Six
I FEEL LIKE ONE OF THOSE
tourists that Agatha and I always used to sidestep around back in my own New York City. The ones that walk too slowly and stop right in the middle of the sidewalk so that you almost trip over them. The ones that fling out their arms, pointing and staring and exclaiming. Okay, well, at least I'm not pointing and staring and exclaiming, but I'm pretty sure my jaw's dropped a couple of times.
This New York is so different from my New York. For starters, I can see the sky. There are no skyscrapers, no clusters of buildings reaching for the clouds. These buildings are all a lot shorter. And there are no cars and no people on skates and no joggers. Instead there's a parade of carriages drawn by horses jolting over cracked cobblestone streets.
Which means mud.
A lot of mud. The hem and lower half of my once black skirt is now flecked brown, and I can't say it's adding much to my look.
"Oysters, oysters, oysters! Get them fresh," a man shouts as he pulls a cart past me, the wheels coming dangerously close to my toes. Right after him comes a stout woman screaming, "Hot pies, hot pies! Get 'em while they're hot!" A large basket is slung over her right arm.
My stomach rumbles loudly and I step forward, waving my hand timidly. Instantly, she swerves across the path of an oncoming carriage, causing the driver to curse and haul on the reins. "How many?"
"One," I venture.
"Meat or fruit?"
"Ah ... fruit?" Probably safer.
With a nod, she plucks a pie out of the basket. Twisting it up in brown paper, she says, "That's a nickel, love."
I fumble through my change, noticing her eyes skip downward at the clink of coins in my skirt pocket. Finally, I pull out one of the nickels Rowena gave me and place it in her square, chapped palm. She hands me the pie and the heat of it fills my hand.
"Please," I say as she's about to plunge off into the traffic again. "I'm looking for some people. The Greene family. Have you heard of them?"
But she's already shaking her head. "Sorry, dearie." Her eyes skim over me once again. "New to town?"
I nod.
"Looking for work?"
"Um..."
"Where's your family? Runaway, then?"
"Sort of," I offer at last, since it's what she's going to think anyway.
She's already nodding. "Don't you go down to Five Points. You stay away from that crowd. You don't need to go looking for work there yet. Things aren't that bad, I hope. Too many girls end up there," she sighs, and then abruptly she wheels off into the crowd again. I break off a corner of the crust and nibble it, then suddenly begin shoving large pieces of the pie in my mouth, not caring if I burn my tongue.
After wandering down Broadway for another hour and almost getting killed twice, once by a speeding two-seat carriage and once by what looked like a bus pulled by six horses, I find the nerve to pull open the door to what looks like a bar, called the Lion's Head. But once I'm inside, it's all I can do not to run out again.
The room is dim, as if the sunlight gave up trying to fight its way through the streaked and grimy windows. Smoke wreathes the low, uneven ceiling, and the floor is scattered with sawdust. Although the level of noise remains the same, all at once I can feel eyes on me. Mostly men crowd the bar and fill the tables, but here and there a few women loll on stools or drape themselves over the men's arms. Someone shrieks with laughter and I jump, my feet already turned halfway to the door. Then I straighten up, biting the inside of my cheek.
Nothing's going to get done, Tamsin, if you don't try.
Channeling Rowena at her best, I walk toward the bar in what I hope looks like a calm, cool, and collected manner. I place my hands on the sticky wooden counter, widen my elbows slightly to avoid having anyone bump into me, and stare at the bartender until he slowly moves my way. Since he takes so long, I have time to notice that he's huge; his shoulders and arms look like they're carved out of rock slabs. "What'll it be?" His voice is a growl and he stares at the air over my shoulder, so I abruptly stop channeling Rowena and go for Agatha.
I give him a perky smile and say, "I'm looking for a family called the Greenes. They live around here. Have you heard of them?"
His gaze finally shifts to mine and then he gives one shake of his massive head. "No. Can't say I have."
