Though less grand in size and decoration than Kenwood, the Rathbones’ mansion south of the city, this townhouse had a sumptuousness that made Mary Hall’s modest jaw drop. She had never seen its equal in New York City, and as her eyes raced from Venetian bottles to Swiss clocks to German crystal, she supposed there wasn’t its like in any one country of Europe — so many different countries had been necessary to furnish it!
The increasing frequency of the Rathbones’ grand tours was a sore point with Pauline Harris, and it pained the judge that his wife now had to listen with polite impatience as Emeline Rathbone regaled her with tales of recent destinations and acquisitions. No, Pauline hadn’t seen those Meissen jars before tonight, and yes, it was fascinating to think that they’d been in a shipping crate somewhere on the ocean between Hamburg and New York when everyone was sipping coffee here on New Year’s morning. Ira Harris winced anew at the thought of how his wife’s ambitions, social and material, were rubbing themselves raw in the rut she walked between Albany and Loudonville, with only rare escapes to Newport and New York.
Frustrated by watching Emeline propel Pauline from painting to bibelot to drapery, he shifted his eyes to their usual source of comfort and pride: the face of his Clara. But it was only a profile he was seeing now, the left side of a face whose attention was in the full possession of Henry Rathbone, as the two of them delighted in each other’s skill at teasing Mary Hall. Behind him and to the right, the judge could hear Howard Rathbone talking to his latest sweetheart in a low voice about the Hartung trial, speculating upon what had been in the murderous lovers’ minds, and what now went on in the jurors’. Were Howard to ask what lay inside the magistrate’s, Ira Harris could tell him about a tumult of uncertainty. He had always been a “cold water” man, in politics and by his pledge to the Pearl Street Baptist Church, but he had just taken a second cup of hard cider to fortify his mood against the melancholy that was sapping it. He loved his city, loved his work and wife and family, but how he longed to lay down the burden of daily judiciousness, to escape the disappointed expressions that Pauline wore, and to remove his daughter from the gaze of his stepson.
It was a collection of small events — the taking of a third cup of cider; the sight of Pauline as Emeline Rathbone held some Limoges porcelain a few inches from her face; and the sound of one of Henry Rathbone’s whisperings to his daughter, detected during a momentary drop in the noise filling the room — that made Ira Harris, before he fully knew what he was doing, tap the side of his cup with a spoon and declare, with a gaiety more nervous than real, that he had an announcement to make. “As we stand amidst all these treasures of the Old World, I realize that the time has come for the Harrises to walk in the footsteps of the Rathbones who have preceded them — or, more literally, to follow in their wake. I hope that these two tribes can gather again a few months from now, sometime in the early summer, so that one of them may bid a temporary goodbye to the other.” Pauline gave him a perplexed expression. He met her look with a smile, and declared, “Come July, the Harrises will be setting sail for Europe.”
A happy gasp emanated from the judge’s wife; the normally timid Louise swung round to hug her sisters Clara and Amanda; and Henry’s younger brother; Jared, who would surely be amongst the party, clapped his head in such delight that Pauline laughed with a heartiness she rarely displayed these days. But it was Clara’s expression that most pleased the judge. His daughter was looking at him with a wide, calm smile, as if to say, Why, you dear old Papa, how did you succeed in keeping this a secret? Of course, there had been no secret to keep, no plan at all, but having said what he just had, the judge was smiling in self-congratulation, even if the cider deserved some credit for his action. He was enough emboldened to risk turning toward his stepson.
Henry had his glass in the air and was about to make a toast. “To the expedition!” he cried, to the two families’ applause.
Howard called out across the room, “And as it proceeds, what shall you be doing with two empty houses, Cousin?” Everyone laughed.
“I shall be nowhere near them,” Henry replied to more laughter, though of a somewhat nervous kind, since his nocturnal ramblings were more and more remarked upon.
