City of Glory

by Beverly Swerling

  Eugenie took another sip of her wine and considered. If she took off the coat, no doubt whatever the rest would follow. And if she did not? What then? Tintin? A position in society that grew more precarious the more she tried to claw her way out of the quicksand of debt? Timothy had not lost his taste for her after the first time they bedded. Why should Gornt Blakeman be so easily satisfied? She was young enough to have lost none of her looks, and old enough to have honed her wiles. It was not a circumstance that would last much longer. She must seize the moment.

  Eugenie leaned forward and set the wineglass on the table, then stood up and allowed the coat to slip from her shoulders to the floor. The bag of coins she’d gotten from Tintin was in the breast pocket, and there was a small thud as it hit the floor. She held her breath, but Gornt appeared not to have noticed. Damn the one-eyed pirate and his money. She had not planned it so, but suddenly she was playing for higher stakes.

  “Delicious,” Gornt said, his eyes examining her from head to toe. “Your waist looks even tinier than usual, and your hips in those trousers…A sight to set a man’s teeth on edge, Eugenie.”

  “I had to make adjustments to my undergarments to pass as a boy,” she said. “You would not believe the effort it required.”

  “Not unless you showed me.”

  “Then I suppose I must.” She loosed the ruffled stock and dropped it on top of the coat. Then, slowly and without haste, she opened the three buttons that held the neck of the shirt closed and pulled the garment over her head. The gesture caused the last of the pins to be dislodged from her hair, and her curls hung free. “See,” she said, displaying the linen wrapping that swaddled her breasts, “I am trussed like a chicken.”

  “Poor Eugenie. You must be set free.”

  “I must. But I cannot release all this by myself. You will have to assist me, Gornt.”

  He stood up and she turned so her back was to him. “My maid fastened the cloth in the back so the pin wouldn’t show.”

  “Clever maid.” He undid the pin.

  “Too clever by half. Look what I must do to unwrap myself.”

  Gornt held one end of the linen binding. She released the rest by spinning across the room, until at last she stood in the shadows beside the bed, and they each held one end of the long strip of linen. “Now,” she whispered, “I must be a tidy mistress and put this all neatly away.”

  He said nothing. Eugenie began to wind the bandage, drawing him closer with each revolution. Her breasts were exactly the sort he liked best. Pear-shaped, the aureoles the color of a crushed rose. When he was close enough, he dropped his end of the cloth and put a finger on each taut and upward-facing nipple. “Mine,” he said. “At last.”

  “Yours.” She could not control her trembling.

  Gornt ran his hands down her midriff and slipped his fingers inside the snug waistband of the trousers. He gave a sharp tug and the buttons popped. He pushed the fabric down over her hips and thighs, then stopped. “Do the rest yourself,” he commanded. “Present yourself to me.”

  Eugenie bent over and rolled the trousers down the rest of the way, then stepped out of them. She straightened, let him look, then backed up and threw herself on the bed, spreading her legs wide and opening her arms.

  Gornt lunged over her and into her. Her legs gripped his hips and she arched to meet him, and he was not sure if it was her scream of triumph he heard or his own.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Federal District,

  the Roof of the Executive Mansion, Sunrise

  THE SPYGLASS FELT HEAVY . Dolley Madison had been pressing it to her eye since dawn, turning and looking in every direction to see if her husband was returning to take her to a place of safety. He’d promised he would. Indeed, he’d wanted her to leave the day before, when he went to see about defense preparations. She had refused then and she would refuse now. That they must flee seemed likely, but she would not go alone.

  “Madame Madison…”

  Dolley turned to the sound of the servant’s soft voice. “Ah, it’s you, John. I might have guessed.”

  “I brought you this, madame,” he extended a mug. “Warm milk with a touch of brandy. To soothe the stomach.”

  “Thank you. Mine can use soothing.”

  “There’s this as well.”

  “Oh! From the president?” She snatched at the note.

