“This was not a whole loaf. But the heel resembled these,” she said, indicating the loaves on the counter.
“I fear that my bread is not so unique,” he said. He began to brush flour from his pants.
“The way I came to have the bread was unique. It was brought my way by a rusty-headed black boy.”
He stopped brushing, looked at her, and picked up a rag to wipe the counter. “Rusty-headed, thou sayest?”
“The bread was very fresh.”
“When didst thou eat this bread?”
“This very morning. The boy and his mother are friends of mine.”
“I see. How fare thy friends?”
“They are not hungry, yet still they yearn.”
“Bread sates the body, but not the hunger.”
“These two were told that there was help for their yearning to be found in a shop in Utica,” she said. “Have I found the right place?”
Sylvanus looked to the door and then studied Helen. “Thou hast.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WHEN MAGGIE ESCORTED the abolitionist Alvan Stewart into the library, Augustin was sitting up with clear-eyed attention, showing neither weakness nor pain. Stewart, whose wide chest might have served him better on a loading dock than in a court of law, moved with grace. He clutched Augustin’s hand in both of his and took care not to jostle the injured leg.
“You be needing anything?” asked Maggie.
“Bring a new bottle of brandy,” said Augustin.
“Tea for me, if you please,” said Stewart.
“It’d please me if everybody just drunk tea,” said Maggie, eyeing McCooke on her way out.
“Mr. Galway, sir,” said Stewart, “your physician told me that you’d been injured.”
Augustin turned to McCooke. “Is this true, Doctor? Are you talking about town?”
“I was explaining why I’m not living at my usual lodgings—Clarke’s,” said McCooke.
“Usual lodging? You were probably driven out,” said Augustin. “Perhaps Stewart here will take up your case. You like unwinnable causes, do you not, Mr. Stewart?”
“Nothing is unwinnable, but some victories take more time,” replied Stewart, smiling.
“Getting the doctor back inside a temperance house may take you a lifetime.”
“Clarke did not know who he was evicting,” said McCooke heatedly, a glass of sherry in his hand. “I have a letter of recommendation from Mrs. Elizabeth Preston McDowell Benton, Senator Benton’s wife—he’s the one who shot …”
Augustin glared at the doctor as if he had just interrupted some important business. McCooke stopped talking, his mouth hanging open. Galway gestured for Stewart to take a seat on the sofa. The lawyer folded his frame onto it.
“You’re optimistic,” said Augustin to Stewart. “I wish I could be too. I’m afraid I fall in with those who try to see the world for what it is.”
“Optimism and realism are not antagonists,” said Stewart.
Maggie reentered with the china service. At the tea table next to Augustin, she clucked her cheek and sighed. The surface was littered with empty bottles. Turning, she laid the tray with a clatter on the table in front of Stewart. After shaking her head, she collected the spent brandy and wine bottles, tucking three under her left arm and one under her right.
“They’s plenty a tea right there, Mr. Augustin. Maybe you want me to pour you some?” she suggested.
“Your hands seem to be full,” said Stewart. “I’ll pour.” He leaned over the table and began to manage the cups and saucers.
“He likes it sweet,” said Maggie. “Just a dash a the cream.”
“You know his tastes,” said Stewart.
“I’d be some special kinda fool if I don’t know what he wants after more than forty years.”
Stewart looked to Augustin. “Forty, is that right?”
“You may go, Maggie,” said Augustin.
“A little more sugar,” she said as she passed Stewart. He obliged and handed Augustin the cup. Satisfied, Maggie withdrew.
“To answer your unasked question,” said Augustin, stirring his tea, “yes, she was, at one time, owned by my family. But now, of course, she gets a wage, board, and Sundays off.”
“And now she thinks she owns you,” muttered McCooke.
“I’ll not hear you disdain her,” growled Augustin.
“My apologies,” said the doctor, withdrawing slightly. He picked a book off the shelf nearby and sat as if to read.
