“In the name of God, I will go,” Jalal says.
Chapter 10
Mary studies the daguerreotype and decides that it is a portrait of someone else. “Not me,” she says. “This woman is beautiful, and I’m not. This person is young, and I’m a hundred years old. At least I feel like it.”
“I suppose you’re right. Far too young and pretty,” Ollie agrees, looking at the picture. “But she’s wearing your clothes.”
“I’d better check my closet, then.”
“You don’t mind if I carry a picture of another woman, do you?”
“Of course not. But if you see her in person, tell her I want my dress back.”
They are in the sitting room of the boarding house, which is otherwise vacant. Ollie takes the metal plate on which the image of Mary is emblazoned and places it in his pocket. “I had a wonderful time today.”
“Me too.” Mary rests her hand on Ollie’s knee. “I like spending time with you, Ollie. Tell me about your life in England. It must be a terribly exotic place compared to New York. All that history.”
“Well, yes, London has history all right. But I’m afraid my own history is rather humdrum.” Ollie dodges the colorful events of his life; what sense is there in dredging up a story with so much heartache? “My father is an editor for the London Times, and I’m a news writer.”
“That’s what you do. I’m interested in your life before that.”
“Not much to talk about, really. Public boys’ school, Oxford University, home in Belgravia, terrible at sports but love horses. Never been married. Never been kissed, actually.”
Mary laughs. “I don’t believe that for a minute!”
“Well, once—by my great-grandmother.”
“What! Not by your own mother?”
Ollie is boxed in. He doesn’t want to talk about his mother, but he doesn’t want to lie. “My mother left me when I was younger.”
The smile disappears from Mary’s face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I really am.”
“It’s all right. It was a long time ago.”
“But the pain never really goes away, does it?” Mary says. “It’s always there, in the background. A dull throbbing.”
Ollie looks at Mary. She seems to speak from experience, but— “It is like that a bit, I suppose. You’re lucky to have your mother with you, Mary. Even when you’re quarrelling, Phebe seems to love you a great deal. Do you have siblings?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think so.”
“Your mother is quite a lot older than you. I thought… maybe you were the baby of the family. She must have gotten a late start.”
“Late, yes.”
“Have you always been together?” It is easier for Ollie to ask personal questions than answer them, and suddenly he realizes that he knows almost nothing about Mary and her family, except for Phebe.
“Since I can remember,” Mary replies. “My, you’re full of questions. Seems to me we were talking about you, and all of a sudden here I am gushing about my own family.”
“I was raised by my great-grandmother,” Ollie confesses. He had not meant to reveal even this much about his past, but feels compelled to offer something in exchange for another piece of Mary’s story.
Mary hears these words and turns to Ollie with moist eyes. “Me too,” she says. “I mean, my grandmother.”
Ollie is confused. “But your mother, Phebe, and you—”
“Phebe is my grandmother,” Mary says. “I’ve been raised by my grandmother, Ollie, just like you were raised by your great-grandmother.”
Of course. Phebe is old enough to be Mary’s grandmother.
“And your mother—?”
“Phebe’s daughter. It’s a sordid little tale. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. No one else in New York knows.”
“Your mother was pregnant.”
“Well of course she was pregnant. She gave birth to a daughter!” Mary is suddenly agitated. She stands up, turning her back on Ollie who stays seated on the divan. “The problem was that she never got married.”
“Did you know your mother?” Ollie asks.
Mary nods no. “She chose to abandon me to my grandmother’s care rather than face the scandal. To be honest, I prefer to be my grandmother’s daughter rather than my mother’s bastard child.” She turns and stares at Ollie, bluster camouflaging pain. “So there you have it.”
“Your grandmother stood by you.”
“Yes, but sometimes when I look at her I see her wondering when my bad blood will steer me in the direction of hell. In my grandmother’s eyes, I’m cursed by my mother’s carnal act. Almost certainly I will end up like her, and then poor Phebe will have another generation to raise.”
