City of God (19 page)

“Yes, of course. That’s very kind. But what do you want with me?”

“What I want, Ben, is simply that you watch the Widow Turner as closely as you are able. And report to me anything she does that is in the least suspicious.”

Ben knew he was staring and that his mouth was open. After a few seconds he found his voice. “Suspicious in what way? She helps the women patients. At least she tries to. What can I possibly report to you?”

Simson carried a walking stick with a beautiful gold fox head. The old man planted the stick on the polished wooden floor of Papa’s smithy, put both his hands on the head of the cane, and leaned towards Ben. “I believe, indeed I know, that Manon Vionne, the lady who was then Joyful Turner’s fiancée and became his wife, is aware of certain elements of my dealings with her deceased husband. It is a matter of grave urgency, Ben. And it involves as well Mr. Jacob Astor.”

“Old Mr. Astor?”

“Yes. The man himself. We were allies at the time of which I speak. Our interests have since diverged, but some old business remains unfinished. The Widow Turner is central to that business. I tried to speak with her directly recently and I was…I believe the word is rebuffed. Further, I had the impression that she is not as stable as she once was. If she begins acting in any way—I suppose the word is odd—I wish to know about it at once.”

“But I don’t know her. I only see her at the hospital sometimes. How will I know if she is acting odd, as you put it?”

“I am not sure, young man. But when I came to your father’s shop a few days ago to commission a
kiddush
cup for a nephew who is about to be married, I learned in passing that the son of the admired smith, Jacob Klein”—with a formal nod in Papa’s direction—“was studying medicine and was at present an assistant at Bellevue. Considering how much time the Widow Turner is known to spend there, it seemed to me a fortunate opportunity. We Jews are a very small group here in New York, Ben. We are privileged to be in this place, here in these United States. I have long thought so. We must be ever alert to our responsibilities to our nation as well as to our people.”

She was wearing a green velvet frock with a silky sheen and full sleeves ruffled below the elbow. They emphasized that expressive way Carolina
Devrey had of using her hands. The mannerism was one of many that absolutely charmed Nick. It’s why he had found a dozen different excuses to call since the day more than a year ago when he’d come to ask her to help him guard his future by witnessing his notes about Tobias Grant and the situation at the hospital.

She had always seemed pleased to see him.

That welcoming look in her eyes and the warmth of her smile were what encouraged him to return. He had not, however, visited her in the two months since he’d delivered Mei-hua’s baby. Sam Devrey’s daughter. He didn’t know how he could face Carolina when he possessed such guilty knowledge.

This Wednesday evening, unable to stay away, he’d found yet another reason and given in to his impulse.

“Cousin Nick! I’m delighted to see you. It’s been ages. That’s fine, Dorothy, you may leave us.” When the maid had gone, she closed the double doors of the front parlor against the December chill that pervaded the front hall. “It’s far too late for tea, I’m afraid.”

“After eight, I know. I apologize for the hour. I couldn’t get away any earlier.”

“You are welcome at any time. I’ve been waiting for Samuel. I expect he’ll be home any minute now. You must join us for a late supper. Meanwhile I insist we celebrate with a glass of my raspberry brandy. I steeped the fruit myself last summer.”

“I should like that.” He watched while she poured brandy into a pair of snifters. It seemed to him that everything she did was marked with a special grace. “I’ve been meaning to stop by for ages, but it’s been so busy at the hospital that—”

“I understand. Your good health, Cousin Nick.”

“And yours, Cousin Carolina.” They each had a long sip of raspberry brandy and settled in two chairs on either side of the lively coal fire. “I’ve brought you something.” He produced a small parcel wrapped in green paper and tied with a red ribbon. “Because it’s so close to Christmas.”

“How very kind. I’m afraid I don’t have anything for—”

“Oh, it’s not for you. I wouldn’t presume.” Nick felt himself flush like
a bumbling schoolboy. No woman had so unnerved him since he was fourteen. “What I’m trying so awkwardly to say is that it’s a present for young Zachary. How is he?”

