Elsie turned the page. “Oh, this is sad. ‘The White Star office was be—besieged”—she was an unsteady reader and she gave the word a hard g—“by weeping women, several of whom had sons on board. Among these was Mrs. William Dulles, who left the office in a state of collapse, supported by her friends.”
Now there was another thud from upstairs, followed by a curse.
Looking up, Elsie said, “She hates that thing. Says it doesn’t work.”
“You take the rugs outside, you beat the rugs outside,” opined Mrs. Mueller, giving the dough a good whack.
I said, “Progress, Mrs. Mueller. Would you make some tea for Miss Louise?”
Bernadette stomped into the kitchen and threw herself into a chair. She, Mrs. Mueller, and I were survivors in a manner of speaking, having lasted two years in the Benchleys’ employ, a feat that had eluded every other domestic in the city and possibly the state. Not that the Benchleys were difficult to please; they were just impossible in every other way. There was also Mrs. Benchley’s personal maid, an elderly woman who went by the name “Matchless Maude.” But she kept to her room, preferring gin to company.
Bernadette was a stout young woman with red hair and small, watchful eyes. She had more wits than her job made use of, and she often exercised them at others’ expense. Elsie, new to the city, was an easy target. When the country girl expressed sympathy for Madeleine Astor, Bernadette rolled her eyes. “Poor Madeleine Astor! She saved her maid and let her rich husband drown.”
Elsie argued, “Well, she didn’t have a choice, it’s women and children first.”
“The code of the sea,” intoned Mrs. Mueller, flinging the dough onto the counter.
“If they’d had enough lifeboats, you wouldn’t need a code,” said Bernadette.
Wanting to diffuse the argument, I took up the newspaper. There was a fetching picture of a young woman hanging from a trapeze and I read: “‘The Ladies of Barnum and Bailey to March for Suffrage!’”
But Bernadette could not be put off needling so easily. She asked Elsie, “Are you all signed up? Going to march for your right to vote?”
Elsie shrugged. “We’ve had the vote in Idaho since 1896. Maybe they just don’t trust you New York gals. I guess you’ll be out there.”
“Oh, sure,” lied Bernadette.
I smiled. “Wearing your thirty-nine-cent hat?” The suffrage marchers, wanting to project unity, were urging everyone to wear special thirty-nine-cent hats, and the papers were gleefully anticipating the spectacle of well-heeled women sporting a cheap parade bonnet with their white suits and tricolored sashes.
Then Elsie asked, “Who would you vote for, if you could?”
“None of them,” snorted Bernadette. A neat way, I thought, not to admit she didn’t know any of the candidates. True—there were a lot of them. In February, Teddy Roosevelt started what he called “the biggest fight the Republican Party has been in since the Civil War,” and declared he was running against his former friend and protégé, President Taft, whom he now deemed a fathead with the brains of a guinea pig. Wilson promised a New Freedom, Roosevelt a New Nationalism. Someone named Champ Clark was keen to annex Canada. Everyone promised to end corruption and curb the abuses of big business. Republicans favored something called a protective tariff, while Democrats were in favor of free trade. I myself had no opinion on the matter.
“Are you going to march, Miss Prescott?” Elsie asked me.
The question surprised me. I was so preoccupied with the wedding, I had never even considered going. And I didn’t think of myself as a … marcher.
“It’s barely a week after Miss Louise’s wedding. I’ll still be asleep.”
As Mrs. Mueller poured the water into the teapot and wrapped it in a cloth, I arranged the tray. Bernadette said, “I heard her crying again. I never saw a girl cry so much before her own wedding.”
Elsie leaned in. “He’s nice-looking, that William Tyler. Oh, say, there was something in the papers—”
She turned the pages, then pushed it to the center of the table so we could all see.
“I DEFY THEM!” DEPUTY COMMISSIONER CHARLES TYLER STANDS AGAINST THE BLACK HAND
“That’s Mr. William’s uncle, ain’t it?” asked Elsie. “Where you’re going tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Mueller said, “He saved that little boy that they kidnapped.” Mrs. Mueller’s children were grown, but she was not yet the grandmother she longed to be. Anything to do with children caught her attention.
“Now, he’d get my vote,” said Bernadette, pointing to the picture of Tyler. “He’s not all talk. He gives the dagoes what they deserve.”
