Slap. Slap. Slap. Clara’s heart jumped into her throat and she vaulted from her stool. Then in a moment, when her heart settled down, she went into the shop and saw Mrs. Beattie sitting, holding her head in her hands at her small desk behind the cashier counter. Was she crying? Bookkeeping wasn’t anything to cry about, was it? It was just arithmetic, numbers in a ledger.
“I can add, subtract, multiply, and divide. Papa taught us when we were little. He wouldn’t send us to school, but he thought we needed to know numbers. He says both my brother Billy and I have a knack for it.”
Mrs. Beattie lifted her head and swiveled around in her chair. “You can?”
Clara nodded and Mrs. Beattie grinned at her. “You never told me that.” Mrs. Beattie stood up and pointed at her chair. “Here.”
Clara sat and Mrs. Beattie peered over her shoulder. She showed her the list of sales in her ledger and a handful of receipts from the bank. “This column of sales should add up to my deposits and it doesn’t. I check this every week.”
Within a few minutes Clara found the mistake—the sale of a black cap recorded twice.
“My dear, you are a genius. If you keep my books, I’ll pay you another dollar a week.” She placed a hand on Clara’s forearm.
A loud thump shook the wall. “Oh!” Clara rammed her hand against her throat. “What’s that?”
“What on earth?” Mrs. Beattie’s narrow chin jutted up. “It’s in the stairwell.”
Mrs. Beattie dashed out of the shop in pursuit of the noise.
Clara’s heart was fluttering like a broken-winged bird trying to fly. “Lawks, I am jumpy today.” There was another thump in the stairwell. If the noise had to do with the Spirit Room, she’d better see to it, too.
When she got out to the sidewalk, the winter cold bit at her face. The door to the stairwell was propped open with an old crate.
“You be careful with my walls. I don’t want any damage. Do you hear me?” Hands on her hips, Mrs. Beattie was standing inside on the third step, looking up into the dim stairwell.
Papa, Billy, and Papa’s squat saloonkeeper friend, Payne, were lugging a red sofa up the stairs. Clara stepped inside the stairwell to get out of the wind.
“We ain’t hurtin’ your dear walls,” Papa said.
“You’re moving in new furniture and you haven’t told me when you’re going to give me the rent, Mr. Benton.”
Billy’s sandy hair hung down over half his eyes, but Clara could just see he looked surprised and disgusted.
“Don’t stop Benton. I’ll fall over on my back. Keep moving, you bastard.” Standing erect and holding the bottom of the sofa on his own, Payne looked like he was about to tumble over.
Even in the dim light the sofa shimmered like silk. It was one of those that had the arm on only one end and it was one of the loveliest pieces she had ever seen, but it had to be expensive. What the Jo-fire was it for? Their family didn’t own any furniture like that. Even Mrs. Purcell didn’t have anything like it. It couldn’t be for the séances. Then Clara swallowed and took a step back out into the spider-biting cold air. It was for her and Sam Weston. That’s what it was. She took another step backwards and slipped from the sidewalk onto the cobble street, then righted herself against the shoulder of the horse Papa had brought. It was certainly for her and Sam Weston. She had no doubts.
She charged back into the empty shop. The sofa upstairs, being shoved from spot to spot, grated and scraped along the floor above her. The sounds grew louder and louder until she ducked, threw her arms over her head, and ran to the workroom. She sat a moment at the table with her colored ribbons, then resumed counting them. Red and pink were by far the most popular. When she had flattened them all out, she twirled the various length pieces into pretty rolls and stacked them in tiers in the bandbox. When she was finished, she closed the lid and wiped the dust off the firemen and their wagon.
A bell jangled. Her shoulders shot up by her ears. Lawk, it was just the doorbell. “Calm yourself, Clara,” she said.
She took a deep breath and walked out toward the hat and bonnet displays expecting a customer, but it was Mrs. Beattie returning from upstairs.
