Master smiled. The Emancipation Proclamation. Lincoln’s masterstroke. The abolitionists loved it, of course—just as Lincoln intended that they should. He’d announced it late last year, repeated it this spring. Told all the world that the slaves of the South would be freed.
Or had he?
“Have you studied, my dear, what our president actually said?” Frank inquired. “He threatens to emancipate the slaves in any state remaining in rebellion. It’s a negotiating ploy. He’s telling the Confederates: ‘Quit now, because if you delay, I’ll set free all your slaves.’ Yet his Proclamation specifically exempts every slave county that has already fallen to the Union. God knows how many thousand slaves are now under Lincoln’s control. But of those, he’s not freeing a single one. Not one.” He gazed at her in triumph. “So much for the abolitionists’ hero.”
“Wait until the war is over,” she countered. “Then you’ll see.”
“Perhaps.”
“You only hate him because he has morals.”
Frank shrugged. “Morals? What morals? He’s got men held without trial in Fort Lafayette. So he evidently cares nothing for habeas corpus. He’s thrown men in jail for writing against him. Seems our lawyer president has never heard of the Zenger trial, either. I’ll tell you what your friend Lincoln is. He’s a cynical tyrant.”
“Copperhead!”
A poisonous snake. It was Lincoln’s term, for those who questioned the war effort.
“If you mean that I think this war might have been avoided,” he said in a voice that was dangerously quiet, “and that I’d like to see a peace negotiated, you are absolutely right. And I’m not alone. You think that makes me evil? Think it.” He paused before suddenly shouting: “But at least I’m not trying to send our son to a pointless death. And I guess you are.” He turned on his heel.
“That is unfair,” she cried.
“I’m going to the counting house,” he roared back. “Don’t wait up.”
And moments later, he was striding out of Gramercy Park. Only when he was halfway down Irving Place did he slow his pace and allow himself half a smile.
It had gone just as he planned.
Mary gazed out at the ocean. The breeze made a faint, rasping whisper on the tufts of seagrass behind her, and played with her hair. The low rolls of surf broke with a light hiss, as they sent their spume to lick the sand.
Miles away to the west, they could see the low rise of Staten Island’s southern shore. Ahead, between the two outer arms of the Lower Bay, lay the vastness of the Atlantic Ocean.
“Let’s go to the Point,” said Gretchen.
It was Saturday morning. Most of the weekend visitors had yet to arrive, and there were only a few people on the long expanse of beach. Since the 1820s, when a shell road had been made across the creek between Coney Island and the mainland, people had been making Sunday excursions to its long dunes and ocean beaches. But it was still a peaceful place.
In the middle of Coney Island, a hamlet of small clapboard hotels and inns catered to the respectable families who came to enjoy a week or two of ocean air and quiet. A few celebrities, like Herman Melville, Jenny Lind and Sam Houston, had come to visit, but otherwise the fashionable world had not taken it up and so the place retained its discreet charm. Once people did discover Coney Island, they usually returned. The half-dozen families staying in the inn that Gretchen and Mary occupied came there every year.
They’d eaten a hearty breakfast of eggs, pancakes and sausages out on the broad porch that ran along the front of the inn, before they set out for a walk.
The island’s western point was the only place on Coney Island where vulgarity raised its head. Some years back, a pair of sharp-eyed men had come out and decided to open a small pleasure pavilion there, so that when people came off the ferry, they could find refreshments and amusements. By midsummer, nowadays, a collection of card sharps, tricksters and other undesirables had made the place their own. The people at the hotel pretended it wasn’t there—and indeed, you could neither see nor hear it from the hamlet. But Gretchen and Mary were quite content to spend half an hour watching the men who sold candy or offered the three-card trick.
Next, they walked round the landward side of the island until they came to the shell road.
