Being a mathematician, George had an innate talent for gambling. He loved everything about it—analyzing the probabilities, calculating odds, counting cards, the throw of the dice. But it was the incredible rush of excitement when he won that thrilled him most. Pure euphoria. The sensation was even more pleasurable than sex, another pastime he was introduced to at Pendleton’s. Soon, gambling became an obsession. It was all he could think about or wanted to do. At every second, he felt the uncontrollable urge to bet. He had no willpower, no control over his actions; the desire had taken hold of him, like a puppeteer manipulating the wires of a marionette.
At Pendleton’s, George met James T. Kent. They took an instant liking to each other. Kent was one of George’s own, a rich, dashing figure with a great deal of charm and intelligence. And the man knew how to enjoy himself.
If Pendleton’s was the apogee of pleasure houses, however, below it swam a multitude of grimy, low-life establishments. Along the Bowery and Broadway were sleazy dance halls, whorehouses, and gambling dens that catered to the scum of the earth. In addition to games of chance like keno, dice, and craps, they offered wagers on cockfights, prizefights, dogfights, ratting, and horse racing. In addition to its opium dens, Chinatown had its own native gambling called fan-tan and pai gow.
George discovered these places by pure accident. A Harvard professor persuaded him to volunteer in the industrial school of the Children’s Aid Society, and to George’s delight, he discovered he had a gift for teaching. He loved working with children. But the mission was located in one of the city’s vilest neighborhoods—the Lower East Side, which averaged four gambling dens per block. Like a little boy in a confectioner’s shop, George couldn’t help himself. And he could never walk away from the table when he was ahead—he had to keep playing.
In the fall of ’85, his luck turned. A long losing streak began, one he couldn’t pull himself out of. George found himself deep in debt, constantly chasing his losses. He drained his inheritance from his grandfather, which was meant to pay for his graduate studies at Columbia. It felt like he was running on an endless railroad track, trying to catch up with the last car of the train. He’d reach out and almost grab on, but then the train would accelerate at the last second and pull away, leaving him deep in debt again.
After a particularly catastrophic loss on a horse named Gray Ghost, George approached Kent for credit. That day began his fatal descent. Kent gladly extended loans and credit to him. For a while, some of George’s luck returned, allowing him to repay Kent. This opened the door to more loans, and more again. Then the losing streak returned with a vengeance. It had continued until the day of George’s reckoning at Delmonico’s.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Damn you, Mary Morse. I don’t want to go on a walk,” George growled.
“Maybe they want that drink,” Flannigan said, moving to open the door. Then, “Christ Almighty, Pretty Kitty McGowan, what the hell are you doing here?”
In the doorway stood a ravishingly beautiful woman with jet-black hair, a dark complexion, and large brown eyes. George thought she could have been described as Creole.
“On special assignment, Tommy. Here, take this double eagle and sample the goods in the bar.” She deftly flipped up a coin. With equal dexterity, Flannigan snapped it out of the air and left the room.
“Kitty,” gasped George. “Oh, Kitty.” He ran over to her and took her in his arms. “Oh God, it’s good to see you.”
Kitty held George for a long time, burying her head against his chest. Finally, George took a step back and looked at her. Even amid all the fashionable ladies in the lobby, she was by far the most beautiful and elegant. No one would’ve suspected she was among the most desirable whores in New York, the darling of every scion, captain of industry, bank president, and Wall Street stockbroker.
George had met Kitty at Miss Jennie’s, a discreet and handsomely furnished brothel that catered exclusively to the society set. The tinkling sound of a piano added a sophisticated note to its air, and champagne sold for ten dollars a bottle. The girls were clean, refined, and trained in the art of conversation. On Friday and Saturday nights, only clients in evening dress with bouquets of flowers were admitted. And, above all, Miss Jennie’s was honestly run. In some of New York’s brothels, called panel houses, a man would emerge from behind a detachable panel in the wainscoting and steal a man’s wallet from his pants pocket while he was busy with a girl. Such a thing would never happen at Miss Jennie’s. Nor did her girls use knockout drops to rob clients.
George was drawn to Kitty immediately. He didn’t mind that other men coveted her too. In a short time, she paid George the highest compliment a whore can pay—she had sex with him without compensation in her off hours. The two soon fell in love with each other.
“Georgie, Kent sent me. I have wonderful news. He said to tell you he’s calling off the debt. You’re free, my love.”
10
“Take a deep breath and hold it.”
Mrs. Johnston yanked hard on the laces of the corset, and Julia Cross groaned as the air was pushed out of her body. The English housekeeper, a stout old woman with beefy forearms, tied the corset as expertly as if she were wrapping a parcel.
“There,” chirped Helen Cross. “You have the perfect figure for a princess gown. Long and narrow.”
“Perfect,” Mrs. Johnston agreed. “Next, you’ll need the camisole trimmed in lace and ribbons, and the petticoat with the ruffle along the bottom edge.”
Helen beamed with pride as the housekeeper continued to dress her daughter. She had waited for this moment for a long time. No longer would Julia wear her hair long and unpinned; it would be piled stylishly atop her head. In place of loose-fitting skirts hemmed six inches above her ankles, her dresses would be long and tapered, sweeping the floor. Above all, she could wear jewelry—as long as it had not been given to her by an unmarried man. Julia would finally be leaving her gawky, girlish days behind.
