Pish Posh (15 page)

Clara blushed. Miss Pender sounded a little bit like Clara herself. She wondered for a moment if Audrey was making fun of her.

“Is she really under hypnosis?” Clara asked Mr. Arbutnot. He nodded and put his finger to his lips.

“We are all in the parlor,” Audrey continued. “Some people are playing cards while one man is playing the piano and singing a ballad. Everyone is talking about the same dreary things: about the shameful way that pigs are allowed to roam the streets of New York City. About the woman who was murdered in her room on Clarkson Street, and how Regency hats with their ostrich feather are all the rage, and blah, blah, blah. ”

For a moment Mr. Arbutnot seemed confused.

“Miss Pender, what is the date?” he asked.

“The sixth of September. ”

“And the year, Miss Fender?”

“1812.”

Mr. Arbutnot smiled. “Ah.”

“Someone new has just come in with my cousin. A young man. My cousin introduces him to me as Frank Ploy. He is tall and slim and dressed in an elegant yellow waistcoat, knee breeches, long boots, and a white ruffled shirt. His face is handsome. But somehow ... rough.

“ ‘Miss Pender,' he says when he greets me, ‘your cousin has told me so much about you that I insisted upon meeting you.'

“‘Oh?' I glance wryly at my cousin, who has now turned very red. ‘Did my cousin tell you that I am rude and intolerant, and that though I am terribly wealthy, I have managed to frighten away every young man in New York City through my bad temper? Is that what he told you?'

“I expect Frank Ploy to hem and haw, but he looks at me straight in the eye and says, ‘Yes. And much worse, too.' Then he smiles, and I like him instantly. What do you think of him? ”

“A very likable fellow,” Mr. Arbutnot agreed.

“Yes, exactly. Very likable. My cousin leaves us to mingle with the other guests. Frank Ploy looks at me and smiles.

“‘Already I can see that we have much in common,' he says cheerfully.

“‘What do you mean?' I ask.

“‘We are both scarred,' he says, indicating the scar on my chin—an old injury from a boy who threw a rock at me when I was a child.

“‘But I see no scars on you,' I reply.

“Then he extends his right hand toward me and makes a fist. His knuckles are covered with small silvery scars, as though a crazed seamstress had sewn it willy-nilly with fine silver thread.

“He tells me, in a quiet voice, that he was born under the very poorest conditions, and as a young boy became a bare-knuckle boxer on the streets of New York. He was very good, I suppose, because he managed to make money. Quite a bit of money. He fought in England and France and eventually grew rather wealthy.

“‘I can never forget who I was,' he says, ‘because it is etched across my fist.'

“At first I am alarmed to hear this. That means he is not one of
us,
regardless of his beautiful clothing and fine manners. Yet, as we speak further, I begin to think that although he isn't my equal, he may perhaps be
better
than my friends and me, because we have done nothing to earn our wealth, and he has struggled so hard for his.

“Every now and then we are interrupted by someone who wishes to chat with me. It's annoying, as I have no interest in them, and to escape from their attentions, I ask Mr. Ploy if he would like to see the garden while there is still some light outside.

“He readily agrees, and I take him to our little courtyard. We walk around the garden while we talk and talk, and finally sit beside each other on a bench, surrounded by beautiful asters, which have only lately begun to bloom—starry lavender, blue, and pink.

“‘They were my mother's favorite flower,' I tell him. ‘She planted masses of them while she was ill. To remind me of her each year. She gave me this necklace, too, right before she died. She wanted me to wait till I was married to wear it, but because I am the most sharp-tongued, cold-hearted woman in all of New York, I decided it would be silly to wait.'

“‘Funny,' Mr. Ploy says, touching my necklace briefly and looking at me with great seriousness, ‘I am tremendously fond of ladies with sharp tongues and cold hearts.'

“We talk until it grows so dark that even the bright asters fade into the shadows. When we return to the house, I find my guests have all gone. Oh, I'm certain my disappearance will be the talk of the town for weeks to come, but I don't care!

“When we part, Mr. Ploy wonders if he might visit me again the next day. I should refuse, shouldn't I?”