If you looked from Manhattan across the East River nowadays, you’d conclude that Brooklyn was a busy place. There were the shipyards on the waterfront, the warehouses and factories along the shore, and the residential city that had grown up on Brooklyn Heights. When the British redcoats had camped there in 1776, Brooklyn had less than two thousand inhabitants. Now there were more than a hundred thousand. Why, there was even talk of laying out a fine public space, to be called Prospect Park, up on the high ground. But once you got past the Heights, you came down to a great sweep of open countryside, extending half a dozen miles or more, and dotted with small towns and Dutch hamlets that had hardly changed since the eighteenth century.
As she looked back along the shell road, therefore, across the open breezy tracts of sand dune, marsh and farmland toward the invisible city, Mary couldn’t help remarking, with a smile: “We might be in another world.”
After that, they crossed again to the ocean side and walked eastward along the great stretches of Brighton Beach, drinking in the sea air, for upward of an hour. By the time they returned to the inn, it was past noon, and they were quite hungry.
“Don’t eat too much now,” said Gretchen, “or you’ll fall asleep.”
“I don’t care if I do,” said Mary. And she laughed, and helped herself to a second slice of apple pie, and made Gretchen take another slice too. There were cane chairs on the grass in front of the inn, so they sat in those for a while. The breeze had dropped, and they covered their faces with straw hats because of the hot sun.
And some time passed before Gretchen said to Mary, “I have another surprise for you,” and Mary asked, “What’s that?” and Gretchen said, “Come upstairs, and I’ll show you.”
Their bedroom was charming. It had two beds with pink covers, and a window that looked toward the sea. The walls were painted white, but there was a pretty picture of flowers hanging in a gold-painted frame above each bed, and a small picture of somebody’s ancestor in a blue coat and a tall black hat over the fire, and a striking French clock on the mantel, and a nice rug on the floor. It was very genteel—so Mary had guessed at once that, although Gretchen said they were sharing the cost of the room equally, Gretchen’s husband must really be paying the lion’s share.
Gretchen had opened her suitcase. Now she took out two packages wrapped in paper, and handed one of them to Mary. “I’ve got mine. This one’s yours.” She smiled. “Aren’t you going to look at it?”
As she unwrapped, Mary could see this was clothing of some kind. She took it out.
“I don’t know what it is,” she said.
Gretchen laughed. “It’s a bathing dress, Mary.”
“But what would I be doing with that?”
“You’ll be putting it on, and bathing in the sea,” said Gretchen, as she held up her own in triumph. “Look: we match.”
Each bathing dress was in two parts. The lower half consisted of a pair of pantaloons, tied round the calf with ribbons. Over these fell a long-sleeved dress that came down to the knees. Everything was made of wool, to keep the body warm. Gretchen was obviously proud of her choice. The pantaloons had frilly bottoms, and the dresses lacy fringes. Hers was a pale and Mary’s a darker blue, so that they matched like sisters.
As they left the inn and walked down the path to the beach, Mary was still doubtful. They were both wearing their beach dresses, as well as stockings and shoes to protect against the unseen dangers of the sea floor. They carried towels, and wore their straw hats against the sun.
Theodore Keller stepped off the ferry. He was dressed in a loose linen jacket and was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. In one hand he carried a small leather traveling case. After asking directions, he began to walk in the directio
n of the inn. He was looking cheerful. It was years since he’d been to Coney Island.
He’d only decided to make the journey when he woke up that morning. It was done entirely on a whim—the day was so fine, the ferry seemed to call him out of the city. And of course, there was the pleasant prospect of spending time with his sister. And Mary O’Donnell.
Why did men pursue women? Theodore supposed there must be many reasons. Lust, temptation, the desire for the sins of the flesh, of course, were strong. He possessed as much lust as any other young fellow, and was certainly no stranger to the flesh—indeed, he was rather sensual—but his constant pursuit of women was driven, above all, by curiosity. Women interested him. When Theodore met women he liked, he did not talk about himself, as some men do, but questioned them. He wanted to know about their lives, their opinions, their feelings. They found it flattering. He was interested in all sorts of women, from the fashionable ladies who came to his studio, to the poor servant girls he met in the street. He made no distinctions. He appreciated them as individuals. And once his interest began, he did not stop. He wanted to discover all their secrets, and possess them, every one.