“For I shall be,” he continued, “on the rue de Rivoli and the Ponte Vecchio, clearing a path for my sisters, who will need a chaperone to make a safe way for them through the Old World.” The laughter grew relaxed once more, as heads turned toward one another, nodding with the realization that the judge must have told Henry about these plans some time ago, along with his intention to include him. “I think,” said Henry, recommandeering everyone’s attention, “that Clara will be in the greatest danger from cynical Old World charms. So, along with my protection, the price of her passage will be my next birthday present to her. After all, her father will have quite enough to look after and pay for.” He began a comic inventory of all the other Harris girls, pointing a finger toward each of them and pretending to lose count. Real laughter mixed with a politer kind from those used to discussing “the problem” posed by the so-called cousins’ mutual attentiveness.
“You must write to me from every city, Clara!” exclaimed Mary Hall.
Clara, thrilled by the promise of Henry’s presence on the unexpected journey, gave her a tight hug. Henry, raising his glass once more, looked at the judge. Ira Harris managed to nod in response, even though his moment of inspiration had recoiled upon him like a gunstock.
TEN WEEKS LATER, on the afternoon of April 22, the Rathbones’ house on Elk Street stood drenched in rain and bereft of gaiety. Even before Reverend Beecher’s lecture there had been much sickness in the city, more than usual for winter, and many of the season’s balls and parties were never held. By April every family seemed to have someone ill, and the Joel Rathbones were no exception.
It was Howard, who for all his good looks and cheer had never had a robust constitution. Dr. Cox had long suspected the young man’s stomach and lungs were weak, and a desire to force some sea air into himself was one of the things behind Howard’s oft-expressed wish to sign up with the United States Marines. When, late in February, he came down with the same cold plaguing half the city, he refused to give in to it, traveling instead to Brooklyn, where he made his enlistment and received a fast week’s training. He’d gotten his orders just the other day and was due to ship out a week from tomorrow. He had returned to Albany to pack his trunk and make his goodbyes, but as soon as he arrived he came down with a chest cold. Hot brandy and sweat walks had done no good, and this morning he’d had to stay in bed. Emeline had come up to read her son the paper, and her daughter Sarah played his favorite songs on the parlor piano, hitting the pedal hard enough for the music to drift upstairs through his open bedroom door. No one could imagine how he would put to sea in only eight days.
Even if he succeeded, his cousin Henry and the whole Harris family would be on the ocean well before he. Their departure for Europe had been pushed up from the summer to tomorrow afternoon, the change in plans coming not from uncontainable enthusiasm but rather a condition that Ira Harris had never before experienced in his public life: unpopularity. The jurors in his courtroom had found Mrs. Hartung guilty of her husband’s murder, and after a good deal of agonizing, the judge had stunned the citizens of Albany County by sentencing her to hang on April 27. As soon as he pronounced her fate, a great outcry arose at the prospect of a woman swinging from the scaffold. The same people who had reveled in details of Mary Hartung’s adultery became eager to demonstrate their fine sensibilities by signing petitions against the judicial outrage soon to be perpetrated in their names.
They met with quick success: Mrs. Hartung was granted another trial while the state assembly fashioned a new capital punishment law with a loophole that made it unlikely she would ever be executed. Her supporters congratulated themselves on their mercifulness, as the judge withered under a storm of criticism over his supposed haste and hardness. When his brother Hamilton agreed to defend the paramour, Reimann
, Ira Harris decided to inquire about the next sailing date of the Vanderbilt.
“Howard!” cried the familiar voice charging upstairs. “Back on your feet! Do you expect the government of the United States to soothe you with sisterly song when your stomach does a flip some night on the bounding main?” Howard smiled at his cousin’s roar, and motioned for Henry to take the chair at the foot of his sickbed. Downstairs, Sarah’s piano fell silent. Clara followed Henry into the bedroom and handed Howard a wrapped tin of candy.
“I should be giving one of these to you,” said Howard. “I intended to get you a bon voyage present before this business came to visit.” He tapped his congested chest.
“We wouldn’t have a cubic inch of room for it,” Clara replied, patting his hand and urging him to untie the ribbon. “Besides, you’ll need to bring more of your own treats than we will. I understand President Buchanan’s ships are not so luxuriously stocked as Commodore Vanderbilt’s liner.”
