by Allan Levine
“On this issue, I’m afraid not. The truth is that most women seek out Madame Philippe to evade their responsibilities as mothers. The world is that black and white.”
Before Ruth could say another word, St. Clair had rushed from the dining room.
A waiter quickly appeared. “Is there anything else I may get for you, Miss?” he asked. “Perhaps you’d like to take your breakfast in your room?”
Ruth was not listening, nor was she concerned with the stares and whispers of those around her. Damn, she thought, what a fool I’ve been. How could I have so offended him? There were times to keep her opinions to herself and to heed her words. Even if she thought differently about the rights of women, there were, she knew, bounds of proper etiquette that she had not adhered to. And it was not the first time—or likely the last. Still, she was an actress and she had violated the first rule of the stage—She had alienated her audience and seriously jeopardized her assignment.
Chapter Eight
AN INQUIRY IS MADE
Not even a hot towel draped over his face and a shave at Freddy’s barbershop rid St. Clair of the hostility he felt. He prided himself on his usually calm demeanor. As a journalist it was often necessary to remain focused and detached. That was how he had approached the Fowler Ring story at any rate. Occasionally he had allowed his personal dislike of Fowler to impact his writing, yet what he was feeling at this moment was something far different.
He knew he had behaved like a gentleman with Miss Cardaso and that he had checked his temper as much as he could. But he had also walked out on her at the hotel, leaving her alone in the dining room. That was an unconscionable act. A true gentleman, he understood, would not have acted in this fashion. As he tried to relax at Freddy’s, he repeatedly reviewed his conversation with Miss Cardaso still irritated at her for being so aggressive and at himself for allowing her words to get under his skin. She was wrong about Madame Philippe and the other abortionists. This was not about a woman’s right to bear a child or not—it was about preventing murder. Why could she not see that?
He stopped himself. Who was he trying to fool? Had he not once thought about abortion exactly as she did? That, in certain circumstances abortion was necessary. Wasn’t that why he had urged, no ordered, Caroline to visit the midwife? He was as much to blame for the tragedy as the abortionist, no matter how ill-prepared Caroline was to be a mother. His heart ached when he contemplated his behavior in this matter. For perhaps the first time, he understood that it was impossible for him to be reasonable about abortion.
His mind soon returned to thoughts of the alluring Miss Cardaso. Even if he did disagree with her, he admired her spirit of conviction. There was no getting around the fact—he was smitten with Ruth Cardaso, a woman he knew almost nothing about. It made absolutely no sense to him. Yet, the force of the attraction was as powerful as he had ever felt for any woman, including Caroline.
He made his way back to the magazine office where he found Tom Fox studiously editing a story. He hardly glanced up when St. Clair sat down at the chair by his desk.
“Where’s my story, Charlie?” asked Fox without lifting his head. “I have the next installment of Sutton’s history of the city, a lengthy and interesting piece on the New York Stock Exchange by that young writer, Simpson, and fiction from Howells. But what of the Ring? What of the Boss’s latest exploits and corruptions? That’s what our readers and the rest of the city will want. And I don’t know what I’ll tell them. Do you?”
“I’ve been a fool,” muttered St. Clair.
“I’ve been telling you that for years.” Fox peered up from his papers. “You haven’t lost more money gambling, I hope?”
St. Clair shook his head. “Worse, I’m afraid. I behaved like a buffoon in front of Miss Cardaso.”
“I see,” said Fox stroking his beard. He reached for the chewed up cigar that was sitting in the small metal bowl beside him. Striking a match, he lit the tobacco, blowing a cloud of white smoke in St. Clair’s direction. “Women can indeed make the most intelligent of men behave like buffoons. It’s one of the reasons I’ve remained a bachelor all these many years. But don’t dismay, I’m certain that whatever you’ve done, Miss Cardaso will forgive you. My impression is that she’s a clever woman, although I suspect you know that already.”
“Tell me, Tom, when did women become so opinionated? I know my mother wasn’t like that. Christ, she’d never have argued with my father about our cows, never mind politics and abortion.”
