Paladino and his assistant are dragged from the room by their guards while members of the day watch appear, truncheons at the ready. They move among the churning sea of people pushing them toward the doors and then out onto the street, where Rosegger and Simms find themselves face-to-face.
“A word with you, sir,” Rosegger says. As he speaks, he offers his arm to Florence Shippen, who’s being so buffeted by the crowd she looks as though she’ll fall. “My husband,” she pants while Rosegger spots the tall barrister and hails him, handing him his frightened wife. But Simms lacks his companion’s purposeful equilibrium; in fact, he trembles all over.
“Have you a touch of ague?” Rosegger asks in a pointed tone.
“No” is the brusque reply. “What do you wish to speak with me about, Rosegger?” Then Simms collects himself. “My apologies, sir. I should be asking you about the welfare of your wife. I was told that she was most horribly—”
“Yes, a dreadful mistake made by a new kitchen maid—or so the physician assumes. The girl has been fired, naturally, but the fact cannot readily heal my wife from her villainous ailment. If, indeed, she can ever fully recover. As yet, we live with diabolical uncertainty.” Then the financier abruptly ceases his discussion of his wife’s health while he regards the former confidential secretary. “You’re accoutered well, Mr. Simms. Lemuel Beale’s unfortunate demise has not affected you adversely, I’m glad to see.”
Simms makes a thin attempt at a smile while his eyes continue to search out and acknowledge those passersby he recognizes. “If you wish us to speak, sir, shouldn’t we find a less congested thoroughfare?”
The conversation between the two men is interrupted by a noisy altercation nearby. It concerns a member of the day watch and a Negress whom Simms and Rosegger—as well as everyone else in the vicinity—assume to be a beggar. A dirty beggar woman and a drunk, to boot. A disapproving space clears around the pair, leaving them to battle as if they’d been provided with a private stage.
“I’m telling you I know where he’s keeping himself,” the woman’s shouting, although the words slip and slide into a nearly unintelligible morass of rum combined with an empty stomach. “The prisoner that escaped from Cherry Hill. The man with—”
“Be off with you,” the constable interjects, “before I haul you in for vagrancy—”
“I found the house where he’s hiding” is Ruth’s staunch but slurred reply. “You should be thanking me. You should, instead of—”
“Enough of this,” the day watch argues, grabbing for her arm.
But Ruth in her inebriation and desperation wriggles free of his grasp. “I want the reward money,” she screams at him, “for the man with the—”
“Be off, I tell you,” the day watch insists in a louder and more belligerent tone. “This is Judge Alonzo Craig’s court you’re standing near. Unless you want a taste of prison yourself—”
“Judge Craig?” Ruth mumbles, spinning around to face the building entrance. “Judge Alonzo Craig?” By now the drama enacted by these two has drawn spectators who would rather participate than keep silent. Sides are taken; there are hurrahs as well as hisses for Ruth, and catcalls for the constable.
“You’re correct, Mr. Simms,” Rosegger states above the growing din. “This place is far too congested and public for a serious discussion.” He hands Simms a card with an address written upon it. “I will be at this house tomorrow afternoon. It’s a domicile in the Northern Liberties. I believe I mentioned that your master and I had similar—and private—investments in that area. I suggest you meet me there.”
A Frantic Appeal
THE FIRST MISSIVE EMILY DURAND receives from Rosegger produces a tight and hesitant smile. She’s been anxiously awaiting news of Paladino’s trial and of the successful maneuverings of their schemes. In the middle of the foyer, unaware of the footman who produced the correspondence, and who now stands before her bearing an empty silver tray, Emily rips the envelope open, letting the torn paper scatter upon the floor.