Not that his seductions were without any calculation. His photographic studio provided wonderful opportunities. Once a fashionable lady was standing or sitting in position, his blue eyes would stare at them intently for a few moments, before he adjusted the position of a light and stared at them again. Then he might ask them to look this way or that, and give a little grunt of appreciation, as if he’d just made an interesting discovery. It was an unusual woman who did not become intrigued and ask him what he’d seen.
His technique was always the same. If the woman was not a particular beauty, he would say something like: “You have a very beautiful profile. Did you know?” If, on the other hand, it was clear to him that the lady in question was used to being considered handsome, he’d remark, “I’ve no doubt people tell you you’re beautiful,” as if it were not important, “but there’s something,” he’d pause a second as if he were trying to analyze it, “something about the way your eyes settle on objects that I find interesting. You don’t draw or watercolor, do you?” They nearly always did. “Ah,” he’d say, “that’s probably what it is, then. You have an artist’s eye. It’s rare, you know.”
By the time the session was over, they’d usually made an appointment to visit the studio again.
So what was his interest in Mary? He wasn’t sure yet. He’d been quite surprised at the studio when he’d suddenly realized how beautiful she was. As that cascade of dark hair had fallen against the pale skin of her neck, he’d observed that she had a flawless complexion. How come he’d never noticed before? He’d imagined what she might look like unclothed. All kinds of possibilities had occurred to him. He’d been intrigued.
His sister’s friend, the young woman he’d known since he was a boy, turned out to be a Celtic beauty. She always seemed so prim and proper, but looks could be deceptive. What did she really think?
Even if she gave him the chance to discover, there were difficulties. Apart from the usual risks, he wasn’t sure how Gretchen would feel about it. Mary had a brother, too—quite a dangerous fellow, he believed. Theodore had taken his chances with angry husbands before, but all the same, he’d have to be careful.
In any case, there couldn’t be any harm in his spending a pleasant day or two with his sister out on Coney Island. The business with Mary might, or might not, come to anything. He’d just wait and see what happened.
“Lots of people have taken up bathing recently,” said Gretchen.
“Doctors say salt water’s bad for the skin,” Mary objected.
“We won’t go in for long,” Gretchen promised.
There were some bathing huts on wheels by a sand dune, where people could change. They inspected one of them. It didn’t smell very nice, and they were glad they’d left their clothes in the safety of the inn. Looking along the beach, Mary could see about a dozen people, some way off, standing stiffly in the surf, probably just as uncertain about this newfangled enterprise as she was. She took a deep breath. Then, taking Gretchen’s proffered hand, she allowed herself to be led down the beach and into the sea.
The water felt sharp and cold on her ankles. She gave a tiny intake of breath.
“Come on,” said Gretchen. “It won’t bite.”
Mary took a few steps more. The water came up to her knees now. Just then, a little wave rose up, washing past her and covering the lower part of her thighs for several seconds, causing her to give out a little cry. Then she felt the bottom of her bathing dress, suddenly heavy with water, clamp down coldly above her knees, while the legs of her pantaloons clung wetly to her flesh. She gave a shiver.
“Walk with me,” said Gretchen. “It won’t feel cold in a moment.”
“Yes it will,” laughed Mary, but she did as Gretchen said, and pushed her legs through the heavy water, as it enveloped her waist. And soon she realized that Gretchen was right. The water didn’t feel cold, once you got used to it, though she was aware that the bathing dress she was wearing was probably heavy enough to sink her now, if she lost her footing.