“Well, that depends upon how you feel about him, Miss Pender,” Mr. Arbutnot replied.

“You may call me Theodosia now that we know each other better. ”

“Thank you,” Mr. Arbutnot said graciously. “How do you feel about him, Theodosia? ”

“I like him,” Audrey said firmly, her face glowing. “I allow I have never liked a person so much in my life! I agree to see him again tomorrow. Are you terribly shocked?”

“Not in the least,”

“After he leaves, I rush up to my bedroom and lean out the window to watch him as he walks down the street. In the yellowish glow of the streetlamps, I can see him walking slowly yet with purpose, holding himself straight—not like so many of the men I know who pretend to be rakes, and slouch and swagger.

“It is when I ready myself for bed that evening that I discover my necklace is missing. I look everywhere for it, then wake the servants and entreat them to search as well. It is nowhere to be found. How perplexing! I think back to when I last knew the necklace was around my throat. Then I remember—it was when Frank Ploy touched it, in the garden. Oh.” She placed a hand against her stomach and winced. “I feel sick suddenly.

“I can't sleep that night, I am so consumed with the problem. As the hours pass, I grow more and more convinced that I have been the victim of a swindler. I've heard about such men before. When he touched my necklace in the garden, he might have cunningly cut it with palm clippers, a thing I have read about in the newspapers. By the morning, I can no longer lie to myself. I
know
that Frank Ploy is a thief. He flirted with me and flattered me so that he might steal from me! He made a fool of me. I cannot tolerate that! You understand, don't you?”

“Of course,” Mr. Arbutnot said.

“As soon as I am dressed, I go directly to the constables and tell them what has happened.

“A few days later, on my way to the milliner to have a hat made, I glance at the front of a newsboy's
Evening Post
and see Frank Ploy's face on the front of it. The headline reads, ‘Man Arrested for Stealing Jewels from New York's Most Prominent Young Heiress.' The article says that he is also suspected of murdering the woman on Clarkson Street, because he lived in a boardinghouse nearby and jewels were also stolen from her room.

“I am shocked. He was in my house. Alone with me. He might have murdered me as well. ”

“You were lucky, Theodosia,” Mr. Arbutnot said solemnly.

“I know.” Audrey stopped here, and it seemed as if she were finished. But then her hand rose up to her chest and her breathing quickened.

“Is she okay?” Clara whispered to Mr. Arbutnot. He nodded shortly.

“What is happening now, Theodosia?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“Today is the day that they are to execute Frank Ploy. He will be hanged from a tree in Washington Square Park at noon. Not for murder—they failed to convict him on that charge. But the punishment for theft is harsh. And rightly so! The city would be full of savages otherwise.

“I am keeping myself busy around the house, checking to see that my silverware is polished, that my pantry is full, that my porcelain is dusted. Anything to take my mind off what is to come. But as it grows closer to noon, I can hear the crowds gathering in the park.

“From my bedroom window, I have a clear view of Washington Square Park, as well as the elm tree from which they hang criminals. They call it the Hanging Tree. Oh, there are so many hangings from that elm! Men, women. They always hang them from the same branch, that very thick one there.”

Clara took a quick glance out the window. Indeed, there was the tremendous elm tree—the one that Clara had always been mesmerized by—with a branch that was thicker than the others, jutting out like a stern hand, saluting the city. Beneath the tree was the little artist who had offered to draw Clara's portrait, working away on a sketch of a woman who was sitting in a folding chair by his easel.

“I open the window and lean out. A crowd of people is milling around, waiting for the hanging to start, as if it were a show. There is even a woman selling oysters to the spectators. I can see Frank Ploy now. He is being marched from Newgate Prison on Tenth Street to the park. His hands are tied behind his back, but I notice that he still holds himself as upright as possible. I feel a pang as I catch a glimpse of his face, pale but firm. I remind myself that he deserves his punishment, no matter how severe.

“They haul him up a set of stairs to a wooden platform. Above, a rope is lashed to the tree limb, with a noose dangling down. Parents are lifting up their little children to get a better view—how can you bring a child to such a thing? A few words are said to Mr. Ploy—I can't hear them from here—and the hangman puts Mr. Ploy's head into the noose. I can't watch, it's too horrible. I look away, dropping my eyes so that they look down at the street below my window.

