Nellie did not have time to go home or even eat before the performance; she barely was able to meet Ingram at the entrance as it was. She hurried (as best as one could hurry in a full-length opera gown) through the dozens and dozens of hansoms and formally dressed couples making their way inside. Ingram was waiting for her outside the eight-story opera house wearing a full tuxedo with tails and white tie. His eyes widened when he saw her.
“You are a vision, Miss Bly.” She put her arm through his.
“Thank you, Dr. Ingram. And you look so handsome that if I were not working, I would whisk you off to your examining room.”
“I have arranged to make it available for later tonight.”
She handed him the tickets, and they started inside. At the door, Ingram showed the tickets to an usher in a long tuxedo coat who did not even bother to check the authenticity or the dates. The opera society crowd did not sneak into places.
“Third tier to your right, sir. Your box is fifth in from the stairwell.”
“Thank you.”
They walked inside, to a lobby with shiny oak floors, massive Oriental rugs forty feet long, and glittering crystal chandeliers that hung from a ceiling four-stories high. But the furnishings were mere backdrop. It was the most expensively tailored crowd Nellie had ever been near. All the men wore tails and white ties; all the women, long gowns and expensive jewels. And every woman over the age of twenty-seven adorned herself with wide diamond chokers to hide the wrinkles.
It was a warm evening. The women were fanning themselves, and the men were sweating profusely through their tuxedos. Nellie looked around in the stifling atmosphere and felt generations of ostracism and ridicule welling through her body. She had been raised to loathe these people. The resentment became so overwhelming that she stopped in her tracks.
“What’s wrong?” asked Ingram.
“I don’t belong here.”
“What are you talking about?” She felt the urge to flee.
“I’ve never been to an opera before. I have no idea what’s going on.”
“My dear, don’t you understand? No one is here for the opera.”
He took her arm and tried to resume walking through the lobby, but she was frozen.
“We should leave.”
“Nellie.” He looked at her sternly, like a scolding parent. “You have a story to write. Besides, it took me two hours to get dressed.”
That was what she needed: a firm hand to remind her of her purpose for being there. She took his arm, and they walked up the blood red carpeted stairs, past French Academy tapestries and royal blue curtains with braided gold tassels. She wanted to be at her seat, away from these people, but the going was slow as the women in their floor-length gowns and full slips could go up only one laborious step at a time. Stumbles were common, not so much from the challenge of making it up the stairs while weighted down with twenty pounds of slips and jewelry, but because everyone kept looking around to see who else was in attendance.
Something else was causing heads to turn.
“Why are they staring at us?” Nellie asked. She was getting uncomfortable again, fighting the lifelong fear that she would be pointed out as an intruder and forcibly removed. She didn’t realize how striking she was and that people were trying to place her. Was she visiting royalty? A star of an upcoming performance? The daughter of a railroad tycoon?
“They know you’re an impostor.”
“Ingram—”
“My dear, you are the most beautiful woman here. The men are desirous and the women envious. If you weren’t on my arm, I’d be staring at you, too.”
He clasped her hand and resumed walking. She felt better—Ingram had that effect on her. She squeezed his arm in gratitude and kept her hand there. Ingram, as always, did his duty, nodding at the curious onlookers and smiling back inscrutably.
They finally made it to their box and beheld the new Manhattan Opera House. Above the main orchestra floor were five balconies, with boxes on the bottom three tiers. The stage was surrounded by a giant square arch with gold carvings and two statues of sentries on each side. An enormous red curtain with intricate gold embroidery hung over the stage. It was by far the largest and most plush theater Nellie had ever seen, and as she sat back to take it all in, she almost forgot why she was there. She looked over at the Times box, which Dale had said was two over from theirs. It was empty and remained so as the lights dimmed.
The opera that evening was Verdi’s newest, Otello, based on the Shakespeare play. Nellie and Ingram both loved the spectacle and the music, and she had always enjoyed Shakespeare’s tale of jealousy and deceit, but she could tell that the audience didn’t know what to think. People were looking around for someone to tell them how to respond. But those who attended the opera primarily for social reasons had not arrived yet, and no one else’s opinion much mattered. As the first act wore on, and the players poured themselves into their parts with heart and soul, Nellie could feel the audience’s anxiety building. She realized for the first time the power of Dale and other critics. Not only did they tell people what to see, they also told them what to think.
The Times box remained empty until just before the first act curtain, when an immaculately tailored man in his late thirties, accompanied by an expensively coutured young woman in her early twenties, slipped into their seats. Charles DeKay was more striking than Nellie expected, dashingly handsome with an undeniable charisma that would overpower most women. He made no attempt to hide his tardiness; if anything, his manner suggested irritation that the show had not waited an hour for him to begin.
Nevertheless, as the house lights came up, signaling the end of the act, DeKay stood and applauded thunderously. Those around him, equally shallow though far less charismatic, took their cues and joined in. The standing and applauding spread outward, like a bad concussion.