  “That’s what the messenger said, madam. But he left the moment he’d given it over. Said he didn’t have time to wait for a reply. Not even to take some food and drink.”

  “Mr. Madison and those with him must be hard-pressed indeed.” She set the mug down on the parapet she’d been leaning against and opened the message. It was a quick scrawl written in pencil. The enemy is much stronger than we feared. Have a carriage prepared. Be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Signed with only his initials. Not even a promise of his affection. Never mind. She knew quite well she had it.

  French John—that they called him to set him apart from at least three other Johns among the servants—was waiting. “We are to be prepared to leave if we must,” she told him.

  “The carriage, madame, the one you packed with Mr. Madison’s papers…”

  “Send it off, John. At once.”

  The servant nodded. “Yes, madame. Right away.”

  “Still no sign of a wagon?” She’d sent two housemen out to look for one. So she could pack up the household goods.

  “No, madame, not yet. The boys be going out again to look in another direction. Soon as they have a bite of breakfast.” He nodded his head toward her spyglass. “What about out there, madame? Anything you be seeing as looks promising for defending us?”

  She should probably say yes. It was, after all, her responsibility to keep them all in good spirits. But French John had belonged to Mr. Madison’s family for many years, and he was trusted in a way that others were not. “Nothing, John. Groups of men who appear to be wearing one or another sort of uniform, but all simply wandering the countryside as if they are not quite sure where to go. They lack…” If she said they lacked leadership—which was what she thought—it would reflect badly on her husband. Lord knows he had enough criticism to bear; he needed none from her. “They lack proper intelligence, I fear. Any knowledge of where to best head off the enemy.”

  The sun was full up now, the day’s heat beginning. “Come down now, madame. You should rest.”

  “Not just yet, John. You go, and send that carriage on its way. I’ll be along shortly.”

  She spent another five minutes with the spyglass before she remembered the warm drink John had brought her. By now, of course, it had gone cold. Nonetheless, the effects of the brandy were welcome.

  New York City, Wall Street, 9 A.M

  The rich smell of coffee pervaded the downstairs room of the Tontine, and it made Joyful’s mouth water. He’d come to listen to talk and he wanted a place at one of the long communal tables, but they were all taken. He had to be satisfied with a seat at the rear, near the stairs leading to the upper floor, straddling a stool beside a tiny table that looked as if it had been shoved in place as an afterthought. He signaled to a waiter. The man nodded in acknowledgment, then hurried off to serve others who had arrived before. Astonishing that the place was so full so early. In better times the men here would be on the docks at this hour, seeing to the unlading of their cargoes, checking on schedules and berthing slots, and arranging for voyages yet to come. They wouldn’t arrive at the Tontine or the other coffeehouses of the town until close to noon, when their attention would shift to the need to bargain for future cargoes.

  Not these days. The snatches of conversation he overheard all related to the havoc wreaked on business by Mr. Madison’s war. The big question was whether or not the city was to be attacked, and if so by land or by sea, but he heard no one ask what that would mean to the nation. From where he sat, Joyful could all but smell their desperation. Oh, they weren’t paupers, not yet. These men had enough property and cash to insulate
them from the worst of the losses of war. The craftsmen and shopkeepers, Barnaby and the rest of the mechanics—they suffered most because they had the least cushion. In places like Tammany Hall the anxiety must stink like a sewer. As for the privileged men upstairs, the money men, in the usual way of things they made as much profit from bad times as they did from good.

  His coffee arrived, pungent and black and served in a yellow crockery bowl. The waiter proffered a large urn of sugar. Joyful took three of the rough-cut brownish-colored lumps, then put four coppers on the tray. A penny for the coffee and a penny apiece for each portion of sugar. Not long past, the sugar had sold for two lumps a penny.

  “A taste for sweetness is expensive these days, isn’t it, Dr. Turner?” It was Geoffrey Colden, the trader he’d seen at the Knave the night before last, and whose place he had taken at bezique.

  “So it seems. But the coffee itself sells for the same price as before the war, though it must make the same perilous journey to get here.”