“Well, I didn’t know your spirit circles were so popular again, Clara. You didn’t tell me that. Your father paid me past due rent and gave me next month’s too.” Mrs. Beattie looked quite pleased. She strode over to her sales counter and dropped the gold coins from her hand into the slot on her cash box. “That’s a fine piece of furniture. He says your customers like to socialize a little after a session and the sofa will make it more cordial.” She flipped a few pages in her ledger and made a note. “Didn’t you say things were still slow up there with the spirits? I don’t notice people coming and going anymore.”
What was she to say? That the spirit circles had slowed down to the pace of a box turtle taking a nap in his shell? That Papa wanted that red sofa for something else, something secret and miserable?
“It has been picking up a little. Papa thinks a little interest will lead to a lot of interest like it did in the beginning.”
“Now tell me, dear, truly. Do you really hear the spirits? It is a hoax, isn’t it?”
Oh, why did Mrs. Beattie have to ask about this now? Clara didn’t want to stand here and lie all day. She liked Mrs. Beattie.
“I do sometimes hear them, not every time at every séance.”
“You truly do?” Mrs. Beattie lifted a brow.
Clara ached to tell the truth. With each day that went by there was something more to lie about. It was awful wearisome. But Papa would have a fit if he knew she had told anyone in town, even Mrs. Beattie, about the hoax. It didn’t matter that hardly anyone came anymore, hardly anyone believed in her as a medium. Still, she’d better not set Papa off.
She took a deep breath and nodded. Mrs. Beattie stared at her a moment, waiting for more, but Clara gave nothing else.
They spent a couple of hours poring over ledgers, receipts, bills, and the names of the businesses that Mrs. Beattie ordered things from, mostly in New York City. Twice a year Mrs. Beattie went to New York City and looked over what was new. She’d visited the famous store, A.T. Stewart’s on Broadway, and described it as a castle full of beautiful things. While Mrs. Beattie spoke, Clara could see Mrs. Beattie on one of these trips, bustling around the great city, strolling along Broadway.
The milliner closed her ledgers and showed Clara how she filed away her papers, then she led Clara into the back room. Bending over the worktable, Mrs. Beattie retrieved the firemen bandbox.
“Ah, my firemen. A friend gave me this after the Crystal Palace fire in New York City.” She opened the box and looked in. “Oh, look how you’ve organized my ribbon scraps.” She looked up at Clara. “I was one of the two thousand people in the Crystal Palace when it burned to the ground in ‘57. Did you hear of it?”
Clara shook her head.
“No, you are too young. It was on 42nd Street and it was truly a palace.” Mrs. Beattie’s blue eyes drifted up, her face becoming dreamy. “All glass and iron with a huge dome, thousands of exhibitors and hundreds of sculptures, and art, and practically everything mankind has invented from all over the world. There were flags waving atop pinnacles in the breezes.” Her hands waved in the air above her head. “Sun shining off the glass walls and ceiling in the daytime and at night, the whole thing glowing like a great hulking lantern.” She glanced back at Clara and smiled. “Not one person was lost in the fire. The firemen got us out. That building was never supposed to burn down, it being mostly glass and iron. I wish you could have seen it. Maybe someday I’ll take you to New York City on one of my fashion trips. Would you like that?”
Clara nodded and grinned. “Oh, yes.”
“I’ve seen you admiring this bandbox. It’s sweet, isn’t it? These little firemen are quite noble, like soldiers in their uniforms.” She patted Clara’s rows of rolled-up ribbon and replaced the lid, then slid the bandbox toward Clara. “Take this as a gift, ribbons and all. I really
should be paying you more than I am and it would ease my guilt if you would accept it.”
“Truly?” Clara lifted the box and embraced it. “Truly?”
“Yes. And you’ll keep my books?”
Clara smiled and nodded.
“Now let’s get to work.”
