“Well when the hell did you smell her?”
“You know what I mean. You just get a whiff sometimes of a girl’s hair, or her skin. It’s a nice smell.”
“The last time I smelled her, it wasn’t so nice.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Matthew tried to force his concentration back to the game and failed miserably. Suddenly he seemed not to be able to tell any difference at all between pawn, rook, or king.
“My original question,” Effrem plowed on, “is whether or not you think she’d go with me if I asked her.”
“I don’t know. How should I know?”
“You live in the house right behind her! You take almost every meal in the kitchen with her sitting across the table! What’s wrong with you?” He smacked the rook down. “Checkmate.”
“That is not!” Matthew objected, but then his vision cleared and he saw the deadly triangle trap of black pawn, rook, and knight that had converged upon his king. “Damn!”
“I’m thinking of giving her flowers when I ask her,” said Effrem. “Do you think she might like that?”
“I don’t know! Give her weeds, for all I care!” And then Matthew took a good long look at Effrem. He realized why his friend was suddenly so well-dressed in his nice dark blue suit, white shirt, and waistcoat and his brown hair with the gray streaks at the sides was no longer such a bird’s-nest but so well-combed and he had the scrubbed appearance of a young lion with places to go and a bright future as a New York tailor.
If Effrem was not yet in love with Berry Grigsby, he was on the way.
“Pah!” Matthew said. He grabbed his cider and swigged it.
“What? Really, Matthew, you’re not making any sense. The flowers, now. What kind of flowers should they be?”
“Flowers are flowers.”
“Granted, but I thought she might have…possibly…told you what kind she liked. Roses, or carnations, or lilies, or—” He shrugged, lost. “I have no idea.” A quick adjustment of his glasses, and he leaned forward. “What kind would you get her, Matthew?”
“I don’t know anything about flowers.”
“Just think. Surely there’s something she might like.”
Matthew thought. It was ridiculous, asking this of him. Absurd. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and winced because some of the scratches there were still tender. “I suppose…I might get her…” What? he asked himself. “Wildflowers.”
“Wildflowers?”
“Yes. Just pick them from a field somewhere. I think she’d prefer wildflowers to roses, or carnations, or…any of those.”
“That’s a grand idea!” Effrem slapped his palm down on the table for emphasis. “Wildflowers it is, and they won’t cost any money, either. Now: what color would you suggest?”
“Color?”
“Color,” Effrem said. “Blue, yellow, red…what color might she like?”
Matthew considered that in his years of knowing Effrem this was the strangest conversation they had ever shared. Still, one could tell from Effrem’s expression—his shining excitement, as it were—that for some reason Berry Grigsby had impressed him and come to have a meaning for him. As outlandish as that was. Those two together! A couple! Dancing at a Young Lions Ball! And maybe more than dancing, given time and the curve of Cupid’s bow.
“Any ideas?” Effrem urged.
“Yes,” Matthew said after a moment’s reflection. He stared at the chessboard, at the pieces that had trapped his king, but he was seeing fifty feet of rotten pier and the sun shining down upon a green pasture across the river in Breuckelen. “Have you ever looked into a blacksmith’s forge?”
“I have. Once I had a sty on my right eye, and you know the heat is good for bursting them. If you stare into the forge long around, you feel the sty…” He stopped. “What’s a blacksmith’s forge have to do with wildflowers?”
“Those are the colors,” Matthew said. “The heart of the earth.”
“The what?” Effrem’s brows came together. “I think you may have had one cider too many.”
A slim brown box about ten inches long and wrapped with white ribbon was suddenly placed on the table in front of Matthew.
fifty-one
STARTLED, MATTHEW LOOKED UP into a craggy face with a formidable nose, deep-set eyes dark as tarpits, and the left charcoal-gray eyebrow sliced by a jagged scar.