“Miss Cardaso argued with you about abortion?” Fox spat out what was left of his cigar into a spittoon by his feet. “That may not have been the wisest approach to take.”
St. Clair shrugged.
“It may not happen in my lifetime, Charlie,” Fox continued, “but there’ll be a day when the law and society we live in will change. To be honest, between me and you, the idea that after marriage a woman is bound to her husband like some Negro slave on a cotton plantation in the Carolinas doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. Never has. And there may also come a time when women get the vote.”
“That’s nonsense,” said St. Clair. “Congress will never permit it.”
“You’re wrong, Charlie. The truth is women are far more persistent creatures than men and a lot smarter. They’ll campaign until they win and they’ll wear every politician in Washington down until they vote. Besides, how can we reconcile giving Negroes and foreigners the franchise, but not our own women? Does that make sense to you?”
“Nothing makes sense to me today, I’m afraid. In truth I feel humiliated. I behaved terribly.”
“Your trouble is, Charlie, ever since you lost Caroline all you do is gamble away your hard earned money or drink with those whores at Madame Helena’s.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a game of faro or poker now and then to keep a man’s senses sharp,” declared St. Clair. “And as for the whores on Wooster Street, I’ll say this . . . they sure as hell don’t argue with me.” He glared at Fox for a moment. “Didn’t you accompany me the last time? Didn’t I see you go upstairs with a redhead by the name of Suzette? From Paris, I think.”
“I can’t recall,” said Fox with a smirk.
“So what makes an old bachelor like you such an authority about women?”
Fox turned and reached for a stack of papers on a shelf behind him. “Read this,” he said handing the bundle to St. Clair.
“What is it?”
“I’m sure I’ve told you about these. For about a year now, I’ve been receiving long articles on suffrage and temperance from this schoolteacher in upstate New York. They arrive every few months composed in the neatest and smallest handwriting I’ve seen. Her name’s Anthony, Susan Anthony. She’s as clever as Miss Cardaso, maybe more so. I don’t much agree with her about the drink. I mean a man’s entitled to his whiskey. But her case that women have legitimate right to vote, believe it or not, makes some sense to me. I was thinking of running a feature on her and her suffrage association in one of the fall issues. Maybe send you up to Rochester to meet with her? You should read this. I’d like your opinion on the writing.”
“Send Sutton. He’d do a better job of it. I’d likely get embroiled in a heated argument with this Miss Anthony.”
Fox patted St. Clair on the shoulder. “Self-pity is not an attractive quality. Haven’t I told you that, Charlie?”
“I agree. I shall make every effort to reform.”
“Not too much, I hope. Trust me, you’ll survive, I guarantee it. And you might even learn something. Now, enough about this, what about Fowler?”
St. Clair knew Fox was right. That there was no point harping on about this situation. He would have to apologize to Ruth as soon as possible. “I’ll have a piece for you by the end of the day tomorrow,” he told Fox. “A story of how Fowler pocketed more than a hundred thousand . . . money that should’ve gone to the city. And I promise that within a week, we’ll know everything there is to know about the Boss and his Ring.”
“You still doubt me? Very well, then, I accept the challenge.” Both men were silent for a moment, then St. Clair asked in a serious tone, “Where did you find her, Tom?”
“Miss Cardaso? I wired Nathan Scott at the Chronicle in San Francisco and he suggested I contact her.”
“And you trust Scott?”
“I do. He’s a decent man. Likes his drink, but don’t we all.”
“And what of her background?” St. Clair pressed his friend further. “Her work as an actress in the theatre? From her appearance and name, I’d guess she’s a Spaniard. And after this morning, I can attest that she’s as hot headed as a wounded matador.”
“From what I understand after briefly speaking with her, is that she was born in London and came to California with her parents when she was a young girl. You’ll have to obtain the rest of the story from her.”
“That may be difficult. Our breakfast this morning, as I said, did not go smoothly. I doubt,” St. Clair mumbled, “we’ll be having any meaningful conversations in the near future.” He added, “By the way, did you tell her about Caroline?”
Fox shook his head. “Not me. Why?”
“It’s nothing. Maybe it was Sutton.”
