City of Glory (45 page)

New York City,
Chatham Street, 5
P.M.

Eugenie had slept all day. She did not want to wake up now. It was the maid bustling about opening the curtains and pouring buckets of steaming water into a copper bath that forced her to open her eyes. “I must rest. Go away.”

Meg had been caring for Eugenie since the day she was born; first as her wet nurse, then her nanny, and finally her lady’s maid. She was selective about which orders she followed, and she felt no need to mince words. “There’s a stink about you. You need a bath. No telling when one of ’em might come back. You can’t be found like this.”

“A stink? Really? One of whom?”

“The one-eyed pirate, or the other one as pretends to be a gentleman. Ask me, he’s a pirate as well, though he doesn’t look like one. And fucking makes a smell. I always told you so. You gave him what he wanted last night, didn’t you?”

“Not Tintin.” Eugenie allowed herself to be pulled out of the bed.

“I haven’t gone foolish in the head. The other one, Mr. Blakeman. Will you have the rose salts or the lavender? How was he, then? As good at it as poor Mr. Tim, Lord rest his soul, or one o’ them jackrabbit sorts?”

“Lavender. And you’re impertinent. That’s none of your business.”

“Ain’t nothin’ ’bout you ain’t my business. Here, get that nightdress off and get in ’fore the water’s cold. Hah!” she chortled when Eugenie obediently pulled the gown over her head, “left you a souvenir, he did.” Meg pointed to Eugenie’s belly.

She looked down. A series of puckered red marks made a trail from her navel to her groin, losing themselves in the luxuriant brush of her sex. Dear God. He had been extraordinary. “I gave as good as I got.” She climbed into the bath. “Better.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Meg picked up the sponge and rubbed it with the bar of lavender-scented soap Devrey’s sold along with the bath salts. Lovely stuff. Course, they couldn’t really afford such luxuries these days, but all things considered, bath salts were an investment. That’s what Miss Eugenie said and she was right. Holdin’ herself up on a pedestal, that had been an investment too. Not natural for her, but sensible. Only Miss Eugenie was never sensible about such things for very long. Two years this time. A miracle. “You can’t help it, you know. Come by it honestly.”

“Can’t help what?”

“Needin’ a man between your legs.”

“My mother,” Eugenie said with a sigh. It was a conversation they’d had many times. “Her unique legacy.”

“Can’t say as it’s unique. There’s plenty like her, truth be told, but I ain’t been in service with all of ’em. Here, raise your arms.” Meg busied herself with the sponge, scrubbing while she talked, soaping her charge in all the cracks and crevices where evidence of her last night’s encounter might hide. “But unique or not, she was a one, your ma was. Never could get enough. Even when she was fallen pregnant, and Lord knows she was that often enough. Good thing she kept losing ’em one after t’other, else one might o’ popped out as gave the game away. Yellow hair, like the farmer came to deliver eggs, or squinty-eyed, like the fellow did your pa’s accounts. Course, it were a good thing she spread her legs for him. Seein’ as how your pa had no other way to pay him and—Ah, what’s them tears about, missy? You can’t help bein’ like you are. And I think it’s a marvel you sayin’ no to that Blakeman fellow all this time. Course, you had to say yes sooner or later. Ain’t nothin’ to cry about.”

Eugenie knew there to be a great deal to cry about.

If there were any chance at all that she might fall pregnant—even long enough for her belly to swell just a tiny bit, even if it might end over a chamber pot, with her pushing out a thing as was already dead, the way she’d seen her mother do many a time—that might solve everything. But there was no chance. She knew beyond question she was barren. She’d taken two lovers before she married Timothy. Youthful follies, though each time she’d thought herself in the midst of a grand passion, and thank God Meg had been able to protect her from gossip. Not to mention shoving that little bladder of pig’s blood up inside her, so Timothy would believe her a virgin on their wedding night. But even Meg could do nothing about the fact that Eugenie’s flow came regularly every month, whomever she’d been with and however inventive their lovemaking. So she could rest assured there would be no pregnancy this time to get her what she was sure she would not get otherwise.

She had seen it in Gornt’s eyes.

He had kissed her awake just before dawn, then gathered the clothes of her disguise into a sack, wrapped her in a blanket, carried her down the stairs of his countinghouse, and snuggled her on his lap in a closed and curtained carriage—being Gornt Blakeman meant having a choice of carriages—and passed every minute of the journey to her house fondling her, and murmuring that she was enchanting and delicious, and he could not get enough of her. Meaning she was a sweetmeat, not a meal. She wished she were mistaken, but she knew she was not. “Later,” he’d whispered when they came to her front door. “I’ll come tonight. As early as I can. Leave instructions that I’m to be admitted.” Then he’d pulled the blanket over her head, thrown her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes, tucked her bag of belongings under his other arm, and carried her around to the tradesman’s entrance and deposited her in Meg’s waiting arms. You’d take more delicate, more discreet, care of the reputation of a woman you intended to marry.

By acting the wanton she had forfeited the opportunity to be the wife.