My dear Emily, Rosegger writes—she notes with quick dismay that he now refers to her by her given name—You may rest certain that your husband’s murderer will surely be punished for his despicable act. Public sentiment is very much against the man who so churlishly took advantage of your gentle nature, and then sought to replace your worthy husband in your affections. I hope to call upon you in person on the morrow and provide what further details you may desire … He continues in that circumspect vein, describing the people with whom he spoke and the general tenor of the crowd, but the tone remains exceedingly cautious as if he expected the letter might fall into the wrong hands. Emily reads the message through, then reads it again; her hands are trembling, as is her chest. Until she starts to walk forward across the parquet floor, she’s unaware that one of her feet has fallen asleep. Good, she promises herself, good. She steadfastly refuses to picture the gibbet from which her onetime lover will hang. Then she tears up the letter and crumples it into a fat ball. “No reply,” she tells the servant.
She hurries upstairs and shuts her bedroom door. Her heart is beating so violently, she’s afraid she will faint. All is well, she tries to promise herself. All is well. All will be well. I had no other choice, did I? John gave me no other choice but to seek out Rosegger’s protection.
The second letter arrives the following morning as Emily’s maid is bringing her her breakfast in bed. From the light weight of the envelope, Emily guesses that the financier’s message is brief. She places it beside a pot of marmalade, wishing she could dispense with reading the thing until she’s properly dressed and prepared for the day.
But curiosity gets the better of her, and she sits erect, waving away the tray of breakfast things as she girds herself for news stating that Rosegger expects to call upon her within an hour or two. I will receive him downstairs as would be appropriate, she decides as she slits open the envelope. With luck and cleverness on my part, we will remain there. It would not do if I appeared too eager—or acquiescent to his designs.
But Emily is horribly surprised by what she reads.
My wife took a sudden and terrible turn for the worse last night. I’m sorry to inform you that she died not an hour past. Forgive me if I do not call upon you this morning in your own time of distress, but I’m sure you will understand.
Emily bolts to her feet. “My clothes!” she shouts to her maid, “and my bonnet … and my warmest mantle and my gloves!”
The maid bobs a startled curtsy.
“Hurry!” Emily fairly yells at her. “I am visiting a friend in need. I must leave at once!”
“But your breakfast, madam?” the servant ventures. “Will you be wanting it before you—?”
“Oh, what do I care about eating! Now, bring me my things!”
It’s not to Rosegger’s house that Emily flees, however, but to Martha Beale’s home, where she hurtles upstairs and all but flings herself through Martha’s bedroom door. The footman’s echoing words of protest and the startled squeals of Martha’s lady’s maid cannot slow Emily’s progress, but her singular entrance grinds to a halt as she regards the shocking change that has come over Lemuel Beale’s daughter.
Martha looks like a woman walking in her sleep. Or sitting, rather. For there she is, slumped in front of her dressing table, with her hair only partially braided and a receiving gown awkwardly buttoned as if a doll had been hurriedly pushed into it and not a living person. She turns a blinking stare on Emily.
“Oh, my goodness!” are the only words Emily can produce. Her frenzied quest all but disappears from her mind. “Are you … are you quite well, Martha …?”
It’s the maid who answers. There are tears in her voice. “It’s the medication, madam … the sleeping draught that Mr. Simms’s physician ordered for my mistress … The dosage is too great, I fear, but Mr. Simms—”
Another woman enters the chamber at that moment, and the maid falls silent although she doesn’t leave her mistress’s side.
“And what is in this sleeping potion?” Emily demands while the maid looks sheepishly at the newcomer who responds with a brisk:
“Laudanum, madam … as prescribed by—”
“You’ve been feeding this woman opium?” Emily’s voice rings out, traveling angrily out the room and down the hall.
“No, laudanum, madam, as—”
“Which is another name for tincture of opium” is the swift retort.
The woman drops a nervous curtsy. It’s quite clear to her that Emily Durand is a force to be reckoned with. “The potion was ordered to offset the grief Miss Beale is experiencing over the death of her dear parent. I suggested to Mr. Simms that the dosage was too high, but he deemed it necessary until—”
But Emily dispenses with the speaker. Instead, she spins around and addresses Martha’s maid. “Get me vinegar and water, as well as a basin of the coldest water you can find. Then we must pull this dressing gown from Miss Beale’s chest and dash the icy liquid on her face and upper body.” Emily tears off her fur-lined mantle as she speaks and tosses it and her bonnet and gloves toward a chaise. “And once the emetic has done its work, we must walk her up and down until she becomes sensible of her surroundings again.” Emily ceases her instructions for a second to ask a sharp “And where is Mr. Simms now?”
