Swallowing her hurt, Eleanor had handed her a tin of tansy tea. “Drink a cup of this once a day for a full week before your courses are due. So long as you’ve kept proper track of things, it should provide all the help you need.”
“Is there no verse to recite this time to soften my trials and woes?”
Was the young woman teasing her? Eleanor had been tempted to write something cruel on the receipt (you’ve made your bed, now you must lie in it came to mind), but she chose to take the high road instead. “The tea should suffice.”
After that, Lucy had returned to the shop at least once a week—sometimes alone, sometimes with her aunt—never showing a hint of regret or longing on her lovely face. Last week when she’d asked for something stronger than the tea, Eleanor had given her a tincture of Queen Anne’s lace along with instructions on how to use it.
This morning, when Eleanor had read the note that Lucy had slipped under the door, she’d assumed it could only mean one thing—she was pregnant. Why hadn’t the tincture worked? And why leave a note rather than come back to the shop? If it was so important they meet at eleven in the park, why wasn’t she here? Did she ever think of anyone but herself?
Just as Eleanor was about to leave, she heard footsteps on the stairs that led to the balcony. Turning, she caught sight of Lucy, decked out in a lavender walking suit and feather-laden hat. Making an attempt to smooth the wrinkles from her plain linen dress, Eleanor only said, “You’re late.”
“In more ways than one,” Lucy replied, moving to Eleanor’s side.
“I was afraid that might be the case. Did you take the tincture as I instructed?”
“You never mentioned how horrible it tastes. I couldn’t stand it so I stopped.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No wonder you’re in a bind. How many days are you past due?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Lucy said, dismissing Eleanor’s concern.
“It most certainly does,” Eleanor chided. “I need to know how late you are, so I can decide how best to help you.”
Lucy sighed. “What if I don’t want your help?”
“Then why are we here?” Eleanor asked.
Lucy didn’t reply.
“Do you want a child?” Eleanor asked, wishing she knew whether or not Lucy even wished to be married.
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” Lucy said. “I’m tired of thinking. Please tell me what to do.”
It was all Eleanor could do not to leave her there. “Why don’t you ask your aunt for advice, or better yet, your husband. I’m sure Mr. Newland would have something to say about the matter.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair.”
Tears in her eyes, Lucy leaned close and whispered, “He found the bottle and threw it out. I tried to explain it away as best I could, but I’m sure he didn’t believe me.”
“He knows what it’s for?”
“He seems to, yes.”
“Does he know where you got it?”
“I don’t think so,” Lucy replied, “but it’s hard to say what he does and doesn’t know, or just what he’s thinking. He gets so terribly angry sometimes. He said it’s only a matter of time until he uncovers all my secrets. I can’t imagine what he might do if he found out about us.”
Eleanor placed a hand on Lucy’s arm. “For what it’s worth,” she said, “you’re always welcome to stay with me.”
“What a scandal that would be!” Lucy said with a forced laugh.
Eleanor frowned. “I’m concerned for your welfare.”
“You might consider your own before making such an offer. The consequences could be devastating.”
“I’m not afraid of the consequences,” Eleanor said. Despite the girl’s fickleness, she still cared for her. If Lucy was in danger, she had to take a stand.
“Perhaps you should be,” Lucy replied. “We’d both be ruined and I’ve no doubt that your fate would be far worse than mine. Society would turn its back on me, that’s a given, but I can always run off to Paris or London to ride out the storm. You, my dear, would be tossed in the Tombs once the police got wind of the services you provide to the women of the Ladies’ Mile. We were so careful to never speak of love! Why must you insist on being so self-sacrificing now?”
“This isn’t about love,” Eleanor retorted. “It’s about liberty.”
“But I’m not the one who would be thrown in a cell.” Lucy shook her head in disbelief. “I don’t know why I came to you about this. I quite like the way I live—my house, my parties, my dresses, my friends.”
“But is that life really yours?”
Lucy’s face softened. “If this is about what we shared together, please know I’ve no regrets. If we were living in another time or place—if I’d been your dark-eyed nurse, or you were my distant cousin, we could walk hand in hand down sidewalks or through ballrooms and no one would say a word. But you being who you are and me being who I am, our friendship was fated to end.”
“My offer stands,” Eleanor said. Her mother had never turned away a woman in need. That is who we are. This is what we do.
“I can’t afford to take such a risk,” Lucy said. “I’ve too much to lose.”
“They’re only losses if you perceive them to be,” Eleanor insisted. “Think of what you might gain.”
“By that same logic, I’m only a prisoner if I think myself one. I’m not like you, dear Eleanor. I’m weak and spoiled and afraid. It’s simply not in me to be brave.”
Those were the truest words Eleanor had ever heard Lucy speak.
“Here,” Eleanor said, fishing in her satchel for another bottle of the tincture she’d brought with her just in case. “Ten drops beneath your tongue each morning for five days straight. It’s sure to bring on your blood so long as you’re less than two weeks past due. If you’re any further along than that, you’ll need something stronger and I’d need to look after you.”
Lucy took the bottle. “This time I’ll be more careful with it.”
