The Island of Doves (6 page)

She turned the knob and a plump woman stepped inside. Sleet had begun to fall and her black shroud was wet on the shoulders.

“Who are
you
?” Edward asked rudely.

But Marjorie was bowing her head and whispered, “Good evening, Sister.” She then backed out of the way to let the woman into the front hall.

The woman fixed her gaze on Edward. “Is this the Fraser household?”

“Yes,” Nathaniel said before Edward could, his voice tight.

“The residence of Mrs. Susannah Fraser?” she asked.

“Yes,” Edward barked. He glanced at Marjorie, noticing her recognition of the woman. He could feel the tension coiling in his shoulders. He hadn’t known there were any nuns in Buffalo. “What news do you have?”

The woman reached for Edward’s hand, but he wouldn’t give it to her. Her eyes were intensely dark, the iris and pupil nearly the same color. The contrast with her pale skin gave her the unreal look of a doll. She wore a black bonnet, but a few wisps of her hair had escaped in the wind and they hung at her temples. “My name is Sister Mary Genevieve. I’m afraid I have to give you some terrible news.”

He felt he had known it all along.

Nathaniel stepped closer and put his hand under Edward’s elbow. “Hold steady, man,” he muttered.

“Sir, there has been an accident. Mrs. Fraser has gone home to the Lord.”

Edward drew a long breath. The air in the room felt suddenly thin, as if it were leaking away.

“What happened?” Nathaniel asked. He led the three of them into the study, guiding Edward onto the sofa as the nun took a chair. Marjorie stood by the door, her handkerchief to her lips as she began to cry.

“I was in Black Rock this afternoon,” the sister began, “ministering to a man whose child is ill. Our church owns no carriage at present, so I set out for my errand on foot. When evening came, I headed south, along the water. The path was deserted.”

Edward’s face twisted with impatience. “Don’t delay. Just tell me what’s happened.”

“I was on the section of the river where the bank overhangs the water on a small rise. As I said, the path was empty, but all of a sudden I saw another person walking toward me, a woman wearing a shawl over her hair. She was about a hundred yards away, ambling slowly along the edge of the water. I saw her drop something on the ground, but she did not stoop to pick it up, which I thought was strange. As I watched she seemed to step nearer and nearer to the edge of the bank—so much so that I thought to myself,
God protect that woman
. The wind was just starting to pick up then. And all at once, she went over,” the nun said, her voice straining against tears. “The river just swallowed her up. I did not even hear her cry out. I ran to the bank. I could see the hem of her skirt rise to the surface, but the water was churning so, and the wind blowing. The current was terribly fast. You know it never freezes, no matter how cold the temperature. She stayed near the bank for a moment, but the part of her dress that was tangled in the brambles ripped, and she was swept away.”

Edward turned to Nathaniel. “That current runs at fifteen miles an hour, even in fair weather. And it runs north, toward Niagara. Good God, Root, she will have gone over the falls.” Then he turned back to the nun. “And you did
nothing
to help her?”

“Oh, please, sir, you have to believe me. It all happened so terribly fast. I screamed and screamed for help, but all the boats were moored for the night and no one was out. I could barely reach the brambles from the high bank.”

Edward combed the woman’s account in his mind, imagining the scene, watching Susannah’s hair float out behind her as she fell. “But how did you know who she was? How did you know to come here?”

“When she went over into the water, when I saw I couldn’t reach her, I kept running toward the place where I first saw her and the object I saw her drop. It was this.”

Sister Mary Genevieve opened the soggy book, its pages smeared and clotted together like paste. It was the botany book Susannah carried on her walks. He had never understood his wife’s fascination with something so mundane. The nun pointed to the name printed inside the cover, much of the ink washed away.

Edward knew this woman had no reason to lie, and yet his mind was determined to resist her story. He took the book, turned it over in his hand. “But this doesn’t mean Susannah is the woman you saw go into the river. Perhaps she dropped this days ago and that woman happened upon it.” As he spoke, Edward found he was convincing himself. “She has been known to roam deep into the woods north of here. Perhaps she found an old cabin or knocked on a farmhouse door.”

The sister pulled a scrap of fabric from the pocket of her apron and unfolded it. She draped it over her hand. “Do you recognize this?”