<><><>
WHEN SHE HAD FINISHED WORKING with Mrs. Beattie, Clara decided to keep the bandbox in the Spirit Room so she took it upstairs. When she entered she found Papa in his shirtsleeves and suspenders, sleeping on his side like a tired old cat on the bright red silk sofa. His spectacles and boots were on the floor near his feet. As she had thought, the sofa was splendiferous. The back of it started high and curved lower and lower toward the open end where the polished wood frame ended in a curl. Papa stirred, rubbed his nose, and opened his eyes.
“That you, Little Plum? Good. Want to talk to ya. Hand me my spectacles.” He sat up. “What do you think of your new sofa?” He patted the spot next to him. “Try it.”
She handed him his spectacles and plunked herself down at the far end of the sofa, but not close where he had offered. She slipped off her red shawl and set the firemen bandbox in her lap.
Papa stroked the sofa’s curved arm. “Purty, almost like a woman herself the way this wood swirls around.”
“Why’d you get this, Papa?”
“It’s for you, Little Plum.”
“I don’t need a sofa up here.”
“Now. Now. You are goin’ ta need this.”
She began to feel the sinking again. She was getting smaller and smaller. Not wanting to hear what was next, she threw her hands over her ears. Her bandbox dropped to the floor, rolling onto its side, the lid cracking open part way.
“What’s wrong? You got an earache?” Papa’s voice was muffled. He pointed at the box on the floor. “What’s that? Where’d you get money for that thing?”
He bent over and stretched a hand toward it, but she reached it first, set the lid back on properly and gripped it tight in her lap. It was hers. Hell-fire. He wasn’t going to get his grimy hands on her bandbox.
“Mrs. Beattie gave it to me. It was a gift.”
He slumped back against the sofa. “That’s nice. We’ve got Weston comin’ regular now. It’ll be the same as at the hotel last week between you and him. Every Friday night. And I have to say, he’s gonna pay dearly.”
Clara studied the firemen as he talked. She thought it would be heavenly to be in the red brick house watching out the window at the men march by, hauling their number thirteen wagon. She could almost hear the horn that one of them was blowing.
“He even split the cost of this sofa with me. Generous man, he is. Shows how much he admires ya.”
“Papa, I don’t want to see Sam Weston ever again. I am getting a raise from Mrs. Beattie. I’m going to keep her accounts now. She said she’d pay me another dollar every week.”
“She can’t pay you what Weston can.”
“Please, Papa. I hate Sam Weston. I hate him.”
“My boots.” He gestured for her to hand him his boots and she did.
He wrenched them on, then walked to the coat tree, put on a blue plaid wool vest she had never seen before, put on his greatcoat, took his stovepipe hat from the hook, and came back. Staring down into the empty bucket of his tall hat, he towered over her. “It’s Friday nights at eight o’clock and it’ll go on as many Friday nights as Sam wants it to.”
“No, Papa.”
“Things have to go smooth just now.” He brought his gray eyes up to meet hers. “We need the money, Little Plum. You know how I get when it ain’t smooth. Billy’s been beggin’ me for a fight. He disrespects me. You asked me not to whoop him and I’m tryin’ hard for you because you’re tryin’ hard for me. That’s our deal. You go along with Weston and your precious twin brother is safe.” He put on the stovepipe hat and pulled it snug.
That hat was new, too. What a skunk, she thought, spending Weston’s money on himself so hopping fast.
“Even though Billy don’t deserve it,” he said.
Her stomach twisted. How on earth could he say that? Papa waited a moment, watching her. Finally she lowered her eyes to the firemen and then in a moment she heard him walk back to the door.
“It ain’t that bad. You and me are goin’ ta take care of the family and we’re even goin’ ta do better than most. You’ll see.” He was silent a moment, then said, “You’ll do good with Mrs. Beattie’s accounts. I always said you was smart with numbers. You can keep working for her. She’s a fine woman.”