“So she’s opinionated about your… relationships.”
“Opinionated? No, I would say scared. Waiting for disaster.”
“But you seem to love her.”
“Oh, yes—more than you know. Without her… I can’t imagine… No one else looked after me. No one wanted me. Mother—Phebe—was always there, atoning I think for her daughter’s sin. Poor woman—she’s atoned long enough. She needs some peace.”
“But you’re such a help to her.”
“I’m her biggest worry.” Mary stops and thinks for a minute. “Is your great-grandmother still alive?” she asks.
“She died about ten years ago.”
“Did she worry about you?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’s at peace.”
Ollie considers this. It is difficult to think of Mum at peace. Would she approve of Mary? He thinks so. Would she approve of the way Ollie has turned out? He is not so certain—perhaps once he has tied up the remaining loose ends, the way Mum did. She always finished things.
“I’m very tired, Ollie,” Mary says, kissing him on the forehead. “I’m going upstairs now.” And then she is gone.
An hour later, as Ollie lies in bed, the door to his room slowly opens. He can hear the click of the latch and the squeak of the hinges.
“Ollie?” A whisper. “May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Mary Rogers softly walks across the room and slips into Ollie’s bed. “I was feeling terribly alone. Would you just hold me?”
Forever, Ollie thinks.
Chapter 11
Jonathon stares at Ollie incredulously. “Are you mad?” he asks. “The girl is engaged. What were you thinking of?” During the following silence he puts the exposed metal plate on the fuming box above the heated mercury, then adds, “Nobody likes Daniel Payne, but he’s mighty mean when he’s drunk. If he ever finds out—”
The darkness of the room makes Ollie feel almost anonymous. It’s easier to talk about private matters in this small dim place. That’s probably why so many Catholics relish the confessional.
“I wasn’t really thinking about that,” Ollie confesses. “Her engagement, I mean.”
“Did you think about it at all?
“Not in any conscious way, no.”
“Don’t be so intellectual about it. If you had any scruples, you would have booted her out.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I love her.”
“Listen to me now—that wasn’t love you were feeling last night.”
“Don’t make it sound so tawdry.”
“Don’t make it sound—? Jonathon! Listen to me. The woman is pledged to another man. She comes to your bed last night. But you’re not the man she has promised to marry. What does that tell you?”
“I think she loves me too.”
“Are all Brits so stupid? Let me be blunt. Mary Rogers is a very attractive girl. I’m attracted to her myself—physically, that is. Ask any man who comes into Anderson’s. They’re all like moths flying around a flame. That girl will burn you if you get too close. She’s had other lovers, Ollie. Ask them.”
“Every woman has a past. I don’t care about hers.”
�
�So it’s true, then. Your brain has actually gone dead.”
“Isn’t that bloody picture done yet?”
Jonathon moves the plate from the fuming box to a tray of hypo-sulfate solution. “While I wait for our great journey into the heart of America to begin, the newspapers are forgetting all about me. My career in New York is in decline. I’m taking a great risk waiting for you to sort out your few things. What if you sort me out?”
“For God’s sake.”
Jonathon moves the plate to another tray and flushes its surface with distilled water. “It’s a legitimate concern. Of course, I’d have less concern if you agreed to pay me an adequate sum in the event that you terminated my services.”
“That’s bribery!” Ollie protests, but in reality he feels relieved that the conversation has turned from his obsession with Mary Rogers to the slightly less delicate topic of money. “How much would be adequate?”
In the darkness, Jonathon smiles. “I’m sure you’ll make a suitable offer.” Jonathon places the plate onto the stand, lights the spirit lamp beneath it, and opens a bottle of gold chloride.
“All right then,” Ollie says. “In the event I terminate you, I will pay you an additional four weeks salary.”
“Six weeks,” Jonathon says. “And transportation back to New York if we’re somewhere else.” Jonathon gently pours the gold chloride over the image.
