On the other hand, if a man in his employ were a danger to the women he relied on for his wealth, that might be a very different story.
Getting his attention was another matter. At the moment, he was an unstoppable whirlwind, shouting directions to the Beauties as he made adjustments to the curtains, moved staging this way and that, and even corrected the tempo of Leo’s playing. But there was one person who might command it above all else. Approaching Mrs. Rutherford, I begged her pardon and asked if Mr. Rutherford might have a spare moment.
“He might, but you don’t. That girl’s wings need fixing.”
She pointed to Gertrude Walsh, who was standing by Miss Rutherford 1911, inviting comparisons.
“I only wanted him to see some adjustments I made to Mrs. Tyler’s hat. I added an elastic so it would stay on, but I wanted his opinion—”
“Oh, yes, you all want his opinion, don’t you?”
Her tone was pleasant, the implication anything but. “Ma’am?”
“Whenever he’s around.” She fluttered her hands. “‘Mr. Rutherford, Mr. Rutherford. Look at me, Mr. Rutherford.’ Please see to that girl.” She pointed. “Now.”
As I made my way over to Gertrude, I passed within earshot of Emily, who was gossiping with Mrs. Unger. Seeing me, she said, “Oh, now there’s my sister-in-law’s maid. Do you know her uncle runs a refuge for women who have been … well…” She lowered her voice, and I could just hear the word “prostitutes.” “Isn’t that tremendously admirable? I think it’s admirable.”
I was so startled to hear mention of my uncle in Emily’s rapid-fire chatter, I stopped dead in my tracks, forgetting for the moment my need to speak with George Rutherford. “Miss Tyler, might I speak with you?”
A brief shadow of guilt came over Emily’s face, and I thought she must have looked just like this as a child when caught with her hand in the jam jar. Even with her face covered in preserves, she would have smiled brightly as if she hadn’t a care in the world—just as she did now.
“Of course, Jane.”
Emily allowed me to lead her into the outer hallway, where I said in a low voice, “Please don’t tell people about my uncle’s refuge. His work is admirable, but it could be very embarrassing to Mrs. Tyler.”
“I haven’t told so many people.”
“No, I’m sure not…”
“I mean, I told Mr. Hirschfeld, but I can’t think who he’d tell. Oh, and I did tell two other people, but I didn’t think you’d mind. I thought, He’s awfully rich and gets so much attention, maybe he’ll give some money. You once said your uncle wanted to open a nursery wing, and I thought, How wonderful if he could do that, keep mothers and their babies together. Because he was talking about his own mother, and I thought, That’s so sweet—”
Utterly confused, I said, “Who was talking about it, Miss Tyler?”
She bit her lip.
“Who did you tell?”
“Mr. Rutherford. I was telling him about it that day we all met at the Armory. Mrs. Rutherford took me out for tea at the Orientale—you remember. Mr. Rutherford came down from his office and joined us. And he was so interested. Liked the idea ever so much and said he’d go look at the refuge as soon as he could to see all the good work being done there. I told him, You absolutely should, Mr. Rutherford. Go straightaway and you’ll see. The Reverend Prescott changes these women’s lives, he … transforms them. He said he couldn’t think of a finer mission to dedicate yourself to.”
The news that Emily Tyler had spoken with the Rutherfords about my uncle’s mission was confusing. This simple piece of information created a fog in my mind; I could neither say it was fine or not fine. And yet because you must always tell people you answer to that they have done nothing wrong, I managed to say, “That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Tyler.”
Relieved, Emily said, “I meant well, but I do see what you mean about Louise. I won’t mention it again. Nobody listens to a word I say anyway—”
“There you are!”
The door to the grand hall had opened to reveal Dolly Rutherford, an eye-rolling Gertrude Walsh behind her.
“Miss Walsh has been waiting. I look around and you are nowhere to be found. I don’t suppose I need to remind you that the pageant is in an hour?”
I felt my face stretch in a smile that was more teeth than appeasement. A hundred responses crowded my thoughts, some of them glancing off the knowledge Emily had just given me, others sprouting suddenly, nurtured in the rich soil of my intense dislike of Dolly Rutherford.
