City of Light (55 page)

“Not in the automobile ambulance?” Scatcherd asked indignantly.

“Yes, the same vehicle the president rode in after he was wounded.”

They shook their heads at this disrespect.

“The money might have been taken to Williams’s home, not Milburn’s—my source was unclear on that point, but it’s irrelevant.” George L. Williams was the exposition’s treasurer.

Mr. Rumsey did not countenance financial irregularities. For example, he insisted—as he should—on absolute, thorough precision in the Macaulay accounts I prepared for him each quarter. Although he showed no emotion, in fact no reaction whatsoever to this story, the hiding of money in an ambulance would not please him.

“What did Milburn do with the money?” Scatcherd asked.

“Right then and there, in the middle of the night, he reimbursed some mortgage holders—none of
our
group, of course. It seems he was trying to circumvent a sheriff’s lien obtained by small vendors.”

Their conversation continued. Obviously the exposition suffered from more than cash-flow problems, as Milburn would have us believe. Indeed it was a huge financial failure—that was clear even now, before the exposition closed, and if McKinley … died—they didn’t say the word, although it was understood—who would pay to visit the exposition then? Promises had been broken, fortunes would be ruined. Carpenters, plumbers, plasterers, the grounds crew—they would never be paid.

“How did this happen?” Mr. Scatcherd demanded. Again the two men glanced surreptitiously toward Mr. Milburn, who held court across the room before a group of ladies eager to learn any minor detail about the president’s condition.

Evidently Milburn’s place among the chosen was wearing thin.

After telling this story, Urban and Scatcherd each took a half step back from Rumsey and me. As if on cue, other board members joined us. Mr. Larkin forthrightly briefed the still-impassive Mr. Rumsey on a new, “robust” soap scent his company had formulated for the Christmas market, aimed at women buying gifts for their husbands. I took this as a proper moment to escape outside, into the garden.

Miss Love’s home was even closer to downtown than Rumsey Park. The formerly extensive grounds had already been profitably sold off, the land subdivided for small businesses in low-rise buildings. The huge, three-story Gothic house seemed to overwhelm its meager plot of land. The garden now consisted of a strip of grape arbor, a path through roses, a birdbath instead of a fountain, and one marble bench half-hidden by shrubbery. Yet the garden remained fragrant, indeed lush, the grape arbor thick enough to conceal me, the roses heavy and profuse.

“Miss Barrett? Miss Barrett, a moment, please.”

I turned to find Frederick Krakauer.

“So. Miss Barrett, at last. An honor.”

“What do you want?” Suddenly, there amid the roses, I could no longer keep up the pretense of civility that ruled my life. My anger burst from me—not simply anger toward him, but toward Mr. Rumsey too, and toward all the men who tried to control me. “Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone?” I shocked myself with these words, but I couldn’t stop them. “Why can’t you leave the people I love alone? Why can’t you just
go away?
”

Krakauer remained silent, his eyes shrewdly evaluating me. Then he spoke. “I regret if I surprised you, coming up behind you like this,” he said quietly. “The fact is, you’ll be happy to know, your wish is granted. I’ve come to say good-bye.”

“To say good-bye?” I repeated suspiciously.

“Sadly, yes.” He sighed in mock regret. “That’s the unfortunate part of my job, isn’t it? To become involved, to make a difference, and then to say good-bye. It seems I’m needed elsewhere.”

“Where?” How far away?

“Ah, my dear lady, that I’m not at liberty to reveal. Well, well, I am sorry to have to say good-bye. To you especially.” He lingered over this phrase. Could he possibly have formed a romantic attachment to me, or did he simply regret losing the opportunity to torture me? Or were the two the same to him? “I’ve enjoyed getting to know you.”

Abruptly he turned and went down the path toward the house. I stared at his tweed-covered back. With Krakauer gone, I could let myself believe Grace was finally safe. A sudden, profound sense of relief overwhelmed me. After he entered the garden door, I looked up and saw Mr. Rumsey at the window, studying me. By his very presence he said, this, then, is what I have done for you.

