“I’m guessing you’re an actress,” the man who offered the handkerchief states. The tone is rough, as though assessing the physical attributes of a horse.
If this had been last week or even yesterday, her response would have been very different. She would have drawn herself to her full height—and she is not a petite woman—and corrected the speaker with a disdainful “I am Mrs. William Taitt of Philadelphia and Charleston.” Now she merely nods. “I was.”
“If you was somebody once, you’re that same somebody now,” the man argues with a sudden frown; and Becky notices that his forehead is flinty with dirt, that his clothing gives off an unwashed odor, and that his linen is dingy and ill patched. “Who you be is who you be. No one can take that away from you,” he continues with the same stolid inflection while Becky dangles the handkerchief from increasingly hesitant fingers. She would turn and depart from her insalubrious companion, but something warns her to take care. His manner and movements may seem bovine and dull, but it’s the deceptive quiescence of a bull in an empty pasture.
“Thank you for your aid,” she says instead, pressing the handkerchief upon him and opening her reticule in order to give him a coin.
“Do I look like a beggar to you, missus?”
He does, of course, but Becky shakes her head. Beneath his hat’s low brim, his angry stare grows. “Because I’m not. I’m an honest man. As honest as any actress parading about on the stage.”
Becky makes no answer. She wishes the sexton would return, or that some passerby would venture into the wind-whipped arena.
“More,” he adds with a growl. “More.”
Becky takes a step backward, then, with great relief, notices the sexton’s reappearance. She calls out to him that she needs no further aid as she hurries off into the relative safety of Pine Street.
BECKY DOESN’T IMMEDIATELY JOURNEY HOME, however. The storm and its human aftermath have unsettled her, leaving her raw outside and in. So she pulls her mantilla tightly around her shoulders, trudging along as she weighs the words delivered in the churchyard. If you was somebody once, you’re that same somebody now. She shakes her head, wishing the statements would vanish, but their echoes remain. Who you be is who you be. No one can take that away from you.
Except William Taitt, she reminds herself. Except Taitt with his houses and servants and the luxuries he dangled in front of my eyes. And the willing bride who bartered her career and her future in exchange.
Her face full of distress, Becky plunges on until she comes to the boisterous open-air market appropriately known as the Shambles. As it’s midafternoon, most of the shopkeepers have packed up their goods, leaving behind a malodorous assortment of ruined fruit, trampled vegetables, oyster shells, fish scales, and straw. Fresh and white-yellow this morning, the straw covering the long stone floor has become flaccid and gray; in the heat, it gives off a fetid odor of rot and horse dung.
Becky lifts her long skirts to avoid the mire; as she does, she notices a gypsy woman who has positioned herself beside a makeshift table where she’s offering to prophesy the future. Such sights were so common in London that Becky’s heart lifts and she rushes toward the woman, yanking off both gloves and thrusting forward her palms for the gypsy to read. “What is my past history, good dame? If your answer is true, I’ll let you cast your cards and tell me what to expect in the future. Come. What was I once?”
The woman glances at Becky’s hands, then snaps her fortuneteller’s cards together, hiding them away in the bosom of her gown, a thing stitched of so many odds and ends that it looks like a cloth merchant’s sample. “You are no mother” is all she says, but Becky responds with a wry laugh.
“You’re correct, good lady. The role of maternal parent isn’t one I’ve studied. However, I’m known to be diligent, so I warrant I’ll learn my part in time. Now tell me who I once was—”
“Not in time. Or ever.”
Becky continues smiling, although the severity of the gypsy’s tone begins to disconcert her. “I have no choice but to learn. But let us leave this dull discussion of motherhood. Tell me who I was in the past. And how lauded—”
“You are no mother,” the gypsy repeats, “and your small abode is filled with phantoms and apparitions.”
Becky stifles an impatient sigh. “You’ve mistaken my existence for another’s. I have several homes—large ones—and I am obviously great with child.”
“You will have nothing” is the retort. “Now, cross my palm with a coin, missus, and then take yourself away.”
“Oh!” Becky can no longer contain her ire. “You’ll get no monies from me. You’re nothing but a fraud.” Despite these declarations, she reaches for her reticule. Too late, she remembers that pickpockets make a habit of circulating among crowds where gypsies and other street buskers perform.
“The man took it,” the fortune-teller says while fixing Becky with a steady gaze. “The man creeping among them white graves.”
IT’S BY HAPPENSTANCE THAT MARTHA doesn’t encounter the now clearly agitated and homeward-bound Becky while she also walks along Third Street. Having left her father’s former brokerage offices near the Merchants’ Exchange, her first thought on hearing of the freak storm is to ascertain the condition of his memorial marker. Instead of the former actress, however, it’s the lady’s husband Martha spots as she enters the churchyard. Her steps cease, and she considers retreating because she finds William Taitt an unlikable person. Despite his outward cordiality and courtliness, despite his wide acquaintanceship and the position of respect he enjoys throughout the city, he strikes her as being intrinsically secretive and even sly.
