Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  “Not to the right people, it ain’t. This is where the Metropolitan Elevated Railroad is putting their new line.” He scratched the dirty stubble on his chin. “It’s a wise man who knew when to buy this here piece!”

  “But who would know the land was going to be worth something? Aren’t those things kept a secret?”

  He shook his head. “Lady, go back to your fancy carriage. And leave these things to the men.”

  “Just one more thing,” she persisted. “Who decides where the railroad will put its line?”

  He looked at her as though she were a fool. “The Commissioner of Public Works. But of course everyone knows that the aldermen from the district are in on the plans.”

  You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, Grandma Carruth always said. She smiled in helpless innocence. “Why then, an alderman can make a great deal of money by buying up the land before the plans are announced!”

  “And wind up in the pen!” He snickered. “But a lot of ’em manage to get around that. Hidden companies, someone else’s name. There’s a heap of ways, and they ain’t legal. But I know a lot of men who got rich that way!”

  “Thank you,” she said, and went back to her carriage. My God, she thought. Alderman Calloway and his wife were among the guests that Arthur had invited for tonight. She suddenly wondered whether the party was a social affair or a meeting of stockholders and partners. Zephyr Realty celebrating its killing.

  “East Eleventh Street now, Jamison.” She settled back in the carriage and smoothed her skirts. Her first day out was proving to be quite instructive!

  Now if she could only get some answers from Drew…

  In his studio, Drew put down his paintbrush and took a bite out of a large cheese sandwich, eyeing it with distaste. The bread was stale. And it made a miserable breakfast. But at least it hadn’t cost him anything. The Dutch beer saloon downstairs had a free lunch counter; for the price of a five-cent beer yesterday, he’d got supper and breakfast.

  He stretched. He’d been up for hours, but he was still stiff from that bumpy cot. He supposed he could have made it back to Gramercy Park last night, but he’d been so involved in this painting.

  No. That’s not the reason, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to go home last night. It was easier to send a note round with a messenger boy telling Isobel he was working late and would sleep in his studio. He’d done it often lately. And Isobel was increasingly sharp and reproachful to him. He hadn’t remembered his mother as being so autocratic, so demanding in her ways. She was beginning to try his patience. Oh, she’d been helpful, true enough. He couldn’t have taken this room without her assistance—and her money. But he was starting to feel smothered. It was as though she felt her love and interest gave her the right to push and direct his affairs. He sighed. Marcy had encouraged him, supported him. But she’d never tried to usurp what was his.

  Marcy haunted him so! It was a nightmare to think of her. Because, every time, the last tortured image in his brain was of Arthur bending over her naked body, her soft arms about his neck.

  He heard a noise outside his door. Someone was coming up the rickety staircase. It couldn’t be Isobel; she never managed to shake off the effects of her nightly laudanum until midmorning. “Come in,” he responded to the light tap outside. He smiled uneasily at his visitor. “Willough! It’s good to see you.”

  His sister smiled at him. “Is it, big brother? Then why have you been a stranger? You’ve been home from Paris for over two months. And I’ve only seen you once, at Cecily’s christening.”

  Oh, God, he thought. Poor Willough. What could he tell her? That her husband was a man without honor? Seducing other men’s wives? But…Marcy had trapped him—Drew—on Clear Pond Island to force him into marriage. Perhaps the blame was Marcy’s. Perhaps she had seduced Arthur. And even that lecher Stewart, in Paris. Oh hell! What did it matter now? He was well rid of Marcy, he told himself. And he still couldn’t tell Willough anything, no matter who had been to blame. “I’ve been busy, Willough. That’s all.”

  “Too busy to visit me? When I was confined to my house? I thought we were better friends than that.”

  “Willough, I…”

  Her violet eyes were thoughtful, searching. “Or is it Arthur? Has something happened between you two?”

  He crossed to the window, staring out at the brick arches of the church school across the street. Several children were playing on the sidewalk; their happy laughter drifted up to him. Marcy always laughed. Oh, damn you, damn you, Marcy! he thought.

  Behind him, Willough sighed. “How are you doing with your painting?” she asked at last.