She was glad that on her left there was support at hand, if she needed it. From the shallows out into the deep water ran a line of stout posts, spaced about ten feet apart and linked by a thick rope, like a sort of breakwater. Holding onto the rope, bathers could work their way slowly out into the sea without fear of missing their footing or being swept away. Further out, the line of posts ran parallel to the beach, enclosing the bathers in a large pen. Mary didn’t quite see the point of this until, when the water was almost up to her chest, a larger wave came in from the ocean and carried her off her feet. Struggling to keep her head above water, she was surprised to find that the ebb carried her away from the beach, and she realized the barrier was there to prevent her being taken out to sea.
“Take my hand,” said Gretchen, and pulled her back into shallower water. “I said we’d go bathing,” she remarked with a smile, “not that we’d swim.” And glancing along the shoreline, Mary could see that most of the other bathers were standing contentedly about in the shallows, where the water hardly reached their waists.
So that is what she and Gretchen did. It was quite agreeable, feeling the cool of the water on her legs, and the sun on her face, and the salty sea breeze. The only thing she didn’t like was that the wet wool of her bathing dress felt heavy, and scratched her skin a little. Then they sat at the edge of the beach with their legs in the shallows, so that the little waves broke over them, and tiny shells jostled, and the ebbing sand made a funny feeling on her legs each time the wave receded, making her giggle.
And they were sitting like that when, to their great surprise, Theodore appeared.
Mary was so astonished that she gave a little gasp, and blushed.
“What are you doing here?” said Gretchen, which sounded almost unfriendly, though Mary was sure it must have been because Theodore had taken her unawares.
“They told me at the inn that I’d find you on the beach,” said Theodore cheerfully. He took off his wide-brimmed hat. “It was such a beautiful day when I woke up that I thought I’d get out of the city and join you here.”
He glanced at Mary and smiled. Mary was suddenly rather conscious that he was fully dressed while she was sitting there with her legs showing. It made her feel a little awkward, but he seemed quite relaxed. He gazed round at the other bathers on the beach. “Maybe I’ll take a dip later,” he said.
“We’re going back to the inn now,” said Gretchen. So Theodore walked back with them.
When they got to their room, Mary undressed with care. She’d done her best to get rid of the sand outside, and Gretchen had brushed her down, but you couldn’t get rid of all the sand, and she didn’t want to make a mess on the floor. Taking off her pantaloons and stockings slowly, she was able to keep most of the sand inside them, so that she could take them downstairs and hang them on a clothes line, and dust t
hem off when they were dry.
Mary had always been rather modest. Though she had known Gretchen most of her life, she had stood behind her bed when she changed, and slipped her bathing dress on quickly. So she was just wondering how to take it off now, in a modest manner, when she saw Gretchen pull hers down easily and walk, quite naked, across the room to the washstand, where she poured some water from the jug into the big china bowl, and started to wash herself down, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
She had never seen Gretchen without any clothes on. Her friend had a nice body, not plump, but compact. Apart from a couple of little stretch marks, you wouldn’t know she’d had two children. Her yellow hair was still pinned up as she turned to Mary and smiled.
“Just as nature made me,” she remarked. “You don’t mind, do you? It’s how my husband sees me, after all.”
“He does?”
Gretchen laughed. “I know some wives always keep themselves covered—partly anyway. My mother did—she told me.” She shrugged. “My husband can see as much of me as he likes.”
“That was a surprise, Theodore coming,” Mary said.
“Nothing my brother does surprises me,” said Gretchen.
Since Gretchen had taken her bathing dress off, Mary thought she’d better do the same. What would Theodore think, she wondered, if he could see me like this? She washed the remaining sand off herself as quickly as she could, and dressed.
The inn served dinner at five o’clock. It was a family affair, with children present, under their parents’ watchful eyes.
The food was excellent: a cold salad, freshly made bread and a superb fish stew. The innkeeper prided himself on obtaining the best seafood—mussels, crabs, clams, and the many fish to be had in the Long Island Sound—all washed down with a cool white wine. To follow, he offered the first watermelons they’d seen that season, together with jellies and fruit trifle.
Theodore was in a very relaxed mood. At the start of the meal Gretchen asked him: “When’s the last ferry, Theodore? You don’t want to miss it.”