But Taitt, ever vigilant and mindful of his aristocratic role, calls to her before she can escape. “Ah, Miss Beale, and looking as handsome as ever. Your sojourn in the countryside agreed with you.” He smiles, but the expression goes no deeper than the surface of his skin. “I had heard you’d returned home. And the children you adopted, naturally. How fortunate for them that your paths crossed as they did, and they may now enjoy both the Beale name and estate.” He rocks back on his high and fashionable heels, his well-formed, patrician features no more than a mask of empathy. Or so Martha decides.
“Yes. It is” is all she has time to answer before he dispenses with the subject of her wards and returns to studying the devastation that spreads about on each side. A blanket of yellow-green leaves covers everything: shorn tree limbs, broken monuments, hacked-apart shrubbery, and the splintered benches that line the paths. Small clusters of people wade through the debris, their bodies bent as though they were trudging through snow or a pounding surf.
“This will cost us a pretty penny to fix, but at least the church roof doesn’t appear to be damaged. Let us hope that a majority of the stones are also untouched. The vestry cannot afford additional repairs.”
“I came to ascertain whether my father’s tablet was harmed,” Martha tells him. “If so, I shall pay to have it replaced. And I’m certain other individuals whose family members are interred here will do likewise.”
“Very good of you, Miss Beale. But it’s not to our more recent markers that I refer, rather to those entrusted to us by history: the founders of our nation and so forth. I need not explain what an honor it is to serve on the governing body of a parish that played such a vital role in the birth of America.” While he delivers this discourse, Taitt’s glance roves up into the trees, which are almost wholly denuded and from which dangles an odd assortment of storm-tossed ornaments. A wheeled barrow hangs from a horse chestnut; a broom clings to a holly; a rope still bearing newly laundered table linens wraps around a crabapple; and finally the strangest addition: a lady’s open parasol attached to the uppermost limb of a sycamore as if the tree were holding the handle because it desired protection from the sun.
“My wife has one like that,” he remarks with what sounds like genuine astonishment. “Ivory, the handle is, with a nice bit of jade for ornamentation. Fancy there being another so similar.” He frowns,
but the expression rapidly transforms itself into sophisticated ennui. “If I’d known there were two, I might have argued over the price. Indeed, I might not have purchased it at all.” Then he leaves off discussing jade-studded parasols and returns to his companion, gracing her with another flawless smile.
“As I was just saying, children do make a wonderful addition to a home, do they not? It’s unfortunate your father didn’t live to see his own house so happily encumbered. Such a tragedy, his untimely death. And the awful circumstances, too. How you must grieve for him.”
Not one part of this speech seems sincere, but Martha’s response is curtailed as Taitt’s confident words roll forward:
“And what will become of his financial concerns now that he’s no longer there to guide them?”
“I’m managing them, Mr. Taitt.”
“You, Miss Beale? Surely you jest.”
“Indeed, I do not.” Despite an effort at civility, Martha is becoming increasingly vexed. “I admit I have no great love of numbers, and that my father’s genius for foreign specie and his manipulation of bills of exchange on Germany and Ireland is still a new notion to me—”
“If it were not for that detestable Andrew Jackson, and his deregulation of the banking system—!” Taitt exclaims in a jovial shout, but Martha intervenes. The harangue is one she’s heard too often.
“Yes, I know. If President Jackson had left the Bank of United States alone, the nation would not have been thrust into this crippling depression.” The tone is more stringent than she intended, but her companion merely chortles at her discomfort.
“These are not subjects most ladies feel equipped to discuss, Miss Beale.”
“I am not most ladies, sir. My father’s demise may have forced me to embark upon studies that are normally the purview of men, but I’m determined to master them. Indeed, I’ve just informed a senior clerk that I wish to purchase some type of factory or manufacturing endeavor—”
“A factory! Oh, goodness me! And do you intend to work the ledger books, with your fine silk sleeves all covered in spotty ink guards—?”
“And employ people at decent wages,” she continues in the same peremptory vein, “rather than keep them in semi-bondage.”
“The master who embarks upon that foolhardy scheme will go bankrupt in jig time, Miss Beale.” Taitt laughs again, an ample, condescending sound.
“So I was told” is the chilly reply. “But why should that be? And if the owner’s profits are less than desired, what does it matter as long as there’s employment? Or parents aren’t forced to work for starving wages? Or consign their children to the mills and match factories?”
“Ah, my, my, my… You’re as impassioned as my dear wife, Miss Beale. And, I venture to say, nearly as dramatic. But come, I see I’ve offended you. That was not my intent. There should always be kindly souls to weep over the plight of the suffering.”
