by Radha Vatsal
But this was only the beginning. She engineered a great match between her daughter and the Duke of Marlborough. The two were married in a sumptuous wedding at Saint Thomas Episcopal Church on Fifth Avenue just a few months after Alva divorced William K. on grounds of adultery in “the most sensational divorce case in America.” She kept her house in Newport and, reporters guessed, a lump sum of over two million dollars, as well as an annual income of a hundred thousand dollars.
Kitty could only marvel at the then–Mrs. Vanderbilt’s boldness and self-assurance in throwing over one of the richest men in America. At the time, she had said that “society was by turns stunned, horrified, and then savage in its opposition and criticism.”
“After the divorce, not a single one of my friends would recognize me,” Alva told a reporter before setting off for Europe with five maids, a male servant, and seventy pieces of baggage.
Mrs. Belmont must be over sixty now, Kitty thought, calculating quickly. She married Oliver Hazard Perry Belmont, the son of Jewish banker August Belmont and also a divorcé, in a civil ceremony in 1896. He died twelve years later, in 1908, after which the widowed Mrs. Belmont threw her considerable energies and wealth into the suffrage cause. “It is a mistake to believe that any woman, no matter what her financial condition of life, can lead an idle existence,” Mrs. Belmont told reporters. “It is merely a question of the worthiness of her activities.”
And this was the woman whom Kitty would be interviewing.
“You will listen more than ask questions,” Miss Busby said when Kitty came back upstairs and confessed to being apprehensive. “Talk about the operetta. Don’t get drawn into personal matters, and everything will work out.”
“I suppose so.”
“The interview is next week, so you will have plenty of time to prepare yourself.”
Plenty of time to become more nervous was more likely the case. But Kitty took some consolation from the thought that Mrs. Belmont relied on the press to relay her message. “The American woman has been brought up to shun publicity, but we must forget our personal inclinations for the sake of a great cause,” she declared in one of the stories Kitty had just read. “To be successful in any phase of politics, one must give one’s life more or less to the public, and that is the lesson the American suffragist must learn.”
A typist poked her head into the alcove. “Telephone call for you, Miss Weeks.”
Kitty took it on the instrument on the third floor landing, between the coop and the cafeteria. She had to stick a finger into one ear so she could hear above the din from the kitchen and the relentless click-clacking of typewriters.
“Miss Weeks?” The man’s voice was unfamiliar. “This is Dr. Edgar Bright. May I speak to you at the Sentinel tomorrow? This concerns my daughter.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Let’s go to the movies, Grace,” Kitty suggested over lunch in the pantry. When she felt in need of company at home, she would join the maid and Mrs. Codd for lunch. Right now, she needed distraction, and the pictures would provide the perfect antidote to her sense that something she might not like was about to happen. Dr. Bright hadn’t told her with any specificity why he wanted to talk to her. And he wasn’t the most personable individual. She doubted that he just wanted to chat.
“Can I, Mrs. Codd?” Grace turned to the cook. Although Kitty was her employer, Mrs. Codd supervised her work, and she often needed Grace to help peel potatoes or do other chores in the afternoon.
“‘May I,’ child. ‘May,’ not ‘can,’” the cook said.
“It’s the same thing,” Grace protested.
“No, it’s not. Of course you can go to the pictures. Will I let you—that’s the question.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Of course I will.”
Grace polished off her lunch and washed the dishes, and an hour later, she and Kitty walked down to the cinema on Broadway. There were no set start or finish times like there were for stage performances—the reels of film played in an endless loop. One could arrive whenever one wanted and pick up in the middle of the program.
Kitty and Grace had to sit through only a few colored slides advertising hair tonic and hosiery before the pianist changed her music to a rousing tune that signaled the start of the final episode of The Romance of Elaine, featuring Kitty’s favorite heroine, Pearl White.
Miss White was sensational. Her first series, The Perils of Pauline, had exploded on the screen last year, and Kitty and Grace had watched every episode. It was followed by more: The Exploits of Elaine, The New Exploits of Elaine, and now The Romance of Elaine. A glass slide had announced Pearl’s new series, The Iron Claw, which would begin next month.
Kitty thought it uncanny that the pictures reflected current concerns. In Perils, Pearl fought a treacherous secretary; in Exploits, a shadowy scientific force; in New Exploits, a cunning Chinaman; and in Romance, a German spy by the name of Marcus del Mar. His mission: to steal plans for a wireless torpedo, the latest in scientific warfare. And today’s episode revealed that he had hidden a getaway submarine in a secret harbor.
So, perhaps fears of amphibious forces storming the East Coast weren’t unfounded—or perhaps pictures like this magnified concerns that wouldn’t otherwise have picked up much traction.
The action on the screen swept Kitty away. The episode ended with a column of water shooting in the air as del Mar and his accomplices were blown up in their submarine by the very torpedo whose plans he had been trying to steal.
The theater audience stomped and cheered their approval. If only she were allowed to interview Pearl White someday, the actress would have so much to tell the Ladies’ Page readers, Kitty thought. What it was like to do her job, how they selected stories to film and how she performed her daring stunts…but of course Miss Busby wouldn’t permit that kind of interview to be printed, not at the moment.
