crowther personally; many did not and are attending the service for the parents’ sake and because this tightly knit group of Philadelphia’s elite considers itself a family.
Martha, who waits among the grave markers nearest the Pine Street gate, hears whispered conversation and sotto voce theories on all sides.
“It could have been our house the thieves entered … It could have been our child … The papers say the ring’s mastermind has been residing at Blockley. Well, something must be done, if the institution is raising up criminals. Indeed, it should! And Crowther’s daughter found in that deplorable condition! What kind of hellion would bury the girl’s body in a mountain of coal cobbles and flee without a backward glance—”
Martha stops listening. Despite the balmy afternoon and the sticky weight of her dark clothes, she shivers, then watches the Taitts advance into the churchyard. As if Becky’s connection to the murder were intentional rather than circumstantial, the crowd parts and the murmured tales chronicling Dora Crowther’s slaying cease. Instead, eyebrows are raised and pointed glances exchanged.
“Miss Beale!” William Taitt exclaims in a baritone too loud and conspicuous for the occasion. “Terrible times. Terrible times. And to think the last time you and I met in this spot we had no notion of what evil lay before us. A genuine Pandora’s box that storm opened in our town. Nothing’s been right since then, you know.” He nods as though agreeing with his own assessment while his eyes seek out nearby acquaintances. To some he touches his hat; to others he extends an abbreviated bow. The responses are polite but less than warm. Taitt is acknowledged but not his wife. No curtsy is dropped as she walks by; no lady’s neck curves in recognition; no gentleman bows. “You’ll sit with us, I hope, Miss Beale. I feel I owe you an apology. And to Mr. Kelman, too. Especially now that the thief’s complicity in today’s tragic gathering seems indisputable. My evaluation of his methods has been amended, I assure you.”
Martha maintains her focus on Taitt’s face, although she feels her eyes are betraying her discomfort. Thomas has neither called upon her nor written since Dora’s body was uncovered. Although she recognizes how preoccupied with the Crowthers he must be, the neglect perplexes and pains her. “I’m glad to hear that Mr. Kelman’s efforts have met with your approval” is all she says.
“You’ll join us, won’t you?” Becky asks; she fingers her reticule, and Martha notices it’s the same one that was stolen.
Her friend’s plea is genuine. It shows in Becky’s face; it sounds in her voice; it stretches along her shoulders and in the forward bend of her encumbered body. Martha is torn as to what answer to give.
“I had intended to wait here until the last moment so the Crowthers would see me as soon as the funeral cortege arrives. I spent time with them following Dora’s disappearance, and I believe my presence had a calming effect—”
“Oh, I don’t believe Georgine is coming,” Taitt interjects. “Harrison, naturally, but not the mother or aunt. It wouldn’t be proper for them to attend. Weeping and so forth in public. That would never do. Unfortunately, the distaff side is prone to high emotion.”
Martha doesn’t challenge the pronouncement. Tradition is on Taitt’s side; mothers and wives are all but ordered to forgo services for family members. Still, she reminds herself, it’s the middle of the nineteenth century; the city is a cosmopolitan place, not a colonial-era backwater dwelling in the past.
“Besides, I don’t think Harrison will recognize a soul he greets, Miss Beale. He’ll be so surrounded by the priests and pallbearers and the hired mutes decked out in their gowns and waving their official wands, and all the other attendant panoply—as well as the gawpers and gapers crowding around out there—I doubt a single face will seem familiar to him. You make certain to sign the church register. That’s what I intend to do. Then the family will realize you were here. Names and numbers in attendance are all most people care about nowadays, don’t you agree?” Having delivered this opinion, Taitt prepares to lead the two ladies inside. Martha makes no remonstrance, although she presses Becky’s hand in covert recognition of their shared secret.
Then she glimpses Thomas, and a smile lights her eyes. “Mr. Kelman,” she calls. “Here is Mr. Taitt, who has just been wishing you were at hand so he could render an apology.”
The expression Kelman turns to Martha is so devoid of vitality that it makes her draw back in wonderment. “Mrs. Taitt,” he says with a perfunctory nod. “Mr. Taitt, sir. Miss Beale. Good morning to you.” He begins to turn away while a frown of uncertainty and dismay knifes across Martha’s brow.
