Conjurer (22 page)

For a moment, Emily seems about to lash out and strike her servant. Instead, she wilts and sinks down into her chair again. “Bring me my pen and paper. And be quick about it!”

She dashes off a response to the unwelcome note, folds it, then rethinks her reply and quickly rips her letter in half. “The woman cannot be planning to blackmail me?” Emily mutters below her breath. “Because to what other secret can she refer if not to …?”

She jumps up, strides away from the table, and then immediately returns.
I will have to see Rosegger's wife face-to-face
, Emily tells herself.
There's no escaping the fact. And no denying that the hideous woman must be treated as an equal
—
if only until she reveals what information she holds. But if I can delay … if I can postpone such an interview until I discover what sort of “secret” she may be suggesting … if I can make certain my own actions seem blameless …

Emily grabs up another sheet of paper, writing a polite but ambiguous message of thanks for Mrs. Rosegger's concern for her well-being and suggesting that they meet at some unspecified time the following month.
I fear I am much overburdened with engagements at the moment
, Emily concludes,
but I welcome the opportunity of calling upon you in future
.

There!
she thinks.
That should provide me with ample opportunity for determining my own course of action
. But as Emily seals the envelope, she realizes that her body is shaking uncontrollably.
What can that horrid creature know?
Her brain cries out.
What other secret can there be but my clandestine liasion?

For her part, mrs. rosegger nods in resignation as she reads Emily Durand's reply. It's not the first time she's been thus refused. It won't be the last. Still, she deeply regrets this latest snub. It makes the task she's set herself so much more complex. If she can't see the woman soon, how is she to successfully warn her of what may befall? Surely not by a letter that anyone—including their husbands—might chance upon and read!

Mulling over these dilemmas, Mrs. Rosegger walks through her home. Save for her children with their nursemaid and governess, she's alone. She's almost always alone. Her husband has long since made it clear that his ways are not to be dictated by social niceties or necessities. He will come and go as he pleases—and with whomever he pleases.

Such is the pact she's made. And, oh, how handsome and glorious that contract long ago appeared! A luxurious home, servants at her bidding, matched horses to pull the carriage, and footmen arrayed in colored silks—just like the kind that wait upon royalty. In her younger mind, the original pictures included supper parties, afternoon musicales, ladies proffering embossed visiting cards or stopping for tea, evenings with her husband “at home” where the elite of the city might meet. None of those daydreams have come to pass. Rosegger doesn't enjoy entertaining, just as he does not enjoy his wife.

“‘For every one that doeth evil hateth the light,'” she recites in a whisper from the Gospel according to John, then adds an ardent “What shall I do? This secret is too vile to keep.” For a moment, she considers seeking Thomas Kelman's advice, but then quickly shakes her head
no
. Rosegger would never forgive her, she knows.

But if I can keep my own counsel and my husband is not apprised …?
she wonders; and the traitorous notion opens up a world of such brilliant heights and depths, and full of such glowing color and scent, that she closes her eyes for fear of falling.

The Devil Incarnate

“I
CANNOT HELP YOU
, I'M afraid,” Rosegger tells the man sitting opposite him. The tone is languid and sure, quiet because it doesn't need to shout.

His guest stirs violently in his seat, and the chair's innards groan: horsehair stuffing, iron springs; even the wood frame creaks. “I cannot afford to be caught out in this, Rosegger,” he insists, although the sound is closer to a plea.

“Rather late to consider that, don't you think, Durand?”

The two men sit in high-backed chairs in a room paneled with cherrywood. Vapor lamps burn atop several tables, but the light cast from these otherwise lively flames is dulled by a superabundance of dark drapery and furnishings and a mahogany ceiling so densely coffered and black, it lies like midnight upon the scene.

Durand again shifts anxiously in his chair. He doesn't speak, but his host produces a single cynical laugh.

“Say what you wish, and be done with it, Mr. Durand. I'm a busy man; the hour is growing late, and I have other affairs to settle before quitting these offices for my home. I do not cleave to your fancy ways, as you know, and I like plain speech.”

