“Sometimes I think husbands complicate life.”
“Try making your way in real society without one. Florence Schermerhorn’s James ran off with the wife of a Bible peddler. Doors all over New York shut in her face, poor thing. She had to move out to Larchmont and the only suitor she has is an old parson in a tye wig.”
We made our way along the reservoir and, though I longed for a good canter, kept the horses at a trot, well within the six-mile-per-hour speed limit. The trees laced their fingers above us and the horse’s hooves gave a pleasing thump along the soft path.
I pictured Henry waking, chastened, and seeking strong coffee. It served him right that only Peg would be there to nurse his aching head and bruised ego. Perhaps that would teach him not to play tennis in the rain.
* * *
—
AFTER LUNCH WITH AMELIA and a shopping trip to pick up quinine tablets and other travel sundries, I arrived back at the apartment, brown paper bags in arms. By then I’d decided to forgive Henry. He was only showing off for me after all and would make it up to me on our trip.
Peg met me at the door, face splotched pink among the freckles.
“Mr. Ferriday’s in a bad way, ma’am,” she said, fists clenched under her chin.
“Bad way how?”
She patted her chest with one hand. “Havin’ trouble in here.”
A flash of dread ran through me. “Since when?” I dropped my bags.
“Since I brought ’is tray this morning, ma’am.”
I started toward Henry’s bedroom.
Peg followed. “He’s usually sitting bolt upright on the stroke of seven sayin’ ‘Peg Smith, bring me a gallon o’ coffee,’ but today he’s talking gibberish, the blinds not properly shut.”
I arrived at his room, the door ajar, his breakfast tray in the hallway, untouched.
“You didn’t bring his tray in, Peg?”
She stood in the hallway, arms wrapped around her waist. “Started to, ma’am, but what if I were to catch somethin’?”
I pushed into the room. Henry lay on the bed, curled on his side, on top of the still-made bed, one arm out of his sweater. I touched his hip and felt the wool, wet through.
“Close that window, Peg. You couldn’t get him a blanket?”
Henry shivered and barked a wet cough.
Peg stood in the doorway. “My mam said Joanie Sullivan’s cousin caught lung fever—”
“Help me get these wet clothes off—”
“—and was dead before dawn.”
Peg stayed in the doorway, fingers to her lips. With great effort, I pulled Henry’s sweater off over his head, and the shirt beneath clung to him. What would Mother do? Why had I not paid more attention to their nursing conversations? I pressed one hand to his forehead. Hot.
“I came to your room last night,” Henry said, through chattering teeth. “Wanted to say—”
“Quiet, now.”
“The tickets—”
“Which ones, Henry?”
“I want to go everywhere with you, but…” Henry drifted off.
“You’ll be fine, won’t you? Of course you will. It’s just a fever.”
I looked over my shoulder to Peg. She stared at us from the doorway, though her eyes flicked to the ceiling when my gaze met hers.
“At least get a basin, with warm water and a clean sponge. And the thermometer—in the kitchen.”
She hesitated.
“Now. And call Dr. Forbes—tell him to hurry, and my mother, too….”
Peg ran off.
By the time I stripped off Henry’s shirt, his whole body was shaking terribly.
Peg returned with a basin and left it on the floor just inside the doorway.
I took the basin from the floor. Cold.
“Is Dr. Forbes coming?” I asked.
“The line is busy.”
“Mother?”
“Called Gin Lane and they said your mother’s down with the grippe herself just this morning.”
Mother sick? How could she be when I needed her most?
“Where’s the thermometer?”
Peg removed her cap and wrung it in her hands. “I looked in the kitchen and—”
“Peg Julia Smith, I will skin you alive if you do not run down to Dr. Forbes’s office and bring him back here immediately.”
Peg stood rooted to her spot.
“Did you hear me?”
“The doctor where I took Caroline?”
“No. Dr. Forbes. Down on Thirtieth Street.”
“Near the bakery?”