“Good evening, Mr. Greathouse,” said Effrem. “Would you care to join us?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Owles. I’m just passing through. As I know your haunts by now, Matthew, I figured I’d find you”—he gave the chessboard a disdainful glance—“doing whatever it is you do in here. I wanted to bring that to you.” He nodded toward the box.
Matthew picked it up and shook it, making something shift within. “What is it?”
“A gift from Mrs. Herrald. She bought it for you before she left. Asked me to hold on to it until that situation with the lady was over. Mrs. Swanscott, I mean. I suppose I wanted to wait until I saw how you did on your second problem.”
Matthew nodded. He had no idea what was in the box, but as for Matthew’s second problem, he’d just solved the mystery of the Eternal Maidens Club and their coconut pies. It seemed that the Eternal Maidens had put their money together to buy a very expensive “pharaoh’s nut,” a coconut, and the best cook of the club—Granny Farkason—had baked two pies from it. The pies had been put on a windowsill to cool and lo and behold they vanished. A neighbor known to eat her weight in biscuits was accused. Matthew had traced crumbs and clues to a travelling troubadour who had made camp in the shadow of the windmill on Wind Mill Lane and whose trained monkey, unbeknownst to him, had learned to slip his chain and go galavanting about town while his owner slept. The monkey had already disposed of one of the purloined items and had hidden an uneaten portion of the second in a hollow log. A gratis performance for the Maidens was arranged, including a great deal of flirting from the handsome troubadour that made several of the elderly maidens rethink their obligations to the club, and things ended as happily as possible when money, a monkey, and two coconut pies are involved.
Not much of a problem, but it beat what Greathouse was working on: a more mundane thing in which he was tasked to follow the wife of a wealthy shipyard owner who suspected a young lover in the shadows. But it was work and money, and Greathouse told Matthew that as the word got out about the agency the solving of problems would become more numerous and hopefully more interesting.
“May I open this?” Matthew asked.
“You might, but I think Mrs. Herrald intended you to open it in private.”
“I see.” He didn’t, but it was the polite thing to say.
“There you go,” Greathouse said with a scowl. “Saying the polite thing.”
“I’ll open this when I get home, then.”
“And I’d suggest a good night’s sleep.” He glanced around the Trot, which was definitely too tame for his wild streak. “Regardless of whatever enjoyment you get out of this tomb.” He started out, stopped, and came back to their table. “Oh…Matthew. I don’t give compliments lightly, but I might wish to say you did the agency very proud in that business with Mrs. Swanscott. I still think it was a headstrong risk, but—hey—you showed me up.”
“It was not my intention to show you up.”
“As you please. I might wish also to say that the business with the Masker and Simon Chapel was recounted to its full extent in the letter I’ve just sent off to Katherine, and I can tell you she will discuss the matter with her associates and the legal officials both in England and in Europe forthwith. Your name shall gain a boatload of fame.” He grinned. “How do you like my formal language? You have to know that junk when you’re writing a letter.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”
“I don’t think so, either. That’s why from now on I’ll leave all the letter-writing up to you. Unless we feel the need to hire a clerk, which presently we don’t.” Greathouse paused but did not remove h
imself, and Matthew knew more was coming. “There’s a good and a bad to your name being known,” he said, more seriously. “If you haven’t already come to the attention of a certain person, you will.”
“I’ve thought of that possibility.”
“Just so you’re aware.”
“I plan to be,” Matthew answered. “Aware.”
“Good. Oh…we’re going to start training in hand-to-hand combat soon. End of the week, probably.”
“All right.” The brightness of his interest was not exactly solar. He’d certainly needed to know hand-to-hand combat, battling that monkey there in the high grass. Then again, he thought of a pair of wine-red curtains in a goldfish pond. “The sooner the better.”
“You might want to stop by the apothecary and get some liniment,” Greathouse suggested. “For sore muscles and such. And while you’re at it…get enough for me, too. Goodnight, gentlemen,” he said, and then to Matthew from across the Trot, “Don’t let that candle burn too late, moon—” He stopped himself short. “Mr. Corbett.”
