The Spiritualist (5 page)

How different he was from so many of the men I’d known. He seemed to be aware of every little bothersome thing—the stench of slaughterhouses and the tanneries, of manure and coal smoke, the pools of horse piss, the rush of men too busy to look about them, so one constantly had to stop suddenly to avoid a collision… things I had long since grown used to, that seemed hardly worthy of comment. But he spoke idly of everything, of the wretched streets and the rag-and-bone men picking through the garbage alongside the pigs, and the loud and unavoidable curses of the drovers. Even the layers of paper plastered onto every empty surface occasioned comment.

“I do wish they’d pass a law against all this… paper, don’t you? Flyers everywhere about… Miss Graff, I’m horrified that you must be assaulted by such obscene details of a body’s ailments.”

I smiled and said, “Ah, but it restores one’s hope to know a cure is available. And in only three days!”

He laughed and laid his hand over mine where it rested in the crook of his arm. “You are delightful, as always. How glad I am I ventured into your father’s office that day.”

How warm he made me feel. How worthy of walking beside him. As we reached the graceful stone-paved walks of Battery Park, I no longer felt like a tradesman’s daughter, but like something else entirely—it felt as if all the things I’d dreamed of could somehow be possible, that I belonged not in a narrow brick house on Duane Street, but in the mansions of Upper Broadway and Union Square. He made me feel that way, with his gentle courtesy and his way of listening intently to everything I said, as if he valued my opinion above all others.

We walked among the shrubs and flowers, weaving between other couples and families with their children, and the leaves of the elms shading the walk whispered in the wind coming off the bay. Peter directed me toward the water, toward the concert hall of Castle Garden, and we stood on the edge of the huge stone wall there and looked out over the East River, Governor’s Island and Staten Island, toward the rising buildings and warehouses of Brooklyn on the other side. The bay was filled with masts and sails of clipper ships and small boats, and here the wind was stronger; it blew back the dark curls I’d left dangling artfully on either side of my face and sent the waves slapping gently against the granite.

I was staring out at all this, lulled by how beautiful it was, by my own sense that I belonged here, when Peter turned to me and said, “Might I ask you my favor, Miss Graff?”

The dream that had buoyed me popped; I fell hard back into the reality of my life. The wind whipped my eyes hard enough to cause tears.

“Of course,” I said in as steady a voice as I could. “Whatever you wish.”

He took a deep breath. “I wonder… would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I was hearing things. I blinked away my tears and turned to look at him. He was staring so intently at me that I faltered. “W-what did you say?”

He flushed. “I asked you to marry me.”

I was becoming as mad as my mother. There was no other explanation for it. “But… you can’t mean it. How cruel you are to tease me!”

He looked down at his hands. Stiffly, he said, “I assure you I’m not teasing. I’m quite serious. In fact, I’ve never been more so.”

I could not help myself. Everything in me shouted:
say yes
, but I could not obey so easily. It was, my father would have said, the flaw in me. I must question everything. “But… but why?”

“I need a wife,” he said simply. “You need someplace to blossom.”

“To blossom?”

His hands came down tight on my shoulders, as if he meant to hold me in place, and there was desperation on his face. “A fine house, fine things—you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To be the wife of a rich man?”

Warily, I said, “Yes, of course.”

“Marry me, and it’s yours.”

This was not what I wanted. There was no passion, no protestation of undying love. He spoke only of need, of benefit. I said, “Do you love me, Mr. Atherton?”

Peter released my shoulders and turned to look out over the bay. Finally he said, “My mother has been nagging me to get married and produce an heir. I need someone who can keep up appearances.” He laughed joylessly. “Keep up the Atherton name, so to speak.”

“Why me? It seems to me you could have whatever woman you wanted. Why not marry someone from your class?”

“Because they would expect too much. And because I don’t like them.” His hand came to my shoulder again. “I
like
you, Miss Graff. I like how you make me laugh. It seems to me we would make a good match. And I think you’d be loyal to me. Would you be loyal?”

Weren’t all wives loyal to their husbands? “Of course I would.”

“So I thought.” He leaned down to look directly into my face. “I can make you a success, you know. Give me two years, and no one will remember where you came from. You’ll be the rich wife of Peter Atherton, that’s all.”