“I didn’t know your family had owned slaves,” said Stewart. “Impressive that she still serves here. It would seem that you’re uniquely qualified to talk sense into your Colonization Society colleagues.”
“How’s that?”
“Some of your number are using our forthcoming anti-slavery convention to create an atmosphere of fear and intimidation.”
“I’ll vouch for that,” said the doctor. “But, Mr. Stewart, those ruffians couldn’t be Colonization Society members. That’s how I met him. You see—”
“I understand,” interrupted Augustin, “that there is indeed some … passion about the issues. But I know these men. It’s all just talk.”
“According to some,” said Stewart, “I am either trying to resurrect Nat Turner so that he can slit every white throat—or I am an idiot.”
“Nobody argues both?” said Augustin, his eyebrows raised in mock innocence. “Your abolition convention is deliberately provocative. Of that, I’m sure you’re aware. Even as a reasonable man, I worry that there’ll be violence because you’ll fill the streets with radicals.”
“The violence,” said Stewart, “if it comes, will not be from the abolition society.”
“No. It will come from the uneducated mob whose minds shouldn’t be inflamed with dangerous talk of freeing millions of Negroes,” said Augustin.
“Is it not hypocritical to moan about violence,” said Stewart, leaning in, “when your society’s own Congressman Beardsley speaks of destroying the city to prevent the convention from occurring?”
The blood rose in Augustin’s face. “It’s you who are the hypocrite.” He pointed to the center of Stewart’s chest. “If the men of the street promise violence, how in good conscience can you continue to organize?”
Stewart rose, placed his hands behind his back, and began to pace the room. “I’m tempted to make a speech, but if you will allow … Your family were, I am sure, loving and benevolent slaveholders, correct?”
Augustin set his jaw. His teacup and saucer rattled as he put them on the table. “As you can see, Maggie has chosen to remain right here.”
“That’s what I’m saying. They were good. But even if others were half as good, it’s not enough in the eyes of God. The apostle Paul places ‘man stealers’ on par with ‘murderers of mothers’ and ‘whoremongers.’ Not the best company with which to be associated, correct?”
“Our country inherited slavery,” said Augustin through clenched teeth. “As did I.” He noticed that Stewart looked delighted. He pursed his lips and took a moment to master his feelings, pasting on a grin that showed no warmth. “For now, slavery is the law among our Southern neighbors. Each generation works at improving the laws. We are but masons chipping away at a crude and unpolished block of marble to reveal the perfect form at the core of the stone.”
Stewart moved in, towering over him. “That’s a lovely sentiment, but we both know that the men who make laws are carnal beings. There are many reasons why one provision or another might be written. Laws are riddled with compromises—to suit the strongest. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Then is not God’s law higher than mortal law?” asked Stewart, smiling once again.
“Are you, as an officer of the court, advocating that each individual should decide which law to obey and which to ignore?”
“These issues must be considered by our lawmaking masons. If our task is to chip away at the marble, then should there not be free discussion?”
�
�I have made that point exactly, have I not, Doctor?” asked Augustin.
“I seem to remember something like that,” answered the doctor, gulping down his sherry.
“It follows,” said Stewart, “that if I cancel the convention, society’s masonry tools will lie fallow and nothing will change.” He straightened himself to his full height. “Therefore, I do not concern myself with the threats of violence.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
BY THE TIME HELEN ARRIVED home, the sun had passed over the hills of New Hartford and hung in the western sky, waiting for its chance to dip below the horizon. She had secured a promise from Mr. Sylvanus to come to the shed at midnight. And, just so that no one got suspicious about her trip downtown, she had bought several skeins of soft yarn and a few yards of raw muslin. She needed to seem like she was making ready for the child. Once the runaways had moved on and she determined if she really carried a babe, she could get started on other preparations.
From the kitchen window, she saw that Maggie was directing Joe to split up wood for the fire. He wielded the ax with uncertainty.
“Where you been that you ain’t learned to use a hatchet?” Helen heard Maggie ask. Joe struggled to free the blade from the log in which it was partly buried. There was no way she could get to Imari just yet to explain tonight’s plan.