“Careful or not, it won’t do you any good unless you take what’s in it.” Eleanor sensed that Lucy had no intention of using the tincture. There was a dullness in her eyes that said she was resigned to be more child than woman, more possession than partner in her marriage. “Send word if you need anything else,” she said, reaching out to touch Lucy’s hand.
Nodding, Lucy gave a weak smile. “I’ll have Aunt Ida bring me something from time to time to remember you by.”
“Hibiscus tea?” Eleanor asked, knowing it was her favourite.
Delivering a kiss to Eleanor’s cheek, Lucy said, “Yes. I always liked hibiscus best.”
—
Eleanor stayed awhile at the torch after Lucy left. In the gardens below, she spotted an old woman sitting by the fountain feeding the birds. The woman had once told her that the web of footpaths within the park had been arranged in such a way that anyone who visited more than once would rarely walk the same path. She’d claimed this was because the place was enchanted, guarded by the spirits of those buried far beneath the tea roses and locust trees. “Take care that you never tell a lie here,” she’d warned, “or the spirits will follow you home.”
Tossing the last of her crumbs, the old woman rose to trail after a group of pamphleteers making their rounds through the park. Two ladies dressed in white led the ragtag parade, carrying the standard of the National Woman Suffrage Association. Every so often the Bird Lady would bend down to collect a stray notice or bit of debris. Eleanor had seen her follow other groups in the past—the Daughters of Light, who were raising funds to build a proper base for Lady Liberty; Congregationalists from the Church of the Good Shepherd, who wished to rid the world of sin; the gentleman members of the Fraternal Order of the Unknown Philosophers, who had a question for every answer. After she’d collected all she wanted, the Bird Lady would sit on a bench with needle and thread and sew her precious scraps into paper stars and give them away to any passerby who bothered to approach her.
To most, the shabby tokens were nothing more than trash, but to those who looked upon the woman’s offerings with kindness, they were delicate artifacts shaped by skilled hands. Eleanor had kept every star the Bird Lady had ever given her. She planned to string them in a garland and hang them in the shop window come Christmas. Every fold, every stitch the woman made was filled with care and thought; somehow the Bird Lady found meaning in what the rest of the world tossed away. Although she didn’t often speak to Eleanor, on the occasions when she did, the lilt in her voice reminded Eleanor of her mother.
She wondered if the wise Madame St. Clair could’ve convinced Lucy to flee her situation. As a child Eleanor had watched in awe as her mother had said whatever she thought whenever she wanted to whomever she pleased, mostly to great success.
“When do I get to do that, Maman?” she’d asked. “When do I get to say whatever I wish?”
“When it pains you not to,” her mother had replied.
“What if I’m too scared?”
“All the more reason to speak your mind.”
Known for its beautiful fountain, lovely trees and pleasant walking paths, Madison Square Garden is equally inviting at night. Every evening after sunset, spectators gather there to witness a great sight atop the Erie ticket building just opposite the park. It’s there that the enterprising Mr. Eno has installed an enormous stereopticon (or Magic Lantern) along with a presentation screen three storeys high. Scenes of the world (Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, the Amazon River) are intermingled with advertisements, bible verses and the news of the day, each image dissolving into the next at a steady pace in the skilled hands of the lanternist. Although most observers come with an understanding of how the contraption works, they are still inclined to marvel whenever the screen is lit. The days of witchcraft and sorcery may be happily past, but man is not above believing in magic when science is so convincingly turned to spectacle.
—Sights and Wonders of the City: A Guide to New York, 1880
Phantasmagoria.
ADELAIDE LOVED NIGHTFALL in the park, the way the glimmer of lights—from windows, street lamps, lanterns on carriages—made it seem as if there were stars twinkling on the ground. When she was a child she’d stay out all day and not go home until well after dark. (It was that or catch her mother accommodating the landlord while drinking herself into a sordid mess.)
She hadn’t returned to the shop that afternoon, hadn’t gone back to the hotel either, all in an effort to avoid Judith Dashley. After window-shopping up and down the length of Ladies’ Mile, she’d decided to end the day in the park. She felt quite at home watching the buskers and beggars find their places, as if they were about to perform a pantomime of her past.
Let the lady stew, she thought, as she settled on her favourite bench. I’ll mend whatever needs fixing tomorrow.
She knew Judith had meant well by introducing her to Dr. Brody, so why had her kindness felt so intrusive? If anything she should thank the woman for her efforts, because for a fleeting moment that morning, with Dr. Brody’s hand in hers, she’d felt the excitement of having someone new to figure out. But then she’d bungled that up as well—she’d been too forward too fast, too revealing with her words. In her experience, most men became unbearably squeamish when faced with hard truths. It’d been a long time since she’d read a man’s palm, and even longer since she’d felt a man’s hand on the small of her back. Was she interested in the good doctor? Yes. Did she wish to fall in love? Absolutely not. And there lay the root of her problem. She hated to disappoint Judith, but she highly doubted that whatever might happen between her and Dr. Brody (or any man) would ever last. While her encounter with him had served to reinforce the notion that she was in dire need of something new to pursue, she was quite convinced that any involvement with him would wind up being a limited engagement.
