Time Out of Mind

by John R. Maxim

  “Deceiver,” Margaret charged.

  “Torturer!”

  “Urn.” Georgiana smiled helplessly and turned down the hall. ”I can remember when this was such a quiet house. So restful. I shall not miss either of you. Not a bit of it.”

  Margaret, giggling, eased the door shut. She turned toward Tilden. A curious expression on his face caused Georgiana’ a last remark to register anew.

  “What did she mean, Tilden? That she would not miss us?” ·

  ”I was going to speak to you.”

  Her good humor faded. “Have you made some decision for me?”

  “Not at all,” he answered quickly. “But I have prepared the way for you to make a decision. I have taken that liberty. Yes.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Come”—he reached for her hand—“sit and hear me out.”

  “Tilden, what have you done?”

  ”I have asked Georgiana to release you from any obligation she might consider that you have toward her. I had to do that before I could ask you to leave here with me and move into a proper set of rooms.”

  “As your mistress?”.

  “As my friend, Margaret. All affection between us grows out of that.”

  “The answer is no, Tilden.” Margaret turned from him. ”I will not be a kept woman.”

  “Please hear me.” He stepped closer but did not touch her. ”I am prepared that you may refuse me, but please hear me first.”

  Margaret said nothing.

  “You have an account, in your name, at the firm of Beckwith and Company. It consists of several hundred shares in each of three very safe businesses. Properly managed, it will provide you with an income which, while not large, should keep you from ever being in doubt of food or shelter. That stock transfer is irrevocable, Margaret. It is done. You need do nothing in return for it.”

  “Nothing?’' There was doubt in her tone.

  “Nothing. You can tell me to step out of your life this minute and I will be bound to do it. I have no power over you.”

  “But you are confident I will not do so.”

  “It is my earnest hope.”

  ”I can sell these shares and say that``—she snapped her fingers—“for you?”

  “I'd advise that you keep them. But yes.”

  “What other arrangements have you made, Tilden?”

  “None.”

  “You have not prepared a love nest someplace? You have not chosen where I am to live?”

  “No. I knew that would insult you.”

  “When am I to leave here?”

  “When and if you choose.” Tilden took her by the shoulders and guided her into a chair near the window. Tilden had expected some amount of hesitancy. He was, after all, proposing a major alteration in the way she lived her life, but he was at a loss to understand the logic of resisting the prospect of being a mistress when Margaret had come within a hair's breadth of entering a life of prostitution. He'd taken Georgiana at her word that Margaret would not leap at his proposal—she said one thing has nothing to do with the other—but he did not understand it. He did, however, accept Georgiana’ s advice that he guarantee Margaret's independence and that he impose no conditions. Expensive advice. Five thousand worth of Eastman shares for Georgiana’ s blessing and another ten of Eastman, New York Elevated, and Sears and Roebuck for Margaret's account.

  ‘‘What are you thinking, dear Margaret?”

  ”I don't know.” She dabbed at her eyes. “My head is whirling.”

  “God knows I wish I were free to—” He stopped himself. He was about to suggest that he might ask her to be his wife were it not for Ella. He would want to marry her. Truly. But in the end it would be impossible. “Although I have made no arrangements concerning your—our—future, I have had an idea or two.”

  She looked up at him, silently.

  “The first thing we must do is find you some respectable lodgings. Sunday. We'll do that Sunday. I'll get some listings and we'll go look at them together until we find a place that suits you just so. For the sake of discretion I thought I might represent myself as your lawyer and you as the young widow of an influenza victim. If I am your lawyer, it would not be taken amiss when I begin to call on you often. If you wish, you can change your name as well. You will begin an entirely respectable new life.”

  “Until you begin spending the night,” she said quietly.

  “No, that would not do. You're quite right. We could meet whenever we wished but we'd meet elsewhere. We could meet at—Do you know what a house of assignation is?”

  ”A love nest?”

  Not precisely.” Tilden had a notion that he was talking too much but he did not seem able to help himself. “It is somewhat like this house, Georgiana's house, except there are no girls there. There are only rooms where men and women can meet privately. There is a household staff, of course, including a butler who admits only those known to him or those with proper letters of introduction. No woman's name is used or even known by the staff. One guest never sees another, and meals and even baths can be taken in private quarters. Such places are much more comfortable than hotels, Margaret. One can relax in them and shut out the whole world.”

  “It's gladdening,” she said dryly, “that you are so experienced in these matters.”

  “Oh! Oh no.” He knelt at her side. “Georgiana told me about them. I had no idea. I mean, I knew men went to places like this but it never occurred to me that there might be places where women went. The fact that houses of assignation exist came as a shock to me. If they exist they must have clients. If they have clients”—he smiled—”a great many respectable women in New York must be a good deal less respectable than I imagined.”

  Margaret rose to her feet and paced thoughtfully to the foot of the bed, where she stopped and steadied herself on one of the canopy posts. “So many lies, Tilden,” she said at last. “It is so much more simple, more honest, when you come to visit me here.”

  “But it is a brothel, Margaret. I cannot have you in a brothel.”