“All right. But if you take other work while we’re in New York, I get half the proceeds.”
Yes, Ollie’s brain has gone dead, Jonathon thinks. He would have given Ollie more than that. “It’s done, then.”
Jonathon lights a lantern and the room begins to glow with a warm light. “Agreed. No complaints, but I reserve the right to give advice from time to time.”
Ollie sighs, then nods and picks up the gilded plate. “What is this?”
“A picture I made at the Elysian Fields. The day we all met there.”
“Is that the tavern, Nick Moore’s House?”
“It is. The owner spied my camera and asked me to make a picture of the establishment. Even brought out his patrons to be in it—that’s them standing in front of the place.”
Ollie looks up at Jonathon. “And were you paid for your services?”
“Of course. I’m a professional.”
Jonathon picks up the plate and studies it carefully. As he had suspected, in the picture he finds indelible proof of Mary’s sordid secret—the reason she contrived a trip to the Elysian Fields last Sunday.
Chapter 12
The boarding house is full tonight, and the sitting room is brimming over with testosterone. Arthur Crommelin reclines in his customary overstuffed chair—why is he here? He doesn’t reside here any more—and Ollie has staked out one end of the divan. William Kiekuk nervously plunks out a succession of wrong notes on the piano, just as he did on Sunday. Does the man have nothing better to do than irritate people with his lack of musicianship? Three other male guests hunker down in hard-backed chairs. No one will sit on the divan next to another man.
Stomachs growl. Supper is late this evening.
The men read newspapers and trade inane remarks, awkwardly passing the time. Ollie begins to wonder if all of these men could be Mary’s suitors.
No, of course not. She’s engaged.
Another man struts into the room and finds all the chairs occupied. He marches to the divan and sits down, turning to face Ollie.
“Don’t believe we’ve made the acquaintance,” the man says. “Daniel Payne.”
Ollie extends his hand. “Oliver Chadwick,” he says, and the men shake hands.
Daniel is about thirty with a ruddy complexion and sandy hair. He has a firm handshake and muscular build.
Ollie studies the man’s face—the puffy nose is lined with spidery red veins and the rheumy eyes are bloodshot. Untamed brown eyebrows sprout in all directions, and several bent hairs dangle precariously above the left eyelid. He looks like he’s been drinking, but acts stone sober.
“So you’re the one from England?” Daniel says. “Heard about you.”
Ollie nods politely but says nothing.
“And I’m the lucky S.O.B. who won the hand of Mary Rogers!” he says. “You probably heard about me.” Daniel looks around the sitting room, taunting the losers.
“Indeed,” Ollie says.
“‘Indeed’? What kind of talk is that? We’re plain folk here. All of us’re different in some ways, but all of us the same in two ways—we’re all plain folk and we all love beautiful Mary, isn’t that right fellows?”
No one responds. Ollie feels anger welling up inside him.
Arthur Crommelin leans forward, not an easy task in the overstuffed chair that has nearly swallowed him whole. “How nice to have you back,” he says to Daniel. “Now shut your trap or there’ll be no supper for you.”
“Look who’s talkin’,” Daniel replies with a smirk. “And what are you doin’ here, Arthur? You been cast aside, but here ya are waitin’ for some table scraps ta fall. Ain’t no scraps fallin’ around here while Daniel’s in the house. Where the hell is supper anyway?”
Arthur decides it isn’t worth a fight. He sinks back into soft cushions.
William Kiekuk smashes a fist into the keyboard. The thunderous sound grabs everyone’s attention, which is what he wants. He swivels on the piano bench to face Daniel Payne.
“Daniel, I don’t know what you got on Miss Mary, but it must be somethin’ powerful, ‘cause I know she wouldn’t hitch up with a drunk like you otherwise. I was prayin’ some ol’ whore would slit your throat an’ we’d never see your ugly face again. But here you are. Proof, I guess, that there just ain’t no God after all.”