Of course he hasn't. I sigh and review my options on finding my family. Town crier? Taking out an ad in the paper? And what paper would that even be? I bite down hard on my tongue, trying to think.
With one meaty paw, the bartender unhooks a polished glass from the rack overhead and fills it behind the bar before placing it in front of me with a surprisingly gentle motion. "Drink that. On the house," he adds as I stare up at him.
Before I can thank him, he moves away, responding to the call of another customer down at the end of the bar.
I take a cautious sip of my drink. Not bad. As I wipe foam from my upper lip, a small man in a bowler hat settles on the stool next to me. He is dressed in a gray suit with a curl of lace at each cuff that flutters as he waves one arm at the bartender. But the bartender resolutely ignores him, and so the man turns to me and gives a despondent sigh. "New here, are you?" he says at last, eyeing my beer wistfully.
Am I wearing a sign on my forehead?
"Um ... sort of, yes."
He nods excitedly. "I can always tell. Always tell." His nose twitches as if sniffing out information, and suddenly he reminds me of a ferret. "And what brings you to the big city?"
I take another sip of my beer while considering the wisdom of talking to strange men in bars. In another century. "I'm looking for a family."
His eyes sharpen and then linger on my chest. Suddenly, the beer leaves an unpleasant film on my tongue.
I'm about to find another seat when he says, "I know lots of people in this city. What's the name?"
Turning back, I watch as two more men and a woman in a low-cut blouse and a skirt settle in noisily on his other side. One of the men knocks an elbow carelessly into the small man's arm, and he flinches but otherwise doesn't protest. "The Greenes," I say at last, noting that this man's eyes are never still. They rove constantly across the bar top, my glass of beer, my folded hands, and beyond to the door. He frowns, cocks his head a little, then shakes it. "No," he says finally. "Never heard of them. The Greenes. That's a common enough name. Your family?"
Almost automatically, I shake my head. "No. Friends of my mother's from long ago. I thought they might be able to find me work." Shrugging, I swallow my disappointment with more beer.
I study my glass, considering my options, when he says casually, "So you are looking for work, then? I could find you a nice position, since you're new to the city." He blinks his eyes rapidly.
Before I can help myself, I reply, "Oh, sure—and next you'll tell me that you can sell me a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge."
Has the Brooklyn Bridge even been built yet?
But the man only grins at me, revealing stained teeth. "You've got spunk. I like that." He leans in closer. "A lot of girls who just come to the city meet a bad end. But I can help you. If you need work, I know of a family that's hiring."
"Hiring for what?" I ask, suspicion still bright in my mind. I edge away a little. The man smells like vinegar.
"Domestic help." Then he taps the brim of his hat, regards me with wounded innocence. "Whaddya take me for?"
I'm spared from answering because the bartender lumbers back over, still ignoring the little man, who straightens up on his stool like a child suddenly at attention.
He pulls three foaming glasses of beer for the people who just came in, then casts me a measured sidelong glance. I nod at him and he nods back, and suddenly, I decide that he might be my new favorite person in this century.
"I'd like a pint, Joe," the little man quavers. The bartender swings his head down and stares at him, unblinking.
"Show me your money first."
The man lets out a sigh but rummages through his pockets and finally extracts two dull nickels from somewhere inside his waistcoat. He puts them on the bar slowly, his fingers edging them across the scarred wood. The bartender slaps his meaty paw down on them and they vanish. "That was for last week," he says, winks at me, and lurches off.
The man crumples on his seat. "Anyway, this job won't last long."
"That's nice," I say absently, trying to formulate a plan. Finish my beer, start going from door to door and asking about the Greenes? Where would they have moved
from
in 1895? Then a horrible thought occurs to me. What if they live out of the city? Somewhere in the country? In three days I'm not going to be able to cover much ground.
Gradually, I become aware that the man's voice is still buzzing in my ears. "Solid family. Very wealthy. Lots of girls looking for work these days would kill for this position."