“Wonderful. Nineteen months and blooming. Asleep now, of course. You must come of an afternoon so you can see him.” She was opening the package while she spoke. “A book. How charming.”

“I know Zac can’t read yet, of course. But I’m well known to the bookseller and he tells me this is newly translated from the Danish and just available here.”

“Hans Christian Andersen.
Fairy Tales Told for Children,
” she read, turning the small paper-bound volume this way and that to study it more carefully. “It looks quite delightful. I’m sure Zac will love it. I’ve been reading him a few verses of
A Visit from St. Nicholas
every night before he goes to bed for a week now. I think he’s getting the idea that something wonderful’s afoot.” Twice when Samuel was home before Zachary’s bedtime she’d tried to interest him in joining in the ritual. He always claimed to be too tired or too busy.

“No child could fail to notice that.” Nick nodded towards the tall fir tree standing between the pair of windows fronting on the street. It was hung with ornaments of every sort, and small candles were fixed to the tips of many of the branches. “I thought you’d have a Christmas tree. I’m told they’re becoming immensely popular.”

“Is that why you thought I’d have one? Because I’m a slave to the latest fashion?”

“Not in the least. Because I always associate you with whatever is pretty and gay.”

She couldn’t answer for a moment. Pretty and gay. When she was a girl, before she married, those had frequently been words applied to her. Had she changed so dramatically in three years? In her own eyes perhaps. Certainly in Samuel’s. “You flatter me, Cousin Nick, and I adore it. We have not yet lit the candles on the tree. Closer to the holiday perhaps.”

“Do be careful. If the branches are very dry—”

“Yes, I know.” She nodded towards the
New York Herald,
folded beside her chair. “I was reading about yesterday’s blaze just before you
came. The paper says thirteen buildings and two shops were destroyed. The city must have more watchtowers and watchmen.”

“The wooden towers are useless. They burn along with everything else and only contribute to a false sense of security. What the city must have is a decent supply of water. Does the
Herald
tell you they nearly pumped the fire cisterns dry last night? Or that a number of the firemen were brought to Bellevue overcome with exhaustion and hardly able to breathe for all the smoke they’d inhaled?”

“The paper mentioned the cisterns. But I read nothing about the poor firemen. Were you able to help them?”

Nick shrugged. “Not a great deal, I’m afraid. Rest’s what they need. And a better supply of water so it need not take so long to put the fires out.”

“Papa says the same. He was going on at Samuel about it only the other week. Because Sam’s on the council. Papa says there’s an inexhaustible supply of fresh water in the Croton River up in Westchester County. If the council would simply vote the funds to build a decent aqueduct, Papa and a number of the other businessmen in the city would undertake to—”

“To enrich themselves by having a long and speculative go at building something that’s an engineering nightmare and will cost a fortune. Don’t worry, we’ve already approved a commission to study the matter, which is about all the council ever does. Good evening, Cousin Nicholas. I’m surprised to find you here.”

“Good evening to you, Cousin Samuel. I came to bring a present for young Zachary, and your charming wife was kind enough to offer me refreshment. Now I must be going.”

“The moment I arrive? Indeed you must not. What will that cause me to think?”

It was meant to be humor, Carolina knew, but the two men were circling each other…they were like a pair of strange dogs unsure whether to bark or wag their tail. She’d never kept Nick’s visits a secret from Samuel. That had been Aunt Lucy’s advice years ago: never give a husband any cause to suspect you are deceiving him. Her husband
seemed entirely indifferent to the possibility, but now…how funny! Samuel, who apparently had so little interest in her, was jealous. He must be. What else could explain the way he was looking at Nick? And at her.

“I shall sample your raspberry brandy, Carolina,” Sam said. “So I may drink Cousin Nicholas’s—”

“’Scuse me, but you’ve got to come.” Dorothy had thrown open both parlor doors and was almost shouting. “All of you, you’ve got to come and see this.”

“See what?” Sam demanded.

“The sky, sir. It’s turned bright red. Armageddon, like the preacher’s been warning us about. I think it must be.”