“So the two of you argued about abortion, you said.” Fox twisted in his chair.
“What is it, Tom? You’re awful jumpy.”
“There’s something you must do for me today. A favor,” whispered Fox.
“As I said, I was planning to work on the Fowler story and then meet my brother-in-law. But what’s the favor?”
“It’s about Sutton, in fact.” Fox’s eyes glanced around the office.
“Yeah, where is he? Wasn’t he supposed to be off masquerading as Miss Cardaso’s boyfriend?”
“Sutton’s father was in some sort of accident.” Fox’s voice returned to a whisper. “The family doctor isn’t certain he’ll survive. Sutton took the seven o’clock train to Boston this morning. Which means—”
St. Clair stood up, his mouth open. “Tom, you can’t be serious. There must be someone else to replace him. Not me, certainly. How can I face her so soon?”
“Courage, my friend.” Fox glanced at his pocket watch. “You have about one hour. You’re to meet Miss Cardaso in front of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
“By Madame Philippe’s mansion on Fifty-Second and Fifth?” St. Clair asked. He rubbed the sweat on his palms.
Fox saw the conflicting emotions on St. Clair’s face. “Charlie, there’s no one else I trust to do this. It’s important. You know that better than anyone. Think about Caroline and other women like her. Do you want to drive these buggers from the city or not?”
“You know I do, but. . . .”
“But nothing. Apologize the moment you see her. That’s the bravest, and the only, thing you can do. You’ll feel more at ease after that, I promise. Now off with you.”
Though he’d come to the same conclusion about apologizing to Ruth, St. Clair still shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t pay me enough for this humiliation.” He moved slowly toward the outer office and then stopped. “Fifteen hundred. That’s what I owe Martin,” he said over his shoulder.
Without another word, Fox reached for his pocket book. “I shall write you a bank draft and you can stop on your way.”
“It’s not necessary. I can take care of it . . . at least I think I can. But I appreciate the offer. You’re a talented man of commerce and a gentleman, Tom, and I didn’t want to lie to you about it.”
“That’s generous of you, Charlie, but you still have to meet with Miss Cardaso.” Fox laughed so loud that his belly jiggled.
“I had to try,” said St. Clair with a smile. He straightened his jacket, fixed his bowler hat and descended into the street.
Precisely one hour later, St. Clair found himself walking up Fifth Avenue’s wide sidewalks gazing at the horse and wagon traffic and construction all around him. Everywhere you looked there were carpenters, bricklayers and laborers toiling in the hot summer sun. St. Clair had read in the Times only a week ago that land speculators like Victor Fowler and his cohorts had bought up entire blocks. They had rightly anticipated that property values would rise, and sure enough, contractors could not put up new brownstones fast enough to meet demand.
These homes, as opulent as any St. Clair had seen in the city, appeared to be uninhabited—as they were most of the summer months. Had this been any other street in New York, St. Clair would have expected to see women and children socializing on their stoops, especially when the heat was high. It was a common, as well as an entertaining way to pass the afternoon or evening. On Fifth Avenue, however, St. Clair understood such fraternizing was considered terribly uncouth. All you had to do was read the society pages to learn that at this time of the year, the majority of Fifth Avenue residents were out of the city indulging themselves at their summer homes in Newport or Saratoga.
As he reached Forty-Ninth Street, St. Clair could see Ruth a short distance away, standing alone against the backdrop of the majestic Catholic cathedral. She had changed from the apricot silk dress she had worn at the hotel into something much plainer, a dull, dark grey dress—the uniform of a factory girl. His anger had not entirely subsided. Why was it, then, that the closer he approached, the faster his heart beat and the more the blood rushed to his head?
“Mr. St. Clair, you’re right on time,” Ruth said with an awkward smile.
As soon as he drew nearer, her inviting fragrance again overwhelmed him. Despite his conflicted feelings he forced himself to appear professional and aloof. Tipping his hat with a slight nod of his head, he said, “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”
“Mr. Fox dispatched a message to the hotel early this morning with news about Mr. Sutton’s family misfortunes and wrote that you would be taking his place.”
