Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  Willough watched him brush a bit of mud from his livery. Livery! she thought in disgust. Arthur did everything but put a crest on the servants’ uniforms! He worshipped Mammon completely. Oh, he hid it well. Under a veneer of casual indifference. But she knew that every friendship they made, every social engagement, was designed to further his fortunes. She sighed. That was probably the reason he’d married her. He didn’t need Isobel’s connections anymore, that back-door entrée into the world of New York society. Now he had a Carruth on his arm when he swept in at the front door.

  Not that Mother would have anything to do with them. Nursing her grievances. They’d hardly seen her since the wedding. They’d seen Daddy a few times. He’d come down from MacCurdyville to talk business with Arthur. Willough was worried about him. He looked ghastly. Drawn and tired. Constantly complaining about his digestion. He’d decided it wasn’t dyspepsia—more likely an ulcer or chronic colitis—but he still refused to see a doctor.

  And he was concerned about the business. He’d had to stop the construction of the new finery, but he was still looking for ways to save money. He and Arthur were talking again of using the prisoners from Clinton Prison as free labor. Willough wasn’t sure how it could be arranged—she had an uneasy feeling that something illegal was involved. But every time she tried to sit in on their discussions or ask a question, Daddy would shoo her away.

  “Go on about your business, lass,” he’d say.

  In the carriage, she brushed away tears of anger. Her business. She’d never dreamed that her business would be a life of idleness, of uselessness. With a man she didn’t love, a man she was coming to despise. She fought back a sudden wave of nausea. And now, with Dr. Page’s news…

  At Madison Square, the carriage turned in to Fifth Avenue, moving at a brisker pace now that the traffic had thinned out. She frowned in distaste as Arthur’s house came into view. She had found it dazzling at first, but now its glories were beginning to pall. There was a lack of restraint in the elaborate stonework, the overabundance of gilt and velvet and plush. Like Arthur. Handsome and well turned-out. But with a certain lack of class that showed around the edges. She sighed. She had treated Nat badly, finding him unpolished. But Nat had a dignity that Arthur would never match, for all his liveried servants and fancy clothes. If only she’d realized it in time.

  She thought, I mustn’t think of Nat. I have a life. I have a duty.

  She smiled at the parlor maid who opened the door and helped her out of her velvet and fur pelisse. She took off her hat and gloves, rubbed her cold hands together. She had to talk to Arthur.

  “Lillie, is Mr. Gray at home?”

  “In his study upstairs, ma’am. But he’s expecting Mr. Davis.”

  Willough nodded. One of Arthur’s many business friends. They came and went at all hours. She didn’t know what they did. She didn’t even know exactly what Arthur did. But he was always giving her large sums of money, sometimes in the form of a bank draft, more often in cash. And then, a week or two later, he’d ask her to make out checks in payment for various expenses around the house. And there were papers to sign. She never bothered to read them. Just business, Arthur said. She never questioned him. It was part of her duty as a wife—to hold her tongue.

  After Lillie had gone, Willough hesitated in the foyer. She couldn’t quite decide whether to take a cup of tea down here in the small drawing room or go upstairs to her sitting room. Perhaps she’d ring for Brigid to unlace her corsets. She heard a low cough from the music room. She pushed open the door and peered in.

  Brigid was there. With a man. The maid gasped in surprise and curtsied quickly. “Oh, Mrs. Gray. I know we shouldn’t be in here.”

  Willough frowned. She didn’t think Brigid was keeping company with anyone. And certainly not with a man who seemed old enough to be her father. She eyed him more closely. He didn’t appear to be at all well. His face was pale and beaded with sweat, and his cough, though soft, was continuous. “What is this, Brigid?” she said gently.

  The girl looked ready to cry. “Oh, ma’am. This is me big brother Kevin. We just had a nice visit, and he was leaving. And then he started to cough and I didn’t know what else to do. So I brought him in here just to rest a bit.”

  “Can I send for a doctor?”

  Kevin smiled wanly. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am. Me being a stranger and all.” Unlike Brigid’s, his voice held scarcely a trace of an accent.

  “Brigid talks about her brothers often. But I don’t think she’s mentioned you.”