Kitty would have to take it one step at a time. First, the divorcée, Alva Belmont.
• • •
At ten o’clock the next morning, a messenger came to the hen coop to tell Kitty that someone was waiting for her down below.
“Anyone important?” Jeannie said as Kitty pushed back her chair.
“No.” The blood pounded in Kitty’s ears. “Just a friend of my father’s.”
Dr. Bright was waiting for her in the lobby, checking the time on his pocket watch against the time on the Sentinel’s three-faced clock. The muttonchop whiskers gave him the air of a confederate general. Kitty almost expected to see medals on his chest and a sword dangling from his side.
“Miss Weeks.” He clicked his watch shut and slipped it into his pocket. “Thank you for taking the time. If it’s not too cold for you, perhaps we could take a walk.”
Kitty had left her coat upstairs but was wearing a light jacket over her blouse. “I have permission to be away from my desk for ten or fifteen minutes, no more.”
“That should be more than enough.”
Enough for what? Kitty wondered.
They pushed their way through the paper’s heavy brass revolving doors and stepped outside.
“Which way?” she said.
He didn’t reply and started to walk. “My wife tells me you met my daughter a few days before she died, Miss Weeks?”
Kitty felt a sudden wave of panic. Was he trying to suggest that she might have had something to do with Elspeth’s death? She steadied herself. “I did meet Miss Bright. At Tipton’s.”
“And may I ask what the two of you discussed?”
“Oh, this and that,” Kitty said. “We spoke about school, Miss Howe-Jones, and so on.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not that I recall, Dr. Bright.” Why did he want to know? The details of their conversation were none of his business.
“And yet…” They crossed the street; midtown on a weekday had no shortage of traffic, but Dr. Bright seemed to be on
e of those fearless pedestrians who walked right into it, assuming the cars would stop for him. “And yet,” he went on, “you seem to know that Elspeth was involved in something to do with batteries.”
“That information came from Miss Marquand.”
Dr. Bright looked at her strangely. “What does Miss Marquand have to do with this?”
A driver honked at them. “Get out of the way!”
Dr. Bright didn’t bat an eyelid.
Kitty felt more than frazzled. She wanted to scream. Why were they discussing this in a place where a millimeter’s movement back or forward might result in death or dismemberment for either one?
To her relief, a few moments later, they were back onto the safety of the sidewalk.
“Miss Bright’s friend Prudence Marquand mentioned batteries to me,” Kitty said. “She also told me that your daughter kept a photograph of Mr. Edison pinned above her desk. Does that sound correct?”
Dr. Bright paused. His expression seemed to soften for just an instant. “My daughter’s tastes in decor are hardly my concern. What else did Miss Marquand tell you about Elspeth’s work?”
Kitty looked up at him. “May I ask why you’d like to know?”
He swung around to face her, eyes narrowed with fury. “How dare you? She is my daughter. I have the right to ask whatever I want.”
Shaken by his outburst, Kitty wondered how long their conversation would last. Perhaps she should tell him that it was time for her to return to the Sentinel.
Dr. Bright paused at the corner of the block and then began to cross a street with two-way traffic. “If you would like me to believe that you want to help my family, that you cared about Elspeth, you will tell me everything you know.”
“Dr. Bright.” Kitty hoped he would believe her; she spoke loudly so as to be heard over the roar of motors. “I don’t know anything more than what I’ve already told you.”
“You’re hiding something from me.” He turned to look at her in the middle of the street. A car careered toward them.
“Watch out,” Kitty yelled, pulling him out of the way while she took a step back. Brakes squealed, and she felt a thud as another vehicle, traveling in the opposite direction, barreled into her.
Chapter Fourteen
“She’s coming to,” a woman’s voice said.
“Capability.”
Kitty heard her father’s voice.
“Capability?”
“What happened?” She tried to speak, but her voice came out a croak. Her eyes wouldn’t open.
“You were hurt. A car ran into you.”
“Not too much talking, sir,” the woman’s voice said.
Without warning, Kitty threw up. Distant voices said, “You should leave, Mr. Weeks. We’ll take care of her.”
• • •
Kitty awoke in darkness. “Where am I?” She couldn’t see anything.
“You’re in the hospital, miss,” a soothing voice said. “Not to worry. You’re being looked after.”
Kitty felt a pinch on her arm, then she faded away. When she opened her eyes again, it was morning.
A cheery nurse wheeled in a tray of breakfast. Kitty shuddered at the sound of the trolley scraping against the floor.
“Come along, Miss Weeks.” The woman fluffed Kitty’s pillow. She wore a white cap and white starched apron held up by pins. “It’s time to eat now.”
“I feel foggy,” Kitty said. “What happened to me?”
“You were in an accident, I believe.” The nurse handed Kitty a glass of juice. “I’ve been working here for thirty years, and ever since there have been motor cars on the roads, we’ve seen the number of road accidents increase. You’re one of the lucky ones. Just badly bruised but no bones broken. I’ve seen much worse.”