  “Perhaps ...” She chewed her lip. “Perhaps because of what it is, I expect less from you here, Tilden. Here it is natural for men to come and go according to the demands upon their time. And in between your visits I have the company of Georgiana and Annie and the other girls. Being your mistress sounds so terribly lonely.”

  “Little Annie is leaving, by the way. Georgiana told me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Georgiana says Annie has saved enough to start a new life. You can be sure she won't call herself Little Annie anymore either.”

  “I'm so selfish. I should be glad for her.”

  “Eureka!” Tilden shouted. He jumped to his feet and took Margaret in his arms. “You want it simple? It is simple. I've been a fool.”

  “What are you talking about?” Margaret shook her head, blinking.

  “Do you not imagine that Annie, once settled in her new life, will soon attract a male admirer or two?”

  “More than likely.” She nodded.

  “That's it, then. Your problem is solved.”

  “Tilden, might I have some small clue to what you're thinking?”

  “You, dear Margaret, are retiring. Exactly like Annie, you are taking your ill-gotten gains, changing your name, and beginning a respectable new life. During your days you will pursue whatever activities may please you. Or excite you. You might teach piano, or open a dress shop, or continue your education. But as for the evenings, you must not be surprised if a male admirer or two should begin turning up at your door, flowers and bonbons in hand. He will ask you to dinner at Delmonico's in order to turn your head. He will ask you to walk with him, ride with him, skate with him, and dance with him. Thoroughly smitten, he will flood you with attention. And who knows? Perhaps one day you might so far forget yourself as to consent to a glorious weekend with him at some country inn.”

  ”I might even let him kiss me.” She smiled.

  “That is too much to hope for.”
>
  “You are a lunatic, Tilden.”

  “Your answer, woman,” he demanded.

  “Yes, Tilden. Yes. As soon as I've saved some money.”

  Tilden looked confused. “How much more could you need?’'

  ”You said that I should not sell those shares. And I have only sixty dollars saved from my salary here. And no, I'll take no more money from you, Tilden.”

  “But you have nearly a thousand dollars on account with Georgiana.”

  head slowly, not certain that she understood him. “The working girls have accounts, not I. I get only the twenty dollars a week I'm paid in salary.”

  “Well”—he shrugged—“the money is there and it's yours. It must be some sort of dividend.” Idiot, he berated himself. There was no doubt about the money. Georgiana had quoted the figure not five minutes before he climbed the stairs to see Margaret. She must have put off mentioning it to her so that Margaret would not realize that he was paying for her company and so that Margaret could persuade herself a while longer that she had not actually begun to sell her body. Well, it didn't matter. She was not a prostitute. Her first night with him was a different matter entirely. He must be sure, however, to alert Georgiana on the way out that questions will be asked.

  New Rochelle, Larchmont, Mamaroneck, Rye, Port Chester. The towns along Interstate 95 all ran together across Corbin's field of vision as if the ride past them had taken only seconds. Welcome to Connecticut. Use of Radar Detection Devices Prohibited. Buckle Up for Safety. 55 Saves Lives. Greenwich Next Exit. Corbin, as always suddenly felt himself being very glad about something. Before just now, he'd never actually known what it was. Now he knew a part of it. Right around the Greenwich Tolls he'd found himself expecting that Margaret would be waiting for him. He'd be walking up the road from the station on a hot summer day and she'd be waiting on the porch, her hair freshly brushed, a smile whose glow he could see a block away, and she'd be pouring a cold lemonade to tempt him into walking faster. As if the lemonade were needed.

  Anyway, Margaret would not be there. And it was not a summer day even if this morning was just as bright. Still, he felt good. Gwen was here and at least that was something. More than something. He loved Gwen, he reminded himself. He loved her more than any human being alive and more than anyone he'd ever known. And yet, Margaret, even now, still got in the way of that feeling.

  “Which way after I get off, Jonathan?” Sturdevant clicked on his turn signal.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Here's Exit Three. Where do I go then?”

  ' ‘Left at the bottom of the ramp. That street winds up to the Post Road.”

  Corbin settled back and took Gwen's hand. He kissed it. That action, which she took as a show of affection, was more in the nature of an apology for those times during the ride up there when he realized that the woman touching him, rubbing his back, was Gwen and not Margaret; and he'd felt a mild resentment. As if Gwen were intruding. He hoped it hadn't shown. There was nothing in her eyes, no hurt, that would suggest that it had, but who knows? Gwen was so perceptive. And besides, he'd been half dozing-most of the way up from New York. Daydreaming. Highway hypnosis. Who knows what you say or do when you're half asleep. He found himself wondering what he'd say to her if she ever asked. What if she asked, What would you do if you had to make a choice between me and Margaret? But she wouldn't. If she asked anything at all, Gwen's questions would be much more pointed. Such as, Jonathan, isn't it time you separated your feelings once and for all between this living woman who loves you and a woman whom you loved a century ago? Fair enough. But where am I supposed to go to get away from Margaret? Out of New York? Somehow it doesn't seem as though that would do it, especially if Sturdevant is right and this woman I'm half in love with turns out to be my great-grandmother. Out of Greenwich? No. Greenwich is my home.