  “That’s because I’m the black sheep of the family, so to speak. The prodigal son. I left the old country in ’55 to come here. The rest of ’em didn’t come over till three, four years ago. I think they expected me to be a rich swell by now. But I’m just a longshoreman at the docks.” He coughed again, his face reddening with the effort.

  “We really should send for a doctor.”

  He shook his head. “It won’t do no good, ma’am. It’s just the TB. I reckon it will take me some day, the way it took my wife and boy.”

  “Oh, but there must be something…”

  He shrugged. “When you suck in the air of this foul city from morning till night, it’s bound to rot your lungs.” He put his cap back on, tugged politely at the brim. “I’ll be going now, ma’am.” He kissed his sister on the forehead. “See you in church on Sunday, my girl.” He walked to the door of the music room, then stopped, watching—a frown on his face—as Lillie let in Arthur’s business friend and showed him upstairs. Kevin jerked his thumb at the man’s retreating back. “If you don’t mind, ma’am. Who was that?”

  “That’s Mr. William Davis, an acquaintance of my husband’s.”

  Kevin snickered. “Davis, be damned, if you’ll pardon my language, ma’am! I remember him when he was just Tim O’Leary, stealing apples from the carts on Broome Street. Unless my eyes are playing tricks on me.” He scratched his chin. “Eighteen years ago! I lost track of him finally. But I always thought he’d come to a bad end. He belonged to a gang on Broome Street. They hung around Mulligan’s Hall. Lifted purses, mostly. But I heard they were fencing goods now and again. And…arranging for women, ma’am. If you know what I mean. I never met their leader. Artie Flanagan, he was. Worked as a bouncer part-time. At Mrs. Soule’s establishment, Thirty-Three Mercer Street. They said he was always putting on airs. Reading law books and talking big. Just as if he wasn’t a mick like the rest of us.”

  Brigid clucked her tongue. “It takes a lot of brass for a man to get by with nothing but his charm.”

  And good connections, thought Willough. Artie Flanagan. Could it be? She shook her head. What a ridiculous idea. Of course not! “I’ll be in my room when you’ve said good-bye to your brother, Brigid.”

  With Brigid’s help she changed into a loose tea gown, glad to discard her corsets. She was just sipping her second cup of tea when Arthur knocked at her door and strode in. He carried a fat envelope and several folded sheets of paper.

  “The usual,” he said. “Ten thousand in cash.”

  For the first time she was curious. She thought, From William Davis. Alias Tim O’Leary. “What does Mr. Davis do?”

  Arthur didn’t blink. “He’s in investments. The money is a legal fee. For some advice I gave him.”

  She took the envelope from him. “Do you have papers for me to sign as well?”

  “Yes.”

  She moved to her desk and picked up her pen. While he wasn’t looking, she pressed the nib against the leg of her chair. “Oh, dear,” she said, holding up the pen as Arthur came toward her. “It’s bent. Have you a pen on your desk?”

  Impatiently he tossed her the papers. “Yes. I’ll get it.”

  As quickly as she could, she scanned the documents. Merciful heaven! They seemed to indicate that she was a partner in a real estate company! Zephyr Realty. Picking up a pencil, she scribbled the name on a scrap of paper, just managing to hide it under her blotter as Arthur returned. She signed the paper
s with her usual indifference, handed them back to him. “Anything else?”

  “I need a couple of checks. The first one to Senator Martin. One thousand dollars. It’s his birthday tomorrow. I thought it would be nice to give him a contribution in honor of the occasion. He’s up for reelection this year.”

  She pulled out her checkbook and wrote the check as he directed.

  “The other is for Charlie Verplanck. He’s the one who put up our iron fence last month. Make the check out for five hundred and fifty dollars.”

  She looked up in surprise. “I thought I saw the bill on your desk for twice that!”

  “You must have been mistaken,” he said evenly.

  “I noticed, when I passed City Hall today, that it was the same fencing.”

  “Yes. Verplanck did that job as well.”

  “How fortunate. That’s a big fence. It must have earned him a pretty penny. I wonder who arranged for him to get the contract?”

  He eyed her coldly. “You’re awfully curious today.”