  He turned. This, at least, was safe territory. He waved his arm around the room, indicating the canvases stacked up against the walls. “I’m painting like a madman, every waking moment.”

  Willough pointed to the large canvas on his easel. “I read about the Impressionist show you were in last spring. Is this the kind of work they’re doing?”

  “No. That’s the thing of it. I came back expecting to continue what I’d begun in Paris. The odd perspectives, the simplicity of the Japanese prints. But more and more I found myself going back to the field sketches and watercolors I did last summer in the Adirondacks. I’m working them up into large paintings now. But they’re different. I’ve changed since last summer. Look!” He moved about the room, pulling out canvases, feeling again the excitement he’d felt when first he’d realized that his style had changed.

  Willough peered intently at the paintings as he indicated them. “But you’re right, Drew. Last year’s pictures are good, but…they’re small and dark.”

  “That’s because I was using a canvas prepared with a brown undercoat. The way I was taught. Claude Monet paints directly onto his plain white canvas. I’d been trying that in Paris, on my street scenes. It gave me a fresher look, a brighter palette. I didn’t think I could translate that to my mountain pictures.”

  “These are wonderful, Drew! Even your technique is different.”

  “Yes. Somehow the brighter colors almost demand a looser brushstroke. Though not as loose as what the Impressionists are doing. Not yet, at least. I have too many years of academic training to overcome.”

  Willough looked around the small room with its single, grimy window. “I don’t see how you can paint such brightness in here! Can’t you afford something better?”

  “I’m afraid not. I owe Father rather a lot of money. A loan I must repay when I sell a few paintings. And then I’m mounting an exhibit. I’ve a friend who owns a large studio. As long as I pay the expenses, he’s agreed to show my works. I think I’m ready. God, I hope I’m ready!”

  “When?”

  “The show opens in a week or so.”

  “That’s exciting! Send me the details. I’ll be sure to come.” She frowned. “Still, this dreadful place… If I had money of my own, I’d give it to you. But can’t you borrow from Mother?”

  “I already have. Frankly, I don’t like being beholden to her.”

  Willough chuckled. “I don’t believe it, big brother! You’ve discovered at last the dark side of being Mother’s pet?”

  He flinched. Her words cut too close to the bone. He laughed sheepishly. “We both have our blind spots. You said that once. And you’ll still go running if Father calls you!”

  That silenced her. She began to flip idly through his sketchbook. She stopped at a drawing of Marcy (why hadn’t he destroyed them? he thought, anguished), studied it intently, then looked at Drew. “Are you happy, big brother?” she asked softly.

  He nodded. “With my painting. Yes. For the first time.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Are you, little sister? Happy, I mean?”

  She shrugged. “I have my husband. And my child. And I have my duty.” Her eyes were dark with concern. “What happened to Marcy, Drew?”

  His voice grated in his throat. “She made her choice.”

  “But…your letters…I would h
ave thought…” She put a gentle hand on his arm. “You loved her. You needed her.”

  The bitter truth tore at his guts. Marcy the fortune hunter. “Perhaps I wasn’t what she needed.”

  The conversation was desultory after that, and Willough left with an invitation to Drew for a visit that she felt would not take place.

  “Take me home, Jamison.” Willough settled into her carriage. The bright morning had lost its glow. Drew was so obviously miserable. Her brother, who’d always been full of laughter. And she could do nothing. More than ever she was convinced that Arthur knew something. Something that had created a rift between him and Drew. Perhaps she’d press him a little harder. And if that didn’t work, well… As far as she knew, Drew had met Marcy last summer, when he’d gone on that excursion. Who else had gone? Drew’s friend, Ed Collins. She had his address somewhere. She’d write to him. This very morning. He must know where Marcy came from.

  Willough nodded determinedly. Yes. Marcy. There might be some answers, some happiness for Drew, if she could talk to Marcy. She could spare enough from her housekeeping money to pay her fare to the North Woods and back. And maybe bring Marcy back with her.

  Because it was as plain as day that Drew loved her desperately, no matter what he said.

  She was greeted by the sound of wailing as she entered her front foyer. “Merciful heaven, Lillie!” she exclaimed. “What is that?”