Emily said, “It’s my fault, Mrs. Rutherford. I wasn’t happy about my hair, and I dragged Jane out here to show her in private.”
“Well,” said Dolly Rutherford, denied the opportunity for further outrage, “come in now and attend to Miss Walsh.”
As we went back inside the Crystal Palace, Gertrude Walsh pulled a face at me and whispered, “I didn’t complain. I think they’re just fine.” It was true that her shoulders were a little low, with the result that the wings kept batting her on the head whenever she turned. The trick would be to place them high enough to be visible but low enough to spare her ears.
Taking out the earlier stitches, I said, “I know you didn’t, Miss Walsh. Still, we do have to fix—”
“Ah, the woman who fixes things.”
My hand stilled above the silk and wire, my mind suddenly blank. Still, the voice box seemed in working order, as I managed, “Mr. Rutherford.”
I kept my eyes on Gertrude Walsh’s back. That was safe. I knew I could not thread my needle again; my hand was shaking too badly. I could feel Mr. Rutherford as he made his way around Miss Walsh, judging the effect. Judging my work. Judging …
He was tall. I remember him leaning on me, not being able to breathe.
I instructed myself to breathe.
Told myself I was being ridiculous. This was George Rutherford. A man who walked among women every day, adjusting their hats, changing their color patterns, decreeing …
Why would my hand not stop shaking?
Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. Sew …
Gertrude Walsh cried out. I had stuck her. The blood bloomed and spread on the white collar of the nightgown.
I clapped a hand to my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Miss Walsh.”
There would be rage now. Screaming. A storm would break loose. I braced myself. Heard George Rutherford say, “Oh, now, it isn’t bad at all, a tiny scratch…”
My stomach eased. I felt a hand on my shoulder. “It could happen to anyone. Here.”
A handkerchief was offered. A fine silk handkerchief, the initials GR stitched in purple. I shook my head, intending to say we should never use anything so nice to fix my mistake. I had a scrap of old cloth in my pocket; that would do.
Then I saw it.
The scar on George Rutherford’s hand.
15
“Jane?”
A knock on the door.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Tyler.” I lifted my head from the cool porcelain of the toilet. “I’ll be out shortly.”
From under the stall door I could see Louise’s feet move away, then return.
“I’m worried you’re sick.”
“Something I ate at lunch. I’m so sorry. I need a few minutes.”
There was a long pause. “Miss Walsh said she’s not at all mad. She understands it was a mistake.”
“That’s kind of her, thank you.”
“And I want you to know, I had some very sharp words with Dolly Rutherford.”
In spite of my terror, I smiled. “You didn’t have to do that, Mrs. Tyler.”
“Oh, I did. And I want you to know, George Rutherford agreed with me entirely.”
This reminder of his existence, not fifty yards away, caused my stomach to heave again. Such an odd reaction, I thought, detached. After seeing the scar, I had fled to the powder room and vomited. As if my body simply couldn’t absorb the knowledge that George Rutherford had butchered Sadie and Carrie and who knew how many other wome
n. And that his hand had been on my shoulder minutes ago.
My first conscious thought had been Run. As were my second, third, and tenth. I had to remove my body from the orbit of George Rutherford. I would leave the bathroom, race down the stairs, out of the building, and …
Then I thought of Louise. And Emily. Gertie Walsh, who had been kind about her wings. The beautiful Hattie Phipps, who made everyone laugh with her wondrously varied repertoire of Kandinsky, Nussbaum, and Schlom, how may I direct your call?
“Jane? I’m worried.”
I raised myself up, sat on my knees. “Don’t be, Mrs. Tyler.”
“No?”
“No.”
It had to be today, I realized. Tomorrow I would have no more reason to be here. It had to be today. Now. While George Rutherford was distracted with the crowning of Miss Rutherford’s.
