Conjurer (2 page)

“Martha, the Schuylkill's in full spate, and with the river flooded, the current is exceedingly treacherous. If your father slipped on the rocks—”

Martha sits straight in her chair; the book is now clenched in her fingers, and her breathing has grown shallow and quick. “I'm sure that as soon as Father returns home, he'll be able to provide us with a—”

But Simms interrupts her. “If he lost his balance and fell, Martha, the current would—” He doesn't complete the sentence, and Martha stares into his eyes. Her ears begin to buzz with noise while her mind's eye begins to create an awful picture: the rapids, the treacherous terrain, her father venturing one precarious and fatal step … Then her brain blacks out the image; and she pinches her lips and wills her breaths to slow.

“Did Jacob search the shore?”

“He called your father's name repeatedly. There was no reply to his entreaties. The light had grown exceedingly dim, which prevented him seeing into the distance.”

“And where is Jacob now?” She stands, all at once galvanized into action. Her rise is awkward, far too unrehearsed and ill considered to be the graceful motion of a proper lady, but the change of posture surprises both her and her father's secretary with its unaccustomed vigor.

“In the servants' kitchen.”

“And Father's dogs?”

“Surely we should not fret over mere beasts at a critical time like this, Martha.”

Her shoulders stiffen, and her longish face with its aquiline nose also hardens while her gray-green eyes turn dark as slate. She resembles her father at this moment; a younger version, naturally, but someone equally tenacious.

“The dogs were out all day, Mr. Simms. They must have become quite chilled, especially old Tip, who's grown so lame.”

Martha takes a firm step forward and is again astonished at her own resolve. “We must gather a search party, and plenty of lanterns and torches to light our way through the wooded terrain. I'll fetch my mantle and bonnet while you assemble the servants.” She turns to leave him, but Simms stops her.

“I cannot permit you to endanger yourself in such a fashion, Martha. Your father would never forgive me. It's exceedingly cold; the icy ground is treacherous; you're liable to do yourself harm. We'll search tomorrow when we can better watch our footing. And as you yourself just now stated, he may have taken refuge, or found a wagoneer—”

“It's my father's safety and not his daughter's that's at issue here, Mr. Simms,” she counters with the same determination. “You're the one who employed the term ‘missing.' My father's only fifty-one, as you well know. He's in the best of health. If he fell into the water as you just suggested, he would swim; he would call out; he would save himself.” Martha stops herself. She can hear how emotional she's grown. Such a display would not please Lemuel Beale. “And my father will never forgive
me
, Mr. Simms, if I neglect my filial duties. Now, please assemble the servants. And let us bring some fortified wine and warm clothes with us, should we find he has endured an unfortunate accident.”

The crunch of boots on frozen earth is the dominant sound. There are no words, no coughing, no whistling, no throats cleared, just the slap of leather marching across the ice-coated soil. Accompanying this merciless noise is the quick chuff of wool rubbed against similar pieces of cloth: knees and cuffs of trousers, coat sleeves, and Martha's long pelisse hurrying over the ground. Like the others, she grips a lantern whose flame sizzles and flares in the bitter air. Beside her is Jacob, leading the party. “There, Miss Beale.” He points to the rise. “Dogs there. Basket, rifle below.” It's the first time since departing Beale House that anyone has spoken.

They descend to the river's edge, stumbling and slipping on the bank's slick stones. The lanterns bob uneasily as arms and bodies struggle to keep balance. The fires hiss, adding to the noisy suck and pull of the water speeding past. Martha finds herself forced to shout. “Show us the place, Jacob.”

Sure enough, there's the creel. Jacob points to it proudly. “And the rifle?” Owen Simms asks, but Jacob's hand merely indicates an empty nest of rocks.

“There's nothing there, man!” Simms's sharp inflection bears the mark of his anxiety.

Martha turns to Jacob, lowering her light so that it won't glare into his eyes. “I know you to be a loyal servant to my father, Jacob. Perhaps you were mistaken about seeing the weapon?”

“Jacob see.” He points again. Martha follows the gesture.