Day by day the medical bulletins about the president became increasingly optimistic. Mrs. McKinley was unexpectedly strong and spent her time as usual, crocheting bedroom slippers for friends and family. The mood in the country stabilized, and a sense of routine developed. Members of the Cabinet were in and out of the Milburn home, maintaining the steady business of government amid the opulent surroundings of the nearby Buffalo Club. The Milburn stables were transformed into a telegraph office. Troops from the Fourteenth U.S. Infantry Corps, recently returned from suppressing the democratic insurrection in the Philippines, roamed the streets, bayonets at hand, but there were no signs of disturbance. Journalists created tent cities on closed-off side streets and purloined lawns. When Secretary of State John Hay arrived for a visit, he rode from the railroad station to the Milburn home in an automobile, to general amazement at this modern choice of conveyance. There was talk of moving the president to the White House on a special Pullman car of the Pennsylvania Line. Mrs. McKinley went for a drive in the park, which was interpreted as an extremely positive reflection of her husband’s condition. The president enjoyed some broth. A package of pork and beans was sent anonymously to Czolgosz in jail, and it was promptly confiscated in the belief that it was poisoned. Food was an appropriate gift, however, because Czolgosz, according to the police, had an extraordinarily hearty appetite.

Vice President Roosevelt came to Buffalo for a few days to see the president. He behaved with studied informality. After receiving the usual optimistic reports on the chief executive, Roosevelt toured the park zoo, admiring especially the polar bear and the baby elephant. Soon he departed the city, confident that the president was on the mend.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday … bit by bit our civic pride returned. Mercifully we had escaped the stigma of being a city where a president had been murdered. Americans for generations to come would not say “Buffalo” with a mixture of derision and embarrassment. The sense of suspended animation ceased. And although I wasn’t yet aware of it, the accepted fact that McKinley would recover brought a recognition of certain realities back to certain people. Plans were formulated. My life was used once more as a weapon in other people’s arsenals. On Thursday at five P.M. a messenger arrived at school from Dexter Rumsey, bringing me a note inviting me to come to his home later that evening to discuss a matter of some importance to Macaulay.

The fine weather had ended that afternoon, and dark storm clouds had come in from Lake Erie. When I arrived at Mr. Rumsey’s estate at nine, as he had instructed, the sharp scent of autumn was in the air. Nine was late for such a meeting, but I wouldn’t question Mr. Rumsey’s sense of timing. Undoubtedly he had many obligations pressing upon him.

I ordered the hansom to drop me off at the corner of Delaware and Summer. I felt like walking a bit. I had no reason to suspect anything was amiss. The school year was about to begin, and naturally many matters related to Macaulay would come up. Furthermore, Mr. Rumsey had eliminated the burden of Krakauer, so I had let down my guard. Delicate wrought-iron pineapples decorated the fence around his estate. Pineapples, the symbol of welcome, of a place to call home when one is lost in the wilderness. A light rain began to fall, and I opened my umbrella.

My first intimation that this might not be a routine summons was the sight of a familiar carriage driving out through the front gate as I approached. I thought I recognized Tom’s black-haired groom turning onto Delaware Avenue, though with the rain I couldn’t be certain. I stared after the carriage for a moment, straining to be sure of its markings, then gave up and turned onto the cobblestoned Rumsey drive. The downstairs maid answered the door and guided me through the wide, shadowed halls to the library. There was no sign of Susan Fiske Rumsey or their children. The house seemed silent, but in the Gothic library there was a big, warm fire that made the room cozy. Mr. Rumsey rose from his chair to greet me, putting down on his desk the leather-bound book he’d been reading.

He was gracious. So very gracious. As if graciousness existed in inverse proportion to the difficulty of the tasks he faced.