  “It’s Brigid, ma’am. She just got the news. Her brother Kevin died.”

  “Oh dear. The one who had consumption.”

  Lillie shrugged. “The TB takes a lot of folk, ma’am.”

  Yes, thought Willough. Especially the ones who (what was it Kevin had said that day?) breathe the foul air of this city. And if he lived in one of those rookeries, with not enough to eat… She was beginning to think more and more like Nat, seeing the ugliness of civilization through his eyes. She sighed unhappily. Dear Nat. They would have been so right for each other. “Take Brigid off to her room, Lillie. See that she rests. The other girls can manage her chores today. If she’s feeling a little better later and wishes to talk, tell her she can come to my sitting room.” Perhaps Arthur could be persuaded to send some money to the family to pay for a proper funeral.

  “Yes’m. Oh, Mrs. Gray. A telegram came for you just after you went out this morning. I put it in the music room.”

  “Thank you.” Willough crossed to the music room and opened the door. She was struck with a fanciful thought. This was where she’d last seen Nat, the night of Arthur’s party, when they’d quarreled. And this was where she’d seen Brigid’s unfortunate brother, coughing his life away. She shivered. She was almost afraid to pick up the telegram.

  It was from her father. Lass. Come to Saratoga. Trouble at MacCurdyville. I need you. Daddy.

  Oh, God, what could have happened? She knew, of course, that the business was not as healthy as it had been. The Panic of ’73 had cut deeply into Daddy’s cash reserves. He’d lost a few good contracts for cast-iron stoves when some of the manufacturers had gone under. And even though he was now using prisoners from Clinton to save money, and had laid off many of his longtime workers, there were still difficulties. But she hadn’t thought it was critical.

  She thought quickly. It was still morning. If she left right now, she could be up in Saratoga before nightfall. But the party tonight—all those important people—Arthur would be furious! He would come in from Albany at seven o’clock and find himself without a hostess. She paced the floor, torn with indecision. It was her duty as a wife. That was all she had. Her duty. She didn’t have Nat. She didn’t have love.

  “The hell with Arthur,” she whispered, throwing down the telegram. She was going to Daddy!

  Daddy needed her. Daddy loved her.

  She packed a few necessities and had Jamison take her to the station. All through the trip, she worried. And when she arrived at the house, Martha walked with her to where Willough could see through the window onto the veranda. Brian Bradford reclined on the wicker chaise, a small lap robe across his knee, his eyes closed. “He looks terrible, Martha,” she said to the servant.

  “He’s feeling very poorly, missus. Terrible colicky pains all the time now. Robert finally persuaded him to have the doctor. We’re expecting him this evening. But I know it will cheer him to see you. It’s been a long time since you’ve been here.”

  “Yes.” Nearly a year, she thought. When she and Nat… She felt her heart catch with pain. Would she ever be able to forget him? And now to be in this house, so filled with sweet memories. Memories of a love that was gone forever. She’d strolled with Nat on that lawn, kissed him here in the parlor. Where was he now? she wondered. She stepped out onto the veranda. “Hello, Daddy.”

  Brian opened his eyes and struggled to sit up. “Lass. I knew you wouldn’t let your old Dad down.”

  She perched on the chaise beside him. “Your telegram said there was trouble at MacCurdyville. Of course I came.”

  “It’s a bad time, lass. A bad time.” He grimaced in pain and clutched at his stomach. “And I’m not up to handling it. Bill’s a fool of a manager, and that damned clerk of his isn’t much better. They’re ruining me. Every one of them. Clegg died last spring, or I would have had him back right away, retirement or not.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “You knew I had some of the prisoners from Clinton working the pit mines.”

  “I always thought it was a bad move, whether Arthur legalized it or not. Too many men were laid off to make room for the prisoners.”

  “Dammit, Willough, a man’s got to save money where he can!”

  “Not when it costs men their jobs. I can’t believe money’s that tight. I remember the books from last year. And unless there’s no more wood on that New Russia tract, you still should be turning a profit on the charcoal.”

  “But I’ve had to drop my prices. Or that bastard Sam Doyle won’t buy. And I figure the land’ll be stripped in another six months. And I’ll still be paying taxes on it. A worthless tract, by God!”