I winced. Dago was not a word I cared for—and I heard it a lot. A series of sensational (or sensationalized) incidents had many in the city feeling under siege from foreign criminals. Our last commissioner, Theodore Bingham, had made the startling claim that 85 percent of the criminals in the city were exotic. Russian Hebrews, he said, had cornered the market in crimes against property, such as burglars, firebugs, and pickpockets. Chinatown was a “plague spot that ought not to be allowed to exist.” But the “Italian malefactor” was by far the greatest threat, and the most notorious of these was a group known as the “Black Hand.” Their crimes were legion. Homes and shops were dynamited by blackmailers. Children kidnapped and held for ransom. Italian families extorted of their earnings. The body parts of those who ran afoul of the gang were strewn in city streets.
In response, Commissioner Bingham and Charles Tyler had created a special “Italian Squad,” headed by Lt. Joseph Petrosino and staffed by other men of Italian extraction, who could go undetected through the Italian neighborhoods of the East Side and Upper Broadway. A string of dramatic arrests brought great acclaim to the squad—and of course, the men responsible for its creation. If there were some who felt Charles Tyler’s war against gangs was a little showy, his cultivation of his own myth a little obvious, it could not be denied that he invested his work with all the considerable energy and wits at his disposal.
But it was the Forti case that had made Charles Tyler a national hero, winning him the hearts of American mothers so definitively that it was said that if women were given the vote, Charles Tyler could stroll right into the White House. The kidnapping of six-year-old Emilio Forti, who disappeared from his own street, had commanded Mr. Tyler’s attentions because, as he told the papers, “I have sons of my own and the thought of their mother’s heartbreak should they be taken from us is unimaginable.”
The Fortis were a well-to-do family. Emilio’s father was a lawyer. Emilio’s mother had first become alarmed when he failed to come home from school that afternoon. When she checked, she was told her son never arrived. That evening, the family had received a letter, demanding payment of $15,000 for the child’s return. The kidnappers warned that if the matter came to the attention of the police, “you will receive the body of your son by parcel post. In pieces.”
Some people observed that there was little reason for Charles Tyler to accompany “his” Sicilians on the Italian Squad, but accompany them he did. When they got a tip as to the whereabouts of the suspected kidnappers, Tyler, in disguise, tailed them from a saloon on Flatbush Avenue to a grocery on Eleventh Street. “I heard a child crying,” Tyler later told reporters. “I banged on the door and demanded entrance. No one answered and so we broke into the room. There I saw a boy, who trembled and said, ‘Please don’t kill me, mister, I’m Emilio.’ I picked the little fellow up and told him I was a policeman and that I was going to take him home to his people.”
The Italian Squad managed to arrest two of the kidnappers; the police implied there were others, but these two were dim enough to get caught. One of them was Dante Moretti, son of the notorious Sirrino Moretti. Speaking with the newspapers, the senior Mr. Moretti, who described himself as a humble merchant, had suggested that as the charges were false the trial would not be in Charles Tyler’s best interest. His reputation, worried Mr. Moretti, could �
�suffer.” Tyler responded to these threats with characteristic bravado, and a war of words had ensued, much to the delight of the press. I just hoped that the battle would not escalate. At least, not before the wedding.
“Maybe that’s why she’s nervous,” said Bernadette, tossing her head toward Louise’s room. “You’re walking down the aisle, all of a sudden, some guinea jumps out and tries to cut your throat.”
I had seen too much of Louise’s nerves to find this funny. “Miss Louise’s wedding day will be perfect. Even if I have to cut someone’s throat myself.”
Bernadette narrowed her eyes. “And what happens to you after the wedding? What if her mother-in-law decides you’re not good enough for the new Mrs. Tyler? Wants someone who’s worked for royalty and speaks French?”
The question had occurred to me, but I wasn’t going to admit it to Bernadette, who added, “It’s not like you ever got along so well with Miss Charlotte.”
I picked up the tray. “I’m sure when Miss Louise decides, I’ll be the first to know.”
“Future’s uncertain, that’s all I’m saying,” said Bernadette. She nodded to the headline, ONE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED SOULS LOST! “Tomorrow’s promised to no man—or woman either.”