"I'm sure they would," I murmur. If Gabriel were here now he could just find my family for me. Pressing my fingers into the bar counter, I try to blot out that thought just as the man leans in and taps his nose. "My niece," he says confidingly. "She works there now. She was just telling me that they needed a new girl."
I stare at him for a moment, and then ask idly, "What happened to the old girl?"
The man shrugs. "Run off. With the lady of the house's jewelry, no less."
Turning my glass in circles, I consider my options again. Taking out an ad in a newspaper seems like the best idea. Although in three days how anyone in my family is going to see it and contact me is something that I don't feel like worrying about right now. "So why don't they advertise in the paper?" I ask, studying the ring of moisture left on the wood. "And speaking of which, what paper is the best to advertise in? If I were trying to—"
He draws back a little as if I took a swipe at him. "Oh, sure, and have every bit off riffraff knocking on their door." I give him a sideways glance, noting that the lace at his right cuff is stained yellow and tattered-looking. Now that I look at him closer, his clothes look in worse shape than mine.
"Oh, well, sure, keep out the riffraff and all. That's where you come in. Right." I straighten up. "Well, this has been pleasant and all, but..." I pick up my glass to drain the last of my beer.
The man shrugs. "Suit yourself, then. I just thought a nice girl like you who's new to town and doesn't have any family might want a nice job. But turn up your nose if you want to. Not every girl would be so foolish as to say no to working for the Knight family."
The glass slips from my hand, tumbles to the floor, and shatters. But the sound is lost in the general press and crush of bar noise. The man's eyes shine a little in the gloom. "Ah, heard of the family, have you?"
I shrug with studied casualness. "Who hasn't? I read the papers."
He nods rapidly. "Of course. They're always invited to all the balls, the dinners—they're top of the line. I could put in a good word for you with my niece. She could recommend you."
"And what do you get?" I ask boldly. "Other than the joy of helping a poor
penniless
girl new to the city?"
He clasps his hand to his heart, reviving his air of wounded innocence. "Only that you think kindly of old Horace Merton should I ever need a favor or something."
"Horace Merton?"
He tips his hat at me. "And your name?"
"Agatha," I say rapidly, and then I want to kick myself. Alistair knows Agatha's name.
But it's too late to take the name back, so I search around for the most innocuous last name I can. "Smithsdale," I add.
He thrusts out one damp-looking hand. After a second, I offer him mine. His grip is weak and I pull my hand away easily. But he doesn't seem to notice. Instead, in a cheerful voice, he says, "And now if you'd like, we could call on my niece. You know, to recommend you to the lady of the house."
Inwardly, I shiver at the idea of meeting La Spider. Still, if I can't exactly find my family yet, I can do the next best thing. I can keep an eye on their enemy. My enemy. Maybe I can even stop Alistair from ever coming to the house.
I nod, then stand. "Take me to them."
Horace hops off his stool and claps his hands. I turn, my eyes roving across the bar until I find the bartender, who's watching me impassively. He narrows his eyes at Horace and shakes his head. I give a little shrug and a smile, trying to convey that I know what I'm getting myself into. But the bartender doesn't seem convinced.
Come to think of it, neither am I.
Seven
"
AND THIS IS THE NEW
Delmonicos," Horace says, gesturing expansively toward a five-story building made entirely of white marble as we walk up Madison Avenue. Craning my neck I can see that it takes up all of Twenty-sixth Street. For one instant, I try to remember what exists there in my time, but I can't. Agatha and I don't usually hang out around Madison Square Park.
"Delmonicos now has three locations, but this is the grandest. They have a ballroom on the second floor, all done up in red and gold. And silver chandeliers on the first floor and a fountain surrounded by flowers. Lady Knight dines there all the time."
I cock an eyebrow at Horace. "Have you ever been inside?"
He touches his hat as if to adjust the fit. "Sadly, no. I just heard all about it."