Because the police would not come without evidence. Otelia Brooks was right; her scar would not be enough. Even her testimony, supposing I was heartless enough to make her be in the same room as George Rutherford again, wouldn’t be enough. Emily’s report that she had told George Rutherford about the refuge would not be enough. Even though he had attacked Sadie that very evening.
But he had taken things. Sadie’s stocking, Carrie’s bracelet. And I felt sure he had kept them. They were somewhere, and not in his home. The home would be Mrs. Rutherford’s domain. Not safe. No, they would be in a place where he was all-powerful. Here, at the store that bore his name.
The office, that strange closed-off room. The heavy iron safe in the corner …
“Go back to the hall, please, Mrs. Tyler. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
* * *
The doors opened at six. From backstage, I could feel the wave of energy as two hundred excited New Yorkers poured into the Crystal Palace. Dressed in white tie, George Rutherford was there to greet them all. I peeked out from behind the curtain, watching as he shook hands, praised appearances, and promised a memorable evening for all. Only the fact that we were surrounded by a crowd allowed me to breathe within a hundred feet of him.
Several of the women behind the curtain were frantic with nerves. Louise’s lips moved in silence as she ran through the Proclamation again and again. Dolly Rutherford—the only one who seemed calm—instructed Mrs. Fortesque in the proper way to breathe; Mrs. Fortesque insisted no air was getting in and she was about to faint. Mrs. Lonsdale and Mrs. Tallworthy’s debate on hotels continued unabated, despite frequent shushings from the other ladies.
At the other end of the stage, dressed all in white, stood the American Beauties. Unlike their wealthier castmates, they were silent. The next hour would bring a new life to one and dashed hopes to the rest. For them, this was serious business, and they were all much too burdened to talk. In their simple smocks, they looked like lovely little ghosts. Or, I thought, young girls prepared for their graves. Even Emily looked wide-eyed and subdued. Like Lottie Burckholdt, she was a late addition. The eleventh girl. The one few would remember ever existed.
Feeling a quick kiss on the back of my head, I turned to see Leo resplendent in his tails. He spread his arms as if to say, Behold!
“You look very handsome, Mr. Hirschfeld.”
He peered at me. “You look terrible. Which is wrong for a beautiful girl.”
“Well, you’ll just have to look at another girl.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Mr. Hirschfeld,” hissed Mrs. Rutherford. “Get back to the piano. We are about to begin.”
I heard the pounding of footsteps as Mr. Rutherford ascended to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to what I hope will be a very special evening. A spectacular conceived and brought to life through the vision and effort of my dear wife—”
The applause broke out before her name was uttered.
“—Dolly Rutherford. Tonight, we honor the great mission of the War Between the States, our commitment to liberty, and those who fell in its cause. Without further ado, I give you ‘Stirring Scenes of the Emancipation.’”
The American Beauties had already gathered onstage, stooped and anonymous as they worked in the field, represented by painted wooden rows of earth. As the curtain opened, Mrs. Van Dormer stepped onto the stage as Harriet Tubman. Perhaps it was my roiling terror, but the first scene had a nightmarish quality now; the vision of Mrs. Van Dormer in kerchief and face paint felt like grotesque mockery. In a high, quavering voice she called the Beauties to come with her to see Father Abraham. This was Louise’s cue to enter. She gulped, and for a terrible moment I thought she would not make it.
Hurrying to her side, I whispered, “Be brave, Mr. President. Remember, ‘That on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three … All persons held as slaves shall be then, thenceforward, and forever free.’”
And with a deep inhale, Louise marched out, hat straight, and delivered her lines in a clear, stirring voice. The audience burst into applause, and for a moment I was distracted by enormous pride and the wish William could be here to see how well she’d done.
The following scene took us to the Lincolns’ bedroom. When Dolly Rutherford stepped out, there was another wild round of clapping. As Mrs. Lincoln exhorted her husband to take up the cause of emancipation, I waited for my chance to escape. Mr. Lincoln having agreed to listen to his wife’s advice, several of the ladies marched on as Union troops, singing “Hold On, Abraham.”
