31 Bond Street (27 page)

E
mma went down to the kitchen and fixed herself a tray with tea. She carried it upstairs to the office on the second floor. Dr. Burdell was so good at hiding things, she thought. She patted one of the panels in the recessed area where there was a cabinet with a washbasin. The panel slid away, revealing a cubbyhole with apothecary jars, filled with powders he mixed for the patients before surgery. There was still a small amount at the bottom of these bottles. Harvey would bring her some laudanum in quinine on the nights he desired her in his bed. She would sip it until it made her loose and sleepy. He kept the jars well hidden from the servants behind these secret panels, and no one had removed them, even after the house had been thoroughly searched during the inquest.

She dropped several spoonfuls of the snowy substance into the elixir that Augusta had brought. Then she poured some into her teacup and poured the tea on top. The herbs of the tea seemed to swirl in ornate patterns as she drank. After a while she didn’t remember which room she was in or which one she went to next.
She found herself in the parlor, not knowing how much time had passed, but the house was getting dark.

She went to light some candles on the mantel. Her hand trembled as she struck the match on a piece of hearthstone. Did the servant boy take the flints? She stepped across the carpet to a table by the window. She lifted the crystal globe of a lamp and inspected the interior. It was covered with sticky black soot, and the glass bulb showed a small amount of yellowed whale oil that barely reached the bottom of the wick. She shook the lamp to wet the rope and put the match against it until a flame sputtered.

Whale oil is so expensive, who is wasting it? She sat down next to the lamp and picked up her sewing basket. The windows to the street held some of the evening glow, but the back parlor and the hallway were dark.

She started sewing along the edge of a nightdress that needed embroidery. Augusta’s trousseau demanded extra touches. Emma struggled with the stitches. Her rings glistened as she pulled the needle back and forth, fingers trembling, worn and thin.

“Hello, my dear.”

Emma looked up, startled. She saw a shadow through the arched doorway between the two parlors. The heavy pocket doors were halfway open, and a figure stood in the back room, framed by the archway and the heavy white molding that soared up to the plasterwork ceiling.

“Oh, Harvey, you startled me,” said Emma.

“What has happened to the carpet in my office?” he asked.

“It was soiled and it’s being cleaned. It will be back next week, I think.” He was obscured, so that she saw only his outline.

“What are you doing, Emma?”

“I am preparing Augusta’s wedding clothes. I have so little time during the day, so I must finish this embroidery in the evening.
I hope you don’t mind.” She pricked her finger, and a small dot of blood appeared on the tip. She stared at the small red orb, swelling up.

“Do you need some laudanum? I am going up to the office, and I can bring you some,” he asked. His voice was strange, as if it were being channeled through a long pipe.

“Oh no—this is just a little prick, it’s not painful at all. You are thoughtful to ask, though.”

“Well, I just want to take care of you.”

She laughed. “Oh, Harvey. You always take care of me. And I am such a boring wife, trying to accomplish these fancy stitches, when I should be tending to you.”

“You’re a wonderful wife, and a wonderful mother. And I am grateful for that.” His voice now sounded more muffled, as though he was trying to talk underwater.

“Harvey, are you all right? I hope you are not ill?” She squinted, trying to make out his features. He stepped forward under the archway, his face slowly emerging into the half-light. His sideburns spread across his cheeks, and then she saw dark smears of purple, clotted in his whiskers, and there were black bruises across his forehead. He smiled, and his mouth spouted a foul, dark substance. He tilted his head back slightly, and the skin on his neck separated, with pieces of loosely flapping skin, until a gash widened, revealing crimson sinews and pink tendons, releasing more viscous fluid.

“Harvey!” she gasped. Then a sound came across the room in waves, and she was not sure whether the sound was in her head, or in the room, or if it was silent, or loud, for the pitch was so high, it was like the end of a nerve, screaming.

“I must go now, dear—I am in the middle of doing a tooth extraction,” said Dr. Burdell. “Mind you, I am not in pain—but if you
are alarmed, I will get you some laudanum.” He receded into the back parlor, and she heard him, from the other room, distinctly now, “You have made our house so beautiful and I am proud of you. I am so proud that you are my wife.”