As if to confirm the tardiness of the hour, there's a subdued passing of footsteps in the passage that lies beyond the closed doors. The faint and hurrying squeak of leather reveals the walker is not a wealthy man but a scribe or clerk belonging to Rosegger's business.

“You must help me,” Durand plainly states.

“
Must?
Must? Do you think I have the power to keep these wrongful doings of yours from coming to light?”

“I have my reputation to consider, Rosegger … my family's … my … my—”

“Your wife, Emily, perhaps?”

John Durand moans. He buries his face in his hands. “Don't bring my wife into it!”

“Sentimentality comes late to most of us, doesn't it?” his host observes.

Durand's arms straighten; his fingers jerk back to his sides. “You are the very devil, sir!” he says.

“It's taken you a good long while to recognize that fact,” Rosegger responds with another harsh laugh.

“I have friends, you know,” Durand next offers, but his hollow tone belies the self-assured intent.

“
Had
friends, I should say.”

“They'll stand by me …”

“Will they, now?”

John Durand's chest rumbles; he seems to be gathering his last bit of strength. “You will not be a popular man in Philadelphia should you permit word of this … of this
problem
of mine to surface—”

“Your ‘problem,' sir! Your ‘problem' has nothing to do with me. Prison is what you're facing, Mr. Durand.”

John durand flings himself down the street. He marches willy-nilly, not caring against whom or what his arms and shoulders bang.

“Watch it, sir!” he hears. “Pardon me!” “That's a lady you've pushed by!” The voices are incensed, even threatening. Durand pays no heed. He needs air, needs to clear his brain, needs to calculate his future.

He flounders on, approaching and then skirting Washington Square and the fine houses that send their stately glow upon the nearly deserted turf.
The devil!
he thinks.
The devil incarnate, that's who Rosegger is. How dare he threaten a Durand! A man who was once no better than a hop-up-johnnie. No better indeed!

As he storms along and the minutes pass, his passion begins to diminish, leaving in its stead a child-like loneliness and longing. It's now approaching the dinner hour, and he feels badly in need of a treat, although his thoughts don't turn to food or drink: a visit to his club or the rowdier recesses of an oyster cellar. Instead, his senses begin to yearn for the soft and innocent caress of a woman. Someone pure of heart and sweet, someone to soothe his tormented soul, to sit on his knee, gaze adoringly into his eyes, and listen in patient silence to all his bitter woes.

Hardly aware where his feet are leading him, he finds himself wandering deeper and deeper into the soiled alleys where such girls are found.

He passes one house for ladies of pleasure, then another, and each time is beckoned inside. But he shrinks from the offers. The establishments seem almost too respectable, and he's deathly afraid of being discovered. He ignores the whores' invitations, pretending instead that he's merely using the street as a shortcut while attending to urgent business.

They know better, of course. They can smell lust as well as fear, and their suggestive phrases turn to catcalls; and John Durand finds his pace increasing until he's nearly running. He forces himself to slow. He draws a breath, thrusts out his broad chest, then all at once decides against this foolhardy mission, ordering himself to turn from the alley and journey home.

But such is the terrible battle within his soul that his feet freeze in place; his knees lock; and all the pent-up anguish and grief produced by his recent interview come bubbling up in a hunger that cannot be denied. He continues down the path toward the meaner houses.

And then stops suddenly. Another man stands in front of him. Although his back is to Durand, and although he's severely shrouded in cloak and hat, John feels they know one another. He recoils, terrified that this unexpected acquaintance might turn and recognize him; then he shrinks into the shadows, pinning his shoulders against the slimy walls.

“What are you waiting for, then?” he hears a female voice call out to him. “Trying to turn into stone?” The sound is girlish and high-pitched, although there's an obvious effort at seeming more mature. “I reside close by … Pretty little room all my own with the daintiest of looking glasses—” The girl pauses in her sales pitch, peering through the gloom. “You been down this street before, sir?”

“No,” Durand tells her, but he keeps his voice muffled lest his unseen companion hear.

“I could swear I seen you hereabouts.”

“Someone else, my dear madam,” Durand murmurs.