  Colden chuckled. “All a question of what the market will bear, Dr. Turner. It seems that folk will pay more for the sweet than the bitter, so at the Tontine we set our prices accordingly. From what I hear, that will be of no concern to you. I’m told my seat proved lucky for you the other night.”

  “The cards fell for me and not for Blakeman. Good joss, as they say in Canton.”

  The trader’s eyes became opaque, harder to read. “Perhaps. May I ask what brings you here, Dr. Turner? I come every day, and I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you perhaps planning to join us?” He inclined his head slightly, enough to allow Joyful to see that he referred to the floor above.

  “I didn’t think it was simply a matter of climbing those stairs.” The Tontine agreement had been fixed long since and the terms were well known. A certain number of signatories and no provision for adding more.

  “Takes more than making the climb,” Colden agreed. “But it’s not impossible. If a member wishes to sell his portion outright, for instance.”

  Jesus. Joyful told himself he had to contain his excitement, not let Colden know that his heart was pounding and his hands felt clammy. “The way I heard it, the other members must all first decline to buy the share of whoever wants to sell before a new member can be brought in.”

  “Correct,” Colden said softly. “But a number of us feel that’s an unwise provision. Never any new blood, and a system that doesn’t allow itself to breathe. You’re a medical man, Dr. Turner. Wouldn’t you say that was unhealthy?”

  “Yes. It is. Very unhealthy.”

  “Upstairs,” Colden said. “That’s where the kind of business is done can make a man a real fortune, presuming he has the stomach for it. Up there we determine the prices of everything—slaves, houses, ships; you might say we make the market. The men here—” he nodded to indicate the ground floor of the coffee house—“mostly work with the essentials of one or another enterprise. Less gamble, less risk, and consequently less reward. I suspect our sort of trading would suit you, Dr. Turner. It doesn’t require that a man have both hands. Rather like at the Dancing Knave,” he added softly.

  Joyful’s expression gave nothing away. The women at the Knave talked, no way to avoid it, and Colden was a regular. But Jesus God Almighty, a member of the Tontine. “I’m considering my future,” he said. “I’ve made no decisions.”

  “What are you waiting for, if I may ask?”

  “To see how things play out for me.”

  “Ah,” Colden said. “Your ‘joss.’”

  “Exactly.”

  Both men saw Bastard Devrey come in the door. The trader smiled. “And here it is, coming straight towards you. Choose wisely, my young friend. I bid you good morning, Dr. Turner.” Colden bowed politely and left.

  Joyful stared after him. Guessing he had an interest in the Knave was one thing. But Devrey Shipping? The only people he’d told of his arrangement with Bastard were Jacob Astor and Manon. Manon would never betray his trust, and it was against Astor’s interests to do so. It had to be that simply the fact he’d shown up here had tipped his hand. A good lesson. He’d have to look sharp to join the game the men upstairs played. No point in thinking otherwise.

  Bastard was making his way through the public room, speaking to no one, his gaze fixed on the stairs that led to the private sanctum above. In a black cutaway carefully brushed, and a green waistcoat straining to close over his well-fed paunch, he looked a damned sight better than he had last Thursday night. More important, his eyes weren’t bleary with drink. Joyful waited until Bastard drew level, then spoke. “Good morning, Cousin.”

  Bastard stopped short, a look of astonishment on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  Joyful shrugged. “It’s a public coffeehouse. Why shouldn’t I be here?”

  “No reason. It’s just that I’ve never seen you in the Tontine, and—”

  “Sit down.” Joyful hooked another of the stools with his boot and drew it close. “Have a coffee with me.”

  Bastard’s glance darted toward the stairs. “I’ve business to attend to, I can’t linger.”

  “You’ve no business that doesn’t concern me,” Joyful said softly. “You do remember that, don’t you, Cousin? I’d hate to think it was all lost in a tipsy haze. If so, the truth will come as a mighty shock.”

