City of Light (12 page)

Suddenly a feeling of futility swept over me. “So you see I am doing some good in my life, Francesca. I haven’t wasted all my time since Wellesley.”

She hugged me tightly, in friendship, not passion. “No one ever said you had, Louisa. You’ve transformed the lives of all the girls who’ve been at Macaulay under your care. You should feel proud.”

“I see that man—Rolf was his name—falling over and over when I close my eyes at night. That we were even there to see it feels like a sacrilege; like a violation of his dignity. I wonder how he’d feel, if he knew he’d ‘inspired’ my girls.”

“He probably wouldn’t care a hoot about ‘your girls.’ Why should he? And what you should care about is that maybe you’ve rescued Evelyn Byers from a life of nothing but diamonds and lace. Seeing the accident didn’t miraculously change her. She was changed before—by you. The accident simply gave her an impetus to act.”

She squeezed my shoulders and shook me a bit. “Come on now, snap out of it. Shall I tell you the rest of the drawing room gossip? That’ll get your mind off things. People are wondering,” she said with conspiratorial glee, “whether there’s more than coincidence in the two recent events relating to the power station.”

“Which two events?” I asked, confused.

“Come now, Louisa. Don’t be naive. First the chief engineer drowns, under a sheet of ice, no less, and even after almost a month of work the police still can’t seem to figure out anything to say about it.”

She was right: There’d been no official report yet on Speyer’s death, and I’d wondered what Mr. Rumsey was waiting for. But I would never share that question with Francesca. At my salon, I’d listened carefully for any loose bits of information that might be circulating, but everyone seemed to agree that Speyer’s death was accidental.

“Then a generator casing—that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” I nodded. “You wouldn’t believe some of the descriptions I’ve heard. Anyway, a generator casing falls on an experienced workman—”

“What are you implying?”

“Obviously there’s more than chance at play. Hasn’t that occurred to you?”

Until this moment, a link between Speyer and Rolf had not entered my mind.

“What everyone’s debating is, who is to blame? Is it the handsome parvenu Mr. Sinclair, with his million-dollar endowments to little girls? Is it the God-fearing preservationists? The union militants staging a coup d’état? Or maybe, just maybe, could it be J. P. Morgan’s own representative Frederick Krakauer, stirring up trouble for reasons best known to himself?”

“Accidents take place every day at the power station,” I said, forcing myself to sound dismissive about her speculations. “We just never hear about them.”

“If we never hear about them, how do you know they happen?”

This was absurd. “They’re reported in the local Niagara Falls newspaper.”

“You read the local Niagara Falls newspaper?”

“I’ve been told by someone who does.”

“Who?”

Why was she pushing me on this? “I’ve been told by—” Suddenly I didn’t want her to know about Peter Fronczyk, didn’t want him and Maddie pulled into the round of gossip. “By someone in a position to know. Someone far from the intrigue you are so absurdly implying.”

“Absurd?
Moi?”
She laughed with joy.

There was a light knock. “Sorry—am I early?” A woman stood in the shadows at the open door. Suddenly I realized that the room had become dark; the sunset had passed into night. “The young lady downstairs said to come up.”

How deftly her words—“the young lady downstairs”—pegged the background of our visitor. A woman like Francesca or Margaret would have said “your girl” or, if she had visited before, simply the servant’s name. Only someone who’d grown up without servants would refer to the maid as “the young lady,” as if she were the equal of herself.

“Come in, come in.” Turning on another gas lamp, Francesca went to greet the visitor, taking her hands and bringing her into the light. Only then did I recognize her: Susannah Riley, the Macaulay art teacher. The painter who’d done the watercolors in Tom’s library and who tutored Grace in drawing. So this was the person on whom Francesca had set her sights as my comeuppance: the young woman from Fredonia who’d come to the city only a year and a half ago and to whom I’d given her first professional opportunity by hiring her at Macaulay. How quickly she had insinuated herself into our lives.

“Look who’s here, Louisa,” Francesca was saying. I rose to give my greetings, filled with proper
politesse
even though I wasn’t accustomed to socializing outside school with junior faculty. Furthermore, Susannah’s developing friendship with Francesca made me wish I could disappear.

“Good evening, Miss Riley. Miss Coatsworth and I were reviewing the plans for the addition to the school. You are going to have a wonderful new art studio.”