“No. Next to the apothecary—”
“Where I picked up the cough syrup?”
“Yes—”
“But that’s twenty blocks.”
“Hail a cab, but go.”
Peg bolted off and I searched every kitchen drawer for the thermometer, to no avail, and tore about the apartment, ripped blankets from beds and layered them atop Henry until only his head peeked out from the mound.
I closed all the windows, begged Henry to drink water, which he refused, but nothing would stop that terrible cough.
* * *
—
IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON before Dr. Forbes finally arrived. He hurried in toward the bed, shedding his jacket as Peg hovered in the doorway. My whole body relaxed at the sight of our distinguished doctor with his top hat and fat, black cowhide bag, worn rust-colored at the bottom corners. Dr. Forbes had been Mother’s savior for years; sat by my bedside when I had scarlet fever; delivered Caroline and my godson Max, too, of course.
“I came as quickly as I could,” he said. “Breech birth. And a fire down on Fifth Avenue snarled traffic.”
Even under the layers of blankets, we saw Henry’s whole body spasm as he let out a deep cough.
How had it worsened so quickly? “He’s been coughing like that for hours, Doctor.”
“Hours?” Dr. Forbes began throwing back Henry’s blankets like a New Delhi rug merchant. “Last time he ate?”
“I’m not sure. Last night, I suppose.”
He pulled a thermometer from his bag and shook it. “Take his temperature?”
“No thermometer.”
He slid his thermometer under Henry’s arm. “No thermometer in the house of Carry Woolsey’s daughter?” Dr. Forbes scowled and pressed two fingers to Henry’s wrist. “Why did you not call sooner? He’s toxic.”
A chill ran through me. Toxic?
“Peg called—”
Dr. Forbes touched the back of his hand to Henry’s cheek then pulled the thermometer out and read it. “He’s burning up, Eliza. Elevate his head.”
“I gave him a cold bath.”
“Tell me you did not give him a cold bath. It must be tepid. Boil water and cool it slightly. Cold bath sets the fever.”
I lifted Henry’s head, hot to my touch, and slipped in an extra pillow. “He played tennis yesterday. Slept in wet clothes.”
“Why on earth? And all these blankets worsened the fever. For God’s sake get him to drink water.”
Henry clawed at his chest and laughed. “It’s too hot, Mother. Why is it so hot?”
Dr. Forbes opened the window. “Keep these open. He needs oxygen in his lungs.”
I held the glass to his lips. “It’s Eliza, dear. You need to drink some water.”
Henry slapped it away. “Where is my daughter, for God’s sake?”
Dr. Forbes pulled at his beard and gazed down at Henry. “Has he been smoking?”
“Cigars.”
“Could be lobar pneumonia. There are two possible types of pneumococcus responsible, though. It’s anyone’s guess which it is.”
Henry set into a series of hacking coughs, which ended with a deep gasp as if he were drowning.
; “Do something.” I knelt next to Henry.
“Don’t get too close, Eliza.”
I smoothed Henry’s forehead. “You must act, Doctor.”
“There is a serum…”
“Send for it.”
“But it is only useful against certain types of exudative material and must be ordered.”
“What else?”
“We could try an arterial puncture but it is risky and quite new. X-ray treatment might lead to a resolution. A Murphy drip for hydration.”
“We must get him to St. Luke’s. Call an ambulance.”
He reached for his bag. “They’re all engaged—at the fire. He might not survive a move, anyway. If only we’d acted sooner…”
Voices echoed in the hallway. Caroline.
Taking deep breaths in through her mouth, she pushed past Peg into the room. “Father—I was at Betty’s—”
“My girl—” Henry turned toward her voice.
She ran to him. “I came as soon as I heard.”
Across the bed, Dr. Forbes shook his head at me. Of course, Caroline could not be near him. With her weak lungs, it was out of the question. But how could I deny my daughter her father?