B
ITTER COLD AND
a shuddering wind getting up, but men and women alike stood silent and stunned outside their front doors on Fourteenth Street, heads thrown back, staring at the sky to the south, streaked with fiery red and splotched with great billows of black smoke. Soon the eerie silence was broken by the sound of distant bells. Nick thought he could distinguish the full-throated clanging of the great bell in the cupola atop City Hall. That was the designated fire bell, since the wooden watchtowers had proved themselves nothing but more tinder for the flames.

The clamor came rapidly closer as nearby church belfries took up the alarm, indicating the need for the more northerly of the city’s engine companies to rally down the town. “Jesus God Almighty,” Nick heard one of the men murmur. “Must be a big one. So soon again.”

“I’ll be needed at the hospital,” Nick said. “I’d best be going.” But he made no move to go back inside and claim his greatcoat and hat and gloves.

As usual the servants knew more than their masters and knew it more quickly. Two stable boys pelted up Fifth Avenue, riding one behind the
other on a single lathered horse and shouting at the top of their lungs words that the wind snatched away and blew into nonsense. Barnabas, just come from the mews behind number three, ran to grab the horse’s bridle and slow her enough so he could hear their news, then brought it back to his employer. “Started at Morse’s warehouse on Pearl and Exchange. There’s a dozen buildings as is already burning. Number One Company was there right at the first, but they couldn’t hold it. Spreading fast it is. Perishing fast.”

Sam grabbed the stable boy’s shoulder. “They can’t hold it?”

“No, sir, Mr. Devrey. According to them two”—tossing his head to indicate the pair who had brought the news—“it’s moving up the town.”

Of course, because that was the direction of the wind. Cherry Street was in the fire’s path. Sam turned without a word and ran to the stable. Moments later they heard the sound of hooves on the packed snow, and Sam raced by them and down Fifth Avenue, leaning forward over the mare’s head, whipping her flank to summon every bit of speed.

“He has no coat,” Carolina said. “He’ll freeze.”

She sounded, Nick thought, like a small child. “He’ll be fine.” He tried to put his arm around her. “And you have no wraps either. Come inside, Cousin Carolina, you must—”

She turned away. “Barnabas, get the buggy ready. Quickly!” She had clearly made a decision.

“It’s ready now, ma’am, sort of. Mr. Devrey drove it home, and I ain’t yet unhitched the—”

“Bring it round. Hurry.”

She turned and started for the house and Nick followed her. “Carolina, where are you going?”

“I’m going after my husband. Please excuse me.”

She’d dreamed of following Samuel, seeing where he went all those hours when other men were home with their families and he was not with her. She’d never dared to do it. But now she had the best opportunity she would ever have, and God forgive her for sparing no worry for the victims of the fire, she would not let it go by. “The buggy,
Barnabas!” she called out, reminding him of his task, but the boy had already disappeared in the direction of the stable.

Carolina ran into the front hall, calling for Dorothy to bring her a wrap and pulling on her warmest bonnet—dark purple felt, with a woolen tie wide enough to give some protection to her neck and ears—and gloves lined with rabbit fur.

“Where are you going?” Nick repeated. “It’s not safe, Carolina. A woman alone. You can’t.”

“I must.” Dorothy brought a black cloak also lined with fur. Carolina wrapped it around her shoulders, heading for the door before she’d managed all the fastenings and grabbing her fur muff and Samuel’s greatcoat from a tall cupboard in the hall. “My husband might need me,” she said. “I must go.”

Nick hauled his own coat from the cupboard and snatched his hat and gloves from the table beside the door. “I’m coming with you.”

“I assure you that’s entirely unnecessary. I can drive the buggy perfectly well.”

“No doubt. But I’m still coming with you.”

He handed her up into the seat of the rig and jumped in beside her before she had a chance to drive away. “Come, don’t be foolish. Give me the reins. And put that damned greatcoat over your knees.” Barnabas had apparently brought the buggy round in the same condition in which Samuel had brought it home. It was not equipped for a lady and there were no blankets that he could see.

