“Wait. I want to be certain that Mr. Galway likes this type. He is very particular.”
“Mr. Augustin Galway? He your uncle, miss?”
“No. Certainly not,” she said, her finger twisting her bonnet ribbon around itself. “He’s my husband.”
“Excuse me.” Horace lowered his eyes, removed the bullhead from the Whig, and selected a sturdy brook trout. Its sleek brown body wriggled, revealing a rouge-red belly and tan spots running across its back and tail. “Mr. Galway like his trout nice and fresh. The one here was swimming in the Mohawk just this morning, miss … I mean ma’am. Swimming and eating flies like that the only thing to do.” In a flash, he had his knife out and split the poor trout’s belly.
Wind suddenly streamed down John Street.
Horace looked to the sky. “That storm ain’t done with us yet,” he said. “Warm for this time a year.”
Helen did not answer, instead peering up John Street toward the approaching clouds. Horace cleaned out the stomach cavity before closing the paper around the trout. Helen produced a few coins from a small crocheted bag tied to her wrist like a child’s mitten.
“Coming from the south. That sort of wind never bring nobody no good.” He pocketed the money. “You better get home, little missus.”
Helen set the fish in her shopping basket and stalked up John Street in a temper. To think that people in Utica didn’t even know Augustin had remarried. There had hardly been time to announce the banns at church, but was there no advertisement about it in the papers? Why had word not traveled beyond St. John’s parish?
She had first noticed her future husband one summer morning, just when the bee balm opened their shaggy red heads and attracted hummingbirds to the garden of Miss Manahan’s Female Institute. Helen surprised the younger students by lifting her arms over her head and doing a perfect cartwheel, ending with hands raised again. The girls cheered. After a moment of dizziness, she saw a man in the upper window of the house next door, looking at her, a pipe in one hand, the other smoothing his pointed brown beard. There was softness around his waist, but on the whole, his thin face and noble forehead reminded her of a scholar. The girls circled Helen, demanding to know how she managed the tumble. She set about teaching them, all the while secretly checking to see if the man was still watching. He was.
After several days of catching his eye, she began to build a story around him. He was a duke, or a count, or a marquis, exiled from his home country, sad and lonely and in need of company. She imagined that she would speak to him in his native language, charming him in French, or maybe Italian. She saw him kissing her hand, his mustache tickling her fingertips. Once, he even invaded her dreams, beard prickling her cheek and neck, a delightful soft brush that seemed to expand throughout her body. She awoke to her heart vibrating like a rabbit’s in an open field.
July 31, the morning of her nineteenth birthday, he was not in his regular spot. Miss Manahan appeared on the threshold of the school building and beckoned her inside. She sat Helen down in the straight-backed pupil’s chair of her austere office.
“I have never been a matchmaker for my girls,” Miss Manahan began, “but since your mother and father are with God, I have little choice. There is a man who would like to meet you.”
Helen drew in a sharp breath. Could it be her secret count? She felt heat rising up her neck and face. Had she won him with her cartwheels?
“He is a wealthy man. This would be a good match for you,” said Miss Manahan. “Now, take a few minutes to make your toilet and don’t neglect your hair.”
Helen started up the stairs.
Miss Manahan called to her, “Use the mirror in my room, child. You look like Goliath has been holding you upside down.”
When Helen opened the French doors of the parlor and saw the schoolmistress sitting on the divan with the man from next door, a sheen of glittery blackness blocked her vision. She gripped the door handles, afraid that she might swoon.
“Don’t linger at the doorway like an indecisive cat, Helen. Enter the room,” Miss Manahan said.
All Helen had learned about the proper way to comport herself flew out of her mind.
“Mr. Augustin Galway, this is Miss Helen O’Connell.”
Augustin moved toward her, the warm smile from previous days absent. It had been replaced by a frozen critical look. Behind him, Miss Manahan mimed a curtsy. Helen, taking the cue, bent her knee, looked at the carpet, and bowed low.