Martha turns to face him, her eyes so full of stubbornness and wounded pride that the color has turned a flat and stormy gray. She opens her mouth to speak but is saved from uttering words she might regret by the arrival of a second man.
“Mar—Miss Beale. I did not think to find you here.” Thomas Kelman tips his hat, then nearly drops it on the ground. “You are only recently returned to the city, I understand …” The words trail away, leaving him to gaze hopelessly into her face. The stern stare that held young Findal Stokes in thrall is nowhere in evidence, while Martha also undergoes a metamorphosis.
“Yes. Two days past,” she murmurs, then adds a more vigorous “Mr. Taitt, may I present Mr. Kelman. Thom—Mr. Kelman was of great service to me when my father died.” Now Martha’s cheeks are on fire, for she nearly committed the unpardonable sin of calling Thomas by his first name—which she has done, although never in company.
“Anyone would wish to be of service to you, Miss Beale” is Kelman’s heartfelt answer. Then both fall silent. Taitt maintains his superior pose, studying the man and the woman before him as though probing their souls.
“I know you by reputation, Kelman. But I didn’t realize how effortlessly you could tame this argumentative lady. She and I were discussing financial matters and so forth, and her desire to aid the poor and needy—”
“Miss Beale has expressed such opinions to me,” Kelman states before again lapsing into silence.
“You’re a fortunate man to be in her confidence, sir,” Taitt says with another shrewd smile. “I wish you’d explain how you work these miracles with opinionated ladies, as I’m greatly in need of curbing my wife’s lively wit. She was accustomed to a very different model before we wed.” With that he bows. “Promise me you’ll come visit my Becky one day soon, Miss Beale. She’s sorely in need of a companion as iconoclastic as you. Who knows, you might become friends if you knew one another better.” Then he saunters away, a man without a care in the world, although he does pause to glance at the lost parasol before continuing on his path.
Martha and Kelman watch him leave, but their awkwardness only increases, and Martha finds herself fanning her face as if the afternoon’s heat rather than confusion were causing her discomfort.
“We should find you some shade, Mar—Miss Beale,” Kelman says. “The sun is still high, and your costume is heavy.”
“I would rather have you walk me home.” She blanches at both the boldness of this request and that of her tone. “Or perhaps you have other business to attend to?”
“I would be glad to accompany you. Of course I would.”
So begins the journey, although both avoid all physical contact with one another. If they were passing acquaintances, Kelman would offer his arm and Martha would accept the gesture; instead, they walk apart.
“Little Ella is well?” he asks after a moment.
“She is, thank you.”
“And Cai?”
“He’s exceedingly fit, too, although neither wanted to forsake the countryside and return to town. They … they enjoyed your sporadic visits to us, as I did also …”
“Your house is a refuge. I don’t wonder at their sorrow at leaving. I would feel the same.”
“You’ve become a great favorite with the children” is Martha’s whispery reply.
“And they with me.”
Words again fail them, although their footsteps roll automatically forward. What sights they see or whom they pass, neither could describe.
“I do hope your infrequent calls upon us weren’t the result of your work with the police, Mr. Kelman. And that your labors haven’t proven overly arduous.”
“Not arduous. But disheartening, as is so often the case.”
Hearing the despondency in his tone, she cannot help but spin toward him. “Oh, Thomas, I apologize! I should not have broached a painful subject.”
He smiles gently down. “I’m glad to speak with you. I’m always happy to have your opinion and comments, but I’m sorry to say that the suicide of an unknown woman is all too common in our city.”
“A suicide! How awful. And this is what you have been investigating?”
“It seems my skills are unnecessary. A newly delivered mother cast herself and her infant into the Schuylkill two days ago. A boy from Blockley House witnessed the incident and returned in order to report it. The baby was retrieved; the mother had placed him in a wicker-ware basket. She hasn’t been found. Unfortunately, the boy was alone, and his retelling of the story is imprecise.”
By now, Martha has stopped entirely. “That was the very day I returned to the city.”
“Yes. I considered calling upon you, but—”
“I saw a blond woman wading in the river with a basket that I took to be full of laundry. But there wasn’t only one boy on the cliffs above the river; there were many. And they seemed to know her.”
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Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my wonderful editor, Marcia Markland, and her equally perceptive assistant, Diana Szu. Their enthusiasm and energy in bringing The Conjurer
to life has been an inspiration and a joy.
About the Author
Cordelia Frances Biddle is the author of the Martha Beale Mystery series. A member of one of Philadelphia’s oldest families, she uses many of her actual ancestors as characters in her historical mysteries. She also cowrote the Nero Blanc Crossword Mystery series with her husband, Steve Zettler, with whom she lives in Philadelphia.Her website is www.cordeliafrancesbiddle.com.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Cordelia Frances Biddle
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-4804-9064-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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New York, NY 10014
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