“There’s really no cause, Cousin Nick. You said you would be needed at the hospital, and I’m quite—”

“Need is relative, Carolina. The looters will be out in full force. A woman alone. It’s out of the question.” He clucked the horse into movement and headed south down Fifth Avenue in the direction Sam Devrey had taken. “Do you want to tell me where you wish to go?”

“I have told you. I’m following my husband. I believe he will need me. He will certainly need this coat.”

“Very well.” A fire engine caught them up and passed them, its bell clanging wildly and twelve men pulling the wagon in a demonstration
of the bloody-mindedness that still refused to use horses, much less wagons fitted with the steam-driven pumping apparatus now in use all over London. An all-volunteer corps of firefighters demonstrating their manliness, and the entire city cheering them on, wagering on one company over another, in the face of something such as this. Sheer madness.

He waited until the men pulling the wagon and chanting the ditties that kept them trotting in unison had gotten far enough ahead for Carolina to hear him, then asked again, “Where do you think we’ll find your husband?” If she said Cherry Street, well and good. The responsibility would not be his. If she did not know about the place, he would not be the one to tell her.

“I’m not entirely sure,” Carolina admitted, straining forward as if she might catch sight of Samuel, though his head start and the differing speed of a riding horse and a buggy made it extremely unlikely. The clang of fire-wagon bells from the east and the west indicated still more companies heading down the island to join in battling the blaze. The windows of every house they passed were lighted, and there were any number of men about, both on foot and on horseback. She saw no other women, but Carolina did not allow herself to dwell on that, or on the likelihood that a great many of the men she saw were ruffians rather than gentlemen.

They drew level with Washington Square. Carolina avoided looking at the houses on the north side. Papa’s house was number sixteen. He’d moved there two years earlier, and her girlhood home in no longer fashionable Bowling Green was now a boardinghouse. She knew what Papa would say if he saw her heading into the fire district. The buggy had slowed to a crawl. “Please Nick, we must hurry.”

“Hurry to where?”

She allowed herself one glance at her father’s house, where windows were lit on all four floors. He was likely to be out in the street among the throng. The rig wasn’t particularly distinctive; still, he might recognize it. “Devrey’s new premises on Canal Street,” she said with conviction. “That has to be where he’s gone.”

Nick made a noncommittal sound. “Very well. Devrey’s on Canal Street.” He urged the horse forward until they were finally clear enough of the crush to trot through the park and into the confusing warren of streets beyond. They were on the edge of the old village of Greenwich, which wealthy local landowners had insisted not be forced into compliance with the grid. Nick took a moment to get his bearings, then tugged on the reins and turned the horse’s head west.

At Canal Street on the corner of Broadway the smoke was thick enough to choke, and the glow of the fire was reflected in dancing shadows on the marble facade of Devrey Shipping’s brand-new and resplendent five stories.

The buggy pulled up beside Devrey’s impressive front door. All around was motion and shouting and what seemed to be a chaotic back and forth of men and animals and still more fire wagons, some with the names of Brooklyn companies on their side.

“There does not seem to be anyone there,” she said, looking up at Devrey’s windows, illuminated only by the gaslights of the street. “If Samuel were—” She broke off, overcome by a fit of coughing.

“It’s the smoke,” Nick said, holding out his handkerchief. She shook her head and withdrew one of her own from the interior of her muff.

“We can’t stay here, Cousin Carolina.” As he spoke, a wagon pulled by a pair of men and piled high with an assortment of goods—probably looted, Nick thought—passed so close beside the buggy that the horse neighed loudly and tossed his head in fractious discontent. Nick had to tug hard on the reins to steady him. “You can see Devrey’s is dark and entirely closed. Samuel’s not here. We can’t stay, Carolina. Let me take you home.”

“Cherry Street,” she said.

His heart sank. “What did you say?”

“My husband owns two lodging houses on Cherry Street. It is further down the town and closer to the fire. No doubt those are the properties he has gone to check upon. I must go to Cherry Street.”