I held tight the words he’d said, that he liked me, and I thought I could turn that into love, given time.

My parents protested, of course, but in the end, what could they do but agree? It was a match so far above what they’d ever expected, and I wanted it so badly. Peter and I married two weeks later, in a little chapel on Beekman Street. Afterward, we went to the lavish St. Nicholas Hotel, where he’d procured the lovely white bridal suite, and I had my first taste of the life I was to grow accustomed to. We ordered dinner up—it was more food than I had ever seen—a salmon mousseline, stuffed squab, filet de veal, strawberries and cream and wine. I noticed he drank a great deal, but I didn’t care, because that night he kissed me and took me to bed, and though he was drunk enough that his performance was graceless, I cherished it. I thought it meant that he loved me after all.

It wasn’t until several weeks later I realized I had made the mistake so many had made before me, though I had made it on a grander—and therefore less sympathetic—scale. I had deluded myself into believing my marriage would be a true partnership, one of mutual respect and love. But those things had never been part of the equation on Peter’s side.

I
WOULD BE
lying if I said I hadn’t found some satisfaction in the life Peter offered me, however, and if I wished for passion and a he was always busy with some trial or another. Or so he’d said. Now, of course, I knew that it hadn’t been just criminal cases that kept him from me, but spirit circles as well. true meeting of minds, those wishes were easy enough to banish in the wake of an emerald bracelet or a gown in the latest Parisian style. I buried my loneliness in night after night of glittering New York society—there were those among the upper ten thousand who found me charming and delightful.

Yet now, as I gratefully allowed Samuel Harrison to partner me during a Viennese waltz at Rose Reid’s ball, I felt that swift pierce of loneliness that seemed always to lurk just out of sight, ready to burst upon me. I was among friends—at least two hundred of them—at one of the most anticipated suppers of the New Year of 1857, and yet I was alone.

“Atherton must be busy indeed,” Samuel said as he led me back to the chairs that lined the small ballroom. “The Martin trial is all anyone talks of lately.”

“He’s quite busy,” I said, glancing involuntarily to the door.

“But he did promise to make an appearance this evening.”

“Well, no doubt he’s caught up in some important matter.”

“No doubt.” I smiled, and then my smile faded as I caught my reflection in the mirror-lined walls. How pale I looked—even the garnets at my throat and ears seemed dull. The only color in my face was my eyes, which looked like jade chips set in bone china.
“I hope he’s bought you emeralds to match them.”
Michel Jourdain’s words flitted to me, making me feel Peter’s absence all the more keenly. I did not know whether to resent him for leaving me to keep up appearances once again, or to be worried. My usual innocent flirting with the bored husbands of my society friends had been impossible tonight. I’d been unable to concentrate on any conversation, even the more spirited ones concerning the slavery question in Kansas or corrupt city politics. Dorothy Bennett’s spirit circle had not left my thoughts, and though Peter had told me he would not see me again until tonight, still I’d listened for his footsteps each night since. It was foolish, I knew. It was common for my husband to disappear for days at a time without a word. As one of the most preeminent defense attorneys in the city, he was always busy with some trial or another. Or so he’d said. Now, of course, I knew that it hadn’t been just criminal cases that kept him from me, but spirit circles as well.

I took a glass of wine from a black-tailed servant, glancing about the room, at its gilded mirrors reflecting the light of dozens of beeswax candles and crystal gasoliers, vases full of roses, which only grew more fragrant as the heat of two hundred dancers grew more pressing. It was as beautiful as I’d always imagined such parties to be in those days when I’d sat in my mother’s parlor and daydreamed about Peter. Yet in those dreams, my husband had always been beside me. Now I was alone, and it was nearly two. Where was he?

I felt a light touch on my shoulder and turned to see Irene Cushing, resplendent in blue taffeta. She leaned close to whisper in my ear, “Evie, I’ve heard the most delicious story.” She glanced around, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Come with me.”

She took my hand, and I put aside my wine and obediently followed her to the doors overlooking the Reids’ garden, which was covered with snow. Irene drew me back into the curtains, her dark eyes twinkling. “You’ll never guess what I heard.”