“Yes, I know,” Susannah said eagerly. “The entire addition is going to be beautiful.” So: Francesca had shown the plans to Susannah before showing them to me. I glanced at my friend, but she was studying Susannah with frank admiration.

Susannah was an odd one to elicit such attention. I knew from observing her classes that when she taught, confidence filled her, and she was precise and blunt with both her criticism and her praise. But outside the art room, she sometimes appeared unsure of herself and vulnerable, like a child finding her way. She was thin and small, probably just five feet tall, and her clothes always seemed too big for her. Tonight, with her regulation shirtwaist she wore a lavender necktie that almost shouted “artistic.” Her boots needed polishing. Her dark hair was pulled into a thick, disarrayed bun at the nape of her neck. Yet seeing her here tonight I had to admit, as much as I hated to, that there was something alluring about her. Her lips were thick, her features sculpted, her eyes big and dark. Her expression was simultaneously childlike and womanly, innocent and knowing. With a shock I realized that the vulnerability I saw in the faculty room at school could easily be an act. The thought of her as Francesca’s physical intimate made me cringe.

“I was sorry, Miss Barrett, to hear about what happened when the girls visited the power station.”

Obviously she was already well within the loop of gossip.

“Yes, it was unfortunate,” I said, too brusquely. Quickly I changed to an alternate topic. “I saw your watercolors at the Sinclair home when I was visiting recently. They were remarkable—and quite realistic, I was surprised to see when I went to the station.”

“Thank you, Miss Barrett.” She gave me a wide-eyed, almost flirtatious look. I’d seen that kind of look before: on the faces of young women attempting to please and flatter wealthy older men. That Susannah was using this type of pseudo-innocent enticement with me was noteworthy: I wondered what she wanted. “I tried to show the beauty of the natural world around the power station, so the buildings wouldn’t overwhelm nature.”

“You found the perfect balance,” I assured her, maintaining the rigors of courtesy.

“Hi-ho, where are you, Frannie?” a man’s voice called from the hall. “Awfully dark up here.” All at once there was a bustling of arrival as the other guests came up the stairs: Dr. Charles Cary and his wife, Evelyn Rumsey Cary; Louise Blanchard Bethune and her husband, Robert; and bringing up the rear, focusing on everything around him with a curiosity that wasn’t strictly polite, the man whom I had met at the lakeside: Franklin Fiske.

For several minutes there was much high-spirited banter. Dr. Cary took upon himself the chore of lighting the rest of the lamps, while teasing Francesca about her Bohemian ways. All at once the room was bright, the darkness nothing more than a kind of curtain filling the tall windows. Francesca had grown up with the Carys, both of whom were supremely self-confident and supremely fun-loving. Fresh-faced and thick-haired, growing into portliness, Charles Cary was a medical doctor. His wife (Dexter Rumsey’s niece) was an artist of some repute and dressed the part, in flowing gowns. Tonight she wore magenta velvet.

And then there was Louise Blanchard Bethune. Francesca had done her apprenticeship at Mrs. Bethune’s firm, Bethune, Bethune, and Fuchs (Louise Bethune was in partnership with her husband). Mrs. Bethune had accomplished what women like me were always told was impossible: She enjoyed an apparently happy marriage, she was successfully raising a son, who had a bent toward medicine, and she was a well-known architect. She didn’t pursue small domestic commissions, those which would be considered more appropriate for a wife and mother. No, she had designed factories, and a women’s prison. Through all of this she’d managed to remain a slight, feminine figure, friendly and helpful to other women. She’d suffered none of the dire consequences that traditionalists promised women who broke with their “proper” roles (such as insanity), so naturally I was more than a little jealous of her. Alone beside the unlit fireplace, I watched Mrs. Bethune befriend Susannah Riley—or more accurately, Miss Riley befriend Mrs. Bethune, standing close to her and praising—as I could clearly overhear, even at a distance—certain small details of one of her designs.