“No. You can’t.” God help him, what would he say if she asked why not?

“I must.” She reached to take the reins from his hands. Nick pulled them away from her. The horse sensed the uncertainty about who was in charge and pawed the cobbles, acting as if he might break and run at any moment. Carolina hesitated a moment more, then gathered Sam’s coat into her arms and started to climb down from the buggy.

“Where are you going? You can’t—”

“I must go to Cherry Street. If you won’t take me, I will walk.”

Nick could neither force Carolina to return home nor allow her to be alone in the increasing tumult. “Sit down.” Nick bit out the words. “And hang on. This is not going to be an easy journey.”

Close enough now to hear the roar and crackle of the flames, and the night a thing of sparks and smoke, with the sky a red-and-black dome above their heads. Yet still so bitterly cold. And narrow Cherry Street a frozen corridor of rutted snow and ice down which howled a ferocious gale.

“I believe the two houses on the corner are Samuel’s.” Carolina had to bend close and shout the words against the wind.

“Yes, I know.” A damn fool thing to say, but she was too preoccupied to ask him how he knew. In any event he could move the buggy no closer to Sam Devrey’s property. Lodgers from the houses lining both sides of the street had come outside despite the fierce weather. Some were fully dressed, others wrapped in blankets they had apparently snatched from their beds when the alarms sounded, all shouting and shoving and pushing. He saw one likely thief slip into a house ignored by the presumed occupants who had literally turned their backs on whatever of value they’d left behind. More important, he sensed the throng developing that strange composite being that identified a mob. “Carolina, we can never find Samuel in this crush.”

She did not hear him, or if she did, she chose not to answer. Before Nick could stop her, she had climbed out of the buggy and
was thrusting her way through the crowd, headed for the houses on the corner.

“Carolina!” Nick shouted. “Carolina!” She paid him no mind. He jumped down after her, dropping the reins and leaving the buggy where it was since he had no hope of getting anywhere near a hitching post. Damn the rig. If he must choose between protecting the woman or the horse and buggy, there was no debate. “Carolina!”

She was well ahead of him now. But her height meant that every few seconds he caught sight of her purple bonnet as she forced her way through the crowd. “Carolina!”

The Chinese, some fifty-odd of them, were huddled together on the street in front of their lodgings. Sam noted a number of the nearby whites staring at the queues and quilted jackets of the foreigners, as if until this moment they had not realized quite how many of these alien beings lived among them. Mei-hua leaned against him, and he kept a sheltering arm around her. If the whites grew ugly, he would just pick her up and force his way into the alley to the right. It was too narrow to allow any large number to follow, and it debouched cleanly on the street behind. He’d head north after that, away from the fire.

Ah Chee was beside them, holding the child Sam knew was called Mei Lin, though he seldom thought of her by any name. The infant was asleep in the old woman’s arms, oblivious to all the excitement. Mei-hua reached out and adjusted the silk shawl in which the tiny bundle was swaddled. Both women were also wrapped in silk, as was he. He’d arrived coatless, and Mei-hua had poured plum wine into him and insisted he put a thick red satin
lung p’ao
on over his western clothes. He was grateful for the robe now. It was killingly cold, damned well hurt to breathe. Had to be a bloody great obstacle in the way of properly fighting the fire, however many companies showed up. A short time back a few of the neighbors had gotten the idea of hooking up the hose that was kept beside the Cherry Street hydrant. A waste of time and effort as it turned out. The hempen hose was thick with ice, and when
they managed to thaw it out enough to uncoil it, they discovered that the water in the cistern that fed the hydrant had frozen solid.

Good God. He could have sworn he’d heard someone shouting “Carolina.”

Surely that was not possible.

Carolina knew only that Samuel let rooms in the Cherry Street houses to sailors seeking a place to stay between voyages. It always sounded a sensible business investment. She had never thought much about what sorts of sailors they might be, but the moment she recognized the Asian features and dress of some members of the crowd, she knew the entire story. Or thought she did.