The Gilded Hour

  “Cap?”

  She laughed. “It was his idea to wait until she had finished with one, and then he’d snap up the castoff before it could be burned. We read to each other in a corner somewhere about people who had been robbed on the street, corners where a fight broke out.

  “Eventually we got up the courage and when we came across something that happened anywhere near us, we went to investigate. It didn’t take long to notice that the police spent a lot of time just a few blocks away.”

  “French Town,” Jack supplied, and she nodded.

  “We didn’t know the neighborhood had a name. We knew the cafés and the bakery and the fact that everyone speaks French—Sophie was our ambassador when we went exploring there. But it wasn’t until we started studying the Gazette that we heard about the Taverne Alsacienne being raided and the disorderly houses.”

  The memory made her laugh.

  “Tell me you didn’t stop by the Alsacienne to sample their absinthe,” Jack said.

  “No, I was thinking about a terrific argument we had about a raid on a disorderly house on Greene Street. We didn’t know what a disorderly house was at first, and Sophie got into a laughing fit imagining housekeepers being arrested because of dust bunnies under their beds. Cap did know what a disorderly house was, but he wouldn’t tell us. So we went to Aunt Quinlan.”

  “She told you?” Jack looked both surprised and unsettled at this idea.

  “Aunt Quinlan always answered our questions, no matter how odd or difficult.” Or painful, Anna thought. “As I remember, it wasn’t a long conversation. She didn’t condone or condemn, but she talked about the way poor women live. I thought I understood what she was saying, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, really, at that age. But I do now.”

  Jack made a low humming sound as if he were thinking this through, and then he pulled her closer.

  “I’m wondering what made you think of dust bunnies and the Police Gazette just now.”

  Anna felt herself flush with irritation, at herself and Jack both. He had figured out what she was thinking before she realized it herself, and she felt the sting of that. This was what came of raising the subject of sex, she told herself.

  Her rational mind knew that a healthy man of thirty-five did not live like a monk, and further, that she had no right to judge him on that basis. But the idea of Jack Mezzanotte visiting prostitutes sat badly with her, and she couldn’t pretend otherwise. And so she asked.

  “Do you have allegiances I should know about?”

  He was trying to look serious, and really, Anna thought, he could be insufferable at times. Standing in a pool of light from a lamppost, a curl of dark hair falling over his brow, he grinned at her and then, leaning down, kissed her forehead.

  She batted at him. “What was that for?”

  Jack caught her hand and pressed it to his chest, holding it there and pulling her in. Then he kissed her properly, the kind of kiss she had been expecting on the bridge, the kind of kiss that made everything else go away. Slow and soft and deep, his tongue stroked hers. She made a noise of surrender.

  “We’ll get arrested,” she said against his mouth.

  “Not a chance.”

  She cursed the lamplight but went to him with an enthusiasm she couldn’t begin to hide. When his hand began to trace the curve of her hip, she tried again.

  “We’ll be charged with indecent behavior.”

  That made him laugh. “I’ll show you what counts as indecent behavior—”

  This time she managed to pull herself away and they stood a few feet apart, both breathing as though they had run a mile uphill.

  She said, “Are you going to answer my question?”

  Jack rubbed a hand over his face like a man trying to rouse himself out of sleep. “About my allegiances? I don’t have any.”

  She raised a brow, crossed her arms. Waited.

  “At the moment.” He was trying not to smile, but the corner of his mouth jerked. “My last . . . allegiance ended at the new year.”

  “Because?”

  “She was a widow; she moved away to keep house for her widowed brother-in-law in St. Louis, with the intention of marrying him. We separated on good terms. Satisfied?”

  “Not really. That seems insufficient for a man of your age and vitality.”

  “I play handball,” he said. “That settles things down for a while.”

  Handball was played all over the city, a hard game involving nothing more than the ball itself and walls. Watching teenage boys playing handball when she herself was a teenager had been unsettling in ways she didn’t understand at the time. Now the idea of Jack playing handball, sweat-soaked, his muscles working, made her swallow.

  He mistook her silence for something else. Jack put his hands on her face and lifted it into the lamplight. “I don’t frequent disorderly houses. Even if I were tempted, the possibility of syphilis would stop me.”

  She put her forehead to his shoulder and nodded. “That’s a relief.”

  After a long moment he said, “What are you thinking?”

  “About you playing handball.”

  That made him laugh. “When I get back from Chicago you can come watch.”

  “I’ll miss you. You’ll be too busy to miss anybody, I’d guess.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  From deeper in the park came the sound of a woman’s laugh, high-pitched and less than sober. It roused them both out of their thoughts.

  “So tomorrow we’ll go to the Foundling, and then while I’m away you’ll figure out what you want.” He pressed his thumb to her mouth before she could say anything. “I already know what I want, Savard. I’m just waiting for you to catch up.”

  15

  THE ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCEMENT in Sunday morning’s paper took up a full third of the Society News column, ten copies of which were on the breakfast table, arranged by Mrs. Lee before anyone had gotten out of bed. Breakfast itself was delayed for a half hour while each of them studied what Cap had written. Lia sat on Margaret’s lap, and Rosa sat between Anna and Sophie, her concentration drifting away, her face creased with worry. If Margaret was right about nothing else, Anna knew, it was important that the girls had no doubt about their place in the household.