“It must have been a terrible burden for you to have found Miss Crowther as you did,” she says, but the delivery is rote: a speech prepared by one semi-acquaintance for another.
“Police work isn’t always a pleasant business. The results are rarely what one wishes” is the equally remote reply.
“But you’ve already discovered the criminal’s identity, Kelman,” Taitt tells him. “I’m certain you’ll have equal success in tracking him to his lair. The name Findal Stokes cannot be a common one. And a reward, such as they’re reporting Crowther has offered, will be an added incentive to those evildoers with whom he consorts.”
“So the newspapers would have us believe, sir.”
“You don’t put the same faith in your own detective work, Mr. Kelman? Or is it the criminal element you mistrust?”
“If the man has escaped to another county or township, capturing him will be problematic. I need not explain how easily felons vanish into other areas. And if, as I begin to suspect, this Stokes boarded a ferry for New York, having left Miss Crowther’s remains at Unger’s dock, then I fear apprehending him may prove difficult. Our sister city is not always a natural ally.” Throughout the exchange, Kelman’s eyes neither seek out Martha’s nor shy away; instead, they remain fixed on the air beside her bonnet. “I’m forgetting my manners, Miss Beale. I must congratulate you on your good news. Or convey my best wishes, as that is the more appropriate salutation.”
“My good—?”
But Kelman slips away into the throng before Martha can finish her response. Then the organist commences playing, sending music spilling from the church’s open windows and doors; and the crush of bodies moving toward the entrance propels the threesome along. “What good news is that?” Becky whispers.
“I don’t know—” Martha begins as Taitt interrupts:
“Ladies, shall we? You’ll have time for gossiping later.” He hands his wife and Martha to a tall-hatted usher who conveys them to a box pew already so crowded with mourners that the seat cushions have vanished beneath the mounds of funerary fabrics.
“Perhaps we should sit in the gallery,” Becky suggests as the pew door swings open.
Her husband glances up at the space, which was originally reserved for the parishioners’ slaves and which remains a segregated area. “Surely you jest, wife.”
“Why, no … There appears ample room—”
“This isn’t a theater, Mrs. Taitt. One doesn’t rove about in order to find a more commodious seat or a better view.”
“I merely thought—”
“We’ll sit here.” With that utterance, Taitt almost pushes his wife and Martha up the half step leading into the pew while those inside hastily rearrange their voluminous skirts and their lengths of broadcloth coat to accommodate the addition. Martha can’t see Kelman among the crowd, but her vision is hampere
d by so many veiled bonnets and headdresses that she realizes he could be several boxes away and she would be unaware of his proximity. Instead, she notes that the Rittenhouses are sitting with Erasmus Unger and a man who resembles an elder version of Nathan Weil, although the publisher seems to be missing from the scene.
Then the various pitches of the organ: the viola da gamba, the cor de nuit, flauto amabile, and contra-oboe surge through the sanctuary, and her search for Kelman ceases. The music builds and, peaking, shakes the very seats while everyone strains for a view of Dora’s father. Speculation regarding the growing delay becomes stagy whispers; whispers turn into pointed queries; queries increase in tone and tempo until it seems that every group gathered in each individual pew is discussing the lateness of the hour. Then the heat, despite the open windows, seems to affect everyone at once. Jet-handled mourning fans are retrieved and begin darting back and forth, as shimmering against the drabber clothing as quicksilver. Still Harrison Crowther fails to arrive.
“Are none of them coming?” Becky turns her head to Martha as she speaks, but the wings of her bonnet, rather than muffling the sound of her question, amplify it.
“He may be too grief-stricken to attend,” her husband responds with a fixed expression that serves as a warning for his wife to behave herself. “Who can blame him?”
“Who, indeed?” Other voices pick up the refrain. “And who could believe an act of such violence would befall a family like—?”
At that moment Crowther enters. Martha can’t see him, but she’s aware of a stir at the church’s northwest entrance, and a shift of bodies straining for a glimpse of the unhappy parent. “Oh, the poor man!” she hears voices exclaim in unison as Dora’s father walks toward his reserved seat. “And the wife under a physician’s supervision lest she harm herself. What has our city come to?” The remainder of the comments are inaudible because by now all are noisily rising while the Order for the Burial of the Dead commences.
Deception's Daughter (The Martha Beale Mysteries, 2) Page 17