I nod and we continue walking. Horace seems to have appointed himself as my personal tour guide and has taken to the role with zeal, which includes grabbing my elbow at opportune moments to steer me around puddles and pulling me out the way of passing vehicles. "It's coaching season," he explains now as we leap out of the way of a gleaming black carriage that zips past us. "All the gents and ladies dress up in their finest and up and down they go." As he chatters he pulls me around another yellow-tinged puddle and then quickens his pace. As we turn down Twenty-seventh Street, he recites the numbers. "Fourteen, sixteen, eighteen, and here we are. Number twenty. The house of the Knights." His voice drops dramatically and I wonder if he's going to take off his hat and kneel right then and there on the cobblestones. I try not to let my expression slip from the wide-eyed country girl I'm supposed to be.
The Knights' house is wedged in a row of similar-looking brownstones, but somehow it seems to stand out. Maybe it's the elegant flourish of the wrought-ironwork stair rails or the sleepy gaze of the two stone lions guarding the entrance.
Maybe it's that the lead case windows suddenly seem like too many eyes watching the street below.
I shiver and Horace turns to me solicitously. "All right, then? We'll just call on my niece now, mention you're looking for a job." I start toward the front door in a daze. "This way. The servants' entrance," he hisses. Recovering, I follow him through a small black gate set off to one side of the brownstone. Horace digs through his pockets, that vinegar smell of his rising sharply as he searches, until finally he produces a thin wrought-iron key. With a flourish, he unlocks the gate and beckons me after him.
The back of my neck feels damp, and I have the sudden vision of the two stone lions springing up from their crouch to pad silently behind us. Unable to stop myself, I look over my shoulder. Only the gate and a glimpse of the street beyond. We walk down the winding path, Horace bobbing a little ways in front of me, until we reach a large back garden. Immediately I notice that the garden is immaculate, almost as if it's frozen. Unlike my father's gardens and orchards, where plants seem to bloom in a vivid and glorious tangle, here not a single leaf dots the crisp grass and all the plants stand upright in soldier-straight rows, straining toward the unreachable sky. A large sundial is mounted on the wall, guarded by a lone statue of a woman. I study the statue more closely. It's not a classical Greek or Roman replica that I would expect to see in the Knights' backyard. Instead, the features are coarser, the face dominated by a thick nose and square chin. An expression of pain or surprise is stamped on the woman's face, and her head is bowed as if in remorse or misery. I take a step toward her, struck by the thought that if Rowena were here she could make this statue speak about everything she's seen. She'd probably have a lot to say.
"Hurry now," Horace hisses. He has taken off his hat and is twisting the brim of it in his hands over and over until I want to point out that he's going to crush the thing. But I follow him down a small flight of stairs and wait next to him as he rings the copper bell that hangs in the center of a black wooden door. So close, Horace's vinegar smell is starting to overwhelm me, and I notice that small pearls of sweat are dampening his hairline. Suddenly, he looks at me. "You have done this kind of work before? Domestic service?" His eyes bore fiercely into mine.
Great time to be asking me that,
I want to say, but I'm starting to feel a little sorry for him, especially with the way his hands are shaking, and so I nod. "Sure." I don't think the occasional dusting of my dorm room shelves and shoving things under my bed or Agatha's really counts, but I'm not about to mention that now.
The door swings open and a tall girl about my age wearing a black dress and a white apron blinks out at us suspiciously. Her blond hair is drawn tightly back against her head. Her eyes rove over me and then settle on Horace. If anything, her suspicious look deepens.
So much for family goodwill.
"Horace," she says flatly.
"Rosie, my dear," Horace cries in what seems to me a pretty good avuncular tone. He steps forward as if to kiss or hug her, but she leans to one side and so he settles for a clumsy pat on her shoulder. Immediately, she shrugs him off.