I caught Caroline by the wrist, before she was halfway to the bed. “You can see him soon, darling. He just—”
Caroline broke free, rushed to the bed, and slipped her arms around Henry’s neck. “I’m here, Father. I won’t leave you.”
Henry turned to her. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling—”
Dr. Forbes rushed around the bed. “This is no place for children, Caroline.” He wrapped his hands about her waist and pulled her from Henry.
Caroline fought like a distempered cat, arms flailing, kicking Dr. Forbes. “He is my Father. I have the right to—”
Henry held out one hand. “Caroline—”
Dr. Forbes dragged her toward the door. “She must leave the premises immediately.”
Caroline reached out as she passed me, eyes wild and pleading. “Mother, please. You must let me stay.”
I looked away. “Take her, Peg. Have Thomas drive her to Southampton.”
“No, Mother—”
Peg clamped onto Caroline’s wrists, took her from Dr. Forbes, and pulled her out the door, closing it behind her with her foot.
The closed door muffled Caroline’s last cry. “You have no right. He is my father.”
Henry looked toward the door. “Where is she? Caroline?”
Dr. Forbes pressed one hand to Henry’s forehead. “She’ll be back. You must cool down first.”
A most pitiful look came to Henry’s face and tears pooled in his eyes. “I want my daughter, goddamnit.”
I held his hand. “Soon, my darling.”
Henry closed his eyes and grew quiet. Dr. Forbes pulled a canvas tourniquet from his bag, then looked up at me. “I suggest you pray like you’ve never prayed before, Eliza.”
The world slowed.
All I could think was: Take anything you want from me but not him.
CHAPTER
8
Sofya
1916
The morning of Agnessa’s fiftieth name-day luncheon, the turtledoves cooed in the trees as we ate in the dining room. It was the hottest autumn in recent memory in our woods and even the ice in the icehouse had melted to a tepid pool. We all sat at the table, Agnessa in a trumpet-sleeved dress of white linen.
“Do let some air in,” Agnessa said.
Our gamekeeper Bogdan hurried to open the windows. Such a good man, with his kind blue eyes and weathered skin. He was tanned dark from years outside in every season with his team of beaters, men skilled at shouting and waving their red cloths to flush prey from the forests and steppe. At seven I’d been his worst student, though he patiently taught me to shoot. He smelled of rum and worn leather, his arms around me as I aimed, and was like a proud father years later when I got my first elk.
Beads of sweat on his forehead, Cook set the traditional name-day ring cake sprinkled with almonds on the table in front of Agnessa. The cake perspired as well, a layer of dew forming along the ganache. Where had he even found the sugar to make it? The black market, I suspected, since even with a ration card, one seldom found a grocer with sugar.
Cook stepped back and looked to me for approval.
Luba leaned closer to me. “He’s in love with you, sister. Could it be more obvious?”
“You’re mad,” I said, though there was something sweet about the idea.
How lucky we all felt that Cook, known to most as Baron Yury Vanyovich Vasily-Argunov, a fine-looking bachelor with considerable land holdings, found happiness in our kitchen. Agnessa had invited him to a dinner party years ago and after he tasted an undercooked soufflé, he’d taken over the kitchen and never left, insisting we call him Cook.
The ring on his left hand caught the light. It was an old family ring, given to his great grandfather by Alexander II, a wide rose-gold band layered with a gold imperial eagle, a fat diamond in its belly. Agnessa told us he’d had many offers to buy it and even the tsar had admired it. I never cared for diamonds on men, but he clearly prized it.
Luba pulled her book of constellations from her lap and began to read.
“Manners, Luba,” Agnessa said. “Put that away this instant. Stars. Such an empty pursuit.”
Luba slid the book back to her lap. “Damnant quod non intellegunt,” she muttered.
Agnessa looked to Father. “What is she saying?”
“ ‘They condemn what they do not understand,’ ” he said.
Agnessa brushed a phantom crumb from the tablecloth. “I understand stars perfectly. I just wish they’d stay in one place. All that moving around. It’s unsettling.”