“What is that?”
Audrey cried suddenly, her eyes wide. “Down there. What is that?!”

“What do you see?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” She was breathing hard now and shaking her head.

“Theodosia,” he said. “Theodosia! What do you see?”

But Audrey did not seem to hear him anymore. A sheen of sweat had broken out across her face, and she was making a small, whimpering noise.

“What's happening to her?” Clara asked Mr. Arbutnot, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

“I don't know.” To Clara's dismay, he also looked alarmed, and with a sickish feeling in her stomach, she began to wonder if she had made an awful mistake in bringing him here. Impulsively, she picked up Audrey's sketchbook off the floor and placed it in her lap. Then she grabbed the bit of charcoal and wrapped Audrey's fingers around it.

“Draw it,” she demanded.

Audrey's whimpering stopped. She held the charcoal between her fingers, but otherwise didn't move. Putting her hand over Audrey's, Clara pressed the charcoal down to the paper.

“Easy does it, Clara,” Mr. Arbutnot said quietly.

“Draw it,” Clara urged. “Draw what you see.”

Audrey's hand began to move, slowly at first, and then with quick, stuttering movements. She gazed straight ahead, not at the paper, drawing blindly from memory. Mr. Arbutnot rose to stand beside Clara and watch the picture gradually take shape. It was a drawing of a tree. Not the great elm tree in Washington Square Park, but a smaller, slender tree that appeared to be right below a window—Audrey's own window, Clara guessed, because the drawing included Pish Posh's front stoop, with its short flight of brick stairs. Snagged on one of the slender branches of the tree was a necklace.

“Whose necklace is that?” Mr. Arbutnot asked.

“Mine,” Audrey said. “It's mine.” Clara had never in her life heard such sadness in a person's voice.

“Is that the diamond necklace, Theodosia?” Mr. Arbutnot asked gently. “The one you thought Frank Ploy had stolen?”

“Yes.”

“But how did it wind up in the tree?”

Audrey was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed in recollection. “It must have been the night of the party,” she began hesitantly. “I had leaned out the window to watch Mr. Ploy walk down the street. The necklace's clasp must have come undone and fallen onto the tree branch.”

Suddenly, Audrey jumped up and leaned out the window. Mr. Arbutnot held her back by her elbows as if he were afraid she might fling herself out the window.

“It's a mistake!” Audrey screamed out the window. “Please! Oh, please, you must let him go!”

Clara looked out the window now, too, and saw that beneath the ancient elm, the little portrait artist looked up, trying to find the source of the shouting.

Audrey shook her head and began to cry. “It's too late,” she said, her voice breaking. “He's swinging from the noose now. His legs are still kicking ... oh, I can't bear it!” Audrey stopped. She pulled her head back in and slumped down in the rocker. “That's all, that's all.”

She fell silent, and for a moment no one spoke.

“Theodosia,” Mr. Arbutnot said gently, “as I count to ten you will slowly drift up to the lake's surface. You will be sitting in your bedroom in the year 2006, and you will be Audrey, who makes soups at Pish Posh. One ... two ... ”

When he reached the count of ten, Audrey took a deep breath and looked around.

“Is it over?” she asked.

“Yes, it's over.”

“Did I say anything useful?”

“Perhaps,” Mr. Arbutnot replied lightly. And he sat back down and recounted to her what she had told them, none of which she remembered. Audrey listened, and when he came to the end of the story, she turned to look out the window at Washington Square Park, shaking her head in wonder.

“But how could I have survived this long? How is it possible? ”

“I don't
know.
But I have a suspicion.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and he paused to gather his words before he spoke. “Occasionally, when a person goes through a traumatic experience, a portion of that person will split off, detach itself from the situation so that they can avoid the pain. It's usually temporary. But your case is very unusual. It seems that you split off completely. You went one way, and Theodosia Pender went another way. You became two different people. But here's the problem. You're not a
whole
person ...” He searched for a way to explain it, and suddenly bent forward and pulled off a splinter of wood that jutted out from the edge of the rocking chair.