Howard was twisting the wrapper off a peppermint when Sarah came up with a tea tray. She wanted to get another look at her cousin Henry, who always scared her a little, in a thrilling way. “Goodness,” she said, setting the tray down before hurrying back out, “everyone here will soon be out on the ocean.”
“So what is the plan?” asked Howard.
“To the station,” said Henry, “about an hour from now behind a great hill of trunks. Since Manhattan can’t come to the mountain, the mountain will come to Manhattan.”
Clara groaned and gave him a gentle elbow in the ribs.
“The judge,” said Henry, “has been amazingly vociferous — for the judge, at least — on the subject of excess baggage. Amanda and Louise are afraid to pack another handkerchief.”
“We’ll be at the Gramercy House before dark,” said Clara, “and after dinner at Delmonico’s everyone will get to bed — early.” She looked at Henry with mock fierceness.
“I hear,” said Howard, “that Senator Seward will be following in the Harris wake.”
“For the first and no doubt last time,” said Henry.
“Don’t be horrible, Henry,” said Clara. “But it’s true about Mr. Seward, Howard. He’s leaving for England next month on the Ariel. A mere paddle wheeler, as my stepmother likes to point out.”
“Nothing less than the commodore’s steam for aristocrats like us,” said Henry. “But the purpose of both journeys is the same: a last look at the Old World before the New one calls us home to participate in its destruction.”
“If there ever is a war,” said Clara, “Henry should raise a regiment of cavalry. He’ll already have had so much experience riding with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.”
Howard laughed, and coughed.
“There will be enough civil strife right aboard ship, I’m sure,” said Henry.
“What do you mean?” asked Howard.
“Oh, it’s awful,” said Clara, commencing a rapid explanation of the Harris family’s woes. “Papa can’t be cheered up about the trial. It’s a terrible way to end his term on the court. Twelve years and then this. He really can’t bear not being loved by everyone. When we return, he’ll be only a professor at the Albany Law School, and —”
“My mama,” cried Henry, “a mere don’s wife! The insupportability of it!”
“If we’re talking about an absence of support,” said Clara, “we ought to talk about Uncle Hamilton.”
“It’s true, then?” asked Howard.
“Yes,” said Clara.
“Well, a case is a case,” said Howard, without much conviction. “Everyone is entitled to representation. Even Reimann.”
“Still,” said Clara, “it will just keep people thinking of Papa in connection with this terrible business.”
“Oh, so now it’s a terrible business,” said Henry, laughing. “Last year it was the most colorful topic of your conversation.” He pulled the ribbon behind Clara’s neck. “There’s nothing wrong with your father passing into local legend, even if it’s on the coattails of spouse murder. The point is that he’ll be remembered for something. I tell you, Clara, if I hadn’t made a solemn commitment to guarding the virtue of you and your sisters on European soil, I’d be helping out your Uncle Hamilton with more relish than I’ve brought to any other business in that office.”
“There’s no use arguing with him,” said Clara, smiling down at Howard. “You can only hope he’ll change the subject.”
“All right, Howard,” said Henry, “I will change the subject, at least slightly. The word is that you’ll never get the chance to commit uxoricide — at least not against Annie Martin.”
“Oh, Henry,” said Clara. “For heaven’s sake!”
“I’m afraid that rumor is also true,” said Howard, who couldn’t help laughing. “I’ve decided Miss Martin is a better ballroom dancer than a marriage prospect. There’s just not much passion there.” Sighing over his renewed fecklessness in matters romantic, he went on, “It’s no great disappointment to her either, I think.”
“Well, it should be,” said Clara. “And it should be only a relief to you. You deserve a lot more vitality than Miss Annie Martin can provide.” She made a face.
“Thank you, dear Clara,” said Howard. “I just wish Dr. Cox could provide me with a little vitality. If I only had the strength to get out of this bed and stay on my feet. All I wanted to do in coming back here was bid a fond farewell to Kenwood and my women here.” He nodded toward his mother and sister, who were coming through the door. “Now I’m not sure this whole enlistment was a good idea.”