  She smiled. Was he actually beginning to squirm? “I thought it might be amusing to start another Tweed-type scandal. Now that Tweed himself has been put away in the penitentiary.”

  He was trying hard to keep his composure. “I find you very unamusing today. As a matter of fact, I’ve resigned from the Tammany Society. Broken all my connections with that reprehensible man.”

  “You’re coming up in the world, Arthur. The Astors have replaced the Tweeds.” Just as the Tweeds had replaced the Broome Street gang? she thought idly.

  He stroked his mustache. “You’re all vinegar today, my dear. Oddly enough, I find it heightens your attractiveness. It’s been rather awhile. I think I’ll come to your room tonight.”

  She stood up from her desk and crossed to the window, pulling aside the lace curtains to gaze out on the street. She always hated those times. Once a week or so he came to her room. To her bed. It was always pitch dark, and she was still too horrified by the whole thing to do more than lift her nightgown. She could never decide if he came to satisfy himself or to humiliate her. There was never any love in it. But it was her duty. “Don’t you have someone else to amuse you tonight, Arthur? One of your charming mistresses?” She turned and smiled thinly at him. “And I assume you have someone in Albany as well. For those times when you must be in the capital.”

  “I’ve never made a secret of it.” He crossed to her and put his hand on her arm. “But I want you tonight.”

  Her heart was filled with bitterness. “Why? Is it your revenge on my mother? Because she didn’t succumb to your oily charms?”

  “Damn you,” he said softly. His hand shot out, striking her across the face.

  She took a moment to recover, then stared at him, her violet eyes blazing with hatred. “In any event, I’ll sleep alone tonight.”

  His smile was cold and dangerous. “I don’t think it would be wise.”

  “I’ve just come from Dr. Page. I’m carrying your child. The doctor thinks it best for my constitution that you…abstain…until after the child is born.”

  His expression softened. “A child! That’s wonderful news, Willough.”

  “I despise it already, Arthur. As I despise you. I suspected it weeks ago, but I didn’t want it confirmed. I didn’t want to know. The child will be born in July, in case you’re interested.”

  “Willough, my dear. I’m delighted. You’ll find me a very attentive husband in the next few months. A woman’s confinement can be tiresome.”

  “I don’t intend to be confined. I’ll go about my business as long as I can.”

  “Not if you show! It wouldn’t do to be seen in public under those circumstances.”

  She laughed her contempt. “Oh, Arthur. How frightfully middle-class you are.” If he truly was Artie Flanagan, he hadn’t quite transformed the sow’s ear into a silk purse after all.

  He picked up his papers and walked to the door. “You’re getting to be a regular virago. It’s a pity you’ve never been able to carry a little of that fire into the bedroom.” He brushed a bit of lint off his frock coat. “I won’t be in for supper.” Then he was gone.

  To spend the evening with one of his women. She sighed and sank into her chaise. What a sham her life had become. More painful than that was the sting of his appraisal of her frigidity. Was she predestined to it? Was it every woman’s sexual nature to be cold? Or only hers?

  “Frankie, you look cold. Why don’t you go back to the bunkhouse and see if Cook will give you another cup of hot java?” Nat tied his scarf more snugly about his neck and tucked the ends into the collar of his heavy woolen shirt. He stamped the accumulated snow from his boots and smiled at Frankie, a shivering lad of about thirteen. The boy’s face was pale, even by the light of the kerosene torches planted at intervals along the narrow forest road. “Maybe he’ll give you some more pork and beans. You look like you could use some. Tell him I said so. Go on,” he urged as the lad hesitated. “You have time to go back. It’ll be another hour before this load is ready to move.” He jerked his head in the direction of the large, flat sled and its team of horses.

  As the boy scampered off, Nat looked up at the night sky. The moon was beginning to set. One of the horses shook its mane and snorted. Nat laughed softly. “I don’t blame you, Dobbin. I don’t like getting up at one in the morning either!”

  From the top of the skidway, one of the other lumbermen called to him. “Come on, Nat. Lend a hand.”