Luba looked to me, eyes heavy-lidded, as if to say, “Why argue with a person so happy in their ignorance?”
Raisa, one of our estate laundresses, a kind, big-boned girl who wore her hair in scrawny, strawberry-blond braids, stood behind Agnessa flapping a dingy gray ostrich-feather fan, keeping air moving through the rooms.
That house was an imposter of sorts, a commercial laundry turned country estate, in no way elegant, but the high ceilings made it appear so. While my mother was alive she’d put away the French dining room chairs and ancestral portraits and decorated it in a casual, Russian way. She arranged pillows on the floor for seating, Russian folk paintings on the walls, and filled every receptacle in the house—teapots, drinking glasses, and pitchers—with wild roses she picked herself, the sweet scent perfuming the air.
Once Agnessa came to live with us, she had the French furniture dragged out of hiding and sent the pillows to the attic, probably hoping to wipe away any trace of Russia. And Mother.
Though Luba and I protested, Agnessa brought back the gold dining room furniture and dusted off the ancestral portraits, some most frightening, and hung them in the zala, the equivalent of an English drawing room, which ran along the front of the house.
Upstairs, Father’s and Agnessa’s rooms, Afon’s and mine, and Luba’s converged around the grand staircase. Mother’s room had always been our favorite place to congregate, and we often arranged the featherbeds on the floor and stayed up late talking and reading poetry.
She allowed us full range of her closets, free to play there, slipping into her Worth sable coat, the lining cool as water against our sunburned arms. We ran our hands down the dresses of orange and emerald silk and held her velvet kimonos soft against our cheeks. Mother rarely wore the exquisite things and chose instead more comfortable clothes she could easily move in, peasant clothes and gardening trousers, black canvas Chinese slippers.
After Mother died the terrible finality of it set in, so quiet and unbending. Father kept her room locked, with a key kept on his person at all times. When Agnessa arrived, she had the room opened, Mothe
r’s coat cleaned and put away for herself, the linens and laces split between Luba and me. Thankfully, we had our holiday trip to Paris with Eliza to help dispel the sadness, but when we returned to Russia Agnessa did everything she could to erase Mother’s memory.
Agnessa redecorated Mother’s bedroom in the French style, the bed made with fine linen, Father’s crest embroidered on every piece, the closet filled with new French couture, in grays and lavenders. Luba and I barely recognized our house once Agnessa whitewashed the brick, replaced the brightly painted Russian shutters with gray pairs in the French style, and had English ivy planted to grow up the facade.
I held Max on my lap, one arm around his belly as he ate kasha from a bowl with a spoon, the satin bow of his silver foil party hat tied near one ear. Afon made faces at him from across the table and Max’s blond curls shook as he let out deep belly laughs.
The servants brought in baby Volga sturgeon and ironstone tureens filled with Father’s favorite dishes, like the salty-sour rassolnik, cucumber soup with beef kidneys, which Luba refused to eat. Afon ate with great relish, perhaps thinking he would not see such food for a while, since the long-dreaded telegram had arrived and he was due to report soon at regimental headquarters in Petrograd.
Father sat straight in his chair, head to toe in country-wear: fawn-colored loose trousers and rubaha, the linen shirt peasant men wore, the placket unbuttoned at the neck, hanging down like a sow’s ear. The headline on the newspaper in his hands read: BIG ADVANCE BY BRITISH. GERMAN LINES DRIVEN BACK. The news that day cheered us all. On top of a decisive Russian victory by General Brusilov on the southwestern front, the Allies were gaining ground at the Battle of Somme with their new secret weapon: the tank.
Agnessa leaned toward me, sending a wave of carnation and ylang-ylang my way, which put me off my oeufs en cocotte. “I visited that fortune seer last week, you know.”
“So that’s where you went. Such a waste of time—”
“Her name was Zina and she…” She pulled me closer. “She said little Max would cross water four times.”
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