She looked in on Augustin and found her husband sleeping in his chair, his hair out of place, an open book on his lap, and glasses on his nose. The doctor snoozed on the couch, his handsome face smooth and untroubled, a red and white knitted blanket draped over his body. Before him stood a brandy bottle and a snifter half-filled with dark liquor.
Maybe, Helen hoped, the doctor will sleep until after Mr. Anwell calls. There was little time to get ready for his arrival and she wanted to make certain that the woman he would escort tonight was the same one who had so mesmerized him on the bridge.
Joe came into the library, his arms filled with split wood. Helen put her index finger to her lips. At the woodbin, Joe struggled to place the logs, but lost control of the pile. They crashed to the ground in a thud.
McCooke sat up. “What?” He looked at Joe with an unfocused gaze. “Who are you?”
“Nobody,” Joe said.
“What happened to your head?” asked the doctor in a slur of words.
“Nothing,” replied Joe.
The doctor nodded and seemed to accept the answer. He relaxed, plumped his pillow, drew up the knitted blanket, and fell back to sleep.
Helen motioned Joe out of the room and quietly closed the library door. “The man you are supposed to see will be at the shed at midnight. Make sure to let your mother know.”
Joe nodded.
“Now back to work with you.”
The boy went to the kitchen.
Helen grabbed her skirts and ran up the stairs with heat rising in her breast. It would not be proper to think of this as a social engagement. Mr. Anwell was Augustin’s guest. One of the tasks of the lady of the house was to make guests as comfortable as possible. Really, she was merely performing a wife’s duty by allowing herself to be taken to the comet viewing. Apparently, the entire town would be out in Chancellor Square. Appearing with him might cause talk, but since it was evident that only a few people knew that she was now Mrs. Galway, she dismissed the thought. The world would be too busy looking at the comet to be wondering about her.
The outfit she selected—a deep-blue and green dress with puffed sleeves that gathered at the elbows, flared out over the forearms, and finished with a trim of scalloped white lace—gave, she felt, the impression of a lady of great fashion.
She heard the heavy knock on the front door and her heart surged. Mr. Anwell had already arrived and she had not yet even selected a hat. As she pulled on her gloves, she heard the doctor answer the door. Something was motivating him—certainly not a sense of decency.
The hat she chose had a stiff brim that stood straight up from her head, so that she could see the sky. It framed her face nicely, and the sapphire bow at the front complemented the dress and set off her cool white skin. On her way out, she grabbed a striking lace cape to cover her neck and shoulders from the October chill.
Downstairs, Mr. Anwell was in conversation with Augustin. The doctor was merrily filling three glasses.
“I believe that it was Herschel’s sister who discovered the comets,” said Pryce. “Well, some of them.”
“That’s right,” said Augustin. “The sister.”
“Did a woman discover Halley’s comet?” asked Helen. All eyes turned to her.
The doctor smiled brightly, raising his glass as if to salute her. Mr. Anwell stood, appearing to be favorably impressed by her outfit. Her husband, dark circles under his eyes, regarded her crossly.
“No,” said McCooke. “Halley did.”
“If you’ll permit a second correction, sir,” said Pryce. He looked at Helen with cautious, neutral eyes. “Technically the comet had been known since antiquity. Halley identified several historical sightings as a reappearance of the same comet and accurately predicted its return. Herschel’s sister Caroline discovered many comets, but not Halley’s.”
The doctor looked pointedly at Pryce.
“We’ve found the right person to expand your knowledge, my dear,” said Augustin.
She went to her husband’s side. “I should stay here with you.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Not when you’ve finally gone to the trouble of putting aside that school dress and put on a proper frock.”
Stung, Helen straightened. “I can change, if you desire.”
“More nonsense,” he said. “Doctor, weren’t you about to pass out some brandy?”
The doctor quickly drained his glass, poured a bit more, and came from behind the liquor table with glasses for Augustin and Pryce.