“Miss O’Connell,” said Galway.
She kept her eyes on a spot of carpet that had been worn through. A bit of the walnut planking could be seen through the hole. “Mr. Galway,” she said.
“I must return to my office,” said Miss Manahan. “I’ll order tea brought in.”
Alarmed, Helen watched her. The teacher gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze and left.
“I understand you are alone in this world,” the man said. “I, too, am alone. Mrs. Galway has been gone from this earth for a twelvemonth. A man could ask for no better than she. I have no children. I have my business.” He shook his head, turning swiftly back to the divan and with a sweeping gesture indicating that she should sit. Helen obeyed.
He was no count, nor a French aristocrat, but he was attractive, if a bit older, with gray hairs interspersed among his curls. She had no idea how many years separated them. He might be thirty-five, or perhaps older. But he was no old man. His shoulders were square, though not as broad as her father’s. He appeared to be in possession of his teeth. The gray eyes that studied her seemed chilly, but then again, they had never met before.
“It’s your birthday?”
She nodded.
“If you’ll permit me, I brought you this token.”
A small package, neatly tied with a piece of dyed string, lay in his outstretched palm. Helen’s hands remained in her lap. What did it mean to take the gift? Miss Manahan said he was a good match. Did this one package seal the matter? He seemed to see her hesitation and his hand dropped. He bent his head.
Alarmed that she had caused him pain, she spoke: “Please, let me see it.”
Augustin again offered the gift. Helen felt its weight and took a deep breath before opening the box. Inside, nestled in lamb’s wool, sat a necklace with a pendant. It was about the size of a sugar cookie and had a depiction of a Roman ruin with two figures seated on one of the fallen stones. Each element was made of small colored pieces of enameled glass that formed a mosaic. She flipped it over. On the back, there was an engraving: For Emma, my love.
“Happy birthday,” said Augustin.
She met his eye. “It’s lovely. Thank you.” Later, she retreated to her bed and cried bitter tears. She was simply to be a replacement.
The courtship consisted of three additional parlor visits—with several of the older girls listening at the keyhole—and a few more presents: earrings, a bracelet, and finally a ring.
The wedding took place one month later, a simple affair at the Roman Catholic church. After the service, the hired carriage had bumped across Bleecker Street. At the front entranceway of the house, Miss Manahan herself stood in her charcoal dress and white cap, her face pale, spine straight, and carrying a look of satisfaction. Waiting behind her stood Maggie, with an expression of curiosity. It struck Helen that the black woman was now her servant. She let the carriage curtain drop and closed her eyes. Please, God, she prayed, show me the way.
Augustin slipped his arm around her waist. “Don’t linger, my dear,” he said. “The stagecoach will not wait for us.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, his salt-and-pepper beard soft against her skin. His lips touched her ear. “I want to be in Albany by nightfall.”
A spasm of fear and anticipation streaked through her.
At the door, he pulled Miss Manahan aside. The words “instruct her” reached her ear and she saw Miss Manahan nod.
“Mr. Augustin said I gotta help you get ready,” said Maggie, smiling and nodding.
“I’m sure I can manage.”<
br />
“Mr. Augustin says help,” said the cook, winking, “so I’m gonna help.”
I am a wife now, Helen thought. The idea still didn’t feel right, even though she had been repeating the sentence since the marriage service.
In the bedchamber, Maggie assisted her out of her frock and into a new auburn silk dress—a gift from Mr. Galway. Miss Manahan paced the length of the rug.
“Of course,” the schoolteacher began, “normally your mother would … ready you for what is to come. But it has fallen to me to tell you.” The older woman looked up to the ceiling as if for divine inspiration. “A woman’s happiness depends entirely on her husband. That means it is your job to be pleasing, to care for him, and to prepare for children.”
Helen opened her mouth, but Miss Manahan stopped her.
“Mr. Galway is a man of worldly experience. He will guide you in the particulars.”
