by Paul Boor
They walked a winding path and settled on a bench overlooking the lake, where they returned to their most serious topic of conversation.
“When you find these men, Nick, you must call for help from whatever connections you have, whoever might help.”
“I have Harvard chums spread over New York and New England, I suppose.”
“As far as Buffalo?”
“I’ve even a few associates in Chicago, though I never chose to open a market for ice there.”
“Listen, Nick, while I’m in Boston I’ll contact whomever you wish.”
“An excellent idea.”
“It sounds like the path leads to Buffalo. You’ll be in danger, so go slowly. You mustn’t do this alone. And we must think more on it.”
In the smallest, most intimate of Saratoga’s dining rooms, they continued over an upstate country supper: a bounty of frog’s legs, speckled trout, and partridges, accompanied by the famous paper-thin Saratoga potatoes and sweet corn fresh from the cob.
“I’ve collected quite a number of bodies for my winter delivery to your uncle.”
“He’ll be pleased. Will you supply New Orleans?”
“I’m put out with New Orleans. They penned an invalid banknote last March. Once I’ve unloaded ice in Saint Louis, I’ll make my merry way to your island. You know what recommends Galveston most, of course.”
“The warm climate?”
“The pleasure of your company.”
Nicolas thought he caught her smiling at that, but perhaps it was only the bright red of the strawberries arriving at the table in rich local cream that captured her fancy.
As dusk drew near, Nicolas hired a young boy to row them across the lake in his sleek Saranac guide boat. The strong-armed lad stood ankle-deep in the cool water, steadying the gunwales with a firm grip while Renée and Nicolas settled into low cane chairs facing each other. The evening was clear and calm. The lake was flat. A sliver of a moon lay low along the shoreline.
As his boat glided to the steady swish of his oars, the young boatman fixed his gaze on the shore. Nicolas saw that he’d chosen wisely. Here was a lad who’d learned discretion; he certainly wouldn’t notice should a gentleman lean forward for a kiss in the falling darkness. But only once did Nicolas think to take the lady’s hand. They never seemed to stop talking. There was hardly a quiet moment that might’ve led to something.
Later in the evening a five-piece band of violins, violas, and cello set up on the Fort Stanwix’s rambling porch and worked through a repertoire of Strauss waltzes.
“Shall we?” Nicolas asked, offering his arm. He guided Renée onto the smooth planking. “The Blue Danube” played. His arms encircled her and Nicolas—who hadn’t danced in years—quickly regained the solid frame and fluid step of his youth. In an extended interlude between pieces, he lingered and, in plain view on the empty dance floor, pulled her to him. Guests went quiet around them.
“Nicolas, not here.”
He tightened his embrace and kissed her. The veranda came alive with whispers.
“You naughty boy,” she said with a grin, pushing away gently. “Show off all you want, good sir.” She turned and stepped along the veranda. “Still . . . I’m flattered.”
When the band struck up another waltz, Renée held him at arm’s length. “It’s late and I’d best be off to my room,” she said, waltzing gaily along the porch rail in time to the music.
Nicolas followed her to the staircase. “Till tomorrow, then?” he asked. She turned, nodded down at him, and was gone.
In the quiet of his room Nicolas found his heart bumping in his chest with a newfound velocity, a steady, warm thrashing. Perhaps his nerves needed settling. He’d packed his works and a bit of morphine mix in his portmanteau, but no, he’d not open it and resort to that false tranquility. Instead, he drew the curtains open to the night and paced the floor. The fiddles played on below, guests chattered on the veranda, but Nicolas could think only of Renée, that apple blossom scent, and the taste of tonight’s stolen kiss.
He should have her, should he not? He wanted her—that was the truth of the matter. It would be wrong in the eyes of the world, but he wanted her. His life had changed. His children had grown. His melancholic wife was no longer the woman he’d known. This new life, these emotions, could no longer be denied. Renée had become everything to him, everything he wanted and needed. Now, deep in the night, he admitted this to himself, and decided to act.