The housekeeper fastened a wire bustle atop Julia’s buttocks. “Now for the dress,” Mrs. Johnston said. Julia stepped into a beautiful, cornflower-blue gown, which the housekeeper rapidly fastened up at the back. Her mother stood behind her and looked at her in the mirror.
“You’re a real beauty, Julia,” she said, hugging her from behind. She lifted Julia’s flowing hair and coiled it on top of her head. “I’ll get some pins.”
Fifteen minutes later, with the aid of eighteen hairpins, Helen had transformed Julia’s hair. “Next week, you’ll attend your first private teas. So many people to see. You know, the Beekmans’ son just finished West Point,” Helen said, smiling at Mrs. Johnston. The housekeeper also knew the social cachet of a West Point man from a Knickerbocker family.
“May I keep this on? Just for a bit, to get used to it?” Julia asked.
Helen nodded.
“I have to finish some writing. But I’ll be down for tea,” Julia said.
Helen watched as her daughter skipped out of the room, her playful gait at odds with her newly grown-up look. By the ironclad rules of society, she was supposed to be raising her daughter as her mother had raised her. But Helen refused to practice the benign parental neglect expected of her class. Her mother had told her that she must see her children only on occasion and be “reasonably” acquainted with them. Helen defied her and fostered a close relationship with George, Julia, and Charlie. She’d made sure her husband did the same.
Julia’s coming-out did not mean Helen was losing a daughter, of course. There was no rush to the altar; her daughter was only seventeen. Still, the whole journey was to be undertaken with great care. For Julia to have the highest value on the society matrimonial market, even the tiniest hint of scandal must be avoided. The girl is lucky to have Aunt Caroline to give her counsel, Helen thought. Caroline would help Julia avoid the misfortune of her own daughter’s poor decisions.
Emily, Caroline’
s eldest, had fallen in love with James Van Alen, heir to millions from investments in the Illinois Central Railroad. An eccentric Anglophile who pretended to speak with an English accent, Van Alen was dubbed totally unsuitable by the Astors. William Backhouse Astor II, Caroline’s husband, publicly stated that they would have nothing to do with the Van Alens. The groom’s father, a Civil War general, challenged Astor to a duel; Astor backed out and apologized. The marriage took place, and the unhappiness began. After a succession of long, empty years, Emily died in 1881 while giving birth to her third child.
Caroline’s own marriage, Helen knew, was an elaborate facade. Astor was content to let her spend his millions, but he’d pushed her out of his life long ago. He carried on with prostitutes and showgirls on his yacht, the aptly named Light of the Harem. Caroline, a master of ignoring unpleasant matters, pretended he was a loving and devoted husband but went to great lengths to keep him from her balls and dinners.
Her own marriage, Helen had to admit, followed similar rules.
• • •
As she often did when entering her bedroom, Julia got a running start and flopped onto her bed. This time, she let out a loud yelp. The corset jammed up under her newly full breasts, and the bustle rammed into the lower part of her back. Immediately, she jumped up again.
Sadness came over her in a wave. The adult way of dressing, she realized, ruled out relaxing and playing. She couldn’t slide down the banister in this thing. Julia perched awkwardly at her rolltop desk, the corset forcing her to sit ramrod straight, the bustle keeping her at the edge of the seat. But her new posture didn’t deter her from commencing her daily two hours of writing. She was working on a novel, a tale of love and adventure very much influenced by the work of Sir Walter Scott.
Julia was glad her parents hadn’t listened to Granny and had her tutored at home. To their credit, they both wanted her to attend a day school—the elite and expensive Miss Spence’s, where she could make friends with girls from her own class and get a first-rate education. There, she discovered her passion for literature and writing. In Granny’s prehistoric world, too much education was dangerous; ladies only needed “ornamental knowledge” to win a husband. To placate Granny, Helen made sure Julia had lessons in painting, sketching, needlework, piano, and, most importantly, dancing. Now that she was coming out, the latter skill was essential.
There were other lessons too. Since all the men of her class were mad about horses and especially about racing, Julia had the requisite equestrian training from an early age. She went riding in Central Park—always sidesaddle, never astride—at least two times a week. Because her family spent every summer in Newport and the Berkshires, expertise in archery, lawn tennis, and croquet was also required. A girl should be proficient—but never good enough to beat a man.
In the past month, Julia had begun rigorous schooling in the intricate rules of etiquette. A dinner never starts earlier than nine, she was told. Sherry is always cooled but not red wine. Don’t let two brown or white sauces follow each other in succession. Then there was the strict code of behavior. Two essential rules had been drilled into her: restrain all emotional outbursts in public, and any hint of scandal means disaster, for once a girl is talked about, she’s done. Break these and it meant social extinction, Granny and her mother preached.
An eager student, Julia loved school. Now that colleges for women like Vassar and Wellesley existed, she eagerly looked forward to higher education. She wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed to go—many Knickerbockers thought college was a colossal waste of time for society girls. Learning Greek wouldn’t help her do important things like needlework, keeping the servants in line, or determining whether a room had been properly dusted.