“Perhaps a wave carried it off?” she offers.

“And not the creel, Martha?” Simms interjects. “Surely the water would more readily sweep away a wickerwork object than one fashioned of metal.”

Martha has no response; Simms is correct, of course. She studies the forsaken creel, the empty rocks; beyond them the night-cloaked river seems to spread out endlessly, an ocean of murderous rapids and currents without landfall or hope of salvation. She feels as though she were standing at the last known edge of the universe. Tears start into her eyes, then freeze upon her cheeks.

Shakily she lifts her lamp and extends her arm, hoping its gleam may cast light farther afield, but the fire cannot penetrate the inky blackness. She sees only the chilblained faces and frightened eyes of her father's servants.

“And the dogs were up on the hillock, Jacob?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Not here beside the water?”

Jacob glances at the promontory. “Watching.”

Martha turns her back to the hilltop, staring riverward as she imagines the dogs did. What did they see? she wonders. What might they have heard? Why would they so diligently wait if it were not for the imminent return of their master?

“This is a futile effort, Martha,” Simms tells her as he pushes through the huddled throng. “It's far too dark. We will continue our hunt tomorrow.”

“No, Mr. Simms. We must search the shoreline tonight—all night, if need be. If Father did lose his footing … if … if he were carried downstream before struggling free of the current—”

“Martha, I beseech you; listen to reason—”

“I am, Mr. Simms!” Martha fights back. “I am heeding the voice of my own heart.”

“Then let me go on alone with the other men, and you return to the warmth and comfort of your father's house.”

“I cannot permit that, Mr. Simms.” Then she adds a more diplomatic “Surely you must understand my sentiments.”

Martha doesn't wait for a reply. Instead, the grim party moves forward one by one, boots bumping over the riverine rocks while the lights jostle flame into the night. The color is a vibrant white, and in the frigid air seems to become compacted and brilliant like molten glass thrust into chilled water. There's little sound save for the searchers' nervous breaths, the course chafe of their clothing, their shoes abrading the ground, and, far off from Martha, a number of grumbled curses. Her father might give employment to many, but he's not a man blessed with either love or fidelity in return.

She walks apart from Owen Simms, urging the others on by example as they scan the water's edge, the lesser streams that cut a meandering path into the larger river, the glades that suddenly appear within the forest, the underbrush where a spent body might lie in exhaustion and desolation. Nothing. No sign of dislodged creek pebbles, no clutched-at and broken branches. As far as they tramp there's no sign of Lemuel Beale.

Finally, Martha stands erect. The little group has traveled a mile and a half only, an arduous journey that has consumed half the night. “We'll go home,” she announces in a subdued and hopeless voice. “Perhaps my father did gain the opposite shore. Perhaps the current was running so fast he was carried several miles toward Philadelphia before freeing himself. Mr. Simms and I will contact the local constabulary in the morning. They will have further plans, I'm sure.” Then she extends her hand to each of the servants. “I thank you,” she tells them in a somber tone. “You have performed a great service tonight. I will make certain my father learns of your generosity.”

Dawn appears gray and bleak. Above the fanciful turrets and gables of Beale House, above its freshly quarried stone and tall tracery windows, its balconies, its verandas and parterre gardens, the threat of snow lowers in the sky. Martha rises after a brief and sleepless night, although she doesn't ring for her maid to assist her in her morning ablutions. Instead, she laces her corset herself, slips into her endless underskirts, and pulls on the same cashmere dress she wore the day before. Owen Simms will remark upon her negligence, but Martha doesn't care. In fact, she experiences a brief glow of rebellious anger at her daring.

Then her mind immediately retreats to duty; and she picks up the silver-handled tortoise-shell brush and begins attending to the long chestnut-colored hair that's her secret pride. She counts the strokes as she goes: ten … twelve … twenty … before her hand stops midair.
What use is dressing my hair?
she demands in growing bitterness and wrath.
What use is a silk cap trimmed with lace and flowers? Or finding my satin slippers? Or donning the gold locket Father gave me? What use is breakfast, or conversation, or practicing my daily notes on the piano? What use is this room? This handsome house?