“My dear Louisa. Thank you for coming at such short notice.” He sat down at the library table and motioned me to the chair opposite. At first he simply smiled at me. Disquieted by his unrelenting gaze, I glanced away, at the books of philosophy that filled the shelves, the books on scientific matters—he was so well read, erudite even, like my father.

“What a week,” he sighed. “Well, at least the president is clearly on the mend. But there’s been so much to think about. Ever since our walk in the woods at my brother’s, well, my dear, I’ve had so much to think about.” He shook his head. Then he stopped. As the silence lengthened, I became aware of the clock ticking on the mantel. Of a dog barking somewhere in the house and being shushed.

So he would force me to speak, force me to inquire. His silence was part of his play of power. “Is everything all right, Mr. Rumsey?”

“Well, thank you for asking. Actually I think things are better now … yes, I’ve come to believe they are. The president is better, and other things are better too. Everything is falling into place.”

He paused once more, but this time I kept silent, hoping to put him on edge, to make him take the initiative—this was a small point of course, but my success felt like a triumph. “Yes,” he continued at last, “I feel more comfortable now. Perhaps I’ll even get a bit of sleep tonight, who knows?” he jested. Hurriedly, but as if offhandedly, he confided, “Mr. Sinclair was here this evening.”

“I thought I saw his carriage driving away.”

“Did you, then?” Mr. Rumsey seemed surprised, as if this coincidence were somehow improper. “Well, he stayed longer than I expected, that’s why your paths crossed inadvertently. He had to stay, because we were having such a very interesting discussion. Did you know he’s planning to move to the West?”

“No, he isn’t!” I exclaimed, utterly abashed.

Mr. Rumsey appeared confused. “But he told me so himself, this very evening.”

“I haven’t heard anything about such an idea!” Then I paused to reflect, to caution myself. If Mr. Rumsey was telling me this, it was most certainly true.

“I’m not surprised you haven’t heard,” Mr. Rumsey continued. “I believe it was decided just today. This evening, in fact. Right here. That’s why he stayed so long, sharing the details with me. Which was kind of him. I’ve never been to the West, and it was interesting to see the opportunities through his eyes. Don’t be put out that he hasn’t told you, my dear. I’m sure he’ll let you know in due course.”

“I still don’t believe it,” I insisted—because that was the reaction that would be expected of me, and the only one that would buy me time to absorb the news and calculate its ramifications. I couldn’t believe Tom would have made such a decision without consulting me, and yet apparently he had.

“I can understand why he wishes to move on. He’s accomplished everything he can here. He’s needed much more on new projects out there. Well, that’s what happens to ambitious young men, always moving on to the next challenge. We’re lucky he’s stayed here as long as he has.”

Things may happen to him
, Mr. Rumsey had warned as we walked in the woods, and this was the result—but better this than the physical danger Krakauer had threatened.

“He plans to take his daughter with him. I offered to let her live here with Ruth, so she could benefit from your continued nurturance and from all Macaulay has to offer, but—”

Like a blow, I comprehended the full import of what Mr. Rumsey was telling me. Without pausing to think I interrupted. “If Grace stays in Buffalo she should stay with me, board with me. I’m her godmother, after all….”

“Oh, my dear, that would be quite inappropriate.” Condescension edged his voice. “If Grace stays in Buffalo, she will stay with me. With my family, I mean.”

I gripped the edge of my chair and forced myself to remain calm and focused. If Grace stayed with Mr. Rumsey, he would hold her as a kind of hostage to Tom’s continued compliance. Much better that she go to the West. Tom understood Mr. Rumsey better than I.

“However, the question is irrelevant because he quite insists on taking Grace with him. I feel we should allow him that.” So Mr. Rumsey inadvertently let slip the truth of his own involvement. “What an adventure it will be for her,” he observed. “For them both. You spent time in the West when you were young, didn’t you? I recall you did. How happy you must feel to see her following in your footsteps.”

He gave me his benign, frightening smile. What threat had Rumsey used that was strong enough to make Tom capitulate? Tom had withstood even the threats of Krakauer, but now he’d given in. Why?