Soon, however, my attention was captured by Franklin Fiske, who was undertaking an intent peregrination around the room as if he were a thief looking for something to steal. He examined the Macaulay plans, Francesca’s drawing materials, the bookshelves, the furniture. No one objected or even noticed. Of course he was an appealing figure, with an open, eager face: the type who’s always forgiven his indiscretions. He was dressed more formally than when I’d last seen him beside a snow mound, and I realized how attractive he was: tall and well-built, with sharply angled cheekbones, the late-day shadow of a beard upon his smoothly shaven face, his dark hair curling in disarray. “Byronic” was the word that slipped into my mind; he looked like a tousled, world-weary Lord Byron. I laughed out loud at the exaggeration just as Fiske was turning his attention to me.

“Miss Barrett, how lovely to see you. What makes you so happy this evening?”

“Weren’t you ever taught that it’s impolite to ask personal questions of virtual strangers?” I asked jokingly.

“No,” he assured me seriously. “I was never taught that.” He gave me a sudden grin. “Well, I must say, you were quite right last month when you said that people here in Buffalo are very friendly among those they know. Thanks to Cousin Susan, all doors open to me.” He motioned broadly to embrace the room—and to welcome Evelyn Rumsey Cary as she approached us. Evelyn had a full face, and she always wore an exquisite pearl choker to conceal her somewhat thickening neck.

“Louisa, I’m so pleased you already know Mr. Fiske. Apparently he’s exceedingly creative,” she noted, “although he hasn’t actually shown us any of the photographs he claims to be taking.”

Quickly Franklin said, “So, Miss Barrett, how are you proceeding with your study of the efficiency of the police department?”

At that I blushed. Such were the rewards of blatant lying.

Evelyn was surprised and fascinated. “Louisa, I didn’t know you were—”

“Oh, it’s only a minor study,” I said, cloaking myself with modesty. “When I get the time—”

Luckily we were interrupted by Francesca’s butler passing around the sherry. The group came together in an informal circle.

“How awful for you, Louisa, to go to the power station and see an accident,” said Dr. Cary. I glowered at Francesca, who was standing opposite me. She shrugged.

“Thank you for your concern,” I replied.

Franklin offered, “I was out at Niagara last week.” Silently I blessed him for changing the subject, if only slightly. “Instead of spending numbing hours gazing at the mighty cataract, I visited all the electrified factories that are springing up near the power station. I took photographs too, for your information, Mrs. Cary.” He actually chucked her under the chin. He certainly fit into this world with ease, as if he were born to it—which he was, I reminded myself. “Well, what I saw was amazing. Companies are coming from all over the country to use the power of Niagara, and their profits are astronomical.”

I felt certain that these companies were searching out local investors to aid with start-up costs: My board members were getting richer and richer, and Mr. Milburn was gaining more and more clients.

“The factories are working twenty-four hours a day, using totally new processes: electro
chemical
, electr
olytic
, electrothermal. They’re making aluminum, graphite, silicon carbide—I don’t even understand what these things are, but there’s a huge demand for them. They couldn’t even be produced without electricity, and lots of it. Just look at silicon carbide.”

Evelyn groaned.

“No, bear with me, Ev.” Ev: Most likely fewer than a handful of people felt entitled to call her that. “Silicon carbide is produced by a new company called Carborundum. As best as I can understand, it’s an abrasive that’s used for grinding wheels. And grinding wheels, I’m happy to inform you, are the
sine qua non
of modern industry. Silicon carbide is created in the most incredible way: The people out there make up a mixture of sand and sawdust and this and that—their own secret recipe—and then with electricity they heat up their furnace to seven thousand degrees Fahrenheit—” He paused, looking puzzled. “Or maybe it was four thousand degrees Fahrenheit—either way they make it hot, and with this tremendous heat their secret mixture is miraculously transformed into a little pile of crystals. These crystals constitute the fabulously profitable silicon carbide.”

Dr. Cary nodded eagerly as he followed Franklin’s explanation.

“There’s also a company called National Electrolytic, involved in the production of something called ‘chlorate of potash.’ I spent fifteen minutes with the director of that company—while setting up my camera, of course”—he acknowledged Evelyn with a raised brow—“and I still have no idea what ‘chlorate of potash’ is or does.”

I warmed to Fiske for his enthusiasm, for his openness to experience. That he combined them with irony and self-deprecating humor made him even more appealing.

“But whatever chlorate of potash is or does, it’s beyond doubt miraculous. The entire industrial strip at Niagara—miraculous. I stepped into the future, and it was wonderful. A new world for a new century. Do I sound trite, do I sound clichéd?”