The ringing pitch in her ears increased to such a degree that her energy drained away. Her hands slackened and the sewing fell from her lap. Her head nodded into her chin. “I love you, I love you, I love you, and we will sail to Europe!” Now it was her own voice she heard, singing. “And when we come back from Europe, we shall be so happy!” She lifted her head. The carpets looked so clean, now that the lamps were full and the gas flames were dancing along the walls of the room. The upholstery was fresh with bright colors that she had picked out herself. There was music; Augusta was playing the piano in the back parlor. Through the archway, all the crystal and silver on the sideboard was buffed and shiny. Ambrose Wicken was standing behind the piano bench, with his hands resting on Augusta’s shoulders, leaning over her, looking intently at the sheet music, smiling and solicitous. As her fingers rippled across the keys, Augusta’s body swayed from side to side to give her hands wider reach. It’s so silly of him to love her so much, thought Emma, fixing the knot on the thread and clipping it with her gold scissors. Helen sailed by in the hall and rushed upstairs. The girl was always in such a hurry. Three maids filed down, having fixed the coal in the bedrooms. They were headed to the kitchen to help Hannah clear the dinner dishes and lay out the breakfast china for the morning.

“Mama, Ambrose and I are going for a walk,” said Augusta, appearing before her mother in a white billowing dress, with gold billowing hair. Ambrose Wicken had his arm around her waist.

“Take your cape, dear,” said Emma. “It is still winter, isn’t it?” She suddenly wondered what season it was.

“I am not sure, Mother. I am confused.” Augusta suddenly looked puzzled. She turned pale and her legs began to buckle. Alarmed, Ambrose grabbed and caught her.

“Augusta!” he cried, alarmed. He caught her in his arms.

Augusta’s eyes blinked open and she smiled. “You have that effect on me, Ambrose. When I am near you, I am always swooning.” He helped her upright.

“Let’s go, you silly goose, let’s get some air.” Looking relieved, he smiled, showing her his pearly teeth. The door shut, and Emma heard their laughter, and their steps across the paving stones.

August 7, 1857

E
verything seemed encased in a sticky yellow haze. When she woke, the gauze of her nightgown and the filmy cotton of the sheets were tangled up, and her room was hot.

“Is it already noon?” she wondered. By now, she was sitting at her vanity, unsure what to wear for a day on the town on a Sunday in August. Mr. Wicken was already in the house, chiding her about how long it took her to get ready. He had brought her a bouquet of summer pansies and a bottle of dark liquid that he said would soothe her nerves. As she dressed, watching in the mirror, the colors of her clothing became more vivid and iridescent. She changed her mind about what to wear, again and again, searching the closet to find a different dress. It was like being in dreamtime, when one repeats a simple routine, over and over, but never finishes.

How had Ambrose Wicken entered the house? Had she gone downstairs in her nightdress to let him in? How strange. But he was here, on the third floor, talking to her from outside her bedroom door, teasing her about taking so long to dress and laughing and joking. Sometimes he would go downstairs and stay for a while, and
she would hear him rustling around in the rooms below. He must have gone into Harvey’s office, for there were noises and banging from that part of the empty house.

Finally, she had on a dress of deep vermillion. She was trying to find ornaments—a bracelet, a sash, or colored bits to put in her hair. Wicken spoke again from outside her door, and when she told him to wait just a little longer, he said, “Hurry, now, it’s been long enough.”

“I am finished,” she said finally, teetering as she got up from her vanity.

“Let’s be off, the day is half gone.”

Then they were sailing, or at least the carriage seemed to be sailing, as if the wheels would pick right up off the ground and jump over the uneven spots in the pavement. He was driving his open phaeton and the wind was in her hair. They passed the brown geometry of St. Paul’s Church, but she couldn’t tell how long they had been riding—minutes? Hours? It seemed like a long journey, yet with so little traffic on lower Broadway, and the city empty on a summer Sunday afternoon, they were still only a short distance away, a clear shot from Bond Street.

At the tip of the island, there were breezes at the Battery. They stood looking out at the pleasure boats darting around the harbor. Wicken led her to a boat slip where the fancy yachts moored.