  Aunt Quinlan and Margaret agreed that the whole piece was well done. Margaret was more settled this morning, a fact that followed, Anna believed, from the invitation that had arrived by messenger at nine o’clock exactly. The family was invited to take dinner and spend the afternoon and evening on Park Place to celebrate the engagement.

  Anna did not doubt for a moment that Cap had anticipated Margaret’s objections, and that this was his countermeasure.

  Margaret was going over the announcement again. “The wording is perfect,” she admitted. “But then I’d expect nothing less from a lawyer of Cap’s standing.”

  Peter Belmont Verhoeven, Esq., son of the deceased Anton Verhoeven and Clarinda Belmont Verhoeven, is pleased to announce his engagement to be married to Dr. Sophie Élodie Savard, a graduate of the Woman’s Medical School of the New York Infirmary for Women and Children and a native of New Orleans. The wedding will take place in the later part of May. Because Mr. Verhoeven has been in ill health, he and his affianced request that no parties or receptions be planned or proposed.

  “This won’t keep people from calling,” Aunt Quinlan said. “This afternoon there will be a steady river of people to present their cards. But we won’t be here to be bothered. Very clever of Cap to arrange things this way.”

  “He is entirely too clever,” Sophie agreed with a grim smile.

  “Some of his old spirit is resurfacing,” Anna observed.

  Sophie said, “Oh, yes. The dry humor he uses to such devastating effect is already showing itself. I think he will have more than one surprise waiting for us this afternoon, but I have an appointment
at the New Amsterdam at eleven that I can’t miss.”

  It was decided that Sophie would meet with the younger Sam Reason as arranged and join them at Cap’s at noon, while Anna would stay for dinner and then leave straightaway for her appointment at the Foundling with Jack Mezzanotte. As soon as the words were said Anna wished she had not spoken at all, because Rosa was suddenly brimming with tension.

  She looked at Anna with a question written so plainly on her face, it was impossible to pretend not to see it.

  “We hope for the best,” she told Rosa. “But even if there’s no word at the Foundling, we are far from exhausting all possibilities.”

  Margaret was frowning at her; Anna was quite aware of that without looking up. Lia had taken note of the change in the mood around the table, and she climbed down from Margaret’s lap to stand beside her sister.

  Aunt Quinlan said, “Come girls, come to me. We have some things to talk about before you get ready for the party. I need to know if you are willing to help me with the wedding preparations. And there’s the matter of wedding cake to discuss.”

  • • •

  AT TEN SOPHIE knocked on Sister Xavier’s door and was summoned in with a gruff “Ave.”

  The charge nurse warned her that the older nun was recovering quickly both physically and mentally. The return of her taciturn disposition was a solid indication of improvement.

  Sister Xavier sat propped up in bed surrounded by newspapers, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. With her full cheeks flushed red and the white cap tied so firmly under her chin, she reminded Sophie of Old Mother Hubbard. Then Xavier made a sound much like the honk of an angry goose and the image of the kindly grandmother was gone.

  She caught sight of Sophie with a stethoscope around her neck and her expression shifted to confusion.

  “I’m Dr. Sophie Savard, looking after Anna Savard’s patients today. May I examine you, Sister?”

  The nun flushed and fumbled her newspaper in a way Sophie thought must be out of character. From all reports, this was not a shy or easily intimidated woman.

  “You’re the cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s as pale as milk,” Sister Xavier said, as if this were news to Sophie. “And you’re colored.”

  Sophie didn’t often explain, but there was something disarming about the unabashed way in which the obvious had been laid out.

  “Yes,” she said. “My grandmother and Anna’s mother were half sisters. They had the same father but different mothers. Technically I believe we are half cousins. Would you rather I didn’t examine you?”

  The heavy jaw worked for a moment. “I’m not sure.”

  Sophie sat beside the bed. “You don’t appear to have a fever, which means that postsurgical infection is unlikely. Any pain?”

  “A twinge now and then, when I lift my arm. Nothing really.”

  She might be lying, as most patients lied when they wanted something—or did not want something—specific from a doctor. But Sophie couldn’t force Sister Xavier’s confidence, and it would be a waste of time to try. “As there’s no sign of a fever, it can wait until the other Dr. Savard sees you tomorrow, if you would be more comfortable.”

  There was a drawn-out moment while Sister Xavier struggled with her scruples. Finally she said, “You really are a doctor?”

  “Fully trained and qualified,” Sophie assured her. “If you’re wondering about your tumor, I can tell you that it looked to be benign. Not malignant, though sometimes it is hard to know for sure. I would say that it is unlikely to reoccur.”

  “Then why do I sit here?”

  “Until the incision is fully closed, infection is still a possibility. Well.” She stood, and then sat again because Sister Xavier was pointing at the chair. Simply pointing. As if she were a student who had dared to rise without permission.