“Tomorrow, I confess my feelings,” he said to squares of moonlight by his bedside. “I must tell her she’s the one. It will be our last evening. She’ll not deny it’s far more than friendship between us. She said as much herself, didn’t she? How’d she put it? ‘Sympathetic strings’?”
Nicolas settled into the hotel’s fine-smelling sheets, content to relive the evening and mumble into his pillow.
“There’s no other course,” he told himself. “It’s a matter of the heart.”
Sleep took him quickly, as it will for a man with his mind set to action.
The next morning a fine warm mist hung in the air and towers of chalky clouds rose and fell in the dangerously dark sky. Nicolas arrived at the breakfast table where Renée waited, her dress a mysterious mixture of colors, Tyrian purple, sunset orange, and sea green, like some tropical orchid. She extended her hand and slipped back into her chair smooth as silk.
“Shall we spend the afternoon at the races, good sir?”
“We shall, weather permitting.”
By the time they’d finished breakfast, it was raining.
58
At the Tables
Sheets of blood-warm rain poured relentlessly onto the track. Racing was canceled, the horses stabled. By noon, warm bodies in damp summer finery filled the casino, jostling and bumping around the green baize of the tables. Windows were thrown open, but any suggestion of breeze had long since died and the dark red walls dripped with dampness. Gaslights blazed hot and bright over the gambling tables; collars were loosened, jackets removed.
Nicolas Van Horne and Dr. Renée Keiller sat at the roulette wheel, spreading small bets on the black, playing the corners. Despite the oppressive heat, Renée appeared cool and at leisure in her brightly dyed dress with its formfitting bodice and light, elevated sleeves.
“Oh, my,” Renée said with a sigh. “We’re losing again, aren’t we?”
Nicolas studied the table, wondering if that seven might be his lucky number. Never had a lucky number. Lately, haven’t had a stitch of luck, but that must be due for a change, mustn’t it?
Time was slipping away. Before long it would be evening, their last evening. On waking this morning, however, Nicolas had undergone yet another change of heart. With the dismal weather raining down, he realized that no matter how desperately he wished it, he couldn’t press the issue of romance with Renée. He wanted Renée more than anything—he’d admitted that to himself last night—but to force his attentions on her was out of the question. She was too fine a lady for that. She was his friend, his confidant, his confessor, and now she had become his valuable accomplice in searching out and destroying the heinous child slave trade. He would confess his heart to Renée, his inner thoughts and hopes, nothing more. He would do it when evening fell, when the rain cleared and they would take another row across the lake.
“Blasted hot in here.” Nicolas stood to remove his jacket and hang it over the back of his chair. “Hotter than Galveston, I suspect,” he said, rolling his shirtsleeves nearly to the elbow.
“Few places are hotter than Galveston,” Renée said with a chuckle, then the smile that pulled at the sides of her mouth went flat as her eyes became glued on Nicolas’s disastrous forearm. “How long have you been injecting yourself?” she asked, taking his hand and giving his forearm a quick, clinical turn. “Morphine, is it?”
“I partake . . . occasionally. Hardly a problem.”
“It most certainly is a problem, Nick. No doubt you’ve heard of a clinical syndrome—”
<
br /> “A morphine habit such as mine could hardly—”
“You’re wrong, Nick. Craving sets in at far lower doses than you might think. I’d hate for a fine gentleman such as you—”
“Don’t give that business another thought. Please.”
Renée saw something like desperation flicker across Nicolas’s face, shiftiness in his eyes. She dropped his arm.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Nicolas continued, buttoning his sleeves down with a snap, “it’s folderol.”
Renée looked him in the eye. “Just remember, Nick,” she said, touching his hand. “I’ve seen what it can do, and it’s extremely ugly.”
Nicolas laid the last of their chips on the table. “All on the seven,” he said. “Straight up.”
“En plein,” called the croupier.