Then he was out the door and gone.
Matthew picked up the mysterious box and got to his feet. He promised Effrem that when the time was right he would put in a good word for him with Berry, and then with a last hard look at that triangular king-trap he set off for home.
It was a beautiful night. A million stars were showing and a cool breeze that promised autumn blew from the sea. Fiddle music and laughter could be heard from another nearby tavern, and many other citizens were out on their way to somewhere. As Matthew walked east along Crown Street and crossed the intersection of Smith, he saw to his right the green glow of a constable’s lantern moving south, and a second green lamp coming north. All along Smith Street, on each corner, stood a wooden post with a lantern attached. The project of putting up lamp-posts on all street corners in town was not yet completed, but every small candle helped to illuminate the larger dark.
In another moment he looked up at a sign on the left-hand side of the street and saw there the newly painted announcement Crown Street Coffee Shoppe. The shop was dark, but Robert Deverick hoped to have it open within the month and serving customers until the late hours. He had defied his mother, which must have taken the courage of Perseus, in making his decision to remain in New York. As Matthew understood, Robert had decided his education must be good for something, so he’d elected to go into the coffee-importing business as a silent partner with a young man, newly arrived from London, who had some fanciful ideas about…of all things…the use of flavored cream in coffee. Matthew wished Robert well and hoped to sometime partake of what would certainly be a novel beverage.
Matthew continued toward the harbor. As he turned right en route to his home, he saw by the light from the lamp on Crown Street’s corner that approaching him with a brisk stride was none other than the tall figure of Polly Blossom. She wore a full-skirted gown, puffed by petticoats, a feathered hat and white gloves with rings on the fingers. Her face was lowered, her broad shoulders slightly stooped as if in contemplation of her role in the salvation of a reverend.
Matthew neared her and said, “Good evening, madam,” with a quick nod as he passed, and too late he saw the curls of the long white wig and the horsey face beneath it.
“Good evening, sir,” replied Lord Cornbury, as the sharp clack-clack of high French heels on solid English stones took New York’s governor away on his nightly constitutional.
It was all Matthew could do not to say Nice shoes but he did manage to resist.
With a few more steps he paused along the harbor street, drew in a long draught of night air, and looked at the houses, the shops, the taverns, and the sparkling lamplights before him.
He had realized that the real Queen of Bedlam was a town on an island between two rivers.
In this town of soon to be more than five thousand persons there was a governor who wore a dress, a reverend who loved a prostitute, a printmaster who could crack walnuts on his forehead, a high constable who had killed a boy, a magistrate who was once a tennis champion, a laundress who collected secrets, and a coroner who collected bones. There was a barber who owned a squirrel named Sassafras, a tailor who could identify a dead man from a suit’s watch pocket, and a black giantess who would put aside her gittern just long enough to kill you.
If a town, like a ship, could be given feminine attributes, then this Queen of Bedlam sat regal on her throne and kept her secrets in a golden cup. This Queen of Bedlam might smile at tears, or weep at laughter. This Queen of Bedlam saw all the swirl of humanity, all its joys and tragedies, its wisdom and madness. This Queen of Bedlam threw dice, and drank hearty, and sometimes played rough.
But here she was, in her gown of night with the lamps ashine like yellow diamonds. Here she was, silent in her thoughts and loud in her desires.
Here she was, on the new world’s edge.
Matthew walked on.
His house was now a home. The dairyhouse did still have a dirt floor, true, but a very nice dark red rug covered most of it. There was a small writing desk, a shelf of a few books with room for more, his comfortable bed, and a fine though much-battered brown leather chair Grigsby had procured for him. On the walls were pegs to hang his clothes, and below an oval mirror a wash-stand to hold his water basin and grooming items. Other than that, there wasn’t much room for a mouse to chase its tail, but thankfully there were no rodents nor…dread the thought…roaches.
But of course there was the new window.