“Nonsense,” said Clara. “You’ll be as good as new before you embark, and even better once you’re out upon the water. I can’t wait to be past the seventieth meridian.”
Henry and Howard laughed at her newly acquired geography, but she meant what she said. Clara had never in her life looked forward to anything so much as the coming journey, and not because of all the books she’d read and all the ocean voyages she’d heard about from the traveling Rathbones. She felt that once she and Henry were transplanted to a new land, even in the midst of the family, all would change. In the ancient precincts of Europe, life’s arrangements and rules would be redrawn, making everything possible between the two of them. “In fact,” she burst out, “I should like to go and never come back!”
“Well,” said Henry, rising to his feet and putting his arm over her shoulders, “in that case we had better get moving. We can’t have you missing your dreams because you’ve missed the train.”
“Do come back,” said Howard to Clara as she kissed him goodbye. “I couldn’t stand it if you didn’t.”
Through the bedroom window Sarah and her mother watched Henry and Clara disappear down Elk Street. “Clara told me they’re going to Tivoli, Mother. Do you remember how lovely it was?”
“Yes,” said Emeline. “Lovely.” She peered unsmilingly at the receding figures in the street.
From his pillow Howard could not see Henry and Clara, only the backs of his mother and Sarah, and the sparkling raindrops on the window. He too remembered the lights of Tivoli, from whatever Rathbone family tour he’d seen them on. Right now he tried to picture how Clara would look, some night several weeks from now, in those faraway gardens and under those lights. He was also, he realized, trying to imagine himself next to her. But Henry refused to leave the picture.
The Vanderbilt Line
April 26, 1859
My dear Will,
We are three days out of New York — so distantly east that I imagine the sunset we had hours ago is reaching the bluffs of West Point only now.
I’m thinking back to my visits there, because the stateroom I write from is very much a female version of your old plebe barracks. Lina, Louise, Amanda, and I are all in one large room, a small ruffled regiment, though one entirely without discipline. We live in a constant uproar of chatter, combing, and lacing. Our things are strewn everywhere, and we are so completely pampered that we never think of picking up a single scrap ourselves.
Commodore Vanderbilt’s notions of decorating have their odd aspects — one of our walls has a print of his Staten Island manse and the other a very grave engraving of Mr. Henry Clay! But the premises are so comfortable that for hours on end we are unconscious of being on the “high seas” at all; the vessel is so huge — 355 feet from stem to stern! — that one experiences it more as a great island than a simple ship. I’m sure Versailles will seem paltry after the expanses of rosewood and mirror we sit amidst each evening in the grand saloon. (The jaw of Mr. Joel Rathbone himself would drop upon seeing it.)
Poor Papa nearly made us late for the embarkation. Right at dockside he insisted on stopping at the Equitable Life offices to take out insurance policies on all of us. Mother declared this to be unnecessary in our age of safety, but he patiently went on filling out form after form. I suppose it made him feel better. Alas, nothing else seems to. He hasn’t spoken of the trial, but I know it is still on his mind; I can tell by the way he jumps whenever the ship’s boilers shift and groan. (These mechanical monsters leave me completely indifferent; they irritate our stepmother; they terrify Louise.)
The crew are quite refined, as if they’d come straight off the Commodore’s own yacht, but life for the stokers and those in steerage is, I suppose, less genteel than what we experience on the higher promenades. Of all us Harrises, only Father and Louise have ventured down to see them — joining the lower orders for evening prayers, and earning a stern rebuke from Pauline. (“Do you want to pick up something that will get us quarantined?”)
I myself can’t imagine getting sick in these circumstances — the air has given me the lungs and appetite of an alpinist! We’ve all just had the most enormous dinner, and as soon as I seal this I’m going to join Amanda for a post-prandial promenade. We all wish you were here, but I know how much you prefer parading in ranks with a rifle to dancing on polished sandalwood with a different girl each night!
Henry and Clara Page 7