Nicolas bolstered the bet with a handful of bills. “If this hits,” he whispered, leaning close to Renée’s ear, “it all goes to your lab.”
The croupier spun the wheel. The tiny ball sang; all eyes were on it.
“Seven.”
“Oh, Nick!” She wound her arms round his neck and gave a tug. A sisterly kiss on the cheek for their victory.
But what was this? Over Renée’s shoulder, at the edge of his vision, Nicolas saw a hulking shape push away from a nearby table. A solid-looking, youngish figure, the fellow drew up to his full height and appeared to glare at their table. Was this local ruffian about to cause a scene?
The stout young gambler staggered toward their table, pushing others aside. Nicolas broke his loose embrace with Renée and turned to face the fellow and have a good look.
“Father? It’s you!” Schuyler gasped—the wayward Van Horne son who, according to plan, should’ve been studying blueprints in Saint Louis.
“Sky?”
“You’re here?” Schuyler’s voice rose high above its bass note. “With a woman?”
Van Horne blanched, his face mere inches from his son’s, which was blotched by alcohol and a morning at the tables. “What in the name of heaven . . .”
Schuyler’s eyes shot to Renée. She blushed deep scarlet. “Who is this?” he asked.
“Why . . . this is Dr. Renée Keiller of Galveston. She’s a scientist, a fine friend. We met during my stay in the South, you see, and—”
“Oh, I see all right,” Schuyler said, backing away, his eyes wildly searching the room. “I’ve seen too much!”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Schuyler. It’s not.”
But the younger Van Horne rushed away as abruptly as he’d appeared, leaving Nicolas and Renée speechless.
“Your son . . . ,” Renée said slowly. “I’m sure he thought—”
“He must.”
The blacks, the reds, and the spinning wheel forgotten, Nicolas settled both elbows onto the dark green velvet tabletop. His head sank into his hands.
“Don’t hate me for this, Nick,” Renée said, her voice trembly. “Don’t hate me.”
Nicolas lifted his head. “Never. I could never . . . Damn Schuyler to hell! He’s supposed to be in Saint Louis!”
Renée stared out the window at the pale afternoon. “I should go, Nicolas. I’ll arrive a day early in Boston, but . . .”
Dazed, Nicolas stood from the table, feeling for his jacket, looking about for his derby. He must . . . he must call a carriage to the Fort Stanwix. He would oversee the loading of her trunk.
The croupier called to the handsome couple as they wandered away from his table, but they didn’t turn back. Their pile of winnings was left behind, abandoned on the number seven.
Contrary to all plans laid, all dreams dreamt, within an hour Nicolas and Renée found themselves entwined under the awning of the Saratoga station while rain poured down from an angry sky. They held firm until the last moment, stunned, unable to find words. Two blasts of the train’s whistle, and still they clung to each other.
“We weren’t in the wrong, Nick.”
“It was right. It was always right. How . . . how could things turn so badly?”
“Don’t forget me, Nick.” She pulled back, fear wide in her eyes. “Tell me, Nick. Say you’ll remember, say you’ll write. Just tell me.” The train began to move. She looked to gauge its speed, then plucked up the hem of her wet and bedraggled, multicolored skirts, and ran for it.
“Tell me!”
59
An End to Summer
Nicolas was a caged mountain cat—a wild animal, master of the forest, poised to pounce but with no prey in sight. The summer had cooled, and with it the local demand for ice. There was no business to be done. He had time on his hands, too many empty hours for reverie and regret. Soon he would turn to his needle and the numbing morphine that stopped time and cured all sorrow, at least for the moment.
On Nicolas’s opened secretary sat three letters; the first, its edges frayed and worn, read:
My dearest Nick,
Weeks have passed & still I have no letter from you. Torture me no longer with your silence, sweet friend. Why do you not write? I am desperate to hear from you on your progress in thwarting those evil men. What do you think of my further thoughts on the mark they wear? The brand? What have you discovered?