2
The next day we set off for Pleasant Meadows. The purpose of the trip was twofold: the week would give the mothers-in-law the chance to see how their grand schemes would play out in the actual setting where the wedding was to take place, thus avoiding the last-minute embarrassments of caterers thwarted by narrow corridors or the bride tripped by a loose flagstone. It would also give Louise a chance to become acquainted with her hosts, the people William loved best in the world.
It was not a calm departure. Given the mission of the visit, Mr. Benchley decided his presence was not required—nor was Charlotte’s. So, he dispatched her to Philadelphia, where she would visit with her aunt and then escort the older woman to the wedding. He himself would stay in the city. That morning, he announced he did not even have time to see the ladies to the station. This threw Mrs. Benchley into fits.
I don’t think I am being indiscreet if I say that Mrs. Benchley was not a suffragette. To her, the world beyond her door was chaotic and bewildering, best navigated by a man who would tell you when and where to go and carry anything heavier than a handkerchief. The prospect of facing Pennsylvania Station without her husband was daunting; the news that O’Hara, the Benchleys’ oft-inebriated chauffeur, would accompany her from the house to the station did not console her.
“William will meet us at the station, Mother,” Louise reassured her. “He’ll manage everything.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Benchley, brightening at the thought of her son-in-law. “And we’ll have Jane.”
“Yes, we’ll have Jane.”
Both Benchley ladies were apprehensive about the journey through the new tunnel that now linked Manhattan to Queens under the East River. Up until two years ago, travelers had had to be ferried across, but now the train simply ran through a tube, submerging on the East shore of Manhattan and coming back out again in Long Island City. Mrs. Benchley had grave doubts about this tube and would not be reassured as to its soundness. What if there were a crack? What if the train got stuck? Would they have to swim? Because she wasn’t a very good swimmer …
Much has been written about the glories of the old Pennsylvania Station, and I suppose it was magnificent—if you had nothing to do but look. Constructed of marble and pink granite, it was modeled on the glories of Paris and London as a signal to the world that America had its own great capital cities. The main waiting room had been inspired by the ancient baths of Rome, and the huge vaulted hall, guarded by eagles and unseeing maidens, was imperial in scale. Maps of the world covered the walls. The elaborate glass skylight commanded the gaze and made you feel dizzy to look up. You were at once in the center of the universe and the entry point of the entire nation. You might go anywhere, do anything.
But I wasn’t in the happy position of sightseer. I had to find a porter to take the bags, shepherd Mrs. and Miss Benchley inside the station, then find a place for them to sit, as Mrs. Benchley was feeling faint.
“Mother, we’re supposed to meet William under the clock,” Louise fretted.
“You stay with Mrs. Benchley,” I told her. “I’ll go find Mr. William.”
As I made my way through the crowds, I found myself brought up short by the newly completed statue of the president of the Pennsylvania Railroad, Alexander Cassatt. The bronze colossus stood in an archway, surveying the multitudes who scurried through his splendid creation like so many ants. In his hand, he held his hat and cane, as if still about his business. Mrs. Benchley had Mr. Cassatt to thank for her worries, as it was he who, Moses-like, had blasted through the New York bedrock and tunneled through two rivers to connect the island of Manhattan with New Jersey and Long Island. Hundreds of homes had been demolished, and fourteen men had died. Cassatt himself had not lived to see his vision realized—and so this tribute. I found myself strangely provoked by the statue. Its massive size and imposing demeanor spurred me to stand my ground and meet its eye—even if I had to look up twenty feet to do so.
Then I remembered the Benchleys and hurried on to find William.
I often thought if God gave me a choice of brothers, I would have picked William Tyler. He was the nephew of my first employer, Mrs. Armslow, and I had known him since I was fourteen. The Tylers had long been under obligation to their more well-off relations. While she was alive, Mrs. Armslow had paid for William’s education and for his sisters’ apparel. But when she died, she left her fortune to charity and the family had struggled. The stench of charity accompanied them at social gatherings. People politely—but pointedly—overlooked the fact that the Tyler girls wore others’ cast-off dresses and that their jewelry was “becomingly modest.” When it seemed Beatrice was about to marry Norrie Newsome, everyone looked forward to the day they could stop accommodating the Tylers’ embarrassing condition. But she had not and they could not. Until now.