Martha stares at the brush in her hand, then swiftly returns it to its mates: the comb, the buttonhook, the pot of lavender-scented cream. Her fingers are shaking uncontrollably. Her chest is now heaving also, and she places a hand above her heart to steady herself.
Father doesn't approve of theatrics
, she repeats under her breath.

Then she walks to the frost-clouded windows. The vista of frozen lawns and fields marching imperiously toward the river is absolute. In the somber light, the Schuylkill's frenzied state lies hidden beneath a veneer as slick and brutal as steel.

“Father,” Martha murmurs at length; as she speaks the name she realizes that it's inconceivable that Lemuel Beale should be gone.

Beale House

F
OR TWO FULL DAYS
,
MEMBERS
of the day watch have scoured the grounds of Lemuel Beale's country estate; and the news of their search has spread to and inflamed the city proper. So renowned a person doesn't vanish without causing a good deal of speculation among citizens both affluent and not. Naturally, a tragic fall into the Schuylkill is the most obvious answer to the financier's peculiar disappearance, but other tales are beginning to surface.

Beale is rumored to be a hard man with a penny; it's further acknowledged that he's a difficult taskmaster both of himself and others, that the clerks in his employ are often disgruntled with their master's many demands, that he has a habit of keeping his underlings on tight and unhealthy leashes. Finally, the origins of his wealth itself become subject to conjecture, because Lemuel Beale is that great rarity: a millionaire, one of only ten such fortunate men in the whole of Philadelphia. New York, the city's northern cousin, can boast a mere five in all of its boroughs. And how, people are beginning to ask, in the midst of the great depression that President Andrew Jackson precipitated and that currently holds the nation in its terrible sway, can men like Beale continue not only to survive but to thrive? Perhaps there's more to the financier's disappearance than meets the casual eye.

Martha, sequestered at her father's country house, hears none of the gossip that washes over the city. Instead, she astonishes herself by becoming the calm center of the storm of apprehension that grips Beale House. By those who make the arduous journey west from the city on visits of either official investigation or personal condolence, her behavior is deemed “admirable” and “stoic” and “brave.”

Privately, she knows none of those words are true. As she dresses each morning and undresses each evening, she realizes she resembles nothing so much as her clothing. A well-crafted exterior concealing the limpest and most flimsy of interiors: lace and flannelette, velvet and watered silk.
If it weren't for this stiff corset, these hoopskirts and well-rolled seams
, she tells herself,
I'd collapse to the floor in a useless puddle. It's fortunate my feet are hidden from view and can tap out their distress in private. Who would have ever imagined that fashion could serve a practical purpose?

“No, Mr. Kelman,” Martha now states in the same measured tone she's been relying upon for two long days, “I cannot believe my father has what you refer to as an ‘enemy.' A serious competitor in the marketplace, perhaps, or even several. But that's not what you're suggesting, is it?”

Martha and her unexpected guest are in the formal withdrawing room, a large and high-ceilinged space where her father habitually receives his visitors and which today she's commandeered for her own, reasoning that the twin Parian marble mantelpieces surmounted by tall looking glasses in appropriately dark and polished frames better match the seriousness of the situation than the more private parlor. It also seems to her that the drawing room lends an unspoken air of support, as if her father were present and admonishing her to behave with dignity and stamina.

The man called Thomas Kelman regards Martha Beale in thoughtful silence. His stance is official and polite, his legs planted firmly on the Nankin blue carpet, and his back to the nearest fireplace as though his body has no use for heat. He has explained to her that he's an assistant to the mayor of Philadelphia, although in what capacity he hasn't indicated—nor has Martha inquired.

“You're implying, sir—if I understand your words correctly—that my father's disappearance may not be due to some …” Here Martha's voice wavers, and her lips momentarily quiver. “… Some accident involving a fall into the river.”

“It's speculation merely, Miss Beale. And I apologize for introducing it.” As Kelman speaks, his long fingers tremble slightly at his sides. Arms straight, shoulders straighter, he has a military bearing that almost negates the poet's hands.