Maggie caught her mistress’s eye. “Don’t you worry,” she murmured, “every bride gotta go through it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
AS HELEN PROCEEDED UP JOHN STREET with her full shopping basket, the humid wind seemed to flatten the puffy melon-shaped sleeves of her dress around the down cushions that bolstered them. Her skirt, stylishly full with four wide pleats—front, back, and sides, like the points on a weather vane—clung to her petticoats and pantalets. She was certain that every man now had his own private view of her legs. Her carefully arranged dark hair began to curl in the damp air, pulling loose of its pins and showing itself under her hat. All manner of folk pressed around her.
Before her stood the John Street Bridge spanning the forty-foot-wide Erie Canal. As she stepped up onto the weather-darkened timbers, she thought back to being plain old Helen O’Connell and coming here to sketch and dream as the long narrow boats were pulled by mule teams. Young boys used switches to keep the animals moving on the towpath. Raw materials like lumber and quarry stone traveled east toward the big cities; finished goods, like huge bundles of pretty calicos that the girls at Miss Manahan’s sighed over in the stores, traveled west. She had once sketched a load of freshly dug potatoes overtopping the hold of a freight vessel. In her drawing, the ship looked like a floating rock garden. The packet boats, crowded with passengers, interested her the most. They had raised sleeping compartments with windows and pretty curtains. On their roofs, chairs were filled with people taking the air. Sometimes she was lucky and saw fancy ladies whose dresses she could sketch. But the packet boats traveling west always gave her some heartache. That was the direction Uncle Bill had gone. When he’d dropped her off at Miss Manahan’s she sobbed and he drew her to his chest. “I’ll send for you,” he had promised. The money he gave to Miss Manahan for her board and education had dried up more than a year ago. He’d sent just one letter, from Buffalo, where he joked that he “ran out of canal.” She knew at the time that he had to leave her behind. What could Uncle have done with a fourteen-year-old girl? For five years, she dreamed of joining him, but the invitation never came.
She climbed to the center of the bridge and looked east over the water. Her eye was drawn to a pair of mules slowly pulling a long packet boat. One of the animals, a handsome white, was dotted with large gray splotches that looked like ink stains. Quickly she put down the shopping basket, stripped off her glove, and pulled a small sketch pad and piece of charcoal from a sack hanging around her waist. The wind pulled at the pages and she had to press them flat with her palm. Her other hand danced across the paper marking the mule’s spots. The team grew closer and she moved to the mule’s brown and white face and tall forward-facing ears.
Just as the animal disappeared under the bridge, a voice called to her from the packet: “Forget about those old mules.”
Her eyes rose.
“You can draw me.” A smiling young man standing on the top of the ship’s sleeping compartment plopped his top hat onto his head and struck a pompous pose, as if in a painter’s studio. She brought her hand to her mouth to hide her amusement.
“What’s that mule got that I haven’t?” he said, coming closer as the boat continued its leisurely pace on the canal.
“At least,” she began, struggling to think of something clever, “he has honest work to do.” The man was near to her now. A lock of flyaway blond hair waved under his hat, and his eyes matched his hunter-green tailcoat.
“What kind of scoundrel do you take me for?” he said, keeping close to her by walking toward the back of the boat.
“The kind who has the …” she paused, fully engaged in the repartee, “effrontery to speak to ladies to whom he has not been introduced.”
“What about you? What kind of girl talks to strange gentlemen?”
“The kind who must go home,” she said, snapping her notebook shut and jamming it into her sack.
“Wait. I’m sorry. Pryce Anwell, of Little Falls, at your service,” he said before bowing. His top hat flipped off his head, but he managed to catch it in midair.
“Careful, Mr. Anwell,” she said, trying not to smile, “you’re running out of boat.”
Pryce saw that he had indeed come to the edge of the raised platform and leaped down to the deck of the vessel, surprising two men who had stationed themselves there to smoke cigars. He pressed between them to lean on the railing. “Favor me with your name, miss,” he called, arching his back to keep her in view.