Edward sighed, then shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

But Marjorie gasped. “Sir, that wool is from the dress Mrs. Fraser was wearing just this morning. I pressed it for her myself.”

So this would be it, then, Edward thought. The moment when everything changed.

Nathaniel put his hand on Edward’s arm. “My friend, at first light I will gather some men down at the port. We will find her body and bring it home.”

T
he straw in the wagon bed did little to cushion Susannah’s shoulder blades from the rough ride on Buffalo’s pitted roads. As the wagon pitched and shuddered along, she felt every bump and dip echo through her bones and clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

After what felt like an eternity, the texture of the road changed. The scent of moss and wet wood and ordure wafted under the canvas, and Susannah knew they were at the port. The wagon slowed, rocking from side to side, and changed direction; the hoofbeats began to reverberate off close walls. Finally, the horses came to a stop and the front end of the wagon tipped up slightly as the driver stepped down.

He peeled back the canvas. Susannah blinked at him and then her eyes roved, taking in the details of where she was. A narrow space between two brick walls, the low light of an oil lamp mounted above a doorway. The walls were slick with damp, as if so many people clustered together in such tight quarters kept it from freezing.

“Strange cargo here,” the man said, grinning at her with two teeth like arrows pointing in opposing directions.

Susannah gave him a frightened look.

“’Tis all right, miss. Ain’t no one to see you but myself. Name’s Connolly.”

The driver’s brogue was clipped and comforting. She thought of Marjorie as she sat up and touched the back of her head with her fingertips. Her shoulders ached. Mr. Connolly offered his hand and she pulled herself over the edge of the wagon, then smoothed her skirt with her palms.

“What is this place?” Susannah looked up at the doorway.

Overhead, a voice called, “Look out below,” and the contents of a full commode rained down a few feet away from where they stood.

“Can’t you tell? It’s the finest inn in town.” Mr. Connolly winked at Susannah and led her toward the doorway. “You’ll pass the night in a room here.”

Inside they took a sharp right up a narrow staircase that wound to the third floor. At the top, Mr. Connolly held Susannah back with his palm while he stepped out of the stairwell to have a look around the corner. Satisfied, he waved her into the passageway lined with candles in clouded glass globes. Four rooms down, he swung open a door, and she followed him inside.

Susannah took in the narrow bed, a cornhusk mattress half covered with blankets still twisted in the shape of the bed’s previous occupant. A small window showcased a square of the night sky and Susannah stepped closer to it, looking first up at the stars and then down below at the lot behind the building. The flattened hull of a boat was splayed out on the ground and surrounded by piles of lumber. A group of men stood in a circle talking in the lamplight, each with his arms crossed in front of him. Every few seconds, one turned to spit tobacco juice over his shoulder.

“Where are we?”

Mr. Connolly looked up from where he crouched on the floor, sweeping the glass from a broken liquor bottle into a pile with his sleeve. He jumped up, crossed the room in one step, and pulled her by the shoulder back toward the bed. “
Miss.
Holy Mary, mother of—stay away from that window.”

Susannah shook her head. “Of course. Forgive me.”

Mr. Connolly sat down beside her on the bed, holding his hat in his hands. “The sister says, and I think ’tis best, that I shouldn’t know much about you. And I don’t. What I do know, I’ll never tell.” He gave Susannah an emphatic look. “You can count on that. But folks around here, well, they
know
who you are—or, were—just by the look a’ you. What I’m getting at is that some folks wouldn’t think twice to report as they’d seen you out walking the streets. And I believe you know better than I what Mr. Fra—or,
certain parties
would pay for information a’ that sort.”

Susannah closed her eyes, weariness descending on her once again. Even here she had to cower from Edward. She mustn’t forget. He would be looking for her, might be looking already.

“Ah, don’t worry, miss,” Mr. Connolly said, patting her hand with his clumsy bear paw. “Soon as we get you out of the godfersaken town of Buffalo, a new life begins. Young and pretty as you are—well,”—he blushed, stood up, and donned his hat—“in no time you’ll be starting anew.”

Susannah shook her head. She wanted so much to believe it was possible, but the path seemed fraught with dangers at every turn. And yet these people wanted to help her try.
Why?
He nodded his good-bye at her and put his hand on the door.