“Careful, Doctor. We need you sober,” said Augustin.
“My hand is steady and I am ready,” responded McCooke.
“Your hand is steadily filling your glass,” Augustin noted.
“For that, I blame you,” said McCooke, laughing. “Quality demands quantity.” He distributed the liquor, showing exaggerated care and surety in his motions.
“It is very fine stuff,” said Pryce.
“Finer than your father’s reserve?” asked Augustin.
“Father’s a temperance man, spirits are forbidden. He’s very well acquainted with ale.”
“Temperance men?” said Augustin. “My father always said they were a dull breed. Not Llewelyn, of course.”
Pryce seemed on the verge of commenting when Helen stepped forward.
“Should we not be going? As you can see my husband is tired.”
“Go ahead,” said Augustin. “I’m fatigued and feel some pain coming on. Doctor? I need you.” He nodded to the medical bag and the doctor’s shoulders sank. McCooke eyed Pryce for a moment with a look that Helen took to be strong dislike. He reluctantly began fishing in his medical bag.
“Helen,” Augustin continued, “see if Maggie will join you. It would be a good idea. You understand, don’t you, my dear?”
“As you wish,” said Helen. She squeezed his shoulder again and went to the door. Pryce bowed to Augustin and followed her out.
“Maggie?” Pryce asked when they were in the passageway.
“The cook,” she said, smiling. “She is annoyed with me, rightly, I think.”
In the kitchen, Maggie sat in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe and looking out the open back door at the darkening yard. She remained seated when Helen and Pryce entered. “Mr. Augustin told me he ain’t hungry and not to cook no food, if that’s why you’re here.”
Helen bit her lip. “Mr. Galway thought you might like to come and view the comet.”
“The comet? What kinda fool goes out at night asking for trouble? That there comet’s got Mr. Augustin so dizzy he broke his leg. Besides, if you ask me, it don’t look like much.”
“So, you’ve seen it?” asked Pryce.
“I ain
’t trying to see no comet. Besides, I got things to do. I can’t be wasting my time on what’s in the sky when I got a bunch a cares right down here on earth.”
“I can assure you that the comet is perfectly safe,” said Pryce.
Maggie pulled a long puff out of the pipe. “You think I’m a fool.”
“No, I, uh, only meant …”
“Do you know what’s creeping around them streets at night? You got your head up in them stars so much you don’t see what’s right in front a you. You go ahead and be some hungry bear’s supper.”
“Very well, Maggie,” said Helen. She indicated to Pryce to step out of the room. When he was gone she asked, “Where’s Job?”
“Home, I suspect.”
“Good,” she said, peering out at the backyard before leaving the kitchen.
Maggie heard the front door close. Without hurry, she set down her pipe. As she rose, she steadied herself with one hand. The other reached around to her lower back to ease the ache from the day’s work. She lit the wick on a whale oil lantern, brightening the room. From behind the back door, she retrieved a musket that she kept ready to kill raccoons and other varmints in the yard. She stepped onto the porch and held the light high, illuminating a circle around her and causing her shadow to shift on the doorframe. She stamped her foot on the cover of the empty cistern to warn, with a resounding boom-boom, whatever creatures were lurking nearby. If they wanted to keep their heads and not end up in a stew, she was to be avoided. After hearing padded feet scuttling through dry leaves, she stepped off the porch.
Something was going on in that shed and she meant to find out what.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
AS HELEN AND PRYCE WORKED their way across Bleecker Street toward Chancellor Square the silence between them accumulated, one moment atop the next, making it difficult to begin a conversation, either intelligent or casual. Thoughts darted around Helen’s head like a swarm of fireflies, but no idea settled long enough to be articulated. She sneaked a peek at Pryce. In the soft rose of dusk, he seemed to be looking at everything, from the tops of trees, to the flickering flames of the streetlamps, to the polished paving stones, rather than at her. Several times he gathered his breath as if he were about to comment, but he never did.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 14