  She thought of Nat and his anger at the destruction of the forest. That had been state land, meant to stay a verdant wilderness. “Why don’t you start replanting? Put in new young trees. Then it’ll be worth selling in a few years.”

  He waved an impatient hand. “The New Russia land isn’t the problem,” he growled. “I’d like to finish building the new finery, with or without a bank loan! I told Bill I wanted to see a better profit at the end of this year. I suggested he put it to the men—either we reduce the wages or we’re obliged to close. The men aren’t fools. They’d make the right choice. But they’ve been stirred up, dammit! There were a few rabble-rousers among the men who were laid off. Blaming it on the prisoners. And that damn fool Bill must have pleaded the case badly.” Brian leaned forward to pick up a glass of water, drained it at a gulp, and belched loudly.

  “What happened, Daddy?”

  “Some of the men have taken over Number Three. They’ve shut down the furnace. Locked themselves in. They’re threatening to smash the blast equipment.”

  Willough frowned in thought. “Wait them out. They’ll come to their senses. As long as you’re still turning out pig iron from the other furnaces…”

  “It can’t be done. The rest of the men have called a general strike in sympathy! No one will work—the furnaces are all dying down. Bill had to send the prisoners back to Clinton to keep the mob from killing them. And now the warden wants the governor to send in troops!”

  “What do the men want?”

  “Damned if I know! It’s a stalemate, right now.”

  “Someone’s got to go in there. Find out what they want. I think, to begin, we’re going to have to promise them that the prisoners won’t be back to steal away their jobs.” She was making quick calculations. They could wire Bill tonight to keep things calm, do nothing, at least until morning. She could get to MacCurdyville before midnight, look over the books with the clerk, decide what concessions Daddy
could afford to make. If they could get more of the men working again, they might settle for a pay cut. Everyone knew times were hard. It was just important that the workers feel that Brian Bradford was trying to be fair. “I think I can make the men see that…”

  Brian cut her short. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “Why, negotiating with the men. You’d have to trust my judgment, of course, but…”

  “You? Are you daft?” Brian lumbered up from the chaise and moved to the veranda railing. He stared out over the lawn, bathed in the late-afternoon sun. “I managed to get hold of Nat Stanton. The men always trusted him. And he has a head on his shoulders, not like that fool Bill!”

  Willough’s heart stopped. “Nat?”

  “I had a devil of a time tracking him down. He’s been working as a gardener for an old lady over in North Creek.”

  “A gardener?” she echoed. The very mention of his name had made her unable to think clearly. Nat. So near.

  “He’s become a hard man, Stanton has. A hard man! Still unforgiving. He made me crawl to him. If I weren’t backed to the wall…” He winced in pain. “And I’m not well. I know I’ll be myself again as soon as that fool doctor can fix me up, but in the meantime I need Nat. And that bastard knows it!”

  “You need Nat.” She felt sick at heart. Daddy didn’t trust her to do the job. He still wanted a son.

  “Yes. I need him. Or else I wouldn’t have agreed to his terms.”

  “Which are…?”

  “Five thousand dollars. Right off the bat. In cash. He wouldn’t even continue our talk until I’d sent Robert to my bank in Saratoga.”

  Five thousand dollars. That had been the dowry Daddy had promised, long ago. Willough felt a pang of guilt. Of regret. One way or another, Nat was determined to get what he thought was owed him.

  “And then, if he succeeds in settling the troubles, he wants shares in the company. Twenty-five percent. And a voice in the running of the enterprises, including the sawmill at Glens Falls.”

  “He wants his partnership too.” Perhaps she’d been right not to marry Nat. It was clear that the money and the partnership had been important to him. Oh, Willough, she thought, that’s unfair. Hadn’t Arthur had his reasons for marriage? The entrée into society, and perhaps the dowry as well. And there was the matter of Willough’s stock that Arthur was holding in trust. No. She shouldn’t despise Nat for what he wanted; her true anger should be directed at Brian for what he didn’t want: his daughter’s help. “Why did you send for me, Daddy?” she asked bitterly. “You didn’t need me.” It would still be Bradford and Stanton, not Bradford and Bradford.