“Mr. Connolly,” Susannah said, and he paused. “You aren’t supposed to know about me, but might I know something about you?” She felt her voice break open in her throat. “Why would you want to help me?”

He thought for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “Well, to your first question, there’s nothing much to tell. I work in the yard down below, fixing up the boats. At times there’s work loading and unloading the cargo.” At that, he paused for a minute. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes when he continued.

“And as for helping you, well . . . my da was a hard man. A hard man to my ma. I couldn’t help her enough before she died. So it comforts me to help someone like you.” Mr. Connolly stopped short. “I’m under strict orders from the sister to deliver you here. In the morning, the innkeeper’s wife will come to the room and tell you where to go. Don’t open the door for anyone else. Now, let’s try the lock.” He went out into the hallway and waited.

The lock on the door was crude—a simple strip of iron with a slot in the wooden door frame—but the sound it made as Susannah slid it into place was comforting. Mr. Connolly waited to try the door and, once satisfied it would hold, called his muffled good-bye and was gone.

Only then did Susannah notice that the stench of the room was so intense that she could hardly breathe. With her back pressed against the wall, she reached over and pushed open one of the shutters to let in the cold air. She turned to the bed and grasped the blankets, giving them a good shake, and tried not to see the cockroaches that spilled on the floor and scuttled toward the darkness beneath the bed.

Susannah’s body was tired, but her mind hummed like a hive. She lay down on the bed, taking a deep breath to calm it. She wondered what Marjorie was doing—washing dishes? Edward would be home by now from Black Rock, would have found her missing. Where would he start his search for her? It all seemed surreal and dangerous, and she found herself praying for the lock on the door, that God would strengthen it, strengthen her own heart for whatever lay ahead.

Sometime in the early dawn, the rhythm of Susannah’s ruminations must have lulled her to sleep, for she woke with a start to the sound of someone banging on a pot in the hallway.

“Coffee’s on,” a weary woman’s voice croaked out. “Get up, alla’ you, now. Time to settle up payment and get on your way.” The woman made her way down the hall, banging on each door with her spoon.

Susannah sat up in bed, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped the shawl around them. A great commotion began; she heard yawning and mumbles of “good morning,” boots on the bare floorboards, shutters opening. A dog barked viciously in the yard.

At the end of the hallway, the woman banged the pot again. “Ten cents extra for every one of you who’s late getting out,” she called, and the pace of preparations quickened.

A door opened and a woman shrieked with laughter. “Jesus Christ, Michael Carp—your willy’s hanging outta your pants. Wake up, man.”

The men in the hallway hooted and laughed as they passed Susannah’s closed door in one mass and made their way down the narrow staircase toward the smell of fried bread.

It grew quiet on the floor and Susannah sat still, waiting. Her mouth began to water and she realized she hadn’t had a thing to eat in almost a day. She stood and approached the door, listening. Footsteps in the hallway startled her, and she backed toward the bed.

The spoon tapped gently on her door. “It’s all right, girl. You don’t have to be afraid. Gather yourself and come on out. I’m to see that you get on the steamer.”

Susannah hesitated. “I don’t have any money,” she said through the door.

“And I’m Mrs. Astor,” the woman said with a mirthless laugh.

“No, really—I don’t,” Susannah said, urgency in her voice.

“It’s
all right
. Open the door.”

Susannah pulled her shawl over her hair and clutched it beneath her chin. She slid the lock to the right and opened the door wide enough to peer into the hallway. The woman’s gray hair tufted out at the temples beneath her white bonnet. Her lips curled to the side in amusement when she saw Susannah’s face. “Terrible tragedy, what happened to Susannah Fraser.”

Susannah cringed, realizing that not everyone was as discreet as Mr. Connolly. She wondered what people knew, or thought they knew. One thing was certain: She had to get out of Buffalo right away. “I thank you, ma’am, for your generosity.”

The woman scoffed. “My name’s Mrs. Tully and I don’t do nothing for free. Tom Connolly paid your way, girl. Even left passage for you downstairs.” The woman gestured behind her with her thumb. “As far as it concerns myself, I never saw you here.”

Susannah nodded and opened the door the rest of the way. “I’m ready to go.”

Mrs. Tully looked into the room behind Susannah and simpered. “Ain’t you got a trunk?”