Finally, after a two-minute ovation, the musicians began to leave the orchestra pit, while DeKay sat down and surveyed the concert hall to arrange his social agenda for the intermission. He glanced casually toward the World box, almost as an afterthought, but stopped when he saw Nellie. His eyes locked on hers, and he nodded firmly that he approved and would like to see more. She answered his nod with a smile that thanked him for his compliment and returned the expression of interest even more so. Suddenly the woman with DeKay, her fan flapping like a hummingbird, tapped him gently on the arm, signaling that she wanted some air. He helped her to her feet, glanced once more at Nellie, motioned his head ever so slightly toward the corridor, and escorted her out.
“Shall we?” said Nellie to Ingram.
“We mustn’t keep the man waiting.” He offered his arm, and they walked out the narrow entrance together to the crowded hallway. It was filled with people trying to see, or be seen by, those around them. Some of the staring was directed at Nellie and Ingram, a smashing couple with a prized box, but Nellie barely noticed. Her interest was in DeKay. She saw him making light conversation with some important-looking patrons, but when he spotted her, he preened, excused himself, took his companion by the elbow, and glided over for his conquest.
“Don’t tell me Alan Dale is no longer with the World,” he said to Ingram.
“No, Mr. Dale is ill, I’m afraid,” said Ingram.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you reviewing the performance for him?”
“No,” spoke up Nellie. “I am.”
That surprised and pleased DeKay, giving him the opportunity to converse with her directly.
“Well, then. Welcome to a fellow critic. I am Charles DeKay from the Times. And may I present my fiancée, Lucy Coffey.”
“It is very gracious of you to come over,” she said. “My name is Nellie Bly. And this is my escort, Dr. Ingram.”
The two men shook hands, though neither could hide his distaste for the other.
“I admired your pieces on the Bellevue asylum, Miss Bly,” allowed DeKay. “Very bold. Congratulations.” Flattery came
easily to him. He used it to disarm and to dominate. But when it came to dealing with detestable men, Nellie was in her element.
“Thank you. A most valued compliment.”
“You saw the articles, didn’t you, darling?” DeKay commented to his fiancée.
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe I did,” said Lucy in a vaguely Southern accent. Lucy was a poor liar, and it was clear she had read the articles closely and even talked about them but was not about to offer praise to a woman as attractive as Nellie. “But I’m sure they were most engaging.”
“I hope Mr. Dale’s illness is not serious,” said DeKay.
“It is not. He should be fine for his next review.”
“Ah. The actors in New York will be disappointed with his speedy recovery.”
“As well as the other critics.”
“Oh, there is no competition between us, Miss Bly. Mr. Dale and I address our reviews to different readers. I write for those steeped in the arts. Mr. Dale writes more for those touring the arts.”
Lucy chuckled at DeKay’s show of wit.
“But some of the finest minds in New York are among Mr. Dale’s readers,” said Nellie. “I’m told that Emma Lazarus read Mr. Dale’s articles religiously.”
His eyes didn’t even flicker at the mention of Emma’s name. He was a cool one, thought Nellie.
“I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“Oh?” said Nellie. “I was given to understand otherwise.”
Suddenly it dawned on him that Nellie was there as a reporter, not a critic. The walls shot up, though DeKay was too smooth and intent on impressing to retreat behind them completely.
“And what is your newest assignment for the World, Miss Bly?” asked DeKay, deftly changing the subject.
“The death of Miss Lazarus.”
“But she died six months ago,” he said evenly. “And of a difficult cancer. I’m not sure what story there is to tell. Unless Mr. Pulitzer is simply looking to keep you busy.”
“No, Mr. Pulitzer is convinced the true facts of her death, once uncovered, will make compelling reading. He wants me to devote all of my energies to the task. In fact, I was wondering if I might speak with you at greater length, since you knew Miss Lazarus well.”
“Not that well.” He stole an involuntary look at his fiancée. “We shared interests in poetry for a time but then drifted apart.”
“Still, may I call on you at the Times, tomorrow perhaps? Around eleven midday?”
“Certainly,” he said tentatively.
“Thank you—”
“Charles! There you are.”
To Nellie’s dismay, none other than Nathaniel Barker, the doctor she had seen with her mother a few days before, walked up to them in a formal tux.
“I’ve been looking for you. Agnes and I are entertaining at Delmonico’s later tonight. You and Lucy simply have to attend—”
He glanced at the lovely woman with DeKay and recognized her immediately.
“Miss Cochran!” he said with surprise.
“Hello, doctor.”
“You two know one another?” asked DeKay.
“Miss Cochran came to see me with her mother only two days ago. What an interesting coincidence.”
“Yes,” said DeKay. “It is. Do you know Miss Cochran’s companion, Dr. Ingram?”
Barker, well acquainted with Ingram’s low opinion of him, regarded him with hostility.
“Only by reputation.” He turned to Nellie. “How is your mother feeling?”
“Much better, thank you.”