What then should I focus my energies upon? she wondered. Things were going well enough at the teashop, but they could always go better. She wasn’t like Eleanor, who was perfectly content with paying the bills and getting by. She dreamed of a larger clientele, of greater success, of enough money to buy out the landlord, Mr. Withrow, who was always belittling their role as businesswomen and threatening to raise the rent.
When they’d first opened the shop, all Adelaide had wanted was to repay Eleanor for her kindness, and make a fresh start for herself. With the heady early days of starting their business now behind them, she’d begun to feel restless and bored. Any new ideas that sparked in her brain never seemed to catch fire. She’d thought that reading cards for the ladies of Fifth Avenue would hold her interest for a good long while, but their problems were far too much alike for her taste. She felt that something was about to change (it simply had to), but she wasn’t sure if she should run to or from it.
Considering her options, Adelaide wondered if the new girl, Beatrice, might hold the key to attracting more business to the shop. With her alabaster skin, shiny hair and homespun charm, she might pull even the most reluctant passerby into their orbit. In the sideshow, they’d called her kind “a draw.” Adelaide had been one herself. Maybe she could teach the girl how to tell fortunes. If Beatrice’s mind was as keen as her attitude, then it wouldn’t be too difficult a task. Her looks could certainly make up for any intuitive inclination she lacked. Eleanor, of course, would be sure to say that she was taking advantage of the girl’s eager nature, and there’d be some of that, yes. But it would all be for the greater good of their venture. In any event, she’d need to observe the girl, spend time with her, which also might help her shake her own malaise. In the meantime, she had Mrs. Stevens’ proposition to consider. If only she could get Eleanor to see the benefit of using her craft to wrangle at least a few of the hotel’s wayward ghosts.
Evening chimes sounded from the bells of a nearby church. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.
As spectators gathered to watch the latest round of images featured in the magic lantern show, a young girl wearing a shabby gingham dress passed through the crowd and stopped in front of Adelaide. Wisps of dark hair dangling in her face, she splayed a handful of playing cards like a fan. With a shy smile she said, “Tell your fortune, ma’am?”
“How much?” Adelaide asked. There was something about her hungry eyes and sunken cheeks that made her feel as if she were being shown a vision of her younger self.
“Three pennies a card,” the girl replied. “A nickel if you like what you hear.”
“All right then,” Adelaide said, reaching for a card. “Let’s see what I get.”
“Choose carefully,” the girl instructed. “Take your time.”
Running her finger across the top edges of the cards, Adelaide studied the girl’s eyes. When her lashes fluttered ever so slightly, Adelaide plucked a card from her hand. “Nine of Hearts,” she announced, presenting it to the girl for evaluation.
“Excellent choice, ma’am,” the girl cooed. “The best one in the deck. That’s no lie.”
Adelaide gave the girl a smile. Not because she felt lucky in her choice, but because the little soothsayer had just proved her worth. The Nine of Hearts was universally acknowledged among Gypsy fortune tellers to be the luckiest card of all. “What does it mean?” Adelaide asked, feigning ignorance.
“It means you get to make a wish,” the girl replied. “And by and by, it’ll come true.”
Just then, a group of women in velvet-trimmed cloaks came towards them on the footpath, singing hymns and distributing religious tracts.
Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness
Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;
Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.
One of the women stared at the girl like a cat in want of prey. She reminded Adelaide of the Christian ladies who went slumming down on Chrystie Street when she was a child. They came from parish halls and ladies’ societies to peer into the windows and lives of the less f
ortunate, one hand holding a skirt out of the muck, the other a peppermint-scented handkerchief to the nose. “Poor dear,” they’d say while dropping pennies into her hand, taking care not to touch her. Then they’d invite her to their Bible study meetings so they could tell her she was nothing but a sack of sin. As soon as all those wretched r’s started coming from between their lips—refuge, reform, religion—she’d grab one of their biscuits and race out the door.
“Tell me more about my card,” Adelaide said, motioning for the girl to sit next to her on the bench. She wasn’t about to let this child get swept up in the Christian ladies’ fervour.
“It’s like I said,” the girl replied, lighting on the bench’s edge. “A wish come true.”
“Wishes are serious business,” Adelaide said.
“I’d say so,” the girl replied with a wink.
Reaching inside her pocket, Adelaide pulled out a shiny dime and handed it over. “This is for you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The girl stared at the coin as if she couldn’t believe her own luck. “That’s awfully generous of you.”
“There’s more where that came from next time I see you,” Adelaide promised.
“I hope it’s soon then,” the girl said, already looking for her next mark.
Watching the girl slip back into the crowd, Adelaide made her wish. May she always find a way to survive.
Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves.
We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.
The women’s voices faded as they moved through the park. In their wake another voice sounded, off-key and broken by time. The Bird Lady was spouting profanities as she picked up dropped copies of the women’s pamphlet: “God’s Wishes for Women.”
“Burn in Hell!” she shouted. “God damn you all!” Spotting Adelaide, she stopped in her tracks.