“No,” Susannah said, touching her dress. “This is all I have.”

“All right, then,” Mrs. Tully said, shaking her head. “I won’t ask any questions.”

She turned to the end of the hallway and Susannah followed. Downstairs a dozen men were in the kitchen, some slumped on the few chairs and the rest leaning against the walls in groups of two or three, some with their suspenders hanging down around their waists. The food smelled so good, Susannah felt she could already taste it. She moved her tongue across the back of her teeth.

Mrs. Tully stopped short and held Susannah back with her hand. “Best if you stay out here. I’ll get you some bread and you can take it with you.”

Susannah nodded. When Mrs. Tully came back she pressed a cloth-wrapped bundle into Susannah’s left hand. Her mangled fingers ached. In her right hand Mrs. Tully placed a card that recorded a transaction for the ticket price and read
BUFFALO to MACK ISLAND
.

“Get on with you.” Mrs. Tully explained how to get to the boat, called the
Thomas Jefferson
. “That packet leaves at seven sharp, whether or not you see fit to grace it with your presence.”

Susannah crossed the yard behind the boardinghouse, clutching the wrapped bread between her elbow and ribs. Her blood was in her cheeks and she felt conscious that some of the men were staring, even as she knew they wouldn’t recognize her with the shawl pulled so close around her face. The morning was a little warmer and the smell of the stagnant canal water hung in the air. She touched the hard place on her thigh where the necklace was hidden under the folds of fabric in her skirt. She was counting the seconds until she was on that boat and out of Edward’s reach.

The sight of the
Thomas Jefferson
made her heart leap in her chest. The varnished white oak hull gleamed from stem to stern, its line interrupted only by the massive side paddle wheel. Three masts jutted into the sky, one flying the flag, and two stacks emitted thin lines of smoke as the boiler heated. A crowd was forming at the edge of the gangway. Susannah stood off to the side and slid her passage ticket inside her sleeve, then unwrapped the bread. The oil had soaked through the cloth and her hand was slick. Though she meant to take only a few bites and save the rest for later in the day, she couldn’t fight the intensity of her hunger. The three pieces were gone in a matter of seconds. She shook out the cloth and folded it into a square, wiping her hands and feeling ashamed that she hadn’t been able to hold out longer.

The crowd suddenly surged toward the gangway and began to board the boat. Near Susannah, a man and his wife kept a tight grip on the arms of their two young children. The boy was pulling so hard toward the gangway that he nearly wrenched his father off his feet.

The woman barked at her son,
“Eine minute!”
then turned to her husband with a pleading glance.

“Ja, ja,”
he said, counting the coins in his hand. He hoisted his daughter up on his hip. The little girl’s hair was the color of corn silk, her eyes a pale green. In her hand she held the end of a dirty rope tied to the neck of a goat. They moved toward the line of people and the eager boy was suddenly frightened, clinging to his mother’s hand.

Susannah felt frozen in place. Here it was, her chance to be rid of this town once and for all, and she could not move. She looked back at Buffalo rising up from the water’s edge, her eye following the tops of the buildings. She could count at least six that Edward himself had coaxed up where there had been nothing before.

A basket slammed into Susannah’s shoulder and she heard a clatter. A woman in faded homespun barked impatient words in a language Susannah did not recognize, swinging her basket of dishes to the side to get by.

The
Thomas Jefferson
blew her whistle, long and low, and Susannah found herself moving with the stream of people, stepping onto the deck of the boat. A man in uniform took her ticket and examined it a moment before pointing toward a narrow set of stairs that led down into the hold of the boat. “Steerage,” he said.

The only other time she’d been on the water, it was on a vessel half this size, a ferry that ran along Long Island Sound and north toward Boston. She had been just a girl, traveling with her parents to see a cousin of her father’s. They had a cabin to themselves with velvet drapes on the window and they took their tea in the stateroom. She remembered that the teaspoons had been edged in gold.

The deckhand pushed her roughly toward the stairs. “Get on—we got a whole line of people here.”

Susannah nodded and moved with the people wearing layers of clothing, patched jackets and shawls. She saw a man carrying a dining chair with a broken seat over his shoulder, a woman with a washtub containing a folded quilt, a pair of steel shears looping out of her apron. When she noticed Susannah looking at them, she shoved them deeper into her pocket.