When the shutters were open as now, Matthew could look out through the glass panes and see the harbor and a slice of moonlit river, as well as a piece of Breuckelen green by day. Grigsby was giving the brickmason, carpenter, and glazier free mentions in the Earwig, and Matthew had insisted on shouldering some of the cost with a portion of his first salary earned from solving the Swanscott problem.
It wasn’t exactly a mansion, but it was his home. For now, at least. He was too busy to go house-hunting, and really he couldn’t afford anything else. The window to the world made all the difference. The next step was the addition of a fireplace, if just one suited for a gnome, as a comfortable summerhouse did not necessarily make an inviting winterhouse.
Matthew had upon entering already touched a match to the two candles on the wash-stand, next to the door. Now he lit a second match and touched the candle on his writing desk and the one that sat on the windowsill, for he’d noted the candle burning in the kitchen window beyond.
He took off his coat, hung it on a peg, loosened his cravat, and sat down in his leather chair next to the window. He had removed the white ribbon and was about to open the gift from Mrs. Herrald when there came a knock to the door.
“One moment!” It took him three seconds to get there. Matthew put aside the box, opened the door, and stood face-to-face with Berry.
She carried a lantern and wore a loose-fitting green gown that said she’d been getting ready for bed. Copper highlights in her brushed red tresses caught the light, her face was scrubbed and fresh, her bright blue eyes sparkling. The scrapes, bruises, and cuts—save for two deeper than the others under a plaster on her forehead—had faded, just as his had, under the benevolent care of time. The children at the Garden Street school, where she’d begun teaching as an aide to Headmaster Brown at the first of September, had eagerly wanted to know what kind of tree she’d fallen out of.
She hadn’t spoken to Matthew for a week after the incident. Then, only a few words the second week. But Matthew understood that a girl stumbling around the woods for five hours with horse muck on her face might hold something of a grudge for the person who got her so mucked up, though in truth she’d washed the manure off in a pond a mile or so from Chapel’s gate. The Dutch-speaking farmer Van Hullig had certainly learned the meaning of the word Help.
“Hello,” Matthew said brightly.
“’lo,” she answered. “I saw your candle.” She lifted her other hand to give him a pitcher.
“Thank you.” He accepted it.
Matthew had taken to getting a pitcher of water from the nearest well at night, and sometimes Berry had already drawn it and had it ready as she did tonight.
“We missed you at dinner.”
“Ah. Well, a friend of mine. Effrem Owles. You know Effrem, don’t you?”
“He was the one who stepped—”
“—on the cat, yes. Unfortunate incident. He asked me to dinner. I went directly from the office.”
“The office. That sounds so official.”
“It should. You know. Office. Official. Anyway, we wound up playing chess and…you know how time gets away when you’re drawing. That’s how it is.”
“I see.”
“Yes.” Matthew nodded, not knowing quite where to let his eyes rest.
Berry nodded also. Then she said, “A very lovely night.” A slight frown passed over her face. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“I just thought you looked—”
“—all right, perfectly—”
“—a little troubled about—”
“—all right.”
“—something,” she said. “Are you?”
“Me? Troubled about something? No. Absolutely not. As you say, it’s a very lovely night.”
“Well,” she said.
“That’s where this came from,” he said, holding up the pitcher and giving a grin that he knew must be the stupidest expression to ever slide across the face of a human being.
“Matthew!” She cuffed him on the shoulder. Not the wounded one, because she remembered.
“Listen,” they both said together.
“Go ahead,” Matthew offered.
“No, you.”
“The lady should go first.”
“All right, then.” Berry set her chin; something was coming. “As you have agreed to be my…shall I say…guardian and have so far done a…fair job of it, I’d like to ask you a question.” She paused and Matthew waited. She chewed on her lower lip and then she looked him square in the eyes and said, “There’s going to be a social a week from Friday. I was wondering, just thinking really, if you might like to go. As my guardian, I mean.”