"What brings you? I didn't send for you," she says now, still blocking the entrance with her body. "I don't have any money to—"
"Well," Horace blusters grandly over the rest of her sentence. "This is Miss Agatha Smithsdale, a most delightful young woman who happens to be a little down on her luck right now. She's looking for work. New to the city, she is. And then I remembered that you mentioned the house needed a new maid—you know, since the last one did run off. So I brought her here to you." He beams at us both as if inviting us to share in his joy at his own brilliance. Then when the girl says nothing, but continues to regard us with her flat gaze, he asks, "The position hasn't been filled yet, has it?"
Rosie looks at me dubiously, her eyes examining me from head to toe. "It's for a lady's maid. You've done that kind of work before?"
I nod.
She leans against the doorway, folds her arms. "You can do all the hairstyles, then?" I nod. Does it count that once I cut off Rowena's hair in her sleep?
"Worked with a hot press?"
Deciding that
hot press
is a nineteenth-century term for an iron, I nod again. No one needs to know that I'm philosophically opposed to ironing.
"What's the best way to remove a stain from a ball gown?" she fires at me suddenly.
Okay, I'm sensing a dry cleaner is not an option here. I scrounge my brain for nineteenth-century stain removal techniques. "Baking soda and lemon water," I say with as much authority as I can. "It worked wonders at my last position."
The girl regards me coolly for a minute. "And where was that?"
"Chicago," I say, figuring it's far enough away.
"And you have references?"
Beside me Horace draws in a breath.
But I'm ready for that one. "Unfortunately, no. The woman I worked for was elderly. She died ... suddenly," I say, letting my voice tremble just the slightest bit. "I didn't think to ever get a reference from her, and then her son inherited everything, and he ... he was a cold man and ... so, I came here. With all my savings."
Horace nods. "That's a terribly sad tale, Miss Smithsdale," he says softly, and then looks at Rosie. "She has no family."
"None at all," I echo.
Rosie exchanges a long look with Horace and something in her shoulders seems to ease. For the first time she smiles at me, revealing two charmingly crooked top teeth. "I only ask because the Lady will ask you all these things again, you know," she confides. "She's not here right now, so we can get you up to snuff on anything you need," she adds.
"Where is she?" I ask. I can't decide if I'm disappointed or relieved that I won't have a chance get a glimpse of La Spider today.
"She and the young miss went upstate to Lord Roslind's Hudson estate for a wedding." Rosie says this very grandly. Horace looks impressed, so I try to as well. "They'll be back later today. She left the hiring to the Undertaker. And she'll be right angry that he hasn't found anyone yet. But now that you're here..." Here Rosie lowers her voice and sucks in her cheeks until they pucker.
"Who is the Undertaker?" I ask.
Rosie rolls her eyes and exchanges another look with Horace. "Mr. Tynsdell. The butler," she adds. "So, we better smarten you up and all or you'll never pass. You'll be lady's maid to Jessica, the young miss. And
she
doesn't notice anything. She's in her own world, that one." She steps back and beckons me in. "Is that all you have with you?"
I nod.
"Not even a change of clothes?" Her tone is politely incredulous, but I can see the doubt scrolling across her face.
"I ... was robbed. On the train platform in Chicago," I say, lowering my eyes a little. It's best to keep it brief when lying.
Rosie gives a little sigh. "I'll see what Livie left."
"Who's Livie?"
"Lady's maid before you," she says, her voice suddenly lower.
"I thought she ran off. Didn't she take everything with her?" I ask now, glancing up just in time to catch another look passing between Horace and Rosie.
"That's right," Rosie says easily. "She did. But she may have left a few things here and there. Well, come in, then. Not you," she says to Horace now. She pushes him back out the door, muttering something to him while fussing with her apron. A small metallic
chink
reaches my ears and then I see Horace dip his hand quickly into his pocket. Apparently, Rosie found some money after all. Horace bobs his head once in my direction and then turns away. The door swings shut behind him.