“He has left for the day, madam” is the maid’s response. Emily hears bitterness as well as a hint of vengeance in the level tone. The lady’s maid, quite obviously, is not an admirer of Owen Simms.
“Good,” Emily responds, then adds, “and I want the remnants of the sleeping draught thrown away. All of it. And if Mr. Simms objects …” Emily doesn’t finish the threat. She’ll deal with him later. In all this time, Emily has not once considered the reason that brought her to Martha Beale’s house.
Martha is fed the vinegar and water until she spits cloudy white liquid and greenish bile into a pail. Then her face and chest are doused with cold water; and she’s dragged moaning and stumbling around the room and marched along the upper hall. Emily’s and the maid’s arms encircle Martha’s waist; their hands support her head when it sags, while Emily speaks brisk words of encouragement and the maid remains mum.
For two hours they work until all at once Martha shakes herself as if waking from a nap and straightens her spine. “Oh, I’m so hungry” are the first words she utters.
Orders are sent for dry toast and cambric tea. Emily and the maid help the still-weak Martha to a chair, where she sits with remarkable aplomb, holding her head high and her back firm, although she still clenches Emily’s hand.
“I trust you will never heed Owen Simms’s advice again,” Emily states, and Martha looks upward in surprise. “He was poisoning you.”
“Oh, I don’t believe—” Martha begins to protest, but Emily cuts her short.
“Perhaps he didn’t seek your death, but he did wish you all but insensate.”
“But he asked my hand in—” Martha continues to object, but again Emily interrupts her. This time, however, the words turn into a choked cry. Emily has suddenly remembered why she’s in Martha’s bedroom.
“Rosegger killed his wife.”
Martha can only regard her guest in stunned silence.
“I had a note from him this morning … because after the trial yesterday, he wrote concerning the possible outcome … and I … he and I …” Emily’s lips twist in agony, although she avoids Martha’s gaze, instead staring into the corners of the room. “Oh, I have done something so terrible … so evil … so unforgivable …! And now Eusapio Paladino will hang … and I …” She breathes a fierce sigh, and the words that ensue are just as full of passion and anger and self-retribution. “John killed himself. He was not the victim of a murder as the world assumes … but Rosegger and I devised … We devised …” Emily’s eyes narrow into squints as if she were attempting to eliminate the pictures her mind is seeing. “John was bankrupt … He was …”
As if the weight of her own self-loathing were crushing her, Emily Durand sinks to the floor at Martha’s side; their hands are still joined, although it’s now Emily who clings to Martha’s fingers rather than the opposite. “Please … Martha … Miss Beale … you must help me if you can. I must get away from my odious entanglement with this man. He killed his wife; and I fear … I fear he may eventually also tire of me. And why should he not? I, who have been the cause of so much grief …”
Martha says not a word during this extraordinary speech; instead, she regards Emily with a steady gaze.
“I throw myself at your mercy. I know I’m undeserving of pity … or kindness or compassion … And that I’ve never given succor or aid to anyone—”
“Where will you go?” The reasonableness of Martha’s tone pulls Emily’s spine erect.
“To Europe,” she says as though just now formalizing her decision. “To the Continent. I can live cheaply there. And I will be unknown—”
“And how will you survive?”
“I can teach something …” It’s clear Emily Durand hasn’t thought through her entire plan. “Piano … or tutor in English or—”
“And you need financial aid in order to carry out this proposal.”