“There is nothing like a racer,” he said, pointing at the sleek vessels, “don’t you think?”

“Too much wind,” she protested, holding her hair. A yacht was bobbing at the slip. It had a sinister beauty, with brass fittings on a jet-black hull. The sails had black markings, with a jib that was being readied for a sail. The boat belonged to an actor, famous from the stage, and it was often seen slicing across the harbor like a sharp knife.

The actor spotted them and yelled from the deck, “Ambrose! Come aboard, we’ll take her to Sandy Hook and back.”

Wicken called, “Isn’t it time you started to earn an honest living? Only a pirate would own a boat like that.” Then Wicken laughed, and agreed to come along, and urged Emma, but she protested until she realized it would be rude to decline. The actor reached out to take her arm, and she made an unsteady jump from the dock to the deck. The actor looked dashing with his shirtsleeves rolled and his arms brown from the sun. She felt as if she were leaping from a theatre box onto the stage boards to run off with the leading man.

She sat down at the stern, on the broad cushions of seating for the passengers. Ropes were pulled and the sails filled up with a stiff breeze that seemed to come out of nowhere, filling the canvas until it snapped tight, then the inky water rushed past. The men called over the spray, yelling at each other with exuberance, pulling and ducking at the boom. Clouds followed them, competing with the boat, like fluffy yachts, racing to beat them to an imaginary mark in the open water.

There was a group of men, all of them young, some were the actor’s brothers. Wicken stayed by the bow, and occasionally he came back to where she was sitting, holding on to the railing to make his way as the deck tilted. He would sit next to her and make some comments about the passing scenery, but it was difficult to hear him, so she would laugh into the wind, holding back the strands of hair that were whipping in her face. The boat tacked with broad sweeps, changing angles, so that different masses of land loomed ahead of them, first Brooklyn and then Staten Island, each dropping away as they tacked to the other side

At the end of the harbor, they passed through the Narrows, and at the sight of the open ocean, she felt queasy when the rougher water rose up over the bow, spraying the salt water high into the
air. The vastness of the ocean seemed to swallow the boat, or was it her unsteady nerves? She decided to go down into the hold. Below, there were small dark staterooms with polished wood and brass. She moved through them, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. She sat on a berth that was nestled in an alcove, and then she lay down as if in a tomb, to calm herself.

Sometime later, maybe it was hours, they pulled back to a different pier, and docked along a wooden slip on the East River. Back in the sheltered waters, the wind was dead, and without the river motion, the air was stagnant and unmoving. The clock on the Custom House tolled six bells, the time of evening when the sun sweats with a flat light and the August twilight is still many hours away. The group disembarked while wharf hands coiled the ropes around the long piles.

A pleasure steamer pulled up to the opposite side of the pier and a crowd rushed off the boat. They had been out to picnic at Rockaway and they staggered down the boat ramp, with red burns on their faces, carrying buckets of clams and oysters and warm bottles of lager, dropping papers and debris on the ground. Emma was suddenly disoriented by the swarming crowd, and Wicken grabbed her arm and led her away from the wharf.

The group from the sailboat wandered aimlessly along the downtown streets until Wicken suggested that they see the Chinaman. They ducked under a low door, past dusty curtains, into a dark room that had the appearance of a men’s saloon. “Drinks for everyone,” Wicken called to the barkeeper. There was another room behind the bar, and everyone sat close in a spread of settees around a low table. A man with a long coat and a pigtail down his back padded in and out of the room. The actor instructed her on the funny arms of a brass water bottle. When it lit up on top, Wicken told her to breathe in softly.

“When you said the Chinaman—I thought we were going shop
ping for crockery,” Emma said, laughing, as she relaxed at the inhalation of the delicate smoke. Wicken told her it would settle her stomach after the boat trip, and it did, smoothing out the roughness until her insides were like silk. The smoke was everywhere in the room, swirling around, making her think of her daughters, and how precious they were, such beauties. All her sensations were vivid. There were high cushions everywhere, pillows and fringe and lots of oriental patterns mixed up with brocade. Did someone lift her legs up so that they were stretched out on the divan?