There was one card left to play, but it had not been dealt her. Gornt Blakeman was a man intent on founding a dynasty. If she could promise him an heir, wait a few weeks, then tell him his son already quickened in her belly, it might be different. She could lie, of course. But her lie would be found out. Gornt was not Timothy. He would not patiently wait for a miracle to occur. And her life would become a worse hell than it was right now.

Meg had got as far as scrubbing her toes, taking her usual care of each one. The bath was cooling and it was almost time to again face the world. “Scrub every bit of me really hard once more, Meg. Scalp to toes. There must be no stink. And when we’re done, you’re to go and fetch the Widow Tremont.”

“The mantua maker? Now?”

“Immediately.”

The pirate with the eye patch was a better prospect than the one without. At least with Tintin she understood the bargain and got exactly what she expected. No more, but neither any less. The bag of coins was still in the pocket of Timothy’s cutaway when her night’s adventure ended; Eugenie had put it safely away in the same locked drawer that contained the additional documents concerning runaway slaves before she went to sleep. Those letters would bring her yet more money, and there would be more documents and more money in the years to come. Tintin would continue to need her aura of respectability in doing business with the magistrates. Slyly Silas Danforth would be only too happy to forge documents. And there were no end of nigras in Five Points.

The Bowery, 9
P.M.

The tavern was called the Fife and Drum. It was some distance from the Bull’s Head and the cattle pens and slaughtering sheds, and it seemed to have less custom than the others in the area. This evening there were two drinkers besides Blakeman; both wore the leather aprons that marked them as butchers, but neither seemed in the least interested in anything other than the bottom of his tankard.

Blakeman nursed his beer—flat and slightly sour, like everything else in the place—and sat with his back against the wall at the rear of the room. He’d blown out the single candle that burned nearby and was pretty much invisible in the shadows. He had, however, a good view of the door. He saw Maurice Vionne come in, blink a few times to let his eyes adjust to the dimness, and stand hesitant and unsure in the doorway. Blakeman cleared his throat. The place was silent as a tomb, the sound carried, and Vionne looked in his direction. Blakeman raised his hand. Vionne blinked a few more times, then moved to join him.

“Good evening to you, goldsmith.”

“And to you, Mr.—”

Blakeman raised his hand. “We’ve no need for names here.” He pushed a second glass of the inferior beer in the direction of his guest. “I took the liberty of ordering for you. Beer is the only available tipple, I’m afraid. And not the city’s best. But the place offers privacy, as I promised.”

Vionne looked around. “True enough.”

“Caution, goldsmith,” Blakeman said softly. “It is the wiser course. At least for a time.”

“As you say, sir, of course. But I must tell you that I have not yet written—”

Blakeman again cut off the other man’s words with a gesture. “I understand. We agreed on tomorrow for your formal assessment. In that matter it is not my intention to hurry you.”

Vionne trembled. Not about the diamond perhaps, only about his daughter. He knew that he had been summoned to this meeting so far from his home and his customary haunts to talk about Manon. Just not what he meant to say about her or Blakeman’s proposal. “As for that other business…”

“The hand of your daughter in marriage.”

“Yes.”

“Well? The banns, sir. Have you arranged them? It should be quite a simple matter.”

Vionne glanced around. The butchers did not appear to be paying any attention. “Mr. Blakeman, it is most certainly not a matter that can be called simple. My daughter is very much a modern young woman. She is, I must admit, headstrong. I dare not make such a decision for her without you calling—on her, mind you, not me—and asking her yourself if she will have you.” Vionne lifted his beer and drank down half of it in one long swallow. It tasted foul, but his mouth was so dry he didn’t care.

Blakeman waited until the smith had set the tankard back on the table, then leaned forward and spoke very quietly. “In other circumstances that might be possible. As things stand now, it is not. I rely on you to make my case for me, goldsmith. I am quite sure that however—what was your word?—however modern Miss Manon may be, she is also a dutiful daughter. As I told you, sir, it suits me that the wedding take place in a fortnight’s time. See to it.”

Blakeman watched the goldsmith leave. He waited a few moments, then lifted his hand and nodded. One of the butchers got up and followed Vionne into the street. A precaution, nothing more. But if by some outside chance the goldsmith were going somewhere other than straight home, best he knew about it.

So, one bit of this night’s business concluded. Though he did not feel as satisfied with it as he might. Hang the banns, he should have demanded the wedding take place immediately. Otherwise it might be that Joyful Turner…No, not likely. If Turner were going to whisk her away without her father’s permission, he’d have done so by now. He would leave things as they were.

The door opened. “The blessing of
le bon Dieu
on all here. Beer, landlord! And I am to meet a gentleman…Ah, I see him. There in the back. Good evening to you, my friend.” Tintin headed toward Blakeman, passing the tapping bench and picking up his beer as he went by.

“You’ve much in common with the arse of a horse,” Blakeman said, when Tintin straddled a stool across from his own. “As I suspect you’ve been told before.”