Emily’s head bows in humiliation, but Martha pays no attention to this abject pose. She’s already rising to her feet. “Of course you do. And you need it quickly.” Martha takes a step; it’s a trifle unsteady still, and her brain feels less solid than it should, but her thoughts are ordered and resolved. “And I am a wealthy woman. A very wealthy woman.” She smiles. How strong she suddenly feels, and how alive! “I will write a bank draft on my father’s letterhead. And I will give you what gold we keep in the house.” Then she turns back to Emily. “Will your maid know what to pack for you?”
“Why, yes, I suppose.”
“Good. We will send my maid, and they can gather your things together. Two sets of hands work faster than one. And you will stay with me until such time as you find a ship that’s ready to sail—”
“I cannot do that to you, Martha” is Emily’s reluctant reply.
“Why not?”
“Think how sullied my reputation is … and now with this new disaster …”
“I couldn’t care less about that.”
But Emily retains some trace of her old proud spirit. “I thank you from the bottom of my heart for aiding me financially, Martha, but I cannot permit you to soil your own good name by harboring me here.”
Martha doesn’t immediately respond. When she does, her tone is forceful and sure. “We will consider the next course of action after your maid—and mine—finish packing your trunks. If you wish to oversee their work, I certainly understand.”
Emily pauses. She looks at her discarded mantle and bonnet. “If you can, Martha, will you grant me one additional request?”
“If I can.”
“When I’m safely away from Rosegger, reveal everything I’ve told you. Whether you approve of his mores or not—or mine, for that matter—Eusapio Paladino mustn’t be slain because of a lie.”
With emily and the two maids gone, Martha enters her father’s study to write the promised bank draft, but as she takes up his pen and retrieves a sheet of letter paper, a card with an address slides out from among the pages as though it had been hidden there.
Martha studies it; she doesn’t recognize the handwriting, but the place she does. It seems to be a private home in the Northern Liberties. She frowns in thought, then carries out her promise and pens the note for Emily Durand before examining the card again.
Why is this here? she asks herself. Did my father hide it? Or Owen Simms? Is there a connection between Father’s disappearance—his death—and this scrap of paper?
Martha rings for the footman and tells him to personally convey the letter she’s composed to the Durand household, and also to arrange for a hansom cab to take her on a short journey. Naturally, she’s advised that the Beale carriage can be readied instead, but Martha replies that she doesn’t wish to be noticed. The reason she
gives is that driving abroad would interfere with the rules of her mourning period.
Then she dons a hooded pelisse that conceals her identity. For a brief second, she considers sending word to Thomas Kelman, informing him of her intentions, but then banishes the notion. This little jaunt may prove of no more importance than a drive around the park; there will be ample opportunity to apprise him later if she learns anything of substance.
She walks down the stairs, but as she does so she realizes that some residual effects of the laudanum remain, and that she’s a good deal more light-headed than she wishes.
A House in the Northern Liberties
THE HOUSE AT WHICH MARTHA knocks is a solid but unassuming place, one in a block of equally new domiciles at the northernmost stretches of the city: all of them brick, all triple-storied, all with four broad marble steps leading down to the cobbled street. None appears shoddily or hastily constructed, but each so mirrors its mate as to seem designed by a single man. Martha recognizes them as speculation properties, constructed for shopkeepers and other tradesmen with newfound wealth but inferior social position. What connection her father—or Owen Simms—has to the place she cannot surmise, but she raises her hand and boldly bangs the door knocker.
A club-footed man answers and gives her a goggle-eyed stare. “Yes?” he says, and all but bars her entrance as he swiftly looks past Martha into the empty street.
“May I come in?” she asks him.
“You have the wrong house” is the hasty reply, but Martha recognizes terror rather than truth in the tone. “You must go.”
She looks behind her, trying to detect what can be frightening the man. Is someone watching this place? she wonders. Has this crippled man been cautioned about speaking with strangers? Or is it possible it’s me he’s been warned not to admit? But the suddenness of her movement combined with the hot fur hood produces an unwelcome and powerful dizziness, and Martha feels herself about to faint. “Please … I must sit down …”
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