“There is no need to be coy.” The voice had the velvet undertone of a man of the stage. The actor from the sailboat was now dressed for dinner, or was it one of his handsome brothers? She wanted to go home, but she couldn’t remember where she lived.

“The evening is young,” said Wicken, but it had gotten dark. Next, they were walking toward the lights of the amusements at the Bowery. Her shoes tapped along the sidewalks. She thought she saw Samuel glowering from a doorway. Then she saw Helen floating down the Bowery, hoisted to the crook of a young man’s arm, her hoops sailing her along, as if her feet barely touched the ground. It was Sunday night and the street was lit like a carnival. Was it really Helen?

A girl lamplighter perched on a ladder and struck a match that burst at the wick. Suddenly they were in the thick of it: dime museums with midgets and deformities; flashy goods; ladies with squeaky voices calling out for a séance; men with hand organs and a monkey tied to a rope, with a tin cup for coins. Every sort of novelty was spread around, and the lantern lights were twinkling along the street. The brassy notes of a tuba swelled from the door of a German lager saloon.

“We are stopping here—this is Claxton’s,” someone said, and they entered a music hall. Emma was handed a colored drink that had an acrid taste of fruit and kerosene, leaving a slow burn.

“Drink up!” Everyone was standing up or sitting at chairs scattered around small wooden tables. Many young men were well dressed and handsome like the actors, and there were lots of bawdy girls in low dresses.

“Personally,” said a man next to her, slurring his words during a conversation about the books of the transcendentalists, “I have no use for religion or philosophy.”

There was a stage up front, and a young man lifted up a banjo and placed a strap over his head. He turned to watch the other boys playing, studying their beat. His face was blackened with burnt cork, so that all that was left was a ring of white skin around his eyes. He swooped his head down, his blond curls flopping into his eyes. He was dressed in a cutaway coat and tan flared pants; his boots had a tooled wooden heel. A red silk kerchief was knotted at his throat.

He tapped his foot and picked at the strings, plucking faster and faster, in a giddy rhythm that roused the crowd, who clapped and stomped their feet. Music pulsed from his fingers. The other players sang along, chorus after chorus, until they finished the song with a rousing flourish. The boy with the banjo jumped down off the stage and put his arms around the waist of a girl in big hoops. Was that Helen? Was that her daughter, with the bee-stung lips, and too much rouge? The boy grabbed the girl by the arm and led her away. “Let’s sail,” he said.

Then Emma was outside again. Giants, Siamese twins, ventriloquists, jugglers, rope-dancers, panoramas, gypsies, pawnbrokers, lottery dealers. The street was filled with smoke, and she heard the hiss and crackle of roman candles and then a cascade of fireworks fell from the sky.

She was being led down a long alley—the rough cobblestones were treacherous in the dark, and Emma was staggering now.

“Why, Harvey has not joined us, because he is always doing
business,” she whispered to Wicken. “He’ll meet us at Bond Street,” and she thought yes, Dr. Burdell shall be waiting at home.

The next place was a building at the end of the alley with wooden stairs, and inside were tables for cards and lots of cigar smoke. “Out back there’s a pit where I bet on the cockfights,” said Wicken. The air was sticky again. Was everything a dream?

Suddenly she felt faint. “Do you mind? I need to rest.” There were funny rooms, like stalls, with little cots, and she was lying on one, swaying, the way she had in the berth of the boat. Everything floated in a pleasurable way when she closed her eyes, and she nodded into a sea of warm sensations.

She heard screams and was not sure where they came from, but she tried to sit up. “It’s a raid!” There were crashing sounds and screeching cries. “Get out, hurry,” she heard someone say as footsteps crashed along the wooden floorboards outside the room until it sounded like everyone was gone. What was she to do when she was so limp and tired?

Then there was a stomping of feet. The door burst open. A group of officers burst into the room she was in. “Fancy seeing her here,” said the Police Captain.

In shock, she saw the District Attorney, and now she screamed. He stood over her, pointing down at the bed, and the officers rushed toward her with iron cuffs. She screamed again, louder this time: “Don’t take me away. My daughters need me. My beautiful girls.”

And then they lifted her up and led her out to a police wagon; it was like the final act of a melodrama she had once seen on Broadway.