Daniel glowers at Kiekuk and clenches his fists, then takes a breath and smiles discordantly. “I know what you’re doin’, Kiekuk. You’re bein’ jealous, you an’ Arthur both, ‘cause I won and you both lost.”
At that precise moment, Mary Rogers walks into the room and Kiekuk sits down.
Daniel turns to her and says, “Hello, Darlin’. I missed you somethin’ terrible.” He walks over to her, kisses her on the lips and gives her a hug. From over his shoulder she stares blankly at Ollie, then closes her eyes until Daniel releases her.
“Hello, Daniel,” she says with a soft, unconvincing smile. Then she turns to the group. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry I was late this evening. Mother held the meal until I arrived, but dinner is now served. If you’ll follow me.”
The image of Mary kissing the distasteful Daniel Payne riles Ollie, but he restrains himself. She needs time to untangle things, he tells himself.
But then what? Will Daniel pull a knife on Ollie in a drunken rage?
The men take their places at a long dinner table. Daniel sits next to Ollie. Beatrice, the kitchen helper, begins to carry out the food on big trays.
As Daniel takes a big scoop of potatoes, he turns to Ollie and says, “So Oliver, I hear that you enjoyed Sunday at the Elysian Fields? Mighty nice place out there, ain’t it? Very romantic.”
Ollie is surprised that Daniel knows about the foray to New Jersey.
“Oliver was kind enough to take mother and me,” Mary says, interrupting. “Thank you again, Mr. Chadwick. Mother said she had a wonderful time talking to you.”
“Got a friend who was out there the same day, told me about it,” Daniel says, staring at Ollie.
“Your friend should have joined us. We had plenty of food. In fact, my assistant, Jonathon Fury, joined us as we were having lunch.”
“You have an assistant, then?” Daniel says, stabbing a fork into a large slice of beef roast on a passing platter, then slapping the juicy slab onto his plate. “How nice. Most of us poor slobs have to do our own work.”
“You’re a corker, I understand.”
“I am. Not a job up to yer standards, I’m sure, but the pay is good.”
Ollie backs his chair away from the table and leans over to pick something up from the floor behind Daniel’s chair. He straigh
tens up, pulls his chair in closer, and hands a small metal flask to Daniel. “Well, you must earn enough to keep yourself in whiskey. I believe this is yours.”
Daniel takes it, glances at a stern Mary Rogers, then with his first sign of embarrassment says, “Like to keep a bit o’ tea with me durin’ a long work day.”
Ollie deduces that Daniel has promised Mary to lay off the booze. “Filled with tea, then?” he says.
“That’s what I said!”
“Of course. Pass the corn, please,” Ollie replies. Then he reaches to a coffee pot. “Perhaps you’d like some black coffee. It can take the edge off that strong tea.”
From the corner of his eye Ollie can see that he his verbal dart has wounded the hateful Daniel Payne. The bluster leaks out of the man.
Daniel again looks at Mary and then lowers his eyes. He stands and says, “Excuse me please. I’m tireder than I thought. Think I’ll catch some sleep.” He walks around the table to Mary, stoops to kiss her hair tenderly from behind—he seems to inhale her fragrance but she does not acknowledge his gesture—and leaves the room.
No one will say anything about Daniel’s behavior while Mary is present.
Ollie can plainly see that Daniel, for all his bravado and verbal bullying, deeply loves Mary. Clearly the man is struggling to control his drinking problem, probably at the instigation of Mary, and his failure is a cause of pain for both of them.
Mary avoids Ollie’s eyes.
Does she love this brute, Daniel Payne? Impossible. But there is something between these two.
Something.
Chapter 13
Sunday, July 25, begins as a perfect summer morning. It is hot and humid, but a gentle breeze blows through Ollie’s window refreshing him as he lies in bed. His life is adrift, but deliciously so. The mysterious mission that for years has driven him so fiercely now seems less urgent. Mary Rogers has tamed it.
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