“Why even bother?” Granny always said. “A woman’s body is not equal to a man’s, so it stands that her brain isn’t equal either.”
But Julia didn’t want to be ornamental. Her mother was against college, but she could tell her father was on her side. As an architect, he had an innate thirst for knowledge and beauty, which she’d inherited.
Immersed in a description of her heroine’s faithful nanny, Julia didn’t notice Charlie stealing into the room until he plopped down on her bed.
“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked.
“From now on, I dress like an adult, little boy.”
“What a bore.”
“And adults prize their privacy. So get out, you little beast.”
“I can’t. I’ve to stay clear of Father.”
“And why is that?”
“He’s in a very peculiar mood.”
11
Helen Cross watched as her husband absentmindedly picked at his saddle of lamb. It was usually his favorite dish. But tonight, in thirty minutes, he’d eaten one bite. He’d not said more than five words to her in that time either, but that was quite normal. Monks who’d taken a vow of silence talked more than she and John did at supper.
“Mrs. O’Shea’s going to be upset to see all that food you’ve left on your plate.”
As was the custom of the Knickerbockers, except for Sunday and holiday meals, the Crosses took the evening meal by themselves in the formal dining room. Children younger than eighteen ate downstairs in the kitchen with the servants.
Black walnut paneling covered every square inch of the walls and ceiling of the dining room. The light of the four-armed, electric chandelier hanging above the table reflected off their expensive Wedgwood dinnerware and gave the white linen tablecloth a warm glow.
Cross dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter. “Helen, I’m not a child who has to be told to clean his plate.”
A long moment of silence followed, interrupted only by the ticking of the antique brass clock on the sideboard. Helen dabbed her lips with her napkin and stared at her husband.
Six months after they married, they both realized they had nothing in common. In their world, this was normal. After a year, they retreated to different universes. Helen had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but it was a natural occurrence, really, like the coming of winter. It had happened to her parents. Now, it was the same for her. Though she’d lost her husband’s love early on and was resigned to the fact, sometimes, after all these years, it still pained her.
“I suppose you’re going out tonight,” she said. “You usually do when there’s nothing on the social calendar.”
“Let’s not get into this, Helen. I’m in no mood.”
“You could stay home and spend some time with me.”
“I spent time with you last night,” snapped Cross.
“That was across a ballroom at the Merricks’. And the night before, from the opposite end of a dinner table at the Linden-Travers’.”
“Goddamn it, Helen, I told you: let it go. I’m a damn good husband who provides for his family.”
“You are a good provider, yes. But there’s more to being a husband than that.”
“Like what?” shouted Cross. “You have everything you want.”
His gaze slid to the wall. He’d designed a pass-through panel behind the sideboard; it allowed the maid to slide trays of food through from the kitchen. Tonight, Mrs. O’Shea was behind it. He knew she was listening in.
“It’s true that I have every dress and bauble I might want. But did you ever think of my feelings? That perhaps I desire affection and attention more than I do another Dupret gown?”
“Really?” Cross asked, amused. “Affection? More than a Parisian gown?”
“Yes! You and I, sitting in the parlor by ourselves, you asking me how I’m feeling or how my day was or what I’m reading. Is that so inconceivable?”
“Helen, for God’s sake. I always ask you about your day.”
“No! You ask about running the house—preparing the meals, getting your underwear washed and folded, dealing with the servants, reminding you which social functions we’re to attend.
But you never ask about me.”
“Stop this foolishness, now. I’m in no mood,” thundered Cross, rising from his chair. “I won’t allow it.”
Helen stared down at her empty plate. “Just a tiny gesture of affection,” she murmured.
“Then find yourself a better husband.” Cross walked to the sliding doors of the dining room and opened them. “Yes, I am going out tonight. I’ll be back late.”
• • •
“Here we are, sir: 158 Hester Street. Billy McGlory’s joint.” The carriage driver opened the door and added, as Cross was stepping out, “If you’re going slumming tonight, sir, then Milligan’s Hell on Broome is the place. The waiter girls there spread their legs as wide as the mighty Mississippi. Can take you there, if you’d like.”
A look of shock came over Cross’s face, followed by disgust. “No, thank you,” he said politely, slapping the fare down into the driver’s gloved hand.
Although it was nine o’clock at night, Hester Street was awash with pedestrians. In his neighborhood, the sidewalks were empty by seven, except for cats and the occasional stray dog. Cross surveyed the line of buildings on the north side of the street, which were still lit by old-fashioned gaslights. Five- and six-story brick tenements crowded together, the first floors given over to stores of every description. Nearly everyone had a Hebrew-sounding name on the awnings or the windows—Liebman, Pinsky. Every open upper-story window was filled with human faces, flushed and sweaty, hoping for relief from the oppressively humid July evening. People filled the sidewalks and the street as well from gutter to gutter, stopping at the curbside pushcarts to examine their goods and haggle with the vendors over the price. Wagons and carriages had to inch their way through the crowds, the drivers cursing constantly at pedestrians to move out of the way.
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