  He nodded his head and clambered up the side of the steep, snowy bank to the top of the skidway, a crude loading stand built against the slope. All during the fall, Ordway’s lumbermen had chopped the soaring trees around Eagle Lake, sending the giants crashing to the forest floor. They started in the fall when the farmers and tourist guides, putting aside their summer occupations, could swell the ranks of the lumbermen. Besides, it was best to wait until autumn, when the sap was down. Summer-cut wood, especially pine, tended to attract woodworms as the logs lay waiting to be moved, and city folk didn’t fancy wormy lumber.

  Nat had become quite adept with his ax, managing to fell forty trees a day in decent weather. He certainly had the strength, after all his years of pounding iron. And the old-timers in the lumber camp had shown him how a man could notch and aim a tree to fall just so. No one wanted to be responsible for a “widowmaker,” a badly aimed tree that lodged in another as it fell, risking the life of every man who had to untangle the mess.

  Nat had almost enjoyed the back-breaking work. It made him so bone-tired, so sapped at the end of a fifteen-hour day, he had no energy left to think of Willough. To curse her.

  The autumn had been a busy one at the Ordway tract. When a tree was felled, it was trimmed of its branches with the duller side of a double ax, then hauled—skidding along the leafy floor of the forest—by a team of oxen until it reached one of the many skidways scattered through the tract. After the wood had been stacked by the lumberjacks, who jacked the logs onto the skidway with the help of a spiked pole, the logs were measured to standard (thirteen feet in length and nineteen inches around) and marked on the ends with an embossing hammer, which identified the owner of the tract. Ordway’s mark was the number 34.

  Now, deep into winter, it was time to take the logs to the banking ground. They’d had to wait until enough snow had fallen so the roads could hold the weight of a loaded sled while easing the burden for the horses. A light sled had been sent on ahead to pack down the snow and provide an even path. On the straight stretches they had sprinkled water, which froze and turned the ruts into smooth ice to facilitate the haul; but on the often steep hills, the problem was reversed. Here they needed sand or straw to slow the progress of the sled. And the job had to be done at night. If the sun melted a patch of snow, the horses could stumble, the sled tilt and slide dangerously.

  The banking ground, where the sleds were headed, was a frozen lake that Ordway’s men called simply the Flow. It was dammed at the outlet to the Rock River. In the spring, when t
he Flow melted, the dam would be removed, and the floating logs, borne on the flood, would travel down the Rock River to the Cedar River, and finally into the Hudson, where they joined the cuttings of hundreds of other logging operators in the mountains. The white pine and spruce and fir, which made up the bulk of the trees that were cut in the Adirondack Wilderness, were light enough to float easily on the current. Their ultimate destination was Glens Falls, where nearly four thousand sawmills were in operation.

  Nat stood beside the skidway, pike in hand, and helped to roll the giant logs onto the sled. Glens Falls. Ordway had his sawmill there. Nat cursed softly, remembering. And so did Brian Bradford.

  Bradford! Damn the lot of them! Once he’d thought that the war was the only evil that man was capable of. It had taken his involvement with the Bradfords to show him that evil came with power. “Sorry, Stanton,” he’d been told. At every ironworks in the region, from Crown Point to Essex, from Ticonderoga to Lake Henderson. “We can’t use you.” Eight years. Eight years he’d put into learning everything there was to know about iron. And there wasn’t a job to be had. “Not for you, Stanton.” He’d finally got at least a partial answer to his baffled questions. From some flunky at Port Henry who’d been given “instructions.” He wasn’t high enough up on the echelon to know the whole story, but the word had come from MacCurdyville, presumably Brian Bradford himself. And there were whispers about Miss Bradford—now Mrs. Arthur Gray—and insults of a personal nature.

  Mrs. Arthur Gray. The cold bitch wasn’t content with walking out on him. She wanted to rub his nose in it as well. I’ll ruin you, she’d said, that last night at Gray’s house. Nat laughed bitterly. She was doing one hell of a job trying!

  In the end, he’d been lucky. He couldn’t leave the region—because of Gramps—go out to Pennsylvania where they were operating furnaces and forges. But Ordway was still hiring late in the season. Nat didn’t know a damn thing about lumbering, but he’d learn. And Ordway paid well, at least. Thirty dollars a month. And room and board. It wasn’t what he’d been earning as Bradford’s manager, of course. But it was enough to keep Gramps in food and firewood.