“Barker, ‘Miss Cochran’ is Nellie Bly. The reporter who wrote the story on the women’s prison at Bellevue.”
Barker’s attitude suddenly darkened.
“You said your name was Cochran,” he snapped angrily.
“Cochran is my real name. Bly is my professional name.”
“You should have told me.”
“Or perhaps,” blurted out Ingram, “you should have told her that your breast examination was completely beyond medical propriety. You should be thrashed.”
The atmosphere had become tense. Both doctors’ fists clenched.
“Perhaps we should return to our seats now,” interposed DeKay.
“I agree,” said Nellie. “I will see you tomorrow?”
“If you wish.”
“Good evening, then.”
She turned to go, but DeKay squeezed her arm and dropped his voice.
“Miss Bly. Or Miss Cochran. Whatever you want to call yourself. Be advised, you are treading on dangerous ground.”
“But you said there is no story here.”
Not amused by her challenge, his voice took on an even more ominous tone. “Just be careful. I will not warn you again.”
Without another word, DeKay and his companions walked away.
“I am sorry I spoke out of turn,” Ingram said to Nellie. “Forgive me.”
“You did nothing wrong. But now that Barker knows who I am, I have lost the element of surprise.”
“Not entirely. They don’t know what you know and what you do not know.”
“Nevertheless, I wish he had not seen us.”
They returned to their seats. The lights dimmed. As the orchestra began the introduction for the second act, Nellie watched DeKay return to his box with Miss Coffey. As they sat down, he nodded curtly to Nellie, a small smile playing on his lips.
“He’s a smug one, isn’t he?” she whispered to Ingram.
“He certainly is.”
But something didn’t make sense.
“He should be worried,” she said. “Yet he acts as if he hasn’t a care in the world.”
“The pomposity of the—”
They both realized it at the same time.
“We need to leave,” she said.
“Immediately,” he said. They got up from their seats and hurried out to the narrow hallway.
But they feared it was too late.
Chapter Seven
Emma Lazarus
There were no hansoms outside the Opera House. A half hour earlier, at intermission, there had been dozens. An hour later, after the final curtain, there would be more than a hundred. But with the start of the second act, the hansoms had driven off to trawl the streets for fares until the opera let out. Nellie and Ingram had to wait for ten maddening minutes until they could flag a carriage to take them to the Cancer Hospital.
Every passing minute, they knew, lessened their chances of stopping Barker.
The driver they finally hailed raced like the wind over the cobblestone streets and around dimly lit corners, and Ingram knew exactly where to direct him, but the sight of another hansom waiting outside the hospital’s night entrance told them it was futile. Still they rushed inside, Ingram showed his credentials to the guard, and they hurried downstairs to the basement. Barker was just emerging from the double doors as they approached.
“Why, Doctor Ingram,” he said, feigning pleasant surprise. “Miss Cochran. What are you two doing here?”
“Trying to preserve evidence before you destroy it,” said Nellie, barely able to contain her rage.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about—” They started past him through the double doors. “You can’t go in there—” he said.
But they ignored him and went inside, to a room unlike anything Nellie had ever seen. It was a laboratory of a dozen marble counters, with Bunsen burners, thick blown glass beakers and flasks, electric lights, and copper piping. Ingram raced past the burners and flasks to the refrigeration area and pulled open the door. Hundreds of flasks of blood with white labels sat on shelves inside the refrigerator.
“How are they arranged?” he demanded of Barker. “By date or last name?”
“Both,” said Barker, only too glad to cooperate. “First by date, then by patient.”
“What was Miss Lazarus’s date of death?” Ingram pressed.
“I’m sorry, doctor
. I don’t recall.”
“November 19, 1887,” chimed in Nellie.
Ingram found the right place on the shelves, then began working backward. He wasn’t finding what he was looking for.
“When did she return from England?”
“In March of ’87,” she said.
Ingram went to that marked area but couldn’t find anything. Once again he turned to Barker.
“Where are they?”
“Where is what?”
Ingram, fists clenching, looked around and spotted a large metal bin. He strode over and looked inside. Several broken flasks with blood lay on the bottom.
“What are these?” Barker looked in the bin.
“Those? We dispose of blood all the time, to make room for analysis of our newer patients.”
“Were these samples from Miss Lazarus?”
“I have no idea,” he replied innocently.
Ingram was livid.
“How could you do such a thing—?”
“I’m not sure I see the problem.”
“I think you see it perfectly well.”
“So now we will never be able to prove how Miss Lazarus died?” Nellie asked Ingram.
He shook his head. She turned to Barker in a fury. “I will make sure the world knows you did this.”
“Did what?”
At that point, the security guard came down the stairs. “Everything all right, doctor?”
“I think so, Hudson. Thank you.” Barker turned to Nellie and Ingram. “Can I take you anywhere? I’m sure there is room in my hansom, and you may have trouble finding one at this time of night.”
The New Colossus Page 7