As reported in my most recent correspondence, summer nears its end & yellow fever abates. Uncle is under a great strain & his health suffers. We are injecting the horses daily, but I find it difficult to concentrate & the Boston methods are not working as expected. I only hope that you are faring better with the perplexing conspiracy you’ve uncovered. I trust the list of names I sent was of use. Remember, stay safe.
Oh, Nick, I would give anything to be in Saratoga again. If I could relive those days, I would show you the strength of my feelings. (And we would not be at that wretched roulette table.)
I await your safe return to Galveston with all my love & all my thoughts. Please tell me of your plans for arrival. Any word from you would be welcome. Know that I remain
Your loving friend,
Renée
Similarly worn, a letter posted from a wayward son to his father:
14 September 1889
Saint Louis
Dearest Father,
I write with grave reservations, given the nature of our last encounter. Nevertheless, I entreat you to hear my plight. Extraordinary circumstances have befallen me & only you can help.
I write this from Saint Louis, where I was forced to flee from my many creditors in New Jersey. Lord have mercy, dear Father, they will have my life if I do not pay up! I confess fully—my plan was to turn your loan into my deliverance at the tables at Saratoga, then return to New York to pay up. But Lady Luck was not with me. I couldn’t return to the city I love. Saint Louis proved my last resort. The New Jersey thugs will never trace me here. I am unknown & there’s the most unusual music.
Now, for my new plan—if you could see fit to advance me 300 dollars, it would be my salvation. I know this sum sounds egregious in view of my previous request for far less for my medical problems (which were total lies, by the bye). Nevertheless, this amount is my only hope to appease my creditors, who are not pleasant people to deal with.
In return for your help, I pledge to fulfill your dream of building a Galveston icehouse. Yes, I am studying the fine art of icehouse fabrication. I now see your building on the quay of this booming river port is a true work of genius. The double-walled construction, so suitable to maintain temperature, the ingenious venting that solves the problem of condensation, & the clever layout of interior storage are all to be admired. Please advise as to your planned location for the new structure in Galveston & any further details of construction, whenever you send the money.
I cannot tell you, dear Father, how shocked & distressed I was by my discovery of you with that woman in Saratoga. In truth, I should not give a fig who you debauch. Nevertheless, as a part of our agreement, I promise to hold my tongue with Mother & Abigail, for your sake & theirs, provided you are willing to assist me, financially speaking.
&n
bsp; Write as soon as possible with how you might provide the funds & when. Installments are not acceptable. I must settle quickly with those New Jersey villains, & I vow on my life’s blood to follow through in Texas for you, where I plan to travel three weeks hence, after the yellow fever season, per your earlier instructions.
With hope for an amiable agreement,
Schuyler
Morphine, that’s what was needed. He’d buy out Boatmann’s apothecary, though he knew Boatmann’s most powerful mix would fail to ease the pain of the third letter lying on the secretary—a letter in his own hand, freshly penned and awaiting signature for the midnight train.
My dearest Renée,
It is with the greatest torment that I break my silence. For too long I could not find it in me to lift a pen, though I ensure you the source of this paralysis was the extraordinary depth of my love for you. Above all, you must understand that. I think of you every minute of my day. Yet, as a matter of the heart, I must face the truth. It is wrong to torture you with an improper love.
I beg your forgiveness for this decision, Renée, but I must bid you well & farewell in this one letter & call it my last. I am no good for you. I will only bring you down. Trust, however, that you shall always remain in my heart of hearts, in my soul of souls, my darling pen pal, my greatest friend on God’s green earth.
It’s Ruth, my wife, who needs me most. I have been grievously wrong. Ruth is truly sick & deathly sick, at that. The doctors in Albany tell us her ovaries have gone cancerous & this thing, this horrible thing, has been eating at her all along. I must help her. I must concentrate on my life as it was before I met you, Renée. Before my landing on Galveston.
In spite of this decision, remember, always, I remain
Yours,
Nick
III
Their Separate Ways
60
In the Laboratory