“Oh, I like that! ‘My dear madam'! I've never been called that.” She laughs gleefully again. “Come on, sir; I'll make it worth your while … Or another evening if you prefer … Marietta's my name.”

“Mary—?”

“If you wish plain Mary, sir, I can be that,” the girl coos in reply. “Or Pamela, or any other pretty name you fancy.” She creeps forward as if she means to curl herself around his legs like a cat.

“No!” Durand says, suddenly repulsed by the girl's coarse and insidious manner. He pushes himself away from the wall, no longer caring who sees or hears him. “Be off with you, madam. I want none of your wares.” Then he rushes down the alley with the irregular gait of a man being pursued.

The Lame Man and the Girl

T
HE HAND BANGING UPON THE
door is loud and urgent. Emily starts up out of a heavy sleep. “Who …?” she mutters. “Who is …?” Then she looks at the face lying close to hers; the noise from beyond the bedroom has not yet disturbed it.

“Caro mio,”
she whispers. “
Caro
, my dear one … Wake up … I believe your assistant is trying to rouse you.” For a ghastly moment, Emily imagines it's her husband that Eusapio's servant is trying to warn them of, but she willfully forces that terrible vision from her brain.
John cannot possibly know of my presence here, nor of my connection to Paladino
, she tells herself.
Or can he? Can Rosegger's wife have approached John when she found me an unwilling participant in her sly schemes?
Emily's head droops in fear as she mutters a more insistent “Go see what your man wants …
Caro …
Please … Wake up … You must send him away …”

The banging recommences, and Eusapio finally stirs, reaching for her as he always does, letting his fingers trail across her breasts and her belly as though there were no noise outside, and no matter requiring his attention.

“
Caro
, you must go to the door. Your servant is obviously anxious about some problem, and I fear the noise will produce unwanted attention. Please, now!”

Eusapio swears in his native language, then rises, puts on his dressing gown, and marches angrily through the bedroom and into the outer chamber. The instructions he provided his assistant were plain. He was never to be disturbed when entertaining his guest.

While her lover prepares to admonish his servant, Emily cowers in the bed, pulling the heavy hangings closed and hiding within a mound of linen and blankets that she hopes will conceal her presence in the room should the need arise. As she huddles there below the airless sheets, she feels as frightened and helpless as a child.
It cannot be John!
she tries to promise herself.
It cannot! It cannot!
Despite these forced assurances, terror roils through her stomach, and a greasy sweat breaks out on her skin.
That grocer's daughter had better not have betrayed me; because if she did, she'll find me an implacable enemy
. But Emily knows these threats are hollow. If she's discovered in Eusapio's rooms, the entire world will turn against her.

Scarcely breathing, she hears the door open and Eusapio gasp in surprise. She listens as he argues fiercely with his assistant. She can't understand the words but knows her lover is berating the man. Then she hears another male voice enter the heated discussion. It's a quiet yet insistent tone, its meaning too distant to be understood. Anxiety almost stops her heart. Although she can't detect who this second intruder is, she becomes convinced that it's her husband and that her clever precautions and many stratagems have been to nought.
Dear God
, she thinks,
what's to become of me?
Her tongue is now parched with apprehension, and she prays as she's never prayed before in her life.
Please
, her brain wheedles,
please … please
…
Oh, God, help me, please!

But no. John Durand is not the person who insisted upon disturbing the necromancer in his rooms.

“
Signor
Kelman …” Eusapio says. “
Signorina
Beale …”

Emily flattens herself and makes not a sound.
No, God
, she continues to beg,
let Eusapio have the wits to keep those two in the outer room. Let his servant remember to close the bedroom door. Please, God, please, please …!
Then she recalls that much of her clothing was discarded in the other chamber of Eusapio's suite of rooms.
And dear God, let them imagine my finery belongs to a hired companion, a lady of pleasure
—
even an admirer who pursued him following one of his performances
… If Emily were not so terrified, she might consider what she had to barter for these pleas for safety; instead, part of her mind keeps ardently beseeching God for intervention while the rest of her thoughts wheel about trying to devise a possible escape.
The armoire
, she thinks,
I can hide in the armoire
, but then she cannot recall whether the room has such a thing.