  A few men looked their way; the family’s feuding history was well known, and a confrontation of some sort would surprise no one. Might be a good thing, lend a bit of interest to the morning. You could see the anticipation in their eyes. Well, they were due to be disappointed. “Sit down, Bastard,” Joyful said again. “You’re attracting attention.”

  “I can’t linger,” Bastard repeated while managing to settle his broad buttocks on the small seat.

  “So you said. Exactly what is it you’re planning to do upstairs?”

  “Business. I…” Leaning in close now, careful not to be overheard. Joyful could smell his breath; he had not been overindulging in what was left of his Madeira. “I’m still responsible for the day-to-day running of things. We both agreed that’s how it should be.”

  “Day-to-day as on the docks and in the countinghouse,” Joyful said, his voice pitched equally low. “Nothing to do with what goes on at the Tontine.”

  Bastard’s eyes narrowed. “Still, I warrant you came here expecting to find me. Why else are you here?”

  “As a matter of fact, I didn’t think to see you here.” He’d come because of what Barnaby said and Reverend Fish confirmed, that Blakeman’s recruiting was intense among the ordinary people of the town, the mechanics and the laborers. Did that mean Gornt Blakeman was already assured of the support of his own class? Would they all simply fall in with him once they saw the profit to be gained from doing so? No way to know. “Let’s start again, Bastard. What are you doing here?”

  The other man chewed his lower lip. “Habit,” he admitted. “It’s how I’ve always spent my mornings. If I stay at home…Well, Celinda…You know how it is.”

  Joyful didn’t entirely believe him, but they were still attracting interested glances, and he could hear a buzz of talk from upstairs. Going public with their arrangement before he was ready could ruin everything. He stood up. “Nice to see you, Cousin.” Loud enough so he could be heard. Then, more softly, “Be cautious about what you do or say up there, sir. It’s in your best interest to be circumspect.”

  There was a bustle of activity outside the coffeehouse. A horse had slipped its traces and overturned a wagon full of beer kegs. The wagoner was trying roll them back into place on an improvised slide of poles, and a crowd had gathered to watch. “This way,” a voice said in Joyful’s ear.

  He felt a hand in the small of his back, pushing him away from the Tontine and toward Water Street. He walked at a moderate pace, not turning round, waiting for additional instructions. They came in the form of another push directing him into an alley. Narrow enough so he had to mind his step to avoid rotting rubbish. Joyful turned his head to see w
ho was behind him. He’d been fairly certain it would be Mulligan the Irishman, and he wasn’t wrong. “What are you doing here, Mully? Meant to be following me?”

  “Not exactly, sir. F.X. sent me. S’posed to be waiting for Mr. Blakeman, I am, outside the Tontine. But I ain’t seen ’im yet. And I seen you, so…”

  It had been two days since he’d given Mulligan a shilling and said it was an advance on six coppers a day. Time for another infusion. “Well done, Mully.” He took another coin from his pocket. “Have you a note to give Mr. Blakeman?”

  “No sir, a message. But…”

  The Irishman was staring at the coin, doubtless contrasting it with visions of the butchers and their cleavers. “The sooner you’re back at your post, Mully, the less likely anyone will know you left it. What’s the message?”

  “I’m to tell Mr. Blakeman as F.X. says, ‘Astor’s with us.’”

  Jesus God Almighty. “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Joyful handed over the shilling. “Another two days in advance, Mully. You’ve done well. Keep your eyes open, as I said, and—” He broke off, seeing something in the Irishman’s expression. “You’re sure there’s nothing else?”

  “Not from F.X., Dr. Turner.”

  A small cheer went up not far away. Both men heard it. “They’ve got those beer kegs back in place, Mully. Things will be a bit quieter outside the Tontine. Easier to spot who comes and goes. If you’ve something else to tell me, better do it quickly.”

  “Three wee ones I’ve got at home, Dr. Turner. And what with this war and all…”

  Joyful put his hand in his pocket and came up with two coppers. “What else? Quickly, and it better be useful, or I’ll shop you to the leather-aprons myself.”