  “Sister Mary Augustin is off somewhere,” she said. “I think you should spend at least a little while here in compensation.” She thrust a pile of newspaper at Sophie. “Read to me. My eyes can’t cope with the fine print anymore, even with spectacles.”

  Sophie took the paper. “What kind of news do you want to hear?”

  A hand rose and fell. “Anything,” she said.

  “Here’s a story about the mayor.”

  “Anything but the mayor.”

  Sophie’s suggestions were dismissed one by one until she gave up. “You don’t want to hear me reading the paper,” she said.

  “I do,” Sister Xavier insisted. “Just find something interesting.”

  Sophie said a small, quiet word of thanks that the sister wasn’t interested in the society column. She did want to hear a story about a fight between Irish and Italians that had sent four men to the hospital. She listened closely to stories about a robbery, a murder on a train, and a police raid on an opium den.

  A knock at the door brought Sophie’s reading to a close.

  “That will be my appointment. If I have time I’ll come back later to read this story about a knifing on the White Line dock. Or this one, about the body of an unidentified woman in Battery Park.”

  “Thank you,” Sister Xavier said with a sniff. “I would like that.”

  • • •

  SOPHIE WAS STILL laughing a little to herself when she got to her office and found the younger Sam Reason sitting on a chair in the hall. He stood when he saw her. A tall man, as straight as a rifle and lean, wiry in the way of men who worked hard and were abstemious in their habits. He was no more than thirty, and he bore no resemblance to his grandparents.

  As Sophie remembered New Orleans, most people of color were some shade of brown, from her own pale caramel to the dark brown of rich earth, and New York was much the same. But Sam Reason was far darker, a deep black that stood out all the more for the crisp white of his shirt collar. She wondered if he might be adopted and then put the idea aside as irrelevant and more important, none of her business.

  He had a good if somewhat somber smile, and he shook her hand without hesitation, firmly, as her father had taught her was proper. His voice was much like his skin color: very deep and rich in tone. There was a rasp that might mean nothing more than a stubborn cold but sounded to Sophie like an older injury to his vocal cords.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” He followed her into the office and took the chair she indicated, with his hat in his lap and the heels of his hands on his knees. “I don’t mean to interrupt your work.”

  “I’m not even on duty,” Sophie told him. “And your time is as important as mine.” She brought the desk chair out so that she could sit across from him without a barrier. “I’m just sorry to meet you under these circumstances. My sincere condolences on your grandfather’s death. I didn’t know him well, but I liked him very much.”

  “The feeling was mutual, Dr. Savard.”

  “Please, call me Sophie.”

  “It’s an honor. Thank you. I’m Sam.”

  Now that she had a chance to study him more closely Sophie noted that the beds of his fingernails were ink stained, and that reminded her why he had come.

  “I expect you heard the basics about the trouble that Dr. Garrison was in.”

  “From my grandfather, yes. That’s all settled now?”

  “Yes and no,” Sophie said. She told him a little about Comstock and his crusade, and the most recent attempt to send Dr. Garrison to the penitentiary. “And I doubt he’s given up. He’ll do his best to entrap her, and that’s where your business comes in. The pamphlets Comstock brought into the courtroom as evidence were your grandfather’s work. The only reason he wasn’t arrested was that he didn’t put his name or the company name on the materials he printed for us.”

  She paused, and he nodded for her to go on.

  “My first question for you is, whether you would prefer us to find a different printer.”


  He studied his hands for a moment longer. “There’s no reason you should know this, but I just recently took over the business when I moved back home from Savannah. I’m not even sure what my grandfather was printing for you.”

  Sophie went to her desk, unlocked a drawer, and took out a slim stack of pamphlets. “Personal Hygiene,” “The Well-Considered Family,” “A Woman’s Health,” “The Human Reproductive Cycle.”

  When he had looked over them briefly he said, “Dr. Garrison wrote these?”

  “In part. A number of different physicians have had a hand in putting them together, including me. What you need to understand is that if you continue printing these pamphlets, you will place yourself in harm’s way.” She wondered if she would have to be more explicit.

  He put the pamphlets on her desk. “According to the account books, Dr. Garrison is an excellent customer. My grandfather had no complaints about her or the work she brought to him. I think we can continue on in the same way. Do I have to introduce myself to her?”

  “No,” Sophie said. “Given the close attention Comstock is paying to her, the committee has decided to have her step back for the present. I had planned on taking over for her, but I’ve had a change in circumstance quite suddenly and will be away for as much”—her voice roughened—“as a year.”

  She could see that he was curious, but Sophie didn’t want to open the discussion of where she would be, or with whom. She took a deep breath and continued. “Early next week we’ll have decided who will take over the business end of things, and I will send you word if you decide you want to continue. But I think it’s important you understand the seriousness of the situation before you decide.”

  He inclined his head in what might have been reluctant agreement.

  “Comstock has made an art out of entrapment by mail,” Sophie began. “He writes a letter to a doctor and pretends to be a young woman who has gotten in trouble without the benefit of marriage, pleading for help.”

  Sam Reason was frowning. “He signs someone else’s name?”