When he had gone, she sat on the sofa a long while studying her bandbox, looking at the firemen and the brick house and fingering through the rows of tidy rolled-up ribbon scraps inside. This was going to be her secret bandbox. Sam Weston said in his note there’d be more gifts like that gold dollar. If he gave her any more dollars, she’d keep them in here and hide it somewhere Papa and no one in the world could find it. Hers. That money would be her own buried treasure.
She gazed around the room looking for a safe spot. There. That place under the floorboard where Papa made the knocking contraption. She leapt up and shoved aside the heavy chairs and table and the dusty rug. Pinching her fingers between the floorboards, she pried up the loose one. Then she gently set her bandbox down inside the gap and nestled it far out of sight under the floor. That would do. No one could see it even if they hauled the board up to fix the knocker. She retrieved and opened the box again, reached deep into her dress pocket where she had kept the gold coin all week, then slipped it between the black and yellow ribbon coils. She closed the box and kissed the lead fireman.
“You’ll get me out just like you got Mrs. Beattie out of the Crystal Palace. You’ll get me out.” She kissed him once more, then tucked the bandbox as far under the floor as she could reach.
Twenty-Eight
ON FRIDAY, PAPA LEFT CLARA AT SEVEN O’CLOCK at the Seneca Street door to the Spirit Room. He said he’d come back up later when Weston was gone and he’d walk her home, but he wouldn’t wait outside the whole while this time. He’d go to Payne’s tavern and come back for her.
“I don’t want you walking late at night by yourself,” he said.
She shuffled up the dim stairs. Before going into the Spirit Room, she stopped and sat on the landing. She could sneak away right now. Papa had gone on. Weston wasn’t here yet. If she was fast she could get her dollar out of the bandbox and go. How much was the train to Rochester? She could go to Izzie’s. She could just hide somewhere tonight and get an early train. Maybe she could hide right upstairs with Mrs. Beattie. She could make something up about needing to stay there.
She could say everyone was sick at home with Genesee Fever and she had to stay in good health so she could keep making her wages. Mrs. Beattie would believe that, wouldn’t she? Jo-Fire. Yes, she would. She shot up and thrust the Spirit Room door open.
She gasped. There was the back of Sam Weston. He was looking down into the fire, a hand braced on the mantle. He turned to her, smiling. He was dressed as spiffy as an aristo in a brown-and-gold satin waistcoat with shiny brass buttons. He wore a wide dark brown bow-tie, brown wool trousers, and a clean and ironed white shirt. If his eyes weren’t so tired and hollow looking, he would almost be handsome. But he wasn’t. Not one smidgen.
“Clara, you look lovely. I took the liberty of starting the fire.” He stepped toward her. “You look startled. Here, let me take your cape.”
He came to her and, as he reached to untie her bonnet strings, his fingers grazed the underside of her chin. She bit down on the inside of her mouth.
“I’m early because I’ve been waiting all week for tonight. Every time I had to deal with some fool in my business, I thought about tonight and you, and then simply smiled at the idiot. You are a delightful damsel.”
She despised him with every bone in her body, yet when he flattered her like that, she almost felt like she was someone grown, a beautiful lady like Mrs. Beattie.
“Isn’t th
e sofa a fine piece? Do you like it?”
She bit down on the other side of her mouth skin so hard she nearly chewed off a chunk of flesh. Grunting with pain, she drew a hand to her jaw.
“Are you nervous again, like our first night?”
“A little.”
“Sit by the fire with me for a while.” He drew her by her hand into the room, then took her cape from her and hung it on the coat tree. Then he placed two of the ladder-back chairs by the fire.
A little nervous. That was the understatement of the nineteenth century. Her plan to get her hidden dollar and run was foiled. Now she was stuck. How could Papa do this to her? People didn’t always understand him like she did. But now she didn’t understand him either. This thing with Sam Weston couldn’t possibly be anything right. Did other fathers make their daughters do these things? What would Mamma say? What would Izzie say?
The Spirit Room Page 28