“I see. I’m glad Mr. Fox was so certain I’d accept his offer.”
“My impression is that he rarely loses an argument.”
“That’s so. Miss Cardaso—” St. Clair cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize for my abrupt departure at the hotel . . . it was uncalled for . . . If I embarrassed you in any way—”
“No, please, Mr. St. Clair,” she interrupted. “I’m the one to blame. I too often speak my mind and don’t know when to stop. A flaw in my character, I’m afraid. I had no right to comment about or suggest anything untoward about your personal affairs.”
“Perhaps we should start over? Let us agree that there are certain subjects we should avoid speaking of.”
“Agreed.”
“And why not call me Charlie? There would be nothing inappropriate about that, would there?”
She smiled again. “I don’t believe that would be inappropriate at all, Charlie. And you may address me as Ruth.”
He reached for hand and kissed it gently. “A pleasure, Ruth.”
A group of four women passing by them on the sidewalk gawked at this spectacle. Neither St. Clair nor Ruth paid them any attention.
“Now that this matter is settled, shall we proceed across the street?” Ruth gestured toward Madame Philippe’s house.
“Into the den of evil, by all means.” St. Clair responded half-seriously.
She tilted her head. “You’re quite firm in your convictions, Charlie.”
“About Madame Philippe and others like her, I am indeed. But I thought we weren’t going to discuss such controversial issues.”
She reached for his arm, brushing his hand ever so lightly. “Come, Mr. Fox is waiting for his story.”
“Let me tell you a tale,” said St. Clair as they walked. “It is indeed one of the great ironic tales of the city, an amusing and delicious anecdote repeatedly told, I understand, in dining rooms and clubs as well as in saloons and ill-fame houses.”
“You have my attention,” said Ruth. She loosely held on to St. Clair’s
arm.
“Back in 1857 or 1858,” continued St. Clair, “as St. Patrick’s Cathedral was being constructed, Archbishop John Hughes, as imposing and intimidating a religious leader as there was in New York, had his eye on the property at the northeast corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Second. He intended to build a grand rectory to be used as a chief residence for decades. At the land auction a broker acting for an unnamed client outbid the archbishop, who was stunned and incensed by this turn of events. He was even more astonished when he discovered that this sly broker was representing none other than Madame Philippe and her husband, Franz.”
Ruth smiled. “Did Madame Philippe do this thing on purpose?”
“Precisely,” said St. Clair. “According to the information that I’ve heard, she had deliberately sought out the property to prevent the church from acquiring it. It was just another episode in a long war between Hughes and Philippe. On more than one occasion, Hughes has publicly condemned her in church and in comments he’s made to the newspapers. It likely contributed to her nearly being lynched in the winter of 1847.”
“Lynched. Please tell me more,” said Ruth. They had stopped in front of the gates to Madame Philippe’s house.
“Very well,” said St. Clair, enjoying the moment. “But I must warn you it’s not a pleasant story.”
“I assure you, Mr. St. Clair, few things shock me anymore.”
St. Clair smiled down at her and continued. “There was a young girl of approximately eighteen years of age. Her name was Alice Wilson. She was from Philadelphia, had arrived in New York alone and eight months pregnant. Madame Philippe had provided her room and board, nursed her, and delivered her child, a daughter. Alice didn’t want the baby and the father was an older married man who had misrepresented himself and his intentions. If you’ll pardon me,” St. Clair blushed, “he desired only to bed the young girl.”
“Yes, and?” asked Ruth, ignoring St. Clair’s discomfort.
“Madame Philippe found a family who wanted to adopt Alice’s girl, for a token sum of $200. It was, she later said, a fair and reasonable fee for such service. Then, some weeks later, Alice changed her mind. I don’t know why, but she wanted her baby girl returned. That, of course, proved impossible, since the couple who’d paid Philippe had already taken the baby and left the city for their home in New Orleans. When Alice’s story made the rounds of saloons and pubs, Hughes eventually heard about it and within days, every Irish preacher was castigating Madame Philippe and extolling the virtues of the seemingly innocent Alice Wilson.”