Her blond curls shivered against her ears as she leaned forward again, and the gathered feathers in her hair dipped and tickled my temple. “Guess who was seen coming from the Astor House with William Perry? Florence Chaumont!” Her voice rose at the end, and she deadened it quickly. “Can you believe it? I heard he had rooms there, and she met him after her performance, and no one saw her leave until morning.”

William Perry was one of the upper ten thousand—the very highest rung of the social ladder—and a stalwart invitee to every event. I said, “Why would he do such a thing?”

She didn’t seem to hear me, so intent was she on spilling the tale. “I heard that Mrs. Astor planned to cut him, of course, and you know Mademoiselle Chaumont will be dead to everyone by the end of the day.”

“But his wife—”

“Oh yes, well, she’s humiliated. Simply humiliated. If you’ll notice, she isn’t here tonight. Nor is he.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“How could you not? Didn’t you wonder when he didn’t ask for a dance? You’re one of his favorites.”

“I confess I’ve been a bit distracted—”

“Yes.” She sighed. “I see Peter isn’t here. Again.”

“The trial…” I made a dismissive gesture, which set the candles on the nearby sideboard to flickering madly.

“Oh, who do you think you’re talking to, Evie? Perhaps you can hide from the others, but I can see: you’ve been dull all night! Where’s your legendary charm? Even Captain Post commented that you seemed peaked. Have you been having nightmares again?”

“It seems they never go away,” I said. “But that’s not what bothers me. The truth is that I’m worried about Peter. I know it’s not
done
to confess you care about your husband, but—”

“Good Lord, I long to be rid of Daniel for a few days. You simply need to keep yourself busy. I know—we’ll go shopping Monday. And have a luncheon at Taylor’s.”

“That should cure Monday,” I said.

“You need an occupation. A hobby, perhaps.”

“How many watercolors can one paint, Irene? Especially when one has as little talent as I do? I’ve got them littered about the house already. Even the servants wince when they go by them.”

“But Peter’s always been busy. I thought you liked the freedom he accorded you.” She looked at me with concern and sympathy, and I knew that, unlike my other friends in this room, I could trust Irene to truly listen. And because of that, I revealed what I never would have otherwise.

I bent close to say, “It’s not just that. You know he’s been going to spirit circles?”

She nodded and shuddered. “I confess I don’t understand it.

All this talk of ghosts and such! There’s nothing a spirit could say to me that I care to hear, I can promise you.”

“Yes, well, Peter believes it,” I said glumly. “And he’s fallen in with a new medium who makes him think he’s speaking to his mother’s spirit.”

“Elizabeth Atherton?” Irene laughed. “I can’t imagine her deigning to return through a spirit rapper. The Second Coming would be more to her liking.”

I smiled weakly. “You’re a philistine, Irene.”

“So I’ve been told. I’d thought Peter too canny to get caught up in such business.”

“This man is very convincing.”

“A man? How odd for a medium. You’ve seen him?”

I nodded. “Thursday night. Peter insisted I meet him. He’s been leading a circle at Dorothy Bennett’s. She brought him from Boston.”

“Dorothy Bennett? My Lord, spiritualism does run rampant among the upper ten! Next you’ll be telling me Mrs. Astor’s taken up the calling as well.”

“Please, Irene.”

She sobered. “How serious you are, Evie! So you saw this medium and he was very convincing. Did he convince you too?”

“Hardly. He’s no more genuine than any other. But he was very charming in that way most charlatans are. And… attractive. I understand why people want to believe him. He makes it seem almost offensive not to.”

Irene eyed me carefully. “You sound taken with him yourself.”

“Dear God, no. But something happened at the circle the night I went. Something strange.”

“As if speaking to spirits wasn’t strange enough!”

“A gun misfired. The bullet just missed Peter.”

Irene frowned. “I do wish men would take better care. Why, just last week Daniel told me someone shot his own foot while having lunch at Bodes.”

“Peter seemed to think it was something more than a misfire.”

Irene gave me a sharp look. “He thought it was deliberate?”

“He thought the bullet was meant for Mr. Jourdain, the medium.”