Next, each of the American Beauties emerged to recite one of the amendments, causing a hubbub as people realized the contestants had been included in the pageant. They had taken off the kerchiefs they wore in the first scene but had not donned their wings. (They wore no face paint, as their faces were, after all, the point.) When Emily stepped forward, the murmur became doubtful. There were only ten American Beauties; who was this eleventh girl? Nonetheless, Emily’s youth and eagerness were irresistible, and she received a hearty ovation. As she hurried backstage, she whispered in my ear, “It’s going to be me, I know it!”
There were problems. One of the wooden rifles got caught in the curtains, and there was laughter as Mrs. Byrd pulled it free. The chorus lost its way during one verse of “All Quiet Along the Potomac Tonight,” but Leo sang loudly enough to put them right. And Mrs. Lonsdale and Mrs. Tallworthy managed to continue their conversation about hotels, which was perhaps out of place for Union soldiers under fire. The pistol did not go off as planned, obliging Mrs. Fortesque to shout bang before Louise could slump forward. Unfortunately, Dolly Rutherford had already cried, “Oh, my husband has been shot,” so Louise had to sit up briefly before collapsing again. At which point the hat did roll off her head.
But the applause at the end of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” was rapturous. Perhaps because the audience knew the most exciting part of the evening was yet to come: the crowning of Miss Rutherford’s.
Which I would miss. I had other things to do while Mr. Rutherford was enjoying his moment of triumph.
Creeping from behind the curtain on the far right-hand side of the stage, I passed Leo, who was playing through the ovation. Seeing me, he whispered, “Where are you going?”
Feeling the need to be quick, I didn’t bother to lie about my destination. “Mr. Rutherford’s office. He needs something for the crowning.”
Leo looked puzzled. But the ladies were taking their places for the finale, so he went back to playing. Although I saw him look back at me as I hurried up the side of the hall and out the door.
The store was now quite empty. Still, I didn’t run but walked quickly, on the off chance I met anyone. Then again, if questioned, I had only to say that Mr. Rutherford wanted something and they would understand my haste. So many people were afraid of him, I thought, and they didn’t even know what he was.
I approached the door to Rutherford’s office, placing my fingers lightly on the wood. It swung wide enough for me to see the room was empty. I went in, heart landing heavily against my ribs.
The co
vered windows demanded my attention. I remember wondering why a man so well-off chose as his seat of power a room with no view. A place he could not see out? And no one could see in? Now I knew.
Steadying myself on one of the chairs, I looked at the safe. It was a squat, dark, ugly thing, crouching in the corner. The door was shut. I had hoped by some miracle he might have left it open. But if what I thought was true, this safe was never left open. The lock spun rarely—although twice this past week—and only late at night, the great iron door creaking open, the contents pulled out, examined, added to …
I should pull the handle, I thought, even as I thought the precise opposite. But having dared come, I felt I had to touch it, see if it yielded at all. It would not, of course. And I would feel very foolish. I reached out a hand.
“What are you doing here?”
I tore my hand from the safe’s handle, hiding it behind my back like a child. There, filling the doorway, was George Rutherford. Sweat on his brow and the agitated rise and fall of his chest indicated he, too, had moved swiftly. He wore a black tailcoat and white tie, but there was nothing of the gentleman in his aspect; the veneer of human was badly cracked. He placed his hands on either side of the door, all but saying No escape.
“It’s a complete outrage.”
“Yes,” I said, edging back toward the desk. “Yes, I’m sorry. Mrs. Rutherford asked me—”
“No, she didn’t.”
How had he known? I wondered. Had he asked where I was? My lie to Leo. Leo would have wanted to assure the fearsome Mr. R that I was on an errand for him.
Before, focused on his slender elegance, I had not fully understood how tall he was, how wide the span of his arms. The last time I saw him here, he had been sitting down, hunched over. Now he smiled. Or showed his teeth, letting me know he understood all of this. His hands came loose from the doorjamb. His hands.
He took a step. I stepped back, aware of the desk less than a foot behind me. And the wall, no windows. I would wait until he was close enough to me, away from the door. I would duck past him, run …
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