The packet disappeared beneath the bridge.
“Please!” His voice bounced off the stone walls of the tunnel. A delighted panic took hold of her. Impulsively, she picked up her skirts and ran across John Street. At the other side of the bridge, she saw him racing up the deck to meet her.
“You crossed the street, now you’ve got to tell me your name,” he said merrily.
She laughed a little, surprised at her own boldness. “I’m Helen.”
“Ah, fair Helen,” he replied, his voice overly serious, “is this the face that launch’d a thousand packet boats?” He climbed again to the raised part of the ship and moved close to her. “Don’t omit your family name.”
She opened her mouth, but what to say? O’Connell? Galway?
“Helen is enough for a presumptuous man like you,” she said finally, pulling her violet shawl close around her shoulders.
“Beauteous Helen,” he said, striding as close as he could and speaking low so that only she could hear, “shall a thousand poets bleed?”
“You really are too much.” She covered her pleasure with an outraged tone.
“Now I’ve offended you.” A look of genuine concern crossed his face. He slowed his pace and the ship moved him away.
A pall of disappointment overcame her. “It’s O’Connell,” she called to him, immediately wishing she could take the answer back.
“What?” he said as he raced back toward her. Just as he got near enough for them to touch, he reached the end of the sleeping compartment and only saved himself by leaping onto the railing of the ship. There he teetered for a moment, his arms whipping through the air like Dutch windmills. The two cigar smokers tried to support his legs, but momentum had already carried him too far over the water and he splashed into the canal.
Helen screamed and started back. She saw him rise from the shallow water, unhurt, but dripping wet.
“He your sweetie?” someone said too close to her ear. A passing clerk wearing a striped waistcoat raised his left eyebrow in a knowing gesture.
“No,” insisted Helen, reaching down for her shopping basket. It wasn’t there. A sickening feeling came to her throat. All the food … it was lost. She saw the full basket on the other side of the bridge and ran across, sweeping it into her arms. When she looked longingly back, passersby appeared to be discussing her. Not daring to check any further on Mr. Anwell’s condition, she drew in a sharp breath, bent her head low so that the brim of her bonnet hid most of her blushing face, and hurried away toward Bleecker Street and home.
A new thunderhead appeared over the New Hartford hills.
CHAPTER FI
VE
DR. MCCOOKE REFILLED TWO SNIFTERS with generous portions of brandy.
The permanent crease between Augustin’s eyebrows deepened. Mc-Cooke, feeling the heat of disapproval on his back, put the brandy in its spot on the maple tea table among the bottles of Holland gin, St. Croix rum, and Jamaican spirits. He applied a smile and turned. “Here is a second dose of tonic for the pain. Doctor’s orders.”
“That is why I am drinking it, Doctor. Why are you?”
“We share the same medical man,” McCooke joked, as he took a quick and deep snort from his glass. “Really fine stuff.”
“You won’t find real French brandy at Williams & Hollister no matter what label they paste on,” said Augustin, sipping.
McCooke turned toward the front window and swirled the brandy in his glass. Augustin’s broken leg could not have come at a better time. In McCooke’s present situation, he might have had to sleep in a barn. Never in his life had he dealt with such a discourteous landlord as Clarke. He had known that if you lodged in a temperance house you were supposed to be some kind of saint and never even have a glass of ale—even outside the establishment. Of course, drinking a few brandies inside would be frowned upon. That’s why one had to keep it quiet, but the idea that they could demand total sobriety, well, that was inhuman.
Clarke hadn’t said as much when he confronted the doctor about his small stash of alcohol, but McCooke suspected that he also disapproved of his examining a few patients in his rooms. It was proper enough. One had to be kind to the lower classes. What if an unaccompanied lady or two arrived for treatment? That sort of thing was done all the time in the hospitals of New York City. How else was he to procure the money to pay the bill? And if there was a little jeu d’amour, who was hurt by that? What a dullard Clarke turned out to be.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 3