  “Where now?” Sturdevant had climbed a hill to a Stop sign, which required a turn left or right.

  “Go right, then bear left, and you'll come to the Greenwich Library on the Post Road. Go right at that light. My house is on Maple Avenue, down another half mile.”

  ”I know where I am now. You said the library was open on Sunday?”

  “Until one, I think.”

  “Do you mind if we stop there first? I'd like to check a few things, particularly if they have newspaper microfilms going back far enough. Do they?”

  “Let's take a look.”

  The main branch of the Greenwich Public Library, a large building of gray stone, was originally a Franklin Simon store, with ample parking in the rear. The store had failed as a business, never quite grasping that old money tends to dress down rather than up, and the property was bought by the town of Greenwich for one of several potential uses. The library won out, but that raised another question. The Franklin Simon building, with four floors including the former bargain basement, was much larger than anything the library could envision needing. However, since all activities tend to expand to fill the time and space available to them, he Greenwich Public Library soon grew to be one of the largest in the state, complete with a theater that was the largest in all of Greenwich. .

  . Harry Sturdevant found the microfilm section by following signs. Four projection machines and several cabinets contained back issues of the local newspaper, Greenwich Time, its ancestor,the.Greenwich Graphic, and the New York Times dated back before the Civil War. Each file tray held microfilm spools covering a period of two to five years. He opened the drawer marked New York Times— Nov. 1887 thru Feb. 1890 and drew out the spool that would contain the month of March 1888. This he handed to Corbin.

  “Would you rack this up for me, please, Jonathan, while I locate one or two others?”

  Corbin looked at the spool and then at the nearest viewer, which he stared at for a long moment before noticing the set of instructions taped to its lid. Sturdevant pretended not to be watching him. Corbin began by inserting the spool upside down, then backward, then eventually finding the correct track by process of elimination. It pleased Sturdevant to see that the machine had baffled Jonathan. He was now more certain than ever that Jonathan was about to see these pages for the first time. The first, at least, as Jonathan Corbin. Sturdevant took a seat at the viewer and advanced the fast-forward lever until he reached the masthead for March 10, 1888. A Saturday.

  The famous blizzard, he already knew, would not actually begin until the evening of the eleventh, but Sturdevant decided that knowing a bit about its context might be useful. A glance at the front page reminded him that Grover Cleveland was in the White House and that Abram Hewitt, the man who'd defeated Teddy Roosevelt for mayor in 1886, was in City Hall. Otherwise, the paper seemed filled with thoughts of spring. The past winter, one column noted, had been the mildest in seventeen years. Robins had already been sighted, trees were budding, crocuses were up. The forecast for the day: again unseasonably warm, temperature in the fifties. The Barnum, Bailey, and Hutchinson Circus arrived in New York that day from its winter headquarters and a torchlight parade through two miles of lower Manhattan was planned for that evening. A bit of entertainment news caught Sturdevant’ s eye. Ada Rehan was appearing in A Midsummer Night's Dream, and the legendary Ellen Terry was starring with Henry Irving in Faust at the Star Theater down on Thirteenth Street. He checked the forecast for Sunday. Cloudy. Light rain. Temperatures still above normal. Sturdevant advanced the spool to March 11.

  Sunday. Still no indicationof anything really amiss. Except that the forecast was calling for heavy rain. Into the evening. Several department stores were announcing spring sales. Sturdevant found himself wondering how Tilden Beckwith had spent that day of rest. At home with his wife and her infant, of whom he must surely have been suspicious by then? Off with Margaret in some cozy hideaway? He didn't know. But their final confrontation certainly did not happen on Sunday.

  Monday's edition, the day on which the storm had broken in full fury, was quite thin and generally unenlightening. It had a patchwork look, as if it had been put toget
her by a skeleton staff. Sturdevant wondered how many copies, if any, had actually managed to find their way to the public. On to Tuesday.

  There it was. The full magnitude of the disastrous storm screamed from the front page of the New York Times dated Tuesday, March 13. Sunday's heavy rains had changed to snow shortly after midnight. By six o' clock Monday morning, when the Times staff and all other city residents were preparing to go to work, the temperature had dropped to twenty-three degrees and was still falling. Winds were averaging thirty-six miles an hour and gusting as high as eighty-six. These extraordinary winds began piling the driven snow in freakish fashion. One side of a street would be buried in drifts while the other might be swept clean except for an icy coating. By noon, the temperature had dropped to five degrees above zero and the winds had climbed to an average of forty-eight miles an hour. Wires were down everywhere. Even poles. One item mentioned 150 telephone poles down on Tenth Avenue alone. Not that it mattered in terms of service. The Metropolitan Telephone Company, which had sixty-nine hundred subscribers at the time, had asked the electric company not to turn on its dynamos for fear of setting live wires dancing all over the city's streets. All electricity was shut off shortly after noon. Transportation in New York had come to a virtual halt. Elevated trains, their small engines unable to make the slightest grade, stalled high above the streets. Entrepreneurs down below secured ladders and began charging passengers a dollar a head for their use, the alternative being to remain where they were until they froze or until their bladders gave them cause to rethink their options.