William got the best of the family looks, being dark haired and sweet natured. He was a little oversized—too tall, ungainly in his gait, too sincere in his views. He had brought many a social gathering to stunned silence with his enthusiasm for the novels of H. G. Wells or the brilliance of Robert La Follette. All his life, he had worked to fulfill the expectations of his mother and aunt. And while those expectations had not included a marriage with a family viewed as the destroyer of his sister’s happiness, he was at least now in a position to restore the Tylers’ financial fortune. His mother had arranged a position for him at a suitable law firm, which he would take up after his honeymoon.
Being so tall, William was easy to spot; his head was lifted, his mouth open in frank admiration of the station’s wondrous skylight. I explained that Mrs. Benchley was resting and asked if he could come to where she was. As we made our way through the bustling crowd, walking one behind the other, he called, “What do you think, Jane? Have I done a good thing?”
Over my shoulder, I said, “I think you’re marrying the finest girl in New York.”
“I think so, too.” He caught up to me. “But don’t you sell yourself short.”
“Oh, no,” I said mockingly.
We paused as a large lady in front of us paused, unsure as to where she was going. Lowering his voice, William asked, “How is Miss Louise?”
“… Apprehensive.”
We were within view of Louise and her mother. Gazing at his fiancée, William said, “I know certain things are hard for Louise. Talking to people, that sort of thing. But I think if I can build up her confidence, make her see herself … well, the way we see her, she’ll be quite splendid.”
“I pledge my complete cooperation.” The lady made up her mind as to her direction and we moved on.
The mere sight of William improved Mrs. Benchley’s spirits out of all recognition. William bestowed a kiss on Louise’s cheek, listened patiently to her mother’s compl
aints, and commandeered all of us to the train, where he found just the right seat by the window for Mrs. Benchley, then neatly arranged it so that he sat next to Louise. Seeing them settled in the first-class car, I started down the aisle, only to hear Louise call, “No, Jane, sit here with us!”
It was not the first time Louise had asked me to stay with her and William. I had “chaperoned” any number of walks in the park, trips to the Metropolitan Museum, and even a tea or two. I suppose it gave her courage, but it was not regular.
But William said, “Absolutely!” and gestured to the aisle seat opposite himself and Louise. A man having made the decision, Mrs. Benchley made no objection.
It was not the last decision William made either. His newfound stature as the savior of the Tyler family fortune had given him courage to go with his manners. When a pretty young woman came down the aisle burdened by a squirming Pekingese, William gallantly offered to hold the dog while she found her seat. An older woman was helped with her bags. Two giggling college girls were guided to their row, a kindness for which they showed such excessive gratitude that I felt it necessary to remind William that he had the tickets and the conductor would be by shortly. Louise, who had grown more and more pale the longer William was out of his seat, smiled in relief as he sat beside her.
Once the train had lurched into motion, Mrs. Benchley said, “Now, William, you must tell me more about your uncle. He sounds such an uncommon man, I’m sure I won’t know what to say to him.”
“He is an uncommon man,” agreed William. “But you shouldn’t worry; once Uncle Charles gets talking, you won’t get a chance to say much.”
The fact of Charles Winslow Tyler’s uncommonness was widely known because Charles Winslow Tyler wished it widely known. He courted attention the way he did everything else: vigorously. He was the younger brother of William’s father, a position some find trying, but which he saw as a liberation from convention. He had constantly sought out experience at its roughest and most wild. As a teenager, he had worked on a swordfishing vessel alongside Portuguese fishermen. Following the example of the celebrated mountaineer Mrs. Fanny Bullock Workman, he had climbed one of the Nun Kun peaks in the Himalayas and had come fifth in the Iditarod dog sled race (he currently owned a husky named Brownie who was a descendent of the lead dog in that race). There was a rumor that he had wrestled a grizzly bear in the Yukon, and while he never owned up to it, he did nothing to dispel it. He had gone west, serving in the US Cavalry, but he found army life too rigid, and so enrolled at Harvard. Those who might dismiss him as a barbarian were surprised when he excelled. They were further surprised when he rushed from graduation straight into politics in the New York State Assembly, a business no gentleman took an interest in. However, Charles Tyler found Albany rougher than even he could stand—grizzly bears, he said, fought you fair—so he returned to the city, where he joined the police department and threw himself into the fight against organized crime.
Death of a New American--A Novel Page 2