My eyes strain to adjust to the sudden darkness of the hallway. "Follow me," Rosie says as she brushes past me, and I do, trying not to trip. We climb a cramped staircase to emerge into a bright and sunny kitchen lined with racks of gleaming pots and pans. A large black stove takes up one end of the room, buttressed by counters that have a well-scrubbed look. A small fire burns in the hearth at the other end. A thin gray-haired woman is sitting at one end of a long wooden table, cradling a cup of tea between two reddened hands. With wide eyes, she takes me in, and then looks questioningly at Rosie.
"New lady's maid," Rosie says with a shrug, and pushes me forward. "Cook, this is Agatha Smithsdale. Agatha, this is Cook."
Cook shuffles to her feet and presses my hand within hers. Her eyes search mine swiftly, and then she looks down and says softly, "Pleased to meet you, dear." Something about her face, or maybe the way her hair curls in tight sprigs at her temple, suddenly looks familiar. But then the impression fades.
I open my mouth to say something similar back when the faint sound of a door closing penetrates the kitchen, followed by a jaunty whistling tune.
If anything Cook grows even paler, but it's Rosie's reaction that really fascinates me. Smoothing quick fingers over her hair, she refastens a stray wisp with a pin and then pinches her cheeks three times while biting her lips. "Be right back," she murmurs with a wink, and then dashes out of the kitchen.
"That's not Mr. Tynsdell, is that?" I venture. Maybe I could scrub my skirt in the sink before he meets me? Cook shakes her head, compresses her lips, and shuffles over to a cabinet. She removes another mug from the shelf and fills it with tea from a white pot on the counter. "Drink this, dear. While you can."
A little unsettled by that last comment, I accept the mug, staring down at the hot amber liquid, and give it what I hope is a very unobtrusive sniff. It smells like nothing more than strong black tea. watching me, Cook gives a little grunt and something like a smile touches her lips. "You're not so dimwitted as the others that come through here."
"The others?" She sighs and sits down as if standing is suddenly too much to bear. "How many others?" I venture.
She shrugs. "They never last long."
"I heard the last one, Livie, ran off," I say casually, and sit down, too, blowing on my tea to cool it.
A sudden silence chills the room. Glancing up, I watch as the woman takes a sip of her own tea, her hand trembling just slightly. "That's not true," she says hoarsely, and suddenly puts her cup down with a clatter. "She died." Her fingers twitch toward her cup as she whispers, "Poor lamb, she got sicker and sicker, and they kept—"
But her mouth freezes around whatever else she was going to say as the kitchen door swings open and a giggling Rosie backs into the room followed by a tall man dressed in a rumpled white shirt and dark pants. With a wide sweeping motion, he tips his hat to Cook and then flips it up in the air, letting it tumble over and over before catching it and handing it to Rosie.
I set my cup down too fast and the hot liquid slops out over my fingers.
But he doesn't even look at me. "Cook," he says, his voice filling up the spaces of the kitchen effortlessly. "I'm famished. And you're just the lady I need to help me with that."
"I'm not surprised, Master Liam, seeing as you didn't come down to breakfast."
He winks at her. "Don't scold," he says, laughing. "You know I can't bear it. And how could I come down to breakfast when I wasn't even home? Now what about one of your famous omelets? That should do it. Oh, and if you have any bacon and coffee."
"Very good, sir," Cook murmurs, and rises to her feet again. "I'll send it up to your rooms," she says.
But he gives her a wounded look. "What, and deny me the privilege of your company? You'll do no such thing. I'll eat it here." Then he lowers his voice to a mock whisper. "Just don't tell Mother when she returns. You know how she likes to stand on ceremony." With a loud sigh, he sprawls into a chair and pulls Rosie onto his lap.
Cook's face stiffens in a polite smiling mask and she bobs her head, then moves over to the giant stove.
Please don't notice me.
But of course it's too late. As if hearing my very thoughts, the man turns the full force of his electric silver gaze on me and smiles. "Well,
hello,
" he murmurs in a very different tone than the one he just used with Cook. Rosie straightens up in his lap, her gaze darting back and forth between us.