“How long have I been here?”
“They brought you in late yesterday morning,” the nurse said.
There was a knock at the door, and a man in a white coat came in. “How is our patient today?”
“Doing well, Dr. Stevens,” the nurse replied.
He perched on the edge of Kitty’s bed. “May I?” He checked the pulse on her wrist.
“She did cry out at night a few times,” the nurse went on.
“Really?” The doctor held on to Kitty’s wrist. “About what?”
“Batteries,” the nurse said. “And dead girls in the snow.”
“Really?” Dr. Stevens sounded bemused as he put Kitty’s hand down. “Nice strong pulse. Follow my hand with your eyes.” He moved his finger from side to side.
“What does a young lady like you have to do with batteries?”
“Not much.”
“Perhaps,” he said, feeling the glands on her neck, “you were hit by an electric car. Say ah.” He checked her throat. “No fever?” he asked the nurse.
“No, Doctor.”
“Perfect. This injury aside, you’re in good health. You’ll notice we’ve bandaged the shoulder, and you should rest it for the next five days. The skin on your face is badly grazed, but it will heal in time. No visitors until two o’clock today. No reading, no writing, and no close work until next week.”
“I beg your pardon?” Kitty tried to sit up straight and winced.
“You hit your head, Miss Weeks, and the brain is a sensitive organ. We must give it time to recover.” He began to fill a hypodermic syringe. “This will help ease the pain and allow you to sleep better.”
“No!” Kitty said.
“Come now, Miss Weeks.” The nurse held her arm.
“No!” Kitty repeated with all the strength she could muster. The last thing she needed was to become reliant on morphine. It brought back memories of Dr. Flagg, Mrs. Vanderwell’s nerve man. “Dr. Stevens?” The needle hovered in midair, and Kitty took a deep breath. “Do you believe that girls who work too much can damage their bodies for life?”
The doctor lowered the syringe. “Some people think that’s the case, but I’m of the opinion those theories don’t hold water. If you’re concerned about your health, there’s no need to worry. Only the healthiest specimens come away from vehicular collisions as unscathed as you have.”
Kitty relaxed into a smile. “No needle, please.” She needed to economize on words.
“It won’t hurt.”
“I’m all right,” she said as clearly as she could manage.
He handed the injection back to the nurse. “All right, we’ll wait and see. But you must rest. Do you understand?”
Kitty dozed off until lunchtime. When she awoke, she asked the nurse to telephone her father, but the woman was firm. Mr. Weeks had been here this morning, and she would now have to wait to see him until after lunch was finished at two o’clock.
At any event, it was Jeannie and Miss Busby who graced the clinical hospital room with their presence as Kitty spooned up the last bite of her tapioca pudding.
“We brought you flowers.” Jeannie set the stems on the table beside Kitty.
“I’ll find a vase,” the nurse offered.
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?” Miss Busby pulled up a chair. “Why did you leave the office in the first place, and who was that man with you?”
“He’s the father of a friend. He wanted to talk to me.”
“Luckily, he sent word about what happened. Otherwise, I would have had no idea where you had disappeared to.”
Kitty stared at the editor. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly, but something about Miss Busby looked different.
“Motor vehicles ought to be banned,” the editor continued. “They’re a menace. Perhaps…”
She tilted her head, and Kitty realized what it was. She hadn’t ever seen Helena Busby beyond the confines of the Sentinel. She seemed out of place in the normal civilian world—but of course, Miss Busby must have a life outside the n
ewspaper.
“When you are better, we can write a story about it,” Miss Busby went on. “Not about your accident, of course, but the phenomenon of deaths caused by automobiles. Although, come to think of it, perhaps a personal touch would be nice—‘My Experience as an Injured Pedestrian’ or something of the sort.”
Jeannie looked embarrassed and said to Kitty, “We really came to wish you a speedy recovery.”
Miss Busby nodded. “And Mrs. Belmont’s secretary rang this morning to discuss details of the interview. I’d like to check with the doctor that you will be ready by next week. Otherwise, I’ll need a contingency plan.”
“Miss Busby!” Jeannie said.
“It’s all right,” Kitty said. “I understand.”
Miss Busby shot a look at Jeannie. “You see, I told you she wouldn’t mind.”
The nurse returned with the flowers arranged in a vase.
“Give Miss Weeks the file, Jeannie.”
Jeannie Williams reached into a bag she was carrying and brought out a manila folder.
“Mr. Musser was reluctant to part with it, but we convinced him, didn’t we, Jeannie? By the way, he sends his best wishes.”
“Miss Weeks isn’t allowed to read.” The nurse handed the folder back to Jeannie. “Doctor’s orders.”
Miss Busby folded her arms across her chest.
“Now, please,” the nurse commanded.
Medicine won. Jeannie put the file away.
“I’ll be fine by Wednesday,” Kitty said. “And besides, I’ve already done my research on Mrs. Belmont.”
“Do you think those grazes on her face will disappear soon?” Miss Busby asked the nurse.